Sadie When She Died

13

The man who picked the lock on Arlene Orton’s front door, ten minutes after she left her apartment on Wednesday morning, was better at it than any burglar in the city, and he happened to work for the Police Department. He had the door open in three minutes flat, at which time a technician went in and wired the joint. It took the technician longer to set up his equipment than it had taken his partner to open the door, but both were artists in their own right, and the sound man had a lot more work to do.

The telephone was the easiest of his jobs. He unscrewed the carbon mike in the mouthpiece of the phone, replaced it with his own mike, attached his wires, screwed the mouthpiece back on, and was instantly in business—or almost in business. The tap would not become operative until the telephone company supplied the police with a list of so-called bridging points that located the pairs and cables for Arlene Orton’s phone. The monitoring equipment would be hooked into these, and whenever a call went out of or came into the apartment, a recorder would automatically tape both ends of the conversation. In addition, whenever a call was made from the apartment, a dial indicator would ink out a series of dots that signified the number being called. The police listener would be monitoring the equipment from wherever the bridging point happened to be; in Arlene Orton’s case, the location index was seven blocks away.

The technician, while he had Arlene’s phone apart, could just as easily have installed a bug that would have picked up any voices in the living room and would also have recorded Arlene’s half of any telephone conversations. He chose instead to place his bug in the bookcase on the opposite side of the room. The bug was a small FM transmitter with a battery-powered mike that needed to be changed every twenty-four hours. It operated on the same frequency as the recording machine locked into it, a machine that was voice-actuated and that would begin taping whenever anyone began speaking in the apartment. The technician would have preferred running his own wires, rather than having to worry about changing a battery every twenty-four hours. But running wires meant that you had to pick a place to run them to, usually following electrical or telephone circuits to an empty apartment or closet or what-have-you where a policeman would monitor the recording equipment. If a tap was being set up in a hotel room, it was usually possible to rent the room next door, put your listener into it, and go about your messy business without anyone being the wiser. But in this city, empty apartments were about as scarce as working telephones, and whereas the wire was being installed by court order, the technician dared not ask the building superintendent for an empty closet or a workroom in which to hide his listener. Building supers are perhaps not as garrulous as barbers, but the effectiveness of a wiretap is directly proportionate to the secrecy surrounding it, and a blabbermouth superintendent can kill an investigation more quickly than a squad of gangland goons.

So the technician settled upon the battery-powered mike and resigned himself to the fact that every twenty-four hours he and his partner would have to get into the apartment somehow to change the goddamn batteries. In all, there would be four sets of batteries to change because the technician was planting four bugs in the apartment: one in the kitchen, one in the bedroom, one in the bathroom, and one in the living room. While he worked, his partner was down in the lobby with a walkie-talkie in his coat pocket, ready to let him know the moment Arlene Orton came back to the building, and ready to detain her by ruse if necessary. Watching the clock, the technician worked swiftly and silently, hoping the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt would not erupt with his partner’s warning voice. He was not worried about legal action against the city; the court order, in effect, gave him permission to break and enter. He worried only about blowing the surveillance.

In the rear of a panel truck parked at the curb some twelve feet south of the entrance to 812 Crane, Steve Carella sat behind the recording equipment that was locked into the frequency of the four bugs. He knew that in some neighborhoods a phony truck was as readily recognizable as the cop on the beat. Put a man in the back of a fake delivery truck, park the truck on the street and start taking pictures of people going in and out of a candy store suspected of being a numbers drop, and all of a sudden the neighborhood was full of budding stars and starlets, all of whom knew there was a cop-photographer in the back of the truck, all of whom mugged and pranced and emoted shamelessly for the movie camera, while managing to conduct not an iota of business that had anything at all to do with the policy racket. It got discouraging. But Crane Street was in one of the city’s better neighborhoods, where perhaps the citizens were not as wary of cops hiding in the backs of panel trucks doing their dirty watching and listening. Carella sat hopefully with a tuna-fish sandwich and a bottle of beer, prepared to hear and record any sounds that emanated from Arlene’s apartment.

