by Parnell Hall
“No.”
“Oh, is that right? Monica Dorlander. The woman you were following. The woman who spotted you following her. You’ve never seen her before?”
“That’s not the woman I was following.”
“Oh really? You told us she was.”
“I was wrong.”
“Is that right? Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You told us you were following Monica Dorlander. You staked out her home. You staked out her office. But you weren’t following her.”
I took a breath. “Let me get something straight.” I turned to the woman. “Your name is Monica Dorlander?”
She said nothing.
I turned to Creely. “Could you tell her to answer me?”
“Go ahead and answer him.”
“Your name’s Monica Dorlander?” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“You live on East 83rd Street?”
“Yes.”
“You work at Artiflex Cosmetics on Third Avenue?”
“That’s right.”
I looked at Chief Creely and shrugged helplessly. “I’ve been had.”
“So you say,” he said. “All right ma’am. Let me ask you this. You ever been here before?”
“Here?”
“This neck of the woods.”
“No.”
“Ever stay at the Pine Hills Motel?”
“No.”
“What about yesterday? Last night. Did you drive up here from New York and register at the Pine Hills Motel?”
“No, I did not.”
“You didn’t register there under an assumed name?”
“An assumed name. Say, what is this?”
“You didn’t register there under the name Judy Felson?”
“I most certainly did not.”
“The name Judy Felson mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing.”
Creely nodded. “I didn’t think it would. Then let me ask you this. Do you know a Julie Steinmetz?”
She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Too bad,” Creely said. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to have to ask you to do something slightly unpleasant. Davis?”
“Sir.”
“Take Miss Dorlander down to the morgue. Have her look at the body.”
The woman’s face paled. Her jaw dropped open. “Body!”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to see if you can identify the body.”
“Body!” she said again. “You mean ...” She stole a glance at me. “You mean ... he killed someone?”
“Well now, ma’am—”
Her eyes were growing wider and wider. “And you let me stand here talking to him? You let him question me?”
She started backing away during this. Davis was right at her elbow.
“You let him see my face!” she said in horror.
Davis piloted her smoothly out the door.
Creely turned back to me. “That woman doesn’t like you.”
I took a breath. “You all but told her I was a murderer.”
“Did I now? Now that’s real unfortunate. I don’t know where she got that impression.
“Now let’s talk about you. Let’s talk about the bullshit you’ve been spewing out ever since you walked in this door.”
“It’s not bullshit.”
“Then what is it?”
“I told you. I’ve been had. Suckered. Played for a dope.”
Creely chuckled. “Gee, how could anyone do that?” His face hardened. “Now look. I want some answers, and this time I want ’em straight. You don’t know the woman who was just here?”
“No.”
“You weren’t following her?”
“No.”
“Then who were you following?”
“Another woman.”
“Who?”
“Probably the woman that’s dead.”
“Julie Steinmetz?”
“If that’s her name.”
“So why were you following her?”
“I thought she was Monica Dorlander.”
“How could you make that mistake?”
“I didn’t make that mistake.”
Creely frowned. “What?”
“I didn’t make a mistake. I followed the woman I was supposed to—”
I broke off, remembering something any competent detective would have remembered hours ago.
Creely said, “What is it?”
“Look, Chief,” I said. “If I were to reach in my hip pocket real slow and take out my wallet, could you tell these guys not to shoot me?”
Creely glanced at Chuck and the other officer. “I could make the suggestion. If they disregard it, there’s not much I can do.”
“Great.”
I reached in my back pocket and took out my wallet. I opened it, riffled through some papers, and pulled out the picture of Monica Dorlander. I handed it to Creely.
“Here you are.”
“What’s this?”
“That’s a picture of the woman I was hired to follow. The woman I was told was Monica Dorlander.”
Creely studied the picture. “Nice looker.”
“I thought so too.”
Creely turned to the two officers. “Either of you guys get a look at the body?”
They shook their heads.
“No, sir,” Chuck said. “I think Davis did.”
“Well, that don’t help us much. He’s on his way to the morgue.” Creely turned back to me. “This is the woman you were supposed to follow?”
“That’s right.”
“She doesn’t look anything like Monica Dorlander.”
“I know that.”
“Then why did you think she was?”
I took a breath. How many times did I have to say it? “I told you. I was set up.”
“You were lied to?”
“Yes.”
“You were told the woman in this picture was Monica Dorlander?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?
I took another breath. “My client. Marvin Nickleson.”
The door opened and another officer came in. They sure grew ’em young around here. I guess those with any gumption got the hell out.
He had a man with him. An elderly gentleman with a flowing mane of white hair.
“That him?” Creely said.
“Yeah, that’s him,” the officer said, leading him for ward.
“All right,” Creely said to the white haired man. “I want you to take a good look at this guy and tell me if you’ve ever seen him before?”
The man peered at me, frowned, shook his head.
“Never saw him before in my life,” he said.
