Lady Killer, page 8
It began with the customary corny cowboy guitar, and then Lady Astor's insinuatingly chic voice came smoothly over the speaker.
'Home, home in the slums,
Full of pushers, and junkies, and bums.
Where seldom is heard
Mating call of the bird,
And the zip guns play music like drums…'
The record went on and on. Hawes thought it only mildly funny. He was too close to the reality to find the parody amusing. At the end of 'Home on the Range', a parody of 'Deep in the Heart of Texas' began.
'This one is a little rough,' Jay said, 'full of innuendo. A lot of people won't like it, but I don't give a damn. Morality is a funny thing, do you know?'
'How do you mean?'
'I came to the conclusion a long time ago that morality is strictly personal. The hardest thing any artist can attempt is to reconcile his own moral standards with those of the great unwashed. It can't be done. Morality is morality, and mine's mine and yours is yours. There are things I accept matter-of-factly, and these same things shock the hell out of the Kansas City housewife. That's a trap the artist can fall into.'
'What trap?'
'Most artists—in show business, anyway—live in the big cities. That's where the business is, you know, so that's where you have to be. Well, urban morality is pretty different from morality in the sticks. The stuifthat goes with the city slickers just won't go with the guy mowing a field of wheat—or whatever the hell you do with wheat. But if you try to please everybody, you go buggo. So I try to please myself. If I use my own good taste, I figure the morals will take care of themselves.'
'And do they?'
'Sometimes, yes—sometimes, no. Like I said, things I consider absolutely pure and simple don't seem quite so pure or quite so simple to the farmhand.'
'Things like what?' Hawes asked innocently.
'Things like—would you like to go to bed with me?'
'Yes, I would,' he answered automatically.
'Then let's,' she said, putting down her drink.
'Right now?' he asked.
'Why not? It's as good a time as any.'
He felt ridiculous answering what he had to answer, but he plunged ahead, anyway. 'I haven't the time right now,' he said.
'Your letter-sender?'
'My letter-sender.'
'You may have lost your golden opportunity,' she said.
'Those are the breaks,' Hawes said, shrugging.
'Morality is a question of the means and the opportunity,' Jay said.
'Like murder,' Hawes answered.
'If you want to get morbid, okay. All I'm trying to say is that I would like you to make love to me now. Tomorrow I may not feel the same way. I may not even feel the same way ten minutes from now.'
'Now you've spoiled it,' Hawes said.
Jay raised an eyebrow inquisitively.
'I thought it was me. Instead, it's just your whim of the moment.'
'What do you want me to do? Undress you and burp you?'
'No,' Hawes said, rising. 'Give me a rain check.'
'It hasn't rained for weeks,' Jay said.
'Maybe it will.'
'And to quote an old sawhorse, lightning never strikes twice in the same place.'
'I'll tell you,' Hawes said, 'I'm just liable to go out and shoot myself.'
Jay smiled. 'You're pretty damned sure of yourself, aren't you?'
'Am I?' he asked.
For a moment they faced each other. There was none of the photographic sensuality on her face now. Neither was there the fury of a woman scorned. There was only the somewhat pathetic loneliness of a little girl living in a vast top-floor apartment with an air-conditioner in the living room.
Lady Astor shrugged.
'What the hell,' she said. 'Give me a call sometime. The whim may return.'
'Expect that cop,' Hawes said.
'I will,' she answered. 'He may beat your time.'
Hawes shrugged philosophically. 'Some guys have all the luck,' he said, and he left the apartment.
* * *
CHAPTER NINE
Some guys, too, have all the misfortune.
Meyer Meyer and Steve Carella had their share that blistering day. By 1.40 p.m. the sidewalks were baking, the buildings were ready to turn cherry red with contained heat, the people were wilting, automobile tyres were melting, and it was obvious even to the neophyte science-fiction fan that the earth had somehow wandered too close to the sun. It would surely be consumed by fire. This was the last day, and Richard Matheson had called the tune, and the world would end in molten fire.
Undramatically speaking, it was damn hot.
