Killer's Choice

by Ed McBain

  Connie grinned crookedly. 'It was a 1947 Dodge.'

  'Sedan?'

  'Yes.'

  'Four-door or two?'

  'Four-door.'

  'What colour?'

  'Green. Not the manufacturer's green. The Chrysler Corporation never put a coat of green like that on any of their cars.'

  'What sort of green was it?'

  'Almost a Kelly green. That car'd been repainted. That wasn't the original paint job.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'I can tell you any car on the road. I'm good on cars. I never saw an original paint job like that one. Not even today with the crazy colours they're putting on cars.'

  'Well, thanks a lot, Miss Fitzhenry,' Hawes said. 'You've certainly been a help.' He was leading her to the doorway of the grocery store. She stopped, smiled up at him pleasantly, her crooked teeth showing.

  'Don't you want my address?' she asked.

  'What for, Miss Fitzhenry?'

  'So you'll know where to send the cheque,' she said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In the squad room, Bert Kling was talking on the phone to his fiancée, Claire Townsend.

  'I can't talk,' he said.

  'Can't you even say you love me?'

  'No,' he said.

  'Why not?'

  'Because.'

  'Is someone standing near your desk?'

  'Yes.'

  'Who?'

  'Meyer.'

  'Did you call me?' Meyer asked, turning.

  'No. No, Meyer.'

  'Do you love me?' Claire asked.

  'Yes,' Kling said. He glanced surreptitiously at Meyer. Meyer was not a fool, and he probably knew exactly what Claire was asking, and was probably enjoying Kling's discomfort immensely. Kling would never understand women. A beautiful girl like Claire, a sensible girl like Claire, should realize that a Detective Squad Room was not the place to be bandying about words of love and devotion. He formed a mental picture of her as she spoke, the black void of her hair, the brown depths of her eyes, the narrow nose, the high cheek bones, the curved length of her body.

  'Tell me you love me,' she said.

  'What are you doing?' he asked.

  'I'm studying.'

  'For what?'

  'A sociology exam.'

  'Good. Go study. If you want to graduate this semester…'

  'Will you marry me when I graduate?'

  'Not until you get a job.'

  'If you were a lieutenant, I wouldn't have to get a job.'

  'I know, but I'm only a Detective 3rd.'

  'This is my last exam.'

  'Did you pass the others?'

  'Snaps.'

  'Good. Go study.'

  'I'd rather talk to you.'

  'I'm busy. You're wasting the taxpayers' time.'

  'All right, Conscientious.'

  'Conscientious, anyone?' Kling asked, and Claire burst out laughing.

  'That does it,' she said. 'Good-bye. Will you call me tonight?'

  'Yes.'

  'I love you, cop,' she said, and she hung up.

  'The girl friend?' Meyer asked.

  'Mmm,' Kling said.

  'L'amour, it's wonderful,' Meyer said.

  'Go to hell.'

  'I'm serious. June, moon, spoon, croon. When's the wedding?'

  'Not this June, that's for sure.'

  'Next June?'

  'Maybe sooner.'

  'Good,' Meyer said. 'Get married. There's nothing like marriage for a cop. It gives him a sense of justice. He knows already what it feels like to be a prisoner, so he doesn't hurry to make false arrests.'

  'Baloney,' Kling said. 'You love it.'

  'Who said no?' Meyer asked. 'Been married to the same woman for almost thirteen years now, God bless her.' His blue eyes twinkled. 'I'm getting used to my cell. I think if she left the door unlocked, I wouldn't even try to escape.'

  'You've got it real tough,' Kling said.

  'I love her,' Meyer said philosophically. 'What can I do? I'm a sucker for this love bit. Sue me.'

  'Were you a cop when you married her?'

  'Sure. We met in college. That was in…'

  'I didn't know you went to college.'

  'I'm a big intellectual,' Meyer said. 'You mean you didn't know? Can't you tell looking at me? I come from a long line of scholars. In the town in Europe where my grandfather came from, he was the only man who could read and write. An honour. A great honour.'

  'I believe it,' Kling said.

  'You should. Have you ever known me to tell a falsehood? Never. Honest John Meyer, they call me. I studied law in college, did you know that?'

