As they rose, Kling said, “It’s not that I’m a great lover or anything, Steve. It’s just... well... ”
“What?”
Kling grinned. “I like it,” he said.
6
Margaret Androvich was a nineteen-year-old blonde who, in the hands of our more skillful novelists, would have been described as willowy. That is to say, she was skinny. The diminutive “Meg” did not exactly apply to her because she was five feet seven and a half inches tall with all the cuddly softness of a steel cable. In the current fashion of naming particularly svelte women with particularly ugly names, “Maggie” would have been more appropriate than the “Meg” that Karl Androvich wore tattooed in a heart on his left arm. But Meg she was, all five feet seven and a half inches of her, and she greeted the detectives at the door with calm and assurance, ushered them into her living room, and asked them to sit.
They sat.
She was indeed skinny with that angular sort of femininity that is usually attributed to fashion models. She was not, at the moment, attired for the pages of Vogue Magazine. She was wearing a faded pink quilted robe and furry pink slippers, which somehow seemed out of place on a girl so tall. Her face was as angular as her body, with high cheekbones and a mouth that looked pouting even without the benefit of lipstick. Her eyes were blue and large, dominating the narrow face. She spoke with a mild, barely discernible Southern accent. She carried about her the air of a person who knows she is about to be struck in the face with a closed fist but who bears the eventuality with calm expectation.
“Is this about Karl?” she asked gently.
“Yes, Mrs. Androvich,” Carella answered.
“Have you heard anything? Is he all right?”
“No, nothing definite,” Carella said.
“But something?”
“No, no. We just wanted to find out a little more about him, that’s all.”
“I see.” She nodded vaguely. “Then you haven’t heard anything about him.”
“No, not really.”
“I see.” Again she nodded.
“Can you tell us what happened on the morning he left here?”
“Yes,” she said. “He just left, that was all. There was nothing different between this time and all the other times he left to catch his ship. It was just the same. Only this time he didn’t catch the ship.” She shrugged. “And I haven’t heard from him since.” She shrugged again. “It’s been almost a month now.”
“How long have you been married, Mrs. Androvich?”
“To Karl? Six months.”
“Had you been married before? I mean, is Karl your second husband?”
“No. He’s my first husband. Only husband I ever had.”
“Where did you meet him, Mrs. Androvich?”
“Atlanta.”
“Six months ago?”
“Seven months ago, really.”
“And you got married?”
“Yes.”
“And you came to this city?”
“Yes.”
“Where is your husband from originally?”
“Here. This city.” She paused. “Do you like it here?”
“The city, do you mean?”
“Yes. Do you like it?”
“Well, I was born and raised here,” Carella said. “Yes, I guess I like it.”
“I don’t,” Meg said flatly.
“Well, that’s what makes horse races, Mrs. Androvich,” Carella said, and he tried a smile and then pulled it back quickly when he saw her face.
“Yes, that’s what makes horse races, all right,” she said. “I tried to tell Karl that I didn’t like it here, that I wanted to go back to Atlanta. But he was born and raised here, too.” She shrugged. “I guess it’s different if you know the place. And with him gone so often, I’m alone a lot, and the streets confuse me. I mean, Atlanta isn’t exactly a onehorse town, but it’s small compared to here. I can never figure out how to get any place here. I’m always getting lost. I wander three blocks from the apartment, and I get lost. Would you like some coffee?”
“Well... ”
“Have some coffee,” Meg said. “You’re not going to rush right off, are you? You all are the first two people I’ve had here in a long time.”
“I think we can stay for some coffee,” Carella said.
“It won’t take but a minute. Would you excuse me, please?”
She went into the kitchen. Kling rose from where he was sitting and walked to the television set. A framed photograph of a man rested atop the receiver. He was studying the photo when Meg came back into the room.
“That’s Karl,” she said. “That’s a nice picture. That’s the one I sent to the Missing Persons Bureau.” She paused. “They asked me for a picture, you know.” She paused again. “Coffee won’t take but a minute. I’m warming some rolls, too. You men must be half-froze, wandering about in that cold rain.”
“That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Androvich.”
She smiled fleetingly. “Working man needs sustenance,” she said, and the smile vanished.
“Mrs. Androvich, about that morning he left—”
“Yes. It was Valentine’s Day.” She paused. “There was a big box of candy on the kitchen table when I woke up. And flowers came later. While we were having breakfast.”
“From Karl?”
“Yes. Yes, from Karl.”
“While you were having breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“But... didn’t he leave the house at six-thirty?”
“Yes.”
“And flowers arrived before he left?”
“Yes.”
“That’s pretty early, isn’t it?”
“I guess he made some sort of arrangement with the florist,” Meg said. “To have them delivered so early.” She paused. “They were roses. Two dozen red roses.”
“I see,” Carella said.
“Anything out of the ordinary happen during breakfast?” Kling asked.
“No. No, he was in a very cheerful frame of mind.”
“But he wasn’t always in a cheerful frame of mind, is that also right? You told someone earlier that he was very hot-tempered.”
“Yes. I told that to Detective Fredericks. At the Missing Persons Bureau. Do you know him?”
“No, not personally.”
“He’s a very nice man.”
“And you told Detective Fredericks that your husband stammers, is that right? And he has a slight tic in the right eye, is that correct?”
“The left eye.”
“Yes, the left eye.”
“That’s correct.”
“Is he a nervous person, would you say?”
“He’s pretty tense, yes.”
“Was he tense on that morning?”
“The morning he left, do you mean?”
“Yes. Was he tense or nervous then?”
“No. He was very calm.”
“I see. And what did you do with the flowers when they arrived?”
“The flowers? I put them in a vase.”
“On the table?”
“Yes.”
“The breakfast table?”
“Yes.”
“They were there while you ate breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“Did he eat a good meal?”
“Yes.”
“His appetite was all right?”
“It was fine. He was very hungry.”
“And nothing seemed unusual or strange?”
“No.” She turned her head toward the kitchen. “I think the coffee’s perking,” she said. “Will you excuse me, please?”
She went out of the room. Kling and Carella sat staring at each other. Outside, the rain slithered down the windowpane.
She came back into the living room carrying a tray with a coffeepot, three cups and saucers, and a dish of hot rolls. She put these down, studied the tray, and then said, “Butter. I forgot butter.” In the doorway to the kitchen, she paused and said, “Would you all like some jam or something?”