by Ed McBain
Fournier's quarters were in the forward compartment on B deck. His bunk was in a tier of three, folded up against the bulkhead now. Foot lockers ran along the deck under the bunks. All of the lockers were padlocked.
'This one is Fournier's,' Webster said.
'What do we do?' Meyer asked. 'Another goddamn court order?'
'If we want to see what's in there,' Carella said.
'Think we'll even get it?'
Webster was standing there, but the men were thinking out loud.
'It'd have to include permission to bust open that lock.'
'Boy, I don't know, Steve. Wouldn't she have mentioned a French accent? If the guy's French . . .'
'Canadian,' Carella said.
'Yeah, but Quebec'
'We're close to downtown, you know. Right over the bridge.'
'Kill the whole damn afternoon,' Meyer said.
'And he may deny it, anyway.'
'Yeah.'
'So what do you think?'
'I don't know, what do you think?'
'I think the judge'll kick us out on our asses.'
'Me, too.'
'On the other hand, he may grant the warrant.'
'I doubt it.'
'Me, too. But if he does, we may find something in the locker.'
'Or we may find only dirty socks and underwear.'
'So what do you think?'
'Will we need a cop from Safe, Loft & Truck?'
'What do you mean?'
'If we get the search warrant. I mean, how the hell else are we going to open that lock? Those guys have tools can get into anything. They're the best burglars n this city.'
'Mr Webster,' Carella said, 'was your ship here in port on New Year's Eve?'
'Yes, it was,' Webster said.
'Did the crew go ashore?'
'Well, certainly. New Year's Eve? Of course.'
'We'd better go get that warrant,' Carella said.
* * * *
If the case had not concerned the murder of a six-month-old baby, the supreme court magistrate to whom the detectives presented their affidavit might not have felt they had probable cause for a search warrant. But the judge read newspapers, too. And he watched television. And he knew this was the Baby Susan case. He also knew it was the Annie Flynn case, but somehow the sitter's murder wasn't quite as shocking. In this city, sixteen-year-old girls got stabbed or raped or both every day of the week. But smothering an infant?
They went back to the ship with their search warrant and a pair of bolt cutters.
They were not bad burglars themselves.
It took them three minutes to cut through the lock.
They did indeed find a lot of dirty socks and underwear in Michel Fournier's foot locker.
But they also found a letter a girl in this city had written to him only last month.
The letter had a return address on it.
* * * *
Herrera was trying to explain to his girlfriend why there was a uniformed cop on the front stoop downstairs. Consuelo didn't understand a word of it. It had something to do with the police department owing him protection because a detective had saved his life, which made no sense at all. She sometimes thought Herrera was a little crazy, which she also found tremendously exciting. And confusing. All she could gather was that a policeman followed Herrera everywhere he went, to make sure nobody tried to kill him again. She hadn't realized he was so important.
But now he was telling her that he had rented another apartment and that they would be moving there. Temporarily. He would be losing the cop, and they would be moving into this new apartment for just a little while. Until he settled some business matters, and then they would go to Spain. Live on the Costa Brava. Consuelo had never been to the Costa Brava, but it sounded nice.
'When will we leave for Spain?' she asked, testing him. This was Lenny asking George to tell about the rabbits again. She hadn't believed Herrera's story the first time around, but he sure made it sound better every time he told it. He told her now that he'd already booked the flight and would be picking up the tickets very soon. First-class seats for both of them. Get out of this city where no one would ever find him again. Not the Chinks, not the Jakies, and not the cops, either.
'The Jakies?' she said.
'That's what they call them,' he said.
Consuelo figured he probably knew.
She had never realized he was so smart.
He was, in fact, even smarter than he himself had realized he was.
Street smart.
Which didn't only mean knowing how to kick the shit out of somebody. It also meant learning what was about to go down and figuring how to take advantage of it. For yourself. Playing for number one. Stepping out quicker than the other guy. Which came naturally if you grew up in these streets. Which the Jakies hadn't done, and which the Chinks hadn't done, either. Now maybe the streets of downtown Kingston or downtown Hong Kong were as mean as the streets here in this city, but Herrera doubted it. So whereas these small-town hoods could move in with their money and their muscle, there was something about this city that would always and forever elude them because they had not been born into this city, it was not in their blood the way it was in Herrera's.
