by Ed McBain
'They aren't home,' she said.
The girl wore black slacks and a black sweater. Her blond hair was pulled back into a pony tail. At first glance, she seemed out of place in the tenement doorway, too chic, too sophisticated. She should have been standing in the entrance doorway to a penthouse, holding a martini.
'I'm a cop,' Hawes said. 'Mind if I ask you a few questions?'
'You were knockin' on 31,' the girl said. 'This is 32.'
'I'm really interested in 34,' Hawes said.
'What cup?' the girl asked, and Hawes didn't get it. She looked at him glumly. 'This about Fetterick?' she asked, apparently deciding to play it straight.
'Yes.'
'Come on in.'
Hawes followed her into the apartment. It was then that he noticed the black sweater was worn through at the elbows. The girl flicked on a light. 'Want a drink?' she asked.
'No, thanks.'
'What a drag, huh? Saturday night, and no date.'
'Yeah,' Hawes said. 'About Fetterick…'
'A jerk,' the girl said, shrugging.
'You knew him?'
The girl shrugged again, 'Only to talk to. We took in the milk together, so to speak. Whenever it wasn't stolen.'
'What was he like?'
'A jerk,' the girl said, 'like I told you. Inferiority complex. Probably wanted to sleep with his mother when he was a kid. Like that.'
'Huh?' Hawes said.
'Oedipus,' the girl said. 'Aggravated. Made him feel inferior. His father was a big man. He never could shape up to the fact.'
'You got all this taking in the milk?' Hawes asked, astonished.
'I figured it out for myself. I'm speculating,' the girl said. 'What'd he do?'
'We think he killed a cop.'
'Oh. Too bad for him, huh? You guys'll beat the crap outa him when you get him.'
'Who said?'
'Everybody knows that. Cop killer? Boom! Right on his dome. How old are you?'
'Thirty-two.'
'That's a good age. You married?'
'No.'
'Mmm,' the girl said, and she looked at him speculatively.
'Oedipus,' Hawes said. 'Aggravated.'
'Huh? Oh.' The girl grinned. 'Humour on a cop. Wonders never cease. You sure you don't want a drink?'
'I'm sure,' Hawes said.
'I'll have one,' the girl said. 'My name's Jenny. Jenny Pelenco. Euphemistic, huh?'
'Very,' Hawes said, smiling.
'Saturday night, no date. What a drag. Jesus!' She went to the sink and poured herself a shot of rye. 'I think I'll get crocked. Get crocked with me?'
'No, thanks.'
'What are you scared of?' the girl asked. 'My husband's in the Navy.'
'Where?'
'Far enough,' she said, laughing. 'The Pacific.'
'What about Fetterick?'
'Who wants to get crocked with him?'
'I didn't mean that. What do you know about him?'
'What do you want to know? Ask Jenny Pelenco. I'm the barber's wife. That's an Italian expression. It means like the barber's wife knows everything goes on in town because she hears it from the barber. You get it?'
'Vaguely. Know what kind of work Fetterick did?'
'No. He never said. A bum, I think.'
'Ever see him leave the house with gloves?'
'Yeah. Hey, yeah. Is that important?'
'Not very. He never mentioned his job?'
'No. I figure him for either a bum or something very low. Like a ditch digger. Or a bricklayer.'
'Those are both honest jobs,' Hawes said.
'So? Honest makes them good? A bricklayer is a jerk. Fetterick is a jerk, so he must be a bricklayer.'
'He never said where he worked?'
'No.'
'Did you ever see him leaving for work in the morning?'
'Yeah.'
'What time?'
'Eight, eight-thirty.'
'Did he work in Riverhead?'
'Beats me. Mind if I have another drink?'
'Go right ahead. Did you ever notice any of his friends? People who came or went to the apartment?'
'He was a lone wolf,' Jenny said. She tossed off the shot. 'I better go easy,' she said, grinning. 'I get wild when I'm crocked.'
'Mmm,' Hawes said.
'I get the urge when I'm crocked,' she said, still grinning.
