Ed McBain - Ten Plus One

“It never occurred to me,” Redfield said.

After the confession was typed and signed, after they led Redfield downstairs to the detention cells to await transportation downtown later in the morning, Carella picked up the phone and called Thomas Di Pasquale to tell him he could stop worrying.

“Thanks,” Di Pasquale said. “What the hell time is it?”

“Five A.M.,” Carella said.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” Di Pasquale said, and hung up.

Carella smiled and replaced the phone in its cradle. He did not call Helen Vale until later in the day. When he told her the good news, she said, “Oh, that’s wonderful. Now I can go away without that on my mind.”

“Away, Mrs. Vale?”

“For summer stock. The season starts next month, you know.”

“That’s right,” Carella said. “How could I forget a thing like that?”

“I want to thank you again,” Helen said.

“For what, Mrs. Vale?”

“For the patrolman,” she answered. “I really enjoyed having him.”

Cynthia Forrest came up to the squadroom that afternoon to pick up the material she had left, the old newspaper clippings, the report cards, the theater program. Bert Kling met her in the corridor as she was leaving.

“Miss Forrest,” he said, “I want to apologize for the way—”

“Drop dead,” Cynthia said, and went down the iron-runged steps to the street.

The three detectives were alone in the squadroom. May was dying, the long summer lay ahead. Outside on the street, they could hear the sound of a city rushing by, ten million people.

“I keep thinking about what you told me,” Meyer said suddenly.

“What was that, Meyer?”

“When we were leaving Etterman’s office, the German guy, the one whose son was shot down over Schweinfurt.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“You said, ‘You can’t hate a people here and now for what another people in another time did.’ ”

“Mmm,” Carella said.

“Redfield hated them here and now,” Meyer answered.

The telephone rang.

“Here we go,” Kling said, and picked up the receiver.