by Ed McBain
Hawes was writing now.
"How old is your husband?" he asked.
"Thirty-four."
"How tall is he?"
"Five-eleven."
"Weight?"
"One-seventy."
"Color of his hair?"
"Black."
"Eyes?"
"Blue."
"Does he wear glasses?"
"No."
"Is he white?"
"Well, ofcourse ," Marie said.
"Any identifying marks, scars or tattoos?"
"Yes, he has an appendectomy scar. And also a meniscectomy scar."
"What's that?" Hawes asked.
"He had a skiing accident. Tore the cartilage in his left knee. They removed the cartilage mdash;what they call the meniscus. There's a scar there. On his left knee."
"How do you spell that?" Hawes asked. "Meniscectomy?"
"I don't know," Marie said.
"On the phone, you told me you live in the next state hellip;"
"Yes, I do."
"Where?"
"Collinsworth."
"The address?"
"604 Eden Lane."
"Apartment number?"
"It's a private house."
"Telephone number, area code first?"
"Well, I'll give you Frank's card," she said, and dug into her shoulder bag and came up with a sheaf of cards. She took one from the stack and handed it to Hawes. He scanned it quickly, wrote both the home and office phone numbers onto his pad, and then tucked the card into the pad's flap.
"Did you try calling home?" he asked.
"No. Why would I do that?"
"Are you sure he didn't go home without you? Maybe he figured this Jimmy would pick you up."
"No, we were planning on eating dinner here in the city."
"So he wouldn't have gone home without you."
"He never has."
"This Jimmy hellip; what's his last name?"
"Brayne."
"Brain? Like in somebody's head?"
"Yes, but with a Y."
"B-R-A-Y-N?"
"With an E on the end."
"B-R-A-Y-N-E?"
"Yes."
"James Brayne."
"Yes."
"And his address?"
"He lives with us."
"Same house?"
"A little apartment over the garage."
"Andhis phone number?"
"Oh, gee," she said, "I'm not sure I remember it."
"Well, try to remember," Hawes said, "because I think we ought to call back home, see if either of them maybe went back there."
"They wouldn't do that," Marie said.
"Maybe they got their signals crossed," Hawes said. "Maybe Jimmy thought your husband was going to take the stuff in the car hellip;"
"No, the big stuff won't fit in the car. That's why we have the van."
"Or maybe your husband thought you were getting a ride back with Jimmy hellip;"
"I'm sure he didn't."
"What kind of a car was your husband driving?"
"A 1984 Citation. A two-door coupe."
"Color?"
"Blue."
"License-plate number?"
"DL 74-3681."
"And the van?"
"A '79 Ford Econoline."
"Color?"
"Tan, sort of."
"Would you know the license-plate number on that one?"
"RL 68-7210."
"In whose name are the vehicles registered?"
"My husband's."
"Both registered across the river?"
"Yes."
"Let's find a phone, okay?" Hawes said.
"There's one inside," she said, "but calling them won't do any good."
"How do you know?"
"Because Frank wouldn't have dumped his tricks all over the driveway this way. These tricks cost money."
"Let's try calling them, anyway."
"It won't do any good," Marie said. "I'm telling you."
He dialed Sebastiani's home and office numbers, and got no answer at either. Marie at last remembered the number in the room over the garage, and he dialed that one, too. Nothing.
"Well," he said, "let me get to work on this. I'll call you as soon as hellip;"
"How am I going to get home?" Marie asked.
They always asked how they were going to get home.
"There are trains running out to Collinsworth, aren't there?"
"Yes, but hellip;"
"I'll drop you off at the station."
"What about all those tricks outside in the driveway?"
"Maybe we can get the school custodian to lock them up someplace. Till your husband shows up."
"What makes you think he'll show up?"
"Well, I'm sure he's okay. Just some crossed signals, that's all."
"I'm not sure I want to go home tonight," Marie said.
"Well, ma'am hellip;"
"I think I may want to hellip; could I come to the police station with you? Could I wait there till you hear anything about Frank?"
"That's entirely up to you, ma'am. But it may take a while before we hellip;"
"And can you lend me some money?" she asked.
He looked at her.
"For dinner?"
He kept looking at her.
"I'll pay you back as soon as hellip; as soon as we find Frank. I'm sorry, but I've only got a few dollars on me. Frank was the one they paid, he's the one who's got all the money."
"Howmuch money, ma'am?"
"Well, just enough for a hamburger or something."
"I meant how much money does your husband have on him?"
"Oh. Well, we got a hundred for the job. And he probably had a little something in his wallet, I don't know how much."
Which lets out robbery, Hawes thought. Although in this city, there were people who'd slit your throat for a nickel. He suddenly wondered how much money he himself was carrying. This was the first time in his entire life that a victim had asked him for a loan.
"I'm sort of hungry myself," he said. "Let's find the custodian and then go get something to eat."
Monroe looked bereft without Monoghan.
The clock on the liquor-store wall read 6:10 p.m.
He was standing behind the cash register, where the owner of the store had been shot dead a bit more than an hour earlier. The body was already gone. There was only blood and a chalked outline on the floor behind the counter. The cash register was empty.
"There was four of them," the man talking to Meyer said.