At the bridging point seven blocks away and thirty minutes later, Arthur Brown sat behind equipment that was hooked into the telephone mike, and waited for Arlene Orton’s phone to ring. He was in radio contact with Carella in the back of his phony panel truck and could apprise him of any new development at once.

The first call came at 12:17 P . M . The equipment tripped in automatically, and the spools of tape began recording the conversation while Brown simultaneously monitored it through his headphones.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Arlene?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Nan.”

“Nan? You sound so different. Do you have a cold or something?”

“Every year at this time. Just before the holidays. Arlene, I’m terribly rushed, I’ll make this short. Do you know Beth’s dress size?”

“A ten, I would guess. Or an eight.”

“Well, which?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you give Danny a ring?”

“Do you have his office number?”

“No, but he’s listed. It’s Reynolds and Abelman. In Calm’s Point.”

“Thank you, darling. Let’s have lunch after the holidays sometime, okay?”

“Love to.”

“I’ll call you. Bye-bye.”

Arlene Orton spoke to three more girlfriends in succession. The first one was intent on discussing, among other things, a new birth-control pill she was trying. Arlene told her that she, herself, had stopped taking the pill after her divorce. In the beginning, the very thought of sex was abhorrent to her, and since she had no intention of even looking at another man for as long as she lived, she saw no reason to be taking the pill. Later on, when she revised her estimate of the opposite sex, her doctor asked her to stay off the pill for a while. Her friend wanted to know what Arlene was using now, and they went into a long and detailed conversation about the effectiveness of diaphragms, condoms, and intrauterine coils. Brown never did find out what Arlene was using now. Arlene’s second girlfriend had just returned from Granada, and she gave a long and breathless report on the hotel at which she’d stayed, mentioning in passing that the tennis pro had great legs. Arlene said that she had not played tennis in three years because tennis had been her former husband’s sport, and anything that reminded her of him caused her to throw up violently. Arlene’s third girlfriend talked exclusively about a nude stage show she had seen downtown the night before, stating flatly that it was the filthiest thing she had ever seen in her life, and you know me, Arlene, I’m certainly no prude.

Arlene then called the local supermarket to order the week’s groceries (including a turkey, which Brown assumed was for Christmas Day), and then called the credit department of one of the city’s bigger department stores to complain that she had left a valise with the superintendent for return to the store, but that the new man they had doing pickups and delivery was an absolute idiot, and the valise had been sitting there in the super’s apartment for the past three weeks, and thank God she hadn’t planned on taking a trip or anything because the suitcase she ordered to replace the one she was returning still hadn’t been delivered, and she felt this was disgraceful in view of the fact that she had spent something like $2000 at the store this year and was now reduced to arguing with a goddamn computer.

She had a fine voice, Arlene Orton, deep and forceful, punctuated every so often (when she was talking to her girlfriends) with a delightful giggle that seemed to bubble up from some adolescent spring. Brown enjoyed listening to her.

At 4 P . M . the telephone in Arlene’s apartment rang again.

“Hello?”

“Arlene, this is Gerry.”

“Hello, darling.”

“I’m leaving here a little early, I thought I’d come right over.”

“Good.”

“Miss me?”

“Mmm-huh.”

“Love me?”

“Mmm-huh.”

“Someone there with you?”

“No.”

“Then why don’t you say it?”

“I love you.”

“Good. I’ll be there in, oh, half an hour, forty minutes.”

“Hurry.”

Brown radioed Carella at once. Carella thanked him, and sat back to wait.

Standing in the hallway outside Nora Simonov’s apartment, Kling wondered what his approach should be. It seemed to him that, where Nora was concerned, he was always working out elaborate strategies. It further seemed to him that any girl for whom you had to draw up detailed battle plans was a girl well worth dropping. He reminded himself that he was not here today on matters of the heart, but rather on matters of the rib—the third rib on the right-hand side of his chest, to be exact. He rang the doorbell and waited. He heard no sound from within the apartment, no footsteps approaching the door, but suddenly the peephole flap was thrown back, and he knew Nora was looking out at him; he raised his right hand, waggled the fingers on it, and grinned. The peephole flap closed again. He heard her unlocking the door. The door opened wide.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi. I happened to be in the building, checking out some things, and thought I’d stop by to say hello.”

