Killer's Choice

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

They were running out of suspects and into dead ends.

They were running into airtight alibis and out of patience.

They were running up one-way alleys and phone bills.

They were running down a killer who did not yet exist.

They were running around in circles.

The man's name was Arthur Cordis. He was a teller in a bank. He had known Annie Boone and dated her. When the detectives walked in and asked to talk to him, he got a little nervous. He was scrupulously honest, but it didn't look nice for a pair of detectives to walk into a bank and ask to speak to you. It reflected on your honesty. He had never touched a dime in his life.

The detectives looked very tired. One was named Carella and the other was named Kling. Carella looked as friendly as a cobra. Kling looked as old as Elvis Presley. The three men walked to one of the managers' desks. It was all very embarrassing. Very embarrassing. It made Cordis feel like a criminal even though he had never touched a dime. Things made him feel like that. He always felt guilty whenever even a paper clip was missing, even though he hadn't been the one who'd taken it. He was just that kind of a man. Things made him feel like that.

'Mr Cordis,' Carella said, 'we understand you were dating Annie Boone.'

'Yes,' Cordis said. 'Yes.' He wondered if they thought he had killed her. Certainly they could tell just by looking at him that he hadn't killed her! Did killers wear eyeglasses?

'When was the last time you dated her?' Kling asked.

'About… about a month ago. Yes. A month. You don't think I killed her, do you?'

'We're just asking some routine questions, Mr Cordis,' Carella said. He did not smile. God, he looked just like a cobra. He was the meanest-looking fellow Cordis had ever seen in his life. He wondered if he were married, and then he wondered what sort of a masochistic woman could marry a fellow like this Carella.

'Where'd you go that last time, Mr Cordis?' Kling asked.

'The ballet,' Cordis said. 'Swan Lake. And… and Pas de Deux. And Fancy Free. The ballet.'

'Where?'

'At the centre.'

'She like it?'

'Yes. Very much.'

'Quiet girl?'

'Very refined.'

'Ever see her shoot pool, Mr Cordis?' Carella asked.

'I beg your pardon.'

'Pool.'

'That's what I thought… do you mean Annie? Annie Boone?'

'Yes.'

'Shooting pool? Well, I should hardly think so. I mean, she simply wasn't that kind of a girl.'

'Did you know she was divorced, Mr Cordis?'

'Yes.'

'Ever meet her daughter?'

'Monica? Yes.'

'Ever talk to her on the telephone?'

'Who? Monica, do you mean?'

'Yes.'

'I suppose so. Once or twice. Why?'

'Talk to her recently?'

'Why, no. Not since before the last time I saw Annie. Why?'

'Where were you on the night she was killed, Mr Cordis?'

'That was Monday, 10 June. I remember,' Cordis said. 'I remember distinctly. I remember reading the papers the next day. I was shocked. Such a quiet girl. Refined, do you know? Refined. You don't meet that sort of girl very much these days. Read a lot, too. Dreiser, and Thackeray and Balzac and Dostoyevsky. A big reader. I bought her A Fable for Christmas.'

'A fable? Which fable?'

'A Fable,' Cordis said. 'Faulkner.'

'Did she like it?'

'Loved it, I'm sure. A very nice girl. Splendid. A splendid girl. I was rather serious about her.'

'And yet you haven't seen her for a month, is that right?'

'Yes. That's exactly right. And that's exactly why I stopped seeing her for a while. Because I was getting so serious about her.'

'I see.'

'It makes you think, doesn't it, gentlemen? A wonderful girl like Annie. I stopped seeing her, and now she's dead, and now I'll never see her again.'

'You still haven't told us where you were on the night of 10 June, Mr Cordis,' Carella said.

'You don't think I killed her, do you?'

'We'd like to know where you were that night, Mr Cordis.'

'I was at home.'

'Alone?'

'No.'

'Who with?'

'My mother.'

'You live with your mother, do you?'

'Yes.'

'Just the two of you home alone that night?'

'No. A neighbour-woman was in, too. We played gin together. My mother likes cards.'

'Annie like cards?'

'I don't know. I never asked her.'

'Were you ever intimate with her, Mr Cordis?'

'How do you mean?'

'Well…'

'Oh! No, never. Why do you ask?'

'We just wanted to know.'

'No, never. Well, I kissed her. Several times. Well, a few times, anyway. She wasn't that kind of a girl. You didn't take liberties with Annie. You just didn't.'

'She ever mention a man named Jamie to you?'

'Jamie? I don't believe so. Is that for James?'

'We don't know.'

