Lady Killer

CHAPTER SIX

It was 11.32a.m.

The sun was climbing steadily into the sky and now was almost at its zenith, its rays baking the asphalt and the concrete, sending shimmering waves of heat up from the pavements.

There was no breeze in the park.

The man with the binoculars sat atop a high outcropping of rock, but it was no cooler there than it was on the paths that wound through the park. The man wore blue-gabardine trousers and a cotton-mesh short-sleeved sports shirt. He sat in cross-legged Indian fashion, his elbows resting on his knees, the binoculars trained on the police precinct across the street.

There was an amused smile on the man's face.

He watched the kids streaming out of the police station, and the smile widened. His letter was bringing results. His letter had set the precinct machinery in motion, and he watched the results of that motion now, and there was a strange pulsing excitement within him as he wondered if he would be caught.

They won't catch me, he thought.

But maybe they will.

The excitement within him was contradictory. He wanted to elude them, but at the same time he relished the idea of a chase, a desperate gun battle, the culminating scene of a carefully planned murder. Tonight he would kill. Yes. There was no backing away from that. Yes. He had to kill, he knew that, there was no other way, that was it, yes. Tonight. They could not stop him, but maybe they would. They could not stop him.

A man was leaving the precinct, coming down the stone steps.

He focused the binoculars tightly on the man's face. A detective, surely. On business his letter had provoked? His grin widened.

The detective had red hair. The hair caught the rays of the brilliant sun. There was a white streak over one temple. He followed the detective with his binoculars. The detective got into an automobile, an unmarked police car, undoubtedly. The car pulled away from the curb quickly.

They're in a hurry, the man thought, lowering the binoculars. He looked at his wrist watch.

11.35.

They haven't got much time, he thought. They haven't got much time to stop me.

The bookshop was unusual for the 87th Precinct neighbourhood. You did not expect to find a store selling books in such a neighbourhood. You expected all the reading matter to be in drugstore racks, and you expected sadistic mysteries like I, the Hangman, historical novels like See My Bosom, dramas of the Old West like Sagebrush Sixgun.

The shop was called Books, Incorporated. It huddled in one of the side streets between two tenements, below street level. You passed through an old iron gate, walked down five steps, and were face to face with the plate-glass window of the shop and its display of books. A sign in the window said, 'We stock Spanish-language books'. Another sign said, 'Aquí habla Español.'

In the right-hand corner of the window, lettered onto the glass in gold gilt, were the words CHRISTINE MAXWELL, PROP.

Hawes walked down the steps and opened the screen door of the shop. A bell over the door tinkled. The shop instantly touched something deep in his memory. He felt he had been here before, had seen the dusty racks and shelves, had sniffed of the musty bookbindings, the intimate smell of stored knowledge. Had he browsed in such a shop on a rainy day in the side streets fringing The Quarter downtown? Was this The Haunted Bookshop come to life, a stationary 'Parnassus on Wheels'? He remembered the Morley books from his youth, and he wished he had time to browse, wished that time were not so important right now. There was a friendliness and warmth to the shop, and he wanted to soak it up, sponge it into his bones, and he wished his visit were not such an urgent one, wished he had come for information that had nothing to do with sudden death.

'Yes?' the voice said.

He broke off his thoughts abruptly. The voice was gentle, a voice that belonged in the shop. He turned.

The girl stood before the shelves of brown-backed books, stood in an almost mistlike radiance, fragile, tender, gentle, against the musty cracked brown. Her hair was blonde, whisperlike tendrils softly cradling the oval of her face. Her eyes were blue and wide, the soft blue of a spring sky, the delicate blue of a lilac. There was a tentative smile on her full mouth, a mouth kissed by the seasons. And because she was a human being, and because it was a hot day in July, there was a thin film of perspiration on her upper lip. And because she was a human being and not a memory and not a dream and not a maiden from some legendary Camelot, Hawes fell in love with her instantly.

'Hello,' he said. There was surprise in his voice, but it was not a wise guy's 'Hel-lo!' It was more an awed whisper, and the girl looked at him and again said, 'Yes?'

