by Ed McBain
“Yes, sir, I’m sure it did,” Carella said. He paused. “We’d still like to talk to you, Mr. Carter.”
“We’re talking now,” Carter said.
“In person, Mr. Carter.”
There was a silence on the line. Carella leaped into it.
“Can you see us at three?” he asked. “We won’t take up much of your time.”
“I have an appointment at three,” Carter said.
“When will you be free, sir?”
“This is Saturday,” Carter said. “I just got back from Philly, I’m calling you from home. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and Monday’s a holiday. Can we meet sometime Tuesday? Or Wednesday? I won’t be going back to Philly till late Wednesday.”
“No, sir,” Carella said, “I’m afraid we can’t.”
“Why not?” Carter said.
“Because a twenty-five-year-old girl’s been murdered,” Carella said, “and we’d like to talk to you today, sir—if that’s all right with you.”
Carter said nothing for several seconds.
Then he said, “Four o’clock,” and gave Carella the address, and hung up abruptly.
Allan Carter lived in a high-rise apartment building snugly nestled into a row of luxury hotels overlooking Grover Park West. Because the streets had not yet been plowed entirely clear of snow, it took the detectives almost a half-hour to drive the fifty-odd blocks from the station house to Carter’s building. Actually, if the forecast for more snow tomorrow was accurate, the sanitmen were laboring somewhat like Hercules in the Augean stables. The day was gloomy and bitterly cold. The snow had hardened and was difficult to move. As the detectives approached Carter’s building, a uniformed doorman was trying to break away the ice that had formed in front of the doorway after the sidewalk had been shoveled. He worked with a long-handled ice-chipper that would have made a good weapon, Carella thought. Meyer was thinking the same thing.
Another uniformed man was sitting behind a desk in the lobby. Carella and Meyer identified themselves, and the man picked up a phone, said, “Mr. Carella and Mr. Meyer to see you, sir,” and then cradled the receiver and said, “You can go right up, it’s apartment 37.”
The uniformed elevator man said, “They say it’s gonna snow again tomorrow.”
Meyer looked at Carella.
They got off on the third floor, walked a long carpeted hallway to Carter’s apartment, pressed the bell button set in the doorjamb, heard chimes sounding inside, and then a voice calling, “Come in, it’s open!”
Carella opened the door, and almost tripped over a piece of brown leather luggage in the entrance hall. He stepped around the bag, motioned for Meyer to be careful, and then moved from the foyer into a vast living room with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the park. The naked branches of the trees beyond were laden with snow. The sky behind them was gray and roiling. Allan Carter was sitting on a long sofa upholstered in a pale green springtime fabric. He had a telephone to his ear. He was wearing a dark brown business suit over a lemon-colored shirt. Gold cufflinks showed at his sleeves. A chocolate brown tie hung loose over his massive chest. The top button of his shirt was unfastened. Listening to whoever was on the other end of the phone connection, he gestured for the detectives to come in.
“Yes, I understand that,” he said into the phone. “But, Dave… uh-huh, uh-huh.” He listened impatiently, sighing, pulling a face, tugging simultaneously at a lock of the thick white hair that crowned his head. The white hair was premature, Carella guessed; Carter seemed to be a man in his early forties. His eyes were a piercing blue, reflecting wan, fading winter light from the window wall. He looked suntanned. Carella wondered if the weather was better in Philadelphia than it was here. He suddenly thought of all the Philadelphia jokes he knew. He had never been to Philadelphia.
“Well, what did Annie get?” Carter said into the phone. He listened and then said, “That’s exactly my point, Dave. This is a bigger hit than Annie ever was. Well, that’s just too damn bad, things are tough all over. You tell Orion the price is firm, and if they can’t meet it, tell them to pass, they’re just wasting our time here. I recognize I’m talking deal-breaker, Dave, I’m not a babe in the woods. Tell them.”
He hung up abruptly.
