Like Love

11

They picked up Amos Barlow at ten o’clock that night, when he returned to his house in Riverhead. By that time Carella had been taken to the hospital where the intern on duty dressed his cuts and insisted, over his protests, that he spend the night there. Barlow seemed surprised by the presence of policemen. Neither of the arresting officers told him why the detectives of the 87th wanted to question him. He went along with the two patrolmen willingly and even agreeably, apparently assuming that something had turned up in connection with his brother.

Cotton Hawes greeted him in the squadroom and then led him to the small interrogation room off the entrance corridor. Detectives Meyer and Kling were sitting there drinking coffee. They offered Barlow a cup, which he refused.

“Would you prefer some tea?” Hawes asked.

“No, thank you,” Barlow said. He watched the three men, waiting for one of them to say something important, but they were seemingly involved in a ritual they had no desire to disturb. They chatted about the weather, and they cracked a joke or two, but they were mostly intent on consuming their beverage. Hawes finished his tea before the other two men finished their coffee. He put down his cup, took the tea bag from the saucer and dropped it delicately into the cup, and then said, “Where were you all night, Mr. Barlow?”

“Were you trying to reach me?”

“Yes,” Hawes said pleasantly. “You told detectives Meyer and Carella that you’re usually home by six, but you seemed to be a little late tonight.”

“Yes,” Barlow said.

“We called your office, too,” Meyer put in. “Anderson and Loeb, isn’t that right? 891 Mayfair?”

“That’s right.”

“A cleaning woman answered the phone,” Meyer said. Told us everyone had left.”

“Yes, I left the office at about five-thirty,” Barlow said.

“Where’d you go then?” Kling asked.

“I had a date.”

“Who with?”

“A young lady named Martha Tamid.”

“Address?”

“1211 Yarley Street. That’s in Riverhead, not far from the Herbert Alexander Oval.”

“What time did you pick her up, Mr. Barlow?”

“At about six. Why?”

“Do you drive, Mr. Barlow?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you have trouble driving?” Kling asked. “I notice you use a cane.”

“I can drive,” Barlow said. He picked up the cane and looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. He smiled. “The leg doesn’t hinder me. Not when I drive.”

“May I see that cane, please, sir?” Hawes asked.

Barlow handed it to him. “Nice-looking cane,” Hawes said.

“Yes.”

“Heavy.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Barlow, did you go home at any time this evening?” Meyer asked.

“Yes.”

“When was that?”

“At ten o’clock. Your patrolmen were there. They can verify the time.” Barlow looked suddenly puzzled. “I’m sorry, but why are you… ?”

“Did you go home at any time before ten o’clock?” Meyer said.

“No.”

“At, say, six-thirty?” Kling asked.

“No. I didn’t get home until ten. I went to pick up Martha directly from the office.”

“What’d you do, Mr. Barlow? Go out to dinner? A movie?”

“Dinner, yes.”

“No movie?”

“No. We went back to her apartment after dinner.”

“Where’d you eat, Mr. Barlow?”

“At a Japanese restaurant in Isola. Tamayuki, something like that. Martha suggested the place.”

“Have you known this Martha Tamid long?”

“Just a short while.”

“And after dinner you went back to her apartment, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“What time was that?”

“About eight or eight-thirty.”

“And you left there at what time?”

“About nine-thirty.”

“You stayed with her for an hour, is that right, Mr. Barlow?”

“About an hour, yes.”

“And then you went straight home?”

“That’s right,” Barlow said.

“And at no time during the night did you go back to the house. Not to check on anything, not to see if you’d left the gas on…”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” Barlow asked vehemently, turning on Kling.

“What?”

“You know how my brother died. If you think talking about gas is funny…”

“I’m sorry,” Kling said. “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

“I didn’t go back to the house,” Barlow said. “I don’t know what this is all about. If you don’t believe me, call Martha and ask her. She’ll tell you anything you want to know. What happened? Was someone else killed?”