This was not their city.
Fucking foreigners.
This was his city.
And he knew the stink of rotten fish, all right.
Had caught that stink the minute Hamilton approached him with the deal. Thought Uh-oh, why is he coming to me? Not coming to him in person, not going to where Herrera lived, but sending someone to get him. This was three days before Christmas. The deal was going down on the twenty-seventh. A simple dope buy, Hamilton explained. Very small, fifty dollars for three kilos of cocaine. Close to seventeen grand a key. Hamilton needed someone to deliver the cash and pick up the stuff for him.
So why me? Herrera wondered.
All the while Hamilton talked, Herrera was thinking This is bullshit, the man wants something from me. But what can it be?
Why is he asking me to pick up this cocaine for him?
Why doesn't he send one of his own people?
'You'll be carrying the money in a briefcase,' Hamilton said.
Fifty fucking K! Herrera thought.
'This is the address.'
He's trusting me with all that cash.
Never met me in his life, trusting me with all that money. Suppose I split with it? Straight to Spindledrift, I get on an airplane to Calcutta. Or else the coke. I give them the money in the briefcase, I pack the three keys, I disappear from the face of the-
'Don't get any ideas,' Hamilton said.
But Herrera figured that was for show; the fish stink was very strong now.
'My people will be waiting for you downstairs,' Hamilton said.
Then why don't you send your people upstairs? Herrera wondered.
Why send me instead? Who you never met in your life.
'You're probably wondering why I came to you,' Hamilton said.
Now why would I be wondering such a thing, Herrera thought.
'You worked for Arthur Chang some years ago, didn't you?' Hamilton said.
Herrera never admitted having worked for anyone at any time. To anybody. He said nothing.
'We need a man who understands the Chinese mentality,' Hamilton said.
The word sounded so pretty on his Jamaican tongue.
'Men-tahl-ee-tee.'
But why? Herrera wondered.
'Why?' he asked.
'The men making delivery are Chinese,' Hamilton said.
Herrera looked at him.
This was the lie. He knew this was the lie, but he didn't yet know what the lie was. He knew only that he saw the lie sitting in Hamilton's eyes on Hamilton's impassive face, and the lie had something to do with Chinese making the delivery.
'Which Chinese?' he asked.
'That is for me to know, man,' Hamilton said, and smiled.
'Sure,' Herrera said.
'So do you think you might be interested?'
'You haven't yet mentioned how much this is worth to you.'
'I thought ten dollars,' Hamilton said.
Which was very fucking high.
High by about eight.
Especially high when you figured he could just as easily send someone on his payroll.
So why such rich bait?
It suddenly occurred to Herrera that this fucking Jakie was buying a fall guy.
'Ten sounds about right,' he said.
* * * *
The return address on the flap of the envelope was 336 North Eames. The woman had signed her letter Julie. The mailboxes downstairs showed a J. Endicott in apartment. They climbed the steps to the second floor, stood outside the door listening for a moment, and then knocked. This was now a quarter to seven in the evening. Even if Julie had a job, she should be-
'Who is it?'
A woman's voice.
'Police,' Carella said.
'Police?'
Utter astonishment.
'Miss Endicott?' Carella said.
'Yes?'
The voice closer to the door now. Suspicion replacing the surprise. In this city all kinds of lunatics knocked on your door pretending they were somebody else.
'I'm Detective Carella, 87th Squad, I wonder if you could open the door for me.'
'Why? What's the matter?'
'Routine inquiry, Miss. Could you open the door, please?'
The door opened just a crack, restrained by a night chain.
An eye appeared in the crack. Part of a face.
'Let me see your badge, please.'
He held up his shield and ID card.
'What's this about?' she asked.
'Is this your handwriting?' he asked, and held up the letter so that the envelope flap showed.
'Where'd you get that?' she asked.
'Did you write this?'
'Yes, but . . .'
'May we come in, please?'
'Just a second,' she said.
The door closed. There was the rattle of the chain coming off. The door opened again. She was, Carella guessed, in her mid-twenties, a woman of medium height with long blonde hair and brown eyes. She had the look about her of someone who had just got home from work, still wearing a skirt and blouse, but she'd loosened her hair and undone the stock tie on the blouse, and she was barefoot.
'Julie Endicott?' Carella said.
'Yes?'