Meyer had been cruising the area when Sergeant Murchison raised him on the radio. He had got here maybe ten minutes after it was all over, and had immediately radioed back with a confirmed D.O.A. Murchison had informed Homicide, so here was Monroe, all alone, and looking as if he'd lost his twin brother. He was wearing a black homburg, a black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. His hands were in his jacket pockets, only the thumbs showing. He looked like a sad, neat undertaker. Meyer wondered where Monoghan was. Wherever he was, Meyer figured he'd be dressed exactly like Monroe. Even if he was home sick in bed, he'd be dressed like Monroe.
Meyer himself was wearing brown slacks, a brown cotton turtleneck, and a tan sports jacket. He thought he looked very dapper tonight. With his bald head and his burly build, he figured he looked like Kojak, except more handsome. He was sorry Kojak was off the air now. He'd always felt Kojak gave bald cops a good name.
"Little kids," the man said.
This was the third time he'd told Meyer that four little kids had held up the liquor store and shot the owner.
"What do you mean, little kids?" Monroe asked from behind the cash register.
"Eleven, twelve years old," the man said.
His name was Henry Kirby, and he lived in a building up the street. He was perhaps sixty, sixty-five years old, a thin, graying man wearing a short-sleeved sports shirt and wrinkled polyester slacks. He'd told first Meyer and then Monroe that he was coming to the store to b
uy a bottle of wine when he saw these little kids running out with shopping bags and guns. Monroe still couldn't believe it.
"You meanchildren ?" he said.
"Little kids, yeah," Kirby said.
"Grade-schoolers?"
"Yeah, little kids."
"Pre-pubescent twerps?" Monroe said.
He was doing okay without Monoghan. Without Monoghan, he was being Monoghan and Monroe all by himself.
"Yeah, little kids," Kirby said.
"What were they wearing?" Meyer said.
"Leather jackets, blue jeans, sneakers and masks."
"What kind of masks?" Monroe asked. "Like these monster masks? These rubber things you pull over your head?"
"No, just these little black masks over their eyes. Like robbers wear. They were robbers, these kids."
"And you say there were four of them?"
"Four, right."
"Ran out of the store with shopping bags and guns?"
"Shopping bags and guns, right."
"What kind of guns?" Monroe asked.
"Little guns."
"Like twenty-twos?"
"I'm not so good at guns. These were little guns."
"Like Berettas?"
"I'm not so good at guns."
"Like little Brownings?"
"I'm not so good at guns. They were little guns."
"Did you hear any shots as you approached the store?" Meyer asked.
"No, I didn't. I didn't know Ralph was dead till I walked inside."
"Ralph?" Monroe said.
"Ralph Adams. It's his store. Adams Wine Spirits. He's been here in this same spot for twenty years."
"Not no more," Monroe said tactfully.
"So where'd these kids go when they came out of the store?" Meyer asked.
He was thinking this sounded like Fagin's little gang. The Artful Dodger, all that crowd. A cop he knew in England had written recently to say his kids would be celebrating mdash;if that was the word for it mdash;Halloween over there this year. Lots of American executives living in England, their kids had introduced the holiday to the British. Just what they need, Meyer thought. Maybe next year, twelve-year-old British kids'd start holding up liquor stores.
"They ran to this car parked at the curb," Kirby said.
"A vehicle?" Monroe said.
"Yeah, a car."
"An automobile?"
"A car, yeah."
"What kind of car?"
"I'm not so good at cars."
"Was it a big car or a little car?"
"A regular car."
"Like a Chevy or a Plymouth?"
"I'm not so good at cars."
"Like an Olds or a Buick?"
"A regular car, is all."
"They all got in this car?" Meyer asked.
"One in the front seat, three in the back."
"Who was driving?"
"A woman."
"How old a woman?"
"Hard to say."
"What'd she look like?"
"She was a blonde."
"What was she wearing?"
"I really couldn't see. It was dark in the car. I could see she was a blonde, but that's about all."
"How about when the kids opened the doors?" Monroe asked. "Didn't the lights go on?"
"Yeah, but I didn't notice what she was wearing. I figured this was maybe a car pool, you know?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the kids were all about the same age, so they couldn't all beher kids, you know what I mean? So I figured she was just driving maybe her own kid and some of his friends around. For Halloween, you know?"
"You mean the kid's mother was a wheelman, huh?"
"Well hellip;"
"For a stickup, huh? A wheelman for four eleven-year-olds."
"Or twelve," Kirby said. "Eleven or twelve."
"These kids," Meyer said, "Were all of them boys?"
"They weredressed like boys, but I really couldn't say. They all went by so fast. Just came running out of the store and into the car."
"Then what?" Monroe asked.
"The car pulled away."
"Did you see the license plate?"
"I'm not so good at license plates," Kirby said.
"Was it you who called the police?" Meyer asked.
"Yes, sir. I called 911 the minute I saw Ralph laying dead there behind the counter."
"Did you use this phone here?" Monroe asked, indicating the phone alongside the register.
"No, sir. I went outside and used the pay phone on the corner."
"Okay, we've got your name and address," Monroe said, "we'll get in touch if we need you."
"Is there a reward?" Kirby asked.
"For what?"
"I thought there might be a reward."
"We're not so good at rewards," Monroe said. "Thanks a lot, we'll be in touch."
Kirby nodded glumly and walked out of the store.