Meyer Meyer was a sweater. He sweated even in the wintertime. He didn't know why he sweated. He supposed it was a nervous reaction. But he was always covered with perspiration. Today he was drowning in it. As the two detectives wandered from hockshop to hockshop on sleazy Crichton Avenue, wandered from open door to open door, passed rapidly from one trio of gold balls to the next, Meyer thought he would die in a way unbefitting a heroic cop. He would die of heat prostration, and the obits would simply say COP FLOPS. Or perhaps, if the news was headlined in Variety, SOPPY COP DROPS.
'How do you like this Variety headline announcing my death by heat prostration?' he said to Carella as they entered another hockshop. 'Soppy cop drops.'
'That's pretty good,' Carella said. 'How about mine?'
'In Variety?'
'Sure.'
'Let me hear it.'
'SOPPY WOP COP DROPS.'
Meyer burst out laughing. 'You're a prejudiced bastard,' he said.
The owner of the hockshop looked up as they approached his cage.
'Yes, sir, gentlemen,' he said, 'what can I do for you, sirs?'
'We're from the police,' Carella said. He plunked the binoculars down on the countertop. 'Recognize these?'
The hockshop owner examined them. 'A beautiful pair of glasses,' he said. 'Pieter-Vondiger. Have they figured in a crime, perhaps?'
'They have.'
'Was the perpetrator carrying them?'
'He was.'
'Mmmm,' the owner said.
'Recognize them?'
'We sell a lot of field glasses. That is, when we have them to sell.'
'Did you have these to sell?'
'I don't think so. The last Pieter-Vondigers I had was in January. These are 8 X 30. The pair I had were 6 X 30. These are better glasses.'
'Then, you didn't sell these glasses?'
'No, sirs, I didn't. Are they stolen?'
'Not according to our lists.'
'I'm sorry I can't help you, sirs.'
'That's all right,' Carella said. 'Thanks.'
They walked out onto the blistering sidewalk again.
'How many other cops are on this?' Meyer asked.
'Pete asked for a pair from each precinct. Maybe they'll come up with something.'
'I'm getting tired. Do you suppose that damn letter is a phony?'
'I don't know. If it is, we ought to lock the bastard up, anyway.'
'Hear, hear,' Meyer said, in a burst of enthusiasm rare for the heat.
'Maybe we'll get a make on the prints,' Carella said.
'Sure, maybe,' Meyer agreed. 'Maybe it'll rain.'
'Maybe,' Carella said.
They walked into the next shop. There were two men behind the counter. Both grinned as Meyer and Carella crossed the room.
'Good afternoon,' one said, smiling.
'A pleasant day,' the other said, smiling.
'I'm Jason Bloom,' the first said.
'I'm Jacob Bloom,' echoed the other.
'How do you do?' Carella answered. 'We're Detectives Meyer and Carella of the Eighty-seventh Squad.'
'A pleasure, gentlemen,' Jason said.
'Welcome to our shop,' Jacob said.
'We're trying to trace the owner of these binoculars,' Carella said. He put them on the counter. 'Do you recognize them?'
'Pieter-Vondiger,' Jason said.
'Excellent glasses,' Jacob said.
'Superb.'
'Magnificent.'
Carella broke into the lavish praise. 'Recognize them?'
'Pieter-Vondiger,' Jason said. 'Didn't we—?'
'Precisely,' Jacob said.
'The man with the—'
And the brothers burst out laughing together. Carella and Meyer waited. The laughter showed no signs of subsiding. It was reaching heights of hysteria, unprecedented hurricanes of hilarity, fits of festivity. Still, the detectives waited. At last the laughter subsided.
'Oh, my God,' Jason said, chuckling.
'Do we remember these glasses?'
'Do we?' Jason said.
'Oh, my God,' Jacob said.
'Do you?' Carella asked. He was hot.
Jason sobered instantly. 'Are these the glasses, Jacob?' he asked.
'Certainly,' Jacob said.
'But are you sure?'
'The scratch on the side, don't you remember? See, there is the scratch. Don't you remember he complained about the scratch? We reduced the glasses a dollar and a quarter because of the scratch. And all the while he was—' Jacob burst out laughing again.
