by Ed McBain
'Jamie?'
'Yes.'
'Do you mean Jamison? Jamison Gray?'
'What was that name, Monica?'
'Jamison Gray. She told me all about him once. She said he was the sweetest saddest man in the whole world, and she said he was very kind and very gentle, and she said that someday she would take me to see him.'
'You're not fooling me, are you, Monica?'
'No, not at all. Jamison Gray. Yes, that's his name. Is that the Jamie you mean?'
'Oh honey, I hope so,' Kling said. 'I certainly hope so. Thanks a lot.'
'Bert?'
'Yes?'
'Do you know when Mommy's coming back from her vacation?'
Kling hesitated. 'Uh… no, honey, I don't. I'm awfully sorry.'
'I sure wish she'd hurry,' Monica said.
'Yes.'
'Well, I'll let you go,' she said brightly. 'You probably have lots of crooks and things to lock up.'
'G'bye, Monica. Thanks again.'
He hung up and lifted the Isola telephone directory from the bottom drawer of his desk.
'Anything?' Meyer asked.
'Maybe,' Kling said. 'Keep your fingers crossed. Gray, Jack…Gray, Jacqueline… Gray, James… Gray, James… Gray, James… oh my God, six of them… wait a minute, wait a minute!… here it is, Meyer! Jamison Gray! 1220 North 30th. Get your hat!'
'Hat?' Meyer said, running his hand over his bald pate. 'I never wear a hat. Makes you lose your hair, don't you know?'
1220 North 30th was a clean-looking four-storey brown-stone. Meyer and Kling found a mailbox listing for Jamison Gray, and then climbed to the fourth floor of the building and knocked on the door of Apartment 44.
'Who is it?' a young voice asked.
'Open the door,' Meyer answered.
'It's open,' the voice said.
Kling, who was remembering Hawes's near fatal error, had his hand on the butt of his service revolver. Meyer snapped open the door standing to one side of it. There was no sound from within the apartment.
'Come in,' the voice said.
His hand still on the gun, Kling peered around the door-frame. A boy of no more than twenty was sitting at the far end of the dark room, his face turned to the window.
From the doorway, Kling asked, 'Jamie Gray?'
'Yes,' the boy said. He wore black trousers and a white shirt open at the throat. His sleeves were rolled up over thin forearms. He did not turn from the window. He kept staring straight ahead of him, as if unaware there was anyone in the room with him.
'You know Annie Boone?' Kling asked.
'Yes,' the boy said. He turned slightly from the window, but he looked at Meyer as if he thought he'd asked the question. 'Did she send you?'
'No,' Kling said. He blinked at the boy. The room was very dark. Except for the filtered shaftway light which came through the window, there was no illumination. He found it difficult to see the boy's features clearly.
'She didn't?' Gray asked.
'No.'
'Oh,' Gray said. 'I thought she might have. She hasn't been to see me lately, so I thought maybe she sent a message or something.' He turned back to the window. Kling and Meyer moved closer to him, into the room. The boy paid no attention to them.
'She come to see you often?' Meyer asked.
'Yes. Once a week, at least. It helped. She's a wonderful person.'
'Ever take her out?'
'Once. We walked around the neighbourhood. I don't feel like going out much.'
'Where'd you meet, Gray?'
'In a bar. I don't know how. I went out one afternoon. I felt like having a glass of beer. Do you ever feel like that? Like having a glass of beer? Nothing tastes better than a glass of beer when you really feel like having one. She sat down at the table with me. Just like that.'
'What'd she say?'
'She said "What's your name?" I told her. I told her Jamie Gray. She was pretty drunk.'
'Annie Boone?' Kling asked, surprised.
'Yes.'
'Are you sure?'
'Certain. Her breath smelled terribly, and she was talking strangely. She was drunk. In fact, that's why she came up here with me. I asked her if she'd like a cup of coffee. She said " Sure," and we came back here.'
'And after that, she kept visiting you, huh?'
'Yes. She came to talk. She said it was soothing.'
'You live here alone, Gray?'
'Yes.'
'What do you do for a living?'
