Killer's Choice

CHAPTER SEVEN

In the squad room, Bert Kling was talking on the phone to his fiancée, Claire Townsend.

'I can't talk,' he said.

'Can't you even say you love me?'

'No,' he said.

'Why not?'

'Because.'

'Is someone standing near your desk?'

'Yes.'

'Who?'

'Meyer.'

'Did you call me?' Meyer asked, turning.

'No. No, Meyer.'

'Do you love me?' Claire asked.

'Yes,' Kling said. He glanced surreptitiously at Meyer. Meyer was not a fool, and he probably knew exactly what Claire was asking, and was probably enjoying Kling's discomfort immensely. Kling would never understand women. A beautiful girl like Claire, a sensible girl like Claire, should realize that a Detective Squad Room was not the place to be bandying about words of love and devotion. He formed a mental picture of her as she spoke, the black void of her hair, the brown depths of her eyes, the narrow nose, the high cheek bones, the curved length of her body.

'Tell me you love me,' she said.

'What are you doing?' he asked.

'I'm studying.'

'For what?'

'A sociology exam.'

'Good. Go study. If you want to graduate this semester…'

'Will you marry me when I graduate?'

'Not until you get a job.'

'If you were a lieutenant, I wouldn't have to get a job.'

'I know, but I'm only a Detective 3rd.'

'This is my last exam.'

'Did you pass the others?'

'Snaps.'

'Good. Go study.'

'I'd rather talk to you.'

'I'm busy. You're wasting the taxpayers' time.'

'All right, Conscientious.'

'Conscientious, anyone?' Kling asked, and Claire burst out laughing.

'That does it,' she said. 'Good-bye. Will you call me tonight?'

'Yes.'

'I love you, cop,' she said, and she hung up.

'The girl friend?' Meyer asked.

'Mmm,' Kling said.

'L'amour, it's wonderful,' Meyer said.

'Go to hell.'

'I'm serious. June, moon, spoon, croon. When's the wedding?'

'Not this June, that's for sure.'

'Next June?'

'Maybe sooner.'

'Good,' Meyer said. 'Get married. There's nothing like marriage for a cop. It gives him a sense of justice. He knows already what it feels like to be a prisoner, so he doesn't hurry to make false arrests.'

'Baloney,' Kling said. 'You love it.'

'Who said no?' Meyer asked. 'Been married to the same woman for almost thirteen years now, God bless her.' His blue eyes twinkled. 'I'm getting used to my cell. I think if she left the door unlocked, I wouldn't even try to escape.'

'You've got it real tough,' Kling said.

'I love her,' Meyer said philosophically. 'What can I do? I'm a sucker for this love bit. Sue me.'

'Were you a cop when you married her?'

'Sure. We met in college. That was in…'

'I didn't know you went to college.'

'I'm a big intellectual,' Meyer said. 'You mean you didn't know? Can't you tell looking at me? I come from a long line of scholars. In the town in Europe where my grandfather came from, he was the only man who could read and write. An honour. A great honour.'

'I believe it,' Kling said.

'You should. Have you ever known me to tell a falsehood? Never. Honest John Meyer, they call me. I studied law in college, did you know that?'

'No,' Kling said.

'Sure. But when I got out of school, people needed lawyers like they needed holes in the head. I got out of school in 1940. You know what people needed then? Not lawyers.'

'What?'

'Soldiers.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah. Uncle Sam wagged his finger. I went. I had a choice? When I got out in 1944, I didn't feel like being a lawyer any more. All of a sudden, I didn't feel like struggling in a little cubbyhole office, chasing ambulances. I joined the force. That's when I married Sarah.'

'Mazeltov,' Kling said, smiling.

'Gesundheit,' Meyer replied, add the telephone rang. Meyer picked it up. 'Detective Meyer, 87th Squad,' he said. 'Who? Yes, he's here. Who's this, please? Okay, just a second.' He covered the mouthpiece. 'A guy named Ted Boone,' he said to Kling. 'Any relation to the dead girl?'

'Her ex-husband,' Kling said. 'I'll take it.' Meyer handed him the phone. 'Hello?' Kling said.

'Detective Kling? This is Ted Boone.'

'Yes, how are you, Mr Boone?'

'Fine, thank you.'

'What is it?'

'Something that might interest you. I don't know. I just went down to the mailbox. There was a letter in it. From Annie.'

'Annie?'

'Yes. It was wrongly addressed, mailed last week some time. I guess the wrong address explains why it took so long to get here. Anyway, it was rather weird.'

'Yes. Anything important in it?'

'Well, I'll let you judge for yourself. Can you come over?'

'Are you still home?'

'Yes.'

'What's the address?' Kling asked. Boone gave it to him. 'I'll be right over,' Kling said, and he hung up.

'Anything?' Meyer asked.

'Might be.'

'Not sure?'

'No.'

'Why don't you ask Detective Cotton Hawes?' Meyer said, his eyes twinkling again. 'I hear he's a regular whiz.'

'And good day to you,' Kling said, and then shoved his way through the slatted rail divider and walked out of the squad room.

Stewart City had been named after British royalty. It was a compact little area of Isola, running for perhaps three square blocks midtown, three square blocks that hugged the curve of the River Dix. Stewart City had been named after British royalty, and the apartment buildings which faced the river in terraced luxury were indeed royal. There was a time when the North Side of Isola had claimed the fashionable addresses, but those addresses had slowly become dowdy so that a River Harb apartment was no longer considered haut monde. Many River Harb apartments, in fact, were part of the 87th Precinct, and the 87th Precinct could hardly be called a fashionable part of the city.

Stewart City was fashionable. The entire South Side was not fashionable, but Stewart City was. You could not get very much more fashionable than Stewart City was fashionable.

Bert Kling felt somewhat like the country mouse visiting the city mouse. His clothes felt suddenly out of style. His walk seemed loutish. He wondered if the hayseed of the slums was showing in his blond hair.

The doorman at Stewart Terrace looked at him as if he were a grocery boy who'd come to the front door when he should have been making deliveries in the rear. Nonetheless, he held the door open for Kling and Kling entered a foyer done in the coolest modern he had ever seen. He felt as if he had stepped into a Picasso painting by accident. He felt he would be dripped on by a Dali watch at any moment. He felt trapped in the prison of a Mondrian. Hastily, he walked to the directory, found Boone's name, and then walked to the elevator bank. He buzzed and waited.

When the elevator arrived, the operator asked, 'Whom did you wish to see, sir?'

'Ted Boone,' he answered.

'Sixth floor,' the operator said.

'I know,' Kling said.

'I see.' The doors slid shut. The elevator moved into action. The operator studied Kling disdainfully. 'Are you a model?' he asked.

'No.'

'I didn't think so,' the operator said, as if this was one point for his side.

'Does Mr Boone have many models coming to his apartment?'

'Not male models,' the operator said disdainfully. 'You're a cop, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'I can always tell a cop,' the operator said. 'They have a distinct aroma about them.'

'I'm demolished,' Kling said. 'You pierced my disguise.'

'Ha,' the operator said.

'I'm really an old old man with a beard. I didn't think you'd tip so easily. It must be that distinct aroma.'

'You here about Boone's ex-wife?' the operator asked, smugly knowledgeable.

'Are you a detective?' Kling said.

'Come on,' the operator said, slightly insulted.

'I thought you might be. You interrogate excellently. Come over to the precinct. We may have a spot for you.'

'Ha, ha,' the operator said.

'I'm serious.' Kling paused. 'But you're not five eight, are you?'

The operator stood erect. 'I'm five eleven.'

'Oh, good. Over twenty-one?'

'I'm twenty-four!'

'Excellent, excellent! twenty-twenty vision without glasses?'

