The butt of Carella’s borrowed .38 protruded from a holster at his waist. He drew the gun now and stood silently listening to the footsteps that clattered across the white tile floor toward Kahn’s office. The footsteps stopped just outside the open door. Brown held his breath. The man was in the doorway now, his shadow falling into the room across the gray rug. Brown did not want the man to be Bramley Kahn. Breaking and entry was breaking and entry, and Brown did not want a suit filed against the city; Brown did not want to get kicked off the force; Brown did not want to be smothered again by the ghetto he had escaped.
The first things that registered were the thick handlebar mustache and the glinting blue eyes.
“Hello, Krutch,” Brown said.
Irving Krutch whirled.
“Hey,” he said. “Hi.”
“Didn’t you see that decal on the back door? ‘These premises are protected by the Buckley Alarm System.’ ”
“I cross-contacted the wiring,” Krutch said.
“That makes two of us. Was it you who called ten minutes ago?”
“Yes. I wanted to make sure nobody was here.”
“Somebody was here,” Brown said.
“So I see.”
“What do you want, Krutch?”
“The same thing you want. We’re in this together, remember?”
“I thought you were letting us handle it.”
“I figured you might need a hand.”
Brown holstered the gun, went to the safe again, moved the dial a notch to the left, then two notches, then three, trying to open it after each move, and getting no results. He tried the same sequence to the right, and when he got nothing, he turned to Krutch and said, “I do need a hand. Grab one end of this painting.”
“Have you found anything?” Krutch asked.
Brown hesitated. “No,” he said.
They lifted the painting and hung it in place. Brown stepped back from it, walked over to the wall again, and tilted one corner of the frame.
“A little to the other side,” Krutch said.
“How’s that?”
“Perfect.”
“Let’s go,” Brown said.
“I’d sure like to know what’s in that safe,” Krutch said.
“So would I. What’s your guess?”
“A little piece of a picture.”
“How are you on safecracking?”
“Lousy.”
“So am I. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” Krutch asked.
“You’re going to fix those alarm wires. I’m going to visit Geraldine Ferguson.”
“Fix the wires? I can get arrested if I’m caught doing that.”
“I may arrest you, anyway,” Brown said. “You’re in here illegally.”
“So are you.”
“An off-duty cop on the prowl. Cruising by, saw the back door ajar, came in and discovered a burglary in progress.”
“I’m your partner,” Krutch protested.
“I had another partner, too. Albert Weinberg, who right now is on ice downtown.”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Krutch said.
“Who suggested you did?”
“Carella.”
“Well, maybe he’s just a suspicious person,” Brown said.
“How about you? What do you think?”
“I think you were with a young lady named Suzie Endicott from seven-thirty until whenever it was Carella came to see you. That’s what you told him, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“So why would I have any reason to doubt you?”
“Look, Brown...”
“I’m looking.”
“I want that lost NSLA money; I want it very badly. But not badly enough to kill for it. Nothing’s worth that much. Not even my career.”
“Okay.”
“I just want to get that straight between us.”
“It’s straight,” Brown said. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
Geraldine Ferguson was in her pajamas when she opened the door.
“Oh, hell,” she said.
“That’s right, Miss Ferguson,” Brown said. “Here come de fuzz.”
“He’s admitting it,” she said in surprise, and then smiled. “Come in. I admire honest men.”
The living room resembled an annex to the gallery — white walls, muted furniture, huge canvases glaring with color, twisted sculptured shapes on pedestals. Gerry swayed across the rug like a dancer, tight little behind jiggling in the blue silk pajama bottoms, black hair caught in a ponytail that bounced between her shoulder blades.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked. “Or is it too early?”
“It’s almost one o’clock,” Brown said.
“Name it.”
“I’m on duty.”
“So? When did cops get so lily-white, you should pardon the expression?”
“I like to keep a clear head when I’m working,” Brown said.
“Okay, keep a clear head,” Gerry said, and shrugged. “I’ll have a drink, though, if you don’t mind. I find Sundays very boring. Once I’ve read the comics and Martin Levin, there’s just nothing exciting left to do.”
“Who’s Martin Levin?” Brown asked.
Gerry went to a bar over which hung a white canvas slashed with jagged black streaks of paint. She poured a liberal shot of bourbon onto the ice in a short glass, lifted the glass, said, “Here’s to improved race relations,” and drank, eying him steadily over the glass.
“Miss Ferguson...”
“Gerry,” she corrected.
“Gerry, a man was killed last night...”
“Who?” she said immediately, and put the glass down on the bar top.
“The man who visited you several times. The one who said he was Al Reynolds. Or Al Randolph.”
“What was his real name?”
“Albert Weinberg.” Brown paused. “Ever hear of him?”
“No,” Gerry said, and picked up her glass again. “What’s your real name?”
“Arthur Brown.”
“You’re putting me on,” she said, and smiled.
“No, that’s it. Detective Second/Grade, 87th Squad. Want to see my shield?”
“Why?”
“You’re supposed to ask for identification.”
“I don’t like to do anything I’m supposed to do,” Gerry said.
“On Wednesday night...”
“How’d we get back to Wednesday?”
“I just took us there,” Brown said impatiently. “On Wednesday night, two men killed each other in a brawl...”
“Who?”
“That’s not important, Gerry. What is important is that one of them had a piece of a photograph in his hand...”
“Are we going to start on that again? I already told you...”
“Miss Ferguson,” Brown said, “I’ve got some questions to ask you concerning murder and armed robbery. I’d like to ask those questions here in comfortable surroundings, but I can just as easily ask them uptown, in the squadroom.”