Ed McBain: Doll

‘Come in,’ a man’s voice said.

Art Cutler was a man in his forties with straight blond hair like Sunny Tufts, and with at least six feet four inches of muscle and bone that stood revealed in a dark blue suit as he rose behind his desk, smiling, and extended his hand.

‘Come in, gentlemen,’ he said. His voice was deep. He kept his hand extended while Carella and Kling crossed to the desk, and then he shook hands with each in turn, his grip firm and strong. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ he said, and indicated a pair of Saarinen chairs, one at each comer of his desk. ‘You’re here about Tinka,’ he said dolefully.

‘Yes,’ Carella said.

‘Terrible thing. A maniac must have done it, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ Carella said.

‘Well, it must have been, don’t you think?’ he said to Kling.

‘I don’t know,’ Kling said.

‘That’s why we’re here, Mr Cutler,’ Carella explained. To find out what we can about the girl. We’re assuming that an agent would know a great deal about the people he repre—’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ Cutler interrupted, ‘and especially in Tinka’s case.’

‘Why especially in her case?’

‘Well, we’d handled her career almost from the very beginning.’

‘How long would that be, Mr Cutler?’

‘Oh, at least ten years. She was only nineteen when we took her on, and she was… well, let me see, she was thirty in February, no, it’d be almost eleven years, that’s right.’

‘February what?’ Kling asked.

‘February third,’ Cutler replied. ‘She’d done a little modeling on the coast before she signed with us, but nothing very impressive. We got her into all the important magazines, Vogue. Harper’s, Mademoiselle, well, you name them. Do you know what Tinka Sachs was earning?’

‘No, what?’ Kling said.

‘Sixty dollars an hour. Multiply that by an eight- or ten-hour day, an average of six days a week, and you’ve got somewhere in the vicinity of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year.’ Cutler paused. ‘That’s a lot of money. That’s more than the president of the United States earns.’

‘With none of the headaches,’ Kling said.

‘Mr Cutler,’ Carella said, ‘when did you last see Tinka Sachs alive?’

‘Late Friday afternoon,’ Cutler said.

‘Can you give us the circumstances?’

‘Well, she had a sitting at five, and she stopped in around seven to pick up her mail and to see if there had been any calls. That’s all.’

‘Had there?’ Kling asked.

‘Had there what?’

‘Been any calls?’

‘I’m sure I don’t remember. The receptionist usually posts all calls shortly after they’re received. You may have seen our photo wall—’

‘Yes,’ Kling said.

‘Well, our receptionist takes care of that. If you want me to check with her, she may have a record, though I doubt it. Once a call is crayoned onto the wall—’

‘What about mail?’

‘I don’t know if she had any or… wait a minute, yes, I think she did pick some up. I remember she was leafing through some envelopes when I came out of my office to chat with her.’

‘What time did she leave here?’ Carella asked.

‘About seven-fifteen.’

‘For another sitting?’

‘No, she was heading home. She has a daughter, you know. A five-year-old.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Carella said.

‘Well, she was going home,’ Cutler said.

‘Do you know where she lives?’ Kling asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘Stafford Place.’

‘Have you ever been there?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘How long do you suppose it would take to get from this office to her apartment?’

‘No more than fifteen minutes.’

‘Then Tinka would have been home by seven-thirty … if she went directly home.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Did she say she was going directly home?’

‘Yes. No, she said she wanted to pick up some cake, and then she was going home.’

‘Cake?’

‘Yes. There’s a shop up the street that’s exceptionally good. Many of our mannequins buy cakes and pastry there.’

‘Did she say she was expecting someone later on in the evening?’ Kling asked.

‘No, she didn’t say what her plans were.’

‘Would your receptionist know if any of those telephone messages related to her plans for the evening?’

‘I don’t know, we can ask her.’

‘Yes, we’d like to,’ Carella said.

‘What were your plans for last Friday night, Mr Cutler?’ Kling asked.

‘ My plans?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What time did you leave the office?’

‘Why would you possibly want to know that?’ Cutler asked.

‘You were the last person to see her alive,’ Kling said.

‘No, her murderer was the last person to see her alive,’ Cutler corrected. ‘And if I can believe what I read in the newspapers, her daughter was the next -to-last person to see her alive. So I really can’t understand how Tinka’s visit to the agency or my plans for the evening are in any way germane, or even related, to her death.’

‘Perhaps they’re not, Mr Cutler,’ Carella said, ‘but I’m sure you realize we’re obliged to investigate every possibility.’

Cutler frowned, including Carella in whatever hostility he had originally reserved for Kling. He hesitated a moment and then grudgingly said, ‘My wife and I joined some friends for dinner at Les Trois Chats. ’ He paused and added caustically, ‘That’s a French restaurant.’

‘What time was that?’ Kling asked.

‘Eight o’clock.’

‘Where were you at nine?’

‘Still having dinner.’

‘And at nine-thirty?’

Cutler sighed and said, ‘We didn’t leave the restaurant until a little after ten.’

‘And then what did you do?’

‘Really, is this necessary?’ Cutler said, and scowled at the detectives. Neither of them answered. He sighed again and said, ‘We walked along Hall Avenue for a while, and then my wife and I left our friends and took a cab home.’

The door opened.

Leslie Cutler breezed into the office, saw the expression on her husband’s face, weighed the silence that greeted her entrance, and immediately said, ‘What is it?’

Tell them where we went when we left here Friday night,’ Cutler said. ‘The gentlemen are intent on playing cops and robbers.’

‘You’re joking,’ Leslie said, and realized at once that they were not. ‘We went to dinner with some friends,’ she said quickly. ‘Marge and Daniel Ronet — she’s one of our mannequins. Why?’

‘What time did you leave the restaurant, Mrs Cutler?’

‘At ten.’

‘Was your husband with you all that time?’

‘Yes, of course he was.’ She turned to Cutler and said, ‘Are they allowed to do this? Shouldn’t we call Eddie?’

‘Who’s Eddie?’ Kling said.

‘Our lawyer.’

‘You won’t need a lawyer.’

‘Are you a new detective?’ Cutler asked Kling suddenly.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s supposed to mean your interviewing technique leaves something to be desired.’

‘Oh? In what respect? What do you find lacking in my approach, Mr Cutler?’

‘Subtlety, to coin a word.’

‘That’s very funny,’ Kling said.

‘I’m glad it amuses you.’

‘Would it amuse you to know that the elevator operator at 791 Stafford Place gave us an excellent description of the man he took up to Tinka’s apartment on the night she was killed? And would it amuse you further to know that the description fits you to a tee? How does that hit your funny bone, Mr Cutler?’