Eight Black Horses

by Ed McBain

  There seemed no question now—if ever there had been—that the man who’d dropped Elizabeth Turner’s corpse in the park across the street was the Deaf Man. Josie Sears hadn’t seen a hearing aid in the man’s ear, but she’d described him as tall and blond. Given the circumstances, that was close enough. No cigar, but damn close.

  It was also clear that someone of the same description, and definitely wearing a hearing aid this time, had passed himself off to Naomi Schneider as Detective Steve Carella of the 87th Squad.

  The Deaf Man had been driving a stolen blue Buick Century on the night Josie spotted him and a gray Jaguar sedan on the night he’d driven Naomi home. Even before Carella called Auto Theft, he suspected the Jaguar had been stolen, too.

  His call to Auto disclosed that a dozen Jaguars, apparently popular cars with thieves, had been stolen in this city since the beginning of November. Four of them had been sedans. One of those had been gray. It had not yet been recovered. Carella now had a license plate number for the car the Deaf Man might still be driving. If the same license plate was still on it. And if the car hadn’t already been dumped in some empty lot in the next state.

  The Deaf Man was a one-man crime wave.

  But what was he up to?

  What was the goddamn significance of these pictures he kept sending them? Did the numbers themselves mean something? Why all this police paraphernalia, with eight black horses thrown in for good measure?

  Come on, Carella thought, play it fair. Give us a break, willya?

  * * * *

  The next break in the case—if in retrospect it could be considered that—came on the third day of December, a Saturday. It came with a phone call from Naomi Schneider at twenty minutes past three.

  ‘Did you just call me?’ she asked Carella.

  ‘No,’ he said. And then at once, ‘Have you heard from him again?’

  ‘Well, somebody named Steve Carella just called me,’ she said.

  ‘Did it sound like him?’

  ‘I guess so. I’ve never heard his voice on the phone.’

  ‘What’d he want?’

  ‘He said he wants to see me again.’

  ‘Did he say when?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Where? Is he coming there?’

  ‘Well, we didn’t arrange anything actually. I thought I’d better call you first.’

  ‘How’d you leave it?’

  ‘I told him I’d call him back.’

  ‘He gave you a number?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Naomi gave him the number.

  ‘Stay right there,’ Carella said. ‘If he calls again, tell him you’re still thinking it over. Tell him you’re hurt because you haven’t heard from him in such a long time.’

  ‘Well, I already told him that,’ Naomi said.

  ‘You told him...?’

  ‘Well, I really was hurt,’ Naomi said.

  ‘Naomi,’ Carella said, ‘this man is a very dangerous criminal. Don’t play games with him, do you hear me? If he calls again, tell him you’re still considering whether you want to see him again, and then call me here right away. If I’m not here, leave a message with one of the other detectives. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’ve got it. I’m not a child,’ Naomi said.

  ‘I’ll get back to you later,’ he said, and hung up. He checked his personal directory, dialed a number at Headquarters, identified himself to the clerk who answered the phone, and told her he needed an address for a telephone number in his possession. The new hotline at Headquarters had been installed because policemen all over the city had been having trouble getting information from the telephone company, whose policy was not to give out the addresses of subscribers, even if a detective said he was working a homicide. Carella sometimes felt the telephone company was run by either the Mafia or the KGB. The clerk was back on the line three minutes later.

  ‘That number is for a phone booth,’ she said.

  ‘On the street or where?’ Carella asked.

  ‘Got it listed for something called the Corners on Detavoner and Ash.’

  “Thank you,’ Carella said, and hung up. ‘Artie!’ he yelled. ‘Get your hat!’

  * * * *

  When the knock sounded on the door to Naomi’s apartment, she thought it might be Carella. He had told her he’d get back to her later, hadn’t he? She went to the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Me,’ the voice said. ‘Steve.’

  It did not sound like the real Carella. It sounded like the fake Carella. And the real Carella had told her the fake Carella was a very dangerous man. As if she didn’t know.

  ‘Just a second,’ she said, and unlocked the door and took off the night chain.

  There he was.

  Tall, blond, handsome, head cocked to one side, smile on his face.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Long time no see,’ she said. She felt suddenly weak. Just the sight of him made her weak.

  ‘Okay to come in?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, and let him into the apartment.

