by McBain, Ed
“All day.”
“You didn’t happen to go to a wedding, did you?”
“No,” Jenny said.
“Where did you go?”
“We were up my apartment,” Jenny said.
“If you’ve got your own apartment, why’d you come here?”
“’Cause I got a roommate, and she came home around eleven, and Al and me still wanted to be together.”
“What’s your roommate’s name?” Carella asked.
“Glenda.”
“Glenda what?”
“Glenda Manning.”
“Is that her real name?”
“It’s real enough. It’s what’s in the mailbox.”
“Where?”
“1142 Jericho.”
“Is she there now?”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Is there a phone in the apartment?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to call her and ask her if you and Al were there last night when she came in at eleven.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Jenny said. “The number’s Halifax 4-3071.”
Carella went to the room phone and lifted the receiver. The desk clerk came on, and he told him what number he wanted. From the closet, Willis said, “No guns in the room, huh, Al? What do you suppose these are?” He held up a holstered .38 and a .357 Magnum wrapped in flannel, its long barrel protruding from the folds of the cloth.
“I don’t know, what are they?” Brice said.
“They’re a pair of kosher pickles,” Willis said.
“I never seen them before in my life.”
“Never, huh?”
“Never,” Brice said. “Must belong to the guy who checked out.”
“Mm-huh,” Willis said.
Into the phone, Carella said, “Let me talk to Glenda Manning, please.”
“This is Glenda,” a woman’s voice said.
“This is Detective Steve Carella,” he said. “I want to ask you some questions.”
“Yes, officer, what about?” Glenda said. “If someone has made a complaint about this telephone number…”
“This isn’t the Vice Squad,” Carella said. “Relax.”
“Why shouldn’t I relax, anyway?” Glenda said. “Even if it is the Vice Squad.”
“Glenda, where were you at eleven o’clock last night?” Carella asked.
“Why?”
“Routine investigation,” he said. “Where were you?”
“Here.”
“Were you there all night?”
“No.”
“What time did you get there?”
“Just about eleven, in fact.”
“Can anybody verify that?”
“Sure.”
“Who?”
“My roommate and her boyfriend. They were here when I come in.”
“That was about eleven o’clock, you say?”
“That’s right. We had a cup of coffee together, and then they left around a quarter to twelve.”
“Okay, Glenda.”
“Why, what happened?” Glenda asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then why do you want to know where I was at eleven o’clock last night?”
“Forget it,” Carella said. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.” He put the phone back on the cradle.
“Okay, Al,” Willis said, “where’d you get these pieces?”
“They’re not mine. I already told you. Somebody must’ve left them in the room here.”
Willis sighed.
Carella looked at him.
“Worth the collar?” Willis asked.
“Any other time, yeah,” Carella said. “Right now, we don’t need the headache. So long, Brice, keep your nose clean. We get anything even smelling of those pieces, we’ll be knocking on your door.”
Willis threw both guns onto the bed.
“Nice meeting you, miss,” he said.
“My pleasure,” she answered unconvincingly.
By twenty minutes to midnight, Fat Ollie Weeks had almost reached the end of the trail. With the help of Kling, Cutler, and Pike, he had matched up photographs of husbands and wives, boyfriends and girl friends, boyfriends and boyfriends, and (in one instance) girl friend and girl friend. He had been left with pictures of four unidentified men and three unidentified women, and he had then gone over the invitation list in search of men and women who had been invited alone to the wedding and reception. There were eighteen such names on the list. Kling told him that all of the invited singles had been encouraged to bring a guest if they liked. So when Ollie left the hotel, he had a list of the eighteen in his pocket, together with photographs of the unidentified seven. By twenty minutes to midnight, he had checked out seventeen of the eighteen names, and had identified all but one person—a blond young man who’d appeared in several of the photographs taken at the church, but in none of the photographs taken at the reception. Ollie’s task might have been a tedious one had it not been for two things: (1) he actually liked legwork, and (2) all of the women he spoke to that night were beautiful.
The last person on his list was a woman named Linda Hackett, and he knew she wasn’t beautiful because she’d been pointed out to him in photographs taken at the wedding and the reception. “Miss Linda Hackett,” as she’d been referred to by both Cutler and Pike (as though they were somehow referring to royalty), was the editor of a fashion magazine, a formidable-looking broad in her early sixties, substantial of bosom (the way a pouter pigeon is), harsh of eye, fierce of visage, and (according to Cutler) probably cloven of hoof as well. Ollie was tired. All he wanted to do was go home, pour himself a drink, watch some television, and then go to sleep. But the possibility existed that Miss Linda Hackett had needed an escort for the festivities yesterday, and had asked the blond young man to serve in that capacity. Ollie rang the doorbell.
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked.
