The street was dark, and the car wasn’t observing any speed limits.
Hawes could not read the plate.
In a little while, the pain subsided.
STEVE CARELLA didn’t truthfully suspect John Murphy. He didn’t know whom he truthfully suspected at this stage of the game, but he did know that the man who’d fired the Savage at Kramer had been a dead shot. Only one shell had been fired, and that shell had blown away half of Kramer’s head. Whoever had killed Kramer had been driving an automobile not a minute before—or so it appeared. He had pulled the car to the curb, picked up the rifle, aimed, and fired. His aim had been unerring. The single shot had done it.
Carella doubted that John Murphy’s aim was unerring. The old man’s hands trembled even when he was sitting having a peaceful drink. If they trembled normally, how much more would they tremble when murder was about to be done? No, he did not truthfully suspect John Murphy.
He was not at all surprised, therefore, by the Ballistics report on the test bullet fired from Murphy’s .300 Savage.
The Ballistics report simply stated that the gun owned by John Murphy could not possibly have fired the bullet that had killed Kramer.
Steve Carella was not at all surprised—but he was disappointed, anyway.
14.
ALICE LOSSING lived in Isola.
Cotton Hawes had been hit uncompromisingly the night before, but on the evening of July twelfth he nonetheless went to visit Miss Lossing. The apartment building was on The Bluffs, overlooking the River Dix. The River Dix bounded Isola on the south, and from Alice Lossing’s building, Hawes supposed you could see the prison at Walker’s Island on a clear day.
He stopped at Apartment 8B and buzzed.
“Who is it?” a girl’s voice called from within the apartment.
Hawes hesitated. He could remember his indoctrination into the 87th Precinct. He had knocked on the door of a suspected murderer and then had said, “Police! Open up!” The man inside had opened up with a pistol, and a cop named Steve Carella had almost been killed that day. Even now, Hawes flushed slightly at his earlier stupidity. But Alice Lossing was not suspected of murder.
“Police,” he said.
“Who?”
“Police,” he repeated.
“Just a second,” the voice said. He heard footsteps approaching the door. The flap in the door swung back. An eye appeared in the circle.
“Who’d you say you were?”
“Police,” Hawes said. “Detective Hawes.”
“Have you got identification?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see it?”
Hawes held up his plastic-encased I.D. card.
“Haven’t you got a badge?”
Hawes held up his shield.
The girl looked at the I.D. card again. “You don’t look very much like the picture,” she said.
“It’s me. If you want further proof, call Frederick 7-8024. Ask for Detective Carella, and ask him if Detective Cotton Hawes did not leave the squadroom on his way to visit you.”
“It sounds convincing,” Alice said. “Just a second.”
Hawes listened while the girl unlatched the door. From the number of bolts being snapped back, it sounded as if he were being admitted to Fort Knox. He wondered why the girl was so damned cautious, and then the door opened and he knew why.
Alice Lossing was perhaps the most beautiful girl he’d seen all week long. If he were Alice Lossing and if he lived in an apartment building, he would surely have constructed a steel door to keep away the wolves.
“Come in,” she said. “You’d better be legit.”
“Why?”
“I keep a pistol, and I know how to shoot it.”
“Do you keep a rifle?” he asked, from force of habit.
“No, thanks. A pistol serves the purpose just dandy.”
“The best weapon for a woman is a hammer,” Hawes said.
“A what?”
“A hammer.”
“Come in, come in. If you’re going to discuss weapons, don’t stand there in the doorway.”
Together, they went into the apartment. Alice Lossing had brown hair and brown eyes. She was a tall girl, at least five-seven, and she walked with the regal splendor of a queen. Her figure was neatly curved beneath the tapered slacks and sweater she wore.
When they were in the living room, she asked, “Why a hammer?”
“Several reasons. One, the excitability of a woman. Faced with an intruder, she may not shoot straight. She’ll empty the pistol, and then be left holding an empty weapon, which makes a clumsy club.”
“I shoot straight,” Alice said.
“Two, an intruder seeing a gun may pull his own gun, if he’s carrying one. Chances are, he’ll shoot straighter than the woman.”
“I shoot straight,” Alice repeated.
“Three, if an intruder has rape on his mind, he’s got to come close to do it. A hammer is a good infighting weapon. If he’s just got robbery or burglary on his mind, the best thing to do is let him take what he wants and then call the police. A gun might start trouble where there wouldn’t have been any trouble. Nobody gets heroic with a hammer. A hammer is purely a weapon of defense.”
“Is that your case?”
“Yes,” Hawes said.
“It stinks,” Alice said. “I keep a pistol in my night table, and it’s loaded, and I’ll shoot any person who steps into this apartment without being invited. I’ll shoot him straight and true and probably dead.”
“A girl can’t be too careful,” Hawes said. “Especially a pretty girl. I’m glad I was invited.”
“What’s this about?” Alice asked. “I’m purposely ignoring your compliment.”
“Why?”
“You’re too attractive,” Alice said. “I might lose my head and shoot off my big toe by accident.” She grinned.
“Exactly my point,” Hawes said, returning the grin.
“What is this about?”
“Phil Kettering,” Hawes said.
“What about him? Where is he? Do you know?”
“We don’t know. He seems to have vanished.”
“Don’t I know it,” Alice said.
“When’d you see him last?”
“In August of last year.”
“Haven’t heard from him since?”
“No,” Alice said. “I wouldn’t give a damn, but he’s got something that belongs to me.”
“What?”
“A ring.”
“How’d he get it?”
“I gave it to him. We got drunk together one night, and we decided to exchange rings. He gave me this piece of cheese”—she held out her right hand—“and I gave him a damn expensive cocktail ring. He wore it on his pinky.”