'Perfect eyesight.'

'Have you a criminal record?'

'Certainly not!' the operator said indignantly.

'Then you've got a career ahead of you with the police department,' Kling said. 'And you can start at the fabulous salary of close to $3,800 a year, which is probably half what you make in this place. But think of the advantages. You can stand around and take all kinds of snide remarks from the public if you're a cop. It's wonderful. Nothing like it. Makes a man out of you.'

'I'm not interested.'

'What's the matter?' Kling asked. 'Don't you want to be a man?'

'Six,' the operator said, and he looked at Kling disdainfully when he let him out of the car, and then slammed the door behind him.

Kling walked down the corridor, found Boone's door, and pushed the buzzer set in the jamb. From within the house, Kling heard a series of chimes playing a tune. He didn't recognize the tune at first because it was more intricate than anything he had ever heard on a set of chimes before. He pushed the buzzer again.

'The photographers will snap us,' the chimes chimed, 'and you'll find that you're in the rotogravure.'

Irving Berlin, Kling thought. Easter Parade. Photographers must be making good money these days if they can afford chimes that play parts of Easter Parade. I wonder if Boone would like to be a cop. Good starting salary, opportunity for advancement, excellent working con…

The door opened.

Boone was standing in it. He wore a Chinese robe which was seven sizes too large for him. 'Come in,' he said. 'I was dressing. I've got a sitting in a half hour.'

Kling stepped into the apartment and then understood the Chinese robe. Apparently, Boone was fascinated with things Oriental. The room was furnished in what seemed to be authentic Chinese. There were rare old pieces of teak furniture, and heavy pieces of jade sculpture. The drapes on the window were a Chinese print. A rice-paper screen was opened behind an old Chinese writing desk. Chinese pictures were on the wall. Kling fully expected the smell of chow mein from the kitchen.

Noticing his scrutiny, Boone said, 'I was stationed in China during the war. Ever there?'

'No,' Kling said.

'Fell in love with the place. The most wonderful people in the world. You ought to go sometime.'

'It's a little different now, I imagine,' Kling said.

'The Reds, you mean? Terrible. But that'll pass. Everything changes sooner or later. Do you want to see that letter?'

'That's why I came.'

'I'll get it. You don't mind if I dress while you read it, do you? I've got to get to the studio.'

'Not at all,' Kling said.

'Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Like a drink?'

'No, thank you.'

'Cigarettes there on the coffee table. That brass cigarette box is from Hong Kong,' Boone said as he left the room.

'Thanks,' Kling said. He sat, lifted the lid from the box, took out a cigarette and lighted it. The cigarette tasted peculiar. Either it was very stale, or it too had come from Hong Kong. He squashed it out and lighted one of his own. In a few moments, Boone came back. He had taken off the robe and was wearing trousers and a white shirt, the white shirt hanging out of the trousers, unbuttoned.

'Here's the letter,' he said. 'You read it. I'll be back in a few minutes.' Buttoning the shirt, he left the room again.

The envelope was a pale blue rectangle. Annie Boone had addressed it in deep blue ink. She had addressed it to 'Mr Ted Boone' at 585 Tarlton Place. The middle digit in the address was wrong. If Annie had ever known the correct address, she had apparently forgotten it. The Post Office Department had pencilled its scrawls across the face of the envelope. The last scrawl advised 'Try 565 Tarlton'. Apparently, 565 had been tried and the letter had finally been delivered.

Kling lifted the flap and pulled out the letter.

Annie Boone wrote in a small clear hand. The letter was neat and unstained and showed no signs of having been written hurriedly. It was dated Friday, 7 June, three days before she'd been murdered. Today was 14 June. Annie Boone had been dead four days. Roger Havilland had been killed last night. The letter read:

Ted dear:

I know how you feel about Monica, and I know what you're trying to do, and I suppose I should harbour ill will, but something has come up and I would like very much to talk to you about it. You are, after all, perhaps the one person I could always talk to.