  'No,' Kling said.

  'Sure. But when I got out of school, people needed lawyers like they needed holes in the head. I got out of school in 1940. You know what people needed then? Not lawyers.'

  'What?'

  'Soldiers.'

  'Oh.'

  'Yeah. Uncle Sam wagged his finger. I went. I had a choice? When I got out in 1944, I didn't feel like being a lawyer any more. All of a sudden, I didn't feel like struggling in a little cubbyhole office, chasing ambulances. I joined the force. That's when I married Sarah.'

  'Mazeltov,' Kling said, smiling.

  'Gesundheit,' Meyer replied, add the telephone rang. Meyer picked it up. 'Detective Meyer, 87th Squad,' he said. 'Who? Yes, he's here. Who's this, please? Okay, just a second.' He covered the mouthpiece. 'A guy named Ted Boone,' he said to Kling. 'Any relation to the dead girl?'

  'Her ex-husband,' Kling said. 'I'll take it.' Meyer handed him the phone. 'Hello?' Kling said.

  'Detective Kling? This is Ted Boone.'

  'Yes, how are you, Mr Boone?'

  'Fine, thank you.'

  'What is it?'

  'Something that might interest you. I don't know. I just went down to the mailbox. There was a letter in it. From Annie.'

  'Annie?'

  'Yes. It was wrongly addressed, mailed last week some time. I guess the wrong address explains why it took so long to get here. Anyway, it was rather weird.'

  'Yes. Anything important in it?'

  'Well, I'll let you judge for yourself. Can you come over?'

  'Are you still home?'

  'Yes.'

  'What's the address?' Kling asked. Boone gave it to him. 'I'll be right over,' Kling said, and he hung up.

  'Anything?' Meyer asked.

  'Might be.'

  'Not sure?'

  'No.'

  'Why don't you ask Detective Cotton Hawes?' Meyer said, his eyes twinkling again. 'I hear he's a regular whiz.'

  'And good day to you,' Kling said, and then shoved his way through the slatted rail divider and walked out of the squad room.

  Stewart City had been named after British royalty. It was a compact little area of Isola, running for perhaps three square blocks midtown, three square blocks that hugged the curve of the River Dix. Stewart City had been named after British royalty, and the apartment buildings which faced the river in terraced luxury were indeed royal. There was a time when the North Side of Isola had claimed the fashionable addresses, but those addresses had slowly become dowdy so that a River Harb apartment was no longer considered haut monde. Many River Harb apartments, in fact, were part of the 87th Precinct, and the 87th Precinct could hardly be called a fashionable part of the city.

  Stewart City was fashionable. The entire South Side was not fashionable, but Stewart City was. You could not get very much more fashionable than Stewart City was fashionable.

  Bert Kling felt somewhat like the country mouse visiting the city mouse. His clothes felt suddenly out of style. His walk seemed loutish. He wondered if the hayseed of the slums was showing in his blond hair.

  The doorman at Stewart Terrace looked at him as if he were a grocery boy who'd come to the front door when he should have been making deliveries in the rear. Nonetheless, he held the door open for Kling and Kling entered a foyer done in the coolest modern he had ever seen. He felt as if he had stepped into a Picasso painting by a
ccident. He felt he would be dripped on by a Dali watch at any moment. He felt trapped in the prison of a Mondrian. Hastily, he walked to the directory, found Boone's name, and then walked to the elevator bank. He buzzed and waited.

  When the elevator arrived, the operator asked, 'Whom did you wish to see, sir?'

  'Ted Boone,' he answered.

  'Sixth floor,' the operator said.

  'I know,' Kling said.

  'I see.' The doors slid shut. The elevator moved into action. The operator studied Kling disdainfully. 'Are you a model?' he asked.

  'No.'

  'I didn't think so,' the operator said, as if this was one point for his side.

  'Does Mr Boone have many models coming to his apartment?'

  'Not male models,' the operator said disdainfully. 'You're a cop, aren't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'I can always tell a cop,' the operator said. 'They have a distinct aroma about them.'

  'I'm demolished,' Kling said. 'You pierced my disguise.'

  'Ha,' the operator said.

