Эд Макбейн - Lady, Lady, I Did It!

“Where’s your daughter, Mrs. Glennon?”

“Do you think she beat up a cop, too?”

“No, Mrs. Glennon, but we think she had an appointment to meet Claire Townsend on Saturday at this address.” Carella put the slip of paper on the kitchen table, alongside the cup of milk. Mrs. Glennon looked at it and said nothing.

“Know anything about that address, Mrs. Glennon?”

“No.”

“Was she supposed to meet Claire Saturday?”

“No. I don’t know.”

“Where is she now?”

“At my sister’s. In Bethtown.”

“She’s not there, Mrs. Glennon.”

“That’s where she is.”

“No. We spoke to your sister. She’s not there, and she was never there.”

“She’s there.”

“No. Now where is she, Mrs. Glennon?”

“If she’s not there, I don’t know where she is. She said she was going to see her aunt. She’s never lied to me, so I have no reason to believe—”

“Mrs. Glennon, you know damn well she didn’t go to your sister’s. You called your sister this morning, right after Detective Meyer left here. You asked her to lie for you. Where’s your daughter, Mrs. Glennon?”

“I don’t know. Leave me alone! I’ve got enough trouble! Do you think it’s easy? Do you think raising two kids without a man is easy? Do you think I like that crowd my son runs with? And now Eileen? Do you think I...? Leave me alone? I’m sick. I’m a sick woman.” Her voice trailed off. “Please. Leave me alone. Please.” She was talking in a whisper now. “I’m sick. Please. I just got out of the hospital. Please. Please leave me alone.”

“What about Eileen, Mrs. Glennon?”

“Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing,” she said, her eyes squeezed shut, wailing the words, her hands clenched in her lap.

“Mrs. Glennon,” Carella said very softly, “we’d like to know where your daughter is.”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Glennon said. “I swear to God. I don’t know. That’s the God’s honest truth. I don’t know where Eileen is.”

Detective Bob O’Brien stood on the sidewalk and looked up at 271 South 1st Street.

The building was a five-story brownstone, and a sign in the first-floor window advertised FURNISHED ROOMS FOR RENT BY DAY OR WEEK. O’Brien climbed the front steps and rang the superintendent’s bell. He waited for several moments, received no answer, and rang the bell again.

“Hello?” a voice from somewhere inside called.

“Hello!” O’Brien answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello!” He was beginning to feel like an echo when the front door opened. A thin old man wearing khaki trousers and an undershirt looked out at him. He had shaggy graying brows that partially covered his blue eyes and gave him a peering expression.

“Hello,” he said. “You ring the bell?”

“I did,” O’Brien answered. “I’m Detective O—”

“Oh-oh,” the old man said.

O’Brien smiled. “No trouble, sir,” he said. “I just wanted to ask a few questions. My name’s O’Brien, 87th Squad.”

“How do you do? My name’s O’Loughlin, South First Street,” the old man said, and he chuckled.

“Up the rebels!” O’Brien said.

“Up the rebels!” O’Loughlin answered, and both men burst out laughing. “Come on in, lad. I was just about to have a nip to welcome the end of the day. You can join me.”

“Well, we’re not allowed to drink on duty, Mr. O’Loughlin.”

“Sure, and who’s going to tell anyone about it?” the old man said. “Come on in.”

They walked through the vestibule and into O’Loughlin’s apartment at the end of the hall. They sat in a parlor hung with a colored-glass chandelier and velvet drapes. The furniture was old and deep and comfortable. O’Loughlin went to a cherrywood cabinet and took out an ornate bottle.

“Irish whiskey,” he said.

“What else?” O’Brien asked.

The old man chuckled and poured two stiff hookers. He brought one to O’Brien where he sat on the sofa, and then he sat opposite him in a tall upholstered rocker.

“Up the rebels,” he said softly.

“Up the rebels,” O’Brien answered, and both men drank solemnly.

“What was it you wanted to know, O’Brien?” the old man asked.

“That’s got a little bit of a kick,” O’Brien said, staring at the whiskey glass, his eyes smarting.

“Mild as your dear mother’s milk,” O’Loughlin said. “Drink up, lad.”

O’Brien raised the glass cautiously to his lips. Gingerly he sipped at it. “Mr. O’Loughlin,” he said, “we’re trying to locate a girl named Eileen Glennon. We found an address—”

“You came to the right place, lad,” O’Loughlin said.

“You know her?”

“Well, I don’t know her. That is to say, not personally. But she rented a room from me, that she did.”

O’Brien sighed. “Good,” he said. “What room is that?”

“Upstairs. Nicest room in the house. Looks out over the park. She said she wanted a nice room with sunshine. So I give her that one.”

“Is she here now?”

“No.” O’Loughlin shook his head.

“Do you have any idea when she’ll be back?”

“Well, she hasn’t been here yet.”

“What do you mean? You said—”

“I said she rented a room from me, is what I said. That was last week. Thursday, as I remember. But she said she’d be wanting the room for Saturday. Saturday came around, and she never showed up.”

“Then she hasn’t been here since she rented the room?”

“Nossir, I’m afraid she hasn’t. What is it? Is the poor girl in some trouble?”

“No, not exactly. We just...” O’Brien sighed and sipped at the whiskey again. “Was she renting the room on a daily basis? Did she just want it for Saturday?”

“Nossir. Wanted it for a full week. Paid me in advance. Cash.”

“Didn’t you think it a little odd... I mean... well, do you usually rent rooms to such young girls?”

O’Loughlin raised his shaggy brows and peered at O’Brien. “Well, she wasn’t all that young, you understand.”

“Sixteen is pretty young, Mr. O’Loughlin.”

“Sixteen?” O’Loughlin burst out laughing. “Oh, now, the young lady was handing somebody a little blarney, lad. She was twenty-five if she was a day.”

O’Brien looked into his whiskey glass. Then he looked up at the old man.

“How old, sir?”

“Twenty-five, twenty-six, maybe even a little older. But not sixteen. Nossir, not by a long shot.”

“Eileen Glennon? We’re talking about the same girl?”

“Eileen Glennon, that’s her name. Came here on Thursday, gave me a week’s rent in advance, said she’d come by for the key Saturday. Eileen Glennon.”

“Could you... could you tell me what she looked like, Mr. O’Loughlin?”

“I sure can. She was a tall girl. Very big. Maybe five-seven, five-eight. I remember having to look up at her while I was talking. And she had pitch-black hair, and big brown eyes, and—”

“Claire,” O’Brien said aloud.

“Huh?”

“Sir, did she mention anything about another girl?”

“Nope.”

“Did she say she was going to bring another girl here?”

“Nope. Wouldn’t matter to me, anyway. You rent a room, the room’s yours.”

“Did you tell this to her?”

“Well, I made it plain to her, I guess. She said she wanted a quiet room with a lot of sunshine. The way I figured it, the sunshine was optional. But when somebody comes in here asking for a quiet room, I understand they don’t want to be disturbed, and I let her know she wouldn’t be disturbed. Not by me, anyway.” The old man paused. “I’m talking to you man to-man, O’Brien.”