  * * * *

  The Corners at three-thirty that Saturday afternoon was—thanks to the football game on the television set over the bar—actually more crowded than it would have been at the same time on a weekday. Carella and Brown immediately checked out the place for anyone who might remotely resemble the Deaf Man. There was only one blond man sitting at the bar, and he was short and fat. They went at once to the men’s room. Empty. They knocked on the door to the ladies’ room, got no answer, opened the door, and checked that out, too. Empty. They went back outside to the bar. Carella showed the bartender his shield. The bartender nodded.

  ‘Tall blond man,’ Carella said. ‘Would have used the phone booth about forty minutes ago.’

  ‘What about him?’ the bartender said.

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘I saw him. Guy with a hearing aid?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I saw him.’

  ‘He’s been in here before, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Coupla times.’

  ‘Would you know his name?’

  ‘I think it’s Dennis, I’m not sure.’

  ‘Dennis what?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was in here with a guy one night, I heard the guy calling him Dennis.’

  ‘There’s just this one room, huh?’ Brown said.

  ‘Just this one.’

  ‘No little side rooms or anything.’

  ‘Just this.’

  ‘Any other toilets? Besides the rest rooms back there?’

  ‘That’s all,’ the bartender said. ‘If you’re lookin’ for him, he already left.’

  ‘Any idea where he went?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Did he leave right after he made his phone call?’

  ‘Nope. Sat at the bar for ten minutes or so, finishing his drink.’

  ‘What was he drinking?’ Carella asked.

  ‘Jim Beam and water.’

  Carella looked at Brown. Brown shrugged. Carella went to the phone booth and dialed Naomi Schneider’s number.

  * * * *

  ‘Let it ring,’ the Deaf Man said.

  She was naked. They were on her bed. She would have let it ring even if it was the fire department calling to say the building was on fire. The phone kept ringing. Spread wide beneath him, her eyes closed, she heard the ringing only distantly, a faraway sound over the pounding of her own heart, the raging of her blood. At last the phone stopped.

  All at once he stopped too.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘don’t...’

  ‘I want to talk,’ he said.

  ‘Put it back in,’ she said.

  ‘Later.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please, baby, I’m almost there.’ she said. ‘Put it back in. Please.’

  He got off the bed. She watched him as he walked to the dresser, watched h
im as he shook a cigarette free from the package on the dresser top. He thumbed a gold lighter into flame, blew out a wreath of smoke. Everything was golden about him. Gold watch, gold lighter, golden hair, big magnificent golden...

  ‘There’s something we have to discuss,’ he said. ‘Something I’d like you to do for me.’

  ‘Bring it here, I’ll show you what I can do for you.’

  ‘Later,’ he said, and smiled.

  * * * *

  They were in the unmarked sedan, heading back toward the precinct. The heater, as usual, wasn’t working. The windows were frost-rimed. Brown kept rubbing at the windshield with his gloved hand, trying to free it of ice.

  ‘I told her to stay home,’ Carella said. ‘I specifically told her to...’

  ‘We don’t own her,’ Brown said.

  * * * *

  ‘Who owns you?’ the Deaf Man said.

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘You own me.’

  ‘Again.’

  ‘You own me.’

  ‘And you’ll do anything I want you to do, won’t you?’

  ‘Anything.’

  * * * *

  ‘You think we ought to stop by there?’ Brown asked. ‘It’s on the way back.’

  ‘What for?’ Carella said.

  ‘Maybe she just went down for a newspaper or something.’

  ‘Pull over to that phone booth,’ Carella said. ‘I’ll try her again.’

  The phone was ringing again.

  ‘You’re a busy little lady,’ the Deaf Man said.

  ‘Shall I answer it?’

  ‘No.’

  The phone kept ringing.

  * * * *

  Carella came out of the booth and walked back to the car. Brown was banging on the heater with the heel of his hand.

  ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what do you want to do?’

  ‘Let’s take a spin by there,’ Carella said.

  * * * *

  ‘I need you on Christmas Eve,’ the Deaf Man said.

  ‘I need you right now,’ Naomi said.

  ‘I want you to be a very good little girl on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘I promise I’ll be a very good little girl,’ she said, and folded her hands in her lap like an eight-year-old. ‘But you really owe me an apology, you know.’

  ‘I owe you nothing,’ he said flatly.

  ‘I mean for not calling me all this...’

