Ed McBain - Doll

‘ Is there an estate?’ Kling asked.

‘Yes.’

‘A sizable one?’

‘I wouldn’t imagine so.’

‘I see.’ Kling paused, seemed about to say something, and then abruptly extended his hand. ‘Thank you again, Mr Sachs,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch with you.’

Sachs saw him to the door. Anna, her doll in her lap, was still watching television when he went out.

At the squadroom, Kling sat down with a pencil and pad, and then made a call to the airport, requesting a list of all scheduled flights to and from Phoenix, Arizona. It took him twenty minutes to get all the information, and another ten minutes to type it up in chronological order. He pulled the single sheet from his machine and studied it:

It seemed entirely possible to him that Dennis Sachs could have taken either the twelve twenty-five flight from Phoenix late Thursday night, or any one of three flights early Friday morning, and still have been here in the city in time to arrive at Tinka’s apartment by nine or nine-thirty p.m. He could certainly have killed his wife and caught an early flight back the next morning. Or any one of four flights on Sunday, all of which — because of the time difference — would have put him back in Phoenix that same night and in Rainfield by Monday to pick up the telegram waiting there for him. It was a possibility — remote, but a possibility nonetheless. The brown hair, of course, was a problem. Cyclops had said the man’s hair was blond. But a commercial dye or bleach—

One thing at a time, Kling thought. Wearily, he pulled the telephone directory to him and began a methodical check of the two airlines flying to Phoenix. He told them he wanted to know if a man named Dennis Sachs, or any man with the initials D.S., had flown here from Phoenix last Thursday night or Friday morning, and whether or not he had made the return flight any time during the weekend. The airlines were helpful and patient. They checked their flight lists. Something we don’t ordinarily do, sir, is this a case involving a missing person? No, Kling said, this is a case involving a murder. Oh, well in that case, sir, but we don’t ordinarily do this, sir, even for the police, our flight lists you see… Yes, well I appreciate your help, Kling said.

Neither of the airlines had any record of either a Dennis Sachs or a D.S. taking a trip from or to Phoenix at any time before Monday, April 12th. American Airlines had him listed as a passenger on Flight 68, which had left Phoenix at eight-thirty a.m. Monday morning, and had arrived here at four-fifty-three p.m. that afternoon. American reported that Mr Sachs had not as yet booked return passage.

Kling thanked American and hung up. There was still the possibility that Sachs had flown here and back before Monday, using an assumed name. But there was no way of checking that — and the only man who could make any sort of a positive identification had been missing since Monday night.

The meeting took place in Lieutenant Byrnes’s office at five o’clock that afternoon. There were five detectives present in addition to Byrnes himself. Miscolo had brought in coffee for most of the men, but they sipped at it only distractedly, listening intently to Byrnes as he conducted the most unorthodox interrogation any of them had ever attended.

‘We’re here to talk about Monday afternoon,’ Byrnes said. His tone was matter-of-fact, his face expressed no emotion. ‘I have the duty chart for Monday, April twelfth, and it shows Kling, Meyer and Carella on from eight to four, with Meyer catching. The relieving team is listed as Hawes, Willis and Brown, with Brown catching. Is that the way it was?’

The men nodded.

‘What time did you get here, Cotton?’

Hawes, leaning against the lieutenant’s filing cabinet, the only one of the detectives drinking tea, looked up and said, ‘It must’ve been about five.’

‘Was Steve still here?’

‘No.’

‘What about you, Hal?’

‘I got here a little early, Pete,’ Willis said. ‘I had some calls to make.’

‘What time?’

‘Four-thirty.’

‘Was Steve still here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about?’

‘He said he was going to a movie with Teddy that night.’

‘Anything else?’

‘That was about it.’

‘I talked to him, too, Pete,’ Brown said. He was the only Negro cop in the room. He was sitting in the wooden chair to the right of Byrnes’s desk, a coffee container clasped in his huge hands.

‘What’d he say to you, Art?’

‘He told me he had to make a stop on the way home.’

‘Did he say where?’

‘No.’

‘All right, now let’s get this straight. Of the relieving team, only two of you saw him, and he said nothing about where he might have been headed. Is that right?’

That’s right,’ Willis said.

‘Were you in the office when he left, Meyer?’

‘Yes. I was making out a report.’

‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘He said good night, and he made some joke about bucking for a promotion, you know, because I was hanging around after I’d been relieved.’

‘What else?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Did he say anything to you at any time during the afternoon? About where he might be going later on?’

‘Nothing.’

‘How about you, Kling?’

‘No, he didn’t say anything to me, either.’

‘Were you here when he left?’

‘No.’

‘Where were you?’

‘I was on my way home.’

‘What time did you leave?’

‘About three o’clock.’

‘Why so early?’

There was a silence in the room.

‘Why so early?’ Byrnes said again.

‘We had a fight.’

‘What about?’

‘A personal matter.’

‘The man is dead,’ Byrnes said flatly. ‘There are no personal matters any more.’

‘He sent me back to the office because he didn’t like the way I was behaving during an interview. I got sore.’ Kling paused. ‘That’s what we argued about.’

‘So you left here at three o’clock?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though you were supposed to be working with Carella on the Tinka Sachs case, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you know where he was going when he left here?’

‘No, sir’

‘Did he mention anything about wanting to question anyone, or about wanting to see anyone again?’

‘Only the elevator operator. He thought it would be a good idea to check him again.’

‘What for?’

‘To verify a time he’d given us.’

‘Do you think that’s where he went?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Have you talked to this elevator operator?’

‘No, sir, I can’t locate him.’

‘He’s been missing since Monday night,’ Meyer said. ‘According to Bert’s report, he was expecting a visit from a man who said he was Carella.’

‘Is that right?’ Byrnes asked.

‘Yes,’ Kling said. ‘But I don’t think it was Carella.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s all in my report, sir.’

‘You’ve read this, Meyer?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s your impression?’

‘I agree with Bert.’

Byrnes moved away from his desk. He walked to the window and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the street below. ‘He found something, that’s for sure,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘He found something or somebody, and he was killed for it.’ He turned abruptly. ‘And not a single goddamn one of you knows where he was going. Not even the man who was allegedly working this case with him.’ He walked back to his desk. ‘Kling, you stay. The rest of you can leave.’