Bread

2

On the drive out to the suburb of Logan the next morning, it occurred to Hawes that Roger Grimm might have set fire to his own house, in order to collect the insurance money on it, in order to obtain some ready cash, in order to release at least part of the cargo of wooden doodads he was expecting from Germany. He arrived in Logan at 10:15, and one look at the house, even in its gutted condition, convinced him that insurance fraud was a definite possibility. Set on a half-acre of rolling ground in an area of luxurious estates, the house alone must have been worth at least a quarter of a million dollars before the fire.

In its present condition, it was worth zilch. Whoever had set the blaze had done an expert job. Even though the Fire Department had responded within minutes, the house was almost totally consumed by the time they got there, and they’d been more concerned with rescuing the rest of the neighborhood than they’d been with salvaging Grimm’s house. In a particularly dry August, they had not wanted an uncontrollable conflagration on their hands. They’d done a good job wetting down rooftops and shrubbery, containing the blaze, so that the only thing reduced to ashes was Grimm’s place Hawes parked his convertible Pontiac, and then walked up the oval driveway to the still-smoldering ruin. Grimm was standing on the flagstone entry porch before the charred posts and lintel of what had once been the front door. He was wearing white slacks and a dark blue, short-sleeved sports shirt. His hands were in his back pockets, and he was staring through the doorless frame as though hoping to find some semblance of a house beyond it. He heard Hawes’s approach and turned suddenly. There was a pained and distant look on his face.

“Oh, hello,” he said.

“Was it insured?” Hawes asked.

“What? Oh. Yes. Yes, it was insured.”

“For how much?”

“Three hundred thousand.” He turned to look at the rubble again. “I put a lot of work into this place,” he said. “This isn’t like the warehouse. The warehouse was only money, a lot of wooden crap that represented money. This is different. This was where I lived.”

“When did it happen?”

“Fire Department clocked the call at eleven-twenty.”

“Who phoned them?”

“The man next door. He was getting ready for bed and he looked out from an upstairs window and saw the flames. He called the Fire Department right away.”

“What’s his name?”

“George Aronowitz.”

“Well, let’s take a look around,” Hawes said.

“No,” Grimm said, and shook his head. “No, I don’t want to. I’ll wait for you here.”

A burglarized apartment is a violation of self, and there is nothing quite so pathetic as the look on the face of a burglary victim. He stands in the midst of an invasion of privacy, clothing scattered, personal belongings treated with indignity and haste, and he is reduced to helpless rage and childlike dependency. A sense of vulnerability, frailty, even, yes, mortality bounces from the walls of his invaded castle, and he feels in that moment that he himself, his person, is no longer safe from the wanton, willful violation of total strangers. Murder, of course, is the ultimate theft. It robs a man not only of his possessions but of his very life. Arson runs a close second.

There is undisputed excitement in watching a roaring blaze, perhaps a throwback to those days when Neanderthal struck flint against tinder and leaped back in surprise at what he had miraculously wrought. Or perhaps it is something deeper, something evil and dark that causes man to respond to a fire raging uncontrolled, something that echoes his own inner desire for the same sort of violent, irrepressible freedom — oh, to be able to challenge and defy, to roar rebellion and command complete and awed attention, to terrorize spectacularly, to rule with undisputed power, and finally to triumph! It’s not surprising that some firebugs will watch their handiwork in total ecstasy, erections bulging in their trousers, ejaculations dampening their own hot passions when hoses fail to quench the rampaging flames. There is excitement in a fire, and the naked ape responds generically. There is no excitement in the aftermath. A fireman does not fight a fire, he fights the thing that is on fire. He drenches it with water, he sprays it with carbon dioxide, he hacks at it with an ax, he does all he can to destroy the thing because the fire is only a parasite feasting on the thing, and if he can kill the thing, he can kill the fire. There were a lot of dead things in the rubble of Roger Grimm’s home. They lay in sodden steaming chaos like dismembered corpses on a battlefield, partial reminders of what they must have been when they possessed lives of their own.