'Perhaps you can help me,' Hawes said, reflecting on the fact that he fell in and out of love too easily, musing upon the theory that all true love was love at first sight, in which case he had been truly in love a great many times, but nonetheless studying the girl and thinking, I love her, so the hell with you.

'Were you looking for a book, sir?' the girl asked.

'Are you Miss Maxwell?' he asked.

'Mrs Maxwell,' she corrected.

'Oh,' he said. 'Oh.'

'Was there a book you wanted?'

He looked at her left hand. She was not wearing a wedding band. 'I'm from the police,' he said. 'Detective Hawes, Eighty-seventh Squad.'

'Is something wrong?'

'No. I'm trying to track down a piece of stationery. Eastern Shipping says you're the only store in the precinct that carries the paper.'

'Which paper is that?' Christine asked.

'Cartwright 142-Y.'

'Oh, yes,' she said.

'Do you carry it?'

'Yes?' She made it a question.

'Run this shop with your husband, do you?' Hawes asked.

'My husband is dead,' she said. 'He was a Navy pilot. He was killed in the Battle of the Coral Sea.'

'I'm sorry,' Hawes said genuinely.

'Please don't,' she said. 'It's been a long time. A person can't live in the past, you know.' She smiled gently.

'You don't look that old,' he said, 'I mean, to have been married during World War Two.'

'I got married when I was seventeen,' she said.

'Which makes you?' .

'Thirty-three,' she said.

'You look much younger.'

'Thank you.'

'I'd say you were barely twenty-one.'

'Thank you, but I'm not. Really.'

They looked at each other silently for a moment.

'It seems strange,' Hawes said. 'To find a shop like this. In this neighbourhood, I mean.'

'I know. That's why it's here.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, there's enough deprivation in this neighbourhood. It needn't extend to books.'

'Do you get a lot of people coming in?' Hawes asked.

'More now than in the beginning. Actually, the stationery supplies are what keep the shop going. But it's better now than it was. You'd be surprised how many people want to read good books.'

'Are you afraid of the neighbourhood?'

'Should I be?'she asked.

'Well… a pretty girl like you. I mean, this isn't the best neighbourhood in the world.'

The girl seemed surprised. 'The people here are poor,' she said. 'But poor isn't necessarily synonymous with dangerous.'

'That's true,' he said.

'People are people. The people who live here are no better, no worse, than the people who live in swanky Stewart City.'

'Where do you live, Miss—Mrs Maxwell?'

'In Isola.'

'Where?'

'Why do you want to know?'

'I'd like to see you sometime,' Hawes said.

Christine was silent for a moment. She looked at Hawes penetratingly, as if she were trying to read his mind aid his motives.

Then she said, 'All right. When?'

'Tonight?' he asked.

'All right.'

'Wait a minute,' he said. He thought for a moment. 'Well, it'll be over by eight o'clock either way,' he said. 'Yes, tonight is fine.'

'What'll be over by eight?'

'A case we're working on.'

'How do you know it'll be over by eight? Do you have a crystal ball?'

Hawes smiled. 'I'll tell you about it tonight. May I pick you up at nine? Is that too late for you?'

'Tomorrow's a working day,' she said.

'I know. I thought we'd have a drink and talk a little.'

'All right,' she said.

'Where?' he asked.

'711 Fortieth Boulevard. Do you know where that is?'

'I'll find it. That's lucky. Seven-eleven.'

Christine smiled. 'Shall I dress?'

'We'll find a quiet cocktail lounge,' he said. 'If that's al1 right with you.'

'Yes, that's fine. Air-conditioned, please.'

'What else?' he said, spreading his hands.

'Are you sensitive about the white streak in your hair?'

'Not at all.'

'If you are, I won't ask.'

'You can ask. I got knifed once. It grew back this way. A puzzle for medical science to unravel.'

'Knifed? By a person, do you mean?'

'Sure,' he said.

'Oh.' It was a very tiny 'Oh.'

Hawes looked at her. 'People do… well, people do get knifed, you know.'

'Yes, of course. I imagine a detective…' She stopped. 'What was it you wanted to know about the stationery?'

'Well, how much of it do you stock?'

'All my paper supplies come from Cartwright. The 142-Y comes in reams and also in smaller packages of a hundred sheets.'

'Do you sell a lot of it?'

'Of the smaller packages, yes. The reams move more slowly.'

'How many smaller packs have you sold in the past month?'

'Oh, I couldn't possibly say. A lot.'

'And the reams?'

'The reams are easier to check. I got six reams at the beginning of June. I can count how many are left.'

'Would you, please?' he asked.

'Certainly.'

She walked to the back of the shop. Hawes pulled a book from the shelf and began leafing through it. When Christine returned she said, 'That's one of my favourites. Have you read it?'

'Yes. A long time ago.'

'I read it when I was still a girl.' She smiled briefly, putthe book out of her mind, and said, 'I have two reams left. I'm glad you stopped in. I'll have to reorder.'

'That means you sold four, correct?'

'Yes.'

'Would you remember to whom?'

'I know to whom I sold two of them. The others I couldn't say.'

'Who?' Hawes asked.

'A young man who conies in here regularly for 142-Y. He buys at least a ream a month. He's one of the chief reasons I keep it in stock.'

'Do you know his name?'

'Yes. Philip Bannister.'

'Does he live in the neighbourhood?'

'I imagine so. Whenever he's come into the shop, he's been dressed casually. He came in once wearing Bermuda shorts.'

'Bermuda shorts?' Hawes asked, astonished. 'In this neighbourhood?'

'People are people,' the girl reminded him.

'You don't know where he lives, though?' Hawes said.

'No. It must be close by, though.'

'What makes you say that?'

'He's often come in with shopping in his arms. Groceries, you know. I'm sure he lives close by.'

'I'll check it,' Hawes said. 'And I'll see you tonight at nine.'

'At nine,' Christine said. She paused. 'I'm—I'm looking forward to seeing you again,' she said.

'So am I,' he answered.

'Good-bye,' she said.

'Good-bye.'

The bell over the door tinkled when he left.

The telephone directory listed a Philip Bannister at 1592 South Tenth. Hawes called the squad to let Carella know where he was going, and then he drove to Bannister's place.

South Tenth was a typical precinct street, crowded with tenements and humanity, overlooked by fire escapes cluttered with the paraphernalia of life. The fire escapes were loaded today. Today every woman in the neighbourhood had said to hell with cleaning the house. Today every woman in the neighbourhood had put on her lightest clothing and stepped out on to the fire escape in the hope of catching any breeze that might rustle through the concrete canyon. Radios had been plugged into extension cords that trailed back into the apartments, and music flooded the street. Pitchers of lemonade, cans of beer beaded with cold sweat, milk bottles full of ice water, rested on the fire escapes. The women sat and drank and fanned themselves, their skirts pulled up over their knees, some of them sitting in shorts and halters, some of them sitting in slips, all of them trying desperately to beat the heat.

Hawes pulled the car to the curb, cut the engine, mopped his brow, and stepped from his small oven into the larger oven that was the street. He was wearing lightweight trousers and a cotton sports shirt open at the throat, but he was sweating none the less. He thought suddenly of Fats Donner and the Turkish bath, and felt immediately cooler.

1592 was a dowdy grey tenement set between two similarly dowdy and similarly grey tenements. Hawes climbed the front stoop, walking past two young girls who were discussing Eddie Fisher. One of them couldn't understand what he'd seen in Debbie Reynolds. She herself was built better than Debbie Reynolds, and she was sure Eddie had noticed her that time she'd got his autograph outside the stage door. Hawes went into the building wishing he could sing.

A small neatly-lettered white card told him that Philip Bannister lived in Apartment 21. Hawes wiped sweat from his lip, and then climbed to the second floor. Every door on the floor was open in an attempt to produce a cross-current circulation of air. The attempt failed miserably. Not a breeze stirred in the hallway. The door to Apartment 21 was open, too. From somewhere inside the apartment, Hawes heard the unmistakable chatter of a typewriter. He knocked on the doorjamb.

