"That's what they say."
I'd called her after I left Manny at Armstrong's. She had a cold coming on, she said, and she'd been feeling achy and crummy and sneezy all day. "All those dwarfs," she said, "except Bashful." She was taking a lot of vitamin C and drinking hot water with lemon juice. She said, "What do you really think happened with Leveque? How does he fit in?"
"I think he was the cameraman," I said. "There had to be a fourth person in the room when they made that movie. The camera moved around, zoomed in and out. You can make a home video by positioning the camera and performing in front of it, but that's not what they did, and a lot of the time they were both in the shot at the same time and the camera was moving around to cover the action."
"I never noticed. I was too centered on what was happening."
"You only saw it once. I saw it two more times the other day, don't forget."
"So you could concentrate on the fine points."
"Leveque had a background in video. He worked for three years at a network, admittedly in a menial capacity. He got some work since then on a free-lance basis. And he clerked in a Times Square bookstore and got arrested during one of Koch's cleanup campaigns. If you were going to pick someone to film a dirty movie, he'd be a logical choice."
"But would you let him film you committing murder?"
"Maybe they had enough on him so that they didn't have to worry. Maybe the murder was unplanned, maybe they were just going to hurt the boy a little and they got carried away. It doesn't matter. The boy got killed and the film got made, and if Leveque didn't operate the camcorder somebody else did."
"And he wound up with a tape."
"And he concealed it," I said. "According to Herta Eigen, the only tapes in his apartment were the ones she sold to Fielding. That doesn't figure. Somebody in the trade would be certain to have a lot of noncommercial cassettes around. He was an old film buff, he probably taped things off TV all the time. He probably kept copies of his own camera work, pornographic or otherwise. And he would have had a few blank cassettes around in case he found a use for them."
"You think she was lying?"
"No, what I think is that somebody went to his place on Columbus Avenue while his body temperature was dropping in an alley on West Forty-ninth. His watch and wallet were missing, which suggests robbery, but so were his keys. I think whoever killed him took his keys and went to his apartment and walked out with every cassette except the commercial recordings."
"Why didn't they just take everything?"
"Maybe they didn't want to watch three versions of The Maltese Falcon. They probably had enough to carry with the unmarked and homemade material. Why take something that obviously wasn't what they were looking for?"
"And the tape they were looking for is the one we saw?"
"Well, he could have done other work for Rubber Man and he could have kept copies of everything. But he made a particular point of hiding this one. He not only used a commercial film cassette but he let the original movie run for fifteen minutes before he started copying the other one onto the reel. Anybody who gave it a quick check would have seen it was The Dirty Dozen and tossed it aside."
"It must have been a real shock to your friend. He and his wife were watching Lee Marvin and the boys, and all of a sudden-"
"I know," I said.
"Why did he conceal the tape so carefully?"
"Because he was scared. That's probably the same reason he asked Manny about a private detective."
"And before he could call you-"
"I don't know that he ever would have called," I said. "I just spoke to Manny again before I called you. He went home and checked his calendar for last year, and he was able to pinpoint his conversation with Leveque because he remembered what job they both worked on. He had that talk with Leveque sometime during the third week in April, and Leveque didn't get killed until the ninth of May. He may have asked other people for recommendations. He may have called somebody else, or he may have decided he could handle it by himself."
"What was he trying to handle? Blackmail?"
"That's certainly a possibility. Maybe he filmed a lot of nasty scenes, maybe Rubber Man wasn't the person he was blackmailing. Maybe somebody else killed him. He may have considered calling me but he never did. He wasn't my client and it's not my job to solve his murder." A couple of lights winked on in the building across the street. I said, "It's not my job to do anything about Rubber Man, either. Thurman's my job and I'm not doing anything about him."
"Wouldn't it be nice if it all tied together?"
"I thought of that," I admitted.
"And?"
"I wouldn't count on it."
She started to say something, sneezed, and said she hoped what she had wasn't the flu. I said I'd see her tomorrow, and to stay with the vitamin C and the lemon juice. She said she would, even though she didn't honestly believe it did you the least bit of good.
I sat there for a while looking out the window. It was supposed to turn colder that night, with snow possible toward morning. I picked up The Newgate Calendar and read about a highwayman named Dick Turpin who had been something of a folk hero in his day, although it was hard to figure out why.
Around a quarter to eight I made a couple of calls and managed to reach Ray Galindez, a young police artist who had sat down with me and Elaine and sketched a man who'd threatened to kill us both. I told him I had some work for him if he had an hour or two to spare. He said he could make some time in the morning, and we arranged to meet in the lobby of the Northwestern at ten.
I went to the eight-thirty meeting at St. Paul 's and straight home afterward. I thought I'd get to bed early, but instead I wound up sitting up for hours. I would read a paragraph or two about some cutthroat who'd been righteously hanged a couple of centuries ago, then put the book down and stare out the window.
I finally went to bed around three. It never did snow that night.
RAY Galindez showed up right on time and we went upstairs to my room. He propped his briefcase on the bed and took out a sketch pad and some soft pencils and an Art-Gum eraser. "After I talked with you last night," he said, "I could picture the guy I sketched for you last time. Did you ever catch him?"
"No, but I stopped looking. He killed himself."
"That right? So I guess you never saw him to compare him to the sketch."
I had, but I couldn't say so. "The sketch was right on the money," I said. "I showed it to a lot of people who recognized him on the basis of it."
He was pleased. "You still in touch with that woman? I can picture her apartment, all black and white, that view out over the river. Beautiful place."
"I'm in touch with her," I said. "As a matter of fact I see quite a bit of her."
"Oh yeah? A very nice lady. She still in the same place? She must be, a person'd be crazy to move from a place like that."
I said she was. "And she has the sketch you did."
"The sketch I did. Of that guy? That sketch?"
"Framed on the wall. She says it's a whole category of art the world has overlooked, and after I had the sketch photocopied she got it framed and hung it."
"You're kidding me."
"Swear to God. She had it in the living room but I got her to move it to the bathroom. Otherwise wherever you sat you felt as though he was looking right at you. I'm not putting you on, Ray, she's got it in a nice aluminum frame with non-glare glass and all."
"Jeez," he said. "I never heard of anything like that."
"Well, she's an unusual lady."
"I guess. You know, it's kind of nice to hear that. I mean, she's a woman with good taste. I remember the painting she had on the wall." He described the large abstract oil on the wall near the window, and I told him he had a hell of a memory. "Well, art," he said. "That's, you know, like my thing." He turned away, a little embarrassed. "Well, who've you got for me today? A real bad guy?"