Ladyfingers

by Shepard Rifkin

  "Madam," I began.

  "I told her to go back and ask for a divorce. He was trying to make her commit suicide. You murderer, you murderer! And when she wouldn't, he pushed her out the window!"

  The neighbors loved it. I saw a couple faces peeking in the hall door, treasuring it all for future telling. I told the cops to get the hall clear.

  "How could she open that big heavy window? Mister, look at it! Could she open it?" The woman tugged at my sleeve, the tears pouring down her face.

  Thank God the Eleventh Squad came into the room. I told her that they were in charge. I didn't know them. One was a heavy, bald Italian of about fifty-five, with horn-rimmed glasses. He looked tough and disgusted. The other man with him was a thin Irish guy who looked like he should have been studying at some seminary for the priesthood.

  "You was in an awful hurry to take me outta the pizza parlor," said the older man. "Relax. No one's goin' anywheres. Hey, you," he went on, looking at me. "You live here? You live here, you stay, Jack."

  One of the cops said, "He's a detective, Lieutenant."

  "Yeah? Prove it."

  I showed him my badge and the I.D.

  "Sanchez, Sanchez. You the Sanchez who turned in Inspector Hanrahan's nephew? Six, seven years ago?"

  I might have known it. He looked like one of those old dogs who never bark and who always seem bored and tired. They're the ones who have done everything and seen everything.

  "Yes."

  "That was you, huh?"

  "Yes."

  "You like turnin' him in?"

  "Not especially."

  "What kind of an answer is that?"

  "It's the only one I can think of."

  "What you doin' here?"

  "Special assignment."

  "Checkin' me out?"

  "No. Following up a Missing Persons report."

  "What happened to Tully?"

  "Nothing."

  "Who's in charge here?"

  "You are."

  "Then shove off, fink."

  I could have argued some, and then phoned Hanrahan, who would grudgingly have told him to lay off. But it would have been pointless, since the woman I had come to check out was lying seventeen floors below. I could look her over before he would find out what I was up to. But I wanted some satisfaction. So I went up to him so close that no one could overhear what I was going to say. I didn't want any witnesses. His big nose was full of blackheads.

  "Yes, sir," I said softly. "I'll shove off. But I bet I could make lieutenant just like you. Then when I get to be fifty-five I'd put in my papers and go down to a nice place like Sarasota and buy a nice big house on the Gulf. I'd buy a nice big cruiser with a Frigidaire aboard and an automatic pilot. Then I'd buy me an air-conditioned Lincoln Continental and a station wagon for every day. With the pennies from my piggy bank. Sir."

  No matter how you sliced that, it came out rank mutiny. That's why I almost whispered it. He knew it. He wasted no time or energy on me. He didn't even get mad. He turned his back on me, not to express disgust or dismissal, but because I did not exist any more. He pointed at Mr. Perry.

  "You," he said. "Let's go in the bedroom an' have us a little talk."

  I walked out. That tough old Italian was a good cop, nevertheless. If I had pushed my wife out the window and I was Perry I'd hate to be in that bedroom with the lieutenant. Come to think of it, I'd hate to be perfectly innocent and have him staring at me.

  I took the elevator down. I walked through the passageway and came out into the courtyard. The first person I saw was Dr. Altman. The police photographer was leaning against the wall yawning. He was waiting until Altman gave him the go-ahead.

  "Oh, ho," said the doctor. "The distinguished detective, Mr. Sanchez. Be my guest." He pulled off the bedsheet someone had thrown over her. She must have died instantly. She wouldn't be laid out in an open coffin. Nothing could make that ruined face and skull presentable.

  But all the fingers were there. "All right, Doc," I said.

  He told the photographer to go ahead. As Altman stripped off his gloves he asked who was in charge.

  "Some bald-headed bastard."

  "Temper, temper. A lieutenant?"

  "Yeah."

  "That's Carlino. You have a run-in?"

  "He called me a fink and I said he had a fat safe-deposit box."

  "Oh-oh."

