Sins of the Fathers

Chapter 8

I got out of bed while the sky was still dark. I still had the same headache I’d gone to bed with. I went into the bathroom, swallowed a couple of aspirins, then forced myself to put in some time under a hot shower. By the time I was dry and dressed, the headache was mostly gone and the sky was starting to brighten up.

My head was full of fragments of conversation from the night before. I’d returned from Brooklyn with a headache and a thirst, and I’d treated the second more thoroughly than the first. I remember a sketchy conversation with Anita on Long Island — the boys were fine, they were sleeping now, they’d like to come in to New York and see me, maybe stay overnight if it was convenient. I’d said that would be great, but I was working on a case right now. “The cobbler’s children always go barefoot,” I told her. I don’t think she knew what I was talking about.

I got to Armstrong’s just as Trina was going off duty. I bought her a couple of stingers and told her a little about the case I was working on. “His mother died when he was six or seven years old,” I said. “I hadn’t known that.”

“Does it make a difference, Matt?”

“I don’t know.”

After she left I sat by myself and had a few more drinks. I was going to have a hamburger toward the end, but they had already closed the kitchen. I don’t know what time I got back to my room. I didn’t notice, or didn’t remember.

I had breakfast and a lot of coffee next door at the Red Flame. I thought about calling Hanniford at his office. I decided it could wait.

The clerk in the branch post office on Christopher Street informed me that forwarding addresses were only kept active for a year. I suggested that he could check the back files, and he said it wasn’t his job and it could be very time-consuming and he was overworked as it was. That would have made him the first overworked postal employee since Benjamin Franklin. I took a hint and palmed him a ten-dollar bill. He seemed surprised, either at the amount or at being given anything at all besides an argument. He went off into a back room and returned a few minutes later with an address for Marcia Maisel on East Eighty-fourth near York Avenue.

The building was a high-rise with underground parking and a lobby that would have served a small airport. There was a little waterfall with pebbles and plastic plants. I couldn’t find a Maisel in the directory of tenants. The doorman had never heard of her. I managed to find the super, and he recognized the name. He said she’d gotten married a few months ago and moved out. Her married name was Mrs. Gerald Thal. He had an address for her in Mamaroneck.

I got her number from Westchester Information and dialed it. It was busy the first three times. The fourth time around it rang twice and a woman answered.

I said, “Mrs. Thal?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Matthew Scudder. I’d like to talk to you about Wendy Hanniford.”

There was a long silence, and I wondered if I had the right person after all. I’d found a stack of old magazines in a closet of Wendy’s apartment with Marcia Maisel’s name and the Bethune Street address on them. It was possible that there had been a false connection somewhere along the way — the postal clerk could have pulled the wrong Maisel, the superintendent could have picked the wrong card out of his file.

Then she said, “What do you want from me?”

“I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Why me?”

“You lived in the Bethune Street apartment with her.”

“That was a long time ago.” Long ago, and in another country. And besides, the wench is dead. “I haven’t seen Wendy in years. I don’t even know if I would recognize her. Would have recognized her.”

“But you did know her at one time.”

“So what? Would you hold on? I have to get a cigarette.” I held on. She returned after a moment and said, “I read about it in the newspapers, of course. The boy who did it killed himself, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then why drag me into it?”

The fact that she didn’t want to be dragged into it was almost reason enough in itself. But I explained the nature of my particular mission, Cale Hanniford’s need to know about the recent past of his daughter now that she had no future. When I had finished she told me that she guessed she could answer some questions.

“You moved from Bethune Street to East Eighty-fourth Street a year ago last June.”

“How do you know so much about me? Never mind, go on.”

“I wondered why you moved.”

“I wanted a place of my own.”

“I see.”

“Plus it was nearer my work. I had a job on the East Side, and it was a hassle getting there from the Village.”

“How did you happen to room with Wendy in the first place?”

“She had an apartment that was too big for her, and I needed a place to stay. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“But it didn’t turn out to be a good idea?”

“Well, the location, and also I like my privacy.”

She was going to give me whatever answers would get rid of me most efficiently. I wished I were talking to her face-to-face instead of over the telephone. At the same time I hoped I wouldn’t have to kill a day driving out to Mamaroneck.

“How did you happen to share the apartment?”

“I just told you, she had a place—”

“Did you answer an ad?”

“Oh, I see what you mean. No, I ran into her on the street, as a matter of fact.”

“You had known her previously?”

“Oh, I thought you realized. I knew her at college. I didn’t know her well, we were never close, see, but it was a small college and everybody more or less knew everybody, and I ran into her on the street and we got to talking.”

“You knew her at college.”

“Yeah, I thought you realized. You seem to know so many facts about me, I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

“I’d like to come out and talk with you, Mrs. Thal.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“I realize it’s an imposition on your time, but—”

“I just don’t want to get involved,” she said. “Can’t you understand that? Jesus Christ, Wendy’s dead, right? So what can it help her? Right?”

“Mrs. Thal—”

“I’m hanging up now,” she said. And did.

I bought a newspaper, went to a lunch counter and had a cup of coffee. I gave her a full half hour to wonder whether or not I was all that easy to get rid of. Then I dialed her number again.

Something I learned long ago. It is not necessary to know what a person is afraid of. It is enough to know the person is afraid.

She answered in the middle of the second ring. She held the phone to her ear for a moment without saying anything. Then she said, “Hello?”

“This is Scudder.”

