Doll

Chapter 6

At seven-thirty Wednesday morning, the day after the burned wreckage was found in the adjoining state, Bert Kling went back to the apartment building on Stafford Place, hoping to talk again to Ernest Cyclops Messner. The lobby was deserted when he entered the building.

If he had felt alone the day that Claire Townsend was murdered, if he had felt alone the day he held her in his arms in a bookshop demolished by gunfire, suddenly bereft in a world gone cold and senselessly cruel, he now felt something curiously similar and yet enormously different.

Steve Carella was dead.

The last words he had said to the man who had been his friend were angry words. He could not take them back now, he could not call upon a dead man, he could not offer apologies to a corpse. On Monday, he had left the squadroom earlier than he should have, in anger, and sometime that night Carella had met his death. And now there was a new grief within him, a new feeling of helplessness, but it was coupled with an overriding desire to set things right again — for Carella, for Claire, he did not really know. He knew he could not reasonably blame himself for what had happened, but neither could he stop blaming himself. He had to talk to Cyclops again. Perhaps there was something further the man could tell him. Perhaps Carella had contacted him again that Monday night, and uncovered new information that had sent him rushing out to investigate alone.

The elevator doors opened. The operator was not Cyclops.

‘I’m looking for Mr Messner,’ Kling told the man. ‘I’m from the police.’

‘He’s not here,’ the man said.

‘He told us he has the graveyard shift.’

‘Yeah, well, he’s not here.’

‘It’s only seven-thirty,’ Kling said.

‘I know what time it is.’

‘Well, where is he, can you tell me that?’

‘He lives someplace here in the city,’ the man said, ‘but I don’t know where.’

‘Thank you,’ Kling said, and left the building.

It was still too early in the morning for the rush of white-collar workers to subways and buses. The only people in the streets were factory workers hurrying to punch an eight-a.m. timeclock; the only vehicles were delivery trucks and an occasional passenger car. Kling walked swiftly, looking for a telephone booth. It was going to be another beautiful day; the city had been blessed with lovely weather for the past week now. He saw an open drugstore on the next comer, a telephone plaque fastened to the brick wall outside. He went into the store and headed for the directories at the rear Ernest Cyclops Messner lived at 1117 Gainesborough Avenue in Riverhead, not far from the County Court Building. The shadow of the elevated-train structure fell over the building, and the frequent rumble of trains pulling in and out of the station shattered the silence of the street. But it was a good low-to-middle-income residential area, and Messner’s building was the newest on the block. Kling climbed the low flat entrance steps, went into the lobby, and found a listing for E. Messner. He rang the bell under the mailbox, but there was no answering buzz. He tried another bell. A buzz sounded, releasing the lock mechanism on the inner lobby door. He pushed open the door, and began climbing to the seventh floor. It was a little after eight a.m., and the building still seemed asleep.

He was somewhat winded by the time he reached the seventh floor. He paused on the landing for a moment, and then walked into the corridor, looking for apartment 7A. He found it just off the stairwell, and rang the bell.

There was no answer.

He rang the bell again.

He was about to ring it a third time when the door to the apartment alongside opened and a young girl rushed out, looking at her wrist watch and almost colliding with Kling.

‘Oh, hi,’ she said, surprised. ‘Excuse me.’

‘That’s all right.’ He reached for the bell again. The girl had gone past him and was starting down the steps. She turned suddenly.

‘Are you looking for Mr Messner?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘He isn’t home.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Well, he doesn’t get home until about nine,’ she said. ‘He works nights, you know.’

‘Does he live here alone?’

‘Yes, he does. His wife died a few years back. He’s lived here a long time, I know him from when I was a little girl.’ She looked at her watch again. ‘Listen, I’m going to be late. Who are you, anyway?’

‘I’m from the police,’ Kling said.

‘Oh, hi.’ The girl smiled, ‘I’m Marjorie Gorman.’

‘Would you know where I can reach him, Maijorie?’

‘Did you try his building? He works in a fancy apartment house on—’

‘Yes, I just came from there.’

‘Wasn’t he there?’

‘No.’

