Эд Макбейн - Bread

Like an archaeologist mentally reconstructing an earthen jug from the handle or the lip, Hawes picked gingerly through the ruins, finding charred, blistered, and melted remnants of what had once been a sofa, a record player, a toothbrush, a martini pitcher. There had not been a living soul in the house during the fire, only things that once had lived and now were dead. He could understand why Grimm had no stomach for wading through this inanimate carnage. He searched diligently for some trace of the device that had started the blaze, but found nothing. Alerted to the likelihood of arson, the Logan police would undoubtedly make their own thorough search and perhaps find more than he had. Hawes doubted it. He went outside, talked briefly with Grimm, told him they’d be in touch, and then went next door to the Aronowitz house.

The maid informed Hawes that Mr. Aronowitz had left for work at nine that morning and could be reached at his office in the city. She gave Hawes his business number and suggested that he call Mr. Aronowitz there. She would not reveal the name or address of the firm for which he worked. Hawes got into his car, drove to the nearest phone booth, and dialed the number the maid had given him. The answering voice said, “Blake, Fields, and Henderson, good morning.”

“Good morning,” Hawes said. “George Aronowitz, please.”

“Moment,” the voice said.

Hawes waited. Another voice came onto the line.

“Art Department.”

“Mr. Aronowitz, please.”

“Busy, can you hold?”

Hawes held.

“Ringing now,” the voice said, and a third voice came onto the line almost immediately.

“Mr. Aronowitz’s office.”

“May I speak to him, please?” Hawes said.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Detective Hawes, 87th Squad.”

“Yes, sir, just a moment.”

Hawes waited.

George Aronowitz was in the middle of a sentence when he finally came onto the line. “...want those chromos back by twelve noon or his ass’ll be in a sling. You tell him that exactly,” he said. “Yes, hello?”

“Mr. Aronowitz?”

“Yes?”

“This is Detective Hawes, I’m investigating the Grimm fire, and I wonder if you can spare a few minutes...”

“Yes?” he said.

“May I stop by to see you sometime today?”

“Can’t we do this over the phone?”

“I’d rather talk to you personally.”

“Who did you say you were?”

“Detective Hawes.”

“Who are you with? The Logan police?”

“No, I’m with the 87th Squad. Right here in the city.”

“Hell of a thing, wasn’t it?” Aronowitz said. “Burned right down to the ground. Let me look at my schedule. What’d you say your name was?”

“Detective Hawes.”

“Detective Horse? ”

“ Hawes. H-a-w-e-s.”

“How soon can you get here? I’ve got a lunch date at twelve-thirty.”

“Where are you?”

“933 Wilson. Fourteenth floor.”

“I’m in Logan now, give me forty minutes,” Hawes said. “See you,” Aronowitz said, and hung up.

Detective Andy Parker was sitting in his undershorts drinking a bottle of beer in the kitchen of his apartment, and he was supposed to be on vacation, and he was not very happy to see Steve Carella. Carella, who was never very happy to see Parker, even under the best of circumstances, did not particularly enjoy seeing him now, in his undershorts. Parker looked like a slob even when he was fully dressed. In his undershorts, sitting at the enamel-topped table and scratching his balls with one hand while tilting the bottle of beer to his lips with the other, he hardly seemed a candidate for Gentlemen’s Quarterly. His hair was uncombed, and he had not shaved since last Saturday when his vacation had started, and this was Thursday, and from the smell of him, he had not bothered to bathe, either.

Carella did not like Parker.

Parker did not like Carella.

Carella thought Parker was a lazy cop and a bad cop and the kind of cop who gave other cops a bad name. Parker thought Carella was an eager cop and a Goody Two-Shoes cop and the kind of cop who gave other cops a bad name. Only once in Parker’s life had he admitted to himself that perhaps Carella was the kind of cop he himself might have become, the kind of cop he perhaps even longed to be, and that was when a body had turned up bearing Carella’s identification and it was presumed Carella was dead. Drunk in bed with a whore that night, Parker had buried his head in the pillow and mumbled, “He was a good cop.” But that had been a long time ago, and Carella had been alive all along, and here he was now, bugging Parker about a goddamn arson case when he was supposed to be on vacation.

“I don’t see why this can’t wait till I get back,” he said. “What’s the big rush here? This guy married to the mayor’s daughter or something?”

“No, just an ordinary citizen,” Carella said.

“Yeah, so ordinary citizens are getting hit on the head every day of the week in this city, and we handle those cases in our own sweet time, and some we crack and some we don’t. This guy loses a bunch of wooden crap in a fire, and he gets hysterical.” Parker belched and immediately swallowed another mouthful of beer. He had not yet offered Carella a bottle, but Carella was already prepared with a brilliant squelch if and when Parker decided to extend at least a small measure of hospitality to a hardworking colleague.

“Grimm feels he’s been victimized,” Carella said.

“Everybody in this city is victimized one way or another every day of the week. What makes Grimm so special? I’m supposed to be on vacation. Doesn’t Grimm ever take vacations?”

“Andy,” Carella said, “I came over here only because I couldn’t get you on the phone...”

“That’s right, it’s off the hook. I’m on vacation.”

“And I can’t find the file on this case. If you’ll tell me...”

“That’s right, there ain’t no file,” Parker said. “I was only on the case a lousy two days, you know. I caught the squeal late Wednesday night, I worked the case all day Thursday and Friday, and then I started my vacation. How could there be a file on it?”

“Didn’t you type up any reports?”

“I didn’t have time to type up reports, I was too busy out in the field. Look, Steve, I busted my ass on this case, and I don’t need you telling me I was dogging it. I went over that warehouse with a fine-tooth comb,” Parker said, gathering steam. “I couldn’t find a thing, no fuse, no wick, no mechanical device, no bottles that might’ve had chemicals in them, nothing. I talked to...”

“Is it possible the fire was accidental?”

“How could it be? The two watchmen were doped, which means somebody wanted them out of the way, right? Okay, so why? To set fire to the joint.”

“You think Grimm might’ve done it himself?”

“Not a chance. All the stock was committed, he was ready to ship the stuff the next Monday morning. There were no records or books in the warehouse, he keeps those in an office on Bailey Street. So why would he burn down the joint? He’s clean.”

“Then why wouldn’t you tell that to his insurers?”

“Because I wasn’t sure. I only worked the case two days, and all I had at the end of that time was a pile of ashes. You think I was going to stick my neck out for Grimm? Screw that noise, buddy.”

“Did you get anything from the night watchmen?” Carella asked.

“They’re two old farts,” Parker said, “they can hardly remember their own names. They both got to work at eight o’clock, they remember feeling dizzy about ten, and then blooie. One of them collapsed in the courtyard outside. The other guy was inside making his rounds when it hit him. The firemen thought it was smoke inhalation at first, but that didn’t explain why the outside man was unconscious. Also, he had his head in a pool of his own vomit, so somebody got the bright idea he’d been doped. They pumped him out at the hospital, and sure enough, he’d been given a healthy dose of chloral hydrate. Okay, so where does that leave me? Chloral hydrate ain’t called ‘knockout drops’ for nothing, the stuff works in minutes. But both watchmen got to the warehouse at eight, and they didn’t pass out till two hours later. They told me nobody came anywhere near the place during that time, but nobody. So who gave them the knockout drops? You’re so hot to crack this one, find the guy who slipped them the Mickey. He’s probably the same guy who burned down the joint.”