'Anybody home?' he called.

The typewriter continued its incessant jabbering.

'Hey! Anybody home?'

The clatter of the keys stopped abruptly. 'Who is it?' a voice shouted.

'Police,' Hawes said.

'Who?' The voice was utterly incredulous.

'Police.'

'Just a second.'

Hawes heard the typewriter start up again. It went furiously for some three and a half minutes and then stopped. He heard a chair being scraped back, heard the pad of bare feet through the apartment. A thin man in undershirt and striped under-shorts came into the kitchen and walked to the front door. He cocked his head to one side, bis bright brown eyes gleaming.

'Did you say police?; he asked.

'Yes, I did.'

'It can't be Grandfather because he's dead. I know Dad drinks a bit, but what kind of trouble can he be in?'

Hawes smiled. 'I'd like to ask you a few questions. That is, if you're Philip Bannister.'

'The very same. And you are?'

'Detective Hawes, Eighty-seventh Squad.'

'A real cop,' Bannister said appreciatively. 'A real live detective. Well, well. Enter. What's the matter? Am I typing too loud? Did that bitch complain about it?'

'What bitch?'

'My landlady. Come in. Make yourself homely. She's threatened to call the cops if I type at night again. Is that what this is?'

'No,' Hawes said.

'Sit down,' Bannister said, indicating one of the chairs at the kitchen table. 'Want a cold beer?'

'I can use one.'

'So can I. When do you think we'll get some rain?'

'I couldn't say.'

'Neither could I. Neither can the weather bureau. I think they get their forecasts by reading yesterday's forecast in the newspapers.' Bannister opened the icebox door and pulled out two cans of beer. 'Ice melts like hell in this weather. You mind drinking it from the can?'

'Not at all.'

He punctured both cans and handed one to Hawes.

'To the noble and the pure,' he toasted, and he drank. Hawes drank with him. 'Ahhhhh, good,' Bannister said. 'The simple pleasures. Nothing like them. Who needs money?'

'You live here alone, Bannister?' Hawes asked.

'Entirely alone. Except when I have visitors, which is rarely. I enjoy women, but I can't afford them.'

'You employed?'

'Sort of. I'm a freelance writer.'

'Magazines?'

'I am currently working on a book,' Bannister said.

'Who's your publisher?'

'I have no publisher. I wouldn't be living in this rat trap if I had a publisher. I'd be lighting cigars with twenty-dollar bills and I'd be dating all the high-class fashion models in the city.'

'Is that what successful writers do?'

'That's what this writer is going to do when he's successful.'

'Did you buy a ream of Cartwright 142-Y recently?' Hawes asked.

'Huh?'

'Cartwright 14—'

'Yeah,' Bannister said. 'How the hell did you know that?'

'Do you know a prostitute called The Lady?'

'Huh?'

'Do you know a prostitute called The Lady?' Hawes repeated.

'No. What? What did you say?'

'I said-'

'Are you kidding?'

'I'm serious.'

'A prost—Hell, no!' Bannister seemed to get suddenly indignant. 'How would I know a prost—? Are you kidding?'

'Do you know anyone called The Lady?'

'The Lady? What is this?'

'The Lady. Think.'

'I don't have to think. I don't know anybody called The Lady. What is this?'

'May I see your desk?'

'I don't have a desk. Listen, the joke has gone far enough. I don't know how you found out what kind of typing paper I use, and I don't particularly care. All I know is that you're sitting there drinking my good beer which costs me money Dad works hard to earn, and asking me foolish questions about prost—Now, what is this, huh? What is this?'

'May I see your desk, please?'

'I don't have a goddamn desk! I work on a table!'

'May I see that?'

'All right, all right, be mysterious!' Bannister shouted. 'Be a big-shot mysterious detective. Go ahead. Be my guest. The table's in the other room. Don't mess up anything or I'll call the goddamn commissioner.'

Hawes went into the other room. A typewriter was on the table, together with a pile of typed sheets, a package of carbon paper, and an opened box of typing paper.

'Do you have any paste?' Hawes asked.

