Эд Макбейн - Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here

Timothy Allen Ames was a potbellied man of forty, with a thick black mustache, a mane of long black hair, and brown eyes sharply alert at five minutes past five in the morning. He answered the door as though he’d been already awake, asked for identification, and then asked the detectives to wait a moment, and closed the door, and came back shortly afterward, wearing a robe over his striped pajamas.

“Is your name Timothy Ames?” Carella asked.

“That’s me,” Ames said. “Little late to be paying a visit, ain’t it?”

“Or early, depending how you look at it,” Hawes said.

“One thing I can do without at five A.M. is humorous cops,” Ames said. “How’d you get up here, anyway? Is that little jerk asleep at the desk again?”

“Who do you mean?” Carella asked.

“Lonnie Sanford, whatever the hell his name is.”

“ Ronnie Sanford.”

“Yeah, him. Little bastard’s always giving me trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“About broads,” Ames said. “Acts like he’s running a nunnery here, can’t stand to see a guy come in with a girl. I notice he ain’t got no compunctions about letting cops upstairs, though, no matter what time it is.”

“Never mind Sanford, let’s talk about you,” Carella said.

“Sure, what would you like to know?”

“Where were you between eleven-twenty and twelve o’clock tonight?”

“Right here.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Sure. I got back here about eleven o’clock, and I been here since. Ask Sanford downstairs... No, never mind, he wasn’t on yet. He don’t come on till midnight.”

“Who else can we ask, Ames?”

“Listen, you going to make trouble for me?”

“Only if you’re in trouble.”

“I got a broad here. She’s over eighteen, don’t worry. But, like, she’s a junkie, you know? She ain’t holding or nothing, but I know you guys, and if you want to make trouble—”

“Where is she?”

“In the john.”

“Get her out here.”

“Look, do me a favor, will you? Don’t bust the kid. She’s trying to kick the habit, she really is. I been helping her along.”

“How?”

“By keeping her busy,” Ames said, and winked.

“Call her.”

“Bea, come out here!” Ames shouted.

There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the bathroom door opened. The girl was a tall, plain brunette wearing a short terry cloth robe. She sidled into the room cautiously, as though expecting to be struck in the face at any moment. Her brown eyes were wide with expectancy. She knew fuzz, and she knew what it was like to be busted on a narcotics charge, and she had listened to the conversation from behind the closed bathroom door, and now she waited for whatever was coming, expecting the worst.

“What’s your name, miss?” Hawes asked.

“Beatrice Norden.”

“What time did you get here tonight, Beatrice?”

“About eleven.”

“Was this man with you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he leave here at any time tonight?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. He picked me up about nine o’clock—”

“Where do you live, Beatrice?”

“Well, that’s the thing, you see,” the girl said. “I been put out of my room.”

“So where’d he pick you up?”

“At my girlfriend’s house. You can ask her, she was there when he came. Her name is Rosalie Dewes. Anyway, Timmy picked me up at nine, and we went to eat at Chink’s, and we came up here around eleven.”

“I hope you’re telling us the truth, Miss Norden,” Carella said.

“I swear to God, we been here all night,” Beatrice answered.

“All right, Ames,” Hawes said, “we’d like a sample of your handwriting.”

“My what ?”

“Your handwriting.”

“What for?”

“We collect autographs,” Carella said.

“Gee, these guys really break me up,” Ames said to the girl. “Regular nightclub comics we get in the middle of the night.”

Carella handed him a pen and then tore a sheet from his pad. “You want to write this for me?” he said. “The first part’s in block lettering.”

“What the hell is block lettering?” Ames asked.

“He means print it,” Hawes said.

“Then why didn’t he say so?”

“Put on your clothes, miss,” Carella said.

“What for?” Beatrice said. “I mean, the thing is, I was in bed when you guys—”

“That’s what I want him to write,” Carella explained.

“Oh.”

“Put on your clothes, miss,” Ames repeated, and lettered it onto the sheet of paper. “What else?” he asked, looking up.

“Now sign it in your own handwriting with the following words: ‘The Avenging Angel.’”

“What the hell is this supposed to be?” Ames asked.

“You want to write it, please?”

Ames wrote the words, and then handed the slip of paper to Carella. He and Hawes compared it with the note that had been mailed to Mercy Howell:

“So?” Ames asked.

“So you’re clean,” Hawes said.

“Imagine if I was dirty,” Ames answered.

At the desk downstairs, Ronnie Sanford was still immersed in his accounting textbook. He got to his feet again as the detectives came out of the elevator, adjusted his glasses on his nose, and then said, “Any luck?”

“Afraid not,” Carella answered. “We’re going to need this register for a while, if that’s okay.”

“Well...”

“Give him a receipt for it, Cotton,” Carella said. It was late, and he didn’t want a debate in the lobby of a run-down hotel. Hawes quickly made out a receipt in duplicate, signed both copies, and handed one to Sanford.

“What about this torn cover?” Hawes asked belatedly.

“Yeah,” Carella said. There was a small rip on the leather binding of the book, and he fingered it briefly now and then said, “Better note that on the receipt, Cotton.” Hawes took back the receipt and, on both copies, jotted the words “Small rip on front cover.” He handed the receipts back to Sanford.

“Want to just sign these, Mr. Sanford?” he said.

“What for?” Sanford asked.

“To indicate we received the register in this condition.”

“Oh, sure,” Sanford said. He picked up a ballpoint pen from its desk holder and asked, “What do you want me to write?”

“Your name and your title, that’s all.”

“My title?”

“Night Clerk, The Addison Hotel.”

“Oh, sure,” Sanford said, and signed both receipts. “This okay?” he asked. The detectives looked at what he had written.

“You like girls?” Carella asked suddenly.

“What?” Sanford asked.

“Girls,” Hawes said.

“Sure. Sure, I like girls.”

“Dressed or naked?”

“What?”

“With clothes or without?”

“I... I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Where were you tonight between eleven-twenty and mid-night?” Hawes asked.

“Getting... getting ready to come to... to work,” Sanford said.

“You sure you weren’t in the alley of the Eleventh Street Theater stabbing a girl named Mercy Howell?”

“What? No... no, of course... of course not. I was... I was... I was home... getting... getting dressed... to... to...” Sanford took a deep breath and decided to get indignant. “Listen, what’s this all about?” he said. “Would you mind telling me?”

“It’s all about this, ” Carella said, and turned one of the receipts so that Sanford could read the signature:

“Get your hat,” Hawes said. “Study hall’s over.”