Lady Killer

CHAPTER ELEVEN

His gun was in his hand before he whirled.

'Hey!' the woman said. 'What's that for?'

Hawes lowered the gun. 'Who are you, miss?'

'I live across the hall. The cop downstairs said I should come up here and talk to the detective. Are you the detective?'

'Yes.'

'Well, I live across the hall.'

The girl was unattractive, a brunette with large brown eyes and a very pale skin. She spoke from the side of her mouth, a mannerism that gave her the appearance of a Hollywood gun moll. She was wearing only a thin pink slip, and the one disconcertingly attractive thing about her was the bosom that threatened the silk.

'Did you know this John Smith character?' Hawes asked.

'The few times he was here, I seen him,' the girl said. 'He only moved in a couple of weeks ago. You know, you noticed him right away.'

'How often has he been here since he moved in?'

'Only a couple of times. I came in one night he was here—to introduce myself, you know? Neighbourly. What the hell?' The girl shrugged. Her breasts shrugged with her. She was not wearing a brassiere, and Hawes found this disconcerting, too. 'He was sitting right there at the kitchen table, cutting up newspapers. I asked him what he was doing. He said he kept a scrapbook.'

'When was this?'

'About a week ago.'

'He was cutting up newspapers?'

'Yeah,' the girl said. 'Goofy. Well, he looked goofy, anyway. You know what I mean.'

Hawes bent to examine the kitchen table. Studying it closely, he could see traces of paste on the soiled oilcloth covering. Then Smith had composed the letter here, and it had been only a week ago, and not on the Sunday of June 23rd. He had simply used an old newspaper.

'Was there paste on the table?' Hawes asked her.

'Yeah, I think so. A tube of paste. Well, for his scrapbook, I guess.'

'Sure,' Hawes said. 'Ever talk to him again after that night?'

'Just in the hall.'

'How many times?'

'Well, he was here one night after that. Last week, I mean. And then he was here last night.'

'Did he sleep here last night?'

'I guess so. How should I know?' The girl seemed suddenly aware that she was wearing only a slip. She crossed one arm over her abundant bosom.

'What time did he get here last night?'

'Pretty late. After midnight, it must've been. I was listening to the radio. It was very hot last night, you know. It's almost impossible to get any sleep in these apartments. They're just like ovens. The door was open, and I heard him down the hall, so I went out to say hello. He was putting the key in the lock, looking just like a Russian spy, I swear to God. All he needed was a bomb, and that would be the picture.'

'Did he have anything with him?'

'Just a bag. Groceries, I guess. Oh, yeah. Glasses. You know. Opera glasses. I asked him was he just getting back from the opera.'

'What did he say?'

'He laughed. He was a hot sketch. Smith. John Smith. That was funny, don't you think?'

'What was funny about it?' Hawes asked.

'Well, the cough drops and all, you know. He was a hot sketch. I guess he won't be coming back after today, huh?'

'I guess not,' Hawes said, trying to keep up with the somewhat vague conversation.

'Is he a crook or something?'

'We don't know. Did he ever tell you anything about himself?'

'No. Nothing. He didn't talk so much. Anyway, he was only here those few times. And even then, he always seemed in a hurry. I asked him once if this was his summer place. You know, like a joke. He said yeah this was his retreat. A hot sketch. Smith.' She laughed at the name.

'But he never told you where he worked. Or even if he worked?'

'No.' The girl crossed her other arm over her bosom. 'I better go put something on, huh?' she said. 'I was taking a little nap when all the shooting started. I got so excited when it was over, I run downstairs in my slip. I'm a real sight, ain't I?' She giggled. 'I better go put something on. It was nice talking to you. You don't seem like a bull at all.'

'Thank you,' Hawes said, and then wondered if he was being complimented.

The girl hesitated at the door. 'Well, I hope you get him, anyway. He shouldn't be too hard to find. How many like him can there be in the city?'

'How many Smiths, do you mean?' Hawes asked, and the girl thought this was hysterical.

'You're a hot sketch, too,' she answered. He watched her as she went down the hall. He shrugged, closed the apartment door behind him, and went downstairs to the street. The landlady was still screaming.

Hawes told one of the patrolmen to keep everybody out of Apartment Twenty-two until the lab boys had gone over it.

Then he went back to the precinct.

It was 5.00 p.m.

Carella was sitting at one of the desks drinking coffee from a container when Hawes walked in. Willis and Meyer had not yet returned. The squad-room was silent.

'Hello, Cotton,' Carella said.

'Steve,' Hawes answered.

'Understand you got into a little fracas on Twelfth?'

'Umm.'

'You all right?'

'I'm fine. Except I keep losing people.'

'Have some coffee. The desk was really jumping downstairs. Must have got fifty calls about the shooting. He got away again, huh?'