“Come in,” Nora said.

“You’re not busy, are you?”

“I’m always busy, but come in, anyway.”

It was the first time he had been allowed entrance to her apartment; maybe she figured he was safe with a broken rib, if indeed she knew one of his ribs was broken. There was a spacious entrance foyer opening onto a wide living room. What appeared to be an operative fireplace was on the wall opposite the windows. The room was done in bright, rich colors, the fabric on the easy chairs and sofa subtly echoing the color of the rug and drapes. It was a warm and pleasant room; he would have enjoyed being in it as a person rather than a cop. He thought it supremely ironic that she had let him in too late, and was now wasting hospitality on nothing but a policeman investigating an assault.

“Can I fix you a drink?” she asked. “Or is it too early for you?”

“I’d love a drink.”

“Name it.”

“What are you having?”

“I thought I’d whip up a pitcherful of martinis, and light the cannel coal, and we could sit toasting Christmas.”

“Good idea.” He watched her as she moved toward the bar in the corner of the room. She was wearing work clothes, a paint-smeared white smock over blue jeans. Her dark hair was pulled back, away from her exquisite profile. She moved gracefully and fluidly, walking erect, the way most tall girls did, as though in rebuttal for the years when they’d been forced to slump in order to appear shorter than the tallest boys in the class. She turned and saw him watching her. She smiled, obviously pleased, and said, “Gin or vodka?”

“Gin.”

He waited until she had taken the gin bottle from behind the bar, and then he said, “Where’s the bathroom, Nora?”

“Down the hall. The very end of it. You mean to tell me cops go to the bathroom, too, the same as mortals?”

He smiled and went out of the room, leaving her busy at the bar. He walked down the long hallway, glancing into the small studio room—drawing board overhung with a fluorescent light, painting of a man jumping up for something, arms stretched over his head, chest muscles rippling, tubes of acrylic paint twisting on a worktable near an empty easel—and continued walking. The bedroom door was open. He looked back toward the living room, closed the bathroom door rather more noisily than was necessary, and stepped quickly into the bedroom.

He went to the dresser first. A silver-framed photograph of a man was on the right-hand end of it. It was inscribed “To Sweet Nora, with all my love, Frankie.” He studied the man’s face, trying to relate it to any of the three men who had jumped him on Monday night. The street had been dark; he had really seen only the one who’d stood in front of him, pounding his fists into his chest and his gut. The man in the photograph was not his attacker. He quickly opened the top drawer of the dresser—panties, nylons, handkerchiefs, brassieres. He closed it, opened the middle drawer, found it full of sweaters and blouses, and then searched the bottom drawer, where Nora kept an odd assortment of gloves, nightgowns, panty-hose, and slips. He closed the drawer and moved rapidly to the night table on the left of the bed, the one upon which the telephone rested. He opened the top drawer, found Nora’s address book, and quickly scanned it. There was only one listing for a man named Frank—Frank Richmond in Calm’s Point. Kling closed the book, went to the door, looked down the hallway, and wondered how much more time he had. He stepped across the hall, eased open the bathroom door, closed it behind him, flushed the toilet, and then turned on the cold water tap. He went into the hallway again, closed the door gently behind him, and crossed swiftly into the bedroom again.

He found what he wanted in the night table on the other side of the bed—a stack of some two dozen letters, all on the same stationery, bound together with a thick rubber band. The top envelope in the pile was addressed to Nora at 721 Silvermine Oval. The return address in the left-hand corner of the envelope read:

Frank Richmond, 80-17-42

Castleview State Penitentiary

Castleview-on-Rawley, 23751

Whatever else Frank Richmond was, he was also a convict. Kling debated putting the letters back into the night-table drawer, decided he wanted to read them, and stuck them instead into the right-hand pocket of his jacket. He closed the drawer, went across the hall to the bathroom, turned off the water tap, and went back into the living room, where Nora had started a decent fire and was pouring the drinks.

“Find it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered.