“The mother wants her dream,” Boone said. “The house restored. The grounds prettied up. Just the way everything was when she was a bride. Okay. Admitted. But what does the daughter want?”
“Escape,” Delaney said.
They looked at him with strange expressions.
“Edward,” his wife said, “is this the way detectives work? Trying to guess why people do what they do?”
“Not usually,” he said. “Usually we work with physical evidence. Hard facts. Percentages, timing, weapons, testimony of witnesses, things you can look at, hold in your hand, or put under a microscope. But sometimes when none of this exists, or not enough to break a case, you’ve got to turn to people. As you said, why they do what they do. You try to put yourself in their place. What drives them? What do they want? Everyone wants. But some people can’t control it. Then want becomes need. And need—I mean a real greedy need—the kind that haunts you night and day—that’s motive enough for any crime.”
His listeners were all silent then, disturbed. Delaney looked at the sergeant. Boone jerked immediately to his feet.
“Getting late!” he sang cheerily. “Busy day tomorrow. Got to get going.”
There was the usual confusion of departure: “More pie?” “Oh no!” “Coffee?” “Not a thing!” Then Rebecca Hirsch and Abner Boone left together. Delaney locked up and came back to help his wife clear the dining-room table, straighten up, load the dishwasher, store away leftovers.
“They’re making it, aren’t they?” he asked casually.
“Yes,” she nodded.
“I hope she doesn’t get hurt,” he said.
His wife shrugged. “She’s a grown woman, Edward. She can take care of herself.”
8
IT WAS NOT THE first time Detective Sergeant Abner Boone had mused on how similar police work was to theatre. Undercover cops were closest, of course, with their costumes, makeup, accents, and fictitious identities. But detectives were into theatre too, and so were uniformed street cops. You soon learned the value of feigning emotions, of delivering speeches in other men’s words, of acting roles best suited for the situation.
“Now, now,” a street cop says soothingly, patting the shoulder of a frenzied husband. “I know exactly how you feel. Haven’t I been through the same thing m’self? I know, I know. But bashing her head in will do you no good. Just give me the brick like a good lad. I know, I tell you. I know exactly how you feel.”
“I know you’re not involved,” the dick says shamefacedly. “Look, I don’t even like the idea of bothering you. A girl of your intelligence and good looks. You’re too good for the likes of him; that’s easy to see. But I’ve got to ask these questions, you know. I don’t want to, but it’s my job. Now then … was he really with you when the shop was ripped off?”
Not always sympathetic, of course. When a heavy is needed, one is supplied …
“You’re nailed, cheese-brain. Signed, sealed, and delivered. No way out of this. Three-to-five in the slammer, and you’ll be a faggot in a week. Locked in with all those horny studs. You’ll be gang-banged the first night. That’s what it’s like, pal. And your wife on the outside, looking around for company You dig? Your life is over, kiddo. But tell me who else was in on it, and maybe we can work a deal. There are ways …”
And so forth. The roles fitted to circumstances. So Abner Boone dressed with extra care that Friday morning. No brassy slacks and screaming jacket, but a conservative suit of tan poplin, with white shirt and black knit tie. Something that wouldn’t spook a woman who worked as legal secretary to an attorney. He also shaved carefully and used his best cologne. Zizanie. And he powdered his armpits. There wasn’t much he could do with his short, gingery hair, but at least it was clean.
He folded his jacket neatly onto the back seat of his car, then drove downtown to Central Park South and double-parked outside the studio of Jake Dukker. The doorman wandered over, and Boone had to flash his tin. He waited patiently, smoking his third cigarette of the morning, until his watch showed exactly ten o’clock. Then he started up.
He drove east to Park Avenue and turned south. He planned to take it all the way down to what used to be called Fourth Avenue, and was now Park Avenue South. Then he figured to cut over to Broadway on 14th Street, and take that south to Spring Street, then over to Mott and Victor Maitland’s studio. There were a dozen other routes, but one was as good, or bad, as another.