“Forgive me,” he said, rising and coming to where the detectives were standing, his hand extended. “I’m Allan Carter, can I get either one of you a drink?”
“No, thanks,” Carella said.
“Thanks,” Meyer said, shaking his head.
“So,” Carter said. “Hell of a thing, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” Carella said.
“Any idea yet who did it?”
“No, sir.”
“Some lunatic,” Carter said, shaking his head and walking toward the bar. He lifted a decanter. “Sure?” he said. “No?” He shrugged, poured two fingers of whiskey into a low glass, added a single ice cube to it, said, “Cheers,” drank the entire contents of the glass in a single swallow, and poured more whiskey into it. “Philadelphia,” he said, shaking his head as if simple mention of that city explained his need for alcoholic reinforcement.
“When did you learn about her death, Mr. Carter?” Carella asked.
“When I got off the train. I picked up a paper at the station.”
“What were you doing in Philadelphia?”
“Trying out a new play there.”
“Another musical?” Meyer asked.
“No, a straight play. Big headache,” Carter said. “It’s a thriller… have you seen Deathtrap?”
“No,” Meyer said.
“No,” Carella said.
“It’s sort of like Deathtrap. Except it’s lousy. I don’t know how I ever got talked into doing it. First time I’ve ever done a straight play.” He shrugged. “Probably go right down the drain when it gets here. If it ever gets here.”
“So you read about Miss Anderson in the papers,” Carella prompted.
“Yes,” Carter said.
“What’d you think?”
“What could I think? This city,” he said, and shook his head.
“How well did you know her?” Carella asked.
“Hardly at all. Just another one of the dancers, you know? We’ve got sixteen of them in the show. Have you seen the show?”
“No,” Meyer said.
“No,” Carella said.
“I’ll get you some house seats,” Carter said. “It’s a good show. Biggest hit this town has seen in a long time.”
“Who hired her, Mr. Carter?”
“What? Oh, the girl. It was a joint decision.”
“Whose?”
“Mine and Jamie’s and—”
“Jamie?”
“Our choreographer, Jamie Atkins. But…are you asking who was actually there when the dancers were cast?”
“Yes.”
“Well, as I said—this would be the final selection, you understand—I was there, and Freddie Carlisle, our director, and Jamie, and his assistant, and our musical director, and an Equity rep, I guess, and…let me see…two of the stage managers were there, and our press agent, I think, and, of course, a piano player. And… well, sure, the composer and the lyricist and the book writer.”
“The book writer?”
“The librettist. I think that was about it. This was a long time ago. We went into rehearsal last August, you know. We must’ve been doing our final casting in July sometime.”
“Quite a few people,” Carella said.
“Oh, yes, decision by committee,” Carter said, and smiled. “But when you figure a musical can cost anywhere between two and three million bucks—well, you’ve got to be cautious.”
“So all these people got together and…well, what did they do?” Carella asked. “Vote?”
“Not really. It’s more a sort of general agreement on a finalist, with the choreographer having the last word, of course. He’s the one who’s going to have to work with any given dancer, you know.”
“How many dancers didn’t get a part?”
“Thousands. Counting the cattle calls, and the Equity calls… sure. We must’ve seen every unemployed dancer in the city.”
“Miss Anderson must’ve been a good dancer,” Meyer said.
“I’m sure she was. She was, after all, hired for the part.”
“How’d she get along with the rest of the cast?”
“You’d have to ask either Freddie or Jamie about that.”
“Your director and choreographer.”
“Yes. But I’m sure there was no friction…aside from the usual tension generated by a show in rehearsal. What I’m saying…let me try to explain this.”
“Please,” Carella said.
“The company of any show, particularly a musical, has to perform as a tightly knit unit. I’m sure if there was any friction between Miss Anderson and anyone else in the cast, Jamie would’ve had a good long talk with her. When two million five is at stake, there’s no room for fooling around with artistic temperament.”
“Is that how much Fatback cost?”
“Give or take.”
