by Ed McBain
The waiter came to the table. Fletcher suggested that Carella try either the trout au meunière or the beef and kidney pie, both of which were excellent. Carella ordered prime ribs, medium rare, and a mug of beer. As the men ate and talked, something began happening. Or at least Carella thought something was happening; he would never be quite sure. Nor would he ever try to explain the experience to anyone because the conversation with Fletcher seemed on the surface to be routine chatter about such unrelated matters as conditions in the city, the approaching holidays, several recent motion pictures, the effectiveness of the copper bracelet Meyer had given Kling, the University of Wisconsin (where Fletcher had gone to law school), the letters Carella’s children had written and were still writing daily to Santa Claus, the quality of the beef, and the virtues of ale as compared to beer. But rushing through this inane, polite, and really quite pointless discussion was an undercurrent that caused excitement, fear, and apprehension. As they spoke, Carella knew with renewed dizzying certainty that Gerald Fletcher had killed his wife. Without ever being told so, he knew it. Without the murder ever being mentioned again, he knew it. This was why Fletcher had called this morning, this was why Fletcher had invited him to lunch, this was why he prattled on endlessly while every contradictory move of his body, every hand gesture, every facial expression signaled, indicated, transmitted on an almost extrasensory level that he knew Carella suspected him of the murder, and was here to tell Carella (without telling him) that, Yes, you stupid cop bastard, yes, I killed my wife. However much the evidence may point to another man, however many confessions you get, I killed the bitch, and I’m glad I killed her.
And there isn’t a goddamn thing you can do about it.
5
R alph Corwin was being held before trial in the city’s oldest prison, known to law enforcers and law breakers alike as “Calcutta.” How Calcutta had evolved from Municipal House of Detention, Male Offenders was anybody’s guess. The automatic reference, one might have thought, would be to “The Black Hole,” but Calcutta was not bad as prisons went; there were certainly less hanging-suicides among its inmates than there were at several of the city’s other fine establishments. The building itself was old, but built at a time when masons knew how to handle bricks (and, more important, cared how they were handled) and so it had withstood the onslaught of time and weather, yielding only to the city’s soot, which covered the rust-red bricks like a malevolent black jungle fungus. Inside the buildings, the walls and corridors were clean, the cells small but sanitary, the recreational facilities (Ping-Pong, television, and, in the open yard outside, handball) adequate, and the guards about as dedicated as those to be found anywhere—which is to say they were brutal, sadistic, moronic clods.
Ralph Corwin was being kept in a wing of the building reserved for heavy felony offenders; his cell block at the moment was occupied by himself, a gentleman who had starved his six-year-old son to death in the basement of his Calm’s Point house, another gentleman who had set fire to a synagogue in Majesta, and a third member of the criminal elite who had shot and blinded a gas-station attendant during a holdup in Bethtown. The wounded attendant had rushed out into the highway gushing blood from his shattered face and, because he could not see, was knocked down and killed by a two-ton trailer truck. As the old gag goes, however, he wouldn’t have died if he hadn’t been shot first. Corwin’s cell was at the end of the row, and Carella found him there that Wednesday morning sitting on the lower bunk, hands clasped between his knees, head bent as though in prayer. It had been necessary to get permission for the visit from both the district attorney’s office and Corwin’s lawyer, neither of whom, apparently, felt that allowing Carella to talk to the prisoner would be harmful to the case. Corwin was expecting him. He lifted his head as soon as he heard approaching footsteps, and then rose from the bunk as the turnkey opened the cell door.
“How are you?” Carella said, and extended his hand. Corwin took it, shook it briefly, and then said, “I was wondering which one you’d be. I got your names mixed up, you and the blond cop, I couldn’t remember which was which. Anyway, now I know. You’re Carella.”
“Yes.”
“What’d you want to see me about?”
“I wanted to ask you some questions.”
“My lawyer says . . .”
“I spoke to your lawyer, he knows . . .”
“Yeah, but he says I’m not supposed to add anything to what I already said. He wanted to be here, in fact, but I told him I could take care of myself. I don’t even like that guy. Did you ever meet that guy? He’s this little fink with glasses, he’s like a goddamn cockroach.”
“Why don’t you ask for another lawyer?”
“Can I do that?”
“Sure.”
“Who do I ask?”
“The Legal Aid Society.”
“Can you do that for me? Can you give them a call and tell them . . .”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why?” Corwin said, and studied Carella suspiciously.
“I don’t want to do anything that might be considered prejudicial to the case.”
“Whose case? Mine or the D.A.’s?”
“Either one. I’m not familiar enough with what the Court might consider . . .”
“Okay, so how do I call the Legal Aid?”
“Ask one of the officers here. Or simply tell your lawyer. I’m sure if you explain your feelings to him, he would have no objection to dropping out. Would you want to defend someone who didn’t like you?”
“Yeah, well,” Corwin said, and shrugged. “I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He’s a little cockroach, but what the hell.”
“You’ve got a lot at stake here, Corwin.”
“That’s just the point. What the hell difference does it make?”
“What do you mean?”
