Ed McBain - Ten Plus One

The man in the change booth at the station platform above Palumbo’s store was not a very nice man at all. He was a crotchety old grouch who began giving the detectives trouble the moment they approached the booth.

“How many?” he asked immediately.

“How many what?” Meyer asked.

“Can’t you read the sign? State how many tokens you want.”

“We don’t want any tokens,” Meyer said.

“Map of the system is on the wall right there,” the attendant said. “I’m not paid to give out travel information.”

“Are you paid to cooperate with the police?” Carella asked amiably.

“The what?”

“Police,” Meyer said, and he flashed the tin.

“What’s that say? I’m a little nearsighted.”

“It says ‘Detective,’ “ Meyer answered.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, what do you want?”

“We want to know the best way to get to Carruthers Street in Calm’s Point,” Carella said.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I never heard of Carruthers Street.”

“That’s because I just made it up,” Carella said.

“Listen, what are you, a bunch of wise guys?” the attendant asked.

“We’re two college kids on a scavenger hunt,” Meyer said. “We’re supposed to bring back a hibernating bear, and you’re the first one we’ve seen all day.”

“Haha,” the attendant said mirthlessly. “That’s very funny.”

“What’s your name?” Carella asked.

“Quentin. You going to give me trouble? I’m a civil-service employee, too, you know. It ain’t nice to give your own kind trouble.”

“What’s your first name, Mr. Quentin?”

“Stan.”

“Stan Quentin?” Meyer asked incredulously.

“Yeah, what’s the matter with that?” The old man peered into Meyer’s face. “What’s your name?”

Meyer, whose full name was Meyer Meyer, the legacy of a practical-joking father, hastily said, “Let’s never mind the names, okay, Mr. Quentin? We only want to ask you some questions about what happened downstairs last week, okay?”

“The wop who was killed, you mean?” Quentin asked.

“Yeah, the wop who was killed,” Carella said.

“So what about him? I didn’t even know him.”

“Then how do you know he was a wop?”

“I read his name in the papers.” He turned to Meyer again. “What’s wrong with Stan Quentin, would you mind telling me?”

“Nothing. They almost named a prison after you.”

“Yeah? Which one?”

“Alcatraz,” Meyer said.

The old man stared at him blankly. “I don’t get it,” he said.

“Tell us about the day of the murder.”

“There’s nothing to tell. The guy downstairs got shot, that’s all.”

“He got shot from this platform, Mr. Quentin,” Meyer said. “For all we know, you could have done it.”

“Haha,” Quentin said.

“Why not?”

“Why not? Because I can’t even read what your shield says from a distance of three feet. How the hell could I shoot a man who’s all the way down in the street?”

“You could have used a telescopic sight, Mr. Quentin.”

“Sure. I could also be governor of the state.”

“Did you see anyone come onto the platform carrying a rifle?”

“Look,” Quentin said, “maybe you don’t understand me. I don’t see too good, you get that? I am the most cockeyed guy you’ll ever meet in your life.”

“Then why aren’t you wearing glasses?” Carella asked.

“What, and spoil my looks?” Quentin said seriously.

“How do you know how much money a person is giving you?” Meyer asked.

“I hold the bill up to my face.”

“So, let’s get this straight, all right? Even if somebody had come up here with a rifle, you wouldn’t have seen what he was carrying. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I thought I said it pretty plain,” Quentin said. “What do you mean, Alcatraz? How’s that named after me?”

“You work on it, Mr. Quentin,” Meyer said. “Have you got a train schedule here?”

“The company don’t issue schedules. You know that.”

“I know the company doesn’t, but isn’t there one issued to employees? Don’t you know when the trains come in and out of this platform?”

“Sure I know.”

“Do you think you might be willing to tell us?”

“Sure.”

“When, Mr. Quentin? We’re sort of anxious to get back to the party.”

“What party?”

“The one we’re out on the scavenger hunt from.”

“Haha,” Quentin said.

“So how about it?”

“You want to know every train that comes in and out of here?”

“No. We only want to know the trains that come in and out on the uptown side at about twelve noon. That’s what we’d like to know. Do you think you can supply us with the information?”

“I think so,” Quentin said. “Alcatraz, huh? Where’s that?”

“In the water off San Francisco.”

“They made a picture of that once, didn’t they?”

“That’s right.”

“What’d they do? Use my name in the picture?”

“Why don’t you write to the movie company?” Carella suggested.

“I will. Who made the picture?”

“It was an M-G-M musical,” Meyer said.

“Haha,” Quentin said. “Come on, who made the picture?”

“A couple of convicts,” Carella said. “It was part of the prison therapy program.”

“Can I sue a convict?”

“Nope.”

“Then what’s the use?”

“There’s no use. Just be grateful they named the joint after you, that’s all. And as a gesture of your gratefulness, tell us about the trains, okay?”

“You’re just a bunch of wise guys,” Quentin said sourly. “I knew that the minute you came up to the booth.”

“The trains,” Meyer prompted.

“Okay, okay. Weekdays?”

“Weekdays.”

“Around noon?”

“Around noon.”

“There’s one gets in at eleven-fifty-seven, pulls out about thirty seconds later.”

“And the next one?”

“Gets in at twelve-oh-three.”

“And leaves?”

“Same thing. Thirty seconds or so. They only open the doors, let the people off and on, and shove right off. What do you think this is? A first-class coach to Istanbul? This is the elevated system.”

“How are your ears, Mr. Quentin?”

“My what?”

“Your ears. Did you hear a shot at about twelve noon on the day Mr. Palumbo was killed?”

“What day was that?”

“It was May first.”

“That’s only a date. What was the day? I only remember days by days.”

“It was a Tuesday.”

“A week ago?”

“A week ago tomorrow.”

“Nope, I didn’t hear no shot on a week ago tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Mr. Quentin,” Meyer said. “You have been extremely helpful.”

“You know those guys at Alcatraz?”

“We know a lot of guys at Alcatraz,” Carella said.

“Tell them to take my name off it, you hear?”

“We will,” Carella said.

“Damn right,” Quentin said.

In the street downstairs, Meyer said, “So?”

“I think our man used a silencer.”

“Me, too.”

“That’s a lot of help, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. Oh, my, yes, that’s a great deal of help.”

“This case is making me giddy, you know that?”

“You want some coffee?”

“No, spoil my appetite. I want to go see the elevator operator at Norden’s apartment building again, and then I want to talk to the woman who witnessed Forrest’s death again, and then…”

“Let’s send some of our little helpers.”

“I want to talk to them myself.”

“Why?”

“I don’t trust cops,” Carella said, grinning.