Like Love

by Ed McBain

  “Are you the detectives working on my brother’s murder?” Barlow said over his shoulder as he led them toward the living room.

  “Why do you call it that, Mr. Barlow?” Meyer said.

  “Because that’s what it was,” Barlow answered.

  He had entered the living room, walked to the exact center of it, and then turned to face the detectives squarely. The room was tastefully, if inexpensively furnished. He shifted his weight to his good leg, raised his cane, and with it gestured toward a couch. Carella and Meyer sat. Meyer took out a small black pad and a pencil.

  “What makes you think it was murder?” he said.

  “I know it was.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My brother wouldn’t commit suicide,” Barlow said. He nodded at the detectives calmly, his pale blue eyes studying them. “Not my brother.” He leaned on his cane heavily, and then suddenly seemed tired of standing. Limping, he walked to an easy chair opposite them, sat, looked at them calmly once again, and once again said, “Not my brother.”

  “Why do you say that?” Carella asked.

  “Not Tommy.” Barlow shook his head.

  “He was too happy. He knew how to enjoy life. You can’t tell me Tommy turned on the gas. No. I’ll believe a lot of other things, but not that.”

  “Maybe the girl talked him into it,” Carella suggested.

  “I doubt it,” Barlow said. “A cheap pickup? Why would my brother let her… ?”

  “Just a second, Mr. Barlow,” Meyer said. “This wasn’t a casual pick-up, not from the way we understand it.”

  “No?”

  “No. Your brother and this girl were planning to get married.”

  “Who says so?”

  “The girl’s mother says so, and the girl’s lawyer says so.”

  “But Tommy didn’t say so.”

  “He never mentioned that he was planning to get married?” Carella asked.

  “Never. In fact, he never even mentioned this girl, this Irene Thayer. That’s how I know it’s all a bunch of lies, the note, everything. My brother probably picked the girl up that very afternoon. Marry her! Kill himself! Who are they trying to kid?”

  “Who do you mean by ‘they,’ Mr. Barlow?”

  “What?”

  “You said. ‘Who are they trying to…”

  “Oh, that’s just an expression I meant, somebody… or maybe a couple of people…” He shook his head, as if trying to untangle his tongue. “What I mean is Tommy did not plan to marry any girl, and Tommy did not kill himself. So somebody must have typed up that note and then turned on the gas and left my brother there to die. To die. That’s what I mean.”

  “I see,” Meyer said. “Do you have any idea who this somebody might be?”

  “No. But I don’t think you’ll have to look very far.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m sure a girl like that had a lot of men after her.”

  “And you think one of these men might have been responsible for what happened, is that it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you know Irene Thayer was married, Mr. Barlow?”

  “I read it in the papers.”

  “But it’s your impression that she was seeing other men besides your brother, is that right?”

  “She wasn’t seeing my brother, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. He probably just picked her up.”

  “Mr. Barlow, we have reason to believe he was seeing her regularly.”

  “What reason?”

  “What?”

  “What reason? What reason to believe…”

  “We told you, Mr. Barlow. The girl’s mother and the girl’s…”

  “Sure, the girl, the girl. But if Tommy had been seeing her, wouldn’t he have told me? His own brother?”

  “Were you very close, Mr. Barlow?”

  “We certainly were.” Barlow paused. “Our parents died when we were both very young. In a car crash. They were coming home from a wedding in Bethtown. That was years ego. Tommy was twelve, and I was ten. We went to live with one of my aunts for a while. Then, when we got old enough, we moved out.”

  “To this house?”

  “No, we only bought this last year. We both worked, you know, from the minute we could get working papers. We’ve been saving for a long time. We used to live in an apartment about ten blocks from here. But last year, we bought this house. It’s nice, don’t you think?”

  “Very nice,” Carella said.

  “We still owe a fortune on it. It’s more the bank’s than it is ours. But it’s a nice little house. Just right for the two of us, not too big, not too small.”

  “Will you keep the house now that your brother’s dead?” Meyer asked. “I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought. It’s a little difficult to get used to, you know, the idea that he’s dead. Ever since he died, I’ve been going around the house looking for traces of him. Old letters, snapshots, anything that was Tommy. We’ve been together ever since we were kids, you know. Tommy took care of me as if he was my father, I mean it. I wasn’t a strong kid, you know. I had polio when I was a kid.”

  “I see.”

  “Yeah, I had polio. It’s funny, isn’t it, how polio’s almost a thing of the past, isn’t it? Kids hardly get polio any more, because of the vaccine. But I had it. I was lucky, I guess. I got off easy. I just limp a little, that’s all. Did you notice that I limp a little?”

