by Ed McBain
Thayer nodded. He nodded again. “I want in keep looking at him. That’s strange, isn’t it? I want to find out what was so… different about him.”
“You still don’t recognize him?” Hawes asked.
“No. Who is he?”
“We don’t know. There was no driver’s license or other identification in his wallet. But one of the names on the suicide note was Tommy. Did your wife ever mention anyone named Tommy?”
“No.”
“And you’ve never seen him before?”
“Never.” Thayer paused. “There’s something I don’t understand. The apartment. Where… where you found them. Wasn’t… couldn’t you ask the landlady? Wouldn’t she know his name?”
“She might. But that wasn’t Tommy’s apartment.”
“What do you mean?”
“The landlady told us that apartment was rented by a man named Fred Hassler.”
“Well, perhaps he was using another name,” Thayer suggested.
Carella shook his head. “No. We brought the landlady down here for a look. This isn’t Fred Hassler.” He nodded to the attendant, and the attendant shoved the drawer back into place. “We’re trying to locate Hassler now, but so far we haven’t had any luck.” Carella paused. He wiped his forehead and then said, “Mr. Thayer, if it’s all right with you, we’d like to get out of here. There are some questions we have to ask you, but we’d prefer doing it over a cup of coffee, if that’s all right with you.”
“Yes, of course,” Thayer said.
“You need me any more?” the attendant asked.
“No. Thanks a lot, Charlie.”
“Yeah,” Charlie said, and went back to reading Playboy.
* * * *
They found a diner three blocks from the hospital, and they sat in a seat near the window and watched the girls going by outside in their thin spring cottons. Carella and Thayer ordered coffee. Hawes was a tea drinker. They sat sipping from hot mugs and listening to the whir of the overhead fans. It was spring, and the pretty girls were passing by outside, and no one wanted to discuss treachery and sudden death. But there had been sudden death, and the wife of Michael Thayer had been revealed by death in a compromising and apparently treacherous attitude, and so the questions had to be asked.
“You said your wife told you she was going to spend the night with her mother, is that right, Mr. Thayer?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her mother’s name?”
“Mary Tomlinson. My wife’s maiden name was Margaret Irene Tomlinson.”
“Where does your mother-in-law live, Mr. Thayer?”
“Out on Sands Spit.”
“Did your wife visit her frequently?”
“Yes.”
“How often, Mr. Thayer?”
“At least once every two weeks. Sometimes more often.”
“Alone, Mr. Thayer?”
“What?”
“Alone? Without you?”
“Yes. My mother-in-law and I don’t get along.”
“So you don’t visit her, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“But you did call her this morning after you saw Irene’s picture in the paper.”
“Yes. I called her.”
“Then you do speak to her.”
“I speak to her, but we don’t get along. I told Irene if she wanted to go see her mother, she’d have to do it without me. That’s all.”
“Which is what she did,” Hawes said, “on the average of once every two weeks, sometimes more often.”
“Yes.”
“And yesterday she told you she was going to her mother’s and would spend the night there?”
“Yes.”
“Did she often spend the night at her mother’s?”
“Yes. Her mother is a widow, you see, and Irene felt she was alone and so she spent…” Thayer hesitated. He sipped at his coffee, put down his cup, and then looked up. “Well, now… now I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“What is it you don’t know, Mr. Thayer?”
“Well, I used to think… well, the woman is alone, you know, and even if I don’t like her, I didn’t think I should stop her daughter from spending time with her. Irene, I mean.”
“Yes.”
“But now… after… after what’s happened, I just don’t know. I mean, I don’t know whether Irene really spent all that time with her mother or if… if… if…” Thayer shook his head. Quickly, he picked up his coffee cup and gulped at the steaming liquid.
“Or if she spent it with this Tommy,” Carella said.
Thayer nodded.
“What time did she leave the house yesterday, Mr. Thayer?” Hawes asked.
“I don’t know. I went to work at eight. She was still there when I left.”
“What sort of work do you do?”
“I write greeting-card verse.”
“Free lance, or for some company?”
“Free lance.”
“But you said you left the house yesterday to go to work. Does that mean you don’t work at home?”
“That’s right,” Thayer said. “I have a little office downtown.”
“Downtown where?”