“I killed her. So what does it matter who the lawyer is? Nobody’s going to save me. You got it all in black and white.”
Corwin’s eyelid was twitching. He wrung his hands together, sat on the bunk again, and said, “I got to hold my hands together. I got to squeeze them together, otherwise I’m afraid I’ll shake myself to pieces, you know what I mean?”
“How bad has it been?”
“Cold turkey’s never good, and it’s worse when you can’t yell. Every time I yell, that son of a bitch in the next cell tells me to shut up, the one who put his own kid in the basement. He scares me. Did you get a look at him? He must weigh two hundred and fifty pounds. Can you imagine a guy like that chaining his own kid in the basement? And not giving him anything to eat? What makes people do things like that?”
“I don’t know,” Carella said. “Have they given you any medication?”
“No. They said this ain’t a hospital. Which I know it ain’t, right? So I asked my cockroach lawyer to get me transferred to the Narcotics Service at Buenavista, and he said the prison authorities would have to make tests before they could transfer me there as a bona-fide addict, and he said that might take a couple of days. So in a couple of days I won’t be a fuckin’ bona-fide addict anymore, because by then I’ll vomit up my guts and kick it cold turkey, so what kind of sense does that make? I don’t understand rules. I swear to God, I really don’t understand rules. That’s one thing about junk. It makes you forget all the bullshit rules. You stick a needle in your arm, all the rules vanish. Man, I hate rules.”
“You feel like answering some questions?” Carella said.
“I feel like dropping dead is what I feel like.”
“If you’d rather I came back another . . .”
“No, no, go ahead. What do you want to know?”
“I want to know exactly how you stabbed Sarah Fletcher.”
Corwin squeezed his hands tightly together. He wet his lips, abruptly leaned forward as though fighting a sudden cramp, and said, “How do you think you stab somebody? You stick a knife in her, that’s how.”
“Where?”
“In the belly.”
> “Left-hand side of the body?”
“Yes. I guess so. I’m right-handed, and she was facing me, so I guess that’s where I stabbed her. Yes.”
“Then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“What did you do then?”
“I . . . you know, I think I must’ve let go of the knife. I think I was so surprised I stabbed her that I let go of it, you know? I must’ve let go, don’t you think? Because I remember her backing away from me, and then falling, and the knife was still in her.”
“Did she say anything to you?”
“No. She just had this . . . this terrible look on her face. Shocked and . . . and hurt . . . and . . . and like, wondering why I did it.”
“Where was the knife when she fell?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Was the knife on the right-hand side of her body or the left?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try to remember.”
“I don’t know. That was when I heard the front door opening and all I could think of was getting out of there.”
“When you stabbed her, did she twist away from you?”
“No. She backed away.”
“She didn’t twist away while you were still holding the knife?”
“No. She moved straight back. As if she couldn’t believe what I done, and . . . and just wanted to get away from me, you know?”
“And then she fell?”
“Yes. She . . . her knees sort of gave way and she grabbed for her belly, and her hands sort of . . . it was terrible . . . they just . . . they were grabbing air, you know? And she fell.”
“In what position?”
“On her side.”
“Which side?”
“I could still see the knife, so it must’ve been the opposite side. The side opposite from where I stabbed her.”
“Facing her, how was she lying on the floor? Show me.”
“Well . . .” Corwin rose from the bunk and stood before Carella. “Let’s say the toilet bowl there is the window, her feet were toward me, and her head was toward the window. So if you’re me . . .” Corwin got on the floor and stretched his legs toward Carella. “This is the position she was in.”
“All right, now show me which side she was lying on.”
Corwin rolled onto his right side. “This side,” he said.
“Her right side.”
“Yes.”
“And you saw the knife sticking out of the opposite side, the left side.”
“Yes.”
“Exactly where you’d stabbed her.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Was the knife still in that position when you broke the window and left the apartment?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look at the knife again. Nor at her neither. I just wanted to get out of there fast. There was somebody coming, you understand?”
“One last question, Ralph. Was she dead when you went through that window?”
“I don’t know. She was bleeding and . . . she was very quiet. I . . . guess she was dead. I don’t know. I guess so.”
“Hello, Miss Simonov?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Kling, 87th Squad. I’ve . . .”
“Who?”
“Kling. Detective Kling. You remember we talked in the hallway . . .”
“Oh, yes, how are you?”
“Fine, thanks. I’ve been trying to get you all afternoon. It finally occurred to me, big detective that I am, that you probably work, and wouldn’t be home until after five.”
“I do work,” Nora said, “but I work right here in the apartment. I’m a freelance artist. I really should get an answering service, I suppose. I was uptown visiting my mother. I’m sorry you had trouble getting me.”
“Well,” Kling said, “I’ve got you now.”
“Just barely. I still haven’t taken off my coat.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Would you? This apartment’s stifling hot. If you close all the windows, they send up steam you could grow orchids with. And if you leave them open the tiniest crack, you come home and it’s like an arctic tundra. I’ll just be a minute. God, it’s suffocating in here.”
