Ed McBain - Ten Plus One

The precinct patrolmen were beginning to think this was all very funny. A guy getting killed on the steps of the station house was a pretty macabre piece of humor, but they enjoyed the fun of it nonetheless. They were all aware that the detectives upstairs had called in the DA that afternoon, and they were also aware that Cohen had been held in the squadroom for a damn long time, and they joked now about the fact that he could no longer bring charges of false arrest since someone had very conveniently murdered him. One of the patrolmen jokingly said that all the detectives had to do was wait long enough and then everybody who’d been in that play would be dead, and the killings would automatically stop, and they could all go home to sleep. Another of the patrolmen had a better idea. He figured it was simply a process of elimination. As soon as the killer had murdered everybody but one, why then the remaining person was obviously the murderer of all the others.

Carella didn’t think it was so funny. He knew that neither Thomas Di Pasquale nor Helen Vale had put that bullet in Cohen’s head because they both were being escorted around the city by patrolmen who never let them out of sight. On the other hand, Lewis and Margaret Redfield had left the squadroom at 1:00, some three hours before Cohen walked down those steps and into a Remington .308 slug. Detective Meyer Meyer was sent promptly to the Redfield apartment on the corner of Grover and Forty-first in Isola, where he was told that Margaret Redfield had gone directly to the beauty parlor after leaving the squadroom, apparently feeling in need of treatment after her cathartic experience. Lewis Redfield told Meyer he had gone to his office on Curwin Street after leaving the squadroom, and stayed there until 5:00 P.M., at which time he had come home. He could remember, in fact, dictating some letters to his secretary, and then attending a meeting at 3:00 P.M. A call to the office verified the fact that Redfield had come to work at about 1:30 and had not left until 5:00. They could not say where he was specifically at 4:00 when Cohen was murdered, but there seemed little doubt he was somewhere in the office. Nonetheless, because that narrow margin of doubt did exist, Meyer phoned Carella at the squadroom to tell him he was going to stick to the Redfields for a while. Carella agreed that the tail was a good idea, and then he went home to dinner. Neither he nor Meyer thought the case was very funny. In fact, they were sick to death of it.

And then, oddly, considering how lightly the patrolmen were taking all this grisly slaughter, it was a patrolman who provided the next possibility for action in the case, and then only indirectly through a call from Captain Frick at 11:00 that night, while Carella was home and trying to read the newspaper.

When he heard the phone ring, he glanced at it sourly, rose from his easy chair in the living room, and quickly walked into the foyer. He picked the receiver from the cradle and said, “Hello?”

“Steve, this is Captain Frick. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, no. What is it?”

“I hate to bother you on this, but I’m still here at the office trying to get these time sheets straightened out.”

“What time sheets are those, Marshall?”

“On my patrolmen.”

“Oh, yes. Well what is it?”

“Well, I’ve got Antonino listed as being with this Helen Vale woman from eight this morning until four this afternoon, when he was relieved by Boardman, who’ll be on until midnight. That right?”

“I guess so,” Carella said.

“Okay. And Samalman was supposed to be with this guy Di Pasquale from eight this morning until four this afternoon, but I see here on his sheet he left at three. And I see that Canavan, who was supposed to relieve him at four, called in at nine P.M. to say he had just relieved on post. Now, I don’t get that, Steve. Did you give these guys permission for this?”

“What do you mean, Marshall? Are you saying nobody was with Di Pasquale from three o’clock this afternoon to nine o’clock tonight?”

“That’s what it looks like. Judging from these time sheets.”

“I see,” Carella said.

“Did you give them permission?”

“No,” Carella said. “I didn’t give them permission.”

Thomas Di Pasquale had a patrolman at his door and a woman in his apartment when Carella arrived that night. The patrolman moved aside to allow his superior to ring the doorbell. Carella rang it with dispatch, and then waited for Di Pasquale to answer the ring. Di Pasquale’s dispatch did not equal Carella’s, since he was all the way in the bedroom at the other end of the apartment, and he had to put on a robe and slippers and then come trotting through six rooms to the front door. When he opened the door, he looked out at a face he had never seen before.

“Okay, what’s the gag?” he asked.

“Mr. Di Pasquale?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m Detective Carella.”

“That’s very nice. Do you know it’s eleven-thirty at night?”

“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Di Pasquale, but I wanted to ask you some questions.”

“Can’t they wait till morning?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“I don’t have to let you in, you know. I can tell you to go whistle.”

“You can do that, sir, that’s true. In which case I’d be forced to swear out a warrant for your arrest.”

“Hey, sonny boy, you think you’re dealing with a hick?” Di Pasquale said. “You can’t arrest me for anything, because I haven’t done anything.”

“How about suspicion of murder?”

“How about it? There’s no such crime as suspicion of anything. Murder? Don’t make me laugh. Who am I supposed to have killed?”

“Mr. Di Pasquale, can we discuss it inside?”

“Why? You afraid of waking the neighbors? You already woke me up, what difference will a few dozen others make? Argh, come in, come in. No damn manners, the police in this lousy town. Come around the middle of the night. Come in, for Chrissake, don’t stand there in the hall.”

They went into the apartment. Di Pasquale turned on a light in the living room, and they sat facing each other.

“So?” he said. “You’re here, you got me out of bed, so say what’s on your mind.”

“Mr. Di Pasquale, a man was shot and killed this afternoon at four o’clock as he was leaving the police station.”

“So?”

“Mr. Di Pasquale, we checked with the patrolman who was assigned to ‘protect’ you, and he tells us you let him go at three o’clock this afternoon. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Is it also true that you told him you wouldn’t be needing him again until nine o’clock this evening? Is that also true, Mr. Di Pasquale?”

“That’s true. So what? Is that why you come knocking on my door in the middle of the night? To check on whether or not your patrolman is telling the truth? Is that all you’ve got to do with your time? You’re the guy who called me up at seven-thirty one morning, ain’t you? You like waking people up, don’t you?”

“Mr. Di Pasquale, why’d you tell the patrolman you wouldn’t need him?”

“For the very simple reason that I was up at Columbia Pictures today talking a deal with the head of the story department. I went up there at three o’clock, and I expected to be there with him until six, at which time I knew we would both go downstairs where a chauffeured Cadillac would be waiting to take us to a very fancy restaurant where I wouldn’t be sitting near any windows. We would have a couple of drinks at the bar, and at seven o’clock we would be joined by a writer who would give a story line to the head of the story department, and then we would eat dinner, also not sitting near any windows. Then we would get right into the Cadillac again, and they would drive me home, where I asked that fathead patrolman to meet me—I see he isn’t even here, there’s some other jerk outside—and where also the young lady who is now asleep in the other room would be waiting for me. So you see, Mr. Carella who likes to wake up people in the middle of the night, I thought I would save the city a little money and also release a cop for active duty in spots all over the city where teenagers are bashing each other’s heads in, instead of hanging around me when I knew I’d be absolutely safe, that’s why, Mr. Carella. Does that answer your question?”