'Then you'd better go easy,' Hawes said. 'Anything else you can tell me about Fetterick?'
'No. A jerk. A bum. A bricklayer. Common. I invited him in for a drink once. He refused. A jerk, huh?'
'Did he have any girl friends?'
'None that I saw. A jerk. Pretty girl asks him into her apartment for a drink, he refuses. What d'you suppose he was afraid of?'
'I can't imagine,' Hawes said. 'You never saw any girls in his place, huh?'
'No. Who'd bother with a bricklayer? I think I'll have another.' She poured another. 'You want one?'
'No, thanks.'
'You might as well make yourself comfortable,' she said.
'I've got a lot of other people to question.'
'That must be a drag,' she answered. 'Specially on Saturday night. Don't you drink?'
'I drink.'
'So have one.'
'Not now, thanks.'
'Look, everybody else on this floor is out. This is Saturday night. This is the night everybody goes out to howl, you know? Saturday, you know? Don't you know what Saturday is?'
'Sure, I know,' Hawes said.
'So don't you know how to howl?'
'Sure, I know how to howl.'
'So have a drink. There ain't nobody on this floor left to question, anyway. 'Cept me. And I'm all alone. Just me, huh? You ask the questions. I got all the answers. Jenny Pelenco's got all the answers.'
'Except the ones I want,' Hawes said.
'Huh?'
'You don't know anything at all about Fetterick, huh?'
'I told you. A jerk. A bum. A bricklayer. A jerk. A guy who lays bricks.'
'Well, thanks a lot,' Hawes said, rising.
Jenny Pelenco drank her whisky and then looked at Hawes steadily. 'What do you lay?' she asked.
Hawes moved to the door. 'Good night, Mrs Pelenco,' he said. 'When you write to your husband, tell him the police department appreciated all the help you gave them. That should please him.' He opened the door.
Jenny Pelenco did not take her eyes from him. 'What do you lay, cop?' she asked.
'Carpets,' Hawes said politely, and he walked out of the apartment.
As he walked down the steps, Jenny yelled after him, 'Carpets?'
They walked on each side of the black coffin, the men who had worked with him. They walked in solemn regularity. The coffin seemed light, but only because its weight was evenly distributed upon the shoulders of the detectives.
They put the coffin into the hearse, and then the black cars followed the hearse out to Sands Spit and the cemetery. There were some of Havilland's relatives there, but not many. Havilland was a man who'd lived almost entirely alone. The priest said some words over the open grave, and then the coffin was lowered on its canvas strips, and the detectives bent their heads and watched their erstwhile colleague enter the ground. It was a beautiful June day. Havilland could not have asked for a nicer day.
The gravediggers began shovelling earth into the hole as the funeral party dispersed.
The cars drove away in the bright June sunshine, and the detectives got back to work. There were still two murders to be solved.
Roger Havilland lay in the ground, no longer a part of it. A stone would be erected over his grave within the next two weeks. Relatives might visit his grave with flowers annually, and then perhaps the relatives might stop their visits, the flowers would stop.
Roger Havilland would never know or care.
Roger Havilland was no longer a part of it.
Roger Havilland was dead and buried.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
If there is anything worse than being
interrogated by one cop, it is being interrogated by two cops. There is something unnerving about having to face two men who ask questions with blank faces. It is perhaps this psychological rattling which accounts for detectives working in pairs. The pair facing Patricia Colworthy was composed of Detective Meyer Meyer and Detective Bert Kling. She had never seen a blanker pair of faces in her life. When they first arrived, she'd honestly believed they were undertakers come to announce the death of her long-ailing aunt in Tucson. Instead, they'd turned out to be cops. They didn't look at all like Joe Friday or Frank Smith. They were very disappointing, to tell the truth. The blond one was sort of cute, but his face was as blank as the bald one's. Together, they looked like an advertisement for rivets.
'We got your name from Annie Boone's address book,' the bald one said. 'We assumed she was a friend of yours.'
'Yes,' Patricia Colworthy said.
'How close a friend, Miss Colworthy?' the blond one asked.
