Ed McBain - Lady Killer

'Were you looking for a book, sir?' the girl asked.

'Are you Miss Maxwell?' he asked.

' Mrs Maxwell,' she corrected.

'Oh,' he said. 'Oh.'

'Was there a book you wanted?'

He looked at her left hand. She was not wearing a wedding band. 'I'm from the police,' he said. 'Detective Hawes, Eighty-seventh Squad.'

'Is something wrong?'

'No. I'm trying to track down a piece of stationery. Eastern Shipping says you're the only store in the precinct that carries the paper.'

'Which paper is that?' Christine asked.

'Cartwright 142-Y.'

'Oh, yes,' she said.

'Do you carry it?'

'Yes?' She made it a question.

'Run this shop with your husband, do you?' Hawes asked.

'My husband is dead,' she said. 'He was a Navy pilot. He was killed in the Battle of the Coral Sea.'

'I'm sorry,' Hawes said genuinely.

'Please don't,' she said. 'It's been a long time. A person can't live in the past, you know.' She smiled gently.

'You don't look that old,' he said, 'I mean, to have been married during World War Two.'

'I got married when I was seventeen,' she said.

'Which makes you?' .

'Thirty-three,' she said.

'You look much younger.'

'Thank you.'

'I'd say you were barely twenty-one.'

'Thank you, but I'm not. Really.'

They looked at each other silently for a moment.

'It seems strange,' Hawes said. 'To find a shop like this. In this neighbourhood, I mean.'

'I know. That's why it's here.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, there's enough deprivation in this neighbourhood. It needn't extend to books.'

'Do you get a lot of people coming in?' Hawes asked.

'More now than in the beginning. Actually, the stationery supplies are what keep the shop going. But it's better now than it was. You'd be surprised how many people want to read good books.'

'Are you afraid of the neighbourhood?'

'Should I be?'she asked.

'Well… a pretty girl like you. I mean, this isn't the best neighbourhood in the world.'

The girl seemed surprised. 'The people here are poor,' she said. 'But poor isn't necessarily synonymous with dangerous .'

'That's true,' he said.

'People are people. The people who live here are no better, no worse, than the people who live in swanky Stewart City.'

'Where do you live, Miss— Mrs Maxwell?'

'In Isola.'

'Where?'

'Why do you want to know?'

'I'd like to see you sometime,' Hawes said.

Christine was silent for a moment. She looked at Hawes penetratingly, as if she were trying to read his mind aid his motives.

Then she said, 'All right. When?'

'Tonight?' he asked.

'All right.'

'Wait a minute,' he said. He thought for a moment. 'Well, it'll be over by eight o'clock either way,' he said. 'Yes, tonight is fine.'

'What'll be over by eight?'

'A case we're working on.'

'How do you know it'll be over by eight? Do you have a crystal ball?'

Hawes smiled. 'I'll tell you about it tonight. May I pick you up at nine? Is that too late for you?'

'Tomorrow's a working day,' she said.

'I know. I thought we'd have a drink and talk a little.'

'All right,' she said.

'Where?' he asked.

'711 Fortieth Boulevard. Do you know where that is?'

'I'll find it. That's lucky. Seven-eleven.'

Christine smiled. 'Shall I dress?'

'We'll find a quiet cocktail lounge,' he said. 'If that's al1 right with you.'

'Yes, that's fine. Air-conditioned, please.'

'What else?' he said, spreading his hands.

'Are you sensitive about the white streak in your hair?'

'Not at all.'

'If you are, I won't ask.'

'You can ask. I got knifed once. It grew back this way. A puzzle for medical science to unravel.'

'Knifed? By a person, do you mean?'

'Sure,' he said.

'Oh.' It was a very tiny 'Oh.'

Hawes looked at her. 'People do… well, people do get knifed, you know.'

'Yes, of course. I imagine a detective…' She stopped. 'What was it you wanted to know about the stationery?'

'Well, how much of it do you stock?'

'All my paper supplies come from Cartwright. The 142-Y comes in reams and also in smaller packages of a hundred sheets.'

'Do you sell a lot of it?'

'Of the smaller packages, yes. The reams move more slowly.'

'How many smaller packs have you sold in the past month?'

'Oh, I couldn't possibly say. A lot.'

'And the reams?'

'The reams are easier to check. I got six reams at the beginning of June. I can count how many are left.'

'Would you, please?' he asked.

'Certainly.'

She walked to the back of the shop. Hawes pulled a book from the shelf and began leafing through it. When Christine returned she said, 'That's one of my favourites. Have you read it?'

'Yes. A long time ago.'

'I read it when I was still a girl.' She smiled briefly, putthe book out of her mind, and said, 'I have two reams left. I'm glad you stopped in. I'll have to reorder.'

'That means you sold four, correct?'

'Yes.'

'Would you remember to whom?'

'I know to whom I sold two of them. The others I couldn't say.'

'Who?' Hawes asked.

'A young man who conies in here regularly for 142-Y. He buys at least a ream a month. He's one of the chief reasons I keep it in stock.'

'Do you know his name?'

'Yes. Philip Bannister.'

'Does he live in the neighbourhood?'

'I imagine so. Whenever he's come into the shop, he's been dressed casually. He came in once wearing Bermuda shorts.'

'Bermuda shorts?' Hawes asked, astonished. 'In this neighbourhood?'

'People are people,' the girl reminded him.

'You don't know where he lives, though?' Hawes said.

'No. It must be close by, though.'

'What makes you say that?'

'He's often come in with shopping in his arms. Groceries, you know. I'm sure he lives close by.'

'I'll check it,' Hawes said. 'And I'll see you tonight at nine.'

'At nine,' Christine said. She paused. 'I'm—I'm looking forward to seeing you again,' she said.

'So am I,' he answered.

'Good-bye,' she said.

'Good-bye.'

The bell over the door tinkled when he left.

The telephone directory listed a Philip Bannister at 1592 South Tenth. Hawes called the squad to let Carella know where he was going, and then he drove to Bannister's place.

South Tenth was a typical precinct street, crowded with tenements and humanity, overlooked by fire escapes cluttered with the paraphernalia of life. The fire escapes were loaded today. Today every woman in the neighbourhood had said to hell with cleaning the house. Today every woman in the neighbourhood had put on her lightest clothing and stepped out on to the fire escape in the hope of catching any breeze that might rustle through the concrete canyon. Radios had been plugged into extension cords that trailed back into the apartments, and music flooded the street. Pitchers of lemonade, cans of beer beaded with cold sweat, milk bottles full of ice water, rested on the fire escapes. The women sat and drank and fanned themselves, their skirts pulled up over their knees, some of them sitting in shorts and halters, some of them sitting in slips, all of them trying desperately to beat the heat.

Hawes pulled the car to the curb, cut the engine, mopped his brow, and stepped from his small oven into the larger oven that was the street. He was wearing lightweight trousers and a cotton sports shirt open at the throat, but he was sweating none the less. He thought suddenly of Fats Donner and the Turkish bath, and felt immediately cooler.

1592 was a dowdy grey tenement set between two similarly dowdy and similarly grey tenements. Hawes climbed the front stoop, walking past two young girls who were discussing Eddie Fisher. One of them couldn't understand what he'd seen in Debbie Reynolds. She herself was built better than Debbie Reynolds, and she was sure Eddie had noticed her that time she'd got his autograph outside the stage door. Hawes went into the building wishing he could sing.