'Umm,' Hawes said.

'Well.' Carella shrugged. 'Cream? Sugar?'

'Little of each.'

Carella fixed the coffee and handed the cup to Hawes. 'Relax. We can use a rest.'

'I want to make a call first.'

'Where?'

'Pistol permits.' He emptied his pockets on to the desk. 'I picked these up in his apartment. Do they look like Luger magazines to you?'

'They damn well couldn't be anything else,' Carella said.

'I want to check on permits for Lugers in the precinct. Who knows? We may get a break.'

'That's the easy way,' Carella said. 'Nothing ever comes the easy way, Cotton.'

'It's worth a try,' he said. He looked up at the wall clock. 'Jesus,' he said. 'Five already. Three hours to go.'

He pulled the phone to him and made his call. When he'd finished, he picked up the coffee container.

'They'll call me back,' he said to Carella. He put his feet up on the desk. 'Ahhhhhhhhh.'

'Think this damn heat'll ever break?'

'God, I hope so.'

In the silence of the squad-room, the two men sipped at their coffee. There was, for the moment, no need for communication. They sat with the afternoon sunlight filtering through the grilled windows, marking the floor with long golden rectangles. They sat with the hum of the electric fans rotating limpid air. They sat with the hushed, faraway street noise below them. They sat, and for the moment they were not policemen working on a difficult case on the hottest day of the year. They were simply two friends having a cup of coffee together.

'I've got a date tonight,' Hawes said.

'Nice?' Carella asked.

'A widow,' Hawes said. 'Very pretty. I met her this afternoon. Or was it this morning? Well, before lunch, anyway. A blonde. Very pretty.'

'Teddy's a brunette,' Carella said. 'Black hair. Very black.'

'When do I get to meet her?' Hawes asked.

'I don't know. Name it. I'm supposed to take her to a movie tonight. She's a remarkable lip-reader. She enjoys the movies as much as anyone who can hear.'

It no longer surprised Hawes to hear Carella talk about the handicap of his wife, Teddy. She had been born a deaf-mute, but this didn't seem to hinder her in the pursuit of happiness. From what other detectives on the squad had told him, Hawes had pieced together the picture of a lively, interesting, vivacious, and damned beautiful girl, and his mental picture couldn't have been more correct. Too, because he liked Carella, he was predisposed toward liking Teddy, and he really did want to meet her.

'You say you're going to a movie tonight?' Hawes asked.

'Mmm,' Carella said.

Hawes balanced the pleasure of meeting Teddy against the pleasure of entertaining Christine Maxwell alone. Christine Maxwell won out, proving the age-old adage, Hawes mused, that gentlemen prefer blondes.

'This is a first date,' he said to Carella. 'After I get to know her, we'll make it a double, okay?'

'Anytime you say,' Carella said.

Again the squad-room fell silent. From the clerical office down the hall, they could hear the steady rat-tat-tat of Mis-colo's typewriter. They sat drinking their coffee silently. There was something peaceful about these few minutes of relaxation, these few minutes of suspended time, this breathing spell in the race with the clock.

The moments ended.

'What's this? A country club?' Willis called from the railing.

'Look at them, willya?' Meyer said. 'We're shagging ass all over town, and they're taking their tea and crumpets.'

'Blow it out,' Carella said.

'How do you like this?' Willis went on, refusing to let it go. 'I hear you got shot, Cotton,' he said. 'The desk sergeant tells me you're a hero.'

'No such luck,' Hawes replied, regretting the sudden rupture of silence. 'He missed.'

'Too bad, so sad,' Willis said. He was a small detective with the fine-boned body of a jockey. But Fats Donner had told the truth about him; Willis was not a man to fool with. He knew judo the way he knew the Penal Code, and he could practically break your arm just by looking at you.

Meyer pulled a chair up to the desk. 'Hal, go get us some coffee, will you? Miscolo's probably got a pot going.'

Willis sighed. 'Man, I—'

'Come on, come on,' Meyer said. 'Respect your elders.'

Willis sighed again, and departed for the clerical office.

'How'd you make out at the bar, Steve?' Meyer asked.

'Huh?'

'The Pub. Wasn't that the name of it? Anybody make the picture?'

'No. It's a nice bar, though. Right on Thirteenth. Stop in if you're in the neighbourhood.'

'Did he set up a few for you?' Meyer asked.

'Naturally,' Carella said.

'You drunken bastard.'

'All I had was two beers.'

'That's more than I've had since breakfast,' Meyer said. 'Where the hell is Willis with that coffee?'

The telephone rang. Hawes picked it up.

'Eighty-seventh Squad, Hawes,' He listened. 'Oh, hello, Bob. Just a second.' He handed the phone to Carella. 'It's O'Brien. For you, Steve.'

