Ed McBain - The Empty Hours

“We’re sorry, miss,” Carella said. “We’re looking for your boy friend.”

“Me?” the man on the couch asked. “What’d I do?”

A glance of puzzlement passed between Meyer and Carella. Something like understanding, faint and none too clear, touched Carella’s face.

“Who are you?” he said.

“You don’t have to tell them anything,” Eleanor cautioned. “They’re not allowed to break in like this. Private citizens have rights, too.”

“That’s right, Miss Fay,” Meyer said. “Why’d you lie to us?”

“I didn’t lie to anybody.”

“You gave us false information about Finch’s whereabouts on —”

“I wasn’t aware I was under oath at the time.”

“You weren’t. But you were damn well maliciously impeding the progress of an investigation.”

“The hell with you and your investigation. You horny bastards bust in here like —”

“We’re sorry we spoiled your party,” Carella said. “Why’d you lie about Finch?”

“I thought I was helping you,” Eleanor said. “Now get the hell out of here.”

“We’re staying a while, Miss Fay,” Meyer said, “so get off your high horse. How’d you figure you were helping us? By sending us on a wild-goose chase confirming alibis you knew were false?”

“I didn’t know anything. I told you just what Arthur told me.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Why don’t you get out?” Eleanor said. “Or are you hoping I’ll take off my sweater again?”

“What you’ve got, we’ve already seen, lady,” Carella said. He turned to the man. “What’s your name?”

“Don’t tell him,” Eleanor said.

“Here or uptown, take your choice,” Carella said. “Arthur Finch has broken jail, and we’re trying to find him. If you want to be accessories to —”

“Broken jail?” Eleanor went a trifle pale. She glanced at the man on the couch, and their eyes met.

“Wh— when did this happen?” the man asked.

“About ten o’clock tonight.”

The man was silent for several moments. “That’s not so good,” he said at last.

“How about telling us who you are,” Carella suggested.

“Frederick Schultz,” the man said.

“That makes it all very cozy, doesn’t it?” Meyer said.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,’ Eleanor said. “I’m not Finch’s girl, and I never was.”

“Then why’d you say you were?”

“I didn’t want Freddie to get involved in this thing.”

“How could he possibly get involved?”

Eleanor shrugged.

“What is it? Was Finch with Freddie on Saturday night?”

Eleanor nodded reluctantly.

“From what time to what time?”

“From seven to ten,’ Freddie said.

“Then he couldn’t have killed the rabbi.”

“Who said he did?” Freddie answered.

“Why didn’t you tell us this?”

“Because ...” Eleanor started, and then stopped dead.

“Because they had something to hide,” Carella said. “Why’d he come to see you, Freddie?”

Freddie did not answer.

“Hold it,” Meyer said. “This is the other Jew-hater, Steve. The one Finch’s sister told me about. Isn’t that right, Freddie?”

Freddie did not answer.

“Why’d he come to see you, Freddie? To pick up those pamphlets we found in his closet?”

“You the guy who prints that crap, Freddie?”

“What’s the matter, Freddie? Weren’t you sure how much of a crime was involved?”

“Did you figure he’d tell us where he got the stuff, Freddie?”

“You’re a real good pal, aren’t you, Freddie? You’d send your friend to the chair rather than —”

“I don’t owe him anything!” Freddie said.

“Maybe you owe him a lot. He was facing a murder rap, but he never once mentioned your name. You went to all that trouble for nothing, Miss Fay.”

“It was no trouble,” Eleanor said thinly.

“No,” Meyer said. “You marched into the precinct with a tight dress and a cockamamie bunch of alibis that you knew we’d check. You figured once we found those to be phony, we wouldn’t believe anything else Finch said. Even if he told us where he really was, we wouldn’t believe it. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“You finished?” Eleanor asked.

“No, but I think you are,” Meyer answered.

“You had no right to bust in here. There’s no law against making love.”

“Sister,” Carella said, “you were making hate.”

Arthur Finch wasn’t making anything when they found him.

They found him at ten minutes past two, on the morning of April fourth. They found him in his apartment because a patrolman had been sent there to pick up the pamphlets in his closet. They found him lying in front of the kitchen table. He was still handcuffed. A file and rasp were on the table top, and there were metal filings covering the enamel and a spot on the linoleum floor, but Finch had made only a small dent in the manacles. The filings on the floor were floating in a red, sticky substance.

Finch’s throat was open from ear to ear.

The patrolman, expecting to make a routine pickup, found the body and had the presence of mind to call his patrol-car partner before he panicked. His partner went down to the car and radioed the homicide to Headquarters, who informed Homicide South and the detectives of the 87th Squad.

The patrolmen were busy that night. At three a.m., a citizen called in to report what he thought was a leak in a water main on South Fifth. The radio dispatcher at Headquarters sent a car to investigate, and the patrolman found that nothing was wrong with the water main, but something was interfering with the city’s fine sewage system.

The men were not members of the Department of Sanitation, but they nonetheless climbed down a manhole into the stink and garbage, and located a man’s black suit caught on an orange crate and blocking a pipe, causing the water to back up into the street. The man’s suit was spattered with white and blue paint. The patrolmen were ready to throw it into the nearest garbage can when one of them noticed it was also spattered with something that could have been dried blood. Being conscientious law-enforcement officers, they combed the garbage out of their hair and delivered the garment to their precinct house — which happened to be the 87th.

Meyer and Carella were delighted to receive the suit.

It didn’t tell them a goddamned thing about who owned it, but it nonetheless indicated to them that whoever had killed the rabbi was now busily engaged in covering his tracks and this, in turn, indicated a high state of anxiety. Somebody had heard the news broadcast announcing Finch’s escape. Somebody had been worried about Finch establishing an alibi for himself that would doubtlessly clear him.

With twisted reasoning somebody figured the best way to cover one homicide was to commit another. And somebody had hastily decided to get rid of the garments he’d worn while disposing of the rabbi.

The detectives weren’t psychologists, but two mistakes had been committed in the same early morning, and they figured their prey was getting slightly desperate.

“It has to be another of Finch’s crowd,” Carella said. “Whoever killed Solomon painted a J on the wall. If he’d had time, he probably would have drawn a swastika as well.”

“But why would he do that?” Meyer asked. “He’d automatically be telling us that an anti-Semite killed the rabbi.”

“So? How many anti-Semites do you suppose there are in this city?”

“How many?” Meyer asked.

“I wouldn’t want to count them,” Carella said. “Whoever killed Yaakov Solomon was bold enough to —”