He obeyed all traffic regulations, didn’t jump any lights, and when he got caught in jams, he didn’t press it. It took forty-three minutes to reach the Mott Street studio, and Boone made a careful record in his notebook. He stood in front of Maitland’s studio for exactly ten minutes, smoking another cigarette placidly, then started back. He arrived in front of Dukker’s place on Central Park South at precisely 11:53. The northbound traffic had been heavy, and he had been caught in a three-minute jam at 42nd Street. Still, he had made the round-trip in one hour and fifty-three minutes, allowing ten minutes for the chopping of Victor Maitland. Jake Dukker or Belle Sarazen, or both, could have done the same on that Friday. At least he had proved it was possible in under two hours. He wondered if Chief Delaney would be pleased or disappointed. Probably neither. Just another fact to add to the file.
Boone then drove east and north, and found a parking space a block away from the offices of Simon & Brewster on East 68th Street. He put on his jacket, locked the car, and popped a chlorophyll tablet into his mouth. He walked over to the lawyer’s office, his back held deliberately straight, trying to compose his features into the picture of a pleasant, boyish officer of the law, eager and ingratiating.
She was sitting alone in the outer office, typing with blinding speed on an electric IBM. She kept working a moment after he came in and halted before her big, glass-topped desk. He had time to make her as a tall, skinny blonde with no chest. None at all. Then she stopped typing and looked up.
“Miss Hemley?” he smiled. “Susan Hemley?”
“Yes?” she said, cocking her head to one side, puzzled.
“I spoke to you on the phone the other night,” he smiled. “Detective Sergeant Abner Boone.”
He unfolded his ID and handed it over. She took it and examined it carefully, something people rarely did.
“You’ve come to arrest me?” she asked archly.
“Sure,” he smiled. “For attracting a police officer. Actually, this is just a social visit, Miss Hemley. To thank you for your cooperation. And to try to set up an appointment with Mr. Simon. For my boss, Chief Edward Delaney.”
“A chief,” she said. “Oh my. Sounds important.”
“Not really,” he smiled. “Just a few routine questions to get the record straight.”
“The Maitland murder?” she asked in a hushed voice.
He nodded, still smiling. “Any morning or afternoon next week at Mr. Simon’s convenience.”
“Just a minute, sergeant,” she said. “Let me check.”
She rose and moved to an inner door, knocked once, entered, closed the door behind her. Boone was grateful; his face felt stretched. She was back in a moment. He saw she moved loosely, with a floppy grace. Thin as a pencil, with good, long legs. A smooth, unmarked face. An egg-shaped head. The blonde hair was in short, tight curls. Black, hornrimmed glasses were, somehow, sexy. He thought she would be a terror in bed. Yelping. Kicking hell out of the sheets.
“How’s for Tuesday morning at ten?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said, smiling again. “We’ll be here.”
He began to move away, hesitated, turned back to her.
“One more favor,” he smiled. “Where can a hungry cop get a good lunch in this neighborhood?”
Twenty minutes later they were seated opposite each other on the upper level of a Madison Avenue luncheonette.
“I’m afraid they don’t serve drinks,” she apologized.
“No problem,” he assured her. “Order what you like. We’ll let the City pay for it. You’re a taxpayer, a
ren’t you?”
“Am I ever!” she said, and they both laughed.
He watched his manners, and they got along swimmingly. They talked about the subject of most interest to both of them: her. He hadn’t exaggerated when he had told Delaney he knew how to listen; he did, and before the iced tea and sherbet were served, he had her background: Ohio, business college, a special training in legal stenography, eleven years’ experience in law offices. Which would make her, he figured, about thirty-seven to thirty-eight, around there. Good salary, good vacation and fringe benefits, a small office, but a relaxed place to work. J. Julian Simon was a pleasure. Her words: “That man is a pleasure.” Boone assumed she meant to work for.