  “Just a little,” Carella said gently.

  “Yeah, it’s not too noticeable,” Barlow said. He shrugged. “It doesn’t stop me from working or anything. I’ve been working since the time I was sixteen. Tommy, too. From the minute he was old enough to get working papers. Tommy cried when I got polio. I had this fever, you know, I was only seven years old, and Tommy came into the bedroom, bawling his eyes out. He was quite a guy, my brother. It’s gonna be funny around here without him”

  “Mr. Barlow, are you sure he never mentioned Irene Thayer to you?”

  “Yes, I’m certain.”

  “Is it possible he was withholding the information from you?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Barlow. Perhaps he might have thought you wouldn’t approve of his seeing a married woman.”

  “He wasn’t seeing her, I’ve already told you that. Besides, since when did Tommy need my approval for anything?” Barlow laughed a short mirthless laugh. “Tommy went his own way, and I went mine. We never even double-dated.”

  “Then it’s possible he was seeing this woman, and you just didn’t…”

  “No.”

  “… realize it. Maybe the opportunity to discuss it never came up.”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Barlow, we have to believe…”

  “I’m telling you they’re lying. They’re trying to cover up for what happened in that room. They’re saying my brother was involved with that girl, but it isn’t the truth. My brother was too smart for something like…” Barlow’s eyes suddenly flashed. “That’s right, that’s another thing! That’s right!”

  “What?” Carella asked.

  “My brother was no dope, you know. Oh, no. He quit high school to go to work, that’s true, but he went to night school afterwards, and he got his diploma. So he was no dope.”

  “What are you driving at, Mr. Barlow?”

  “Well, you saw that phony suicide note, didn’t you?”

  “We saw it.”

  “Did you see how they spelled ‘ourselves’?”

  “How did they spell it, Mr. Barlow?”

  “O-U-R-S-E-L-F-S.” Barlow shook his head. “Not my brother. My brother knew how to spell.”

  “Maybe the girl typed the note,” Meyer suggested.

  “My brother wouldn’t have let her type it wrong. Look, my brother wouldn’t have let her type a note at all. My brother just did not commit suicide. That’s that. I wish you’d get that into your heads.”

  “Someone killed him, is that what you think?” Car
ella asked.

  “Damn right, that’s what I think!” Barlow paused, and then studied the detectives slyly. “Isn’t that what you think, too?”

  “We’re not sure, Mr. Barlow.”

  “No? Then why are you here? If you really thought was a suicide, why are you going around asking questions? Why don’t you just file the case away?”

  “We told you, Mr. Barlow. We’re not sure yet.”

  “So there must be something about it that seems a little funny to you, right? Otherwise, you’d forget the whole thing, right? You must get a lot of suicides.”

  “Yes, we do, Mr. Barlow.”

  “Sure. But you know as well as I do that this particular suicide isn’t a suicide at all. That’s why you’re still investigating.”

  “We investigate all suicides,” Meyer said.

  “This is a murder,” Barlow said flatly. “Who are we kidding? This is a murder, plain and simple. Somebody killed my brother, and you know damn well that’s the case.” He had picked up his cane and stabbed it at the air for emphasis, poking a hole into the air each time he said the word “murder” and again when he said the word killed.” He put the cane down now and nodded, and waited for either Carella or Meyer to confirm or deny his accusation. Neither of the men spoke.

  “Isn’t it? Isn’t it murder?” Barlow said at last.

  “Maybe,” Carella said.

  “No maybes about it. You didn’t know my brother. I knew him all my life. There wasn’t a man alive who enjoyed living more than he did. Nobody with that much… that much… spirit, yeah, spirit, is going to kill himself. Uh-uh.” He shook his head.

  “Well, murder has to be proved.” Meyer said.

  “Then prove it. Find something to prove it.”

  “Like what, Mr. Barlow?”

  “I don’t know. There must be something in that apartment. There must be a clue there someplace.”

  “Well,” Meyer said noncommittally, “we’re working on it.”

  “If I can help in any way…”

  “We’ll leave a card,” Carella said. “If you happen to think of anything your brother mentioned, anything that might give us a lead, we’d appreciate it.”

  “A lead to what?” Barlow said quickly. “You do think it was murder, don’t you?”

  “Let’s say we’re making a routine check, shall we?” Carella said, smiling. “Where can we reach you if we need you, Mr. Barlow?”

  “I’m right here every night,” Barlow said, “from six o’clock on. During the day, you can reach me at the office.”

  “Where’s that?” Meyer asked.

  “Anderson and Loeb. That’s downtown, in Isola. 891 Mayfair. In the Dock Street section.”

  “What sort of a firm is that, Mr. Barlow?”

