by Ed McBain
Brown was interested, at the moment, in con men—not murderers.
Carella was interested in tattoo parlors.
Kling was a new cop.
He accompanied Brown to Headquarters on that Wednesday. The city was, again, blanketed with a dreary drizzle, and the men spoke very little on the long ride downtown. Kling, for the most part, was thinking of breaking his vacation date to Claire and wondering how she would react to it. Brown was thinking about his con man, who had acted singly once and in concert a second time, and wondering if the lineup would turn up anything. Brown drove slowly because of the slick pavement. They did not reach Headquarters until 9:05. By the time the elevator had taken them to the ninth floor, the lineup had been underway for some ten minutes. They pinned their shields to their jackets and passed through the patrolman outside at the desk in the corridor. The patrolman said nothing. He simply looked at his watch condemningly.
The large gymnasium-like room was dark when they entered it. The only area of light was at the far end of the room, where the stage was brilliantly illuminated.
“…third stickup in 1949,” the chief of detectives said from his dais behind the rows and rows of folding chairs upon which detectives from every precinct in the city sat. “Thought we’d cured you that time, Alphonse, but apparently, you never learn. Now how about that gas station last night?”
The man on the stage was silent. The microphone hung before his face on a solid steel pipe, and the graduated height markers on the wall behind him told the assembled bulls that he was five foot eight.
Kling and Brown made their way unobtrusively past the dais and speaking stand and then shuffled into one of the rows, sitting as quickly and quietly as they could.
“I’m talking to you, Alphonse,” the chief of detectives said. “Never mind the latecomers,” he added sarcastically, and Kling felt a hot flush spread over his face.
“I hear you fine,” Alphonse said.
“Then how about it?”
“I don’t have to say nothing at a lineup, and you know it.”
“You’ve been to a lot of lineups, huh?”
“A couple.”
“On these other stickups?”
“Yeah.”
“Never thought you’d be here again on a stickup, did you?”
“I got nothing to say,” Alphonse said. “You got to prove there was a stickup and that I done it.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” the chief of detectives said. “It might go a little easier on you if you told us what we wanted to know, though.”
“Snow jobs I can do without so early in the morning,” Alphonse said. “I know the setup. Don’t ask questions, ’cause I know I don’t have to answer them.”
“All right,” the chief of detectives conceded. “Next case.”
Alphonse walked off the stage, his movements followed by every eye in the room. For the purpose of these Monday-to-Thursday, early-morning parades was simply to acquaint every detective in the city with the men who were committing crime in their city. Sometimes, a victim was invited to the lineup in an attempt to identify a suspect, but such occasions were rare and usually fruitless. They were rare because a victim generally had a thousand good reasons for not wanting to be at the lineup. They were usually fruitless because a victim generally had a thousand good reasons for not wanting to identify a suspect. The least valid of these reasons, if the most popularly accepted, was fear of reprisal. In any case, not many suspects were identified by victims. Were this the sole purpose of the lineup, the whole affair would have been a dreadful flop. On the other hand, the bulls who congregated at headquarters every Monday-to-Thursday morning—as much as they disliked the task—studied the felony offenders of the day before with close scrutiny. You never knew when you’d get a lead to the case you were working on. And you never knew when it might be important to recognize a cheap thief on the street. Such recognition might, in rare cases, even save your life.
And so the chief of detectives went through the prescribed ritual, and the bulls listened and watched.
“Riverhead, one,” the chief of detectives said, calling off the area of the city in which the arrest had been made and the number of the case from that area that day. “Riverhead, one. Hunter, Curt, thirty-five. Drinking heavily in a bar on Shelter Place. Got into an argument with the bartender and hurled a chair at the bar mirror. No statement. What happened, Curt?”
Hunter had been led to the steps at the side of the stage by his arresting officer, a burly patrolman. The patrolman would have had to be burly to arrest Hunter, who cleared the six-foottwo marker and who must have weighed about 200 pounds. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and he took aggressive strides to where the microphone hung. He had blond hair, combed slickly back from a wide forehead. He had a straight nose and steel-gray eyes. His cheekbones were high, and his mouth was a strong mouth, and his chin was cleft. He looked as if he were walking on stage to take instructions from a director rather than to face the fire of the chief of detectives.
“How about what?” he asked.
“What’d you argue about?” the chief of detectives said.
Hunter crowded the microphone. “That jail I was in last night was a pigsty. Somebody puked all over the floor.”
“We’re not here to discuss—”
“I’m no goddamn criminal!” Hunter shouted. “I got into a little fray, all right. That’s no reason to put me in a cell smelling of somebody’s goddamn vomit!”
“You should have thought of that before you committed a felony,” the chief of detectives said.
“Felony?” Hunter shouted. “Is getting drunk a felony?”
“No, but assault is. You hit that bartender, didn’t you?”
“All right, I hit him,” Hunter said.
“That’s assault.”
“I didn’t hit him with anything but my fist!”
“That’s second-degree assault.”
“There are guys hitting guys every day of the week,” Hunter said. “I don’t see them getting pulled in on first-degree or second-degree or even third-degree assault.”
