Ed McBain: Long Time No See

They were standing in a kitchen. This did not surprise him; the front doors to many of the precinct’s apartments opened into kitchens. Some of those kitchens were spotlessly clean, others were filthy. This one was neither. Had he not known the occupants of the apartment were blind, he would have guessed they were only careless housekeepers. She was facing him now, head tilted in the characteristic position of the blind, chin bent, waiting.

“Mrs. Harris,” he said, “your husband was murdered.”

“Murdered?” She began shaking her head. “No,” she 6aid, “you must be... no, there’s some mistake.”

“I wish there were, Mrs. Harris.”

“But why would... no,” she said. “No, he’s blind, you see.”

He understood her reasoning completely. The thought was inconceivable. You did not slay blind men or little children. You did not strangle bluebirds or pull the wings off butterflies. Except that people did. Someone had. Her husband was lying dead on the sidewalk this very moment. Someone had slit his throat. Carella said again, very slowly this time, “He’s dead, Mrs. Harris. He was murdered.”

“Where is he?”

“He’ll be taken to Buena Vista Hospital in just a little while.”

“Where is he now?”

“In Hannon Square.”

“How was he killed?” she asked.

She had the mildest of Southern accents, and her voice was pitched so low that he had trouble hearing her. But she spoke directly and she said what was on her mind, and she was asking now for information he had deliberately withheld.

“He was stabbed,” Carella said.

She was silent for what seemed a long time. On the street outside, automobile tires squealed against asphalt, an engine roared, the tires squealed again as a corner was turned. The sound of the engine receded and was gone.

“Sit down, please,” she said, and gestured unfailingly toward the kitchen table. He pulled out a chair and sat. She came across the room; her hand found the top of the chair opposite him. She sat immediately.

“We can talk another time, if you like,” Carella said.

“Isn’t it better to talk now?”

“If you want to, it might be helpful, yes.”

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

“When did you see him last, Mrs. Harris?”

“This morning. We left the house together at ten o’clock.”

“Where were you going?”

“I have a job downtown. Jimmy was going to Hall Avenue. He usually works Hall, between the Circle and Montgomery.” She paused. “He’s a beggar,” she said.

“Where do you work, Mrs. Harris?”

“I work for a direct-mail company. I insert catalogues into envelopes.”

“What kind of catalogues?”

“Advertisements for what the company is selling. We send them out twice a month. There’s another girl who types up the mailing list, and I fill the envelopes. We sell souvenir items like ashtrays, salt and pepper shakers, coasters, swizzle sticks... things like that.”

“What’s the name of the company?”

“Prestige Novelty. On Dutchman’s Row. In the garment center.”

“And you and your husband both left the house together at ten this morning?”

“Yes. We try to avoid the subway rush hours. Jimmy’s got the dog, and so we—” She stopped abruptly. “Where’s Stanley?”

“He’s being taken care of, Mrs. Harris.”

“Is he ail right?”

“I don’t know. He may have been drugged, he may have been... Carella let the sentence trail.

“What were you about to say? Poisoned?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Stanley won’t accept food from strangers. Jimmy’s the one who feeds him. That’s how he was trained. He won’t even take food from me if I offer it. It has to be Jimmy who feeds him.”

“We’ll know in a little while,” Carella said. “A vet was on the way when I left. Mrs. Harris, was this the usual routine with you and your husband? Did you always leave the house together at ten a.m.?”

“Mondays to Fridays.”

“What time did you get back?”

“I generally get home at about three, three-thirty. Jimmy waits through the end of the day — people going home from work, he makes a lot of money between five and six o’clock. Then he waits another half-hour, stops for a drink in a bar, just to make sure he’ll miss the rush hour. He takes the subway uptown around six-thirty, a quarter to seven. He’s usually home by...” She hesitated. She had suddenly realized that she was talking in the present tense about a man who was dead. The realization was painful. Watching her face, Carella saw tears beginning to run down her cheeks from the lower edges of the oversized glasses. He waited.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“If you’d rather...”

“No, no,” she said, and shook her head. “He... he was usually home by seven-thirty the latest,” she said, and rose abruptly and walked directly and unfalteringly to the countertop alongside the sink. Her hands found the box of Kleenex there, she pulled a tissue loose and blew her nose. “I usually had supper ready by seven-thirty. Or else we’d go out for a bite. Jimmy loved Chink’s, we’d go out for Chink’s a lot. With the dog, we could go anywhere we wanted to,” she said, and began weeping again.

“Is there just the one dog?”

“Yes.” The tissue was pressed to her mouth, she mumbled the single word into it. She pulled a second tissue from the box, blew her nose again. “Guide dogs are expensive,” she said. “I didn’t need one, only time I was without Jimmy was when I was at work, or coming back home from work. I’ve got the cane, I... I...” She began sobbing now, deep racking sobs that started in her chest and made it difficult for her to breathe.

He waited. She sobbed into the tissue. Behind her, through the kitchen window, he could see a light snow beginning to fall. He wondered if they were through at the scene. Snow would make it more difficult for the lab people. Silently, the snow fell. She could not have known it was snowing. She could neither see it nor hear it. She kept sobbing into the same rumpled tissue, and then at last she drew back her shoulders and raised her head, and said, “What else do you want to know?”

“Mrs. Harris, is there anyone you can think of who might have done something like this?”

“No.”

“Did your husband have any enemies?”

“No. He was blind,” she said, and again he followed her reasoning completely. Blind men did not have enemies. Blind men were objects of pity or sympathy, but never of hate.

“You haven’t received any threatening telephone calls or letters in recent—”

“No.”

“Mrs. Harris, this was a mixed marriage...”

“Mixed?”

“I mean...”

“Oh, you mean I’m white.”

“Yes. Were there any of your neighbors or... someone where you worked... anyone... who might have strongly resented the marriage?”

“No.”

“Tell me about your husband.”

“What do you want to know?”

“How old was he?”

“Thirty. He was just thirty in August.”

“Was he blind from birth?”

“No. He was wounded in the war.”

“When?”

“Ten years ago. It would have been ten years this December. December the fourteenth.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Five years.”

“What was your maiden name?”

“Isabel Cartwright.”

“Mrs. Harris...” he said, and hesitated. “Was your husband involved with another woman?”

“No.”

“Are you involved with another man?”

“No.”

“How did your relatives feel about the marriage?”

“My father loved Jimmy. He died two years ago. Jimmy was there at his bedside in Tennessee.”

“And your mother?”