“No, Mr. Barlow.”

“Then what?”

“Does Miss Tamid have a telephone?” Meyer asked.

“Yes.”

“May we have the number, please?” Hawes said.

* * * *

Miss Martha Tamid lived five blocks away from the Herbert Alexander Oval in Riverhead, a small grass-covered plot of ground in the exact center of which stood a statue of General Alexander astride a horse, looking into the wind with his steely penetrating gaze, his strong jaw, his rugged good looks. Hawes drove past the statue, and then turned into the One Way block called Yarley Street, watching the numbers as he drove, and finally pulling up before 1211. It was almost midnight, but they had called Miss Tamid from the office, and she said she wasn’t asleep yet and would be happy to tell them anything they wanted to know. They had told Barlow he could go, but Hawes had nodded at Kling, and Kling had followed Barlow the moment he left the squadroom. Then Hawes had clipped on his holster and begun his drive toward Riverhead.

Miss Tamid lived in a six-story apartment building at the end of the street. She had given Hawes the apartment number on the phone, and he pressed the lobby buzzer for 6C, and then waited for the answering buzz. It came almost instantly. He let himself in and walked to the elevator. The lobby was small and quiet. The entire building seemed to be asleep at this hour. He went up to the sixth floor, found apartment 6C in the center of the corridor, and rang the bell. He rang it only once, and with a very short ring. The door opened immediately.

Martha Tamid was a tiny girl who looked like an Egyptian belly dancer. Hawes wished he were a private detective because then Miss Tamid would have been in something slinky, or seductive, or both. As it was, she was wearing a blouse and slacks, which was good enough because neither did very much to hide the provocative structure of her tiny body.

“Miss Tamid?” he asked.

“Yes? Detective Hawes?”

“Yes.”

“Please, won’t you come in? I was waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry to be calling, so late, but we wanted to check this out as soon as possible.”

“That’s quite all right. I was watching television. Greta Garbo. She is very good, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

Martha Tamid closed the door behind Hawes and led him into her living room. The television set was going with an old Greta Garbo-John Gilbert movie. Miss Garbo was seductively gnawing at a bunch of grapes.

“She is very pretty,” Martha said, and then turned off the set. The room was suddenly very still.

“Now then,” Martha said, and she smiled.

The smile was a wide one. It lighted her entire face and touched her dark brown eyes, setting them aglow. Her hair was black, and she wore it very long, trailing halfway down her back. She had a small beauty mark near the corner of her mouth, and a dusky complexion he had always associated with Mediterranean peoples. There was an impish quality to her face, the smile, the ignited brown eyes, the tilt of her head, even the beauty mark. There was something else in her face, too, something about her rich body, an open invitation, a challenge, no, that was ridiculous.

He said, “Excuse me, are you a belly dancer?”

Martha laughed and said, “No, I’m a receptionist. Do I look like a belly dancer?”

Hawes smiled. “Well,” he said.

“But you have not even seen my belly,” Martha said, still laughing, one eyebrow going up just a trifle, just a very slight arching of the brow, but the challenge unmistakable, almost as if she had said, “But you have not even seen my belly… yet.”

Hawes cleared his throat. “Where do you work, Miss Tamid?”

“At Anderson and Loeb.”

“Is that where you met Amos Barlow?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you known him?”

“I’m only new with the firm,” Martha said.

“I’m trying to place your accent,” Hawes said, smiling.

“It’s a mélange,” Martha said. “I was born in Turkey, and then went from there to Paris, and then to Vienna with my parents. I have only been here in America for six months.”

“I see. When did you begin working for Anderson and Loeb?”

“Last month. I was going to school first. To learn typing and shorthand. Now I know them, so now I am a receptionist.”

“Do you live here with your parents, Miss Tamid?”

“No, I am twenty-three years old. That is old enough to live alone, n’est-ce pas, and to do what one desires.”