'Jamie, Jamie… wait. Yes, she did. I recall now. I got rather angry. Well, not angry. That is…'

'Did you get angry, Mr Cordis?'

'Yes. Well, as matter of fact, I did. She was out with me, and I didn't appreciate her discussing some other fellow. There is such a thing as courtesy. Not that Annie was ever discourteous. Never.'

'Except this once,' Carella said.

'Yes. Just this once. And I admit I got rather peeved. She seemed… well, she seemed rather fond of this Jamie, whoever he was.'

'What did she say about him?'

'Only that she visited him in his flat, and that he was very charming.'

'Did she say where the flat was?'

'Somewhere in Isola.'

'Where in Isola?'

'She never said.'

'What else did she say about Jamie?'

'Nothing that I can recall. Well, I told her I didn't think it was quite proper for an attractive young lady to go visiting a gentleman in his flat, and she sort of laughed.'

'What did she say?'

'She said, "Jamie's a darling. I adore him." Something like that. Perhaps the intonation is wrong, but it was something like that. I got rather miffed. I repeated that I didn't think it was proper for her to see him in his flat.'

'What did she say to that?'

'She said, "Arthur, don't be ridiculous. I'm as safe with him as I am with you." That's what she said.' Cordis looked at Carella. 'Is… ah… is something amusing?'

'No, no,' Carella said. 'Not at all. Go ahead.'

'That's all there is to tell,' Cordis said. 'She never mentioned him again. I put off seeing her for a while because I was getting rather too fond of her. And then… then I read she was dead.' Cordis looked at the desk top.

'And you were with your mother and a neighbour on the night she was killed, is that right?'

'Yes.'

'From what time to what time?'

'From about seven-thirty to midnight.'

'Leave the apartment all that while?'

'No.'

'What was the neighbour's name?'

'Mrs Alexander.'

'Thank you, Mr Cordis,' Carella said, and he rose. Kling rose, too. Cordis remained seated.

'Is it all right? May I go back to my position now?'

'Sure,' Carella said. 'If you don't hear from us again, you can just forget we were ever here.'

Arthur Cordis went back to his teller's cage. He never did hear from Carella and Kling again because, sure enough, he'd been playing cards on 10 June between 7.30 and 12 with his mother and Mrs Alexander.

Mrs Franklin Phelps did not seem surprised to see Meyer and Kling again. She opened the door for them, smiled and said, 'Gentlemen, I was expecting you. Do come in.'

The detectives followed her past the smoky mirror and into the period living-room. They all sat.

'Why were you expecting us, Mrs Phelps?' Meyer asked cordially.

'Because I figured it would occur to you sooner or later that I am a prime murder suspect.'

'Well,' Meyer said patiently, 'we work rather slowly. We plod along, plod along.'

'I'm delighted you're back,' Mrs Phelps said. 'It gets lonely when Franklin's away.'

'Mrs Phelps,' Meyer said, 'we'd just like to check a few items.'

'Yes?'

'You knew your husband was having an affair with. Annie Boone, is that right?'

'Yes. And I knew he was paying her far more than she was worth at the shop. I knew all this, and I rather resented it, but I thought I'd wait until it blew over. These things do blow over, you know. That's what I told you. I am repeating that to you now. I did not kill Annie Boone. Let me set you straight on that at once.'

'You have what is commonly known as a damn good motive, Mrs Phelps.'

'Yes.' Mrs Phelps smiled. 'I haven't got the other two ingredients, though.'

'What do you mean, Mrs Phelps?'

'The means and the opportunity.'

'You don't own a gun? Is that it?'

'No, I don't own one. Never have, never will. I detest guns. There isn't a weapon in this house, and there never will be one.'

'You could have come across a gun, Mrs Phelps. Guns aren't too difficult to come by these days.'

Mrs Phelps shrugged. 'Granted. Perhaps I did. Perhaps I bought one—without showing the necessary pistol permit, which I do not own—but perhaps I did manage to buy one. Perhaps I paid a hockshop owner an exorbitant price in order to acquire a pistol. Perhaps I did. But what about opportunity, Detective Meyer? Isn't that important?'

'What about it, Mrs Phelps?' Meyer said. 'You tell us.'

'Annie Boone was killed at the liquor store. That's a long way from where I was.'

Meyer sighed patiently. 'You drive, don't you, Mrs Phelps?'

'Yes, I drive,' she answered, smiling thinly. 'But…'

'Then what was to stop you from…'

'But,' she continued, 'I could hardly have driven to the liquor store from Miami Beach. It's several thousand miles, isn't it? That's where I was on the night Annie Boone was killed.'