'Pretty close.'
'How long have you known her?'
'Two years at least.'
'Did you know she was divorced?' That from the blond one.
'Yes.'
'Did you know her ex-husband?' That from the bald one.
'No.'
'Ted Boone?'
'No.'
'When did you see her last?'
'Two Saturdays ago. We double-dated.'
'With whom?'
'Two fellers.'
'Yes. Who were they?'
'My boy friend. Steve Brasil. And a boy Annie was with.'
'His name?'
'Frank. Frank Abelson.'
'Had you seen Abelson before that Saturday?'
'Yes. She dated with him every once in a while.'
'Anything serious between them?'
'No, I don't think so. Why don't you question her ex-husband? From what Annie told me, he was trying to get the kid back. He had a reason for killing Annie. Abelson had no reason. He's a nice guy.'
'Mr Boone may have had a reason,' the blond one said, 'but not an opportunity. Mr Boone was forty miles away from the city when his ex-wife was killed. A counterman at a diner is ready to identify him. He couldn't have killed Annie.'
'He's out, huh?'
'He's out.'
'Well, Frank Abelson didn't do it, either. I'll bet he has a good alibi, too. You going to question him?'
'Maybe.'
'Why don't you question the right people?'
'Like who?' the blond one asked.
'The right people.'
'Was Annie Boone a drunkard?' the bald one asked.
'A what?'
'A drunkard.'
'Are you kidding?'
'I'm serious.'
'Where'd you hear that?'
'We heard.'
'Boy, is that all wet. Boy, that takes the cake!'
'She wasn't a drunkard?'
'I think the strongest thing she ever drank was sherry. A drunkard! Boy, that's a lulu, all right.'
'Are you sure?'
'Sure, I'm sure. I went out with her a lot. Maybe a glass or two of sherry. Or maybe a cordial. Never whisky. A drunkard! Wow!'
The bald one looked at the blond one.
'Somebody told you she was a drunkard?' Patricia asked.
'Yes.'
'Well, you gotta be careful. There's people who are out to protect their own interests, you know. They don't care how they malign a dead person.'
'Which people did you have in mind, Miss?' the bald one asked.
'People. People always got their own axes to grind, don't you know that?'
'Did you like Annie?'
'Loved her like a sister. I didn't like everything she was involved in, but that's none of my business. I like a person, I like them. I don't ask questions. I don't stick my nose where it don't belong.'
'What sort of things?'
'Huh?'
'Was she involved in?'
'Oh. That's none of my business.'
'But it is ours,' the bald one said.
He wasn't so bad when you got used to him. He had nice blue eyes, and a very patient manner.
'Yeah, but… I don't like to talk about somebody's dead.'
'Well, it might help us to find her murderer.'
'That's true. Still. I wouldn't like nobody talking about me if I was dead.' Patricia shivered. 'Whooo! That gives me the creeps, you know? I got goose bumps all over me, just talking about it. I can't stand talking about death, do you know? I couldn't even go to my own mother's funeral, that's how bad I am. When you two first got here, I thought you were undertakers, and I got goose bumps all over. I got an aunt out West is ready to die any day now. I get the creeps thinking about it.'
The blond one looked at the bald one.
'No offence meant,' Patricia said. 'About the undertakers, I mean. It's just you were so serious and all.'
The bald one looked at the blond one.
'Well,' Patricia said, and she gave up.
'What was Annie Boone involved in?' the blond one asked.
'Nothing.'
'Something illegal?'
'No.'
'Bootleg hootch?'
'Huh?'
'Tax evasion?'
'Huh?'
'What was it?'
'Nothing.'
'Not something illegal?'
'No. I don't know. How do I know it's legal or not?'
'What?'
'What she was doing.'
'What was she doing?'
'I don't know. She was my friend. Look, I don't like to talk about somebody's dead. Can't we change the subject? Can't we talk about something else?'
'Was she a drunkard?' the bald one asked.
'No.'
'A junkie?' the blond one asked.
'A what?'
'A drug addict?'
'No.'
'What then? What was she doing illegally?'
