Ed McBain - Sadie When She Died

“I thought you said you didn’t.”

“I didn’t know Sarah Fletcher, if that’s who you think she was. But I knew this broad, all right.”

“Who’d you think she was?” Meyer asked.

“Just who she told me she was.”

“Which was?”

“Sadie Collins. She introduced herself as Sadie Collins, and that’s who I knew her as. Sadie Collins.”

“Where was this, Mr. Hart? Where’d you meet her?”

“In a bar.”

“Where?”

“Who the hell remembers? A singles’ bar. The city’s full of them.”

“Would you remember when?”

“At least a year ago.”

“Ever go out with her?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Often enough.”

“ How often?”

“I used to see her once or twice a week.”

“ Used to? When did you stop seeing her?”

“Last summer.”

“But until then you used to see her quite regularly.”

“Yeah, on and off.”

“Twice a week, you said.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Did you know she was married?”

“Who? Sadie? You’re kidding.”

“She never told you she was married?”

“Never.”

“You saw her twice a week . . .”

“Yeah.”

“But you didn’t know she was married?”

“How was I supposed to know that? She never said a word about it. Listen, there are enough single girls in this city, I don’t have to go looking for trouble with somebody who’s married.”

“Where’d you pick her up?” Meyer asked suddenly.

“I told you. A bar. I don’t remember which . . .”

“When you went out, I mean.”

“What?”

“When you were going out, where’d you pick her up? At her apartment?”

“No. She used to come to my place.”

“Where’d you call her? When you wanted to reach her?”

“I didn’t. She used to call me.”

“Where’d you go, Mr. Hart? When you went out?”

“We didn’t go out too much.”

“What did you do?”

“She used to come to my place. We’d spend a lot of time there.”

“But when you did go out. . . .”

“Well, the truth is we never went out.”

“Never?”

“Never. She didn’t want to go out much.”

“Didn’t you think that was strange?”

“No.” Hart shrugged. “I figured she liked to stay home.”

“If you never went out, what did you do, exactly, Mr. Hart?”

“Well now, what the hell do you think we did, exactly?” Hart said.

“You tell us.”

“You’re big boys. Figure it out for yourself.”

“Why’d you stop seeing her, Mr. Hart?”

“I met somebody else. A nice girl. I’m very serious about her. That’s why I thought . . .”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s why you thought what , Mr. Hart?”

“Okay, that’s why I thought this was a shakedown. I thought somebody had found out about Sadie and me and . . . well . . . I’m very serious about this girl, I wouldn’t want her to know anything about the past. About Sadie and me. About seeing Sadie.”

“What was so terrible about seeing Sadie?” Meyer asked.

“Nothing.”

“Then why would anyone want to shake you down?”

“I don’t know.”

“If there was nothing terrible . . .”

“There wasn’t.”

“Then what’s there to hide?”

“There’s nothing to hide. I’m just very serious about this girl, and I wouldn’t want her to know . . .”

“To know what?”

“About Sadie.”

“Why not?”

“Because I just wouldn’t.”

“Was there something wrong with Sadie?”

“No, no, she was a beautiful woman, beautiful.”

“Then why would you be ashamed . . . ?”

“Ashamed? Who said anything about being ashamed?”

“You said you wouldn’t want your girlfriend . . .”

“Listen, what is this? I stopped seeing Sadie six months ago, I wouldn’t even talk to her on the phone after that. If the crazy bitch got herself killed . . .”

“Crazy?”

Hart suddenly wiped his hand over his face, wet his lips, and walked behind his desk. “I don’t think I have anything more to say to you, gentlemen. If you have any other questions, maybe you’d better charge me with something, and I’ll ask my lawyer’s advice on what to do next.”

“What did you mean when you said she was crazy?” Carella asked.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Hart said.

In the lieutenant’s corner office, Byrnes and Carella sat drinking coffee. Byrnes was frowning. Carella was waiting. Neither of the men said a word. A telephone rang in the squadroom outside, and Byrnes looked at his watch.

“Well, yes or no, Pete?” Carella asked at last.

“I’m inclined to say no.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know why you still want to pursue this thing.”

“Oh come on, Pete! If the goddamn guy did it . . .”

“That’s only your allegation. Suppose he didn’t do it, and suppose you do something to screw up the D.A.’s case?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know like what. They’ve got a grand jury indictment, they’re preparing a case against Corwin, how the hell do I know what you might do? The way things are going these days, if you spit on the sidewalk that’s enough to get a case thrown out of court.”

“Fletcher hated his wife,” Carella said calmly.

“Lots of men hate their wives. Half the men in this city hate their wives.”

“According to Hart . . .”

“All right, so she was playing around a little, so what? She had herself a little fling, who doesn’t? Half the women in this city are having little flings right this minute.”

“ Her little fling gives Fletcher a good reason for . . . look, Pete, what the hell else do we need? He had a motive, he had the opportunity, a golden one, in fact, and he had the means—another man’s knife sticking out of Sarah’s gut. What more do you want?”

“Proof. There’s a funny little system we’ve got here in this city, Steve. It requires proof before we can arrest a man and charge him with murder.”

“Right. And all I’m asking is the opportunity to try for it.”

“Sure. By putting a tail on Fletcher. Suppose he sues the goddamn city?”

“For what?”

“He’ll think of something.”

“Yes or no, Pete? I want permission to conduct a round-the-clock surveillance of Gerald Fletcher, starting Sunday morning. Yes or no?”

“I must be out of my mind,” Byrnes said, and sighed.

8

A t 7:30 P . M . on the loneliest night of the week, Bert Kling did a foolish thing. He telephoned Nora Simonov. He did not expect her to be home, so he really did not know why he was calling her. He could only suppose that he was experiencing that great American illness known as the Saturday Night Funk, not to be confused with the Sunday Evening Hiatus or the Monday Morning Blues, none of which are daily newspapers.

The Saturday Night Funk (or the Snf, as it is familiarly known to those who have ever suffered from it) generally begins the night before, along about eight o’clock, when one realizes he does not have a date for that fabulous flight of **FUN** and **FRIVOLITY** known as S*A*T*U*R*D*A*Y N*I*G*H*T U*S*A.

There is no need for panic at this early juncture, of course. The mythical magical merriment is not scheduled to begin for at least another twenty-four hours, time yet to call a dozen birds or even a hundred, no need for any reaction more potent than a mild sort of self-chastisement for having been so tardy in making arrangements for the gay gaudy gala to follow. And should one fail to make a connection that Friday, there is still all day tomorrow to twirl those little holes in the telephone dial and ring up this or that hot number—Hello, sweetie, I was wondering whether you’d be available for an entertaining evening of enjoyment and eventual enervation—plenty of time, no need to worry.