Ed McBain - Killer's Choice

'So am I.'

'We haven't heard your alibi yet.'

'I don't remember where I was. I was nowhere near the store.'

Meyer sighed heavily. 'Mr Phelps,' he said. 'Get your clothes on.'

'Why?'

'Because it looks as if you haven't got a story, Mr Phelps. It also looks as if you were pretty involved with this Boone girl, and it looks as if we've got to ask you a few more questions at the squad. A lot more questions, Mr Phelps.'

'I…' Phelps swallowed hard. 'I… I was in Isola that night.'

'Where in Isola?'

'On… Endicott Avenue.'

'Doing what?'

'I… I was with someone.'

'Who?' Phelps did not answer. 'Who?' Meyer repeated.

'Someone.'

'Who?' Kling said.

'A woman?' Meyer asked.

'Yes,' Phelps said.

Both detectives were silent. At last Meyer said, 'You're a real nice chap, Mr Phelps. You're a real fine investment.'

'Investment?'

'The ones who own stock in you ought to liquidate it. What's the broad's name?'

'She's not a broad!'

'What's her name?'

'Lydia. Lydia Forrester.'

'Address?'

'730 Endicott Avenue. You're not going to drag her into this, are you?'

'Can you think of a better way of checking your alibi?'

'I suppose not.'

'Any doormen at her place? Elevator operators?'

'Yes, why?'

'Mr Phelps, the way this thing looks to be shaping up, you've now got a pretty damn good reason for wanting Annie Boone out of the way. And I don't know if we're going to be happy with just the Reason's word that you were with her that night. You better keep your fingers crossed.'

'About what?'

'You better keep your fingers crossed that somebody else in that building saw you around the time Annie was murdered.' Meyer nodded emphatically. 'We'll see you, Mr Phelps. We'll let you know. You can be sure we'll let you know.'

CHAPTER TWELVE

It's very discouraging to learn that a man suspected of murder has an airtight alibi. It was discouraging to learn it about Ted Boone and even more discouraging to learn it about Franklin Phelps. But the sad facts remained. Franklin Phelps had been with a girl named Lydia Forrester from 9 p.m. until 11 p.m. on the night Annie Boone got it. The elevator operator remembered taking him up at 9 and down at 11. This did not mean, of course, that he could not have taken the service steps down at any time between those two times, gone out to kill Annie, and then come back up again by the same steps. The service steps, however, terminated in one of two places: the lobby, or the basement. A doorman was on duty in the lobby all night long. Franklin Phelps had not crossed it until 11 p.m. And the superintendent and the janitor had been playing cards in the basement all night long, right alongside the only exit door. Phelps had not come down to the basement. Phelps had been otherwise occupied. He had not killed Annie Boone, and it was most discouraging. It meant that the bulls of the 87th had to do more legwork, and it's the legwork that kills a cop.

For reasons which weren't even clear to themselves, it seemed as if every cop on the squad was taking turns at the legwork involved in finding the murderer of Annie Boone. Every cop but Cotton Hawes. Cotton Hawes had his own private little crusade going against the man who'd murdered Roger Havilland. It made things cosy, though, everyone being involved. It gave them all a sort of personal stake. It also gave them something to talk about when they didn't have any dirty jokes to tell. It was nice. It was brotherly.

'This legwork is a son of a bitch,' Carella said to Kling. 'When you get to be my age, anyway. Of course, with a kid like you, it doesn't matter. How old are you, anyway, Bert? Seventeen?'

'Sixteen,' Kling said.

'Sure. These steps don't matter to you.'

'I eat steps,' Kling said.

'Sure.'

'I eat sidewalks.'

'Sure.'

They were climbing the steps to a pool parlour known euphemistically as 'Heaven's Hall'. The steps leading upstairs did not at all smell like heaven. Kling didn't know what they smelled like, but they certainly didn't smell like heaven.

'When I was a boy,' Carella said, 'I used to eat steps, too. Sidewalks, too.'

'No more now,' Kling said. 'You're up for pension, aren't you?'

'Sure.'

'How old are you anyway, Steve?' Kling asked. 'Sixty-eight?'

'Sixty- nine ,' Carella said.

'Sure. You look pretty good, though, I have to admit it. You don't look too bad at all.'

'Clean living,' Carella said.

They had reached Heaven's Hall. They could hear the inimitable sound of pool balls being knocked around on green felt. Together they walked to the small booth at the entrance to the place. The booth was really an L-shaped glass-fronted cigar stand. A bald-headed man and a light panel for the tables were behind the stand. The bald-headed man didn't even look up when they approached. He had the drawer of the cash register open, and he was counting money.

When he finished, Carella asked, 'Good day?'

' Comme ci, comme ça ,' the bald-headed man said. 'If you want a table, you got to wait. I'm all full up.' He shifted his cigar butt to the other side of his mouth.

'We don't want a table,' Carella said.

'No? So what do you want?'

'A man named Frank Abelson.'

'What for?'

'Police,' Carella said. He flashed the tin.

'What'd he do?'

'Just want to ask him a few questions,' Carella said.

'What about?'

'Routine.'

'What kind of routine?'

'Routine routine,' Carella said.

'It ain't about…'

'About what?'

'Nothing.' The bald-headed man looked worried.

'What's the matter?'

'Nothing. My name's Fink. Baldy Fink. That's a funny name, ain't it?'

'Yeah,' Carella said.

'Ring a bell?'

'What?'

'The name. Baldy Fink. Ring a bell?'

'No. Should it?'

'This ain't about the… uh… it ain't, huh?'

'The what?' Carella asked.

'Baldy Fink don't ring a bell, huh?'

'No.'

'You know this guy at the 87th? You from the 87th?'

'Yeah.'

'Havilland? Roger Havilland? He's a bull. You know him?'

Kling looked at Carella. 'Yeah, we know him.'

'Well… uh… how much do you guys tell each other? I mean, what kind of arrangements do you have going?'

'I don't understand,' Carella said.

'I mean… do you split, or what?'

'Split what?'

'The take.'

'What take?'

'Come on, you ain't that young a cop,' Fink said.

'You were paying Havilland?' Carella asked.

'Sure.'

'What for?'

'The crap games.'

'You run crap games here, do you?'

'Sure. It's okay. Havilland said it was okay. He said no cops would bother me.'

'Havilland's dead,' Kling said.

Fink opened his mouth. 'Yeah?'

'Yeah.'

'Oh, I see. You come to take over, huh?' Fink shrugged. 'Okay, suits me. I don't care who gets it, long as I'm left alone. Same deal as with him?'

'Not exactly,' Carella said.

'More?'

'Not exactly.'

'What then?'

'No more crap games,' Carella said.

'Huh?'

' No more crap games.'

'Why the hell not?'

'New administration,' Carella said.

'Ah, come on. Hey, that ain't nice. I mean, you sucked me right into this.'

'You did all the talking, Fink,' Carella said. 'We only listened.'

'Sure, so what kind of a way is that to act? Don't you want what Havilland was getting?'

'No.'

'Come on.'

'No,' Carella said. 'Call off the crap games. Find another sewer.'

'Argh, shat, you guys,' Fink said disgustedly.

'Where's Abelson?'

'Table number three. He don't like to be disturbed when he's shootin' pool.'

'That's too bad,' Carella said, and he and Kling walked over to table number three. There was only one man shooting at the table. He wore a white shirt and a blue weskit open over the shirt. His sleeves were rolled up. He had dark hair with a pronounced widow's peak, and sharp brown eyes. Even though he was alone at the table, he called off all his shots aloud.