by Ed McBain
“Try them at home. Ask them if the guy had a rasping voice.”
“A rasping voice?”
“A rasping voice, a hoarse voice. Get back to me, Cotton.”
He hung up abruptly, rose from the bed, paced the room a moment, and then sat again and dialed Boston Information. In the room next door he could hear Hillary ordering from room service. Carella gave the Boston operator both names—Jack Rawles and James Rader—and asked for a listing on Commonwealth Avenue. She told him she had a listing for a Jack Rawles, but that it was not for Commonwealth Avenue. He wrote down the number anyway and then asked for the address. She told him she was not permitted to give out addresses. He told her testily that he was a police officer investigating a homicide, and she asked him to hold on while she got her supervisor. The supervisor’s voice dripped treacle and peanut butter. She explained patiently that it was telephone company policy not to divulge the addresses of subscribers. When Carella explained with equal patience that he was an Isola detective working a homicide case and gave her the precinct number and its address, and the name of his commanding officer, and then his shield number for good measure, the supervisor said, simply and not so patiently, “I’m sorry, sir,” and hung up on him.
Angrily he dialed the number the operator had given him for Jack Rawles. In the hallway outside, Carella could hear someone knocking on Hillary’s door. He was about to hang up when a woman answered the phone.
“Hello?” she said.
“Mr. Rawles, please,” Carella said.
“Sorry, he’s out just now.”
“Where is he, would you know?”
“Who’s this, please?”
“An old friend,” he said. “Steve Carella.”
“Sorry, Steve, he’s out of town,” the woman said.
“Who’s this?”
“Marcia.”
“Marcia, do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No, I just got back myself. I’m a flight attendant, I got stuck in London. There’s a note here for my boyfriend, says Jack had to go down to the city, won’t be back for a couple of days.”
“What city?” Carella said.
“The city, man,” Marcia said. “There’s only one city in the entire world, and it ain’t Boston, believe me.”
“By your boyfriend…who do you mean?”
“Jack’s roommate, Andy. They’ve been living together since the fire.”
“What fire was that?” Carella said.
“Jack’s place on Commonwealth. Lost everything he had in it.”
“What’s he doing these days?” Carella asked.
“When did you last see him?”
“We met here in Hampstead, three summers ago.”
“Oh. Then he’s doing the exact same thing. He must’ve been at the Hampstead Playhouse then, am I right?”
“Still acting?” Carella asked, taking a chance and hoping Jack Rawles hadn’t been a stage manager or an electrician or a set designer.
“Still acting,” Marcia said. “Or at least trying to act. In the summer it’s stock. In the winter it’s zilch. Jack’s always broke, always scrounging for a part someplace. The only time he ever had any money was just before that summer in Hampstead, and he blew it all to rent that house he was staying in. Two thousand bucks, I think it was, for a television commercial he did in the city. I keep telling him he should move down there. What’s there for an actor in Boston?”
“I don’t remember him mentioning a fire,” Carella said, circling back.
“Well, when did you say you’d met? Three summers ago? The fire wasn’t until…let me think.”
Carella waited.
“Two years ago, it must’ve been. Yeah, around this time, two years ago.”
“Uh-huh,” Carella said. “When did he leave Boston, would you know?”
“The note doesn’t say. It had to be sometime after the twentieth, though.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I left for London on the twentieth, and Andy left for California the same day, and Jack was still here. Elementary, my dear Watson.”
“Where’s Andy now?”
“Search me. I just got in a few minutes ago. You want a madhouse during the holidays? Try Heathrow.”
“You wouldn’t know whether Jack is still in the city, would you?”
“Well, if he was back here, I’d know it,” Marcia said. “He’s the slob of all time. Open the sugar bowl, you’re liable to find a pair of his dirty jockey shorts in it.”
Carella chuckled and then said, “Does he still have that distinctive speaking voice?”
“Old Bearclaw Rawles, do you mean?”
“Sort of rasping?”
“Like a file,” Marcia said.
“You wouldn’t know where he’s staying in the city, would you?”
“Big city, Steve,” she said. “He could be anywhere.”
“Yeah,” Carella said. “Well, look, tell him I called, okay? Nothing important, just wanted to wish him a Happy New Year.”
“Will do,” Marcia said, and hung up.
Carella put the receiver back on the cradle. He debated calling Hawes again to tell him he’d made contact and decided against it. If he knew Hawes, he’d be trying the Boston Police right this minute, even after he got a telephone number for Rawles. A cup of Irish coffee sounded very good just now. He crossed the room and knocked on the connecting door.
“Come in,” Hillary said.
She was sitting dejectedly in an easy chair, the two cups of Irish coffee on a low table before her. She was still wearing the raccoon coat, huddled inside it.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I guess.”
He took one of the cups from the table, sipped at it, and licked whipped cream from his lips. “Why don’t you drink it before it gets cold?” he said.
