Ed McBain - Lady Killer

'What colour?'

'Blue.'

'A convertible?'

'No.'

'A sedan?'

'What's a sedan?'

'Hard-top.'

'Yes.'

'Did you see the licence number?'

'No.'

'What happened, Frankie?'

'He called me over to the car. My mother said I should never get in cars with strangers, but he didn't want me to get in the car. He asked me if I wanted to make five bucks.'

'What did you say?'

'I said how?'

'Go ahead, Frankie,' Byrnes said.

'He said I should take this letter to the police station around the corner.'

'What street were you on, Frankie?'

'Seventh. Right around the corner.'

'Okay. Go ahead.'

'He said I should come in and ask for the desk sergeant and then give it to him and leave.'

'Did he give you the five dollars then or later?'

'Right then,' Frankie said. 'With the letter.'

'Have you still got it?' Byrnes asked.

'I spent some of it.'

'We wouldn't get anything from a bill, anyway,' Meyer said.

'No,' Byrnes said. 'Did you get a good look at this man, Frankie?'

'Pretty good.'

'Can you describe him?'

'Well, he had short hair.'

'Very short?'

'Pretty short.'

'What colour eyes?'

'Blue, I think. They were light, anyway.'

'Any scars you could see?'

'No.'

'Moustache?'

'No.'

'What was he wearing?'

'A yellow sports shirt,' Frankie said.

'That's our man,' Hawes put in. 'That's who I tangled with in the park.'

'I want a police artist up here,' Byrnes said. 'Meyer, get one, will you? If this Samalson doesn't work out, we may be able to use a picture to show around.' He turned sharply. The phone in his office was ringing. 'Just a second, Frankie,' he said, and he went into the office and answered the phone.

When he returned, he said, 'That was the Hundred and Second. They checked Samalson's home address. He isn't there. His landlady says he works in Isola.'

'Where?' Carella asked.

'A few blocks from here. A supermarket called Beaver Brothers, Inc. Do you know it?'

'I'm half-way there,' Carella said.

On the telephone, Meyer Meyer said, "This is the Eighty-seventh Squad. Lieutenant Byrnes wants an artist up here right away. Can you—?'

Cotton Hawes knew the instant Carella brought the man into the squad-room that he was not the man who'd assaulted him in the park.

Martin Samalson was a tall, thin man wearing the white apron of a supermarket clerk, the apron somehow emphasizing his gauntness. His hair was blond and wavy and worn long. His eyes were brown.

'What do you say, Cotton?' Byrnes asked.

'Not him,' Hawes said.

'Is this the man who gave you the letter, Frankie?'

'No,' Frankie said.

'What letter?' Samalson asked, wiping his hands on the apron.

Byrnes picked up the binoculars, which were resting on Carella's desk. 'These yours?' he asked.

Samalson looked at them in surprise. 'Yeah! Hey, how about that? Where'd you find them?'

'Where'd you lose them?' Byrnes asked.

Samalson seemed suddenly aware of the situation. 'Hey now, wait a minute, just wait a minute! I lost those glasses last Sunday. I don't know why you dragged me in here, but if it's got something to do with those glasses, just forget it! Boy, get off that kick fast,' He shook the air with one outstretched palm, wiping the slate clean.

'When did you buy them?' Byrnes asked.

'About two weeks ago. A hockshop on Crichton. You can check it.'

'We already have,' Byrnes said. 'We know all about the lollipop.'

'Huh?'

'You went into the shop sucking a lollipop.'

'Oh.' Samalson looked sheepish. 'I had a sore throat. It's good to keep your mouth wet when you got a sore throat. That's why I had the lollipop. There's no law against that.'

'And you had these glasses until last Sunday, is that right? And last Sunday you claim you lost them.'

'That's right.'

'Sure you didn't loan them to anybody?'

'Positive. Last Sunday I went on a boat ride. Up the Harb. That's when I musta lost them. I don't know what them damn glasses have been doing since, and I don't care. You can't tie me up with them after last Sunday. Damn right!'

'Slow down, Samalson,' Hawes said.

'Slow down, my ass! You drag me into a police station and—'

'I said slow down!' Hawes said. Samalson looked at his face. Instantly he shut up.

'What boat were you on last Sunday?' Hawes asked, the menace still in his voice and on his face.

'The S.S. Alexander ? Samalson said pettishly.

'Where'd it go?'

'Up the River Harb. To Paisley Mountain.'

'When'd you lose the glasses?'

'It must've been on the way back. I had them while we were at the picnic grounds.'

'You think you lost them on the boat?'

'Maybe. I don't know.'

'Did you go anywhere afterward?'

'How do you mean?'

'After the boat docked.'

'Yeah. I was with a girl. The boat docks right near here, you know. On North Twenty-fifth. I had my car parked there. So we drove down to a bar near the supermarket. I stop there every now and then on my way home from work. That's how come I was familiar with it. I didn't feel like tracking all over the city looking for a nice place.'

'What's the name of the bar?'

'The Pub.'

'Where is it?'

'It's on North Thirteenth, Pete,' Carella said. 'I know the place. It's pretty nice for this neighbourhood.'

'Yeah, it's a nice bar,' Samalson agreed. 'I took the girl there, and then we drove around for a while.'

'Did you park?'

'Yes.'

'Where?'

'Near her house. In Riverhead.'

'Could you have lost the glasses then?'

'I suppose so. I think I lost them on the boat, though.'

'Could you have lost them in this bar?'

'Maybe. But I think it was the boat.'

'Come here, Steve,' Byrnes said, and both men walked towards Byrnes's office. In a whisper, Byrnes asked, 'What do you think? Should we hold him?'

'What for?'

'Hell, he may be an accomplice in this thing. That lost-glasses story stinks to high heaven.'

'It doesn't read like a pair, Pete. I think our killer is a single.'

'Still, the killer may know him. May head for this guy's place after the murder. Put a tail on him. O'Brien's sitting at his desk doing nothing. Use him.' Byrnes walked back to Samalson. Carella walked over to where Bob O'Brien was typing a report at the other end of the squad-room. He began talking to him in a whisper. O'Brien nodded.

'You can go, Samalson,' Byrnes said. 'Don't try to leave the city. We may want to question you further.'

'Would anyone mind telling me what the hell this is about?' Samalson said.

'Yes, we would,' Byrnes said.

'Boy, some goddamn police department in this city,' Samalson said, fuming. 'Can I have my glasses back?'

'We're finished with them,' Byrnes said.

'Thanks for nothing,' Samalson said, seizing the glasses. Hawes led him to the railing and watched as he went down the steps, still fuming. O'Brien left the squad-room a moment later.

'Can I go, too?' Frankie asked.

'Not yet, son,' Byrnes said. 'We're going to need you in a little while.'

'What for?' Frankie asked.

'We're going to draw a picture,' Byrnes said. 'Miscolo!' he yelled.

From the clerical office outside the railing, Miscolo's head appeared. 'Yo?' he said.

'You got any milk in there?'

'Sure.'

'Get this kid a glass, will you? And some cookies. You want some cookies, Frankie?'

Frankie nodded. Byrnes tousled his hair and went back into the corner office.

CHAPTER TEN

At 2.39 p.m. the police artist arrived.

He did not look at all like an artist. He did not wear a smock or a floppy bow tie, and his fingers were not stained with paint. He wore rimless eyeglasses, and he looked like a bored salesman for an exterminating service.