'I see,' Meyer said somewhat sourly.

'I suggest you call the Hotel Shalimar. Speak to the manager there. He will confirm the length of my stay, and he will also tell you that I was at a party given for the guests that night. He'll remember me. I'm good fun at a party. Call him.' Mrs Phelps smiled brightly. 'Will that be all, gentlemen?'

The cop who spoke to the manager of the Shalimar on the long distance wire at the city's expense was Meyer Meyer.

'When did Mrs Phelps check in?' he asked.

'On the 5th of June,' the manager said.

'And when did she check out?'

'On the 14th.'

'Did the hotel have a party on the night of 10 June?'

'10 June? Let me see. Just a moment, please.' There was an expensive pause. 'Yes, 10 June. Yes indeed, we did.'

'Was Mrs Phelps at the party?'

'Yes, she was. A bright red dress. Very attractive.'

'What time did she arrive?'

'The party started before dinner. It was for our guests, you understand. We're… well, rather famous for our cocktail parties.'

'What time did it start?' Meyer asked.

'About four-thirty. In the afternoon.'

'Uh-huh. And was Mrs Phelps there when it started?'

'Yes.'

'And what time did she leave the party?'

'Leave it? Why, I believe she was there all night.'

'Are you sure?'

'Well, I'm not absolutely certain, of course. There were many women in red dresses. But I would say yes. Yes, I would say yes.'

'What time did the party break up?'

'Well, it was a fairly lively party.'

'What time?'

'We served breakfast at five-thirty,' the manager said.

'What!'

'Yes.'

'From four-thirty the previous afternoon?'

'Yes.'

'It lasted all through the night? Until breakfast?'

'Well, yes. We're rather famous for our parties.'

'You ought to be. Was Mrs Phelps at breakfast?'

'Yes. Definitely. I remember serving her scrambled eggs myself.'

'Still in the red dress?'

'Yes.'

'And you think she was around all night, is that right?'

'We have thousands of guests,' the manager said. 'They flit in and out. There's a lot of drinking at these parties and… well, the management doesn't follow any of the guests'… activities too closely.'

'I see,' Meyer said. 'Checked in on the 5th and out on the 14th, right? Was at your party on the 10th. Okay, sir, thank you.'

'Not at all,' the manager said, and he broke the connexion.

Meyer sat morosely at his desk for a moment, and then decided to play a long-shot. He called all the airlines and asked if round-trip passage had been booked from and to Miami for a Mrs Franklin Phelps on the night of 10 June, the night of Annie Boone's murder. And then, covering the pseudonym possibility, he asked if any woman had been booked for a round trip on that same night.

The airlines checked their flight records. The only passage they had given to Mrs Phelps was on an early-morning flight to Miami on 5 June and a return flight on the 14th. Nor had any other woman made a round trip on the night of the 10th. Meyer thanked them and hung up.

Disgustedly, he belched. Long shots never paid off.

The cop who spoke to Monica Boone on the telephone was Bert Kling.

'Hi, honey,' he said. 'Know who this is?'

'No. Who?'

'Guess.'

'Tab Hunter?'

'Nope.'

'Robert Wagner?'

'Nope.'

'I'm not interested any more,' Monica said.

'Detective Kling,' he said. 'Bert.'

'Oh, hello, Bert,' Monica said warmly. 'How are you?'

'Fine thanks. Yourself?'

'Oh, just fine. I got second prize in school today.'

'Really? What for?'

'Painting.'

'That's wonderful. Honey, can I ask you something?'

'Sure.'

'We already asked your grandmother this, but she didn't know. Maybe you would.'

'What is it?'

'Your mother used to see a person named Jamie. Did she ever mention him to you?'

'Jamie?'

'Yes.'

'Do you mean Jamison? Jamison Gray?'

'What was that name, Monica?'

'Jamison Gray. She told me all about him once. She said he was the sweetest saddest man in the whole world, and she said he was very kind and very gentle, and she said that someday she would take me to see him.'

'You're not fooling me, are you, Monica?'

'No, not at all. Jamison Gray. Yes, that's his name. Is that the Jamie you mean?'

'Oh honey, I hope so,' Kling said. 'I certainly hope so. Thanks a lot.'

'Bert?'

'Yes?'

'Do you know when Mommy's coming back from her vacation?'

Kling hesitated. 'Uh… no, honey, I don't. I'm awfully sorry.'

'I sure wish she'd hurry,' Monica said.

'Yes.'

'Well, I'll let you go,' she said brightly. 'You probably have lots of crooks and things to lock up.'