  The picture-taking was done. The morgue ambulance had come and the attendants were placing her in a plaifi pine box. It was full of knotholes. I watched them wheel her out. Then I became aware that the superintendent was talking to me.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

  "I said, can I hose the pavement down? I mean, is it all right?"

  For the first time in years I felt like crying. I didn't know why.

  "Be my guest," I said. Two women. It didn't make sense. I mean life didn't make sense.

  9

  AND CATARINA SAAVEDRA Y CARVAJAL, LA DUQUESA de Bejar, 3 East 67th Street. Thirty-three. One hundred twenty-seven pounds. Five feet six, green eyes.

  Being of peasant stock myself, I looked forward to interviewing the Duchess' nearest and dearest.

  Upon arriving at the Saavedra y Carvajal residence, I rang the bell in order to request permission to enter. That's police Mandarin, or cop English. The bell was outside an ornate Spanish iron grill in front of a heavy plate-glass door. A brass plate the size of a big-league first base repeated the last name of the lady. Under the name was a coat of arms showing a bear chasing an eagle to hell and gone, or rampant. Under that was "Yo y El Rey"-"I and the King." Not "El Rey y Yo." Maybe the guy was living in exile as a result.

  Time passed. I smoked away half a cigarette while I rang four more times. I turned around and admired at least three women in basic black and simple pearl necklaces that represented a year's salary for me. Then I heard heel taps coming across the white marble floor.

  I turned around and threw the cigarette away and made my face look sympathetic. The relatives are frequently in tears.

  Instead of a valet or maidservant, a woman in basic orange was opening the heavy glass door. Her long black hair was plaited in a braid which hung in front of one shoulder. She wore an emerald necklace, marquise-cut. She was holding the Times of London, held open at the financial page. The other hand, which had all the fingers attached, was holding a tall glass with something orange-colored in it. She kept the iron gate closed and looked at me coldly. She wore a matching emerald on her ring finger that Silver Dollar's favorite coin would have had difficulty covering.

  "Good afternoon," I said.

  Her gaze traveled down my clothes to my shoes. Her fingers lifted the glass to her lips. Her eyes traveled upwards again, very slowly. She had long fingers, the kind aristocrats are supposed to breed true.

  Thank God my shoes were polished. I was on the point of buffing them with my sleeve.

  "Who are you?" she asked, very calmly. She lifted her glass and took another sip. Solitary drinker. The movement lifted one breast. She was not wearing anything under the matching orange dress. I sighed.

  "Is this the residence of Mr. Saavedra y Carvajal?"

  Her eyes drifted over to the brass plate and back again. They were filled with contempt.

  "Obviously," she said.

  I felt my face turning pink. I held out my shield. She shook her head. "Identification," she said.

  I pulled out my I.D. card. She checked my picture. Then she unlocked the grill and motioned me in. As I went by her I smelled that blend of well-scrubbed skin and a very expensive perfume that you only seem to smell between 60th Street and 90th Street on the East Side, between Fifth and Lexington.

  She drifted into a room where you could have put my entire apartment with space left over for two Cadillacs. She was weaving slightly. I decided she was not drinking pure orange juice.

  The room was covered with a dark green rug that matched her emeralds. Everything seemed to be matching something else, so that the eye never halted at t
he edge of one object, but felt an urge to go on to a relative. She sat down on a couch covered with yellow silk brocade that went very well with the texture of her skin. She indicated the couch beside her. Not close. It was a big couch. I sat three feet away from her and leaned back. It was the most comfortable piece of furniture that I had ever sat on. The red leather monstrosity outside of Hanrahan's office was not in this league.

  I felt something press in my back. I pulled away and took a look. The brocade was really a tapestry. It was a forest scene. A satyr was chasing a nymph with enthusiasm through a glade or something, and what was digging into my back were the lady's sharp little breasts. For a second the lost parts of Irene drifted through my mind, but I put her aside.

  The lady of the house suddenly got up, sat down in an armchair opposite me, put her drink on a little marquetry table, and crossed her legs. Her knees were brown and very smooth. They were better than Irene's.

