Эд Макбейн - Bread

“Yes?” Carella said.

“Well, there’s not much to tell,” Lockhart said.

“ Nothing to tell, in fact,” Barnes said.

“As I understand it, you were both drugged.”

“That’s right,” Lockhart said.

“That’s right,” Barnes said.

“Want to tell me about that?”

“Well, there’s not much to tell,” Lockhart said again.

“ Nothing to tell, in fact,” Barnes said.

“We just passed out, that’s all.”

“What time was that?”

“Little after ten, must’ve been. Isn’t that right, Lenny?”

“That’s right,” Barnes said.

“And you both got to work at eight, is that right?”

“Eight on the dot. Always try to relieve Frank right on time,” Lockhart said. “It’s a long enough day without having to wait for your relief.”

“Anybody come to the factory between eight and ten?”

“Not a soul,” Barnes said.

“None of those coffee-and-sandwich wagons, nothing like that?”

“Nothing,” Lockhart said. “We make our own coffee. We got a little hot plate in the room just off the entrance door there. Near where the wall phone is hanging.”

“And did you make coffee last Wednesday night?”

“We did.”

“Who made it?”

“Me,” Lockhart said.

“What time was that?”

“Well, we had a cup must’ve been about nine. Wasn’t it about nine, Lenny?”

“Yeah, must’ve been about nine,” Barnes said, and nodded.

“Did you have another cup along about ten?”

“No, just that one cup,” Lockhart said.

“Just that one cup,” Barnes said.

“Then what?”

“Well, I went back outside again,” Lockhart said, “and Lenny here went inside to make the rounds. Takes a good hour to go through the whole place, you know. There’s four floors to the building.”

“So you had a cup of coffee at about nine, and then you went your separate ways, and you didn’t see each other again until after the fire. Is that about it?”

“Well, we saw each other again,” Barnes said, and glanced at Lockhart.

“When was that?”

“When I finished my rounds, I came down and chatted awhile with Jim here.”

“What time was that?”

“Well, like Jim said, it takes about an hour to go through the building, so I guess it was about ten or a little before.”

“But you didn’t have another cup of coffee at that time?”

“No, no,” Lockhart said.

“No,” Barnes said, and shook his head.

“What did you have?” Carella asked.

“Nothing,” Lockhart said.

“Nothing,” Barnes said.

“A shot of whiskey, maybe?”

“Oh, no,” Lockhart said.

“Ain’t allowed to drink on the job,” Barnes said.

“But you do enjoy a little drink every now and then, don’t you?”

“Oh, sure,” Lockhart said. “ Everybody enjoys a little drink every now and then.”

“But not on the job.”

“No, never on the job.”

“Well, it’s a mystery to me,” Carella said. “Chloral hydrate works very fast, you see...”

“Yeah, it’s a mystery to us, too,” Lockhart said.

“Yeah,” Barnes said.

“If you both passed out at ten o’clock...”

“Well, ten or a little after.”

“Are you sure you didn’t have another cup of coffee? Try to remember.”

“Well, maybe we did,” Lockhart said.

“Yeah, maybe,” Barnes said.

“Be easy to forget a second cup of coffee,” Carella said.

“I think we must’ve had a second cup. What do you think, Lenny?”

“I think so. I think we must’ve.”

“But nobody came to the warehouse, you said.”

“That’s right.”

“Then who put the knockout drops in your coffee?”

“Well, we don’t know who could’ve done it,” Lockhart said.

“That’s the mystery,” Barnes said.

“Unless you did it yourselves,” Carella said.

“What?” Lockhart said.

“Why would we do that?” Barnes said.

“Maybe somebody paid you to do it.”

“No, no,” Lockhart said.

“Nobody gave us a penny,” Barnes said.

“Then why’d you do it?”

“Well, we didn’t do it,” Lockhart said.

“That’s right,” Barnes said.

“Then who did it?” Carella asked. “Who else could have done it? You were alone in the warehouse, it had to be one or both of you. I can’t see any other explanation, can you?”

“Well, no, unless...”

“Yes?”

“Well, it might’ve been something else. Besides the coffee.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Lockhart said, and shrugged.

“He means, like something else we didn’t realize,” Barnes said.

“Something you drank, do you mean?”

“Well, maybe.”

“But you just told me you didn’t drink anything but the coffee.”

“We’re not allowed to drink on the job,” Barnes said.

“No one’s suggesting you ever get drunk on the job,” Carella said.

“No, we never get drunk,” Lockhart said.

“But you do have a little nip every now and then, is that it?”

“Well, it gets chilly in the night sometimes.”

“Just to take the chill off,” Barnes said.

“You really didn’t have a second cup of coffee, did you?”

“Well, no,” Lockhart said.

“No,” Barnes said.

“What did you have? A shot of whiskey?”

“Look, we don’t want to get in trouble,” Lockhart said.

“Did you have a shot of whiskey? Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Lockhart said.

“Yes,” Barnes said.

“Where’d you get the whiskey?”

“We keep a bottle in the cabinet over the hot plate. In the little room near the wall phone.”

“Keep it in the same place all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Who else knows about that bottle?”

Lockhart looked at Barnes.

“Who else?” Carella said. “Does Frank Reardon know where you keep that bottle?”

“Yes,” Lockhart said. “Frank knows where we keep it.”

“Yes,” Barnes said.

There’s nothing simpler to solve than an inside job, and this was shaping up as just that. Frank Reardon knew that the two nighttime shleppers hit the bottle, and he knew just where they stashed it. All he had to do was dose the booze, and then let nature take its course. Since one of the watchmen worked outside, any observer would know the minute the Mickey took effect.

Carella drove back over the Calm’s Point Bridge, eager now to confront Reardon with the facts, accuse him of doctoring the sauce, and find out why he’d done it and whether or not he was working with anyone else. He parked the Chevy at the curb outside the warehouse and walked swiftly to the gate in the cyclone fence. The gate was unlocked, and so was the side entrance door to the building.

Frank Reardon lay just inside that door, two bullet holes in his face.

Carella eased the door shut behind him and drew his pistol. He did not know if Reardon’s killer was still in the warehouse. He had been shot twice in his lifetime as a cop, both times unexpectedly, once by a punk pusher in Grover Park and again by a person known only as the Deaf Man. He had not particularly enjoyed either experience, since getting shot in reality is hardly ever like getting shot on television. He had no desire now to emulate Reardon’s present condition; he stood stock-still, and listened.

A water tap was dripping someplace.

A fly buzzed around one of the sticky open holes in Reardon’s face.

On the street outside, a truck ground into lower gear and labored up the hill from the river.

Carella listened and waited.