'Of course not. What would I be doing with paste?'

'What are your plans for tonight, Bannister?'

'Who wants to know?' Bannister asked, pulling back his shoulders dignifiedly, looking the way Napoleon must have looked in his underwear.

'I do,' Hawes said.

'Suppose I don't care to answer you?'

Hawes shrugged. The shrug was very meaningful. Bannister studied the shrug and then said, 'Okay. I'm going to the ballet with Mother.'

'Where?'

'The City Theatre.'

'What time?'

'It starts at eight-thirty.'

'Your mother live here in the city?'

'No. She lives out on Sand's Spit. The East Shore.'

'Is she well-fixed, would you say?'

'I would say so, yes.'

'Would you call her a suburban lady?'

'I would,' Bannister admitted.

'A lady?'

'Yes.'

Hawes hesitated. 'Do you get along with her?'

'With Mother? Of course I do.'

'How does she feel about your writing?'

'She feels I have great talent.'

'Does she like the idea of your living in a slum neighbourhood?'

'She would rather I lived home, but she respects my wishes.'

'The family's supporting you, is that right?'

'That's right.'

'How much?'

'Sixty-five a week.'

'Mother ever oppose this?'

'The money, you mean? No. Why should she? I spent much more than that when I was living at home.'

'Who paid for the ballet tickets tonight?'

'Mother.'

'Where were you this morning at about eight o'clock, Bannister?'

'Right here.'

'Anybody with you?'

'No.'

'Anybody see you here?'

'The typewriter was going,' Bannister said. 'Ask any of my neighbours. Unless they're all dead, they heard it. Why? What am I supposed to have done at eight o'clock this morning?'

'What paper do you read on Sundays?' Hawes asked.

'The Graphic.'

'Any out-of-town papers?'

'Like what?'

'Like the New York Times?'

'Yes, I buy the Times.'

'Every Sunday?'

'Yes. I like to see what pap is on the best-seller list each week.'

'Do you know where the station house is?'

'The police station, you mean?'

'Yes.'

'It's near the park, isn't it?'

'Is it, or isn't it?' Hawes asked.

'Yes, it is. I still don't understand—'

'What time are you meeting your mother?'

'Eight,' Bannister said.

'Eight tonight. Do you own a gun?'

'No.'

'Any other weapon?'

'No.'

'Have you had any arguments with your mother recently?'

'No.'

'With any other woman?'

'No.'

'What do you call your mother?'

'Mother.'

'Anything else?'

'Mom.'

'Any nicknames?'

'Sometimes I call her Carol. That's her name.'

'Ever call her The Lady?'

'No. Are we back to that again?'

'Ever call anybody The Lady?'

'No.'

'What do you call your landlady, the bitch who said she'd call the cops if you typed at night?'

'I call her Mrs Nelson. I also call her The Bitch.'

'Has she given you a lot of trouble?'

'Only about the typing.'

'Do you like her?'

'Not particularly.'

'Do you hate her?'

'No. I hardly ever think about her, to tell the truth.'

'Bannister…'

'Yes?'

'A detective will probably follow you to the ballet tonight. He'll be with you when—'

'What do you mean? What am I supposed to have done?'

'—when you leave this apartment, and when you meet your mother, and when you take your seat. I'm telling you this in case—'

'What the hell is this, a police state?'

'—in case you had any rash ideas. Do you understand me, Bannister?'

'No, I don't. The rashest idea I have is buying Mother an ice-cream soda after the show,'

'Good, Bannister. Keep it that way.'

'Cops,' Bannister said. 'If you're finished, I'd like to get back to work.'

'I'm finished,' Hawes said. 'Thank you for your time. And remember. There'll be a cop with you.'

'Balls,' Bannister said, and he sat at his table and began typing.

Hawes left the apartment. He checked with the three other tenants on the floor, two of whom were willing to swear (like drunken sailors!) that Bannister's damn machine had been going at eight o'clock that morning. In fact, it had started going at six-thirty, and hadn't stopped since.

Hawes thanked them and went back to the squad.

It was 12.23.

Hawes was hungry.