I received a letter yesterday, Ted, and it's frightened me, and I want to know whether or not I should go to the police. I tried to reach you by telephone both at home and at the studio, but they told me you were away in Connecticut and would not be back until Monday. This will be waiting for you when you return, and I hope you'll call me at once, either at home or at the liquor store. The number at the store is CAmbridge 7-6200. Please call.

My best, ANNIE

Kling read the letter once, and then read it again. He was reading it a third time when Boone came back into the room. Boone had put on a tie and a sports jacket, and he seemed distinctly ail-American in the all-Chinese room.

'Have you tried these cigarettes?' Boone asked, taking one from the brass box. 'They're British.'

'I tried them,' Kling said. 'About this letter, Mr Boone.'

Boone lighted the cigarette and then glanced at his watch. 'I have a few minutes yet,' he said. 'What do you make of it?'

'May I ask you a few questions?'

'Certainly.'

'First, why "Ted dear" instead of the usual salutation? This implies more affection than I was led to believe existed.'

'Not affection,' Boone said. 'Affectation. She used that reverse salutation with everyone, believe me.' He shrugged. 'Just a part of Annie, that's all. Means nothing.'

'What does this mean?' Kling asked. '"I know how you feel about Monica, and I know what you're trying to do…"'

'Oh. Nothing.'

'Well, explain what you mean by nothing.'

'She knows I love my daughter and I… I was… uh…'

'Yes?'

'Just that I love her, that's all.'

'What does "I know what you're trying to do" mean?'

'I think she was referring to my trying to see Monica more often,' Boone said.

'Is that why she feels she should "harbour ill will"?' Kling asked.

'Hmh? Is that what she said?'

'Read the letter,' Kling said, extending it.

'No, I believe you.' Boone shrugged. 'I don't know what she means by that.'

'No inkling, huh?'

'Nope.'

'Um-huh. How about this letter she says she received. Know any thing about it?'

'Not a thing.'

'When did you leave for Connecticut?'

'Friday morning. The 7th.'

'What time?'

'I left here at about eight.'

'Why?'

'A client. Some portrait work.'

'And you planned to work over the week-end, is that right?'

'Yes.'

'When did you plan on returning?'

'I planned to be back at the studio on Monday morning.'

'Were you?'

'No.'

'When did you get back?'

'I got into the city at about eleven Monday night.'

'The night Annie was killed.'

'Yes.'

'Did you call your office?'

'At 11 p.m.?'

'I suppose not. Were there any messages for you at the switchboard here?'

'Yes. Annie had called.'

'Did you call her back?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'I figured whatever it was could wait until morning. I was awfully tired, Mr Kling.'

'But you didn't try to reach her the next morning.'

'I'd seen the papers by then. I knew she was dead.'

'Okay. I'll take this letter with me, if you don't mind. It may help us.'

'Go right ahead,' Boone said. He looked at Kling levelly. 'You still think I had something to do with this?'

'Let's say there are certain contradictions present, Mr Boone.'

'What time was Annie killed?' Boone asked.

'Coroner says about ten-thirty,' Kling said.

'Then I'm out of it.'

'Why? Because you say you didn't get back to the city until eleven?'

'No. Because I was in a diner from ten to ten-thirty. The owner was interested in photography. We had a long chat.'

'Which diner?'

'It's called The Hub. It's forty miles from the city. I couldn't have killed her. Check it. The man'll remember me. I gave him my card.'

'Forty miles from the city?' Kling asked.

'Forty miles. On Route 38. Check it.'

'I will,' Kling said. He rose and walked to the door. At the door, he turned. 'Mr Boone?' he said.

'Yes?'

'In the meantime, don't go to Connecticut this week-end.'

