Ed McBain - Killer's Choice

'What was he wearing?'

'A sports shirt with no tie. A sports jacket. And black gloves,' Hawes answered, suddenly wondering how he had got on the wrong end of the interrogation stick. He looked at Connie. Connie wasn't saying a word. 'Well?' he asked.

'Well what?'

'Well, is that the man you saw?'

'That's the man I saw, all right.'

'Well!' Hawes said. 'Now we're getting somewhere.'

'I knew there was something fishy as soon as he pulled away from the kerb,' Connie said. 'I didn't need your description.'

'What made you think so?'

'Why, the man was bleeding,' Connie said. 'His blood is all over the sidewalk around the corner.'

Hawes nodded to the patrolman, and the patrolman left the shop to check on Connie's statement.

'Did you happen to notice the licence plate on the car?'

'Yes, I noticed it,' Connie said.

'What number was it?'

'Oh, I didn't notice the number. I just noticed there was a licence plate on the car.'

'What year and make was the car?' Hawes asked. 'Would you know that?'

'Of course I would. You don't think I do, do you? You don't think a seventy-four-year-old woman wonders about such things. Well, I can tell you the year and make of any car on the road. I've got good eyes. Twenty-twenty vision even though I'm seventy-four years old.'

'What was the…'

'That car across the street there is a 1954 Buick. The one behind it is a Ford station wagon, 1952. The one…'

'How about the one that man got into?' Hawes asked.

'You don't think I know, do you?'

'I think you do know,' Hawes said. 'I just wish you'd tell me.'

Connie grinned crookedly. 'It was a 1947 Dodge.'

'Sedan?'

'Yes.'

'Four-door or two?'

'Four-door.'

'What colour?'

'Green. Not the manufacturer's green. The Chrysler Corporation never put a coat of green like that on any of their cars.'

'What sort of green was it?'

'Almost a Kelly green. That car'd been repainted. That wasn't the original paint job.'

'Are you sure?'

'I can tell you any car on the road. I'm good on cars. I never saw an original paint job like that one. Not even today with the crazy colours they're putting on cars.'

'Well, thanks a lot, Miss Fitzhenry,' Hawes said. 'You've certainly been a help.' He was leading her to the doorway of the grocery store. She stopped, smiled up at him pleasantly, her crooked teeth showing.

'Don't you want my address?' she asked.

'What for, Miss Fitzhenry?'

'So you'll know where to send the cheque,' she said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

In the squad room, Bert Kling was talking on the phone to his fiancée, Claire Townsend.

'I can't talk,' he said.

'Can't you even say you love me?'

'No,' he said.

'Why not?'

'Because.'

'Is someone standing near your desk?'

'Yes.'

'Who?'

'Meyer.'

'Did you call me?' Meyer asked, turning.

'No. No, Meyer.'

' Do you love me?' Claire asked.

'Yes,' Kling said. He glanced surreptitiously at Meyer. Meyer was not a fool, and he probably knew exactly what Claire was asking, and was probably enjoying Kling's discomfort immensely. Kling would never understand women. A beautiful girl like Claire, a sensible girl like Claire, should realize that a Detective Squad Room was not the place to be bandying about words of love and devotion. He formed a mental picture of her as she spoke, the black void of her hair, the brown depths of her eyes, the narrow nose, the high cheek bones, the curved length of her body.

'Tell me you love me,' she said.

'What are you doing?' he asked.

'I'm studying.'

'For what?'

'A sociology exam.'

'Good. Go study. If you want to graduate this semester…'

'Will you marry me when I graduate?'

'Not until you get a job.'

'If you were a lieutenant, I wouldn't have to get a job.'

'I know, but I'm only a Detective 3rd.'

'This is my last exam.'

'Did you pass the others?'

'Snaps.'

'Good. Go study.'

'I'd rather talk to you.'

'I'm busy. You're wasting the taxpayers' time.'

'All right, Conscientious.'

'Conscientious, anyone?' Kling asked, and Claire burst out laughing.

'That does it,' she said. 'Good-bye. Will you call me tonight?'

'Yes.'

'I love you, cop,' she said, and she hung up.

'The girl friend?' Meyer asked.

'Mmm,' Kling said.

' L'amour , it's wonderful,' Meyer said.

'Go to hell.'

'I'm serious. June, moon, spoon, croon. When's the wedding?'

'Not this June, that's for sure.'

'Next June?'

'Maybe sooner.'

'Good,' Meyer said. 'Get married. There's nothing like marriage for a cop. It gives him a sense of justice. He knows already what it feels like to be a prisoner, so he doesn't hurry to make false arrests.'

'Baloney,' Kling said. 'You love it.'

'Who said no?' Meyer asked. 'Been married to the same woman for almost thirteen years now, God bless her.' His blue eyes twinkled. 'I'm getting used to my cell. I think if she left the door unlocked, I wouldn't even try to escape.'

'You've got it real tough,' Kling said.

'I love her,' Meyer said philosophically. 'What can I do? I'm a sucker for this love bit. Sue me.'

'Were you a cop when you married her?'

'Sure. We met in college. That was in…'

'I didn't know you went to college.'

'I'm a big intellectual,' Meyer said. 'You mean you didn't know? Can't you tell looking at me? I come from a long line of scholars. In the town in Europe where my grandfather came from, he was the only man who could read and write. An honour. A great honour.'

'I believe it,' Kling said.

'You should. Have you ever known me to tell a falsehood? Never. Honest John Meyer, they call me. I studied law in college, did you know that?'

'No,' Kling said.

'Sure. But when I got out of school, people needed lawyers like they needed holes in the head. I got out of school in 1940. You know what people needed then? Not lawyers.'

'What?'

'Soldiers.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah. Uncle Sam wagged his finger. I went. I had a choice? When I got out in 1944, I didn't feel like being a lawyer any more. All of a sudden, I didn't feel like struggling in a little cubbyhole office, chasing ambulances. I joined the force. That's when I married Sarah.'

' Mazeltov ,' Kling said, smiling.

' Gesundheit ,' Meyer replied, add the telephone rang. Meyer picked it up. 'Detective Meyer, 87th Squad,' he said. 'Who? Yes, he's here. Who's this, please? Okay, just a second.' He covered the mouthpiece. 'A guy named Ted Boone,' he said to Kling. 'Any relation to the dead girl?'

'Her ex-husband,' Kling said. 'I'll take it.' Meyer handed him the phone. 'Hello?' Kling said.

'Detective Kling? This is Ted Boone.'

'Yes, how are you, Mr Boone?'

'Fine, thank you.'

'What is it?'

'Something that might interest you. I don't know. I just went down to the mailbox. There was a letter in it. From Annie.'

'Annie?'

'Yes. It was wrongly addressed, mailed last week some time. I guess the wrong address explains why it took so long to get here. Anyway, it was rather weird.'

'Yes. Anything important in it?'

'Well, I'll let you judge for yourself. Can you come over?'

'Are you still home?'

'Yes.'

'What's the address?' Kling asked. Boone gave it to him. 'I'll be right over,' Kling said, and he hung up.

'Anything?' Meyer asked.

'Might be.'

'Not sure?'

'No.'

'Why don't you ask Detective Cotton Hawes?' Meyer said, his eyes twinkling again. 'I hear he's a regular whiz.'

'And good day to you,' Kling said, and then shoved his way through the slatted rail divider and walked out of the squad room.