Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

“I quit two weeks ago,” she said. “The ashtray is to remind me what a rotten habit it is.”

Reardon nodded.

“I know a man, he took fifty or sixty butts, put them in a jar of water, and shook it up like a cocktail,” Sandy said. “Whenever he’s tempted to have a smoke again, he takes the lid off the jar and sniffs at what’s inside. One whiff is enough to make him swear off again.”

Reardon wondered if this was the same man she’d been in bed with last Saturday night.

“I’ve quit at least three times already,” he said.

“Never stuck, huh?”

“The last time was the longest.”

“How long?”

“Three years.”

“And you went back?” Sandy said, astonished.

“Yeah.”

“When was this?”

“Last July.”

“How come?”

“My wife told me she wanted a divorce.”

“Oh,” Sandy said.

“Yeah.”

“That’ll do it every time.”

“Yeah.”

The room went silent.

“Is it okay if I smoke now?” Reardon asked.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“You’re sure it won’t bother you?”

“It’ll kill me, but go ahead.”

He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, looked at her, and changed his mind.

“No, that’s okay, really,” she said.

“No. no.”

“Go ahead, you’re making me feel guilty.”

“No,” he said, “I can wait, really.”

“Okay,” she said, and smiled.

He really wanted that cigarette. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He scratched his jawline with his right hand.

“The reason I stopped by...” he said, and shrugged. “I feel stupid as hell about this, I really do, but you’re the only one I could think of.”

“Concerning what?”

“This homicide victim.”

“The old man you were telling me about? On Mulberry Street?”

“Well, no. Well, yes. Well, they’re related, but I can’t figure out how. I mean, I know how, but I don’t know why. Or... I know why, but the why doesn’t make any sense. Would you mind terribly if I smoked?” he asked.

“Please do,” she said, and shoved the butt-filled ashtray toward him.

“Thank you,” he said, and immediately shook a cigarette from the package and lighted it. “I’m sorry,” he said, blowing out a stream of smoke.

“No problem,” she said.

“You see, this other victim, this related victim, was a lawyer...”

“Uh-huh...”

“Who went to see a stockbroker...”

“Ah,” she said.

“Yeah, which is why I’m here. Or partially why I’m here.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what you need,” Sandy said, and looked at his mouth as he drew in on the cigarette.

“Okay,” he said, “this is it. A lawyer named Peter Dodge sees an important timetable...”

“What kind of timetable?”

“Well, that’s just it. Hold on a minute, okay? He sees this timetable, and he runs right out to buy silver contracts from a firm called Rothstein-Phelps.”

“Uh-huh,” Sandy said.

“You know them?”

“Biggest commodity dealers in the city.”

“Okay. Some Arabs kill Dodge that night and the timetable is taken from him. Recovered from him, actually, since it shouldn’t have been in his hands to begin with. But a man named Ralph D’Annunzio... the one I was telling you about... also saw the timetable, and he was killed an hour later, more or less.”

“Phew,” Sandy said. “Important timetable, huh?”

“So it would seem.”

“Again... what kind of timetable?”

“That’s what I want to know from you.”

“Me? Do I look like a train conductor?” She watched him as he stubbed out the cigarette. Then she said, “You say Dodge bought silver after he saw it?”

“Heavily and long,” Reardon said, nodding.

“Well, was that accidental? I mean, his rushing out to buy silver? Or was it a direct consequence of his having seen this timetable?”

“I have no idea.”

“Mmm,” Sandy said.

“What does that mean, mmm?”

“Look, this is just winging it...”

“Sure.”

“But... I mean a timetable is a schedule, isn’t it? A list of... well... the times at which certain things are supposed to happen, isn’t that so? I mean, a train schedule is a timetable, right?”

“Yeah?” Reardon said. He was listening intently. He also wanted another cigarette.

“And this man Dodge saw the schedule and then... now this may be entirely unrelated, but nonetheless it’s what happened... he ran out to buy silver heavily and long.”

“That’s right.”

“Well... suppose this timetable was a schedule for something that would affect the price of silver?”

“Affect it?”

“Drive the price up.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

She was silent for several moments, thinking.

Then she said, “Well, if the price of oil goes up, for example, then gold and silver usually follow. You said Arabs are involved, didn’t you? Well, suppose OPEC is planning a series of oil-price hikes, and suppose your man Dodge stumbled across a schedule that lists the dates and amounts of the hikes. If he’s wise in the ways of the market, he’d recognize the consequences of these oil hikes and run out to invest heavily in either silver or gold futures. Gold’s more expensive, so he might opt for silver — less cash down, you see. Maybe that’s what happened.”

“A schedule of oil price-hikes, huh?”

“Maybe,” she said, and shrugged.

“Which caused him to believe the price of silver would go up, huh?”

“Well, that’s the way it usually works, yes.”

“So he rushed out to get in on the action, buy his own little hoard of silver...”

“If that’s what you say he did.”

“Well, that’s what his partner says he did. Ran out to Rothstein-Phelps to buy silver heavily and long. Advised her to do the same thing, in fact.”

“Let me check on what kind of activity there’s been in silver this past week or so, okay?” Sandy said, and looked at her watch. “Can you meet me at the apartment in a few hours? Little after five? I should have something for you by then. We can discuss it over a drink. Okay?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Wait, you’ll need the key,” she said, and reached into her handbag. “Oh, shit,” she said, “I thought I’d thrown them all out.” She handed him an open package of cigarettes. “Here,” she said, “smoke your brains out.” He took the cigarettes. She was still rummaging for the key. When at last she found it, she handed it across the desk and said, “See you around five.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“You look troubled,” she said.

He shook his head.

“What is it?”

“I’m just wondering. Could an OPEC schedule really have caused two murders? Three if we count the one at the airport?”

“You’re the cop,” she said. “You tell me.”

The man sitting in the straight-backed wooden chair was not telling anyone anything.

His name was Joseph Phelps.

Mazzi and Samuels had spotted him coming out of the Sutton Place apartment at a little after one o’clock, but before they could even get out of the car, he’d hailed a taxi and was on his way. They arrested him at Kennedy Airport, where he was in the process of buying a one-way ticket to Brazil.

Phelps was carrying in his suitcase close to three and a half million dollars in bearer bonds. Thirty bonds in hundred-thousand-dollar denominations. Five bonds in fifty-thousand-dollar denominations. Eleven bonds in twenty-thousand-dollar denominations. And one ten-thousand-dollar bond. The equivalent of three million four hundred and eighty thousand dollars in cash.