  She looked at me with a little smile. At one end of a little table an ivory chess set stood on alternate squares of cream and black ivory. Beside it was a large glass pitcher filled with non-orange juice.

  On the wall in back of her hung a Boucher or a Fragonard. There was a very lush and very pink naked lady. She was reclining and smiling. A cupid balanced in the air was slyly placing a rose bud between her thighs. She had a lazy smile and the air of a woman who had just passed a long, exhausting, and very pleasant night.

  "Well?" she asked, her eyes half closed.

  "Is that a Boucher or Fragonard?"

  She opened her eyes wide. "Boucher. Drink?"

  "Not on duty, thanks."

  "Switch."

  "I don't switch."

  "Straight orange juice?"

  I said that would be fine. She went out of the room. I leaned back again and the hard little breasts of the nymph pressed into me again. While I was turning around to look them over, she came back into the room. She poured my glass full from another pitcher.

  "You like my naked girl?"

  "I like naked girls."

  "Naturally."

  She looked me over slowly. Since I am almost six feet it took some time.

  I took a sip. It was a triple-strength screwdriver. I decided to drink no more than one-third.

  "Mrs. Saavedra," I said.

  "Oh, the Duchess," she said, with a little expression of distaste. "I had better tell you first about her husband. He is a Spanish nobleman. He is very proud of his title. It dates from 1327. He is also Marques de Gibraleon. He is also Conde de Benalcazar. This makes the Duchess a Marquesa and a Condesa as well."

  "Naturally," I said. She cocked an eyebrow at me, but I was looking at the Boucher.

  "He likes to place himself between two stereophonic speakers and play Wagner very loudly. He admires Germanic efficiency. He has heavy investments in West German engineering plants. He collects knives from all over the world and he is interested in telepathy."

  "You don't seem to like the Duke," I said. She took a sip and went on.

  "He doesn't like women much." I decided she was either a sister of the Duchess or a secretary who came from an impoverished local aristocracy, and that she was padding around drinking because the Duke and Duchess were out of town.

  "He is very rich. He gives her a lot of jewelry and a lot of money, so she decided not to leave him."

  "Naturally." I couldn't keep a note of understanding contempt out of my voice. She caught it right away.

  "If you're a cop," she said, "you must have taken at least one bribe. So that doesn't leave you anywhere, does it?"

  "A long time ago some guy offered me thirty-five thousand bucks to forget about taking him in. He had three pounds of uncut heroin on him and the cash, too."

  "Don't tell me you resisted."

  "When you're in my job you choose sides. You choose whether you'll be a man or a whore. I don't feel like being a whore. Not to my credit. Some do, some don't. It's in the genes. Who's responsible for their genes?"

  "You sound like a smug son of a bitch."

  "If you don't mind," I said, "can we get back to business?"

  She narrowed her eyes. Then she shrugged. "Very well. Back to the disgusting Duchess. One day she felt very bored. She simply walked out of the house, not taking a single thing with her, went to the bank, took a few thousand dollars from the safe-deposit box she carefully keeps, and flew to Ocho Rios."

  I was making notes. "Ocho Rios. And then?"

  "In Jamaica. You've never heard of it?" She was getting back at me.

  I had heard of it. As a matter of fact, I had been there the year before, tracing a sterling members of the New York Yacht Club who had been unknowingly smuggling heroin into the States on his yacht. The crew was using it as a fine method of transportation, and with the help of the Jamaica police I was posing as a rich Dominican while I made sure that the yachtsman was ignorant of what was going on.

  "All right," I said agreeably. "I never heard of it. And then?"

  "She had a very fine time there. She met a British officer whose title was a hundred years older than her husband's. So it was with great pleasure that she went to bed with him."

  About this time a suspicion began to grow upon me that I was not as smart as I thought I was.

  I put down my drink carefully. "By any chance," I began, but she cut me short.

  "And so," she finished, getting up unsteadily, "I came back yesterday to find that my husband had listed me as missing. What do you think of that?" she added triumphantly.

  "Not much," I said. She didn't like that. Everyone wants to believe in his own ability to create serious disturbances in people's equanimity.