She lifted the other cup, but she did not drink from it.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Drink your coffee.”
She sipped at it, her eyes lowered.
“Want to tell me?”
“No.”
“Okay,” he said.
“It’s just…I’m so damn ashamed of myself.”
“Why?”
“Fainting like that.”
“Well, it was pretty scary back there,” Carella said, and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I’m still scared,” Hillary said.
“So am I.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe it.”
“My first real manifestation,” she said, “and I…” She shook her head.
“The first time I faced a man with a gun, I went blind,” Carella said.
“Blind?”
“With fear. I saw the gun in his hand, and then I didn’t see anything else. Everything went white.”
“What happened?” Hillary asked.
“He shot me, and I died.”
She smiled and sipped at her coffee.
“What happened was I came to my senses about three seconds before it would have been too late.”
“Did you shoot him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been shot yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you keep doing it?”
“Doing what?”
“Police work.”
“I like it,” he said simply, and shrugged.
“I’ve been wondering how I can ever…” She shook her head again and put down the coffee cup.
“Ever what?”
“Go on doing what I’m doing. After tonight I wonder if I shouldn’t simply get a job as a ribbon clerk or something.”
“You wouldn’t be good at it.”
“I’m not so good at this either.”
“Come on, you’re very good,” he said.
; “Sure. Fainting like a—”
“I almost didn’t come up those stairs after you,” Carella said.
“Sure.”
“It’s the truth. I almost ran out of that damn house.”
“Yet you’re willing to face men with guns in their hands.”
“A gun is a gun. A ghost…” He shrugged.
“I suppose I’m glad I saw them,” she said.
“So am I.”
“I wet my pants, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“I did.”
“I almost wet mine.”
“Fine pair,” she said, and smiled again.
The room went silent.
“Do I really look like your wife?” she asked.
“Yes. You know that.”
“I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
Again the room went silent.
“Well,” Carella said, and got to his feet.
“No, don’t go yet,” she said.
He looked at her.
“Please,” she said.
“Well, okay, few minutes,” he said, and sat on the edge of the bed again.
“Is your wife anything at all like me?” Hillary asked. “Or is the resemblance purely physical?”
“Purely physical.”
“Is she prettier than I am?”
“Well…you really look a lot alike.”
“I always thought my sister was prettier than I am,” Hillary said, and shrugged.
“She thinks so, too.”
“She told you that?”
“Yes.”
“Bitch,” Hillary said, but she was smiling. “Shall we order another round of these?”
“No, I don’t think so. We’ve got a long drive back tomorrow. We’d better get some sleep.”
“Yes, we’d better,” Hillary said.
“So,” he said, and rose again. “I’ll leave a call for—”
“No, don’t go,” she said. “I’m still frightened.”
“It’s really getting late,” he said. “We—”
“Every time I think of them I shudder.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said. “You’re here, and our lady friends are miles from—”
“Stay with me,” she said.
Her eyes met his. He looked into her face.
“Sleep here,” she said. “With me.”
“Hillary,” he said, “thank you, but—”
“Just to hold me,” she said. “In the night.”
“Just to hold you, huh?” he said, and smiled.
“Well, whatever,” she said, and returned the smile. “Okay?”
“No,” he said. “Not okay.”
“I think you’d like to,” she said. She was still smiling.
He hesitated. “Yes, I’d like to,” he said.
“So what’s—?”
“But I won’t.”
“We’re stranded here…”
“Yes…”
“No one would ever know.”
“I would know.”
“You’d forgive yourself,” she said, and her smile widened.
“Hillary, come on, let’s quit it, okay?”
“No,” she said. “Not okay.”
“Look, I—come on, really.”
“Do you know how my sister would handle this?” she asked. “She’d tell you she washed out her panties the minute she got back here to the room. She’d tell you her panties were hanging on the shower rod in the bathroom. She’d tell you she wasn’t wearing any panties under her skirt. Do you think that would interest you?”
“Only if I were in the lingerie business,” Carella said, and to his great surprise and enormous relief, Hillary burst out laughing.
“You really mean it, don’t you?” she said.
“Yeah, what can you do?” Carella said, and shrugged.
“Well, okay then,” Hillary said, “I guess.” She rose, shrugged out of the coat, laughed gently again, murmured, “The lingerie business,” shook her head, and said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night, Hillary,” he said.
“Good night, Steve,” she said, and sighed and went into the bathroom.
He stood looking at the closed bathroom door for a moment, and then he went into his own room and locked the door behind him.
He dreamed that night that the door between their rooms opened as mysteriously as the doors at the Loomis house had. He dreamed that Hillary stood in the doorway naked, the light from her own room limning the curves of her young body for an instant before she closed the door again behind her. She stood silently just inside the door, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and then she came softly and silently to the bed and slipped under the covers beside him. Her hand found him. In the darkness she whispered, “I don’t care what you think,” and her mouth descended.