  'I'm really an old old man with a beard. I didn't think you'd tip so easily. It must be that distinct aroma.'

  'You here about Boone's ex-wife?' the operator asked, smugly knowledgeable.

  'Are you a detective?' Kling said.

  'Come on,' the operator said, slightly insulted.

  'I thought you might be. You interrogate excellently. Come over to the precinct. We may have a spot for you.'

  'Ha, ha,' the operator said.

  'I'm serious.' Kling paused. 'But you're not five eight, are you?'

  The operator stood erect. 'I'm five eleven.'

  'Oh, good. Over twenty-one?'

  'I'm twenty-four!'

  'Excellent, excellent! twenty-twenty vision without glasses?'

  'Perfect eyesight.'

  'Have you a criminal record?'

  'Certainly not!' the operator said indignantly.

  'Then you've got a career ahead of you with the police department,' Kling said. 'And you can start at the fabulous salary of close to $3,800 a year, which is probably half what you make in this place. But think of the advantages. You can stand around and take all kinds of snide remarks from the public if you're a cop. It's wonderful. Nothing like it. Makes a man out of you.'

  'I'm not interested.'

  'What's the matter?' Kling asked. 'Don't you want to be a man?'

  'Six,' the operator said, and he looked at Kling disdainfully when he let him out of the car, and then slammed the door behind him.

  Kling walked down the corridor, found Boone's door, and pushed the buzzer set in the jamb. From within the house, Kling heard a series of chimes playing a tune. He didn't recognize the tune at first because it was more intricate than anything he had ever heard on a set of chimes before. He pushed the buzzer again.

  'The photographers will snap us,' the chimes chimed, 'and you'll find that you're in the rotogravure.'

  Irving Berlin, Kling thought. Easter Parade. Photographers must be making good money these days if they can afford chimes that play parts of Easter Parade. I wonder if Boone would like to be a cop. Good starting salary, opportunity for advancement, excellent working con…

  The door opened.

  Boone was standing in it. He wore a Chinese robe which was seven sizes too large for him. 'Come in,' he said. 'I was dressing. I've got a sitting in a half hour.'

  Kling stepped into the apartment and then understood the Chinese robe. Apparently, Boone was fascinated with things Oriental. The room was furnished in what seemed to be authentic Chinese. There were rare old pieces of teak furniture, and heavy pieces of jade sculpture. The drapes on the window were a Chinese print. A rice-paper screen was opened behind an old Chinese writing desk. Chinese pictures were on the wall. Kling fully expected the smell of chow mein from the kitchen.

  Noticing his scrutiny, Boone said, 'I was stationed in China during the war. Ever there?'

  'No,' Kling said.

  'Fell in love with the place. The most wonderful people in the world. You ought to go sometime.'

  'It's a little different now, I imagine,' Kling said.

  'The Reds, you mean? Terrible. But that'll pass. Everything changes sooner or later. Do you want to see that letter?'

  'That's why I came.'

  'I'll get it. You don't mind if I dress while you read it, do you? I've got to get to the studio.'

  'Not at all,' Kling said.

  'Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Like a drink?'

  'No, thank you.'

  'Cigarettes there on the coffee table. That brass cigarette box is from Hong Kong,' Boone said as he left the room.

  'Thanks,' Kling said. He sat, lifted the lid from the box, took out a cigarette and lighted it. The cigarette tasted peculiar. Either it was very stale, or it too had come from Hong Kong. He squashed it out and lighted one of his own. In a few moments, Boone came back. He had taken off the robe and was wearing trousers and a white shirt, the white shirt hanging out of the trousers, unbuttoned.

  'Here's the letter,' he said. 'You read it. I'll be back in a few minutes.' Buttoning the shirt, he left the room again.

  The envelope was a pale blue rectangle. Annie Boone had addressed it in deep blue ink. She had addressed it to 'Mr Ted Boone' at 585 Tarlton Place. The middle digit in the address was wrong. If Annie had ever known the correct address, she had apparently forgotten it. The Post Office Department had pencilled its scrawls across the face of the envelope. The last scrawl advised 'Try 565 Tarlton'. Apparently, 565 had been tried and the letter had finally been delivered.

  Kling lifted the flap and pulled out the letter.

