“Yeah. Well, anyhow, I got down here about an hour ago, and I parked my car outside the lot, on the street. And I just happened to notice that the cab I parked behind was number 327. The reason I happened to notice, we used to live at 327 Claire Street when I was a kid, so the number 327 always stuck with me. See, I’d just turned fourteen, and there was this girl down the block who really—”
“Canelli. Please. Get to the point.”
“Well, the point is that about a half-hour later I heard Mr. Gross checking out a guy in number 327. So when I heard the number, I glanced up and I just happened to notice a dent in the fender of the cab going out, which I hadn’t noticed before. So, just for the hell of it, I went outside and looked for my car. And I’ll be damned if the same cab wasn’t still parked in front of it. Without the dent.”
“Number 327, you mean?”
“Right, number 327. So I told Mr. Gross, who obviously thought I was screwy or something. But then I showed him. So then he thought maybe he made a mistake on the check-out number. So we argued back and forth for a while until finally they took a count. And you know what?”
“I give up, Canelli. What?”
“They got an extra cab down here, Lieutenant. I swear to God. Somehow, somewhere, they got an extra cab: two number 327’s. So I thought I better—”
“Is anybody there with you, Canelli? Any other cops?”
“No. You didn’t say anyone else should come down. And, see, I’m not really supposed to be on duty. You told me so yourself, Lieutenant, last night. But I just got to thinking this morning that—” He broke off, listening to someone who’d interrupted on the other end of the line. Then: “Hey, can you hold on for a second, Lieutenant? Mr. Gross just came in, and there’s something else, now, that’s screwy. Can you hold on?”
I took a deep breath. “All right, Canelli. But let’s not make a scenario out of it, all right?”
“Sure, Lieutenant. Just a second.”
“What’s happening?” Friedman asked.
“I’m not sure, but Canelli thinks he’s discovered a ringer cab outside the Yellow Cab lot.”
“What’d you mean, ‘a ringer cab’?”
I shook my head, then held the phone toward him. “Would you like to quiz Canelli?”
He raised both hands. “I’m the senior homicide lieutenant, don’t forget. My time is far too valuable to—”
“Hey, Lieutenant.” Canelli’s voice was excited. “Guess what now?”
“I still give up, Canelli. What?”
“Well, Mr. Gross says that about six months ago a Yellow Cab was boosted. They found it abandoned two days later down in Menlo Park somewhere. Remember?”
“No.”
“Well, the interesting thing was that the cab had been stripped—on the inside. Except for the illuminated dome, which was on the outside. The boosters took the radio and the meter and the certificate and the dome. So now Mr. Gross just went out to check, and it turns out that he can identify the meter and the radio, which had serial numbers. And they’re there, in that number 327 cab.”
“You mean that—”
“Mr. Gross figures,” he interrupted, “that someone boosted that cab, and stripped it on the inside, and abandoned it, and then made himself a whole new cab. He started with an ordinary Ford sedan, and painted it himself, and even did the lettering, which gives the whole thing away, according to Mr. Gross. Then the thief put in the meter and everything that he stole.”
“Is Mr. Gross sure about all this?”
“Well, sure he’s sure. And he’s pretty puzzled, I can tell you. He says that—”
“Is he there now, in the office?”
“No, he went outside to take another look at—Hey, here he is, Lieutenant. He’s—Wait a second, Lieutenant.”
“You wait a second,” I said into the telephone. Then, turning to Friedman: “Get Communications to call two cruisers over to the Yellow Cab lot, code two. Get my car around. And you’d better—”
“Lieutenant.” Canelli’s voice was high, excited. “Someone just took off in that cab. And he’s not a cabbie, either, Lieutenant. He didn’t check in or anything. He just got in the cab and took off like a bat out of—”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“No. But Mr. Gross got a glimpse—just a glimpse.”
“And?”
“Well, the suspect’s short, and he’s wearing a Yellow Cab hat, just like the rest of the drivers. And that’s all Mr. Gross can—”
“Tell it to Lieutenant Friedman, Canelli. Then wait for me outside the Yellow Cab office. There’s two cruisers on the way, and I’m coming myself, right now.” I handed the phone to Friedman, saying, “I’m going down there. Get this from Canelli, and get it on the air. I’ll check in with you as soon as I’m rolling.”