'I used to be a pretty good piano player. I played with a band.'
'What do you mean used to be? No more?'
'Well, I can still play. Naturally I can still play. What happened has nothing to do with my playing. But it's a little tough getting jobs. Going out and finding them, I mean. Besides, I don't much feel like it any more.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, after what happened…'
'You mean what happened to Annie?'
'What?' Gray said, lifting his head.
'Do you own a gun, Gray?'
'What did you say about…?'
'Do you own a gun?'
'No, of course not. What would I do with a gun? You said something about Annie. What…?'
'Where were you on the night of June 10th, Gray?'
'I don't know. What difference does it make? You said…'
'Don't play dumb, Gray!'
'Dumb? Why? What happened on June 10th?'
'You've seen the newspapers, Gray! Come off it!'
'Newspapers? How could I… what is it? What are you trying to say?'
'Were you out of this apartment on June 10th?'
'I don't go out much at night. Or even during the day. Not since the accid…'
'Where were you on June 10th?' Meyer snapped. 'Where were you on the night Annie Boone was killed?'
'Killed!' Gray screamed. He leaped out of the chair and whirled to face the two men. 'Killed!' He stared at them blankly. 'Killed! Killed!'
Kling's service revolver was already in his hand, pointing at Gray's mid-section. Meyer stared at Gray, at the blank eyes in the old-young face.
'Put up the gun, Bert,' he said softly. 'He's blind.'
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Cotton Hawes vindicated himself on the day they captured Charles Fetterick.
The call from Sam Kaplowitz came in at 8.27 a.m. Hawes was summoned to the phone.
'Detective Hawes,' he said.
'Mr Hawes, this is Sam.' He paused. 'Kaplowitz.'
'How are you, Mr Kaplowitz?'
'Fine, thank you. I've located Charlie Fetterick.'
'Where?' Hawes asked quickly.
'He's working for a place called Simpson Engraving. That's in Riverhead.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes. From what Mr Simpson told me, he's ready to fire him. He hasn't been in to work for the last week or so.'
'Thank you,' Hawes said. 'Mr Kaplowitz, I want to get on this right away. Thanks a million for calling.'
'Don't mention it. Glad to be of assistance.'
Hawes hung up. He looked up the number for Simpson Engraving and called it. There was no answer. He had a cup of coffee and tried again at 9.10. He spoke to a man named Alec Simpson who said that Fetterick had been working for him for six months. He was a good worker, until just recently. Without calling in or anything, he'd stayed away from work. It came as no surprise to Hawes that the absenteeism had started on the day after Havilland's death, the day after Fetterick had been wounded. He asked if Simpson had an address for Fetterick. Simpson had two. The one Fetterick had first used—his mother's apartment, 312 Bragin Street in Riverhead—and a later one, 127 Boxer Lane. Hawes jotted down the Bragin Street address, thanked Simpson, took his service revolver from the top drawer of his desk, and walked over to where Carella was typing.
'I've found Fetterick,' he said. 'Want to be in on the collar?'
'Think I'll get shot?' Carella asked.
Hawes smiled. 'There's a chance,' he said. 'The help is sort of inexperienced.'
'But maybe solid none the less,' Carella said. He clipped his holstered gun into his back pocket. 'Let's go.'
They drove to Riverhead in silence. If either of the men felt any particular tension, neither showed it. When they reached 312 Bragin, they got out of the car silently and looked for Fetterick's name in the mailboxes. He was in Apartment 2A. They went upstairs quietly. This time, Hawes unholstered his gun before Carella did. This time, Hawes threw off the safety before Carella did. When they reached the apartment door, Carella stood to one side of it, and Hawes backed off for the kick. He hit the lock flatfooted, and the door sprang open.
The room was dead silent. They could see an easy chair and a corner of the bed from where they stood in the hallway.
'Out?' Hawes whispered.
'I guess,' Carella said.
'Cover me.'
Hawes stepped into the room cautiously.
The arm came from behind the open door. It looped itself around Hawes's throat and yanked him backwards. He was too surprised to flip Fetterick over his shoulder. He had only time to shout, 'Steve! Get out!' before he felt the sharp snout of the automatic against his spine.
