“Sorry to bother you so early in the morning,” he said.
“No, no, not at all,” Carter said, and took his hand. “Some coffee? Melanie?” he said. “Could we get some coffee?”
“Yes, certainly,” Melanie said, and went out into the kitchen.
“No partner today?” Carter asked.
“There are only two of us,” Carella said, “and we have a lot of people to see.”
“I’ll bet,” Carter said. “So. What can I do for you?”
“I was hoping we could talk privately,” Carella said.
“Privately?”
“Yes, sir. Just the two of us,” he said, and nodded toward the kitchen.
“My wife can hear anything we have to say,” Carter said.
“I’m not sure of that, sir,” Carella said, and their eyes met and held. Carter said nothing. Melanie came out of the kitchen carrying a silver tray on which there was a silver coffeepot, a silver sugar bowl and creamer, and two cups and saucers. She set the tray down on the coffee table before them, said, “I forgot spoons,” and went out into the kitchen again. Neither of the men said a word. When she came back, she said, “There we are,” and put two spoons onto the tray. “Would you like anything else, Mr. Carella? Some toast?”
“No, thank you, ma’am,” Carella said.
“Melanie,” Carter said, and hesitated. “I’m sure this will bore you to tears. If you have anything you need to do—”
“Of course, dear,” Melanie said. “If you’ll forgive me, Mr. Carella.” She nodded briefly, smiled, and went out into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Carter rose suddenly and went to the bank of stereo equipment set into a bookcase on the far wall. He knows what we’re going to talk about, Carella thought. He wants a sound cover. The door between the rooms isn’t enough for him. Carter turned on the radio. Music flooded the room. Something classical. Carella could not place it.
“That’s a little loud, isn’t it?” he said.
“You said you wanted to talk privately.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to shout privately.”
“I’ll lower it,” Carter said.
He went to the radio again. Carella remembered that there had been classical music in the background when Loeb had spoken to Moore on the telephone Friday night. There was only one classical music station in this entire cultured city. Apparently it had more listeners than it realized.
Carter came back to where Carella was sitting on the sofa upholstered in the pale green springtime fabric, and took the chair opposite him. The chair was upholstered in a lemon-colored fabric. Outside the windows at the far end of the room, the sky was intensely blue, but the wind howled fiercely.
“This is about Tina, huh?” Carter said at once.
Carella admired him for getting directly to what he surmised was the point, but actually he wasn’t here to talk about Tina Wong. Tina Wong was only his form of official blackmail. Coercion, it might have been called in the Penal Code. Carella was not above a little coercion every now and again.
“Sort of,” he answered.
“So you know,” Carter said. “So what? Actually, my wife could have heard this.”
“Oh?” Carella said.
“She isn’t exactly a nun,” Carter said.
“Oh?” Carella said again.
“She finds ways to busy herself while I’m occupied elsewhere, believe me. Anyway, what does Tina have to do with Sally Anderson?”
“Well, gee,” Carella said, “that’s just what I’d like to know.”
“That was very nicely delivered,” Carter said, unsmiling. “The next time I have a part for a shit-kicking bumpkin, I’ll call you. What are you after, Mr. Carella?”
“I want to know why you thought Sally Anderson was a redhead.”
“Isn’t she?” Carter said.
“Very nicely delivered,” Carella said. “The next time I have a role for a smart-ass liar, I’ll call you.”
“Touché,” Carter said.
“I didn’t come here to fence,” Carella said.
“Why did you come here? So far, I’ve been very patient with you. I’m not without legal resources, you know. I have a lawyer on retainer, and I’m sure he’d like nothing better than to—”
“Go ahead, call him,” Carella said.
Carter sighed. “Let’s cut the crap, okay?” he said.
“Fine,” Carella said.
“Why did I think Sally was a redhead? That was your question, wasn’t it?”
“That was my question.”
“Is it a crime to believe a redhead was a redhead?”
“It’s not even a crime to think a blonde was one.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Mr. Carter, you know she was a blonde.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Well, for one thing, your choreographer favors blondes, and every white girl in the show is a blonde. It was a nice show, by the way. Thanks for making those tickets available to me.”
“You’re welcome,” Carter said and nodded sourly.
“For another thing, you were present at the final selection of all the dancers—”
“Who told you that?”
“You did. And you had to know there were no redheads in the show, especially since you attended all the run-throughs after the show was put together... which you also told me.”
“So?”
“So I think you were lying when you told me you thought she was a redhead. And when someone is lying, I begin wondering why.”
“I still think she was a redhead.”
“No, you don’t. Her picture’s been in the papers for the past three days. She’s clearly shown as a blonde, and she’s described as such. Even if you thought she was a redhead on the day after she was murdered, you certainly don’t think so now.”
“I haven’t seen the papers,” Carter said.
“How about television? They showed her picture on television, too. In full color. Come on, Mr. Carter. I told you I wasn’t here to fence.”
“Let me hear what you think, Mr. Carella.”
“I think you knew her better than you’re willing to admit. For all I know, you were playing around with her as well as Tina Wong.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Then why’d you lie to me?”
“I didn’t. I thought she was a redhead.”
Carella sighed.
“I did,” Carter said.
“I’ll tell you something, Mr. Carter. Shit-kicking bumpkin that I am, I nonetheless believe that if a man continues lying even after he’s been caught in a lie, then he’s really got something to hide. I don’t know what that something might be. I know that a girl was shot to death last Friday night, and you’re lying about having known her better than you did know her. Now what would you think, Mr. Carter, big-shot producer that you are?”
“I would think you’re way off base.”
“Were you at a party on the Sunday before the murder? A party given by a dancer named Lonnie Cooper? One of the black girls in the cast?”
“I was.”
“Was Sally Anderson there?”
“I don’t remember.”
“She was there, Mr. Carter. Are you telling me you didn’t recognize her then, either? There are only eight female dancers in your show, how could you not know Sally Anderson if you ran into her?”
“If she was there—”
“If she was there — and she was — she sure as hell wasn’t wearing a red wig!” Carella said, and stood up abruptly. “Mr. Carter, I hate to sound like a clichéd detective in a B-movie, but I wouldn’t advise you to go to Philadelphia this Wednesday. I’d suggest, instead, that you stay right here in this city, where we can reach you if we want to ask you any other questions. Thanks for your time, Mr. Carter.”