Ed McBain - Ten Plus One

“Alone.”

“We don’t need the hose, Meyer. He just cooked his own goose.”

“That’s what you think, buddy. The waiter’ll remember me.”

“Well, that depends on how much we lean on the waiter, doesn’t it?” Carella said. “We’re looking for a patsy, remember? You think we’re going to let a lousy waiter stand in our way?”

“He’ll say I was there,” Wallach said, but his voice was beginning to lack conviction.

“Well, I certainly hope so,” Carella said. “But in the meantime, we’re going to book you for homicide, Wallach. We won’t mention the fact that you’re a pimp, of course. We’ll save that for the trial. It might impress the hell out of a jury.”

“Listen,” Wallach said.

“Yeah?”

“What do you want from me? I didn’t kill her, and you know it.”

“Then who did?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“You know the woman?”

“Of course I know her. Come on, willya?”

“You said you didn’t.”

“I was kidding around. How did I know you guys were so serious? What’s everybody getting so excited about?”

“How long have you known her?”

“About two years.”

“Was she a prostitute when you met her?”

“You getting me involved again? I don’t know what she worked at. My means of earning a living is investment. I lived with her, that’s all. What she done or didn’t do was her business.”

“You didn’t know she was a hooker, huh?”

“No.”

“Wallach,” Carella said, “we’re going to take you down and book you for homicide. Because you’re lying, you see, and that’s very suspicious. So unless we come up with somebody who looks better than you for the rap, you’re it. Now, do you want to be it, Wallach? Or do you want to start telling the truth, so we’ll know you’re an upstanding citizen who only happens to be a pimp? What do you say, Wallach?”

Wallach was silent for a long time. Then he said, “She was a hooker when I met her.”

“Two years ago?”

“Two years ago.”

“When did you see her last?”

“I was out night before last. I didn’t go back to the pad at all yesterday. I didn’t see her all day.”

“What time did you leave the apartment the night before?”

“Around eight.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Uptown. Riverhead.”

“To do what?”

Wallach sighed. “There was a crap game, all right?”

“Was Blanche in the apartment when you left?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she say anything to you?”

“No. She was in the other room with a John.”

“You brought him to her?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wallach said, and put his cigar in the ashtray. “I’m playing ball with you, okay?”

“You’re playing ball fine, Wallach. Tell us about Blanche.”

“What do you want to know?”

“How old was she?”

“She said she was thirty-five, but she was really forty-one.”

“What’s her background? Where’s she from?”

“The Middle West someplace. Oklahoma, Iowa, I don’t know. One of those hick joints.”

“When did she come here?”

“Years ago.”

“When, Wallach?”

“Before the war. I don’t know the exact date. Listen, if you want her life history, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I didn’t know her that good.”

“Why’d she come here?”

“To go to school.”

“What kind of school?”

“College, what do you think?”

“Where?”

“Ramsey University.”

“How long did she stay there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she graduate?”

“I don’t know.”

“How’d she get to be a hooker?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are her parents living?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was she married, divorced, would you know?”

“No.”

“What the hell do you know, Wallach?”

“I know she was a broad who was over the hill, and I was taking care of her practically as a charity case, okay? I know she was a goddamn lush, and a pain in the ass, and the best thing that coulda happened to her was to get shot in the head, which is what she got, okay? That’s what I know.”

“You’re a nice guy, Wallach.”

“Thanks, I’m crazy about you, too. What do you want from me? She’da died in the streets a year ago if I hadn’t given her a place to stay. I done an act of kindness.”

“Sure.”

“Yeah, sure. What do you think, she made me a millionaire? Who the hell wanted to bang something looked like her? I used to bring her the dregs, that’s all. She’s lucky she made enough for room and board. Half the time, she never gave me a cent. She had the dough spent on booze before I reached her, and the booze would be gone, too. You think it was a picnic? Try it sometime.”

“How’d a college girl become a hooker?” Carella asked.

“What are you, a cop or a sociologist? There’s more hookers in this town who once went to college than I can count. Call the Vice Squad, they’ll tell you.”

“Never mind the Vice Squad,” Meyer said. “You got any idea who killed her?”

“None.”

“You sound very glad to be rid of her.”

“I am. That don’t mean I killed her. Look, you guys know I had nothing to do with this. Why are we wasting each other’s time?”

“What’s your hurry, Wallach? Another crap game?”

“Sure, I’d tell you about it, wouldn’t I?”

“Then take your time. We’ve got all day.”

“Okay, let’s shoot the day. What the hell. It’s only the taxpayers’ money.”

“You never paid a tax in your life, Wallach.”

“I pay taxes every year,” Wallach said indignantly. “Both federal and state, so don’t give me that.”

“What do you list as your occupation?”

“We going to go into that again?”

“No, let’s get back to Blanche. Did anyone ever threaten her? Would you know that?”

“How would I know? Johns are all different. Some are like little lost kids with their first broad, and some are tough guys who like to smack a girl around. There’s something wrong with a guy who goes to a whore in the first place.”

“He’s not a pimp,” Meyer said, “he’s a psychologist.”

“I know whores,” Wallach said simply.

“You don’t seem to know a hell of a lot about Blanche Lettiger.”

“I told you everything I know. What more can I say?”

“Tell us about her habits.”

“Like what?”

“Like what time she got up in the morning.”

“The morning? You kidding?”

“All right, what then? The afternoon?”

“She usually woke up about one, two in the afternoon and started looking for a bottle.”

“What time did she wake up the day she was killed?”

Wallach smiled, pointed a chiding finger at Carella, and said, “Ah-ah. Caught you.”

“Huh?” Carella said.

Still smiling, Wallach said, “I told you I didn’t see her at all yesterday, didn’t I?”

“I wasn’t trying to trip you, Wallach.”

“There ain’t a bull in the world who ain’t always trying to trip guys like me.”

“Look, Wallach,” Carella said, “we understand you’re just a decent, upright, put-upon citizen, okay? So let’s send the violinists home and get down to business. You’re beginning to get on my nerves.”

“You don’t exactly have a calming effect on me,” Wallach replied.

“What the hell is this?” Meyer said, annoyed. “A vaudeville routine at the Palace? One more crack out of you, you cheap punk, and I’ll bust your head open.”

Wallach opened his mouth and then closed it. He looked at Meyer sourly instead.

“Okay?” Meyer shouted.