The law offices of Jefferson Dobberly were straight out of Great Expectations. They were small and musty, and they received rays of slanted sunlight upon which dust motes floated. Enormous legal tomes lined the reception room, lined the corridor leading to Dobberly's private office, and lined three walls of the private office itself.

Jefferson Dobberly sat before the windows which lined the fourth wall. Sunlight slanted in behind his balding head. Dust motes danced on the sunlight and on his pate. Books were piled on his desk, and they formed a fortress between him and Kling. Kling sat and watched him. He was a tall thin man with watery blue eyes. His mouth was wrinkled and he moved it perpetually, as if he wanted to spit and couldn't find a place to do it. He had cut himself shaving that morning. The gash ran sidewards on his cheek from his left sideburn. The sideburns were practically all that remained of the hair on his head, and even they were white as though they were weakening before their final surrender. Jefferson Dobberly was fifty-three years old. He looked like seventy.

'What has Theodore Boone done in connexion with getting custody of his daughter Monica?' Kling asked.

'I don't see what bearing that has on the case you're investigating, Mr Kling,' Dobberly said. His voice, in complete contradiction to his fragile appearance, was loud and booming. He spoke as if he were addressing a jury. He spoke as if every word he uttered were the key word in his summing up.

'You don't have to see the bearing, Mr Dobberly,' Kling said gently. 'Only the police do.'

Dobberly smiled.

'Will you tell me, sir?' Kling asked.

'What did Mr Boone tell you?'

'Counsellor,' Kling said gently, and Dobberly reared back slightly at the word, 'this is a murder investigation. Let's not play footsie.'

'Well, Mr Kling,' Dobberly said, still smiling, and Kling repeated, 'This is a murder investigation,' and the smile left Dobberly's face.

'What do you want to know?' Dobberly asked.

'What's he doing to get his child?'

'Now?'

'Yes, now.'

'Mrs Travail refuses to release the child. Under the law, Ted… Mr Boone can take forcible possession of her. He prefers not to handle it that way. For the child's sake. We have asked instead for an ex parte court order. We may have it any time within the next week or so. That's it.'

'When did you apply for the court order?'

'The day after Annie was killed.'

'Had Mr Boone made any prior attempts to gain custody of the child?' Kling asked.

Dobberly hesitated.

'Had he?'

'Well, they've been divorced for almost two years, you know.'

'Yes.'

'I had handled Ted's law affairs before that. When they decided to get a divorce, they naturally came to me. I tried to prevent it. But… well, people have their own reasons, I guess. Annie went to Las Vegas.'

'Go on.'

'Ted came to me about six months later. He said he wanted Monica.'

'You told him the courts had awarded the child to Annie, and that was that. Am I right?'

'Well, no, not exactly. That's not exactly what I told him.'

'What did you tell him?'

'I told him that the courts have been known to reverse their decision regarding custody. If, for example, the mother is shown to be unfit.'

'How do you mean?'

'Unfit, Mr Kling. If, for example, she is raising the child in a house of prostitution. Or if, for example, it is shown that she is a drug addict, or an alcoholic.'

'But this was not the case with Annie.'

'Well…' Dobberly hesitated.

'Well?'

'Mr Kling, I always liked Annie. I don't like to talk against her. I'm telling you this only because my client felt he could base a case upon it. When we made our appeal…'

'You made an appeal?'

'Yes. In an attempt to get a reversal of decision.'

'When was this?'

'We entered the appeal almost a year ago.'

'What happened?'

Dobberly shrugged. 'Court calendars are jammed, Mr Kling. We were still waiting when Annie was killed. I have withdrawn the appeal. There is no need for it now. Mr Boone has the legal right to that child now.'

'This appeal,' Kling said. 'On what was it based?'

'We were trying to show that Annie was an unfit mother. You must understand, Mr Kling, that if she failed to dress the child properly, or if they lived in a poor neighbourhood, or if she had too many—ah… boy friends…well, none of these would be sufficient reasons to support a claim of unfitness. You understand that.'