Like an archaeologist mentally reconstructing an earthen jug from the handle or the lip, Hawes picked gingerly through the ruins, finding charred, blistered, and melted remnants of what had once been a sofa, a record player, a toothbrush, a martini pitcher. There had not been a living soul in the house during the fire, only things that once had lived and now were dead. He could understand why Grimm had no stomach for wading through this inanimate carnage. He searched diligently for some trace of the device that had started the blaze, but found nothing. Alerted to the likelihood of arson, the Logan police would undoubtedly make their own thorough search and perhaps find more than he had. Hawes doubted it. He went outside, talked briefly with Grimm, told him they’d be in touch, and then went next door to the Aronowitz house.

The maid informed Hawes that Mr. Aronowitz had left for work at nine that morning and could be reached at his office in the city. She gave Hawes his business number and suggested that he call Mr. Aronowitz there. She would not reveal the name or address of the firm for which he worked. Hawes got into his car, drove to the nearest phone booth, and dialed the number the maid had given him. The answering voice said, “Blake, Fields, and Henderson, good morning.”

“Good morning,” Hawes said. “George Aronowitz, please.”

“Moment,” the voice said.

Hawes waited. Another voice came onto the line.

“Art Department.”

“Mr. Aronowitz, please.”

“Busy, can you hold?”

Hawes held.

“Ringing now,” the voice said, and a third voice came onto the line almost immediately.

“Mr. Aronowitz’s office.”

“May I speak to him, please?” Hawes said.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Detective Hawes, 87th Squad.”

“Yes, sir, just a moment.”

Hawes waited.

George Aronowitz was in the middle of a sentence when he finally came onto the line. “...want those chromos back by twelve noon or his ass’ll be in a sling. You tell him that exactly,” he said. “Yes, hello?”

“Mr. Aronowitz?”

“Yes?”

“This is Detective Hawes, I’m investigating the Grimm fire, and I wonder if you can spare a few minutes...”

“Yes?” he said.

“May I stop by to see you sometime today?”

“Can’t we do this over the phone?”

“I’d rather talk to you personally.”

“Who did you say you were?”

“Detective Hawes.”

“Who are you with? The Logan police?”

“No, I’m with the 87th Squad. Right here in the city.”

“Hell of a thing, wasn’t it?” Aronowitz said. “Burned right down to the ground. Let me look at my schedule. What’d you say your name was?”

“Detective Hawes.”

“Detective Horse?”

“Hawes. H-a-w-e-s.”

“How soon can you get here? I’ve got a lunch date at twelve-thirty.”

“Where are you?”

“933 Wilson. Fourteenth floor.”

“I’m in Logan now, give me forty minutes,” Hawes said. “See you,” Aronowitz said, and hung up.

Detective Andy Parker was sitting in his undershorts drinking a bottle of beer in the kitchen of his apartment, and he was supposed to be on vacation, and he was not very happy to see Steve Carella. Carella, who was never very happy to see Parker, even under the best of circumstances, did not particularly enjoy seeing him now, in his undershorts. Parker looked like a slob even when he was fully dressed. In his undershorts, sitting at the enamel-topped table and scratching his balls with one hand while tilting the bottle of beer to his lips with the other, he hardly seemed a candidate for Gentlemen’s Quarterly. His hair was uncombed, and he had not shaved since last Saturday when his vacation had started, and this was Thursday, and from the smell of him, he had not bothered to bathe, either.

Carella did not like Parker.

Parker did not like Carella.

Carella thought Parker was a lazy cop and a bad cop and the kind of cop who gave other cops a bad name. Parker thought Carella was an eager cop and a Goody Two-Shoes cop and the kind of cop who gave other cops a bad name. Only once in Parker’s life had he admitted to himself that perhaps Carella was the kind of cop he himself might have become, the kind of cop he perhaps even longed to be, and that was when a body had turned up bearing Carella’s identification and it was presumed Carella was dead. Drunk in bed with a whore that night, Parker had buried his head in the pillow and mumbled, “He was a good cop.” But that had been a long time ago, and Carella had been alive all along, and here he was now, bugging Parker about a goddamn arson case when he was supposed to be on vacation.

“I don’t see why this can’t wait till I get back,” he said. “What’s the big rush here? This guy married to the mayor’s daughter or something?”

“No, just an ordinary citizen,” Carella said.

“Yeah, so ordinary citizens are getting hit on the head every day of the week in this city, and we handle those cases in our own sweet time, and some we crack and some we don’t. This guy loses a bunch of wooden crap in a fire, and he gets hysterical.” Parker belched and immediately swallowed another mouthful of beer. He had not yet offered Carella a bottle, but Carella was already prepared with a brilliant squelch if and when Parker decided to extend at least a small measure of hospitality to a hardworking colleague.