  I asked if I could use her phone. She waved her emerald at me. I phoned.

  "Hi, Tully," I said. "Strike out Caterina Saavedra y Carvajal." The Duchess put some records on the hi-fi.

  "Whaddya mean? She dead?"

  "No, Leo," I said. "She went to Ocho Rios. You never heard of Ocho Rios, you dumb bastard? She went to Ocho Rios and met a British gentleman. So scratch Kitty."

  "Jesus, Pablo. You all right?"

  I hung up. Triple shot, hell. The drink must have been pure vodka with just enough orange juice to tint it. She was swaying to the dance music. She held her arms out to me.

  "No, thanks," I said.

  "You had better," she said. "The commissioner is a member of the Downtown Athletic Club. And so is my husband. They play squash together. And badminton. I shall complain you were insolent. That is, if you don't dance with me."

  "I'll be on my way, thank you." I stood up.

  "Would you be a whore?"

  "Why don't you go out and get a job?"

  "I've been poor and I've been rich, as someone once said, and believe me, rich is better. Dance?"

  "I've got work to do."

  "I'll give you all the work you can handle," she said. Her hips were swiveling back and forth. They were very explicit. The whole thing reminded me of what Schneider, my first lieutenant, once said to me. It was a slow night up at the precinct squad room, and he drew three large B's on a piece of paper.

  "Three things you got to watch out for," he said. "More good cops've been brought up on charges or resigned fast before they were hit with a departmental trial because of the three B's." He lettered three words behind the B's: Booze, Broads, and Bucks.

  And here they were all at once.

  And she was really better than Irene. She was better than anyone I had ever met. And who would know about it? Who would ever know? Why, no one but her husband, the man who played squash with the PC himself. Better for me to go bowling and find someone my style, but someone closer than Queens.

  "It's been a pleasure," I said. "Thanks for the drink." She let me walk out and when I got to the front door she was right behind me; she had slipped off her shoes and padded silently across the marble floor.

  "Coward," she said.

  "You bet," I said.

  She slammed the door so hard behind me that the heavy glass cracked.r />
  10

  "INDIGOTINDISULPHONIC ACID," KELSEY SAID, pleased with himself.

  I looked at him blankly.

  "Indigotindisulphonic acid," he repeated. "You know, to look at some yellow stain and then out of all the substances in the world, to find out what it is! That's something."

  "You bet. Indigotin acid, right?"

  "No," he said, a faint tinge of irritation creeping into his voice. "It's another name. It's like what you said. But it's different. It's different. We won't say it again. But it's used to remove tattoo marks, among other things."

  "Tattoo marks."

  "Yes, tattoo marks. You're not getting enough sleep. Please don't repeat everything I say. Tattoo marks. People get tattooed, then they regret it. Hence indigotindisulphonic acid."

  "They get tattooed, then they use it to remove the tattoo."

  "Yes," Kelsey said dryly. "Very well put."

  I asked for the finger. He took it out of the icebox.

  Then I did what I should have done in the beginning. I took a powerful hand magnifying glass and looked at it very carefully. I noticed a few erratic black dots where the ring had been.

  When I had first seen them I assumed they were dust specks that had lodged under the ring. I tried brushing them away. They stayed. Now I saw that they were ink spots deeply worked into the grain of the skin. They were all that was left of the tattoo after the acid had worked at it.

  I took a piece of filter paper and trimmed it so that it would fit around the finger. Then I dabbed a little ink on each black spot, wrapped the trimmed paper around the finger, squeezed it firmly, and then removed the paper ring.

  I unrolled it. The dots were repeated but now in an erratic double line. I joined them together with a pencil line.

  They went up and down, up and down, like a roller coaster. They made no sense.

  I sighed and looked at them again. I thought wryly that I was bulling my way in a frontal attack. Why not try an end-run? I decided to try it. And suddenly I saw that, looked at from a different point of view, there were two rows of dots, roughly parallel, but coming together at two points. One of the ends became a single row and then it forked again, but only for a short distance.