“It’s the police, miss,” Ollie said.
“The police?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Just a minute.”
He waited. He heard her unlocking the door, and then the door opened just a crack, restrained by a night chain. He held up his shield. “Detective Oliver Weeks,” he said. “I’d like to talk to Miss Linda Hackett, please.”
“I am Miss Linda Hackett.”
“Miss Hackett,” he said, “I would like to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind taking off the chain and letting me in.”
“It’s almost midnight,” she said. “I was just getting ready for bed.”
“I shall try to be as brief as possible,” Ollie said, and cleared his throat.
“Well…”
“Please, Miss Hackett, this is of extreme importance.”
“All right,” she said. “But you’ll have to wait a minute.”
“Certainly,” he said.
She closed the door. Ollie figured she was going to put on a bathrobe or something. He further figured that a woman, for some strange reason, sometimes took ten or twelve minutes to put on a bathrobe, whereas the same action usually took a man a minute and a half. Sighing, he pulled a cigarette from the package in his breast pocket, lit it, and had smoked it down almost to the filter tip when he heard the night chain being taken off the door. He ground out the butt, and looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to 12:00. Miss Linda Hackett opened the door.
If anything, she seemed much more formidable in person than she had in her photographs. The photographs had given no real impression of height, but standing outside her door, Ollie realized she was at least five feet ten inches tall, if not taller, and rather wide of shoulder. Her face was rock-hard, her nose, mouth, and massive jaw chiseled from Mount Rushmore. She possessed all the delicate femininity and grace of a roller-derby queen or a female wrestler—and yet she was the editor of one of the most influential fashion magazines in the world.
“Come in,” she said.
Sighing, Ollie followed her into the living room and took a seat beside her on
the sofa. He took out his photographs, cleared his throat again, and by way of preamble said, “I am going to show you some pictures taken at Augusta Blair’s wedding yesterday, and I am going to ask you if you recognize the young man in these photographs.”
“Why?” Miss Linda Hackett asked.
“I can’t tell you why,” Ollie said.
“You come here in the middle of the night—”
“Yes, but—”
“All right, let me see the pictures. You people really take the cake. Where the hell were you when my apartment was robbed last July?”
“Burglarized,” Ollie said.
“Yes, where the hell were you then?”
“This is not my precinct,” Ollie said. “My precinct is the Eight-Three.”
“Then what are you doing here in the middle of the night with pictures for me to look at?”
“Well,” Ollie said, “it’s too complicated to explain.”
“I’ll just bet it is,” she said. “Let me see the damn pictures. I’ve got an eight o’clock meeting tomorrow morning, do you know that?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that,” Ollie said.
“Let me see the damn pictures.”
He showed her the pictures.
“This is the man,” he said. “This blond man. Do you know him?”
“This one?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he supposed to be?”
“Huh? What do you mean?” Ollie asked.
“Well, what’s he done? Did he rob one of the guests or something?”
“I’m not at liberty to tell you anything about the case,” Ollie said. “Do you recognize him?”
“Let me see those other pictures. Are they all of him?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see them. Where were these taken? At the church?”
“Yes.”
“Mm,” she said, and studied the pictures.
The man in question seemed to be in his late twenties, a thin-faced man with longish, straight blond hair and light eyes. In each of the pictures he was staring directly ahead of him, his mouth unsmiling.
“What’s he looking at?”
“Well, those were taken inside the church,” Ollie said. “He was probably watching the ceremony.”
“He looks very creepy,” she said, and suddenly looked up. “Don’t you think he looks creepy?”
“Yes, he does,” Ollie said.
“Jesus, he looks creepy,” she said, and shuddered.
“Do you recognize him?” Ollie said.
“No,” she said.
He was sitting just inside the door.
Augusta had heard him entering the room some ten minutes ago. He had not said anything in all that time, but she knew he was sitting there, watching her. When his voice came, it startled her.
“Your husband has blond hair,” he said.
She nodded. She could not answer him because he had replaced the gag the moment they’d concluded their earlier conversation, though he had not bothered to stuff anything into her mouth this time, had only wrapped the thick adhesive tape tightly across it and around the back of her head. That had been sometime after 3:30; he had mentioned the time to her. She was ravenously hungry now, and knew she would accept food if he offered it to her. She made a sound deep in her throat to let him know she wished him to remove the gag again. He either did not hear her or pretended not to.
“What color do you think my hair is?” he asked.
She shook her head. She knew what color his hair was, of course; she had seen it when he’d burst hatless into the hotel room. His hair was blond. And his eyes above the surgical mask…
“You do not know?” he asked.
Again she shook her head.
“Ah, but you saw me,” he chided gently. “At the hotel. Surely you noticed the color of my hair.”
She made a sound behind the gag again.