“Listen, I don’t—”

“Shut up a minute, you foolish bitch. I intend to talk to you. I’ll either talk to you in front of your husband or I’ll talk to you alone.”

Silence.

“Now you just think about it. I can pick up a car and be in Mamaroneck in an hour. An hour after that I’ll be back in my car and out of your life. That’s the easy way. If you want it the hard way I can oblige you but I don’t see that it makes much sense for either of us.”

“Oh, God.”

I let her think about it. The hook was set now, and there was no way she was going to shake it loose.

She said, “Today’s impossible. Some friends are coming over for coffee, they’ll be here any minute.”

“Tonight?”

“No. Gerry’ll be home. Tomorrow?”

“Morning or afternoon?”

“I have a doctor’s appointment at ten. I’m free after that.”

“I’ll be at your place at noon.”

“No. Wait a minute. I don’t want you coming to the house.”

“Pick a place and I’ll meet you.”

“Just give me a minute. Christ. I don’t even know this area, we just moved here a few months ago. Let me think. There’s a restaurant and cocktail lounge on Schuyler Boulevard. It’s called the Carioca. I could stop there for lunch after I get out of the doctor’s.”

“Noon?”

“All right. I don’t know the address.”

“I’ll find it. The Carioca on Schuyler Boulevard.”

“Yes. I don’t remember your name.”

“Scudder. Matthew Scudder.”

“How will I recognize you?”

I thought, I’ll be the man who looks out of place. I said, “I’ll be drinking coffee at the bar.”

“All right. I guess we’ll find each other.”

“I’m sure we will.”

My illegal entry the night before had yielded little hard data beyond Marcia Maisel’s name. The search of the premises had been complicated by my not knowing precisely what I was searching for. When you toss a place, it helps if you have something specific in mind. It also helps if you don’t care whether or not you leave traces of your visit. You can search a few shelves of books far more efficiently, for example, if you feel free to flip through them and then toss them in a heap on the rug. A twenty-minute job stretches out over a couple of hours when you have to put each volume neatly back in place.

There were few enough books in Wendy’s apartment, and I hadn’t bothered with them, anyway. I wasn’t looking for something which had been deliberately concealed. I didn’t know what I was looking for, and now, after the fact, I wasn’t at all sure what I had found.

I had spent most of my hour wandering through those rooms, sitting on chairs, leaning against walls, trying to rub up against the essence of the two people who had lived here. I looked at the bed Wendy had died on, a double box spring and mattress on a Hollywood frame. They had not yet stripped off the blood-soaked sheets, though there would be little point in doing so; the mattress was deeply soaked with her blood, and the whole bed would have to be scrapped. At one point I stood holding a clot of rusty blood in my hand, and my mind reeled with images of a priest offering Communion. I found the bathroom and gagged without bringing anything up.

While I was there, I pushed the shower curtain aside and examined the tub. There was a ring around it from the last bath taken in it, and some hair matted at the drain, but there was nothing to suggest that anyone had been killed in it. I had not suspected that there would be. Richie Vanderpoel’s recapitulation had not been a model of concise linear thought.

The medicine cabinet told me that Wendy had taken birth-control pills. They came in a little card with a dial indicating the days of the week so that you could tell whether you were up-to-date or not. Thursday’s pill was gone, so I knew one thing she had done the day she died. She had taken her pill.

Along with the birth-control pills I found enough bottles of organic vitamins to suggest that either or both of the apartment’s occupants had been a believer. A small vial with a prescription label indicated that Richie had suffered from hay fever. There was quite a bit in the way of cosmetics, two different brands of deodorant, a small electric razor for shaving legs and underarms, a large electric razor for shaving faces. I found some other prescription drugs — Seconal and Darvon (his), Dexedrine spansules labeled For Weight Control (hers), and an unlabeled bottle containing what looked like Librium. I was surprised the drugs were still around. Cops are apt to pocket them, and men who would not take loose cash from the dead have trouble resisting the little pills that pick you up or settle you down.

I took the Seconal and the Dex along with me.

A closet and a dresser in the bedroom filled with her clothes. Not a large wardrobe, but several dresses had labels from Bloomingdale’s and Lord & Taylor. His clothes were in the living room. One of the closets there was his, and he kept shirts and socks and underwear in the drawers of a Spanish-style kneehole desk.

The living-room couch was a convertible. I opened it up and found it made up with sheets and blankets. The sheets had been slept on since their last laundering. I closed the couch and sat on it.

A well-equipped kitchen, copper-bottomed frying pans, a set of burnt-orange enameled cast-iron pots and pans, a teak rack with thirty-two jars of herbs and spices. The refrigerator held a couple of TV dinners in the freezer compartment, but the rest of it was abundantly stocked with real food. So were the cupboards. The kitchen was a large one by Manhattan standards, and there was a round oak table in it. There were two captain’s chairs at the table. I sat at one of them and pictured cozy domestic scenes, one of them whipping up a gourmet meal, the two of them sitting at this table and eating it.

I had left the apartment without finding the helpful things one hopes to find. No address books, no checkbooks, no bank statements. No revealing stacks of canceled checks. Whatever their financial arrangements, they had evidently conducted them on a cash basis.

Now, a day later, I thought of my impressions of that apartment and tried to match them up with Martin Vanderpoel’s portrait of Wendy as evil incarnate. If she had trapped him with sex, why did he sleep on a folding bed in the living room? And why did the whole apartment have such an air of placid domesticity to it, a comfortable domesticity that all the blood in the bedroom could not entirely drown?