'Get in here, cop!' Fetterick said. 'You run, and your pal is dead.'
'Go, Steve!' Hawes said.
Carella came into the room.
'Drop the hardware,' Fetterick said. 'Both of you. Quick!'
Hawes dropped his gun. 'Shoot, Steve,' he said. 'Drop him!'
'You do, and your pal's dead,' Fetterick warned.' Drop the gun.'
Carella dropped the .38.
'Inside,' Fetterick said.
Carella moved away from the door, and Fetterick kicked it shut.
'Big cops,' he said. 'Saw you the minute you pulled up downstairs. Big cops.'
'What now, Fetterick?' Carella asked.
'Big sons of bitches,' Fetterick said. 'Because of you bastards, I couldn't go to a doctor. I'm still carrying the slug, you bastards.' He stood behind Hawes with the gun muzzle tight against Hawes's back. Carella moved across the room. 'No funny stuff,' Fetterick said. 'One cop's already dead. A few more won't make it any worse.'
'You've got it all wrong,' Carella said. 'You could get off with life.'
'What kind of life? I done the prison bit already, thanks. I either get away clean this time, or I get the chair. That's the way I want it.' He winced. The strain of keeping his arm around Hawes's neck was telling on his wounded shoulder. 'Sons of bitches. Couldn't even go to a doctor,' he said.
'Where's you mother, Fetterick?'
'Down getting something for breakfast. Leave her out of this.'
'She's harbouring a criminal.'
'She doesn't know anything.'
'She knows you're wounded.'
'She doesn't know it's a gun wound. You got nothing on her. How'd you get to me? Was it the paint job on the car the first time?'
'Yes.'
'I had to have it done. I thought it got spotted once. I couldn't chance it. What about now?'
'You shouldn't have looked for engraving work.'
'Engraving's my work,' Fetterick said.
'We thought burglary and robbery was,' Hawes said snidely.
'Shut up!' Fetterick warned. Again, he pulled the gun back and then rammed it forward. Hawes felt the snout dig into his flesh. He braced himself.
'You guys don't have me tagged for this Annie Boone crap in the papers, do you?'
'Was it you?' Carella asked.
'No. I got an alibi a mile long. That's one thing you don't stick me with.'
'Why don't you put up the gun like a good boy?' Carella asked.
'What for? So I get life on the state? Big deal. You guys walked into a coffin. You know that, don't you?'
'You're a stupid punk,' Hawes said. 'You wouldn't know how to…'
Fetterick pulled back the gun, ready to jab it into Hawes's back again. This time, Hawes was waiting for it. He moved quickly, twisting his body the moment the barrel left his back, twisting it inside the gun, throwing his weight at the same time so that he knocked the gun hand to one side, leaning forward simultaneously, his arms reaching up, his hands grabbing the arm that circled his neck.
The automatic in Fetterick's fist exploded, but Fetterick was in mid-air when it did, spiralling over Hawes's back. Carella was half-way across the room. Hawes threw Fetterick like a sack of flour. He landed on his back, sat up, and was bringing the automatic to bear when Carella kicked him. He kicked him in the arm, and the second shot went wild, and then Hawes took a flying leap, all one hundred and ninety pounds of him landing on Fetterick like a falling boulder. He pinioned Fetterick's arms and then began hitting him until he was senseless. Fetterick dropped the gun. He lay breathing heavily on the floor.
'That was a big chance,' Carella said to Hawes.
'He was ready to shoot us,' Hawes said.
'Yeah. Did I thank you?'
'No.'
'Thanks,' Carella said. 'Let's drag this hunk of crap down to the car.'
Charles Fetterick did not kill Annie Boone. His alibi for the night of 10 June was as solid as a rock. It didn't help Fetterick very much because the cops already had him on one murder. But, giving the devil his due, Fetterick did not kill Annie Boone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
'Who killed her?' they had asked at first.
