Ed McBain - Doll

Sunlight glanced through closed windows, dust beams silently hovered on the unmoving air. He walked softly, as though reluctant to stir whatever ghostly remnants still were here. When he passed the child’s room, he looked through the open door and saw the dolls lined up in the bookcase beneath the windows, row upon row of dolls, each dressed differently, each staring back at him with unblinking glass eyes, pink cheeks glowing, mute red mouths frozen on the edge of articulation, painted lips parted over even plastic teeth, nylon hair in black, and red, and blonde, and the palest silver.

He was starting into the room when he heard a key turning in the front door.

The sound startled him. It cracked into the silent apartment like a crash of thunder. He heard the tumblers falling; the sudden click of the knob being turned. He moved into the child’s room just as the front door opened. His eyes swept the room — bookcases, bed, closet, toy chest. He could hear heavy footsteps in the corridor, approaching the room. He threw open the closet door, drew his gun. The footsteps were closer. He eased the door toward him, leaving it open just a crack. Holding his breath, he waited in the darkness.

The man who came into the room was perhaps six feet two inches tall, with massive shoulders and a narrow waist. He paused just inside the doorway, as though sensing the presence of another person, seemed almost to be sniffing the air for a telltale scent. Then, visibly shrugging away his own correct intuition, he dismissed the idea and went quickly to the bookcases. He stopped in front of them and began lifting dolls from the shelves, seemingly at random, bundling them into his arms. He gathered up seven or eight of them, rose, turned toward the door, and was on his way out when Meyer kicked open the closet door.

The man turned, startled, his eyes opening wide. Foolishly, he clung to the dolls in his arms, first looking at Meyer’s face, and then at the Colt .38 in Meyer’s hand, and then up at Meyer’s face again.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘Good question,’ Meyer said. ‘Put those dolls down, hurry up, on the bed there.’

‘What…?’

‘Do as I say, mister!’

The man walked to the bed. He wet his lips, looked at Meyer, frowned, and then dropped the dolls.

‘Get over against the wall,’ Meyer said.

‘Listen, what the hell…?’

‘Spread your legs, bend over, lean against the wall with your palms flat. Hurry up!’

‘All right, take it easy.’ The man leaned against the wall. Meyer quickly and carefully frisked him — chest, pockets, waist, the insides of his legs. Then he backed away from the man and said, ‘Turn around, keep your hands up.’

The man turned, his hands high. He wet his lips again, and again looked at the gun in Meyer’s hand.

‘What are you doing here?’ Meyer asked.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m a police officer. Answer my—’

‘Oh. Oh, okay,’ the man said.

‘What’s okay about it?’

‘I’m Dennis Sachs.’

‘Who?’

‘Dennis—’

‘Tinka’s husband?’

‘Well, her ex-husband.’

‘Where’s your wallet?’

‘Right here in my—’

‘Don’t reach for it! Bend over against that wall again, go ahead.’

The man did as Meyer ordered. Meyer felt for the wallet and found it in his right hip pocket. He opened it to the driver’s license. The name on the license was Dennis Robert Sachs. Meyer handed it back to him.

‘All right, put your hands down. What are you doing here?’

‘My daughter wanted some of her dolls,’ Sachs said. ‘I came back to get them.’

‘How’d you get in?’

‘I have a key. I used to live here, you know.’

‘It was my understanding you and your wife were divorced.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you still have a key?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she know this?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And that’s all you wanted here, huh? Just the dolls.’

‘Yes.’

‘Any doll in particular?’

‘No.’

‘Your daughter didn’t specify any particular doll?’

‘No, she simply said she’d like some of her dolls, and she asked if I’d come get them for her.’

‘How about your preference?’

‘ My preference?’

‘Yes. Did you have any particular doll in mind?’

‘Me?’

That’s right, Mr Sachs. You.’

‘No. What do you mean? Are you talking about dolls? ’

‘That’s right, that’s what I’m talking about.’

‘Well, what would I want with any specific doll?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know.’

‘I don’t think I understand you.’

‘Then forget it.’

Sachs frowned and glanced at the dolls on the bed. He hesitated, then shrugged and said, ‘Well, is it all right to take them?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Why not? They belong to my daughter.’

‘We want to look them over, Mr Sachs.’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know for what. For anything. ’

Sachs looked at the dolls again, and then he turned to Meyer and stared at him silently. ‘I guess you know this has been a pretty bewildering conversation,’ he said at last.

‘Yeah, well, that’s the way mysteries are,’ Meyer answered. ‘I’ve got work to do, Mr Sachs. If you have no further business here, I’d appreciate it if you left.’

Sachs nodded and said nothing. He looked at the dolls once again, and then walked out of the room, and down the corridor, and out of the apartment. Meyer waited, listening. The moment he heard the door close behind Sachs, he sprinted down the corridor, stopped just inside the door, counted swiftly to ten, and then eased the door open no more than an inch. Peering out into the hallway, he could see Sachs waiting for the elevator. He looked angry as hell. When the elevator did not arrive, he pushed at the button repeatedly and then began pacing. He glanced once at Tinka’s supposedly closed door, and then turned back to the elevator again. When it finally arrived, he said to the operator. ‘What took you so long?’ and stepped into the car.

Meyer came out of the apartment immediately, closed the door behind him, and ran for the service steps. He took the steps down at a gallop, pausing only for an instant at the fire door leading to the lobby, and then opening the door a crack. He could see the elevator operator standing near the building’s entrance, his arms folded across his chest. Meyer came out into the lobby quickly, glanced back once at the open elevator doors, and then ran past the elevator and into the street. He spotted Sachs turning the corner up the block, and broke into a run after him. He paused again before turning the comer. When he sidled around it, he saw Sachs getting into a taxi. There was no time for Meyer to go to his own parked car. He hailed another cab and said to the driver, just like a cop, ‘Follow that taxi,’ sourly reminding himself that he would have to turn in a chit for the fare, even though he knew Petty Cash would probably never reimburse him. The taxi driver turned for a quick look at Meyer, just to see who was pulling all this cloak and dagger nonsense, and then silently began following Sachs’s cab.

‘You a cop?’ he asked at last.

‘Yeah,’ Meyer said.

‘Who’s that up ahead?’

‘The Boston Strangler,’ Meyer said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Would I kid you?’

‘You going to pay for this ride, or is it like taking apples from a pushcart?’

‘I’m going to pay for it,’ Meyer said. ‘Just don’t lose him, okay?’

It was almost ten o’clock, and the streets were thronged with traffic. The lead taxi moved steadily uptown and then crosstown, with Meyer’s driver skillfully following. The city was a bedlam of noise — honking horns, grinding gears, squealing tires, shouting drivers and pedestrians. Meyer leaned forward and kept his eye on the taxi ahead, oblivious to the sound around him.