That’s funny,’ Maijorie said. ‘Although, come to think of it, we didn’t hear him last night, either.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The television. The walls are very thin, you know. When he’s home, we can hear the television going.’

‘Yes, but he works nights.’

‘I mean before he leaves. He doesn’t go to work until eleven o’clock. He starts at midnight, you know.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Well, that’s what I meant. Listen, I really do have to hurry. If you want to talk, you’ll have to walk me to the station.’

‘Okay,’ Kling said, and they started down the steps. ‘Are you sure you didn’t hear the television going last night?’

‘I’m positive.’

‘Does he usually have it on?’

‘Oh, constantly,’ Maijorie said. ‘He lives alone, you know, the poor old man. He’s got to do something with his time.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Why did you want to see him?’

She spoke with a pronounced Riverhead accent that somehow marred her clean good looks. She was a tall girl, perhaps nineteen years old, wearing a dark-grey suit and a white blouse, her auburn hair brushed back behind her ears, the lobes decorated with tiny pearl earrings.

‘There are some things I want to ask him,’ Kling said.

‘About the Tinka Sachs murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘He was telling me about that just recently.’

‘When was that?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Let me think.’ They walked out of the lobby and into the street. Marjorie had long legs, and she walked very swiftly. Kling, in fact, was having trouble keeping up with her. ‘What’s today, anyway?’

‘Wednesday,’ Kling said.

‘Wednesday, mmm, boy where does the week go? It must have been Monday. That’s right. When I got home from the movies Monday night, he was downstairs putting out his garbage. So we talked awhile. He said he was expecting a detective.’

‘A detective? Who?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did he say which detective he was expecting? Did he mention a name?’

‘No, I don’t think so. He said he’d talked to some detectives just that morning — that was Monday, right? — and that he’d got a call a few minutes ago saying another detective was coming up to see him.’

‘Did he say that exactly? That another detective was coming up to see him? A different detective?’

‘Oh. I don’t know if he said just that I mean, it could have been one of the detectives he’d talked to that morning. I really don’t know for sure.’

‘Does the name Carella mean anything to you?’

‘No.’ Maijorie paused. ‘Should it?’

‘Did Mr Messner use that name when he was talking about the detective who was coming to see him?’

‘No, I don’t think so. He only said he’d had a call from a detective, that was all. He seemed very proud. He told me they probably wanted him to describe the man again, the one he saw going up to her apartment. The dead girl’s. Brrrr, it gives you the creeps, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Kling said. ‘It does.’

They were approaching the elevated station now. They paused at the bottom of the steps.

‘This was Monday afternoon, you say?’

‘No. Monday night. Monday night, I said.’

‘What time Monday night?’

‘About ten-thirty, I guess. I told you, I was coming home from the movies.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ Kling said. ‘At ten-thirty Monday night, Mr Messner was putting out his garbage, and he told you he had just received a call from a detective who was on his way over? Is that it?’

‘That’s it.’ Maijorie frowned. ‘It was kind of late, wasn’t it? I mean, to be making a business visit. Or do you people work that late?’

‘Well, yes, but…’ Kling shook his head.

‘Listen, I really have to go,’ Maijorie said. ‘I’d like to talk to you, but—’

‘I’d appreciate a few more minutes of your time, if you can—’

‘Yes, but my boss—’

‘I’ll call him later and explain.’

‘Yeah, you don’t know him,’ Marjorie said, and rolled her eyes.

‘Can you just tell me whether Mr Messner mentioned anything about this detective the next time you saw him. I mean, after the detective was there.’

‘Well, I haven’t seen him since Monday night.’

‘You didn’t see him at all yesterday?’

‘Nope. Well, I usually miss him in the morning, you know, because I’m gone before he gets home. But sometimes I drop in at night, just to say hello, or he’ll come in for something, you know, like that. And I told you about the television. We just didn’t hear it. My mother commented about it, as a matter of fact. She said Cyclops was probably — that’s what we call him, Cyclops, everybody does, he doesn’t mind — she said Cyclops was probably out on the town.’

‘Does he often go out on the town?’