'Oh, my God,' Jason said, laughing with him.
Meyer looked at Carella. Carella looked at Meyer. Apparently the heat in the shop had grown too intense for the brothers.
Carella cleared his throat. Again the laughter subsided.
'Did you sell these glasses to someone?' he asked.
'Yes,' Jason said.
'Certainly,' Jacob said.
'Who?'
'The man with the lollipop!' Jason said,burstinginto anew gale of hysteria.
'The man with the lollipop!' Jacob repeated, unable to keep his laugh from booming out of his mouth.
'This man had a lollipop?' Carella asked, deadpanned.
'Yes, yes! Oh, my God!'
'He was sucking on it all the while we haggled over the… the…'
'… the glasses,' Jason concluded. 'Oh, my God. Oh, my good Lord! When he left the shop, we couldn't stop laughing. Do you remember, Jacob?'
'Yes, yes, how could I forget? A red lollipop! Oh, was he enjoying it? Oh, no child ever enjoyed a lollipop more! It was wonderful! Wonderful!'
'Magnificent!' Jason said.
'Fantastically—'
'What was his name?' Carella asked.
'Who?' Jason asked, sobering.
'The man with the lollipop.'
'Oh. What was his name, Jacob?'
'I don't know, Jason.'
Carella looked at Meyer. Meyer looked at Carella.
'Isn't there a bill Of sale, Jacob?'
'Certainly, Jason.'
'When was he here?'
'Two weeks ago, wasn't it?'
'A Friday?'
'No, a Saturday. No, you're right, it was a Friday.'
'When was that? What date?'
'I don't know. Where's the calendar?' The brothers busied themselves over a calendar on the wall.
'There,' Jacob said, pointing.
'Yes,' Jason agreed.
'Friday,' Jacob said.
'July twelfth.'
'Would you check your bills?' Carella asked.
'Certainly.'
'Of course.'
The brothers moved into the back room.
'Nice,' Meyer said.
'What?'
'Brotherly love.'
'Um,' Carella answered.
The brothers returned with a yellow carbon copy of the bill.
'Here it is,' Jason said.
'July twelfth, just as we thought.'
'And the man's name?' Carella asked.
'M. Samalson,' Jason said.
'No first name?'
'Just the initial,' Jason said.
'We only take the initial,' Jacob corroborated.
'Any address?' Meyer asked.
'Can you read this?' Jason asked, indicating the writing on the line printed Address:
'It's your handwriting.'
'No, no, you wrote it,' Jason said.
'You did,' Jacob told him. 'See how the t is crossed. That is your handwriting.'
'Possibly. But what does it say?'
'That's a t, for sure,' Jacob said.
'Yes. Oh, it's Calm's Point! Of course! That's Calm's Point.'
'But what's the address?'
'31-63 Jefferson Street, Calm's Point,' Jason said, in a deciphering burst.
Meyer copied down the address.
'A lollipop!'Jason said.
'Oh, my God,' Jacob said.
'Thank you very much for…' Carella started, but the brothers were laughing to beat the band, so the two detectives simply left the shop.
'Calm's Point,' Carella said when they were outside. 'Clear the hell over on the other end of the city.'
'It would be that way,' Meyer said.
'We'd better get back to the squad. Pete may want to put a Calm's Point precinct on it.'
'Right,' Meyer said. They walked back to the car. 'You want to drive?'
'I don't care. You tired?'
'No. No. I just thought you might want to drive.'
'Okay,' Carella said.
They got into the car.
'Think those reports on the prints are back yet?'
'I hope so. Might save us a call to Calm's Point.'
'Um,' Meyer said.
They set the car in motion. They were silent for a while. Then Meyer said, 'Steve, it's hot as hell today.'
The reports from the Bureau of Criminal Identification and the F.B.I, were waiting at the office when Carella and Meyer returned. Both agencies had reported that they were unable to find fingerprints in thek vast files corresponding to the ones taken from the binoculars.