I looked at Creely. “Don’t tell me,” I said.
Creely grinned. “That’s right, Mr. Hastings. Good guess. Allow me to present Mr. Marvin Nickleson.”
16.
“YOUR NAME’S MARVIN NICKLESON?”
“Right.”
“You work for Croft, Wheelhouse and Green?”
“Yes.”
“As a graphics artist?”
“Yes.”
“Let me take a guess. You live on East 14th Street?”
“Yes, I do.”
Creely looked at me. “You know this man?”
“Never saw him before in my life.”
“You know his name, address, and where he works, but you don’t know anything about him?”
“I know his name because you just told me. I know where he works because I was told that’s where he works. I know his address ’cause when I called information to get his phone number I was told they had no Marvin Nickleson on 83rd Street, but they had a Marvin Nickleson on East 14th Street. I didn’t call that number ’cause I knew it wasn’t him.”
“It is him.”
“Yes and no.”
Creely closed his eyes. “Hold on a minute.
You were going to call Marvin Nickleson?”
“No.”
“Then why did you want his number?”
“I wanted to call Monica Dorlander.”
“Why would you get Marvin Nickleson’s number to call Monica Dorlander?”
“I thought it would be the same number.”
“Why would it be the same number?”
“Because Monica Dorlander was his wife.”
During this exchange Marvin Nickleson’s eyes had been darting back and forth between Creely and me like a guy watching a tennis match. Now they widened and his mouth fell open. Creely turned to him. “You know Monica Dorlander?”
Marvin Nickleson blinked. “Who?”
“Monica Dorlander. You know Monica Dorlander?”
“No.”
“You’re not married to Monica Dorlander?”
Marvin Nickleson looked utterly bewildered.
“No.”
“And you never were married to Monica Dorlander?”
“No.”
“How about Julie Steinmetz?”
“Who?”
“Julie Steinmetz. You never heard of Julie Steinmetz? You’re not married to Julie Steinmetz?”
“No.”
“How about Judy Felson?”
“Who?”
“You never heard of Judy Felson?”
“No.”
“You’re not married to Judy Felson?”
“No.”
Creely was still holding the picture I’d given him. “How about this? You ever seen this woman before?”
Marvin Nickleson looked at Creely. Then at the picture. Then up at Creely again. “No,” he said.
Creely rubbed his head. “Great.” He turned to the officer who’d brought Marvin Nickleson in. “O.K. Run him down to the morgue. Introduce him to Monica Dorlander.”
“Sir?”
“The woman with Davis. You’ll find them down there. Put ’em together and ask ’em if they know each other. While you’re down there, have him look at the body.”
As with Monica Dorlander, the word body had a chilling effect on Marvin Nickleson. “Body. Whose body?”
Creely nodded. “Yeah. That’s the question.”
The officer led Marvin Nickleson out.
Creely turned to me. “I can’t wait to hear your explanation for this.”
“I was hired by a man who told me his name was Marvin Nickleson. He told me the woman in the picture was his wife, Monica Dorlander, and he hired me to follow her. Now you know as much as I do.”
“Oh, yeah,” Creely said. “What I don’t know is why. Why would he do that?”
That was indeed the question.
I was saved from having to answer it by the arrival of two more cops, this time in a uniform I recognized. They were state police. The state cops were older than Creely’s men, though not as old as Creely. They also had an air of authority about them—cold, hard, determined.
The stockier of the two pushed forward. “Chief Creely?”
“Yes.”
“Sergeant Dickerson. State police. We understand you’ve apprehended a suspect.”
Creely wheeled his belly around in the sergeant’s direction, put his hands on his hips. “Oh, you understand that, do you?”
“That’s right. Is that him?”
“That depends what you mean by him.”
“I’m referring to the man who stayed at the Pine Hills Motel as Alan Parker, but whose car is registered to Stanley Hastings.”
“You ran the registration?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Good. I’m glad to have the confirmation.”
“So are we. Well, sir, we’re here to take the suspect back for questioning.”
Creely stuck out his jaw. “You’re what?”
“We’re here to bring in the suspect. Plus any evidence you may have gathered.”
Creely’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, is that right?”
Sergeant Dickerson smiled condescendingly. “Chief, this is a murder investigation.”
“I know it’s a murder investigation.”
“Well, that’s why we’re here. To bring in the suspect.”
“On whose authority?”
Dickerson smiled again. “Chief, this is a small town with a limited force. Under the circumstances, in a murder case the state police have the authority to lend assistance to the local officer—”
“Lend assistance?” Creely’s gum was going like crazy. “That’s a good one. Lend assistance. I know what that means. That’s a euphemism for taking over the investigation.”
Sergeant Dickerson frowned. “Chief, no one wants to step on your toes here, but we have this murder that has to be cleared up. You must be aware that the state police—”
“I’m aware that the state police poke their nose in anywhere they possibly can.”
“Now look, Chief—”
“Authority.”