‘Well. I don’t think so — but who knows? Maybe he felt like having himself a good time, you know? Listen, I really have to—’

‘All right, I won’t keep you. Thank you very much, Marjorie. If you’ll tell me where you work. I’ll be happy to—’

‘Oh, the hell with him. I’ll tell him what happened, and he can take it or leave it. I’m thinking of quitting, anyway.’

‘Well, thank you again.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Maijorie said, and went up the steps to the platform.

Kling thought for a moment, and then searched in his pocket for a dime. He went into the cafeteria on the comer, found a phone booth, and identified himself to the operator, telling her he wanted the listing for the lobby phone in Tinka’s building on Stafford Place. She gave him the number, and he dialed it. A man answered the phone. Kling said, ‘I’d like to talk to the superintendent, please.’

‘This is the super.’

‘This is Detective Kling of the 87th Squad,’ Kling said. ‘I’m investigating—’

‘Who?’ the superintendent said.

‘Detective Kling. Who’s this I’m speaking to?’

‘I’m the super of the building. Emmanuel Farber. Manny. Did you say this was a detective?’

That’s right.’

‘Boy, when are you guys going to give us some rest here?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t you have nothing to do but call up here?’

‘I haven’t called you before, Mr Farber.’

‘No, not you, never mind. This phone’s been going like sixty.’

‘Who called you?’

‘Detectives, never mind.’

‘Who? Which detectives?’

‘The other night.’

‘When?’

‘Monday. Monday night.’

‘A detective called you Monday night?’

‘Yeah, wanted to know where he could reach Cyclops. That’s one of our elevator operators.’

‘Did you tell him?’

‘Sure, I did.’

‘Who was he? Did he give you his name?’

‘Yeah, some Italian fellow.’

Kling was silent for a moment.

‘Would the name have been Carella?’ he asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘Carella?’

‘Yep, that’s the one.’

‘What time did he call?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Sometime in the evening.’

‘And he said his name was Carella?’

‘That’s right, Detective Carella, that’s what he said. Why? You know him?’

‘Yes,’ Kling said, i know him.’

‘Well, you ask him. He’ll tell you.’

‘What time in the evening did he call? Was it early or late?’

‘What do you mean by early or late?’ Farber asked.

‘Was it before dinner?’

‘No. Oh no, it was after dinner. About ten o’clock, I suppose. Maybe a little later.’

‘And what did he say to you?’

‘He wanted Cyclops’ address, said he had some questions to ask him.’

‘About what?’

‘About the murder.’

‘He said that specifically? He said, “I have some questions to ask Cyclops about the murder”?’

‘About the Tinka Sachs murder, is what he actually said.’

‘He said, “This is Detective Carella, I want to know—” ’

‘That’s right, this is Detective Carella—’

‘ “—I want to know Cyclops Messner’s address because I have some questions to ask him about the Tinka Sachs murder.” ’

‘No, that’s not it exactly.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Kling asked.

‘He didn’t say the name.’

‘You just said he did say the name. The Tinka Sachs murder. You said—’

‘Yes, that’s right. That’s not what I mean.’

‘Look, what—?’

‘He didn’t say Cyclops’ name.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘All he said was he wanted the address of the one-eyed elevator operator because he had some questions to ask him about the Tinka Sachs murder. That’s what he said.’

‘He referred to him as the one-eyed elevator operator?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You mean he didn’t know the name?’

‘Well, I don’t know about that. He didn’t know how to spell it, though, that’s for sure.’

‘Excuse me,’ the telephone operator said. ‘Five cents for the next five minutes, please.’

‘Hold on,’ Kling said. He reached into his pocket, and found only two quarters. He put one into the coin slot.

‘Was that twenty-five cents you deposited, sir?’ the operator asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘If you’ll let me have your name and address, sir, we’ll—’

‘No, forget it.’

‘—send you a refund in stamps.’

‘No, that’s all right, operator, thank you. Just give me as much time as the quarter’ll buy, okay?’

‘Very well, sir.’

‘Hello?’ Kling said. ‘Mr Farber?’

‘I’m still here,’ Farber said.

‘What makes you think this detective couldn’t spell Cyclops’ name?’