“This is your first offense, isn’t it?” the chief of detectives asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” Hunter said.
“Relax, you may get off with just a fine. Now, let’s hear the story.”
“The bartender called me ‘pretty boy,’” Hunter said.
“So you hit him?”
“No, not then. I hit him later.”
“Why?”
“He said something about us big handsome hunks of men never being any good with a woman. He said you could never judge a book by its cover. That’s when I hit him.”
“Why’d you throw the chair at the bar mirror?”
“Well, I hit him, and he called me a name.”
“What name?”
“A name.”
“We’ve heard them all,” the chief of detectives said. “Let’s have it.”
“It’s a name I associate with abnormal men,” Hunter said. “That’s when I threw the chair. I wasn’t aiming at the mirror; I was aiming at him. That son of a bitch! I can get any woman I want!”
“You always lose your temper so easily?” the chief of detectives asked.
“Not usually,” Hunter said.
“What made you so touchy last night?”
“I was just touchy,” Hunter said.
“The arresting officer found a thousand dollars in small bills in your pocket. How about that?”
“Yeah, how about that?” Hunter shouted. “When do I get it back? I hit a guy, and next thing you know, I’m being robbed and thrown into a cell that smells of vomit.”
“Where’d you get that thousand?”
“From the bank,” Hunter said.
“Which bank?”
“My bank. The bank where I save.”
“When did you withdraw it?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Why?”
Hunter hesitated.
“Well?�
�
“I thought I might take a little trip,” Hunter said. His voice had become suddenly subdued. He squinted into the lights, as if trying to read the face of his questioner.
“What kind of a trip?”
“Pleasure.”
“Where?”
“Upstate.”
“Alone?”
Hunter hesitated again.
“How about it, Curt? Alone or with somebody?”
“With somebody,” Hunter said.
“Who?”
“A girl.”
“Who?”
“That’s my business.”
“That’s your pleasure,” the chief of detectives corrected, and all the bulls—including Brown and Kling—laughed. “What happened to change your plans?”
“Nothing,” Hunter said, annoyed by the laughter, on guard now, waiting for the next question.
“You drew a thousand dollars from your bank yesterday afternoon, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Because you thought you just might take a little trip with a girl. Last night, you’re drinking alone in a bar, the thousand dollars in your pocket, and a bartender says something about your inability to please a woman, so you haul off and sock him. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Okay. What happened? The girl call it off?”
“That’s my business,” Hunter said again.
“Do you like girls?” the chief of detectives asked.
Hunter’s eyes were narrow now, peering into the lights suspiciously. “Don’t you?” he asked.
“I love ’em,” the chief of detectives said. “But I’m asking you.”
“I like ’em fine,” Hunter said.
“This girl you planned the trip with—a special friend?”
“A doll,” Hunter said, his face blank.
“But a friend?”
“A doll,” he repeated, and the chief of detectives knew that was all he’d get from Hunter. The tall, handsome blond man waited.
Kling watched him, never once connecting him with the blond man who had allegedly led Mary Louise Proschek into Charlie Chen’s tattoo parlor. Kling had read Carella’s report, but his mind simply did not make any connection.
“Next case,” the chief of detectives said, and Hunter walked across the stage.
When he reached the steps on the other side, he turned and shouted, “The city hasn’t heard the end of that goddamn pukey prison!” and then he went down the steps.
“Riverhead, two,” the chief of detectives said. “Donaldson, Chris, thirty-five. Tried to pick a man’s pocket in the subway. Transit cop made the pinch. Donaldson stated it was a mistake. How about it, Chris?”
Chris Donaldson could have been a double for Curt Hunter. As he walked across the stage, in fact, the chief of detectives murmured, “What is this? A twin act?” Donaldson was tall and blond and handsome. If there were any detectives in the audience with inferiority complexes, the combination of Hunter and Donaldson should have been enough to shove them over the thin line to psychosis. It was doubtful that the lineup had ever had such a combined display of masculine splendor since its inception. Donaldson seemed as unruffled as Hunter had been. He walked to the microphone. His head crossed the six-foot-three marker on the white wall behind him.
“There’s been a mistake,” Donaldson said.
“Really?”
“Yes,” he said calmly. “I didn’t pick anybody’s pocket, nor did I attempt to. I’m a gainfully employed citizen. The man whose pocket was picked simply accused the wrong person.”
“Then how come we found his wallet in your jacket pocket?”
“I have no idea,” Donaldson said. “Unless the real pickpocket dropped it there when he felt he was about to be discovered.”
“Tell us what happened,” the chief of detectives said, and then in an aside to the assembled bulls, he added, “This man has no record.”
“I was riding the subway home from work,” Donaldson said. “I work in Isola, live in Riverhead. I was reading my newspaper. The man standing in front of me suddenly wheeled around and said, ‘Where’s my wallet? Somebody took my wallet!’”
“Then what?”
“The car was packed. A man standing alongside us said he was a transit cop, and before you knew it, another man and I were grabbed and held. The cop searched us and found the wallet in my pocket.”
“Where’d the other man go?”
“I have no idea. When the transit cop found the wallet on me, he lost all interest in the other man.”