“Something?” he asked.
She lifted her chin, twisted her head, tried to indicate to him that she wished the gag removed from her mouth. And in doing so, felt completely dependent upon him, and felt again a helpless rage.
“Ah, the adhesive,” he said. “Do you wish the adhesive removed? Is that it?”
She nodded.
“You wish to talk to me?”
She nodded again.
“I will not talk to you if you continue to lie,” he said, and she heard him rising from the chair. A moment later she heard him closing and locking the door to the room.
He did not return for what seemed like a very long time.
“Augusta?” he whispered. “Are you asleep?”
She shook her head.
“Do you know what time it is?”
She shook her head again.
“It’s two o’clock in the morning. You should try to sleep, Augusta. Or would you prefer to talk?”
She nodded.
“But you must not lie to me again. You lied to me earlier. You said you didn’t know what color my hair is. You do know what color it is, don’t you?”
Wearily, she nodded.
“Shall I remove the adhesive? You must promise not to scream. Here,” he said, “feel.” He had moved to her side, and she felt now the cold steel of the scalpel against her throat. “You know what that is,” he said. “I will use it if you scream. So,” he said, and slid the blade flat under the adhesive, and then twisted it, and cut the tape, and pulled it free.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re quite welcome,” he said. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you might be. You need not be afraid of me, Augusta.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” she lied.
“I shall prepare you something to eat in a moment.”
“Thank you.”
“What color is my hair, Augusta? Please don’t lie this time.”
“Blond,” she said.
“Yes. And my eyes?”
“Blue.”
“You had a very good look at me.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you lie? Were you worried that if you could identify me, I might harm you?”
“Why would you want to harm me?” she asked.
“Is that what you thought? That I might harm you?”
“Why am I here?” she asked.
“Augusta, please, you are making me angry again,” he said. “When I ask you something, please answer it. I know you have many questions, but my questions come first, do you understand that?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Why do my questions come first?” he asked.
“Because…” She shook her head. She did not know what answer he wanted from her.
“Because I am the one who has the scalpel,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“And you are the one who is helplessly bound.”
“Yes.”
“Do you realize just how helpless you are, Augusta?”
“Yes.”
“I could in fact harm you if I wished to.”
“But you said…”
“Yes, what did I say?”
“That you wouldn’t harm me.”
“No, I did not say that, Augusta.”
“I thought…”
“You must listen more carefully.”
“I thought that was what you said.”
“No. If you weren’t so intent on asking questions of your own, then perhaps you would listen more carefully.”
“Yes, I’ll try to listen,” she said.
“You must.”
“Yes.”
“I did not say I wouldn’t harm you. I asked if you thought I might harm you. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, I remember now.”
“And you did not answer my question. Would you like to answer it now? I’ll repeat it for you. I asked if—”
“I remember what you asked.”
“Please don’t interrupt, Augusta. You make me very impatient.”
“I’m sorry, I…”
“Augusta, do you want me to put the adhesive on again?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“Then please speak only when I ask you to speak. All right?”
“Yes, all right.”
“I asked you why you lied to me. I asked whether you were worried that I might harm you if you could identify me.”
“Yes, I remember that.”
“Is that why you lied to me, Augusta?”
“Yes.”
“But surely I had to know you’d seen me.”
“Yes, but you were wearing a surgical mask. I still don’t really know what you look like. The mask covered—”
“You’re trying to protect yourself again, aren’t you?” he said. “By saying you still don’t know what I look like?”
“I suppose so, yes. But it’s true, you know. There are lots of people with blond hair and…”
“But you are trying to protect yourself?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. Yes.”
“Because you still feel I might harm you.”
“Yes.”
“I might indeed,” he said, and laughed. He seized her chin then, and taped her mouth again, and swiftly left the room.
On the floor, Augusta began trembling violently.
She heard the key turning in the lock, and then the door opened. He came to where she was lying near the wall, and stood there silently for what seemed like a very long time.
“Augusta,” he said at last, “I do not wish to keep you gagged. Perhaps if I explain your situation, you will realize how foolish it would be to scream. We are in a three-story brownstone, Augusta, on the top floor of the building. The first two floors are rented by a retired optometrist and his wife. They go to Florida at the beginning of November each year. We are quite alone in the building, Augusta. The room we are in was a very large pantry at one time. I have used it for storage ever since I moved into the apartment. It is quite empty now. I emptied it last month, after I decided what had to be done. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Fine,” he said, and cut the tape and pulled it free. She did not scream, but only because she was afraid of the scalpel. She did not believe for a moment that they were alone together in a three-story brownstone; if indeed he did not gag her again, she would scream as soon as he left her alone in the room.
“I’ve made you some soup,” he said. “You shall have to sit up. I shall have to untie your hands.”
