Ed McBain - Lady Killer

'Hello, Bob,' Carella said into the phone.

'Steve, I'm still with this Samalson guy. He just left the supermarket. He's in a bar across the street, tilting one before he heads home, I guess. You still want me to stick with him?'

'Hold on, Bob.'

Carella pressed the hold button on the phone and buzzed the lieutenant's office.

'Yes?' Byrnes said.

'I've got O'Brien on the wire,' Carella said. 'Do you still want that tail on Samalson?'

'Is it eight o'clock yet?' Byrnes asked.

'No.'

'Then I still want the tail. Tell Bob to stick with him until he goes to sleep. In fact, I want him watched all night. If he's in this thing, the goddamn shooter may come to him.'

'Okay,' Carella said. 'You going to relieve him later, Pete?'

'Oh, hell, tell him to call me as soon as Samalson gets to the apartment. I'll have a cop from the Hundred and Second relieve him.'

'Right.' Carella clicked off, pressed the extension button, and said, 'Bob, stick with him until he's in his apartment. Then call Pete, and he'll get somebody from the Hundred and Second to spell you. He wants this to be an all-night plant.'

'Suppose he doesn't head home?' O'Brien asked.

'What can I tell you, Bob?'

'Shit! I'm supposed to go to a ball game tonight.'

'I'm supposed to go to a movie. Look, this thing'll be over by eight.'

'It'll be over for the shooter, sure. But Pete figures he may be tied in with Samalson, doesn't he?'

'He doesn't really believe that, Bob. But he's trying to cover every angle. Samalson's story was a little thin.'

'You think the killer's going to seek a guy who's already been interrogated by the cops? That's faulty reasoning, Steve.'

'It's a hot day, Bob. Maybe all of Pete's cylinders aren't clicking.'

'Sure, but where does—Oh-oh, the bastard's on his way. I'll call in a little later. Listen, do me a favour, will you?'

'What's that?'

'Crack this by eight. I want to see that ball game.'

'We'll try.'

'He's moving. So long, Steve.' O'Brien hung up.

'O'Brien,' Carella said. 'He's beefing about the tail on Samalson. Thinks it's ridiculous. I think so, too. Samalson didn't have the smell on him.'

'What smell?' Meyer asked.

'You know the smell. Every thief in the city gives it off. Samalson didn't have it. If he's tied in with this, I'll eat his goddamn field glasses.'

The phone rang again.

'That's probably Samalson,' Hawes said, 'complaining about O'Brien tailing him.'

Smiling, Carella picked up the receiver. 'Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Carella,' he said. 'Oh, sure.' He covered the mouthpiece. 'Permits. You want me to take it down?'

'Go ahead.'

'Shoot,' Carella said to the mouthpiece. He listened for a moment, then turned to Hawes. 'Forty-seven registered Lugers in the precinct. You want them all?'

'I just thought of something,' Hawes said.

'What?'

'They take your fingerprints for the back of a pistol-licence application. If—'

'Never mind,' Carella said into the phone. 'Forget it. Thanks a lot.' He hung up. 'If our boy,' he concluded for Hawes, 'had a permit, the fingerprints would be on file at the I.B. Ergo , our boy ain't got a permit.'

Hawes nodded. 'You ever have a day like that, Steve?'

'Like what?'

'Where you're just plain stupid,' Hawes said despondently.

'I knew you were calling Permits, didn't I?' Carella asked. 'Did I try to stop you?'

Hawes sighed and stared through the window. Willis came back with the coffee.

'Here you are, sir,' he said to Meyer. 'I hope everything is satisfactory, sir.'

'I'll leave a big tip,' Meyer said, and he picked up the coffee cup and then cleared his throat.

'I've got a tip for you,' Willis said.

'What's that?'

'Never become a cop. The hours are long and the pay is low, and you have to do all sorts of menial chores for your colleagues.'

'I'm getting a cold,' Meyer said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a box of cough drops. 'I always get summer colds. They're the worst kind, and I always get them.' He put a cough drop on his tongue. 'Anybody want one of these?'

Nobody answered. Meyer returned the box to his back pocket. He picked up his coffee and began sipping at it.

'Quiet,' Willis said.

'Yeah.'

'You think it really is a specific lady?' Hawes asked.

'I don't know,' Carella said. 'But I think so, yes.'

'He used the name John Smith,' Hawes said. 'When he moved into this apartment. No clothes there. No food.'

'John Smith. Cherchez la femme ,' Meyer said. ' Cherchez Pocahontas.'

'We've been cherchez -ing la femme all day,' Hawes said. 'I'm getting weary.'

'Stick it out, kid,' Carella said. He looked up at the wall clock. 'It's 5.15. It'll all be over soon.'

And then it started.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It started with the fat woman in the housedress, and her arrival at the slatted rail divider seemed to trip off a train of events none of which had any immediate bearing on the case. It was terribly unfortunate that the events intruded upon the smooth progress of the investigation. None of the 87th's cops would have had it that way if there had been a choice. They were, after all, rather intent upon preventing a murder that night. But the men of the 87th were working stiffs doing a job, and the things that happened within the next fifty minutes were not things that fit into place like the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. They followed no pat line of development. They brought the cops not an iota closer to finding The Lady or the man who had threatened to kill. The train of events started at 5.15 in the late afternoon of Wednesday, 24 July. They did not end until 6.05 p.m. in the evening of that same day.

All they did was consume the most valuable commodity the detectives had: time.

The woman in the housedress puffed up to the slatted rail divider. She was holding the hand of a ten-year-old blond kid in dungarees and a red-striped tee shirt. The kid was Frankie Annuci. The woman was controlling a rage that threatened to burst her seams. Her face was livid, her eyes were sparkling black coals, her lips were compressed tightly into a narrow line that held back the flow of her anger. She charged up to the railing as if she would batter it down by sheer momentum, and then stopped abruptly. The steam building inside her pushed past the thin retaining line of her lips. Her mouth opened. The words came out in a roar.

'WHERE'S THE LIEUTENANT HERE?'

Meyer almost spilled his coffee and swallowed his cough drop. He whirled around in his chair. Willis, Carella, and Hawes stared at the woman as if she were the ghost of Criminals Past.

'THE LIEUTENANT!' she shouted. 'THE LIEUTENANT! Where is he?'

Carella rose and walked to the railing. He spotted the boy and said, 'Hello, Frankie. What can I do for you, ma'm? Is there-?'

'Don't say hello to him!' the woman shouted. 'Don't even look at him! Who are you?'

'Detective Carella.'

'Well, Detective Carella, I want to talk—' She stopped. ' Tu sei'taliano ?'

' Si ,' Carella said.

' Bene. Dov'è il tenente? Voglio parlare con—'

'I don't understand Italian too well,' Carella said.

'You don't? Why not? Where's the lieutenant?'

'Well, can I help you?'

'Did you have Frankie in here this afternoon?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'To ask him some questions.'

'I'm his mother. I'm Mrs Annuci. Mrs Rudolph Annuci. I'm a good woman, and my husband is a good man. Why did you have my son in here?'

'He delivered a letter for somebody this morning, Mrs Annuci. We're looking for the man who gave him the letter, that's all. We just asked him some questions.'

'YOU HAD NO RIGHT TO DO THAT!' Mrs Annuci shouted, 'HE IS NOT A CRIMINAL!'