In November?
Who?
Lady, lady, I did it.
Lady, lady, I fired those guns, I left those gaping holes in your side, I caused your blood to run all over that bookshop floor, I took your life, I put you in your grave.
Who?
Who, you son of a bitch?
He could hear his own lonely footsteps echoing on the pavement. The neon clatter was everywhere around him, the sounds of traffic, the sound of voices raised in laughter, but he heard only his own footsteps, their own hollow cadence, and somewhere Claire’s remembered voice, clear and vital, even whispering, Claire, Claire, “Well, I bought a new bra.”
Oh?
“You should see what it does for me, Bert. Do you love me, Bert?”
You know I do.
“Tell me.”
I can’t right now.
“Will you tell me later?”
Tears suddenly sprang into his eyes. He felt a loss so total, so complete in that moment, that he thought he would die himself, thought he would suddenly fall to the pavement lifeless. He brushed at his eyes.
He had suddenly remembered that he had not told her he’d loved her, and he would never have the chance to do it again.
It was fortunate that Steve Carella took the call from Mrs. Joseph Wechsler. It was fortunate because Bert Kling was very much in sympathy with the woman and had made a few aural adjustments in listening to her. It was fortunate because Meyer Meyer was too accustomed to hearing similar accents and might not have noticed the single important clue she dropped. It was fortunate because Carella had fooled around long enough with the word “Carpenter” and was ready to pounce on anything that would shed light upon it. The telephone helped. The instrument provided a barrier between the two. He had never met the woman. He heard only the voice that came over the line, and he had to strain to catch every syllable.
“Hallo, dis is Mrs. Vaxler,” the voice said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Carella answered.
“From my hosbin is Joseph Vaxler,” she said.
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Wechsler. How are you? I’m Detective Carella.”
“Hallo,” she said. “Mr. Carell, I donn like t’bodder you dis way. I know you busy.”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Wechsler. What is it?”
“Vell, ven your d’tectiff vas here, I gave him a bonch bills he said he vanted t’look oveh. I need them beck now.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Carella said. “They should have been returned to you long ago.”
“Dot’s ull right,” Mrs. Wechsler said. “I vouldn’t be boddering you, but I got today a second bill from d’men vot pented the car, and I remembered I didn’t pay yet.”
“I’ll see that they’re sent to you right away,” Carella said. “Somebody up here must have goofed.”
“Thank you. I vant to pay them as soon as—”
“The what?” Carella said suddenly.
“Pardon?”
“The what? The man who what?”
“I donn know vot you mean, Mr. Carell.”
“You said something about a man who—”
“Oh, d’car penter. The men vot pented Joseph’s car. Dot’s right. Dot’s who I got d’second bill from. Vot abodd him?”
“Mrs. Wechsler, did... did your husband talk the way you do?”
“Vot?”
“Your husband. Did he... did he sound the way you do?”
“Oh, voise, d’poor men. But he vas good, you know. He vas a dear, good—”
“Bert!” Carella yelled.
Kling looked up from his desk.
“Come on,” Carella said. “Goodbye, Mrs. Wechsler, I’ll call you back later.” He slammed the phone on the hook.
Kling was already clipping on his holster.
“What is it?” he said.
“I think we’ve got him.”
Chapter 15
Three cops went to make the collar, but only one was needed.
Brown, Carella, and Kling talked to Batista, the owner of the garage. They talked in quiet whispers in the front office with the scarred swivel chair. Batista listened with his eyes wide, a cigar hanging from one corner of his mouth. Every now and then he nodded. His eyes got wider when he saw the three detectives draw their revolvers. He told them where Buddy Manners was, and they asked him to stay right there in the front office until this was all over, and he nodded and took the cigar out of his mouth and sat in the swivel chair with a shocked expression on his face because television and the movies had suddenly moved into his life and left him speechless.
Manners was working on a car at the back of the garage. He had a spray gun in his right hand, and he was wearing dark glasses, the paint fanning out from the gun, the side of the car turning black as he worked. The detectives approached with guns in their fists, and Manners looked up at them, seemed undecided for a moment, and then went right on working. He was going to play this one cool. He was going to pretend that three big bastards with drawn guns always marched into the garage while he was spraying cars. Brown was the first to speak; he had met Manners before.
“Hello there, Mr. Manners,” he said conversationally.
Manners cut off the spray gun, pushed the dark glasses up onto his forehead, and squinted at the three men. “Oh, hello,” he said. “Didn’t recognize you.” He still made no mention of the hardware, which was very much in evidence.
“Usually wear sunglasses when you’re working?” Brown asked conversationally.
“Sometimes. Not always.”
“How come?”
“Oh, you know. Sometimes this stuff gets all over the place. When I’ve got a small job, I don’t bother. But if it’s anything big I usually put on the glasses.” He grinned. “Be surprised how much wear and tear on the eyeballs it saves.”
“Mmm-huh,” Carella said pleasantly. “Ever wear sunglasses in the street?”
“Oh, sure,” Manners answered.
“Were you wearing them on Friday, October thirteenth?” Carella asked pleasantly.
“Gee, who knows? When was that?”
“The middle of last month,” Carella said pleasantly.
“Maybe, who knows? We had a lot of sunshine last month, didn’t we? I could’ve been wearing them.” He paused. “Why?”
“Why do you think we’re here, Mr. Manners?”
Manners shrugged. “I don’t know. Stolen car? That it?”
“No, guess again, Mr. Manners,” Brown said.
“Gee, I don’t know.”
“We think you’re a murderer, Mr. Manners,” Carella said.
“Huh?”
“We think you went into a bookstore on Culver Avenue on the evening of—”
And Kling suddenly reached for him. He stepped between Brown and Carella, cutting off Carella’s words, grabbing Manners by the front of his coveralls and then pushing him backward against the side of the car, slamming him there with all the strength of his arm and shoulder.
“Let’s have it,” Kling said.
“Let’s have what? Let go of my—”
Kling hit him. This was not a dainty slap across the cheek nor even a vicious backhanded swipe to the jaw. Kling hit him with the butt of his .38. The gun collided with Manners’ forehead, just over his right eye. It opened a cut two inches long that began bleeding immediately. Whatever Manners had expected, it wasn’t this. He went dead white. He shook his head to clear it and then stared at Kling, who hulked over him, right hand holding the gun, poised to strike again.