“Yes,” Hawes said.

“You are a very big man,” Martha said. “Do I make you feel uncomfortable?”

“No, why should you?”

“Because I am so small,” she said. The radiant challenge came onto her face again. “Though not all over,” she added.

Hawes nodded abstractly. “So then… uh… you met Mr. Barlow you started working at Anderson and Loeb last month.”

“Yes.” Martha paused. “Would you like something to drink?’

“No. No, thank you. We’re not allowed to on duty.”

“A pity,” she said.

“Yes.”

She smiled briefly, expectantly. “Did you see Mr. Barlow tonight?” Hawes asked.

“Yes.”

“At what time?”

“He picked me up at about six o’clock. Is Mr. Barlow in some trouble?”

“No, no, this is just a routine check,” Hawes said. “What time did you leave the office, Miss Tamid?”

“At five.”

“But he didn’t leave until five-thirty, is that right?”

“I don’t know what time he left. He was still there when I went away, and he arrived here at about six.”

“And where did you go then?”

“To a restaurant downtown.”

“Why’d you come all the way up here first? You could have gone directly from the office.”

“But I had to change my clothes, no?”

“Of course,” Hawes said, and he smiled.

“I change my clothes very often,” Martha said. “I wore to the office a suit, and then I changed to a dress for my date, and when Amos left, I put on a blouse and slacks, because I do not go to bed until very late.”

“I see.” He waited, fully expecting her to say, “Would you mind if I changed into something more comfortable now?” but she didn’t say it, and of course he knew she wouldn’t because what the hell, he was only a city detective and not a private eye.

“What time did you come back here from the restaurant?”

“Eight-thirty, nine o’clock. Somewhere like that.”

“And Mr. Barlow left at what time?”

“About nine-thirty, nine forty-five.” Martha paused. “Do you find me unattractive?” she asked.

“What?”

“My looks. Are they bad to you?”

“Bad?”

“Not pretty, I mean.”

“No, no. No, no, no, you’re very pretty.”

“I think Amos Barlow didn’t think so.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I think he was in a hurry to leave me.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I offered him a drink, and he said no. And then I asked him if he liked to dance, and he said no.” She paused. Reflectively, she said, “I sometimes don’t understand American men.”

“Well, it takes all kinds,” Hawes said philosophically.

“Do you like to dance?”

“Sure.”

“But, of course, it’s too late to dance now.” Martha grinned. “The people downstairs would complain.”

“I guess they would,” Hawes said.

Martha sighed, inhaling a deep breath, and then exhaling noisily. “He must have thought me unattractive,” she said.

“Maybe you’re not his type,” Hawes said. “Does he date many other girls in the office?”

“I don’t know. He is a very quiet man.” She shook her head in a delightfully confused way. “I am very frustrated from him.”

“Well, all we wanted to know, actually,” Hawes said, “was whether or not he really was with you from six to nine-thirty or so. And I guess he was.”

“Well, he was with me,” Martha said, “but whether he was really with me, that is an open question.” She shrugged. “American men,” she said sadly.

“Thank you very much for your help,” Hawes said, rising, “I’d better go now. It’s getting very late.”

“It is never too late,” Martha Tamid said cryptically, and the fixed him with a stare so blatant he almost melted. He hesitated for just a moment, wondering, and then walked toward the door.

“Good night, Miss Tamid,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

“American men,” Martha Tamid said, and closed the door behind him.

* * * *

SURVEILLANCE OF AMOS BARLOW BY DETECTIVE 3rd/GRADE BERTRAM KLING:

April 12th:

Followed Barlow from precinct to his home in Riverhead, arrived there 11:08 P.M. Barlow parked car, 1959 Ford sedan in garage at rear of house, entered house through kitchen doorway at back. Kitchen light burned for approximately fifteen minutes. At 11:25, light in second story of house went on. Barlow came to window at front of house, looked out into street, drew shade. At 11:35 PM., upstairs light went out. Maintained post until 12:30 A.M., at which time I presumed Barlow had gone to sleep. Put in call to 64th Precinct, Riverhead, was relieved on post by Patrolman David Schwartz.

