Lady Killer

'Who wants to know?' Bannister asked, pulling back his shoulders dignifiedly, looking the way Napoleon must have looked in his underwear.

'I do,' Hawes said.

'Suppose I don't care to answer you?'

Hawes shrugged. The shrug was very meaningful. Bannister studied the shrug and then said, 'Okay. I'm going to the ballet with Mother.'

'Where?'

'The City Theatre.'

'What time?'

'It starts at eight-thirty.'

'Your mother live here in the city?'

'No. She lives out on Sand's Spit. The East Shore.'

'Is she well-fixed, would you say?'

'I would say so, yes.'

'Would you call her a suburban lady?'

'I would,' Bannister admitted.

'A lady?'

'Yes.'

Hawes hesitated. 'Do you get along with her?'

'With Mother? Of course I do.'

'How does she feel about your writing?'

'She feels I have great talent.'

'Does she like the idea of your living in a slum neighbourhood?'

'She would rather I lived home, but she respects my wishes.'

'The family's supporting you, is that right?'

'That's right.'

'How much?'

'Sixty-five a week.'

'Mother ever oppose this?'

'The money, you mean? No. Why should she? I spent much more than that when I was living at home.'

'Who paid for the ballet tickets tonight?'

'Mother.'

'Where were you this morning at about eight o'clock, Bannister?'

'Right here.'

'Anybody with you?'

'No.'

'Anybody see you here?'

'The typewriter was going,' Bannister said. 'Ask any of my neighbours. Unless they're all dead, they heard it. Why? What am I supposed to have done at eight o'clock this morning?'

'What paper do you read on Sundays?' Hawes asked.

'The Graphic.'

'Any out-of-town papers?'

'Like what?'

'Like the New York Times?'

'Yes, I buy the Times.'

'Every Sunday?'

'Yes. I like to see what pap is on the best-seller list each week.'

'Do you know where the station house is?'

'The police station, you mean?'

'Yes.'

'It's near the park, isn't it?'

'Is it, or isn't it?' Hawes asked.

'Yes, it is. I still don't understand—'

'What time are you meeting your mother?'

'Eight,' Bannister said.

'Eight tonight. Do you own a gun?'

'No.'

'Any other weapon?'

'No.'

'Have you had any arguments with your mother recently?'

'No.'

'With any other woman?'

'No.'

'What do you call your mother?'

'Mother.'

'Anything else?'

'Mom.'

'Any nicknames?'

'Sometimes I call her Carol. That's her name.'

'Ever call her The Lady?'

'No. Are we back to that again?'

'Ever call anybody The Lady?'

'No.'

'What do you call your landlady, the bitch who said she'd call the cops if you typed at night?'

'I call her Mrs Nelson. I also call her The Bitch.'

'Has she given you a lot of trouble?'

'Only about the typing.'

'Do you like her?'

'Not particularly.'

'Do you hate her?'

'No. I hardly ever think about her, to tell the truth.'

'Bannister…'

'Yes?'

'A detective will probably follow you to the ballet tonight. He'll be with you when—'

'What do you mean? What am I supposed to have done?'

'—when you leave this apartment, and when you meet your mother, and when you take your seat. I'm telling you this in case—'

'What the hell is this, a police state?'

'—in case you had any rash ideas. Do you understand me, Bannister?'

'No, I don't. The rashest idea I have is buying Mother an ice-cream soda after the show,'

'Good, Bannister. Keep it that way.'

'Cops,' Bannister said. 'If you're finished, I'd like to get back to work.'

'I'm finished,' Hawes said. 'Thank you for your time. And remember. There'll be a cop with you.'

'Balls,' Bannister said, and he sat at his table and began typing.

Hawes left the apartment. He checked with the three other tenants on the floor, two of whom were willing to swear (like drunken sailors!) that Bannister's damn machine had been going at eight o'clock that morning. In fact, it had started going at six-thirty, and hadn't stopped since.

Hawes thanked them and went back to the squad.

It was 12.23.

Hawes was hungry.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Meyer Meyer had raised the shade covering the grilled window facing the park, so that sunshine splashed on to the desk near the window where the men were having lunch.

From where Carella sat at the end of the desk facing the window and the park, he could see out across the street, could see the greenery rolling away from the stone wall that divided the park from the pavement.

'Suppose this isn't a specific lady?' Meyer asked. 'Suppose we're on the wrong track?'

'What do you mean?' Carella asked, biting into a sandwich. The sandwich had been ordered at Charlie's Delicatessen, around the corner. It nowhere compared with the sandwiches Carella's wife, Teddy, made.

'We're assuming this nut has a particular dame on his mind,' Meyer said. 'A dame called The Lady. This may not be so.'

'Go ahead,' Hawes said.

'This is a terrible sandwich,' Carella said.

'They get worse all the time,' Meyer agreed. 'There's a new place, Steve. The Golden Pot. Did you see it? It's on Fifth, just off Culver Avenue. Willis ate there. Says it's pretty good.'

'Does he deliver?' Carella asked.

'If he doesn't, he's passing up a gold mine,' Meyer said. 'With all the fressers in this precinct.'

'What about The Lady?' Hawes asked.

'On my lunch hour he wants me to think, yet,' Meyer said.

'Do we need that shade up?' Carella asked.

'Why not?' Meyer said. 'Let the sunshine in.'

'Something's blinking in my eyes,' Carella said.

'So move your chair.'

Carella shoved back his chair.

'What about—' Hawes started.

'All right, all right,' Meyer said. 'This one is eager. He's bucking for commissioner.'

'He's liable to make it,' Carella said.

'Suppose you were pasting up this damn letter?' Meyer asked. 'Suppose you were looking through the New York Times for words? Suppose all you wanted to say was, "I'm going to kill a woman tonight at eight. Try and stop me." Do you follow me so far?'

'I follow you,' Hawes said.

'Okay. You start looking. You can't find the word eight, so you improvise. You cut out a Ballantine-beer thing, and you use that for a figure eight. You can't find the words I'm going, but you do find I will, so you use those instead. Okay, why can't the same thing apply to The Lady?'

'What do you mean?'

'You want to say a woman. You search through the damn paper, and you can't find those words. You're looking through the book section, and you spot the ad for the Conrad Richter novel. Why not? you say to yourself. Woman, lady, the same thing. So you cut out The Lady. It happens to be capitalized because it's the title of a novel. That doesn't bother you because it conveys the meaning you want. But it can set the cops off on a wild-goose chase looking for a capitalized Lady when she doesn't really exist.'

'If this guy had the patience to cut out and paste up every letter in the word tonight,' Carella said,'then he knew exactly what he wanted to say, and if he couldn't find the exact word he created it.'