Carella didn’t waste time. He showed his shield and his I.D. card, and said, “Detective Carella, 87th Squad.”
Yank regarded him with cool disdain, and then puffed on his cigar. “Yeah?” he said.
“We’re trying to get a positive identification on a young man who may have been living in the neighborhood...”
“Yeah?”
“I thought you might be able to help.”
“Why?”
“Do you live around here?”
“Yeah.”
“How long have you been living here?”
“Three of us blew in from the Coast a few weeks back.”
“Transients, huh?”
“Mobile, you might say.”
“Where are you living?”
“Here and there.”
“Where’s that?”
“We drop in various places. Our club members are usually welcome everywhere.”
“Where are you dropping in right now?”
“Around the corner.”
“Around the corner where?”
“On Rutland. Listen, I thought you were trying to identify somebody. What’re all these questions about? You charging me with some terrible crime?”
“Have you got a terrible crime in mind?”
“The bike’s legally parked, I was sitting here smoking a cigar and meditating. Is that against the law?”
“Nobody said it was.”
“So why all the questions?”
Carella reached into his jacket pocket, took out his notebook, and removed from it the photograph of the dead man. “Recognize him?” he asked, and handed the picture to Yank, who blew out a cloud of smoke, righted his chair, and then held the picture between his knees, hunched over it, as he studied it.
“Never saw him in my life,” he said. He handed the picture back to Carella, tilted the chair against the wall again, and drew in another lungful of cigar smoke.
“I wonder if I could have your full name,” Carella said.
“What for?”
“In case I need to get in touch with you again.”
“Why would you need to get in touch with me? I just told you I never saw this guy in my life.”
“Yes, but people sometimes come up with information later on. Since you and your friends are so mobile, you might just hear something that...”
“Tell you what,” Yank said, and grinned. “You give me your name. If I hear anything, I’ll call you.” He blew two precise smoke rings into the air, and said, “How’s that?”
“I’ve already given you my name,” Carella said.
“Shows what kind of memory I’ve got,” Yank said, and again grinned.
“I’ll see you around,” Carella said.
“Don’t count on it,” Yank answered.
6
At ten minutes to one on Wednesday afternoon, Augusta Blair called the squadroom and asked to talk to Detective Kling, who was on his lunch hour and down the hall in the locker room, taking a nap. Meyer asked if Kling could call her back and she breathlessly told him she had only a minute and would appreciate it if he could be called to the phone. It had to do with the burglary, she said. Meyer went down the hall and reluctantly awakened Kling, who did not seem to mind at all. In fact, he hurried to his desk, picked up the receiver, and said, quite cheerfully, “Hello, Miss Blair, how are you?”
“Fine, thank you,” she said. “I’ve been trying to call you all day long, Mr. Kling, but this is the first break we’ve had. We started at nine this morning, and I didn’t know if you got to work that early.”
“Yes, I was here,” Kling said.
“I guess I should have called then. Anyway, here I am now. And I’ve got to be back in a minute. Do you think you can come down here?”
“Where are you, Miss Blair?”
“Schaeffer Photography at 580 Hall Avenue. The fifth floor.”
“What’s this about?”
“When I was cleaning up the mess in the apartment, I found something that wasn’t mine. I figure the burglar may have dropped it.”
“I’ll be right there,” Kling said. “What was it you found?”
“Well, I’ll show you when you get here,” she said. “I’ve got to run, Mr. Kling.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll...”
But she was gone.
Schaeffer Photography occupied the entire fifth floor of 580 Hall. The receptionist, a pert blonde with a marked German accent, informed Kling that Augusta had said he would be coming, and then directed him to the studio, which was at the end of a long hallway hung with samples of Schaeffer’s work. Judging from the selection, Schaeffer did mostly fashion photography; no avid reader of Vogue, Kling nonetheless recognized the faces of half the models, and searched in vain for a picture of Augusta. Apparently she had been telling the truth when she said she’d been in the business only a short while.
The door to the studio was closed. Kling eased it open, and found himself in an enormous room overhung by a skylight. A platform was at the far end of the room, the wall behind it hung with red backing paper. Four power packs rested on the floor, with cables running to strobe lights on stands, their gray, umbrella-shaped reflectors angled toward the platform. Redheaded Augusta Blair, wearing a red blouse, a short red jumper, red knee socks, and red patent leather pumps, stood before the red backing paper. A young girl in jeans and a Snoopy sweatshirt stood to the right of the platform, her arms folded across her chest. The photographer and his assistant were hunched over a tripod-mounted Polaroid. They took several pictures, strobe lights flashing for a fraction of a second each time they pressed the shutter release, and then, apparently satisfied with the exposure setting, removed the Polaroid from its mount and replaced it with a Nikon. Augusta spotted Kling standing near the door, grinned, and waggled the fingers of her right hand at him. The photographer turned.
“Yes?” he said.
“He’s a friend of mine,” Augusta said.
“Oh, okay,” the photographer said in dismissal. “Make yourself comfortable, keep it quiet. You ready, honey? Where’s David?”
“David!” the assistant called, and a man rushed over from where he’d been standing at a wall phone, partially hidden by a screen over which was draped a pair of purple pantyhose. He went directly to Augusta, combed her hair swiftly, and then stepped off the platform.
“Okay?” the photographer asked.
“Ready,” Augusta said.
“The headline is ‘Red On Red,’ God help us, and the idea—”
“What’s the matter with the headline?” the girl in the Snoopy sweatshirt asked.
“Nothing, Helen, far be it from me to cast aspersions on your magazine. Gussie, the idea is to get this big red feeling, you know what I mean? Everything bursting and screaming and, you know, red as hell, okay? You know what I want?”
“I think so,” Augusta said.
“We want red,” Helen said.
“What the hell’s this proxar doing on here?” the photographer asked.
“I thought we’d be doing close stuff,” his assistant said.
“No, Eddie, get it off here, will you?”
“Sure,” Eddie said, and began unscrewing the lens.
“David, get that hair off her forehead, will you?”