“How about you?” she asked finally. “You’re working on the Maitland case?”
He nodded, looked down at the table, moved things about.
“I know you can’t talk about it,” she said.
He looked up at her then.
“I’m not supposed to,” he said. “But …”
He glanced about carefully, was silent while a waitress cleared a neighboring table.
“We’re getting close,” he whispered.
“Really?” she whispered back. She hunched her chair forward, put elbows on the table, leaned to him. “The last story I read in the papers said the police had no leads.”
“The papers,” he scoffed. “We don’t tell them everything. You understand?”
“Of course,” she said eagerly. “Then there’s more?”
He nodded again, looked about carefully again, leaned forward again.
“Did you know him?” he asked. “Victor Maitland? Did you ever meet him?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Several times. At the office. And once at a party in Mr. Geltman’s apartment.”
“Oh?” Boone said. “At the office? Was Mr. Simon his lawyer too?”
“Not really,” she said. “He just came up once or twice with Mr. Geltman. I don’t think he had a personal attorney. Once he said to Mr. Simon, ‘The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.’ I don’t think that was a very nice thing to say.”
“No,” Boone said, “it wasn’t. But I guess Maitland wasn’t a very nice guy. No one seems to have liked him.”
“I certainly didn’t,” she said stoutly. “I thought he was rude and nasty.”
“I know,” he said sympathetically. “That’s what everyone says. I guess his wife put up with a lot.”
“She certainly did. She’s such a lovely woman.”
“Isn’t she?” he agreed enthusiastically. “I met her, and that’s exactly what I thought: a lovely woman. And married to that animal. Did you know—” Here he lowered his voice, leaned even closer. Susan Hemley also leaned to him, until their heads were almost touching. “Did you know—well, this wasn’t in the papers. You’ve got to promise not to breathe a word of it to anyone.”
“I promise,” she said sincerely. “I won’t say a word.”
“I trust you,” he said. “Well, when they found him, dead, he wasn’t wearing any underwear.”
She jerked back, eyes widening.
“Nooo,” she breathed. “Really?”
He held up a hand, palm out.
“’Struth,” he said. “So help me. We don’t know what it means yet, but he definitely wasn’t wearing any underwear.”
She leaned forward again.
“I told you he was nasty,” she said. “That proves it.”
“Oh yes,” he said. “You’re right. We know he was very nasty to Mr. Geltman.”
“He certainly was,” she said. “You should have heard how Maitland talked to Saul. And in public. In front of everyone. He was so nasty.”
“And to think Geltman was in your office at the time Maitland was killed,” Boone said, shaking his head. “Makes you think. Maybe if Geltman hadn’t been there, we’d have suspected him. But he was there all right. Wasn’t he?”
“Oh sure,” she said, nodding her head so violently that the blonde curls bounced. “I saw him come in. And I spoke to him a minute or two before he went into Mr. Simon’s office.”
“About ten o’clock that was,” Boone said reflectively. “And then you saw him come out around one-thirty in the afternoon. Right?”
“Oh no,” she said. “At one-thirty I was at lunch with Alma. Alma Maitland. Don’t you remember?”
“Of course,” Boone said, snapping his fingers. “How could I forget? Well, anyway, the other people in the office saw him come out. Didn’t they?”
“Nooo,” she said slowly. “Just Mr. Simon. Mr. Brewster was in court all day that day, and the clerk, Lou Broniff, was out with the flu.”
“Well,” he said, “Mr. Simon told us when he left, and that’s good enough.”
“It certainly is,” she said. “Mr. Simon is a fine man. A pleasure.”
“Mr. Geltman spoke very highly of him,” Boone lied casually.
“I should think so,” she laughed. “They’ve been friends for years. I mean they’re more than lawyer and client. They play handball together. After all, they’re both divorced.”
“Very buddy-buddy,” Boone observed, enjoying this.