“In the Brio Building. It’s just a small office. A desk, a typewriter, a filing cabinet, and a couple of chairs. That’s all I need.”
“Do you go to that office every morning at eight?” Hawes asked.
“Yes. Except on weekends. I don’t usually work on weekends. Once in a while, but not usually.”
“But Monday to Friday, you get to your office at eight in the morning, is that right?”
“I don’t get there at eight. I leave my house at eight. I stop for breakfast, and then I go to my office.”
“What time do you get there?”
“About nine.”
“And what time do you quit?”
“About four.”
“And then do you go straight home?” Carella asked.
“No. I usually stop for a drink with the man who has the office across the hall. He’s a song writer. There’s a lot of song writers in the Brio Building.”
“What’s his name?”
“Howard Levin.”
“Did you go for a drink with him yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“At four o’clock?”
“Around that time. I guess it was closer to four-thirty.”
“May I give a recap on this, Mr. Thayer?” Hawes asked. “Yesterday, you left your home at eight o’clock in the morning, went for breakfast…”
“Where was that?” Carella asked.
“I eat at the R and N Restaurant. That’s two blocks from my house.”
“You ate breakfast at the R and N,” Hawes said, “and arrived at your office in the Brio Building at nine o’clock. Your wife was still at home when you left, but you knew she was going out to visit her mother on Sands Spit, or at least that’s what she had told you.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Did you talk to your wife at any time during the day?”
“No,” Thayer said.
“Is there a telephone in your office?”
“Yes, of course.” Thayer frowned. Something seemed to be bothering him all at once. He did not say what it was, not immediately, but his brows lowered, and his mouth hardened.
“But you didn’t call her, nor did she call you.”
“No,” Thayer said, his voice taking on a curiously defensive tone. “I knew she was going to her mother’s. Why would I call her?”
“What time did you go to lunch, Mr. Thayer?” Carella asked.
“One o’clock. I think it was one, anyway. Around that time. What is this?” he said suddenly.
“What is what, Mr. Thayer?”
“Never mind.”
“Where’d you have lunch?” Hawes asked.
“At an Italian restaurant near the office.”
“The name?”
“Look…” Thayer started, and then shook hi
s head.
“Yes?”
“What is this?”
“Mr. Thayer,” Hawes said flatly, “your wife was playing around with another man. It looks as if they committed suicide together, but a lot of things aren’t always what they look like.”
“I see.”
“So we want to make sure…”
“I see,” Thayer said again. “You think I had something to do with it, is that it?”
“Not necessarily,” Carella said. “We’re simply trying to find out how and where you spent your time yesterday.”
“I see.”
The table went silent.
“Where did you have lunch, Mr. Thayer?”
“Am I under arrest?” Thayer asked.
“No, sir.”
“I have a feeling you can get me in trouble,” Thayer said. “I don’t think I want to answer any more questions.”
“Why not?”
“Because I had nothing to do with this thing, and you’re trying to make it sound as if… as if… goddammit, how do you think I feel?” he shouted suddenly. “I see my wife’s picture in the paper, and the story tells me she’s dead and… and… and was was was… you lousy bastards, how do you think I feel?”
He put down his coffee cup and covered his face with one hand. They could not tell whether or not he was crying behind that hand. He sat silent and said nothing.
“Mr. Thayer,” Carella said gently, “our department investigates every suicide exactly the way it would a homicide. The same people are notified, the same reports are…”
“The hell with you and your department,” Thayer said from behind his hand. “My wife is dead.”
“Yes, sir, we realize that.”
“Then leave me alone, can’t you? I thought… you said we would have a cup of coffee and… now it’s… this is a third degree.”
“No, sir, it’s not a third degree.”
“Then what the hell is it?” Thayer said. His hand suddenly dropped from his face. His eyes flashed. “My wife is dead!” he shouted. “She was in bed with another man! What the hell is it you want from me?”
“We want to know where you were all day yesterday,” Hawes said. “That’s all.”
“I went to lunch at a restaurant called Nino’s. It’s on the Stem, two blocks from my office. I got back to the office at about two or two-thirty. I worked until…”
“Did you have lunch alone?”
“No. Howard was with me.”
“Go on.”
“I worked until about four-thirty. Howard came in and said he was knocking off, and would I like a drink. I said yes I would. We went to the bar on the corner, it’s called Dinty’s. I had two Rob Roys, and then Howard and I walked to the subway. I went straight home.”