'Yes,' Kling said. 'What was unfit about Annie?'

Dobberly sighed heavily. 'She was a hopeless drunkard,' he said.

'Boone never mentioned that,' Kling said. 'Neither did her mother.' Kling thought a moment. 'Did this have any connexion with the fact that she worked in a liquor store?'

'Perhaps. I haven't seen Annie since the divorce. She was not a drunkard then.'

'Then she became one between the time of the divorce and the time you made your appeal, is that right?'

'Apparently. Yes. Unless her alcoholism was kept secret during the time I knew her. I wouldn't know about that.'

'You know Boone well, am I right?'

'Fairly well, yes.'

'He told me he made no attempt to see either Annie or the child until six months after the divorce. Yet he claims he loved both very much. Can you offer any explanation for his behaviour?'

'Certainly,' Dobberly said.

'What?'

'He was hoping he'd get her back. Annie, I mean. He stayed away from her and the child because he thought she'd miss him, thought she'd want him again, thought she'd "come to her senses," as he put it.' Dobberly shrugged sadly. 'It didn't work that way, Mr Kling. And finally, Ted faced the facts. It was all over. That was when he decided he wanted Monica. If he couldn't have Annie, he would at least have the child. That's the way his thinking went, Mr Kling.'

'I see. Have you ever met Mrs Travail?'

'Ted's mother-in-law? Never. From what he says about her, she seems to be the mother-in-law who's in all the nasty jokes one hears.'

'She speaks very highly of him.'

'Does she?' Dobberly raised his eyebrows. 'I'm surprised.'

'Why?'

'Well, as I said, Ted seems to dislike her intensely.' Dobberly paused. 'You don't seriously believe he killed Annie, do you?'

'I don't seriously believe anything yet,' Kling said.

'He didn't kill that girl, Mr Kling, believe me. I'm willing to bet my life on that. The boy's harmless. Annie Boone took a lot of happiness out of his life. He was only trying to recapture a little of it by getting his daughter back. He would no more do murder than you or I.'

'I would, Mr Dobberly,' Kling said.

'In the line of duty, yes. Legal murder. If you had to. But Ted Boone didn't have to.'

'How else would he have gotten his daughter back?'

'I already told you, Mr Kling. Annie was a drunkard.'

'I have only your word for that, so far. And you admitted you hadn't seen her since the divorce. I hardly think you'd make a capable witness as to whether or not she was a drunkard.'

'Ted can tell you,' Dobberly said.

'If Ted Boone committed murder, he can tell me a lot of things, all of which might be untrue.'

'He's not a criminal type. I used to be a criminal lawyer many years ago, when I first began practice. Those were booming days for criminals. I was very busy. I got to know criminal types. Surely, Mr Kling, you are familiar with criminal types.'

'Surely, Mr Dobberly, you are familiar with the fact that most murders are not committed by people with previous criminal records.'

'Yes. But I do not feel that Ted Boone is capable of murder.'

'I hope you're right. What kind of a girl was Anne?'

'Pretty, vibrant.'

'Overly intelligent?'

'Average, I would say.'

'Overly quick?'

Dobberly shrugged. 'Average.'

'Would you say she had outgrown Mr Boone?'

'No, I don't think so. They both seemed to have grown in social experience. Naturally, I didn't have very much to do with them. That is, I only saw them occasionally. Whenever Ted needed the services of an attorney. It was Anne, you know, who wanted the divorce. Ted didn't. I tried to keep them together. I always do. But she wanted it. It was a strange thing. They seemed very well matched.'

'But you didn't see them very often?'

'No.'

'How often?'

'In the two years I'd known them before the divorce? Oh, perhaps a dozen times.' Dobberly shook his head. 'Very well matched. I couldn't understand it. I tried to keep them together. But she wanted the divorce. I still don't know why.'

'There's only one person who does, Mr Dobberly,' Kling said.

'Who?'

'Annie Boone.'