And now they were asking something else again. Now they were asking, 'Who was killed?' They had asked questions about a girl named Annie Boone, and they had learned that there were many girls named Annie Boone, and to know who had killed Annie they first had to discover which of the Annies had been killed. The vivacious redhead? The intellectual reader and ballet-goer? The pool-shooter? The divorced wife? The mistress? The mother? The daughter? The social drinker? The drunkard? The girl who talked with a blind boy? Which was Annie? And which Annie had been killed? Or were they all Annie, and had the killer murdered someone who was all things to all men?
No, the killer had slain a specific Annie. And now the killer had a specific problem, and the problem was a letter.
Standing in the doorway across from the apartment house, the killer could watch everyone who went in or out of the building. When Monica and Mrs Travail left the apartment, the killer crossed the street rapidly, and then went upstairs. It was not easy to force the door of the apartment. There could be no sudden sound, no sharp splintering of wood. And so the tool used was a simple wood chisel pried into the jamb, pressed, pressed with subtle force until the door sprang open. The killer went directly to the dead Annie Boone's room.
There, books were knocked from shelves, closets were ransacked, the record player was almost demolished, the bed was stripped, the mattress turned over—but the letter was not found.
The whirlwind swept destructively throughout the entire apartment, seeking, seeking, not finding, infuriated by failure, destroying property as senselessly as it had in the liquor shop on the night of the murder. The killer ransacked and destroyed and rampaged.
But the letter remained undiscovered.
The killer succeeded in doing two things.
First, the wild rampage brought the cops back to the apartment. This time, they realized just how important that letter was. This time, there were a dozen cops going over the place. This time, whenever two cops finished with a room, two other cops came in and started searching all over again.
They found the letter on Annie's desk.
She had tucked both letter and envelope into a larger envelope containing a brochure from one of the department stores. Safe within the pages of the brochure, the letter had escaped the killer's search. The killer, of course, did not have a dozen men searching, nor was a salary being paid for the solitary search.
The letter was very short. It was not a masterpiece of English composition. It said what it had to say. It was written in haste, but not in anger. It spoke of a murder which was coldly premeditated. It promised death in cold precise words. It said:
Annie Boone—
Soon—
You will know why. You know why already. You shall pay. Soon and swiftly.
You will die!
The killer had not bothered to sign the letter but the killer had signed two death warrants none the less: Annie Boone's, and the killer's own. That was the second thing the killer succeeded in doing.
The envelope was postmarked at International Airport at 8 a.m. on the morning of 5 June.
The rest was easy.
This is the stub torn from an automobile registration application. This stub is on file in the Bureau of Motor Vehicles in the state capital.
If you've ever registered an automobile, you signed the stub. You signed your name. In your handwriting.
This now is the reverse side of a stub torn from an application for a driver's licence. This stub, too, is on file in the Bureau of Motor Vehicles in the state capital.
You signed it.
The first time you applied for a driver's licence, you sign2d the stub. There are stubs like this on file in the motor vehicle bureaus of almost every state in the union.
Not too long ago, a drunk named George had stumbled into the squad room of the 87th Precinct and said, 'I wannuh… uh… I wannuh talk tuddy bull who's handlin' the… uh… the li'l girl got killed inny… uh… inny liquor store.'
He had spoken to Meyer Meyer, and then Miscolo had made a lot of bum jokes about the drunk being Meyer's father—but the drunk had told Meyer one thing, and maybe he was just an old drunk or maybe he was telling the truth, but he'd told Meyer that he'd seen someone driving away from the liquor store after hearing shots and breakage. If the drank had been telling the truth, and unless the men of the 87th were up against the miracle of an unlicenced driver driving an unregistered car, the killer didn't have much time left.
There was the killer's handwriting on that letter mailed to Annie Boone. And there were thousands and thousands of signatures on the stubs in the Bureau of Motor Vehicles upstate. The comparisons began.
The drunk named George had not been lying, and the age of miracles was dead.
Mrs Franklin Phelps sat quite regally in the straight-backed chair in the squad room. They let Steve Carella question her because Carella allegedly had a way with women, even though he was a married man. She knew it was all over, anyway. It was in her eyes and on her face. Anyone could have questioned her. A rookie off the streets could have questioned her.