‘Well, I gave him the address, you see, and I was about to hang up when he asked me about the spelling. He wanted to know the correct spelling of the name.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I said it was Messner, M-E-S-S-N-E-R, Ernest Messner, and I repeated the address for him again, 1117 Gainesborough Avenue in Riverhead.’

‘And then what?’

‘He said thank you very much and hung up.’

‘Sir, was it your impression that he did not know Cyclops’ name until you gave it to him?’

‘Well, I couldn’t say that for sure. All he wanted was the correct spelling.’

‘Yes, but he asked for the address of the one-eyed elevator operator, isn’t that what you said?’

‘That’s right.’

‘If he knew the name, why didn’t he use it?’

‘You got me. What’s your name?’ the superintendent asked.

‘Kling. Detective Bert Kling.’

‘Mine’s Farber, Emmanuel Farber, Manny.’

‘Yes, I know. You told me.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

There was a long silence on the line.

‘Was that all, Detective Kling?’ Farber said at last. ‘I’ve got to get these lobby floors waxed and I’m—’

‘Just a few more questions,’ Kling said.

‘Well, okay, but could we—?’

‘Cyclops had his usual midnight-to-eight-a.m. shift Monday night, is that right?’

‘That’s right, but—’

‘When he came to work, did he mention anything about having seen a detective?’

‘He didn’t,’ Farber said.

‘He didn’t mention a detective at all? He didn’t say—’

‘No, he didn’t come to work.’

‘What?’

‘He didn’t come to work Monday nor yesterday, either,’ Farber said. ‘I had to get another man to take his place.’

‘Did you try to reach him?’

‘I waited until twelve-thirty, with the man he was supposed to relieve taking a fit, and finally I called his apartment, three times in fact, and there was no answer. So I phoned one of the other men. Had to run the elevator myself until the man got here. That must’ve been about two in the morning.’

‘Did Cyclops contact you at all any time yesterday?’

‘Nope. You think he’d call, wouldn’t you?’

‘Did he contact you today?’

‘Nope.’

‘But you’re expecting him to report to work tonight, aren’t you?’

‘Well, he’s due at midnight, but I don’t know. I hope he shows up.’

‘Yes, I hope so, too,’ Kling said. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Farber. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘Sure thing,’ Farber said, and hung up.

Kling sat in the phone booth for several moments, trying to piece together what he had just learned. Someone had called Farber on Monday night at about ten, identifying himself as Detective Carella, and asking for the address of the one-eyed elevator operator. Carella knew the man was named Ernest Messner and nicknamed Cyclops. He would not have referred to him as the one-eyed elevator operator. But more important than that, he would never have called the superintendent at all. Knowing the man’s name, allegedly desiring his address, he would have done exactly what Kling had done this morning. He would have consulted the telephone directories and found a listing for Ernest Messner in the Riverhead book, as simple as that, as routine as that. No, the man who had called Farber was not Carella. But he had known Carella’s name, and had made good use of it.

At ten-thirty Monday night, Marjorie Gorman had met Cyclops in front of the building and he had told her he was expecting a visit from a detective. That could only mean that ‘Detective Carella’ had already called Cyclops and told him he would stop by. And now, Cyclops was missing, had indeed been missing since Monday night.

Kling came out of the phone booth, and began walking back toward the building on Gainesborough Avenue.

The landlady of the building did not have a key to Mr Messner’s apartment. Mr Messner has his own lock on the door, she said, the same as any of the other tenants in the building, and she certainly did not have a key to Mr Messner’s lock, nor to the locks of any of the other tenants. Moreover, she would not grant Kling permission to try his skeleton key on the door, and she warned him that if he forced entry into Mr Messner’s apartment, she would sue the city. Kling informed her that if she cooperated, she would save him the trouble of going all the way downtown for a search warrant, and she said she didn’t care about his going all the way downtown, suppose Mr Messner came back and learned she had let the police in there while he was away, who’d get the lawsuit then, would he mind telling her?

Kling said he would go downtown for the warrant.

Go ahead then, the landlady told him.

It took an hour to get downtown, twenty minutes to obtain the warrant, and another hour to get back to Riverhead again. His skeleton key would not open Cyclops’ door, so he kicked it in.

The apartment was empty.