Kling waited. While he waited, he looked at his copper bracelet. If the bracelet actually began working, he would send one to his aunt in San Diego, who had been suffering from rheumatism for close to fifteen years. If it didn’t work, he would sue Meyer.
“Hello, I’m back.”
“Hello,” Kling said.
“Boy, that’s much better,” Nora said. “I can’t stand extremes, can you? It’s bitter cold in the street, and the temperature in here has to be at least a hundred and four. Wow. What were you calling about, Mr. Kling?”
“Well, as you probably know, we apprehended the man who committed the Fletcher murder . . .”
“Yes, I read about it.”
“And the district attorney’s office is now preparing the case against him. They called us this morning to ask whether you’d be available to make a positive identification of Corwin as the man you saw in the basement of the building.”
“Why is that necessary?”
“I don’t follow you, Miss Simonov.”
“The newspapers said you had a full confession. Why do you need . . .”
“Yes, of course, but the prosecuting attorney still has to present evidence.”
“Why?”
“Well . . . suppose, for example, that I confessed to the same murder, and it turned out my fingerprints were not on the knife, I was not the man you saw in the basement, I was in fact in Schenectady on the night of the murder, do you see what I mean? Confession or not, the D.A. has to make a case.”
“I see.”
“So what I’m calling about is to find out if you’d be willing to identify the man.”
“Yes, of course I would.”
“How about tomorrow morning?”
“What time tomorrow morning? I usually sleep late.”
“Name it.”
“First tell me where it’ll be.”
“Downtown. On Arbor Street. Around the corner from the Criminal Courts Building.”
“Where’s that?”
“The Criminal Courts Building? On High Street.”
“Oh. That’s all the way downtown.”
“Yes.”
“Would eleven o’clock be too late?”
“No, I’m sure that’ll be fine.”
“All right then.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs in the lobby. That’s 33 Arbor Street. At five to eleven, okay?”
“Yes, okay.”
“Unless I call you back. I want to check with the . . .”
“When would you be calling back? If you called.”
“In the next two or three minutes. I just want to contact the D.A.’s office to make sure . . .”
“Oh, okay then. Because I want to take a bath.”
“If you don’t hear from me within the next—let’s say, five minutes, okay?—I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good.”
“Thank you, Miss Simonov.”
“’Bye,” she said, and hung up.
6
C orwin’s attorney, cockroach or otherwise, realized that, if he did not grant the D.A.’s office permission to run a lineup on his client, they would simply get a Supreme Court judge to order such a lineup, so he agreed to it at once. He stipulated only that it be a fair lineup and that he be permitted to attend it. Rollie Chabrier, who was handling the case for the people, readily granted both of his demands.
A fair lineup meant that Corwin and the other men in the lineup should be dressed in approximately the same style of clothing, and should be of the same general build, height, and color. It would not have been considered fair, for example, if the other men in the lineup were all Puerto Rican midgets wearing clown costumes since the witness would then automatically eliminate them and identify the remaining man whether or not he
was truly the one she had seen rushing in and out of the basement on the night of the murder. Rollie Chabrier chose men from the D.A.’s detective squad, all of whom were about the same size and general build as Corwin, asked them all to dress casually, and then trotted them into his office together with Corwin himself, who was wearing civilian clothing for the occasion of his visit from Calcutta.
In the presence of Bert Kling, Nora Simonov, and Corwin’s attorney—a cockroach, indeed, whose name was Harvey Johns—Rollie Chabrier said, “Miss Simonov, would you please look at these seven men and tell me if one of them is the man you saw in the basement of 721 Silvermine Oval on the night of December the twelfth, at or about 10:45 P . M .?”
Nora looked, and then said, “Yes.”
“You recognize one of these men?”
“I do.”
“Which one is the man you saw in the basement?”
“That one,” Nora said, and pointed unerringly to Ralph Corwin.
The detectives from the D.A.’s squad handcuffed Corwin once again, and walked him up the corridor to the elevator, which whisked him down ten floors to the basement of the building, where he was led up a ramp to a waiting police van that transported him back to Calcutta. In Chabrier’s office, Harvey Johns thanked him for the fairness of the lineup he had run, and then advised him that his client had told him he no longer desired his services as defense attorney and that probably a new attorney would be appointed to the case, but this did not mean it had not been a pleasure working with Chabrier anyhow. Chabrier thanked Johns, and Johns went back to his office in midtown Isola. Chabrier also thanked Nora for her cooperation, and Kling for his assistance in getting Miss Simonov downtown, and then he shook hands with Kling, and walked them to the elevator, and said good-bye, and scurried off just before the elevator doors closed, a round, pink-cheeked man with a pencil-line mustache, wearing brown shoes with a dark blue suit. Kling figured he had Presidential aspirations.
In the marble entrance lobby of the building, Kling said, “Now that was simple, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Nora answered. “And yet, I feel . . . I don’t know. Somewhat like an informer, I guess. I realize the man killed Sarah Fletcher, but at the same time I hate to think my identification will help convict him.” She shrugged, and then smiled suddenly and apologetically. “Anyway, I’m glad it’s over.”