“What time was that?”
“About five-thirty.”
“Then what?”
“I read the papers and I watched the news on television, and then I made myself some bacon and eggs and then I got into my pajamas and read a while, and then I went to bed. I got up at seven-thirty this morning. I left the house at eight. I bought a paper on the way to the R and N. While I was having breakfast, I saw Irene’s picture. I called my mother-in-law from the restaurant, and then I called the police.” Thayer paused. Sarcastically, he added, “They were kind enough to provide me with you two gentlemen.”
“Okay, Mr. Thayer,” Hawes said.
“Is that all?”
“That’s all. I’m sorry we upset you, but there are questions we have to ask and…”
“May I go now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.” Thayer paused. “Would you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“When you find out who the man was… Tommy, the man she was in… in bed with… would you let me know?”
“If you want us to.”
“Yes; I want you to.”
“All right. We’ll call you.”
“Thank you.”
They watched as he walked away from the booth, and out of the diner, a tall thin man who walked with a slouch, his head slightly bent.
“What the hell,” Hawes said; “we have to ask the questions.”
“Yeah,” Carella answered.
“And you’ve got to admit, Steve, the guy sounds so damn innocent it’s implausible.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for God’s sake, his wife is trotting out to see her mother every other week, and spending the night there, and he never even calls to check up? I don’t buy it.”
“You’re not married,” Carella said simply.
“Huh?”
“I don’t ask Teddy to give me a written report on her whereabouts. You either trust somebody or you don’t.”
“And he trusted her, huh?”
“It sounds that way to me.”
“She was a fine one to trust,” Hawes said.
“There are more things in heaven and hell, Horatio,” Carella misquoted, “than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“Like what?” Hawes asked.
“Like love,” Carella answered.
“Exactly. And you have to admit this thing has all the earmarks of a love pact.”
“I don’t know.”
“Unless, of course, it’s a homicide.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to accept or reject. All I know is it makes me itchy to have to talk to a guy who’s grief-stricken when I’m not really sure…”
“If he’s really grief-stricken,” Hawes said. “If he didn’t happen to turn on that gas jet himself.”
“We don’t know,” Carella said.
“That’s exactly why we have to ask the questions.”
“Sure. And sometimes give the answers.” He paused, his face suddenly very serious. “I gave an answer to a girl on a ledge yesterday, Cotton. There was a puzzled, frightened little girl on a ledge, and she was looking for the big answer, and I gave it to her. I told her to jump.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake…”
“I told her to jump, Cotton.”
“She’d have jumped no matter what you told her. A girl who gets out on a ledge twelve stories above the street…”
“Were you around last April, Cotton? Do you remember Meyer’s heckler, the guy we called the Deaf Man? Combinations and permutations, remember? The law of probability. Remember?”
“What about it?”
“I like to think of what might have happened if I’d said something different to that girl. Suppose, instead of saying, ‘Go ahead, jump,’ I’d looked at her and said, ‘You’re the most beautiful girl in the world, and I love you. Please come inside.’ Do you think she’d have jumped, Cotton?”
“If she wanted to jump, then no matter…”
“Or I wonder what would have happened if you, or Pete, or Bert, or Meyer, or anyone on the squad-anyone but me-had been at that window. Would she have liked your voice better than mine? Maybe Pete could have convinced her to come inside. Maybe…”
“Steve, Steve, what the hell are you doing?”
“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t enjoy questioning Michael Thayer.”
“Neither did I.”
“It looks very much like a suicide, Cotton”
“I know it does.”
“Sure.” Carella nodded. “But, of course, we can’t be positive, can we? So we have to bully and con and bluff and…”
“Come on!” Hawes said sharply, and in the next instant he almost added, “Why the hell don’t you go back to the office and hand in your resignation?” But he looked across the table at Carella and saw that his eyes were troubled, and he remembered what had happened only yesterday when Carella had angrily told a young girl to jump. He caught the words before they left his mouth; he did not tell Carella to resign, he did not tell him to jump. Instead, and with great effort, he smiled and said, “Tell you what we’ll do. Let’s hold up a bank and then go down to South America and live on the beach like millionaires, okay? Th
en we won’t have to worry about asking questions, only answering them. Okay?”