22
I PULLED SHARPLY TO the curb, jerked on the brake and motioned for Canelli to take the wheel. I glanced at my watch. Exactly six minutes had elapsed since I’d left the Hall and heard the bulletin on the 327 cab go out on the air. Six minutes, with no results. In six minutes, the suspect could have crossed half the city.
“Which way, Lieutenant?”
“Which way did the cab go?”
He pointed.
“All right, let’s go that direction. Take it easy, though. Unfortunately, there’s no place to go.”
“Nobody’s spotted him, eh?” He clashed the gears shifting into second.
“Right. Did you get anything else from Gross?”
“No. But I told him to put out the squeal on his own radio. Was that all right?”
I looked at him. “Yes, Canelli, that was all right. That was using your head, in fact—assuming that the suspect doesn’t have the radio in the cab turned on, which isn’t likely, assuming he’s running.”
Canelli gave me his shy, pleased smile. I turned up the radio. I’d gotten a special auxiliary net assigned to the search for cab 327, but the reception was poor.
Then, suddenly, “This is Inspectors Fifty-three. We have a Yellow Cab, number 327, in view. It’s proceeding west on McAllister, at about Laguna. Driver is alone. He’s a Caucasian male. That’s all we can see. He’s proceeding west at moderate speed. We’re following at a little less than a block.”
I switched the mike to “transmit,” then preempted Communications control of the auxiliary net to say, “All right, let’s get all available unmarked units—repeat, unmarked units—into that sector. Let’s get a rolling tail set up, using this net. I’m proceeding to the area. All radio cars are to avoid contacting the suspect, unless he spooks. We don’t want him to—”
“He’s turning left at Divisadero, Lieutenant, still at moderate—”
“Inspectors Fourteen,” came Culligan’s voice. “We’re turning into Divisadero at Haight Street and should—Wait. We see him now, Lieutenant. We’re approaching him head-on, in good shape. Now we’re making a U-turn, proceeding south on Divisadero, a block ahead of suspect, also going south. He’s—Hey, get that radio car out of here,” Culligan said sharply. Then, inaudibly swearing, he said, “Suspect is turning left on Fifteenth, might be spooked. We’re—”
“Inspectors Thirty-eight, on Fifteenth, proceeding west. Suspect is coming toward us, traveling at—He’s pulling to the curb, Lieutenant. Stopping. He—”
We were coming up on Market Street, with six blocks yet to go. Ahead was a red light and heavy intersection traffic.
“Hit the siren, just for this intersection,” I told Canelli, at the same time listening to the radio as Culligan said, “We’re on Duboce and should—Oh, oh.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“We have the suspect in view now, Lieutenant. Inspectors Thirty-eight, too. And the suspect is picking up a woman who hailed him.”
“What the—what’d you mean, Culligan?”
“I mean that she must’ve thought he was a regular cab, and she hailed him.” His voice was deliberate. In the crunch, Culligan was always cool. “And he stopped for h
er,” he said. “He’s under way again, proceeding east on Fifteenth, heading toward Market. He’s—Now he’s pulling over again. Looks like he’s going to let her out.”
“Stay back. Don’t let him see you. What’s your cross street, Culligan?”
“Noe. Fifteenth and Noe.”
I pulled down the scan map. “All right, I want Inspectors Fifty-three to cover the Fifteenth and Castro intersection, and Inspectors Thirty-eight to take Market and Fifteenth. Communications, I’ll take two more unmarked units, and release the rest. That’s eight units altogether.”
“Roger,” came the metallic dispatcher’s voice, followed by a muffled exclamation from Culligan.
“What is it, Culligan?”
His voice was tight as he said, “I’m about a half block away, Lieutenant. I’m stopped, so I haven’t got a real good view. But it looks like he’s got a—Yeah,” he said sharply. “He’s got a gun. He’s still parked, for the second time, and now he’s getting the woman into the front seat, beside him. I think you should—”
“Block him in front, Culligan,” I said, motioning Canelli to accelerate. “All other units, let’s bottle him up while he’s stopped. He’s going to use the woman for a hostage, sure as hell. Let’s move it.” I braced myself as we swung around the last corner. Ahead, Culligan’s cruiser was angling across Fifteenth Street. The Yellow Cab, at the curb, was under way. Culligan was closing on him, crossing in front of the cab, braking. The cab struck Culligan’s car.
