“We love each other,” the man protested.
“I know you do. So go on home, okay?” Meyer winked at the man. “Okay?”
“Well…”
“Sure,” Meyer said, rising, scooping them both in his wide-spread arms, shoving them toward the gate in the railing. “Nice young couple like you shouldn’t be wasting time arguing. Go on home, it’s a beautiful day, how do you do, sir, can I help you?”
“My name’s Fred Hassler,” Hassler said. “I’ve been here before, but…”
“You mean we can just go?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Meyer said, “go, go. Before I change my mind. Go on, scram.” He turned to Hassler and said, “Yes, sir, I remember you now. Won’t you come in? Don’t pinch her any more, mister! And you lay off the frying pans. Have a seat, Mr. Hassler.”
“Thank you,” Hassler said. He did not seem very interested in the color or atmosphere of the squadroom this time. He seemed very serious, and a trifle angry, and Meyer wondered what had provoked his visit, and then called across the squadroom to where Carella was typing at his own desk.
“Steve, Mr. Hassler’s here. You remember him, don’t you?”
Carella got up from his desk, walked to where Hassler was sitting, and extended his hand. “Hello, Mr. Hassler, how are you?” he asked.
“Fine, thank you,” Hassler said a bit brusquely.
“What can we do for you?” Meyer asked.
“You can get back my stuff,” Hassler replied.
“What stuff?”
“I don’t know if it was you or the Forty Thieves who took it, but somebody took it, and I want it back.”
“Is something missing from your apartment, Mr. Hassler?” Carella asked.
“Yes, something is missing from my apartment. I’m not saying it was the police. It might have been the firemen. But…”
“You think the firemen took it?”
“I’m saying it’s possible. They break into an apartment and next thing you know, everything is sticking to their fingers. Well, this time a citizen is complaining. A citizen has a right to complain, hasn’t he?”
“Certainly, Mr. Hassler. What’s missing?”
“To begin with, I’m a good sleeper.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes. I don’t usually have trouble. But they’ve begun construction on our block, and last night they were making such a terrible racket that I went to the medicine chest to get some of these sleeping pills that I had one time when I had the flu, it must have been in nineteen fifty-nine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, I had this high fever, a hundred and two, almost a hundred and three, and I couldn’t sleep, so I got these pills, they’re called Barbinal, you take one and it knocks you out like a light for the whole night. I had four of those pills left in a bottle from the time I had the flu in nineteen fifty-nine.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Yes, well last night I couldn’t sleep so I went to the medicine chest figuring I would take one of those Barbinals, and I found the bottle all right, but it was empty.”
“The pills were gone?”
“All four of them. So I knew the firemen had been in the apartment at the time of the explosion, and I also knew the police had been crawling all over it, so I automatically figured. That was the first thing.”
“Something else was missing, Mr. Hassler?”
“Mmmm,” Hassler said grimly. “This morning, when I got up, I thought I’d just make a check of the apartment to see what else had been stolen. Well, a whole reel of film is missing.”
“Film?”
“Movie film. I told you I was a bug on movies, I keep them all stored in my living room, the reels, in these metal containers, you know? And on the cover of each container, there’s a strip of adhesive tape and it gives the date and tells what’s on the reel. Well, a reel is missing.”
“Perhaps you misplaced it, Mr. Hassler.”
“I didn’t misplace it. Those reels are all filed chronologically in a wooden case I made myself, with a space for each reel, and one of those spaces is empty. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like my pills back, and also my film.”
“We haven’t got either, Mr. Hassler.” Carella paused. “It’s possible, you know, that Tommy and Irene took those pills. To put themselves to sleep.”
“I thought they drank themselves to sleep.”
“They may have taken the pills, Mr. Hassler.”
“Did they take my film, too? They were both half-naked and dead, and my film wasn’t anywhere on them. Besides, Tommy didn’t like that particular reel.”
“Tommy saw this reel?”
“Saw it? He was in it.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Hassler?”
“I told you the first time I was up here that Tommy used to help me with my movies. I got this bug, you know, can I help it? So this one was the story of a guy who’s broke, and he’s walking in the park and he finds a hundred-dollar bill. So Tommy and I went over to Grover Park one afternoon, and we shot the whole thing, almost three hundred feet in one afternoon. There’s only Tommy in it-no, wait a minute, there’s also a little kid we found in the park and asked him to be in the picture. The way the plot goes, you see, Tommy finds this bill and then has to decide…”
“Tommy acted in this film, Mr. Hassler, is that right?”
“That’s right.” Hassler paused. “He wasn’t a professional actor, you know, but what the hell, we were doing it for kicks, anyway. It came out pretty good.” He shrugged. “Tommy didn’t like it, though. He said he needed a haircut, and it made his face look too thin. Anyway, I liked it, and I want it back.”
“But you see, we haven’t got it,” Carella said.
“Then the firemen must have it.”
“Mr. Hassler, how was this reel of film labeled?”
“The usual way.”
“Which is?”
“First the date on the top line. Then the title of the reel, which in this case was ‘The Hundred Dollar Bill.’ Then, after that it said ‘with Tommy Barlow and Sammy La Paloma’-that’s the name of the kid we discovered in the park. That’s all.”
“Then anyone who looked at the cover of the can would know that Tommy Barlow was in this reel of film.”
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Hassler, thank you very much,” Carella said. “We’ll try our best to get it back for you.”
“It was the Forty Thieves,” Hassler insisted. “Those louses’ll take the sink if it isn’t nailed down.”
But Carella wasn’t at all sure the firemen were responsible for the theft of Fred Hassler’s film. Carella was remembering that Mary Tomlinson had said, “I wish I had some pictures of Tommy, too. I have a lot of Margaret, but none of the man she was going to marry.” And he was remembering that Michael Thayer had said, “I want to keep looking at him. That’s strange, isn’t it? I want to find out what was so… different about him.” And he was remembering, too, that Amos Barlow had said, “Ever since he died, I’ve been going around the house looking for traces of him. Old letters, snapshots, anything that was Tommy.” So whereas he knew that perhaps the firemen had earned their nickname with good reason, he also knew that none of the Forty Thieves would be crazy enough to steal a container of home movies. The carousel music had suddenly started again. The gold ring was once more in sight. The horses were in motion.