She closed the door behind them.
They were in a small entrance foyer. Tiny kitchen to the right. Living room straight ahead. In the living room, a young man sat on a sofa upholstered in a nubby blue fabric. There was a coffee table in front of the sofa, two drinks in tall glasses on it. A pair of medium-heeled women's shoes were on the floor under the coffee table. The young man was wearing jeans and a V necked sweater. His shoes were under the coffee table, too. Carella figured they'd interrupted a bit of fore-play. Lady home from work, boyfriend or husband waiting to mix the drinks. She lets down her hair, they kick off their shoes, he starts fiddling with her blouse, knock, knock, it's the cops.
The young man looked up at them as they came in.
He was white.
Tall.
With dark hair and blue eyes.
Joyce Chapman's vague description of ...
'Michel Fournier?' Carella asked.
His eyes opened wide. He looked at Julie. Julie shrugged, shook her head.
'Are you Michel Fournier?' Carella said.
'Yes?'
'Few questions we'd like to ask you.'
'Questions?' he said, and looked at Julie again. Julie shrugged again.
'Privately,' Carella said. He was thinking down the line. Thinking alibi. If Julie Endicott turned out to be Fournier's alibi, he'd want to question her separately later on.
'Is there anything you have to do?' he asked her.
'What?'
'Take a shower, watch the TV news
'Oh,' she said. 'Sure.'
She went through the living room and opened a door opposite the couch. A glimpse of bed beyond. The door closed.
'We know the Dean was in port on New Year's Eve,' Carella said. Straight for the jugular. 'We know the crew went ashore. Where'd you go, Mike?'
First-name basis. Reduce him at once to an inferior status. An old cop trick that usually worked. Except when you were talking to a professional thief who thought you were calling him Frankie because you liked him.
'New Year's Eve,' Meyer said.
'Where, Mike?'
'Why do you want to know?'
'Do you know a girl named Joyce Chapman?'
'No. Joyce Chapman. No. Who's Joyce Chapman?'
'Think back to October,' Carella said.
'I was nowhere near this city in October.'
'We're talking about October a year ago.'
'What? How do you expect me to remember . . . ?'
'A disco named Lang's. Down in the Quarter.'
'So?'
'Do you remember it?'
'I think so. What's . . . ?'
'A girl named Joyce Chapman. You did some dope together . . .'
'No, no.'
'Yes, yes, this isn't a drug bust, Mike.'
'Look, I really don't remember anyone named Joyce Chapman.'
'Blonde hair,' Meyer said.
'Like your friend Julie,' Carella said.
'I like blondes,' Fournier said, and shrugged.
'Green eyes,' Meyer said.
'Pretty eyes.'
'Her best feature.'
'You went back to her apartment on North Orange . . .'
'No, I don't re . . .'
'She had a roommate.'
'Asleep when you came in . . .'
'Still asleep when you left early the next morning.'
'Angela Quist.'
'I don't know her, either.'
'Okay, let's talk about New Year's Eve.'
'A year ago? If you expect . . .'
'No, Mike, the one just past.'
'Where'd you go and what'd you do?'
'I was with Julie. I stay here with Julie whenever the Dean's in port.'
'How long have you known her?'
'I don't know, it must be six, seven months.'
'She came after Joyce, huh?'
'I'm telling you I don't know anybody named . . .'
'Wants to be a writer,' Meyer said.
'She was studying writing here in the city.'
'Her father owns a lumber company out west.'
'Oh,' Fournier said.
Recognition.
'You got her now?' Carella said.
'Yeah. I think. A little tattoo on her ass?'
Nobody had mentioned a tattoo to them.
'Like a little bird? On the right cheek?'
'Picasso prints on the wall over the couch,' Meyer said. 'In the apartment on Orange.'
'Like some kind of modern stuff?' Fournier said.
'Yeah, like some kind of modern stuff,' Meyer said.
'I think I remember her. That was some night.'
'Apparently,' Carella said. 'Ever try to get in touch with her again?'
'No. I'll tell you the truth, I didn't even remember her name.'
'Never saw her again after that night, huh?"
'Never.'
'Tell us about New Year's Eve, Mike.'
'I already told you. I was with Julie. Did something happen to this girl? Is that why you're asking me all these questions?'
'You were here on New Year's Eve, is that it?'