  “Optics,” Barlow said.

  “And what do you do there?”

  “I’m in the mailing room.”

  “Okay,” Carella said, “thanks a lot for your time. We’ll keep you posted on any developments.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Barlow said. He rose and began limping toward the door with them. On the front step, he said, “Find him, will you?” and then closed the door.

  They waited until they were in the sedan before they began talking. They were silent as they went down the front walk washed with April rain, silent as they entered the car, silent as Carella started it, turned on the wipers, and pulled the car away from the curb.

  Then Meyer said, “What do you think, Steve?”

  “What do you think?”

  Meyer scratched his bald pate. “Well, nobody thinks it was suicide,” he said cautiously. “That’s for sure”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Be funny, wouldn’t it?”

  “What would?”

  “If this thing that everybody’s convinced is murder actually turns out to be suicide. That’d be real funny, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah, hilarious.”

  “You’ve got no sense of humor,” Meyer said. “That’s your trouble. I don’t mean to bring up personality defects, Steve, but you are essentially a humorless man.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I wouldn’t have mentioned it if it weren’t true,” Meyer said, his blue eyes twinkling. “What do you suppose make you such a serious man?”

  “The people I work with, I guess.”

  “Do you find them depressing?” Meyer asked, seemingly concerned.

  “I find them obnoxious,” Carella confessed.

  “Tell me more,” Meyer said gently. “Did you really hate your father when you were a small boy?”

  “Couldn’t stand him. Still can’t,” Carella said. “You know why?”

  “Why?” Meyer asked.

  “Because he’s essentially a humorless man,” Carella said, and Meyer burst out laughing.

  * * * *

  9

  In police work, “a routine check” is very often something that can hardly be considered routine. A pair of detectives will kick in the front door of an apartment, be greeted by a screaming, hysterical housewife in her underwear who wants to know what the hell they mean by breaking in like that, and they will answer, “Just a routine check, ma’am.” A patrolman will pass the stoop of a tenement building and suddenly line up the teenagers innocently standing there, force them to lean against the wall of the building with their palms flat while he frisks them, and when they complain about their rights, will answer, “Shut up, you punks. This is a routine check.” A narcotics cop will insist on examining a prostitute’s thighs for hit marks, even when he knows she couldn’t possibly be a junkie, only because he is conducting “a routine check.”

  Routine checks sometimes provide excuses and alibis for anything a cop might feel like doing in the course of an investigation- or even outside the course of one. But there are bona-fide routine checks, especially where suicide or homicide is concerned, and Carella was involved in just such a check on the day he discovered Mary Tomlinson was a liar.

  Carella never read mystery fiction because he found it a bore, and besides he’d been a cop for a long, long time and he knew that the Means, the Motive, and the Opportunity were three catchwords that didn’t mean a damn when a corpse was staring up at you- or sometimes down at you, as the case might be. He had investigated cases where the motive wasn’t a motive at all. A man can push his wife into the river because he thinks he wants to teach her to swim, and you can question him until you’re both blue in the face and he’ll insist he loved her since they were both in kindergarten and there is simply no Motive at all for his having murdered her. The Means of murder were always fairly obvious, and he couldn’t imagine why anyone outside of a motion-picture cop confronted with exotic and esoteric cases involving rare impossible-to-trace poisons got from pygmy tribes would be overly concerned with what killed a person: usually, you found a guy with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, and you figured what killed him was a gun. Sometimes, the cause of death was something quite other than what the surface facts seemed to indicate-a girl is found with a knife in her chest, you assume she’s been stabbed until the lab tells you someone drowned her in the bathtub first. But usually, if a man looked as if he’d been shot, he’d been shot. If a woman looked as if she’d been strangled, she’d been strangled. Means and Motive were both crocks to the working cop. Opportunity was the biggest crock of all because every manjack in the U.S. of A., Russia, Madagascar, Japan and the Tasman Sea, Sicily, Greenland, and the Isle of Wight was presented with the Opportunity for committing murder almost every waking minute of his life. The consideration of Opportunity was only valuable in protecting the innocent. A man who was climbing Fujiyama while a murder was being committed in Naples couldn’t very well have had an Opportunity for mayhem. The point was, as Carella saw it, that one million, two hundred seventy-four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine other Neapolitans did have the Opportunity for pulling off a bit of homicide that day, and the guy who did the deed certainly wasn’t going to tell you he just happened to be
with the dead man when it happened. The Means, the Motive, and the Opportunity, Baloney, Carella thought, but he nonetheless was calling every insurance company in the city in an attempt to find out whether or not either Tommy Barlow or Irene Thayer had carried life insurance.