  ‘For nothing,’ he said. ‘Don’t ever forget that.’

  She looked at him. She nodded. She would do whatever he asked her to do, she would wait forever for his phone calls, she would never ask him for explanations or apologies. She had never met anyone like him in her life. She almost said out loud, ‘I’ll bet you’ve got girls all over this city who’ll do anything you want them to do,’ but she caught herself in time. She did not want him walking out on her. She did not want him disappearing from her life again.

  ‘I want you to dress up for me,’ he said. ‘On Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Like a good little girl?’ she said. ‘In a short skirt? And knee socks? And Buster Brown shoes? And white cotton panties?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, whatever,’ she said. ‘Sure.’

  ‘A Salvation Army uniform,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, sure.’

  That might be kicks, she thought, a Salvation Army uniform. Nothing at all under the skirt. Sort of kinky. Little Goodie-Two-Shoes tambourine-beating virgin with her skirt up around her naked ass.

  ‘Where am I supposed to get a Salvation Army uniform?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll get it for you. You don’t have to worry about that.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘You know my size?’

  ‘You can give me that before I leave.’

  ’Leave?’ she said, alarmed. ‘I’ll kill you if you walk out of here without...’

  ‘I’m not walking out of here. Not until we discuss this fully.’

  ‘And not until you...’

  ‘Be quiet,’ he said.

  She nodded. She had to be very careful with him. She didn’t want to lose him, not ever again.

  ‘Where do you want me to wear this uniform?’ she said. ‘Will you be coming here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then where? Your place?’

  ‘Uptown,’ he said. ‘Near the precinct.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she said, and looked at him. ‘Is that where you live? Near the precinct?’

  ‘No, that’s not where I live. That’s where you’ll be wearing the uniform. On the street up there. A few blocks from where I work.’

  ‘We’re gonna do it on the street?’ she asked, and smiled.

  ‘You have a very evil mind,’ he said, and kissed her. She felt the kiss clear down to her toes. ‘This is a stakeout,’ he said. ‘Police work. Both of us in Salvation Army uniforms.’

  ‘Oh, you’re gonna be wearing one, too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ she said. ‘But what do you really have in mind?’

  ‘That’s what I have in mind,’ he said.

  ‘A stakeout, huh?’

  ‘Yes, a stakeout.’

  ‘Even though you’re not a cop, huh?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I know you’re not a cop.’

  ‘I’m not, huh?’

  ‘I know you’re not Steve Carella.’

  He looked at her.

  ‘And how do you know that?’ he said.

  ‘‘Cause I know the real Steve Carella,’ she said.

  He kept looking at her.

  ‘I do,’ she said, and nodded. ‘I called the station house,’ she said. ‘I called the Eighty-seventh Precinct.’

  ‘Why’d you do that?’

  “Cause you told me you worked there.’

  ‘You spoke to someone named Carella?’

  ‘Steve Carella, yes. In fact, I met him. Later.’

  ‘You met him,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He told me you’re not him. As if I didn’t know. I mean, the minute I saw him I knew he wasn’t...’

  ‘What else did he tell you?’

  ‘He said you’re very dangerous,’ Naomi said, and giggled.

  ‘I am,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I know,’ she said, and giggled again.

  ‘And what’d you tell him?’

  ‘Oh ... how we met... and what we did ... and like that.’

  ‘Did you tell him where we met?’

  ‘Oh, sure, the Corners,’ she said.

  He was very silent.

  ‘What else did you tell him?’ he asked at last.

  * * * *

  A good way for a statistician to discover how many policemen are on duty in any sector of the city is to put a 10-13 call on the radio. Every cop in the vicinity will immediately respond. Sometimes even cops from other precincts will respond. That is because the 10-13 radio code means assist police officer, and there is no higher priority.

  Carella and Brown were a block from Naomi’s apartment when the 10-13 erupted from the walkie-talkie on the seat between them. Neither of the men discussed or debated it. The cop in trouble was ten blocks from where they were, in the opposite direction from the one they were traveling. But Brown immediately swung the car around in a sharp U-turn, and Carella hit the siren switch.

  * * * *

  The Deaf Man sat up straight the moment he heard the siren. Like an animal sensing danger, Naomi thought. God, he is so beautiful. But the siren was moving away from her street, and as it faded into the distance, he seemed to relax.