In the morning, when he awoke, the snow had stopped.
He went to the door between the rooms and tried the knob. The door was locked. But in the bathroom he smelled the lingering scent of her perfume and saw a long black hair curled like a question mark against the white tile of the sink.
He would not tell Teddy about this encounter either. Seven ghosts in one night was one more ghost than anybody needed or wanted.
The pawnshop stakeout went into effect on December 28, as the result of a squadroom brainstorming session that took place early that morning in Lieutenant Byrnes’s office. The lieutenant was sitting behind his desk wearing a blue cardigan sweater—a Christmas gift from his wife, Harriet—over a white dress shirt and a blue tie. His desk was piled with papers. He had told Carella and Hawes that he could give them fifteen minutes of his time, and he looked at the clock now as Carella started his pitch.
“It looks like the man we’re after is this Jack Rawles,” Carella said. “Came down here from Boston on the day before the murders, wasn’t back there yet when I called yesterday.”
“Why’d you call?” Byrnes asked.
“Because he rented the house Craig wrote about.”
“So?”
“So there’re supposed to be ghosts in that house,” Carella said, not daring to mention that he had actually seen the ghosts who were supposed to be there.
“What’s that got to do with the price of fish?” Byrnes said, a favorite expression he never tired of using when his detectives seemed to be making no sense at all.
“I think there’s a connection,” Carella said.
“What connection?” Byrnes said.
“The typist up there in Hampstead says she typed up a portion of Craig’s book from a tape that Rawles may have made.”
“How do you know Rawles made it?”
“I don’t for sure. But when I talked to his roommate’s girlfriend, she confirmed that he has a rasping voice. The voice on the tape was described to me as rasping.”
“Go ahead,” Byrnes said, and looked up at the clock again.
“Okay. Somebody fitting Rawles’s description made two attempts to hock two different pieces of jewelry stolen from Craig’s apartment on the day of the murder.”
“First pawnshop was on Ainsley and Third,” Hawes said. “Second one was on Culver and Eighth. We figure he’s holed up somewhere in the precinct and is trying to get rid of the stuff at local pawnshops.”
“How many are there in the precinct?” Byrnes asked.
“We get daily transaction reports from seventeen of them.”
“Out of the question,” Byrnes said at once.
“We wouldn’t want to cover all—”
“How many then?”
“Eight.”
“Where?”
“A ten-block square, north and east from Grover and First.”
“Eight shops. That’s sixteen men you’re asking for.”
“Right, sixteen,” Carella said.
“Have you checked the hotels and motels for a Jack Rawles?”
“All of them in the precinct. We came up negative.”
&nb
sp; “How about outside the precinct?”
“Genero’s running them down now. It’s a long list, Pete. Anyway, we think he’s someplace up here. Otherwise, he’d be shopping pawnbrokers elsewhere in the city.”
“Where’s he staying then? A rooming house?”
“Could be. Or maybe with a friend.”
“Sixteen men,” Byrnes said again, and shook his head. “I can’t spare anybody on the squad. I’d have to ask Frick for uniformed officers.”
“Would you do that?”
“I’ll need fourteen,” Byrnes said.
“Sixteen,” Carella said.
“Fourteen plus you and Hawes makes sixteen.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I wish I could ask him for ten. He’s very tight-assed when it comes to assigning his people to special duty.”
“We can make do with ten,” Carella said, “if you think that’ll swing it.”
“I’ll ask for an even dozen,” Byrnes said. “He’ll bargain for eight, and we’ll settle for ten.”
“Good,” Carella said. “We’ll work up the list of shops we want covered.”
“He won’t be hitting the two he already tried,” Byrnes said. “I’ll call the captain. Get your list typed up. When did you want to start?”
“Immediately.”
“Okay, let me talk to him.”
The stakeout started at 10:00 that morning, shortly after it began raining. In this city there was a wintertime pattern to the weather. First it snowed. Then it rained. Then it grew bitterly cold, turning the streets and sidewalks to ice. Then it snowed again. And then, more often than not, it rained. And turned to ice again. It had something to do with fronts moving from yon to hither. It was a supreme pain in the ass. Snug in the back room of Silverstein’s Pawn Shop on the Stem and North Fifth, Carella and Hawes complained about the weather and sipped hot coffee from soggy cardboard containers. Elsewhere in the precinct, ten uniformed cops were similarly ensconced, waiting for someone fitting Jack Rawles’s description to appear, preferably bearing large hunks of jewelry stolen from Craig’s apartment.
“There’s something I ought to tell you,” Hawes said.
“What’s that?”
“I took Denise Scott to dinner last night.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Carella said.
“Well…Actually, she was in my apartment when I spoke to you.”
“Oh?” Carella said.
“In fact, she was in my bed.”
“Oh,” Carella said.