“In back,” I shouted to Canelli. “Cut in back of him. He’ll—” Traveling fast, a black cruiser was suddenly in front of us. Canelli braked, jerking our car hard to the left. The black cruiser stopped; its doors were swinging open. The cab, tires screaming, lurched backward, crashing into the black cruiser’s rear fender, hard.
“That’s it,” I shouted to Canelli, wrenching my door open. “He’s bottled up. I’ll go for the woman. You cover me.” Drawing my gun, crouching low, I rounded the rear of the black cruiser. Other figures sprinted, tumbling, shouting. I was beside the cab, still crouching. I gripped—
“Gas,” a voice screamed. “Fire. For Christ’s sake, fire. Get clear.”
The woman was Negro. I saw her frantic hands through the window, clawing. I—
A single shot crashed close beside me, inside the cab. On my knees, I gripped the door handle, pulling. I could smell smoke, feel the heat, hear the roaring flames. The door came open. She was tumbling out, sprawling on top of me. Fighting clear, heaving, I saw Canelli grasp her.
“—away, Lieutenant,” he was screaming. “Get away. It’ll explode, for God’s sake.” He was half carrying the black woman, whose nose streamed blood.
I rolled to my knees, crouched, pushed myself to my feet. Orange flame and greasy smoke surrounded the car like a blazing cocoon, spilling into the cab’s interior through open windows. Shielding my face, I moved a single step closer to see inside.
“Lieutenant.” It was Canelli’s voice, screaming in my ear. “They’ve got him. Get away, for God’s sake.” Above the sucking roar of the flames I heard a fire siren.
“Where is he, Canelli?”
“Here.” He gripped my arm, pulling me away. “Over here.” A cluster of detectives stood in the front garden of an old restored Victorian house. A low privet hedge surrounded the small, elegant yard. Some of the cops stood inside the hedge, some stood outside. They were all looking down at the ground. Something about their strangely silent circle seemed ritualistic—private, solemn. Behind me, I could still hear the roaring fire.
I holstered my gun, wiped sweat from my eyes and stepped over the low hedge. Culligan and Sigler made room for me. Looking down, I saw Peter Farwell, handcuffed, stretched full length on the ground, legs straight, ankles together, as if he were laid out for burial. Beside him was a visored yellow cap. He was staring directly into my eyes, his misshapen mouth twisting in a grotesque smile.
“I don’t have a title yet,” he said, “but the scene plays, Lieutenant. Maybe we can sell the movie rights.”
As I looked at him, I was aware of the smell of burned cloth. My right fingers were fretfully picking at the left sleeve of my jacket. Looking down, I realized that the jacket was scorched. It was the same jacket I’d soaked with Darrell Allingham’s blood only three days before.
“—make a deal with you, Lieutenant,” Farwell was saying.
I drew a deep, trembling breath, and smelled again the burning gas.
“What kind of a deal, Farwell?” I asked finally.
“Her funeral is at two this afternoon. If you take me, I’ll tell you how and why. Just you and your partner and me. While we’re watching, I’ll tell you all about it. Everything.”
“All right,” I said slowly. “You’ve made a deal. Let’s go.”
23
“HOW’S THIS, LIEUTENANT?” CANELLI pulled in behind a green Cadillac. “We can see everything without getting out of the car.”
“Fine.”
Canelli pulled up and stopped. We were atop a small knoll overlooking the gravesite. Canelli had placed the car so that Farwell had a good view, and so that I could see the ceremony without taking my eyes from Farwell, seated beside me. Canelli set the brake, pocketed the keys and half turned in the driver’s seat, also keeping Farwell in view.
But the small man, staring intently toward the grave, was oblivious to us. Covertly I glanced over my shoulder. I wondered whether Farwell had noticed the two cruisers trailing us.
“They’re just starting,” Farwell said softly. “The minister’s just beginning.”