'Hello, Bob,' Carella said into the phone.

'Steve, I'm still with this Samalson guy. He just left the supermarket. He's in a bar across the street, tilting one before he heads home, I guess. You still want me to stick with him?'

'Hold on, Bob.'

Carella pressed the hold button on the phone and buzzed the lieutenant's office.

'Yes?' Byrnes said.

'I've got O'Brien on the wire,' Carella said. 'Do you still want that tail on Samalson?'

'Is it eight o'clock yet?' Byrnes asked.

'No.'

'Then I still want the tail. Tell Bob to stick with him until he goes to sleep. In fact, I want him watched all night. If he's in this thing, the goddamn shooter may come to him.'

'Okay,' Carella said. 'You going to relieve him later, Pete?'

'Oh, hell, tell him to call me as soon as Samalson gets to the apartment. I'll have a cop from the Hundred and Second relieve him.'

'Right.' Carella clicked off, pressed the extension button, and said, 'Bob, stick with him until he's in his apartment. Then call Pete, and he'll get somebody from the Hundred and Second to spell you. He wants this to be an all-night plant.'

'Suppose he doesn't head home?' O'Brien asked.

'What can I tell you, Bob?'

'Shit! I'm supposed to go to a ball game tonight.'

'I'm supposed to go to a movie. Look, this thing'll be over by eight.'

'It'll be over for the shooter, sure. But Pete figures he may be tied in with Samalson, doesn't he?'

'He doesn't really believe that, Bob. But he's trying to cover every angle. Samalson's story was a little thin.'

'You think the killer's going to seek a guy who's already been interrogated by the cops? That's faulty reasoning, Steve.'

'It's a hot day, Bob. Maybe all of Pete's cylinders aren't clicking.'

'Sure, but where does—Oh-oh, the bastard's on his way. I'll call in a little later. Listen, do me a favour, will you?'

'What's that?'

'Crack this by eight. I want to see that ball game.'

'We'll try.'

'He's moving. So long, Steve.' O'Brien hung up.

'O'Brien,' Carella said. 'He's beefing about the tail on Samalson. Thinks it's ridiculous. I think so, too. Samalson didn't have the smell on him.'

'What smell?' Meyer asked.

'You know the smell. Every thief in the city gives it off. Samalson didn't have it. If he's tied in with this, I'll eat his goddamn field glasses.'

The phone rang again.

'That's probably Samalson,' Hawes said, 'complaining about O'Brien tailing him.'

Smiling, Carella picked up the receiver. 'Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Carella,' he said. 'Oh, sure.' He covered the mouthpiece. 'Permits. You want me to take it down?'

'Go ahead.'

'Shoot,' Carella said to the mouthpiece. He listened for a moment, then turned to Hawes. 'Forty-seven registered Lugers in the precinct. You want them all?'

'I just thought of something,' Hawes said.

'What?'

'They take your fingerprints for the back of a pistol-licence application. If—'

'Never mind,' Carella said into the phone. 'Forget it. Thanks a lot.' He hung up. 'If our boy,' he concluded for Hawes, 'had a permit, the fingerprints would be on file at the I.B. Ergo, our boy ain't got a permit.'

Hawes nodded. 'You ever have a day like that, Steve?'

'Like what?'

'Where you're just plain stupid,' Hawes said despondently.

'I knew you were calling Permits, didn't I?' Carella asked. 'Did I try to stop you?'

Hawes sighed and stared through the window. Willis came back with the coffee.

'Here you are, sir,' he said to Meyer. 'I hope everything is satisfactory, sir.'

'I'll leave a big tip,' Meyer said, and he picked up the coffee cup and then cleared his throat.

'I've got a tip for you,' Willis said.

'What's that?'

'Never become a cop. The hours are long and the pay is low, and you have to do all sorts of menial chores for your colleagues.'

'I'm getting a cold,' Meyer said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a box of cough drops. 'I always get summer colds. They're the worst kind, and I always get them.' He put a cough drop on his tongue. 'Anybody want one of these?'

Nobody answered. Meyer returned the box to his back pocket. He picked up his coffee and began sipping at it.

'Quiet,' Willis said.

'Yeah.'

'You think it really is a specific lady?' Hawes asked.

'I don't know,' Carella said. 'But I think so, yes.'

'He used the name John Smith,' Hawes said. 'When he moved into this apartment. No clothes there. No food.'

'John Smith. Cherchez la femme,' Meyer said. 'Cherchez Pocahontas.'

'We've been cherchez-ing la femme all day,' Hawes said. 'I'm getting weary.'

'Stick it out, kid,' Carella said. He looked up at the wall clock. 'It's 5.15. It'll all be over soon.'

And then it started.