'G'bye, Monica. Thanks again.'

He hung up and lifted the Isola telephone directory from the bottom drawer of his desk.

'Anything?' Meyer asked.

'Maybe,' Kling said. 'Keep your fingers crossed. Gray, Jack…Gray, Jacqueline… Gray, James… Gray, James… Gray, James… oh my God, six of them… wait a minute, wait a minute!… here it is, Meyer! Jamison Gray! 1220 North 30th. Get your hat!'

'Hat?' Meyer said, running his hand over his bald pate. 'I never wear a hat. Makes you lose your hair, don't you know?'

1220 North 30th was a clean-looking four-storey brown-stone. Meyer and Kling found a mailbox listing for Jamison Gray, and then climbed to the fourth floor of the building and knocked on the door of Apartment 44.

'Who is it?' a young voice asked.

'Open the door,' Meyer answered.

'It's open,' the voice said.

Kling, who was remembering Hawes's near fatal error, had his hand on the butt of his service revolver. Meyer snapped open the door standing to one side of it. There was no sound from within the apartment.

'Come in,' the voice said.

His hand still on the gun, Kling peered around the door-frame. A boy of no more than twenty was sitting at the far end of the dark room, his face turned to the window.

From the doorway, Kling asked, 'Jamie Gray?'

'Yes,' the boy said. He wore black trousers and a white shirt open at the throat. His sleeves were rolled up over thin forearms. He did not turn from the window. He kept staring straight ahead of him, as if unaware there was anyone in the room with him.

'You know Annie Boone?' Kling asked.

'Yes,' the boy said. He turned slightly from the window, but he looked at Meyer as if he thought he'd asked the question. 'Did she send you?'

'No,' Kling said. He blinked at the boy. The room was very dark. Except for the filtered shaftway light which came through the window, there was no illumination. He found it difficult to see the boy's features clearly.

'She didn't?' Gray asked.

'No.'

'Oh,' Gray said. 'I thought she might have. She hasn't been to see me lately, so I thought maybe she sent a message or something.' He turned back to the window. Kling and Meyer moved closer to him, into the room. The boy paid no attention to them.

'She come to see you often?' Meyer asked.

'Yes. Once a week, at least. It helped. She's a wonderful person.'

'Ever take her out?'

'Once. We walked around the neighbourhood. I don't feel like going out much.'

'Where'd you meet, Gray?'

'In a bar. I don't know how. I went out one afternoon. I felt like having a glass of beer. Do you ever feel like that? Like having a glass of beer? Nothing tastes better than a glass of beer when you really feel like having one. She sat down at the table with me. Just like that.'

'What'd she say?'

'She said "What's your name?" I told her. I told her Jamie Gray. She was pretty drunk.'

'Annie Boone?' Kling asked, surprised.

'Yes.'

'Are you sure?'

'Certain. Her breath smelled terribly, and she was talking strangely. She was drunk. In fact, that's why she came up here with me. I asked her if she'd like a cup of coffee. She said " Sure," and we came back here.'

'And after that, she kept visiting you, huh?'

'Yes. She came to talk. She said it was soothing.'

'You live here alone, Gray?'

'Yes.'

'What do you do for a living?'

'I used to be a pretty good piano player. I played with a band.'

'What do you mean used to be? No more?'

'Well, I can still play. Naturally I can still play. What happened has nothing to do with my playing. But it's a little tough getting jobs. Going out and finding them, I mean. Besides, I don't much feel like it any more.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, after what happened…'

'You mean what happened to Annie?'

'What?' Gray said, lifting his head.

'Do you own a gun, Gray?'

'What did you say about…?'

'Do you own a gun?'

'No, of course not. What would I do with a gun? You said something about Annie. What…?'

'Where were you on the night of June 10th, Gray?'

'I don't know. What difference does it make? You said…'

'Don't play dumb, Gray!'

'Dumb? Why? What happened on June 10th?'

'You've seen the newspapers, Gray! Come off it!'

'Newspapers? How could I… what is it? What are you trying to say?'

'Were you out of this apartment on June 10th?'

'I don't go out much at night. Or even during the day. Not since the accid…'

'Where were you on June 10th?' Meyer snapped. 'Where were you on the night Annie Boone was killed?'

'Killed!' Gray screamed. He leaped out of the chair and whirled to face the two men. 'Killed!' He stared at them blankly. 'Killed! Killed!'

Kling's service revolver was already in his hand, pointing at Gray's mid-section. Meyer stared at Gray, at the blank eyes in the old-young face.

'Put up the gun, Bert,' he said softly. 'He's blind.'