Not replying, I reached across him to roll down the window. The gravesite was a little more than a hundred yards down the slope; we could hear the minister’s voice but not his words. A group of perhaps thirty stood surrounding the grave, heads bowed. For someone who’d so often had her picture in the society pages, I was thinking, this last gathering for Carol Connoly seemed very small. Near the head of the grave, stylishly dressed in a dark blue suit, Victor Connoly stood with his gleaming blond head elegantly bowed. At the foot of the grave stood Blanche Touhy, sobbing.
“Carol was destined for this,” Farwell said. “Everyone has a very narrow, very specific destiny. And this was Carol’s destiny—this, and Victor Connoly.” His voice was a hushed, disembodied monotone, as if he were speaking from the depths of a hypnotist’s trance. “If she’d been born in another time, at another place,” he said, “she could’ve been anything she liked—anything at all.”
“If,” Canelli said. His voice, too, was hushed.
Farwell’s back was turned to me; I couldn’t see his face. But I saw his miniaturized lineman’s shoulders lift in a wry shrug.
“‘If’ is the one universal word, Inspector. Not ‘God,’ not ‘love,’ but ‘if.’ Because life is a series of random encounters, an animated succession of unrelated accidents. When I was eight years old, I had polio—an accident. My grade school had steps, an incredibly long flight of eighteen steps, which was also an accident. Every day, I pulled myself up those steps as if I were some maimed insect, dragging its dead thorax. I remember that I used to twitch my head from side to side, trying to discover who was giggling. And that movement must’ve seemed very comical, too—very insectlike, in fact. Which, in turn, must’ve made the little girls giggle all the more.” His voice trailed off as he watched the ceremony for a moment. Then, still in the same hushed voice, he said, “It was always the little girls who laughed. I still hear them sometimes in my sleep. Sometimes I hear them when I’m awake, too. But then it’s only an echo, a lost, lonely echo, mocking love like some minor chord in a long, loud symphony of avarice and hate and lust and longing.”
“How come you can walk,” Canelli said, “if you had polio? I thought—”
“Actually,” Farwell said, still in a dreamy voice, “the disease was more subtle than polio—a rare form of meningitis, in fact. When I was twelve, I was sent to Warm Springs. I was a charity case, and I fought the place like a captured animal r
ages against his cage. But a year later I could walk. And my father, whom I’ve always hated, demanded that I build myself up so that I could learn the manly art of self-defense and begin getting back at everyone who’d ever laughed at me, or pushed me off my crutches.” He smiled briefly and bitterly. “It turned out to be a life’s work,” he said softly, “employing a variety of instruments. Everything from fists to typewriters to firearms.”
“What about Carol, Farwell?” I asked. “How’d it happen about Carol?”
“It began to happen, I suppose, the moment she said she was leaving me, moving out. Abstractly I’d known the moment would come, like you know you’re going to die. She could never bring herself to let me make love to her, you see, although she tortured us both by trying. So our time together was limited. But when the moment finally came, I felt myself curl up inside and begin to die. I remember feeling like an insect curling up in a tormented ball. I knew she’d taken everything from me, both love and hate, leaving only a self-pitying sorrow. And sorrow, Lieutenant, isn’t a salable creative impulse—at least, not in Hollywood. Unless, of course, one happens to possess genuine talent. So I watched her cab pull away, and I waved. And then I went inside and closed the door. And I knew, truly and surely, that I was beginning the long, dreary trek down the other side. And so for all practical creative purposes, I died. Standing just inside the door, watching her go, I died. I could look at her objectively and realize that she was intellectually and emotionally my inferior. I realized that she, like myself, had been maimed at an early age. But the libido couldn’t hear what the brain knew so well. And so I died. And in due time my associates ratified my demise, with elaborate regret, with much talk of lapsed options and escape clauses and the public’s fickle fancy. So I—” His voice trailed off. Looking beyond him, I saw the casket sinking slowly into the ground. Victor Connoly took the traditional handful of dirt and made the traditional gesture. The minister was praying.
“How’d it happen, Farwell?” I asked. “You promised to tell me how it actually happened.”
The Disappearance (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 16