“Grimm feels he’s been victimized,” Carella said.

“Everybody in this city is victimized one way or another every day of the week. What makes Grimm so special? I’m supposed to be on vacation. Doesn’t Grimm ever take vacations?”

“Andy,” Carella said, “I came over here only because I couldn’t get you on the phone...”

“That’s right, it’s off the hook. I’m on vacation.”

“And I can’t find the file on this case. If you’ll tell me...”

“That’s right, there ain’t no file,” Parker said. “I was only on the case a lousy two days, you know. I caught the squeal late Wednesday night, I worked the case all day Thursday and Friday, and then I started my vacation. How could there be a file on it?”

“Didn’t you type up any reports?”

“I didn’t have time to type up reports, I was too busy out in the field. Look, Steve, I busted my ass on this case, and I don’t need you telling me I was dogging it. I went over that warehouse with a fine-tooth comb,” Parker said, gathering steam. “I couldn’t find a thing, no fuse, no wick, no mechanical device, no bottles that might’ve had chemicals in them, nothing. I talked to...”

“Is it possible the fire was accidental?”

“How could it be? The two watchmen were doped, which means somebody wanted them out of the way, right? Okay, so why? To set fire to the joint.”

“You think Grimm might’ve done it himself?”

“Not a chance. All the stock was committed, he was ready to ship the stuff the next Monday morning. There were no records or books in the warehouse, he keeps those in an office on Bailey Street. So why would he burn down the joint? He’s clean.”

“Then why wouldn’t you tell that to his insurers?”

“Because I wasn’t sure. I only worked the case two days, and all I had at the end of that time was a pile of ashes. You think I was going to stick my neck out for Grimm? Screw that noise, buddy.”

“Did you get anything from the night watchmen?” Carella asked.

“They’re two old farts,” Parker said, “they can hardly remember their own names. They both got to work at eight o’clock, they remember feeling dizzy about ten, and then blooie. One of them collapsed in the courtyard outside. The other guy was inside making his rounds when it hit him. The firemen thought it was smoke inhalation at first, but that didn’t explain why the outside man was unconscious. Also, he had his head in a pool of his own vomit, so somebody got the bright idea he’d been doped. They pumped him out at the hospital, and sure enough, he’d been given a healthy dose of chloral hydrate. Okay, so where does that leave me? Chloral hydrate ain’t called ‘knockout drops’ for nothing, the stuff works in minutes. But both watchmen got to the warehouse at eight, and they didn’t pass out till two hours later. They told me nobody came anywhere near the place during that time, but nobody. So who gave them the knockout drops? You’re so hot to crack this one, find the guy who slipped them the Mickey. He’s probably the same guy who burned down the joint.”

“You mind if I talk to those watchmen again?” Carella asked.

“Be my guest,” Parker said. “I’m on vacation. I done all I could before I left, and I don’t intend to do anything else till I get back.” He rose, walked to the wall telephone, ripped a piece of paper from the pad beneath it, and began scribbling on it. “Here’re their names,” he said. “Have fun.”

“Thanks,” Carella said, and got up, and started for the door.

Belatedly and reluctantly, Parker said, “While you’re here, you want a bottle of beer?”

“I’m not allowed to drink on duty,” Carella said, and walked out.

The Art Department of Blake, Fields, and Henderson occupied the entire fourteenth floor of 933 Wilson Avenue. George Aronowitz was a short, stubby man in his early forties, totally bald, with a walrus mustache that compensated for the lack of hair on his head. His office was starkly decorated in white — white walls, white furniture, white lighting fixtures — the better to exhibit the various posters, magazine ads, photographs, and bits and pieces of artwork he’d either done himself, commissioned, or admired. All of these were tacked to the walls with pushpins, so that he resembled a stout deity sitting in a stained-glass window or a mosaic niche. He shook Hawes’s hand briefly, folded his stubby fingers across his chest, leaned back in his swivel chair, and said, “Shoot.”

“I want to know all about the fire last night.”

“I saw the flames at a little after eleven. I called the Fire Department and they came right over.” Aronowitz shrugged. “That’s about it.”

“Hear anything before that?”

“Like what?”

“Any unusual sounds outside? Dog barking, car driving in, ash can being knocked over, glass breaking? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Let me think,” Aronowitz said. “There’re always dogs barking in that neighborhood, so that wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary. Everybody around there keeps a dog. I hate dogs. Rotten, filthy animals, bite you on the ass for no reason at all.”

“I take it you don’t keep a dog.”

“I wouldn’t keep a dog if it could talk six languages and read and write Sanskrit. I hate dogs. Grimm doesn’t have a dog, either.”

“Well, were there dogs barking last night?”

“There are always dogs barking,” Aronowitz said. “Damn things won’t shut up. One of them barks at a moth or something, and next thing you know, some other hound is yapping at him from over the hill, and he gets answered by another stupid mutt, and they keep going all night long, barking at nothing. It’s a miracle anybody gets any sleep around there. And it’s supposed to be an exclusive neighborhood! If I had my way, I’d poison every dog in the United States of America. Then I’d have them stuffed and put on wheels, and anybody who’s a dog lover could buy himself a stuffed one and wheel him around the house, and he wouldn’t bark all night long. God, I hate dogs!”

“Did you, ah, hear anything besides dogs barking last night?”

“Who can hear anything with all those mutts howling?” Aronowitz asked. He was becoming very agitated.

Hawes thought he had best change the subject before Aronowitz began frothing at the mouth. “Let’s try to work out a timetable, okay? Maybe that’ll help us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for example, what time did you get home last night?”

“Six-thirty,” Aronowitz said.

“Did you pass the Grimm house?”

“Sure. He’s right next door, I pass the house every day.”

“Everything seem all right at that time?”

“Everything seemed fine.”

“Nobody lurking around or anything?”

“Nobody. Well, wait a minute, the gardener was watering the lawn at the Franklin house across the way. But he’s their regular gardener, he’s there maybe three, four times a week. I wouldn’t consider that lurking, would you? You should see the dog they’ve got, a big Great Dane who comes bounding out of the driveway like a lion, he could tear out your throat in one gulp. God, what a monster!”

“What’d you do then? After you got home?”

“I changed my clothes, and I had a couple of martinis before dinner.”

“Are you married, Mr. Aronowitz?”

“Fourteen years to the same woman. She hates dogs, too.”

“Did she hear anything unusual last night?”

“No. At least, she didn’t mention anything.”

“Okay, you had dinner at... what time?”

“About seven-thirty, eight o’clock.”

“Then what?”

“We went outside and sat on the terrace, and had some brandy and listened to some music.”

“Until what time?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“No strange sounds outside?”

“None.”

“What’d you do then?”

“Well,” Aronowitz said, and shrugged.

“Yes?”

“Well... this is sort of personal.” He hesitated, looked down at his folded hands, and shyly said, “We made love.”

“Okay,” Hawes said.

“We didn’t hear anything while we were making love,” Aronowitz said.

“Okay,” Hawes said.

“Afterwards, we went upstairs. I was getting ready for bed when I happened to look out the window. Grimm’s lights were still on, and the place was in flames.”

“In other words, between the time you got home and the time you went upstairs to bed, nothing unusual happened.”

“Well, yes,” Aronowitz said.

“What?” Hawes said, leaning forward.

“We made love on the terrace. That’s unusual. We usually do it upstairs in the bedroom.”

“Yes, but aside from that...”

“Nothing.”

“Mr. Aronowitz, did you happen to glance over at the Grimm house any time before you noticed the fire?”

“I guess so. We were on the terrace, and the terrace faces Grimm’s house, so I guess we looked at it occasionally. Why?”

“This was after dinner, am I correct? You were on the terrace until about ten o’clock...”

“Well, even later,” Aronowitz said. “We were listening to music until ten o’clock, but after that...”

“Yes, I understand. What I’m trying to find out is whether there were any lights showing in the Grimm house?”

“Lights? You mean...”

“At any time during the night, did you notice lights in the Grimm house?”

“Well... no. I guess not. I think the house was dark.”

“But the lights were on when you noticed the fire.”

“Yes,” Aronowitz said, and frowned.

“Thank you,” Hawes said.

“I don’t get it,” Aronowitz said. “Why would anybody turn on the lights if he was about to set a fire?”