“They certainly are. Mr. Geltman is such a nice little man. He really says funny things. I like him.”
“I do, too,” Boone agreed. “A lot of personality. Too bad he and Mrs. Maitland don’t seem to get along.”
“Oh, that,” Susan Hemley said. “It’s really just a little misunderstanding. Maitland was doing some paintings and making Geltman sell them and not telling his wife about them. I told Alma it wasn’t Saul’s fault. After all, he had to sell what Maitland brought him, didn’t he? That was his job, wasn’t it? And what Maitland did with the money was none of Saul’s business, was it? If Maitland didn’t tell his wife how much he was making, she really shouldn’t blame Mr. Geltman.”
“I agree with you,” Boone said. “And you told Alma Maitland that?”
“I certainly did. But she seems to think there was more to it than that.”
“More to it than that?” Boone asked. “I don’t understand. What did she mean by that?”
“Goodness!” Susan Hemley cried. “Look at the time! I’ve got to get back to the office. Thank you so very much for the lunch, sergeant. I really enjoyed it. I hope to see you again.”
“You will,” he smiled once more. “Tuesday morning at ten o’clock. With Chief Delaney.”
He returned to Jake Dukker’s studio on Central Park South. It was now almost two P.M., not precisely corresponding to the hour of the murder but close enough, he felt, for a time trial by subway.
He found a parking space on the north side of 59th Street, locked his car, checked his watch. He decided to walk to the subway station on Lexington Avenue rather than wait for a cab. He walked rapidly, threading his way through the throngs, occasionally stepping down into the gutter to make better time. Like a man with murder on his mind, he dashed across streets against the lights, not heeding the blasting horns and screamed insults of the hackies.
In the 59th Street IRT station he waited almost four minutes for a downtown express. He changed to a local at 14th Street, took that to Spring, got off and walked quickly over to Maitland’s Mott Street studio. He looked at his watch; forty-six minutes since leaving Dukker’s place.
He then strolled around the block, using up the ten minutes allotted for the murder of Victor Maitland. Then he started back by the same route. This time he had a long wait for the local, and suffered the vexation of seeing two express trains thunder by on the inside track. Once aboard the local, he decided to stay with it to 59th Street. The train jerked to a halt for almost five minutes, somewhere between 14th and 23rd. It was one of those inexplicable New York subway delays for which no explanation is ever given the sweltering passengers.
He hurried off the train and out of the station at 59th, shouldering his way through the crowds, and dashed westward across town to Dukker’s studio. He arrived under the canopy, puffing, his poplin suit sw
eated through. He looked at his watch. One hour and forty-nine minutes for the round trip. He could hardly believe it. He had made better time by walking and taking the subway than by driving the entire distance. It certainly proved his theory was plausible: Dukker or Sarazen could have made that trip, fixed Maitland and returned without their absence noted by the models and assistants in the downstairs studio. It would mean, of course, the two of them were in on it together.
Satisfied, jacket off, tie and collar jerked open, he drove home to East 85th Street. He lived in a relatively new high-rise apartment house. The rent and underground garage fee kept him constantly on the edge of bankruptcy, but he had lacked the resolve to move after his divorce. He would have had to move to a cheaper place if Phyllis had demanded alimony. But fortunately, she was into Women’s Lib, took a five-thousand cash settlement, most of the furniture, and they shook hands. It was all civilized. And so awful he could never think of it without wanting to weep.
He collected his mail, bills and junk, and rode alone up to his eighteenth-floor apartment. It was sparsely furnished after Phyllis cleaned it out, but he still had a couch, chair, and cocktail table in the living room. The bedroom was furnished with bed, chest of drawers, and a card table he used for a desk, with a folding bridge chair. Rebecca Hirsch had brought over a little oak bedside table and some bright posters for the living-room walls. They helped. Rebecca kept talking about curtains and drapes, and he supposed he’d get around to them eventually. Right now, the Venetian blinds sufficed.
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