April 13th:

Relieved Schwartz on post at 6:00 A.M. Took up position on corner of Wagnar and Fourteenth, shielded by hedges of corner house. No at sign of activity in Barlow house of corner house until 7:30 A.M. at which time Barlow came from rear of house, walked to garage, pulled car out. Followed him to restaurant nearby on Pike Avenue, place called Family Luncheonette. Parked across the street, Barlow partly visible through front window. He sat at table alone, ate leisurely breakfast, left luncheonette at 8:22 A.M. Drove through River head via Addison River Parkway which he picked up at Cannon Road and the Avenue (Dover Plains Avenue), joining later with River harb Highway which he took down to Dock Street section. Got off the highway at Land’s End, drove Westerly to Mayfair Avenue, parked the car in open lot on corner of Mayfair and Pickett, walked to office building at 891 Mayfair. No way to continue surveillance into office, so I checked building for rear exists satisfied there were none and than stationed myself in lobby near elevator banks. Broke for coffee at 10:15 a.m. A.M. but was able to keep watch of elevators from lobby drugstore. Barlow came down again at 12:34 P.M., followed him to a restaurant named Fannie’s on Pickett Street where he ate lunch alone, and then walked for about fifteen minutes through small park outside Criminal Courts Building on MacCauley, me following. Than back to office again by 1:25 P.M., I took up position in lobby. Barlow did not emerge from elevators again until 5:10 P.M. He bought an evening newspaper at cigar stand, walked to parking lot_# redeemed car, drove directly to River Harb Highway, then onto Addison Parkway River Parkway, exiting at Cannon Road, and then driving from there to his house. Parked car in the garage, went into house, did not come out again all night. I broke for dinner at 6:50 P.M., relieved by Patrolman Gordley of 64th, Riverhead, took up post again at 7:45 P.M., relieved at midnight by again by Gordley.

April 14th:

Barlow followed identical routine as preceding day. There seems to be nothing also at all suspicious about him his behavior. His habits seem fixed and quiet. Doubt very much if he had anything whatever do to do with beating of Carella.

April 15 th

Saturday morning. Arrived at house earlier than usual (5:30 A.M.) because I thought Barlow’s Saturday routine might provide something unusual. Came supplied with coffee and donuts which I had in the car, parked again on corner of Wagner and Fourteenth, sheild shielded by hedges. Had a long wait. Barlow apparently sleeps late on Saturdays. He did not come out of the house until almost twelve noon, by which time I was hungry all over again. Hoped he would stop for lunch somewhere, but he did not. Instead, he once more drove to Cannon road and than headed North. Thought for a moment he had tipped to the tail when I lost him in traffic for several blocks. But picked him up again just as he made turn east under elevated structure on Martin. Followed him for five. He Pulled up in front of a florist (Kostantinos Brothers, 3451 Martin avenue) came out bearing a small floral wreath. Drove East another ten blocks, pulled into gates of Cedarcrest Cemetery. He parked the car in the parking lot, walked to the office, remained there for several moments, and then walked into the cemetery carrying the wreath. I followed him on the path winding through the gravestones. He stopped at one of the stones, stood there for a long time with his head bent, just looking down at the stone. Then he knelt and put the wreath on the grave, and clasped his hands and prayed that way, on his knees, with his hands clasped, for what must have been a full half-i hour. He rose, brushed at his eyes as if he’d been crying, and then went back to his car. He stopped for lunch at a diner on Cannon Road (Elevated Diner, 867 Cannon) and then went back to the house in Riverhead, via the-park via Dover Plains Avenue. Called the 64th and asked for lunch relief, getting a patrolman named Gleason this time. When I got back to the house at 2:35 P.M., Gleason was gone and so was Barlow. The garage doors were open.

