The day doorman outside Krutch’s apartment building corroborated that Krutch had come home from work at about 6:00 P.M., and that they had had a brief discussion about the wonderful weather, so different from last June’s weather, when the city was sweltering in the grip of a ninety-degree heat wave. He put Meyer and Hawes in touch with the night doorman who stated that Krutch had called down for a taxi at approximately 8:30, and had left the building with a young lady shortly thereafter. He had personally given Krutch’s destination to the cab driver: The Ram’s Head at 777 Jefferson Avenue. He further reported that Krutch and the young lady had come back to the apartment shortly before midnight and that he had not seen either of them leaving again at any time during his tour of duty, which ended at 8:00 A.M. Meyer and Hawes went over the building’s entrances very carefully, though, and discovered that anyone who chose not to be seen by either the doorman or the elevator operator had only to take the service steps down to the basement and leave the building through the side-street exit door, where the garbage cans were stacked.
The reservations book for The Ram’s Head noted a reservation for “Irving Krutch, 2” at 8:45 P.M. on the night Albert Weinberg was murdered. The headwaiter, a man named Maurice Duchene recalled Mr. Krutch and a young lady being there, and also recalled recommending the Chateau Bouscaut ‘64 to them. He said that Mr. Krutch had ordered a bottle and had commented that the wine was delicious. Mr. Krutch had tipped him three dollars when he left the restaurant at about 10:30.
A call to the local affiliate of the National Broadcasting Company ascertained the fact that one of Johnny Carson’s guests that night had been Buddy Hackett and that he had come on almost immediately after the monologue, sometime before midnight.
There was nothing left to do but talk to Suzanne Endicott.
Ask any cop whom he would rather interview, an eighty-year-old lady with varicose veins or a twenty-two-year-old blonde wearing a see-through blouse, just ask any cop.
Suzanne Endicott worked in a swinging boutique called The Nickel Bag, and she was wearing a leather miniskirt and a blouse through which her breasts were clearly visible. Her attire was very disconcerting, especially to policemen who were rather more used to eighty-year-old ladies with varicose veins. Detective Meyer Meyer was a married man. Cotton Hawes was a single man, but he, too, seemed to be having difficulty concentrating on the questions. He kept thinking he should ask Suzanne Endicott to go to a movie with him. Or something. The shop was thronged with young girls similarly though not identically dressed, miniskirts and tights, headbands and shiny blouses, a veritable aviary of chirping young birds — Meyer Meyer hadn’t even enjoyed the Hitchcock film. Suzanne Endicott fluttered here and there, helping this young lady with a pants suit, that one with a crocheted dress, the next with a sequined vest. Between flutterings and chirpings and quick glimpses of nipples and thighs, the detectives tried to ask their questions.
“You want to tell us exactly what happened that night?” Meyer asked.
“Oh, sure, I’d be happy to,” Suzie said. She had the faintest trace of a Southern accent in her speech, Hawes noticed.
“Where are you from originally?” he asked, thinking to put her at ease, and also thinking he would definitely ask her to go to a movie or something.
“Oh my, does my accent still show?” Suzie said.
“Just a little,” Hawes said, and tried a gentle, understanding smile that did not seem appropriate to his massive height, nor his fiery red mane, nor the white streak in the hair over his left temple, the result of a knifing many years back.
“I’m from Georgia,” she said. “The Peach State.”
“It must be lovely down there in Georgia,” Hawes said.
“Oh yes, just lovely,” Suzie said. “Excuse me, just one teeny little minute, won’t you?” she said, and dashed off to where a striking brunette was coming out of one of the dressing rooms. The brunette had on bright red velvet hip-huggers. Hawes thought he might go over and ask her to go to a movie or something.
“I feel as if I’m backstage at the Folies Bergère,” Meyer whispered.
“Have you ever been backstage at the Folies Bergère?” Hawes whispered back.
“No, but I’m sure it’s just like this.”
“Better,” Hawes said.
“Have you ever been?”
“Never.”
“Well, here I am, back again,” Suzie said, and smiled, and tossed her long blond hair and added, “I think they were a bit too snug, don’t you?”
“What’s that?” Meyer said.
“The pants she had on.”
“Oh, sure, a little too snug,” Meyer said. “Miss Endicott, about the night Weinberg was killed...”
“Oh, yes, that was just dreadful, wasn’t it?” Suzie said.
“Yes, it was,” Hawes said gently and tenderly.
“Although I understand he was a criminal. Weinberg, I mean.”
“Who told you that?”
“Irving did. Was he a criminal?”
“He paid his debt to society,” Hawes said tenderly and gently.
“Oh, yes, I suppose he did,” Suzie answered. “But still.”
“In any event,” Meyer said, passing a hand over his bald pate and rolling his china-blue eyes, “he was killed, and we’re conducting an investigation into his murder, and we’d like very much to ask you some questions about that night, if it’s not too much trouble, Miss Endicott.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Suzie said. “Would you please excuse me for just one teeny minute?” she said, and went over to the cash register where a leggy redhead was standing with several sweaters in her arms, waiting to pay for them.
“We’ll never get out of this joint,” Meyer said.
“That wouldn’t be too bad,” Hawes said.
“For you, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. For me, if I don’t get home in time for dinner, Sarah’ll kill me.”
“Why don’t you run on along then?” Hawes said, and grinned. “I think I can handle this alone.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can,” Meyer said. “Trouble is, you see, we’re supposed to find out who killed Weinberg. That’s the trouble, you see.”
“Well, here I am back again,” Suzie said, and smiled, and tossed her long blond hair. “I’ve asked Michelle to spell me, so I don’t think we’ll be interrupted again.”
“That’s very kind of you, Suzie,” Hawes said.
“Oh, not at all,” she answered, and smiled again.
“About that night...”
“Yes,” she said, alert, and responsive, and eager to cooperate. “What would you like to know?”
“First, what time did you get to Irving Krutch’s apartment?”
“It must have been about seven-thirty,” Suzie said.
“How long have you known Mr. Krutch?” Hawes said.
“We’ve practically been living together for four years,” Suzie answered, her big brown eyes opened wide.
“Oh,” Hawes said.
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“We have separate apartments, of course.”
“Of course.”
Meyer cleared his throat. “What... uh... what was I saying?” he said, turning to Hawes.
“Time she got there,” Hawes said.
“Oh yes. Seven-thirty, is that right?”