Where There's Smoke

Seven

He didn’t look like a bum in the color photograph she gave me. The picture had been taken outside the Matthews Street brownstone. Gibson was standing beside a sidewalk tree in new leaf. He was wearing a pale-blue turtleneck, a blue blazer, gray slacks, and black loafers. His dark hair was windblown, his eyes were crinkled in a smile, his teeth were very white. He looked handsome and serf-assured, a man without a trouble in the universe. I put the photograph in my notebook, and then, hoping Coop was not out to lunch, found a stationery store and called him from a booth near the cigar counter. The desk sergeant told me his phone was busy and asked me to wait. I waited.

When he came on the line, he sounded harried and a trifle breathless. “All hell’s breaking loose around here,” he said. “We have a guy upstairs who blew off his wife’s face with a shotgun.”

“Then I don’t suppose you got a chance to call Auto.”

“I called them, Benny. No red-and-white VW buses. Anyway, your case is already closed.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“We found the body.”

“What?”

“We found a corpse that fits the description you gave me.”

“Where’d you find it?”

“In an empty lot on Tyrone and Seventh.”

“Forty-two years old, five-eleven—?”

“Yeah, yeah, about a hundred eighty-five pounds, dark hair.”

“Clothed or naked?”

“Clothed. A blue pin-striped suit.”

“Where’s the corpse now?”

“It was at the morgue.”

“Saint Augustine’s?”

“Yes, but your friend probably picked it up already.”

“What friend?”

“The undertaker. I called him the minute we found the stiff.” Coop hesitated. “Did I do something wrong, Benny?” he asked. “I didn’t cut you out of a fee or any­thing, did I?”

“No, no,” I said. “Actually, you did a very good job.”

“Okay,” he said, “I got to run. Take care, huh?”

As soon as he hung up, I called Abner’s funeral home. He answered the phone on the third ring.

“Hello?” he said.

“Abner, it’s Benjamin Smoke.”

“Ah,” he said, “good. I’ve been trying to reach you. Your housekeeper—”

“I understand Mr. Gibson has been located.”

“He has indeed,” Abner said. “I’ve just returned from the hospital mortuary, in fact.”

“It was Mr. Gibson then?”

“No question. I’ve already sent one of my drivers to pick up the body.”

“Well then, everything seems to have worked out well,” I said.

“Yes. I can’t thank you enough, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t thank me,” I said. “Thank the Police Depart­ment.”

“Well, you were the one who alerted them. I must con­fess I was a bit irritated when Captain Cupera called. I hadn’t gone to the police in the first place because I was—”

“I’m sure he handled it discreetly, Abner.”

“Oh yes, most discreetly. I have no complaints, Lieu­tenant, none at all. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you sent me your bill immediately so that—”

“No need for that, Abner. I hardly did anything at all.”

“Well... thank you again, Lieutenant.”

“Goodbye, Abner,” I said, and hung up.

I deposited another dime, called Henry Garavelli’s shop, and got no answer there. I then called Maria, got her instead of her service this time, and asked if she would care to join me for a late lunch. Maria said she’d be delighted. I made more change at the cigar counter, went back to wait outside the booth—which a fat lady in a flowered bonnet had usurped during my brief ab­sence—and then called my apartment and told Lisette where I’d be if Henry tried to reach me. I didn’t want him to continue flogging a dead horse, so to speak.

I felt rather odd as I walked back to the car.

There was neither the disappointment of having cracked a case, nor the joy I’d hoped for in failure. There was, in fact, nothing at all.