“How long was the show in rehearsal, Mr. Carter?”
“Six weeks. Not counting previews. We did two weeks of previews before we felt we were ready for the critics.”
“Were you present at all those rehearsals?”
“Not all of them. After Freddie had mounted a good part of the show, yes. Usually, you try to give your creative people a free hand in the beginning. Once the run-throughs start, a producer—well, this producer, anyway—tries to be present at all the rehearsals.”
“Then you would have noticed if there was any friction between Miss Anderson and any other member of the cast.”
“I detected no such friction. Gentlemen, I wish I could help you, believe me. But I hardly knew the girl. I’ll confess something to you. When I read about her in the paper, I had difficulty recalling just which one of the dancers she was.”
“I see,” Carella said.
“Little redheaded thing, wasn’t she?” Carter said.
“We didn’t see the body, sir,” Carella said.
“What?” Carter said.
“We weren’t there at the scene, sir,” Carella said.
“The body was found in another precinct,” Meyer said at once.
“Sir,” Carella said, “it would help us if we could get a list of names, addresses, and telephone numbers for everyone in the cast and crew, anyone who might have had even the slightest contact with Miss Anderson.”
“You don’t plan to visit them all, do you?” Carter said.
“Well…yes,” Carella said.
Carter smiled. “Maybe I ought to give you some idea of what that would involve,” he said. “Fatback is a very large show. We’ve got six principals, four featured players, sixteen dancers plus twelve other people in the chorus, eighteen stagehands, twenty-six musicians, three stage managers, three property men, fourteen wardrobe people, including the dressers, three electricians, two carpenters, one sound man, three lighting-board-and-follow-spot men, one makeup woman, and two standby dancers—what we call ‘swing’ dancers.”
Carella looked at Meyer.
“That comes to one hundred fourteen people,” Carter said.
“I see,” Carella said. He paused. Then he said, “But does such a list exist? Of all these people?”
“Well, yes, several lists, in fact. Our general manager has one, and our company manager, and the production secretary… in fact, I’m sure there’s a list at the theater, too. Near the stage door phone. That might be your best bet. If you could stop by the theater—”
“Yes, sir, we’ll do that.”
“As a matter of fact, why don’t you kill two birds with one stone?” Carter said.
“Sir?” Carella said.
“I mean, as long as you’ll be at the theater.”
The detectives looked at him, puzzled.
“I’ve guaranteed a pair for a friend of mine, but there was a message on my machine that he won’t be coming into the city tonight because of the weather.” Carter looked at their blank faces. “I’m talking about the show,” he said. “Do you think you might like to see it? There’s a pair of house seats guaranteed at the box office.”
“Oh,” Carella said.
“Oh,” Meyer said.
“What do you think?” Carter asked.
“Well, thank you,” Meyer said, “but my wife and I are meeting some friends for dinner tonight.”
“How about you?”
“Well…,” Carella said.
“You’ll enjoy it, believe me.”
“Well…”
He was hesitating because he didn’t know what “house seats” were and he didn’t know what “guaranteed” meant, but it sounded to him as if these might be free tickets, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to accept a gift from a man who claimed to believe a five-foot-eight blonde murder victim was a “little redheaded thing.” Carella had learned early on in the game that if you wanted to survive as a cop, you either took nothing at all or you took everything that wasn’t nailed down. Accept a cup of coffee on the arm from the guy who ran the local diner? Fine. Then also take a bribe from the friendly neighborhood fence who was running a tag sale on stolen goods every Sunday morning. A slightly dishonest cop was the same thing as a slightly pregnant woman.
“How much do these tickets cost?” he asked.
“Forget it,” Carter said, and waved the question aside, and Carella knew the man had figured he was seeking the grease; he was, after all, a cop in this fair city, wasn’t he? And cops copped; anytime and anyplace they could.
“Are house seats free tickets?” Carella asked.
“No, no, we do have investors, you know, we can’t go giving away seats to a hit,” Carter said. “But these are taken care of, don’t worry about them.”
“Who’s taking care of them?” Carella asked.
“I personally guaranteed them,” Carter said.
“I don’t know what that means,” Carella said. “Guaranteed.”
“I personally agreed to pay for them. Even if they weren’t claimed.”
“Claimed?”
“By law, house seats have to be claimed forty-eight hours before any performance. By guaranteeing them, I was—in effect—claiming them.”
“But they haven’t been paid for yet.”
“No, they haven’t.”
“Then I’ll pay for them myself, sir,” Carella said.
“Well, really—”
“I’d like to see the show, sir, but I’d like to pay for the tickets myself.”
“Fine, whatever you say. They’re being held at the box office in my friend’s name. Robert Harrington. You can claim them anytime before the curtain goes up.”
“Thank you,” Carella said.
“I’ll call the stage door, meanwhile, tell them you’ll be stopping by for that list.”
“Thank you.”
“I still don’t understand what house seats are,” Meyer said.
“Choice seats set aside for each performance,” Carter said. “For the producer, director, choreographer, stars—”
“Set aside?”
“Reserved,” Carter said, nodding. “By contract. So many seats for each performance. The higher you are in the pecking order, the more seats you’re entitled to buy. If you don’t claim them, of course, they go right back on sale in the box office, on a first-come, first-served basis.”
“Live and learn,” Meyer said, and smiled.
“Yes,” Carter said, and glanced at his watch.
“Anything else?” Carella asked Meyer.
“Nothing I can think of,” Meyer said.
“Then thank you, sir,” Carella said. “And thanks for making those seats available to me.”
“My pleasure,” Carter said.
The detectives were silent in the elevator down to the street. The elevator operator, who had already informed them earlier that it was going to snow tomorrow, seemed to have nothing more to say. The
sky was even more threatening when they stepped outside again. Darkness was coming on. It would be a moonless night.
“I just want to make sure I heard her right,” Meyer said.
“Tina Wong, do you mean?”
“Yeah. She did say, ‘Five blondes, two blacks, and a token Chink,’ didn’t she?”
“That’s what she said.”
“So how could Carter think Sally Anderson was a redhead?”
“Maybe one of the understudies is a redhead.”
“Maybe I’m a redhead, too,” Meyer said. “Didn’t Carter say that once they started run-throughs he was at every rehearsal?”
“That’s what he said.”
“So he knows that damn show. How could he possibly think there was a redhead up there?”
“Maybe he’s color-blind.”
“You did catch it, didn’t you?”
“Oh, I caught it, all right.”
“I was wondering why you didn’t jump on it.”
“I wanted to see how far he’d go with it.”
“He didn’t go anywhere with it. He let it lay there like a lox.”
“Maybe he was just trying it for size.”
“Backing up what he said about not knowing her from a hole in the wall. Just another one of the girls, another face in the crowd.”
“Which may be true, Meyer. There are thirty-eight people in the cast. You can’t expect a man to remember—”
“What’s thirty-eight people, a nation?” Meyer said. “We’ve got close to two hundred cops in the precinct, and I know each and every one of them. By sight, at least.”
“You’re a trained observer,” Carella said, smiling.
“How long does it take to get from Philadelphia by train?” Meyer asked.
“About an hour and a half.”
“Easy to get here and back again,” Meyer said. “Time enough to do anything that had to be done here. If a person had anything to do here.”
“Yes,” Carella said.
“Jamie digs blondes, remember?” Meyer said. “Isn’t that what she told us? The choreographer digs blondes. So how come everybody in the world knows this but Carter? He was there when the whole mishpocheh was picking the dancers. Decision by committee, remember? So how come, all of a sudden, he has trouble remembering what color her hair is? A little redheaded thing, he calls her. All of a sudden, his choreographer—who likes them blonde—ends up with a redhead in his chorus line. Steve, that stinks. I’m telling you it stinks. Do you buy it?”