Barlow returned at 3:17 P.M. Gleason pulled up a few minutes later, driving an unmarked sedan. Told me Barlow had only gone to do his weekly marketing, stopping at grocer’s, butcher’s, hardware store, etc. I thanked Gleason and took up

Whatever Barlow does with his weekends, he apparently doesn’t go out. This was Saturday night, but he didn’t leave that house again all day. At 11:00 P.M., all the lights went out. I hung around until one in the morning, and then called the 64th for relief.

April 16th:

I slept late than checked with Carella at home to find out where brother Tommy Barlow is buried. Con firmed Cedarcrest, I relieved Patrolman Gordley on post at 12:15 P.M. Gordley said Barlow had not been out of the house all morning. At 1:30 P.M., Barlow came out wearing slacks and sweater, carrying cane. He walked to garage, came out pushing power lawn mower, which he started. He mowed front lawn, put mower back in garage, went into house again, At 3:00 P.M., small red compact Chevy II pulled up in front of Barlow’s house. Young girl in her twenties, long black hair, got out of car, went up front walk, rang doorbell. I knew Barlow was inside because he hadn’t left since mowing the lawn, but the girl stood on the doorstep and rang the bell for a long time, and he didn’t answer the door. She finally gave up, walked back to the car, angrily slammed the door, and drove off. Checked immediately with Hawes for description of Martha Tamid, positive identification, asked for relief from 64th, drove to Miss Tamid’s apartment near the Oval. The red compact parked at the curb, but when I spoke to her, she denied having left the apartment, said she’d been in all day, said she had certainly not driven to Barlow’s house. She offered me drink, which I declined. She also asked me if I thought she looked like an Egyptian belly dancer, which I thought was a strange question, but I said yes, now that she mentioned it, I thought she did look like one. She seems like very aggressive and very female person. Can’t understand her lying about visit to Barlow.

I took up post again at 6:12 P.M., after dinner, Patrolman said Barlow had not been out. Occurred to me that perhaps Barlow had left house by foot, sneaking out back way, leaving his car in the garage. I called the house from a drugstore two blocks away, hung up when Barlow answered, took up post again. Lights went on at 11:00.

I left at 2:00 in the morning, Schwartz relieving. Schwartz wanted to know why we were sticking to this guy. I wish I could tell him.

April 17 th:

Monday morning.

Barlow up and off at 7:30 A.M. Identical weekday routine. Breakfast, office, lunch, office, home, lights out, goodnight. Time is now 1:30 A.M. I left Barlow house at 1:00 A.M., calling 64th for relief, and getting Gleason who also wanted to know why we were tailing Barlow.

Request permission to end surveillance.

Detective 3rd/Grade Bertram Kling

* * * *

On the morning of April 18th, which was a bright shining Tuesday with the temperature at sixty-three degrees, and the prevailing winds westerly at two miles per hour, Detective Steve Carella left his house in Riverhead and walked toward the elevated structure some five blocks away. He had been attacked on the twelfth of the month but time, as the ancient Arab saying goes, heals all wounds. He had not taken the beating lightly because nobody in his right mind takes a beating lightly. A beating hurts. It is not nice to have someone knock you about the head and the body with a stick or a cane or a baseball bat. It is not nice to be carted off to the hospital where interns calmly look at your bleeding face, and calmly swab the cuts, and calmly dress them as if they are above all this petty bleeding, as if you are a page out of a textbook, elementary stuff, we had this in first year med, give us something hard, like a duodenal ulcer of the Macedonian canal. It is even worse to have to come home and face your wife with all those bandages and chunks of adhesive plaster clinging to your fine masculine head. Your wife is a deaf-mute and doesn’t know how to scream, but the scream is there in her eyes, and you wish with all your might that you could erase that scream, that you hadn’t been ambushed by some lousy bastard and beaten to a pulp before you could even get your gun in firing position. You wonder how you are going to explain all this to the children in the morning. You don’t want them to start worrying about the fact that you are a cop. You don’t want them to begin building anxiety neuroses when they’re barely out of diapers.

