Ed McBain - Lady Killer

'Pretty late. After midnight, it must've been. I was listening to the radio. It was very hot last night, you know. It's almost impossible to get any sleep in these apartments. They're just like ovens. The door was open, and I heard him down the hall, so I went out to say hello. He was putting the key in the lock, looking just like a Russian spy, I swear to God. All he needed was a bomb, and that would be the picture.'

'Did he have anything with him?'

'Just a bag. Groceries, I guess. Oh, yeah. Glasses. You know. Opera glasses. I asked him was he just getting back from the opera.'

'What did he say?'

'He laughed. He was a hot sketch. Smith. John Smith. That was funny, don't you think?'

'What was funny about it?' Hawes asked.

'Well, the cough drops and all, you know. He was a hot sketch. I guess he won't be coming back after today, huh?'

'I guess not,' Hawes said, trying to keep up with the somewhat vague conversation.

'Is he a crook or something?'

'We don't know. Did he ever tell you anything about himself?'

'No. Nothing. He didn't talk so much. Anyway, he was only here those few times. And even then, he always seemed in a hurry. I asked him once if this was his summer place. You know, like a joke. He said yeah this was his retreat. A hot sketch. Smith.' She laughed at the name.

'But he never told you where he worked. Or even if he worked?'

'No.' The girl crossed her other arm over her bosom. 'I better go put something on, huh?' she said. 'I was taking a little nap when all the shooting started. I got so excited when it was over, I run downstairs in my slip. I'm a real sight, ain't I?' She giggled. 'I better go put something on. It was nice talking to you. You don't seem like a bull at all.'

'Thank you,' Hawes said, and then wondered if he was being complimented.

The girl hesitated at the door. 'Well, I hope you get him, anyway. He shouldn't be too hard to find. How many like him can there be in the city?'

'How many Smiths, do you mean?' Hawes asked, and the girl thought this was hysterical.

'You're a hot sketch, too,' she answered. He watched her as she went down the hall. He shrugged, closed the apartment door behind him, and went downstairs to the street. The landlady was still screaming.

Hawes told one of the patrolmen to keep everybody out of Apartment Twenty-two until the lab boys had gone over it.

Then he went back to the precinct.

It was 5.00 p.m.

Carella was sitting at one of the desks drinking coffee from a container when Hawes walked in. Willis and Meyer had not yet returned. The squad-room was silent.

'Hello, Cotton,' Carella said.

'Steve,' Hawes answered.

'Understand you got into a little fracas on Twelfth?'

'Umm.'

'You all right?'

'I'm fine. Except I keep losing people.'

'Have some coffee. The desk was really jumping downstairs. Must have got fifty calls about the shooting. He got away again, huh?'

'Umm,' Hawes said.

'Well.' Carella shrugged. 'Cream? Sugar?'

'Little of each.'

Carella fixed the coffee and handed the cup to Hawes. 'Relax. We can use a rest.'

'I want to make a call first.'

'Where?'

'Pistol permits.' He emptied his pockets on to the desk. 'I picked these up in his apartment. Do they look like Luger magazines to you?'

'They damn well couldn't be anything else,' Carella said.

'I want to check on permits for Lugers in the precinct. Who knows? We may get a break.'

'That's the easy way,' Carella said. 'Nothing ever comes the easy way, Cotton.'

'It's worth a try,' he said. He looked up at the wall clock. 'Jesus,' he said. 'Five already. Three hours to go.'

He pulled the phone to him and made his call. When he'd finished, he picked up the coffee container.

'They'll call me back,' he said to Carella. He put his feet up on the desk. 'Ahhhhhhhhh.'

'Think this damn heat'll ever break?'

'God, I hope so.'

In the silence of the squad-room, the two men sipped at their coffee. There was, for the moment, no need for communication. They sat with the afternoon sunlight filtering through the grilled windows, marking the floor with long golden rectangles. They sat with the hum of the electric fans rotating limpid air. They sat with the hushed, faraway street noise below them. They sat, and for the moment they were not policemen working on a difficult case on the hottest day of the year. They were simply two friends having a cup of coffee together.

'I've got a date tonight,' Hawes said.

'Nice?' Carella asked.

'A widow,' Hawes said. 'Very pretty. I met her this afternoon. Or was it this morning? Well, before lunch, anyway. A blonde. Very pretty.'

'Teddy's a brunette,' Carella said. 'Black hair. Very black.'

'When do I get to meet her?' Hawes asked.

'I don't know. Name it. I'm supposed to take her to a movie tonight. She's a remarkable lip-reader. She enjoys the movies as much as anyone who can hear.'

It no longer surprised Hawes to hear Carella talk about the handicap of his wife, Teddy. She had been born a deaf-mute, but this didn't seem to hinder her in the pursuit of happiness. From what other detectives on the squad had told him, Hawes had pieced together the picture of a lively, interesting, vivacious, and damned beautiful girl, and his mental picture couldn't have been more correct. Too, because he liked Carella, he was predisposed toward liking Teddy, and he really did want to meet her.

'You say you're going to a movie tonight?' Hawes asked.

'Mmm,' Carella said.

Hawes balanced the pleasure of meeting Teddy against the pleasure of entertaining Christine Maxwell alone. Christine Maxwell won out, proving the age-old adage, Hawes mused, that gentlemen prefer blondes.

'This is a first date,' he said to Carella. 'After I get to know her, we'll make it a double, okay?'

'Anytime you say,' Carella said.

Again the squad-room fell silent. From the clerical office down the hall, they could hear the steady rat-tat-tat of Mis-colo's typewriter. They sat drinking their coffee silently. There was something peaceful about these few minutes of relaxation, these few minutes of suspended time, this breathing spell in the race with the clock.

The moments ended.

'What's this? A country club?' Willis called from the railing.

'Look at them, willya?' Meyer said. 'We're shagging ass all over town, and they're taking their tea and crumpets.'

'Blow it out,' Carella said.

'How do you like this?' Willis went on, refusing to let it go. 'I hear you got shot, Cotton,' he said. 'The desk sergeant tells me you're a hero.'

'No such luck,' Hawes replied, regretting the sudden rupture of silence. 'He missed.'

'Too bad, so sad,' Willis said. He was a small detective with the fine-boned body of a jockey. But Fats Donner had told the truth about him; Willis was not a man to fool with. He knew judo the way he knew the Penal Code, and he could practically break your arm just by looking at you.

Meyer pulled a chair up to the desk. 'Hal, go get us some coffee, will you? Miscolo's probably got a pot going.'

Willis sighed. 'Man, I—'

'Come on, come on,' Meyer said. 'Respect your elders.'

Willis sighed again, and departed for the clerical office.

'How'd you make out at the bar, Steve?' Meyer asked.

'Huh?'

'The Pub. Wasn't that the name of it? Anybody make the picture?'

'No. It's a nice bar, though. Right on Thirteenth. Stop in if you're in the neighbourhood.'

'Did he set up a few for you?' Meyer asked.

'Naturally,' Carella said.

'You drunken bastard.'

'All I had was two beers.'

'That's more than I've had since breakfast,' Meyer said. 'Where the hell is Willis with that coffee?'

The telephone rang. Hawes picked it up.

'Eighty-seventh Squad, Hawes,' He listened. 'Oh, hello, Bob. Just a second.' He handed the phone to Carella. 'It's O'Brien. For you, Steve.'