'Nothing.'
'Then why'd she get killed so violently?'
'I don't know. Why don't you ask…' Patricia stopped.
'Ask who?'
'Ask… other people.'
'Like who?'
'Like the people she knew better than me. Like Frank Abelson. He knew her better. Or this other feller she dated. Artie Cordis. Ask them.'
'Was she serious with them?'
'No.'
'Then why should we ask them anything?'
'I don't know. It's better than asking me. I don't know about her, or about what she was doing.'
'Who'd want to kill her, Miss Colworthy?'
'How should I know? I don't even like to talk about it. I don't even like to think about it!'
'Did she have any enemies?'
'No.'
'Close friends?'
Patricia did not answer.
'Who?'
Patricia did not answer.
'All right,' the bald one said, sighing. 'Who was she sleeping with?'
Patricia sighed, too.
'Mr Phelps,' she said. 'The man who owned the liquor shop where she worked.'
Franklin Phelps did not live in the 87th Precinct.
His liquor store was there, but he lived in a fashionable suburb called Northern Crestion. He lived in a house which had cost him $35,000 ten years ago, and which he could have listed now with any real estate agent for $49,500. The house itself wasn't anything to go shouting about. But it happened that Northern Crestion had sort of grown up around the house, and real estate values had grown with it.
The house was on a half acre of ground, set back some fifty feet from the road. The road itself was called Pala Vista Drive, and Meyer and Kling drove up the winding street looking at the numbers on the stone pillars of each driveway. They stopped at number 35 Pala Vista. They left the car at the kerb, and then walked up the wide slate pathway to the front door. The house was a two-storey frame with hand-split cedar shingles and shutters. The shingles had been painted a teal blue. The shutters were white. The door was white, too, and there was a big brass knocke
r in the centre of it. Meyer lifted the knocker and let it fall.
'Ten-to-one a servant,' he said to Kling.
'No bet,' Kling answered.
The door opened. A coloured girl in a pink uniform peered out at them.
'Yes?' she asked.
'Mr Phelps, please.'
'Who shall I say is calling, please?'
'Police,' Meyer said, and he flashed the tin.
'Just a moment, please,' the girl said, and she closed the door gently.
'Think he'll make a run through the back door?' Meyer asked jokingly.
'Maybe so,' Kling answered. 'Shall I get the riot gun from the car?'
'Some hand grenades, too,' Meyer said. 'It's too bad Mr Cotton isn't with us. I haven't been shot in a long time.'
The door opened again. An attractive woman of forty-two, perhaps closer to forty-four, stood in the doorway. Her hair had once been blond, but it was turning grey, turning with a gentle dignity. She had large brown eyes, and she smiled pleasantly and said, 'Won't you come in? Franklin's in the shower.'
The detectives stepped into the foyer. A smoky grey mirror threw their reflections back at them.
'Won't you come into the living-room?' she said. 'I'm Marna Phelps.'
'I'm Detective Meyer,' Meyer said. 'My partner, Detective Kling.'
'How do you do?' Mrs Phelps said. 'Would you like some coffee or anything? Franklin won't be but a moment.'
They followed her into the living-room. The furniture was straight from the palace at Versailles. A Louis XVI writing cabinet with a fall-down front stood against the wall between two windows, three circular and three rectangular Sèvres porcelain plaques set into its face. A Regency mahogany library table was against the opposite wall, flanked by a pair of Louis XVI giltwood settees, their seats and backs upholstered in Beauvais tapestry. Rare porcelain and china were spotted indiscreetly about the room. Meyer expected Marie Antoinette to come in serving tea and cakes. Uneasily, the detectives sat.
'Did you say you wanted coffee?' Mrs Phelps asked.
'No, thank you,' Kling said.
Meyer cleared his throat and looked at Kling. He would, in fact, have enjoyed a cup of coffee. The opportunity was past. Mrs Phelps was turning to a new topic.
'This is about Annie, isn't it?' she asked.
'Yes,' Kling said.
'You know then?'
'Know what?'
'About Franklin and her?'