But time heals all wounds-those Arabs knew how to put it all right-and Carella was aware of another old proverb, an ancient Syrian saying that simply stated, “Time wounds all heels.” He didn’t know who had pounced upon him in the driveway of Barlow’s house, but he had every reason to believe that the minions of the law, those stout defenders of the people, those stalwart protectors of the innocent, those relentless tracers of lost persons, those bulwarks of freedom, those citadels of truth and common decency, yeah, he had no doubt the bulls of the 87th would one day pick up some louse who would confess to every crime committed in the past ten years and who would also casually mention he’d happened to beat up a cop named Carella on the night of April twelfth. So Carella was content to bide his time, confident that the odds were on his side. Crime doesn’t pay. Everybody knows that. And time is a river.

Time, on that lovely April morning, happened to be a torrential flood, but Carella didn’t know that as yet. He was on his way to work, minding his own business on the way to the elevated station, and he hadn’t the faintest idea that time was about to reopen a couple of old healed wounds, or that he was about to receive-once again-a few knocks about the head and body. Who expects a beating on a lovely April morning? The beating came as he was climbing the steps to the elevated platform. The first blow came from behind, and it struck him at the base of the neck, sending him sprawling forward on to the steps. He felt the impact of the sudden shock, felt himself blacking out as he fell forward, and thought only, Jesus, broad daylight! and then grasped fumblingly for the steps as he fell. The man with the stick, or the cane, or the baseball bat, or whatever the hell he was using, decided to kick Carella because it was most convenient to kick a man when he was groveling on his knees, grasping for a hold on the steps. So he kicked him in the face, opening one of the cuts there and releasing a torrent of blood that spilled over Carella’s cheek and down his neck, and onto his nice white clean go-to-work shirt. A woman coming down the steps screamed and then ran up the steps again, screaming all the way to the change booth, where the Elevated Transit employee tried to calm her down and find out what had happened, while on the steps the man with the stick or the cane or the baseball bat was striking Carella blow after blow on the head and neck, trying his best, it seemed, to kill him. Carella was aware of the woman’s screams, and aware of pounding footsteps, and of a man’s voice yelling, “Stop that! You stop that, do you hear?” but he was mostly aware of blinding flashes of yellow erupting everywhere the goddamned stick fell, and especially aware of his own dizziness as he groped for his revolver, missing it, feeling the cartridges in his belt, groping again for the handle of the gun, feeling his fingers closing around the walnut stock as his attacker again struck him across the bridge of the nose, Hit me hard enough you bastard and you’ll kill me, hit me on the bridge of the nose and I’ll drop dead right here at your feet, the gun was free.

He swung the gun backhanded, clinging to the steps with one hand, swinging the gun without looking in a wide-armed blind swipe at whoever was behind him. The gun connected. Miraculously, he felt it colliding with flesh, and he heard someone grunt in pain, and he whirled instantly, his back to the steps, and he brought back both feet in an intuitive spring-coil action, unleashing them, the soles of his feet colliding with the man’s midriff, sending the man pitching back and down the steps; and all the while Carella was itching to pull the trigger of his gun, all the while he was dying to kill this rotten son of a bitch who was an expert at beating up cops. He got to his feet. The man had rolled to the bottom of the steps, and now he crawled to his knees and Carella leveled the .38 and said, “Stop or I’ll shoot!” and he thought, Go ahead, run. Run and you’re dead.

But the man didn’t run. He sat right where he was at the bottom of the steps while the woman at the top continued screaming and the man from the change booth kept asking over and over again, “Are you all right, are you all right?”

Carella went down the steps.

He grabbed the man by the chin, holding the gun muzzle against his chest, and he lifted the man’s head and looked into his face.

He had never seen him before in his life.

* * * *