Ed McBain - Long Time No See

“She never mentioned such a plan to me.”

“Mr. Preston, when we went through the Harris apartment, we didn’t find anything like a diary or a journal that Isabel might have kept...

“She was blind,” Preston said.

“Yes, I realize that, but blind people can write in Braille, and I’m sure there are at least some blind people who keep diaries. Did Isabel ever mention a diary or a journal?”

“No.”

“Where did she work, Mr. Preston?”

“Here, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“In the mail room.”

“Where’s that?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because maybe she kept such a diary here at the office, where her husband wouldn’t come across it.”

“No, I don’t think she kept a diary.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“Well, I can’t be sure, of course, but... she never mentioned a diary to me. I’m sure she would have mentioned it.”

“Mr. Preston, may I see her desk, please?”

“I... I don’t see what...”

“What’s the problem, Mr. Preston?”

“There’s no problem. It’s simply that you’d be wasting your time.”

“Well, it’s my time, isn’t it?”

“Yes but...”

“What is it, Mr. Preston?”

“Nothing.”

“Would you show me the mail room, please?”

Preston sighed and rose from behind his desk. “This way,” he said, and walked across the office to the door, and opened it, and stepped into the outer office, Carella following him.

The door to the mail room was set alongside the desk at which Miss Houlihan still worked on the ledgers. This time she glanced up as the two men went past. There seemed to be a faintly quizzical look on her face. Preston opened the door to the mail room as though he were opening the door to a vault. A girl sat at a desk inside the windowless room. There were brochures stacked on the floor beside the desk. The girl kept reaching for the brochures and stuffing them into envelopes. She did this mindlessly — reaching, inserting, moistening the envelope flaps, sealing the envelopes.

“Would you, leave us, please, Beth?” Preston asked, and the girl walked out of the room. Preston closed the door behind her. Idly, because he was not here to look through advertising matter for ashtrays, salt and pepper shakers, coasters, swizzle sticks or other assorted souvenir items, Carella picked up one of the brochures.

On the cover there was a line drawing of a man and a woman kissing. Above the woman’s head, and moving across the cover from left to right in delicate script lettering, was the legend Marital Aids for Lovers . Below the word Lovers, in a white heart on the extreme right-hand side of the cover, was the name of Preston’s firm, and below that its address on Dutchman’s Row. In the lower left-hand corner of the cover, in very small print, Carella read the words sexually oriented advertising for adults. Beneath this was the warning This catalogue contains advertisements which may be deemed sexually oriented under the new postal law. That law is concerned with seeing that sexually oriented advertisements are not thrust upon minors or persons not desiring such advertisements. Accordingly, if you are less than 21 years of age, or if you do not desire to view a sexually oriented advertisement, DO NOT OPEN THIS CATALOGUE. Please be kind enough to request that we remove your name from our mailing list. We will then remove your name and make every effort to see that you do not receive any more sexually oriented advertisements from us.

“That’s explicit enough,” Carella said.

“It’s in accordance with the law,” Preston said.

“I’m sure it is,” Carella said, and since he was well over twenty-one years of age, and since he was also desirous of viewing a sexually oriented advertisement, he opened the brochure.

The items advertised within were many and varied.

Here was a cordless massager in a handsome grain finish in a choice of ivory or walnut colors. Here on the facing page was a set of double remote-controlled Ben-Wa balls. Here now was a Ben-Wa fringed tingle ball, and here a series of love potions ranging from stingers to energizers to vaginal teasers to penis sweeteners and to more exotically erotic accessoriesvariously called Cunnilingus Powder, Erecios Capsules, Vipe Spice and Jungle Love. Here was a life-sized doll complete with breasts and vaginal pocket, the blonde with no clothes selling for $32.50, the blonde with lingerie selling for $37.50, similarly naked or attired brunettes coming somewhat cheaper, with nary a redhead in evidence. Here was a vibrodongo marital aid and here a vibro double dongo marital aid. Here was something called a vaginal pal portable marital aid of durable construction with real-looking hair in a handsome gift box — only $17.25. Here, too, was something called an autosuck vagina, described as a male marital aid and guaranteed to operate from a car’s cigarette lighter.

The list of products went on and on, page after page of prosthetic extensions, electrical devices designed to provide sensuous vibrations, action playing cards featuring male-female “sexation” or female-female love, eight-track recordings or cassettes boasting “live stag-action,” a bath mat covered with foam rubber breasts, a wristwatch with sexual positions substituting for the numbers on the dial, a sensuous dictionary with full-color photographs, and lastly but not least inventively, a lipstick in the shape of a penis — described as “a tasteful gift for any woman.”

Carella closed the brochure. “Is this what you had Isabel Harris mailing for you?” he said.

“If she couldn’t see it,” Preston said, “how could it hurt her?”

Carella suddenly had the feeling that he could hack his way through the dense undergrowth of this city forever and still not reach a clearing where there was sunlight. He looked at Preston for only an instant, and then began searching through the desk that had been Isabel’s. He did not find a diary, he did not find a journal, he did not find a goddamned thing. When he left the office, he went down the corridor to the men’s room and washed his hands.

So now they snowballed it.

It was ten minutes past twelve on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and they sat in Lieutenant Byrnes’ office, drinking coffee brewed in Clerical and eating sandwiches Hawes had called down for a half-hour earlier. There were four of them in the office: Carella, Meyer, Hawes and the lieutenant.

Byrnes was a compact man whose clothes seemed too tight for him, vest open across the barrel chest, jacket pinched across wide shoulders, tie pulled down and shirt collar open as though to allow breathing space for the thick neck that supported his head. His hair was a gray the color of the city snow; his eyes were a flinty blue. The men of the 87th called him “Loot” or “Pete” or “Boss.” He was the boss, the man in command of the squad’s sixteen detectives, answerable in the precinct only to Captain John Marshall Frick, who theoretically ran the whole shebang but who, in practice, gave Byrnes and the detective squad almost complete autonomy. Byrnes had read the reports filed by Carella, Meyer and Hawes, and now he wanted to know what the hell was happening. There were four crimes that irritated him more than any of the others rampant in this city. At the top of the list was homicide. Beneath that, but comparatively rare, was arson. Then came rape. And then pushing dope. In Byrnes view, slitting the throats of blind people was tantamount to strangling innocent babes in their cribs. He was not too happy about the squad’s progress on this case; he was, in fact, a bit cranky and unpredictable this morning, and the men sensed this displeasure and tiptoed around it like burglars in an occupied apartment.