Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

“I thought only Nazis went to Brazil,” Gianelli said.

Phelps said nothing.

“That was a good picture,” Mazzi said. “The Boys from Brazil. ”

“Who owns these bonds?” Farmer said.

Phelps said nothing.

“What do you know about a timetable Peter Dodge stumbled across?”

Nothing.

“You want a cup of coffee?” Ruiz asked him.

No answer.

Ruiz shrugged.

Reardon was going through Phelps’s briefcase. In one of the side zipper pockets he found a folded sheet of paper.

“Well, hello,” he said.

He unfolded the paper.

Across the top of the page, he read the words:

“Here’s a schedule,” he said, and handed it to Farmer.

Farmer glanced down the rest of the page.

“But is it the schedule?” he asked.

“Who — or what — is Kidd?” Reardon asked Phelps.

Phelps said nothing.

“Let me have that phone book,” Reardon said.

Hoffman handed the Manhattan directory across the desk, and Reardon began leafing through it.

“Kidd,” he said aloud, his finger running down the page, “Kidd, Kidd, Kidd, Kidd... there’s at least ten of them.” He turned the book so that Phelps could see the page. “Know any of these people?” he asked.

Phelps said nothing.

“What do you think, Loot?” Reardon asked.

Farmer thought it over for a moment. Then he said, “Chick, you stay here with me, see if Mr. Phelps wants to tell us anything. You three split

those names between you, work ’em solo. Get movin’.”

The woman who answered the door was wearing nothing but a peignoir and high-heeled sandals. She was a good five-feet eight-inches tall, Reardon estimated, even without the sandals, which added at least two inches to her height. This was the third Kidd he’d visited in the past hour. He showed her his shield and ID card, told her he was from the Fifth P.D.U. and asked if she was Jessica Kidd.

“I am, yes,” she said.

“Would it be all right if I came in for a minute?” he asked.

“Please do,” she said, and smiled.

He followed her into the living room. Long black hair trailing down her back, pale blue peignoir over pale pink flesh tones, firm ass jiggling as she walked to the fireplace and stood with the flickering flames behind her, long legs silhouetted.

“Miss Kidd, would you happen to know a man named Joseph Phelps?”

The same question he’d asked all the others.

“Phelps?” she said. “No, who is he?”

“Does this look familiar to you?” he asked, and took from his pocket the sheet of paper he’d taken from Phelps’s briefcase.

She looked at it.

“Kidd Futures Schedule,” she said.

“Yes, Miss. Do you have any idea what that means?”

“I surely don’t,” she said.

“Or these column headings under it?” he said, and pointed to the line:

“This would stand for purchase date, wouldn’t it?” he said.

“I have no idea.”

“And this, of course, is Account...”

“Really, Mr. Reardon, I don’t...”

“And this would be silver lots, wouldn’t it? And ounces of silver. And the delivery month.”

“I never studied shorthand,” she said.

“Do any of these account names mean anything to you?” he said, and showed her the page again:

“Do I have to read all of this?” Jessica said. “Really, Mr. Reardon, I’m far too stupid to understand anything about business. My interests lie elsewhere, believe me. Lie?” she said, and wrinkled her nose. “Lay? I always get the two mixed up.” She smiled. “Would you care for a drink, Mr. Reardon?”

“No, thanks,” he said, and paused. “So you don’t know anything about this schedule, huh?”

“Nothing at all.”

“And you’re sure you don’t know anyone named Joseph Phelps.”

“Positive. Who is he?”

“A stockbroker. Never handled any accounts for you, huh?”

“Never.”

“Or anyone in your family?”

“Not that I know of.”

He looked at her.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Well... thanks, anyway, Miss Kidd,” he said, “I appreciate your time.” He turned toward the door. “Incidentally,” he said, “if anyone should ask about Mr. Phelps, he’s at the Fifth Precinct. Until we book him, anyway.”

“I can’t imagine who would ask,” she said, and followed him to the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Reardon,” she said, and opened the door for him. She locked it behind him the moment he was gone, and then went back into the living room. She turned the knob on the library door, opened it a crack.

“He’s gone,” she said, and turned on her heel and went to where she’d left the brandy snifter on the coffee table in front of the fire.

Sarge came into the room. He looked enormously troubled.

“He knows,” he said, and went immediately to where his coat was hanging in the entry hall.

“Not from anything I said.”

“No, you were very good. But he knows. Or is damn close to knowing.” He nodded. “Call Olivia at the Park Lane.” he said, buttoning his coat. “Tell her a dumb cop is about to blow this thing skyhigh. Would you do that, Jess?”

“Sure,” she said. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t want to lose him,” he said.

He kissed her on the cheek.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

He had told Sandy he’d meet her at a little alter five, so he went directly to her apartment from the last Kidd on his list, wondering how Ruiz and Gianelli were making out, wondering if Phelps had finally told Farmer and Hoffman anything. He lighted some candles, draped his jacket and shoulder holster over a wooden ladderback chair in the living room, and then started a cannel-coal fire. He poured himself a scotch, went to his jacket again, took his notebook from the inside pocket, and carried notebook and scotch to the beanbag chair. Sitting, opening the notebook, he sipped at the scotch and tried to make some sense of it.

Approx ten P.M. Sunday night, December fourteenth. Amin Abbas killed getting off the Washington shuttle...

Reardon sipped at the scotch again.

Approx eleven P.M. Sunday night, December fourteenth. Associates hijack ambulance, appropriate body, search for timetable, discover it’s missing.

He nodded, looked at his notebook again.

Lunch Monday, December fifteenth, say around twelve, twelve-thirty. D’Annunzio shows Dodge the timetable. Or maybe gives Dodge the briefcase Abbas left on the plane. Either way, Dodge is now in possession of the timetable.

Approx six o’clock Monday night. The Arabs kill Peter Dodge and recover the timetable. Seven o’clock, same night. The Arabs kill D’Annunzio because he’s seen the—

There was a sound at the front door.

“Sandy?” he said, turning. “It’s open.”

The door was indeed open. As he watched, it opened even wider. The person standing in the doorframe, however, was not Sandy. It was a man who appeared to be six-feet two-inches tall and two hundred and thirty pounds wide, give or take, someone who looked vaguely familiar though Reardon couldn’t imagine why. The man came into the room swiftly and deliberately, walking past the ladderback chair over which Reardon’s holster and jacket were draped, coming directly to where Reardon was trying to get up as quickly as he could from the low beanbag, reaching Reardon just as he managed a half-crouch, and punching Reardon full in the face with his huge clenched fist.