“And your story is that the other man was the pickpocket.”
“I don’t know who the pickpocket was. I only know that he wasn’t me. As I told you, I work for a living.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant.”
“For whom?”
“Binks and Lederle. It’s one of the oldest accounting firms in the city. I’ve worked there for a good many years.”
“Well, Chris,” the chief of detectives said, “it sounds good. It’s up to the judge, though.”
“There are people, you know,” Donaldson said, “who sue the city for false arrest.”
“We don’t know if it’s false arrest yet, do we?”
“I’m quite sure of it,” Donaldson said. “I’ve led an honest life, and I have no desire to get involved with the police.”
“Nobody does,” the chief of detectives said. “Next case.”
Donaldson walked off the stage. Kling watched him, wondering if his story were true, again making no connection between Mary Louise Proschek’s blond escort and the man who’d claimed he’d been falsely accused of pickpocketing.
“Diamondback, one,” the chief of detectives said. “Pereira, Genevieve, forty-seven. Slashed her husband with a bread knife. No statement. What happened, Jenny?”
Genevieve Pereira was a short woman with shrewd blue eyes. She stood with her lips pursed and her hands clasped. She was dressed neatly and quietly, the only garish thing about her being a smear of blood across the front of her dress.
“I detect an error in your notations, sir,” she said.
“Do you?”
“You’ve misrepresented me chronologically by two years. My age is only forty-five.”
“Forgive me, Jenny,” the chief of detectives said.
“I feel, too, that your familiarity is somewhat uncalled-for. Only my closest acquaintances call me Jenny. The appellation, for your exclusive benefit, is Genevieve.”
“Thank you,” the chief of detectives said, a smile in his voice. “And may I call you that?”
“If the necessity is so overwhelming,” Genevieve said.
“Why’d you stab your husband, Genevieve?”
“I did not stab him,” Genevieve answered. “He suffered, at best, a surface scratch. I’m sure he’ll convalesce.”
“You speak English beautifully,” the chief of detectives said.
“Your praise, though unsolicited,” Genevieve said, “is nonetheless appreciated. I’ve always tried to avoid dull clichés and transparent repetition.”
“Well, it certainly comes out beautifully,” the chief of detectives said, and Kling detected a new note of sarcasm.
“Any perseverant person can master the English tongue,” Genevieve said. “Application is all that is required. Plus, an abundant amount of native intelligence. And a detestation of the obvious.”
“Like what?”
“I’m sure I could not readily produce any examples.” She paused. “I would have to cogitate on it momentarily. I suggest, instead, that you read some of the various works of literature that have aided me.”
“Books like what?” the chief of detectives asked, and this time the sarcasm was unmistakable. “English for Martians? Or The English Language As A Lethal Weapon?”
“I find sarcastic males vulgar,” Genevieve said.
“Did you find stabbing your husband vulgar?”
“I did not stab him. I
scratched him with a knife. I see no reason for promoting this case to federal proportions.”
“Why’d you stab him?”
“Nor do I see,” Genevieve persisted, “any pertinent reasons for discussing my marital affairs before an assemblage of barbarians.” She paused and cleared her throat. “If you would relinquish my wrapper, I assure you I would depart without—”
“Sure,” the chief of detectives said. “Next case.”
And that’s the way it went.
When it was all over, Kling and Brown went downstairs and lighted cigarettes.
“No con man,” Brown said.
“These lineups are a waste of time,” Kling offered. He blew out a stream of smoke. “How’d you like those two handsome bastards?”
Brown shrugged. “Come on,” he said, “we better get back to the squad.”
The two handsome bastards, considering the fact that one of them was a murderer, got off pretty lightly.
Curt Hunter was found guilty and paid a $500 fine, plus damages.
Chris Donaldson was found not guilty.
Both men were, once again, free to roam the city.
Bert Kling expected trouble, and he was getting it.
Usually, he and Claire Townsend got along just jim-dandy. They’d had their quarrels, true, but who was there to claim that the path of true love ever ran smooth? In fact, considering the bad start their romance had had, their love was chugging along on a remarkably even keel. Kling had had a rough time in the beginning trying to dislodge the torch Claire was carrying from the firm grip with which she’d carried it. He’d succeeded. They had passed through the getting-acquainted stages, and had then progressed rapidly through the con man’s legend of going steady, and then through the con man’s formality of getting engaged, and then—if they weren’t careful—they would enter the con man’s legality of getting married, and then the con man’s nightmare of having children.
Provided they could leap this particular hurdle that confronted them on that Wednesday night.
The hurdle was a very high one.
Kling was learning, perhaps a little late to do anything about it, that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
The woman scorned was rather tall by American standards. Not too tall for Kling, but she’d have given the run-of-the-mill, unheroic American male trouble unless she wore flats on her dates. The woman scorned had black hair cut close to her head and brown eyes, which were aglow now with an inner fury, and a good mouth, which was twisted into a somewhat sardonic grin. The woman scorned was slender without being skinny, bosomy without being busty, leggy without being gangly. The woman scorned was, as a matter of fact, damned pretty even when she was venting her fury.
