Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

“For where?”

“Chinese theater in Chinatown.”

“Anything else?”

“Letter to a sister in Hong Kong.”

“In Chinese?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“That’s it. Oh yes, a program card. She was a transfer student at Columbia. Went there nights.”

“So what do you figure, Donny?”

“I figure some bastard slipped the strychnine to her this morning before she came to work. Maybe a lover, how do I know? She called him later to say hello. She talks Chinese on the phone, so who can tell whether she’s calling a restaurant or her uncle in Singapore? The guy all at once says, ‘You know why you’re feeling so punk, honey?’ So she is feeling punk. She’s got a stiff neck, and her reflexes are hypersensitive, and she’s beginning to shake a little. She forgets she’s supposed to be talking to a Chinese restaurant owner. She drops the pose for a minute and says ‘No, why?’ in English. The boyfriend on the other end says, ‘Here’s why, honey. I gave you a dose of strychnine when I saw you this morning. It’s going to kill you in about zero minutes flat.’ The kid jumps up and screams ‘Kill me? No! No!’ Curtain. The poison’s already hit her.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Except for one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Would the poisoner take a chance like that? Tipping her off on the phone?”

“Why not? He probably knew how long it would take for the poison to kill her.”

“But why would she call him?”

“Assuming it was a him. How do I know? Maybe she didn’t call anybody special. Maybe the joker works at one of the Chinese restaurants she always called. Maybe she met him every morning for chop suey, and then he went his way and she went hers. Or maybe she called... Ralph, she could have called anyone.”

“No. Someone who spoke Chinese. She spoke Chinese to the party in the beginning.”

“Lots of Chinese in this city, Ralph.”

“Why don’t we start with the restaurants? This book was open on her desk. Two pages showing. She could have been talking to someone at any one of the restaurants listed on those pages, assuming she opened the book to refer to a number. If she called a sweetheart, we’re up the creek.”

“Not necessarily,” Donny said. “It’ll just take longer, that’s all.”

There were a lot of Chinese restaurants listed on those two pages. They were not listed in any geographical order. Apparently, Mary Chang knew the best times to call each of the owners, and she’d listed the restaurant numbers in a system all her own. So where the first number on the list was in Chinatown, the second was up on Fordham Road in the Bronx. We had a typist rearrange the list according to location, and then we asked the Skipper for two extra men to help with the legwork. He gave us Belloni and Hicks, yanking them off a case that was ready for the DA anyway. Since they were our guests, so to speak, we gave them the easy half of the list, the portion in Chinatown where all the restaurants were clustered together and there wouldn’t be as much hoofing to do. Donny and I took the half that covered Upper Manhattan and the Bronx.

A Chinese restaurant in the early afternoon is something like a bar at that time. There are few diners. Everyone looks bleary-eyed. The dim lights somehow clash with the bright sunshine outside. It’s like stepping out of reality into something unreal and vague. Besides, a lot of the doors were locked solid, and when a man can’t speak English it’s a little difficult to make him understand what a police shield means.

It took a lot of time. We pounded on the doors first, and then we talked to whoever’s face appeared behind the plate glass. We showed shields, we gestured, we waited for someone who spoke English. When the doors opened, we told them who we were and what we wanted. There was distrust, a natural distrust of cops, and another natural distrust of Westerners.

“Did Gotham Lobster call you this morning?”

“No.”

“When did Gotham call you?”

“Yes’day. We take one ba’l. One ba’l small.”

“Who did you speak to at Gotham?”

“Ma’y Chang.”

And on to the next place, and the same round of questions, and always no luck, always no call from Gotham or Mary Chang. And then we hit a place on the Grand Concourse where the waiter opened the door promptly. We told him what we wanted, and he hurried off to the back of the restaurant while we waited by the cash register. A young Chinese in an impeccable blue suit came out to us in about five minutes. He smiled and shook hands and then said, “I’m David Loo. My father owns the restaurant. May I help you?”

He was a good-looking boy of about twenty, I would say. He spoke English without a trace of singsong. He was wearing a white button-down shirt with a blue and silver striped silk tie. A small Drama Masks tie clasp held the tie to the shirt.

“I’m Detective-Sergeant Parker, and this is my partner, Detective-Sergeant Katz. Do you know Mary Chang?”

“Chang? Mary Chang? Why, no, I... oh, do you mean the girl who calls from Gotham Lobster?”

“Yes, that’s her. Do you know her?”

“Oh yes, certainly.”

“When did you see her last?”

“See her?” David Loo smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve never seen her. I spoke to her on the phone occasionally, but that was the extent of our relationship.”

“I see. When did you speak to her last?”

“This morning.”

“What time was this?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Early this morning.”

“Can you try to pinpoint the time?”

David Loo shrugged. “Nine, nine fifteen, nine thirty. I really don’t know.” He paused. “Has Miss Chang done something?”

“Can you give us a closer time than that, Mr. Loo? Mary Chang was poisoned this morning, and it might be...”

“Poisoned? My God!”

“Yes. So you see, any help you can give us would be appreciated.”

“Yes, yes, I can understand that. Well, let me see. I came to the restaurant at about... nine ten it was, I suppose. So she couldn’t have called at nine, could she?” David Loo smiled graciously, as if he were immensely enjoying this game of murder. “I had some coffee, and I listened to the radio back in the kitchen, and...” Loo snapped his fingers. “Of course,” he said. “She called right after that.”

“Right after what?”

“Well, I listen to swing a lot. WNEW is a good station for music, you know. Do you follow bop?”

“No. Go on.”

“Well, WNEW has a newsbreak every hour on the half hour. I remember the news coming on at nine thirty, and then as the newscaster signed off, the phone rang. That must have been at nine thirty-five. The news takes five minutes, you see. As a matter of fact, I always resent that intrusion on the music. If a person likes music, it seems unfair...”

“And the phone rang at nine thirty-five, is that right?”

“Yes, sir, I’m positive.”

“Who answered the phone?”

“I did. I’d finished my coffee.”

“Was it Mary Chang calling?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Gotham Lobster, good morning.’ I said good morning back to her — she’s always very pleasant on the phone — and...”

“Wasn’t she pleasant off the phone?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know. I only spoke to her on the phone.”

“Go on.”

“She gave me a quotation then and asked if I’d like some nice lobster.”

“Was this in Chinese?”

“Yes. I don’t know why she spoke Chinese. Perhaps she thought I was the chef.”

“What did you do then?”

“I asked her to hold on, and then I went to find the chef, I asked the chef if he needed any lobster, and he said we should take a half barrel. So I went back to the phone. But Miss Chang was gone by that time.” Loo shrugged. “We had to order our lobsters from another outfit. Shame, too, because Gotham has some good stuff.”