Ed McBain - Ten Plus One

“Why?”

“We want to ask him some questions.”

“Go to hell,” Cohen said.

“Maybe you don’t realize how tight your position is, Cohen.”

“I realize, all right. But whatever is said between me and my analyst is my business, and not yours. I had nothing to do with any of these goddamn murders. You can go around opening whatever closets you want to, but some of my closets are going to stay closed, you hear me? Because they’ve got nothing to do with you or your case, they’ve only got to do with me. You hear that? Me, David Arthur Cohen, a crummy gag writer who doesn’t know how to laugh, all right? I don’t know how to laugh, all right, that’s why I’m going to an analyst, okay? And maybe I didn’t know how to laugh even back in 1940 when I was eighteen years old and at a wild party that should have knocked me out, but that doesn’t mean I’m going around killing people. I killed enough people. I killed forty-seven people in my life, and they were all Japanese, and I cry every night for every goddamn one of them.”

The detectives stared at him for several moments, and then Meyer nodded his head at the other men, and they walked to one corner of the room and stood shoulder to shoulder in a tight huddle.

“What do you think?” Meyer asked.

“I think this is real meat,” Carella said.

“Yeah, it looks that way to me, too.”

“Shall we book him?”

“I’m not sure,” Kling said.

“We’ve got nothing that’ll stick,” Carella said.

“We don’t have to book him for homicide. Let’s throw something else at him, just to keep him here awhile. I think he’ll crack if we can keep at him.”

“What can we book him for? Vagrancy? He’s gainfully employed.”

“Dis cond.”

“What did he do?”

“He used abusive language just a little while ago.”

“What do you mean?”

“He told you to go to hell.”

“Jesus, that’s slim,” Carella said.

“We just gonna let him walk out of here?”

“How long can we hold him without booking him?”

“If the thing comes to trial, it’s up to the court to decide what was a proper and reasonable length of time. But, man, if this comes up zero, he’ll sue for false arrest before we can bat an eyelash.”

“If we don’t book him, we’re not arresting him, are we?” Kling asked.

“Sure we are. If we keep him from leaving here, that amounts to arrest. He’d have a bona fide case against the city, and against the arresting officer.”

“So what the hell do we do?”

“I think we ought to ring in the DA’s office,” Carella said.

“You think so?”

“Absolutely. Call the Homicide Bureau, tell them we’ve got what looks like real meat, and we want a DA in on the questioning. Let them make the decision.”

“I think that’s best,” Meyer said. “Bert?”

“Let’s work him for another ten minutes, see what we can get on our own.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay, do what you like.”

“Steve, you want to call the Bureau?”

“Yeah, sure. What do we do with him meanwhile?”

“I’ll take him downstairs.”

“Not in the cells, Meyer!”

“No, no, I’ll phony it up, stall him. I don’t think he knows anything about booking, anyway.”

“All right,” Carella said.

Meyer walked across the room. “Come on, Cohen.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Downstairs. I want you to look at some pictures.”

“What kind of pictures?”

“Of the people killed by the sniper.”

“Why?”

“I think you ought to see them. We want to make sure they’re the same people who were in that play.”

“All right,” Cohen said. He seemed immensely relieved. “Then can I go?”

“You better look at the pictures first.”

He started out of the squadroom with Meyer and Kling, passing another man in the corridor outside. The man was perhaps forty-five years old, small and round with sad brown eyes and a rumpled brown suit. He walked to the railing and stood just outside it, holding his hat in his hands, waiting to be discovered.

Carella, who had already dialed the Bureau and was at the desk nearest the railing, glanced up at the man, and then turned his attention back to the telephone conversation.

“No, we haven’t booked him,” Carella said. “We’ve got nothing that’ll stick yet.” He paused, listening. “No, he hasn’t said a thing, denies the whole business. But I think we can get him to crack if we work on him. Right. Can you get a man down right away? Well, how long can we legally hold him here? That’s just my point. I think the decision should come from someone in the DA’s office. Well, when’s the soonest? That’s too late. Can’t you get someone here this morning? Okay, fine, we’ll be waiting.”

He hung up and turned to the man.

“Yes, sir, can I help you?”

“My name is Lewis Redfield,” the man said.

“Yes, Mr. Redfield?”

“I hate to bother you this way…”

“Yes?”

“…but I think my wife may be in danger.”

“Come in, Mr. Redfield,” Carella said.

Redfield nodded, took a hesitant step toward the railing, searched it for an opening, and then stopped dead in his tracks, bewildered. Carella went to the gate and opened it for him.

“Thank you,” Redfield said, and then waited for Carella to lead him to the desk.

When they were seated, Carella asked, “What makes you think your wife is in danger, Mr. Redfield? Has she received any threatening…?”

“No, but I…this may sound silly to you.”

“What is it, Mr. Redfield?”

“I think this fellow may be after her.”

“What fellow?”

“The sniper.”

Carella wet his lips and stared at the small round man opposite him. “What makes you think that, Mr. Redfield?”

“I’ve been reading the papers,” Redfield said. “The people who’ve been killed…they were all in a play with Margaret many years ago.”

“Margaret Buff ? Is that your wife’s maiden name?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well!” Carella smiled and extended his hand. “It’s certainly good to see you, Mr. Redfield. We’ve been trying to locate your wife.”

“I would have come sooner, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Where is your wife, sir? We’d like very much to talk to her.”

“Why?”

“Because we have what looks like a good suspect, and any information…”

“You’ve found the killer?”

“We’re not sure, Mr. Redfield, but we think we have.”

Redfield sighed heavily. “I’m certainly relieved to hear that. You have no idea the strain I’ve been through. I was certain that at any moment Margaret would…” He shook his head. “I certainly am relieved.”

“ Could we talk to her, sir?”

“Yes, of course.” Redfield paused. “Who did you arrest? Who’s the man?”

“His name is David Arthur Cohen,” Carella said. “But he hasn’t been arrested as yet, sir.”

“Was he in the play, too?”

“Yes.”

“Why was he doing it? Why was he killing all those people?”

“We’re not sure yet. We think it had something to do with a party he went to.”

“A party?” Redfield asked.

“Well, it’s pretty complicated, sir. That’s why I’d like to talk to your wife.”

“Of course,” Redfield said. “The number is Grover 6-2100. I think you can reach her there now.”

“Is that your home number, sir?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Will she be able to come down here right away?”

“I think so, yes.”

“You have no children, sir?”

“What?”

“Children. Will she have to make arrangements? If so, I can go…”