  Annie Boone wrote in a small clear hand. The letter was neat and unstained and showed no signs of having been written hurriedly. It was dated Friday, 7 June, three days before she'd been murdered. Today was 14 June. Annie Boone had been dead four days. Roger Havilland had been killed last night. The letter read:

  Ted dear:

  I know how you feel about Monica, and I know what you're trying to do, and I suppose I should harbour ill will, but something has come up and I would like very much to talk to you about it. You are, after all, perhaps the one person I could always talk to.

  I received a letter yesterday, Ted, and it's frightened me, and I want to know whether or not I should go to the police. I tried to reach you by telephone both at home and at the studio, but they told me you were away in Connecticut and would not be back until Monday. This will be waiting for you when you return, and I hope you'll call me at once, either at home or at the liquor store. The number at the store is CAmbridge 7-6200. Please call.

  My best, ANNIE

  Kling read the letter once, and then read it again. He was reading it a third time when Boone came back into the room. Boone had put on a tie and a sports jacket, and he seemed distinctly ail-American in the all-Chinese room.

  'Have you tried these cigarettes?' Boone asked, taking one from the brass box. 'They're British.'

  'I tried them,' Kling said. 'About this letter, Mr Boone.'

  Boone lighted the cigarette and then glanced at his watch. 'I have a few minutes yet,' he said. 'What do you make of it?'

  'May I ask you a few questions?'

  'Certainly.'

  'First, why "Ted dear" instead of the usual salutation? This implies more affection than I was led to believe existed.'

  'Not affection,' Boone said. 'Affectation. She used that reverse salutation with everyone, believe me.' He shrugged. 'Just a part of Annie, that's all. Means nothing.'

  'What does this mean?' Kling asked. '"I know how you feel about Monica, and I know what you're trying to do…"'

  'Oh. Nothing.'

  'Well, explain what you mean by nothing.'

  'She knows I love my daughter and I… I was… uh…'

  'Yes?'

  'Just that I love her, that's all.'

  'What does "I know what you're trying to do" mean?'

  'I think she was referring to my trying to see Monica more
often,' Boone said.

  'Is that why she feels she should "harbour ill will"?' Kling asked.

  'Hmh? Is that what she said?'

  'Read the letter,' Kling said, extending it.

  'No, I believe you.' Boone shrugged. 'I don't know what she means by that.'

  'No inkling, huh?'

  'Nope.'

  'Um-huh. How about this letter she says she received. Know any thing about it?'

  'Not a thing.'

  'When did you leave for Connecticut?'

  'Friday morning. The 7th.'

  'What time?'

  'I left here at about eight.'

  'Why?'

  'A client. Some portrait work.'

  'And you planned to work over the week-end, is that right?'

  'Yes.'

  'When did you plan on returning?'

  'I planned to be back at the studio on Monday morning.'

  'Were you?'

  'No.'

  'When did you get back?'

  'I got into the city at about eleven Monday night.'

  'The night Annie was killed.'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you call your office?'

  'At 11 p.m.?'

  'I suppose not. Were there any messages for you at the switchboard here?'

  'Yes. Annie had called.'

  'Did you call her back?'

  'No.'

  'Why not?'

  'I figured whatever it was could wait until morning. I was awfully tired, Mr Kling.'

  'But you didn't try to reach her the next morning.'

  'I'd seen the papers by then. I knew she was dead.'

  'Okay. I'll take this letter with me, if you don't mind. It may help us.'

  'Go right ahead,' Boone said. He looked at Kling levelly. 'You still think I had something to do with this?'

  'Let's say there are certain contradictions present, Mr Boone.'

  'What time was Annie killed?' Boone asked.

  'Coroner says about ten-thirty,' Kling said.

  'Then I'm out of it.'

  'Why? Because you say you didn't get back to the city until eleven?'

  'No. Because I was in a diner from ten to ten-thirty. The owner was interested in photography. We had a long chat.'

  'Which diner?'

  'It's called The Hub. It's forty miles from the city. I couldn't have killed her. Check it. The man'll remember me. I gave him my card.'

  'Forty miles from the city?' Kling asked.

  'Forty miles. On Route 38. Check it.'