Hawes walked into the squad-room as the men were reading the reports.
'Any luck?' he asked.
'No make,' Carella said. 'But we got the name of the guy who bought those binoculars. That's a break.'
'Pete want to pick him up?'
'I haven't told him yet.'
'What's his name?'
'M. Samalson.'
'You'd better tell Pete quick,' Hawes said. 'I got a good look at the guy who slugged me. If it was Samalson, I'll know it.'
'And we've also got the prints to compare, in case your memory's faulty,' Carella said. He paused. 'How'd you make out with Lady Astor?'
Hawes winked and said nothing.
Carella sighed and went into Byrnes's office.
The closest Calm's Point precinct to M. Samalson's home address was the 102nd. Byrnes put in a call to the detective squad there and asked them to pick up and deliver Samalson as soon as possible.
At 2.00 p.m. a new batch of kids in dungarees and red-striped tee shirts was trotted into the precinct squad-room. Dave Murchison was brought up from the desk. He looked the kids over, stopped before one of them, and said, 'This is the kid.'
Byrnes walked over to the boy.
'Did you deliver a letter here this morning?' he asked.
'No,' the boy said.
'He's the kid,' Murchison insisted.
'What's your name, son?' Byrnes asked.
'Frankie Annuci.'
'Did you bring a letter here this morning?'
'No,' the kid said.
'Did you come into the building and ask for the desk sergeant?'
'No,' the kid said.
'Did you hand a letter to this man here?' Byrnes said, indicating Murchison,
'No,' the kid said.
'He's lying,' Murchison said. 'This is the kid.'
'Come on, Frankie,' Byrnes said gently. 'You did deliver that letter, didn't you?'
'No.'
There was fear in the boy's wide blue eyes, fear of the law, a fear deeply ingrained in the mind of every precinct citizen.
'You're not in any trouble, son,' Byrnes said. 'We're trying to find the man who gave you that letter. Now, you did deliver it, didn't you?'
'No,' the kid said.
Byrnes turned to the other detectives, his patience beginning to wear thin. Hawes walked to the boy, joining Byrnes.
'You've got nothing to be afraid of, Frankie. We're trying to find the man who gave you that letter, do you understand? Now, where did you first meet him?'
'I didn't meet anybody,' the kid said.
'Get rid of the rest of these kids, Meyer,' Byrnes said. Meyer began shuttling the other boys out of the room. Frankie Annuci watched their departure, his eyes growing wider.
'How about it, Frankie?' Carella asked. Unconsciously he had drifted into the circle around the boy. When Meyer had got rid of the other boys, he came back to stand with Byrnes, Hawes, and Carella. There was something amusing about the scene. The ridiculousness of it struck each of the detectives at the same moment. They had automatically assumed the formation for intense interrogation, but their victim was a boy no older than ten, and they felt somewhat like bullies as they surrounded him, ready to fire their questions in machine-gun bursts. And yet, this boy was a possible lead to the man they were seeking, a lead that might prove more fruitful than the thus far phantom name of M. Samalson. They waited, as if unwilling to begin the barrage until their commanding officer gave the signal to fire.
Byrnes opened it.
'Now, we're going to ask some questions, Frankie,' he said gently, 'and we want you to answer them. All right?'
'All right,' Frankie said.
'Who gave you the letter?'
'Nobody.'
'Was it a man?'
'I don't know.'
'A woman?' Hawes asked.
'I don't know.'
'Do you know what the letter said?' Carella asked.
'No.'
'Did you open it?'Meyer asked.
'No.'
'But there was a letter?'
'No.'
'You did deliver a letter?'
'No.'
'You're lying, aren't you?'
'No.'
'Where'd you meet the man?'
'I didn't meet anybody.'
'Near the park?'
'No.'
'The candy store?'
'No.'
'One of the side streets?'
'No.'
'Was he driving a car?'
'No.'
'There was a man?'
'I don't know.'
'Was he a man or a woman?'
'I don't know.'
'The letter said he was going to kill somebody tonight. Did you know that?'
'No.'
'Would you like this man or this woman to kill somebody?'