“What?”
“I asked you what authority.”
“And I told you.”
“You told me bullshit. Lend assistance. Standard practice. Yeah, that’s right. We’re a small town. If I run into trouble in my investigation, I can request assistance from the state police and you guys can provide it. I don’t recall my requesting any assistance, do you? Until I do, I’m in charge. This case is in my jurisdiction. This is my prisoner and you’re not taking him nowhere. Now, you tell the cocksuckers back at headquarters this is my murder investigation and I’m in charge here. Now if they wanna voluntarily render assistance I haven’t asked for, I want reports on everything they do, I want every officer responsive and responsible to me.
“And that goes for you too. You guys been poking around that motel, you give me everything you got.”
Sergeant Dickerson’s face had darkened during the beginning of the tirade, but by now he had composed himself and was back to his superior smirk. He gave the other officer a look. “Sure, Chief,” he said. “If that’s how you want it.”
“Fine,” Creely said. “You guys got anything for me?”
“Yes, we do,” Dickerson said.
“Well, let’s have it,” Creely said.
Dickerson smiled that superior smile again. “Oh, sure, Chief. Now I wouldn’t wanna tell you your business, but do you really want to discuss it in front of the suspect here?”
Creely gave me a look. For a second I thought he was going to say yes, just so he wouldn’t have to concede Dickerson had scored a point. But he thought better of it.
“Nothnagel,” he barked, and I finally learned Chuck’s last name—with a mouthful like that no wonder Davis called him Chuck.
“Sir?” Chuck said.
Creely jerked his thumb. “Chain him up again.”
Chuck took me in the back room and chained me to the pipe again. He went back out, doubtless to give Chief Creely moral support.
Leaving me alone with my thoughts.
And what great thoughts they were. Monica Dorlander wasn’t Monica Dorlander, Marvin Nickleson wasn’t Marvin Nickleson, the state police and the local police were fighting over who had the right to arrest me, and I was in the back room chained to a pipe, but aside from that I was doing great.
I came back to the question Creely had asked me before the state cops barged in: why? That was a biggie all right. I knew what had happened. An unknown man had hired me to follow an unknown woman and he’d used the names of real people for both himself and her. I knew why he’d used real names. He was afraid I might start backtracking him, and if so he wanted the information to check out. He’d given me the name Monica Dorlander because that was the name of a person who lived in the building of the woman he wanted me to follow. So in case I disregarded his instructions, as I in fact did, by calling information or talking to the doorman, in either instance Monica Dorlander would check out. And in his case he’d made up the convenient bogus story about moving to a rooming house with no phone, and given me a work address which on the one hand was genuine, but on the oth
er hand I was not supposed to call. I hadn’t, but if I had, just to check up on him, they would have confirmed they had a Marvin Nickleson working there. And since he’d forbidden me to call him at work, even if I called the company to confirm he actually worked there, I wouldn’t be apt to ask to talk to him.
Yeah, that’s why he’d used the names. But the big why, why he’d done it at all, that I had no idea.
The door opened. Chuck came in, unlocked the handcuffs and led me back out again.
The place was quiet. The state cops were gone. For a moment I thought the room was empty. Then I saw Chief Creely sitting at his desk. The reason I missed him was he wasn’t sitting up straight. His chair was tipped back, and he was slumped down in it. He looked exhausted, drained, like a prizefighter in his corner between rounds.
If so, the sight of me was like the bell for round ten. Creely’s muscles stiffened. The chair tipped forward. Creely put his hands on the arms and heaved himself out of it. He stood looking at me for a moment. Then he leaned forward and picked up something from his desk.
It was a plastic ziplock bag. I knew it well, because my father-in-law happens to manufacture them. Funny what thoughts flash through your mind at a time like that. Thinking about the bag, when what I was really looking at was the contents.
It was a gun.
Creely came around the desk and lumbered over to us. He held up the bag.
“Take a look at this,” he said.
I looked.
It was a gun all right. It wasn’t a revolver, so it must have been an automatic. There endeth my expertise with guns.
Creely looked at me. “You ever see this before?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’m scared to death of guns.”
Creely snorted contemptuously. I couldn’t tell if it was because he believed me, or because he didn’t.
Creely handed the plastic bag to Chuck. “Here. Run this down to the lab in Newburgh. And when you turn it over to the cocksuckers, you make it clear the reports come directly to me. You got that? Not to the state police. Here. To me.”
“Yes sir.”
Chuck went out.
Creely turned to face me. “I’m going to give you one more chance. You sure you never seen that gun before?”
“Is that the murder weapon?”
Creely grimaced. “Jesus Christ. What is it with you, you keep asking me questions? I ask you a question, you don’t answer, you ask me a question back. Who’s in charge here? The state cops think they are. You think you are. Look here. I’m in charge. You’re in deep shit. I ask the questions, you answer. You don’t like it, we resume your love affair with the pipe in the back room.
