The bar was cool and dim.
We sat opposite each other, Detective Stephen Carella and I. He toyed with his drink, and we talked of many things, but mostly we talked of murder.
“I’ve got an idea I know who killed those three cops,” Carella said. “It’s not the kind of idea you can take to your superiors, though. They wouldn’t understand.”
And so came the first ray of hope in the mystery which has baffled the masterminds of Homicide North and tied the hands of stubborn, opinionated Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes of the 87th Precinct.
“I can’t tell you very much more about it right now,” Carella said, “because I’m still digging. But this cop-hater theory is all wrong. It’s something in the personal lives of these three men, of that I’m sure. It needs work, but we’ll crack it.”
So spoke Detective Carella yesterday afternoon in a bar in the heart of the Murder Belt. He is a shy, withdrawn man, a man who — in his own words — is “not seeking glory.”
“Police work is like any other kind of work,” he told me, “except that we deal in crime. When you’ve got a hunch, you dig into it. If it pans out, then you bring it to your superiors, and maybe they’ll listen, and maybe they won’t.”
Thus far, he has confided his “hunch” only to his fiancée, a lovely young lady named Theodora Franklin, a girl from Riverhead. Miss Franklin feels that Carella can “do no wrong,” and is certain he will crack the case despite the inadequate fumblings of the department to date.
“There are skeletons in the closets,” Carella said. “And those skeletons point to our man. We’ve got to dig deeper. It’s just a matter of time now.”
We sat in the cool dimness of the bar, and I felt the quiet strength emanating from this man who has the courage to go ahead with this investigation in spite of the cop-hater theory which pervades the dusty minds of the men working around him.
This man will find the murderer, I thought.
This man will relieve the city of its constant fear, its dread of an unknown killer roaming the streets with a wanton .45 automatic in his bloodstained fist. This man…
“Well?” he asked.
She kept shaking her head. No, this is not true. No, Steve would never say things like these. Steve would…
“What’d he tell you?” the man asked.
Her eyes opened wide with pleading. Nothing, he told me nothing.
“The newspaper says…”
She hurled the paper to the floor.
“Lies, huh?”
Yes, she nodded.
His eyes narrowed. “Newspapers don’t lie,” he said.
They do, they do!
“When’s he coming here?”
She stood motionless, controlling her face, not wanting her face to betray anything to the man with the gun.
“Is he coming?”
She shook her head.
“You’re lying. It’s all over your face. He’s coming here, isn’t he?”
She bolted for the door. He caught her arm and flung her back across the room. The robe pulled back over her legs when she fell to the floor. She pulled it together quickly and stared up at him.
“Don’t try that again,” he said.
Her breath came heavily now. She sensed a coiled spring within this man, a spring which would unleash itself at the door the moment Steve opened it. But he’d said he would not be there until midnight. He had told her that, and there were a lot of hours between now and midnight. In that time…
“You just get out of the shower?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Those are good legs,” he said, and she felt his eyes on her. “Dames,” he said philosophically. “What’ve you got on under that robe?”
Her eyes widened.
He began laughing. “Just what I thought. Smart. Good way to beat the heat. When’s Carella coming?”
She did not answer.
“Seven, eight, nine? Is he on duty today?” He watched her. “Nothing from you, huh? What’s he got, the four to midnight? Sure, otherwise he’d probably be with you right this minute. Well, we might as well make ourselves comfortable, we got a long wait. Anything to drink in this place?”
Teddy nodded.
“What’ve you got? Gin? Rye? Bourbon?” He watched her. “Gin? You got tonic? No, huh? Club soda? Okay, mix me a Collins. Hey, where you going?”
Teddy gestured to the kitchen.
“I’ll come with you,” he said. He followed her into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and took out an opened bottle of club soda.
“Haven’t you got a fresh one?” he asked. Her back was to him, and so she could not read his lips. He seized her shoulder and swung her around. His hand did not leave her shoulder.
“I asked you if you had a fresh bottle,” he said.
She nodded and knelt, taking an unopened bottle from the lowest shelf of the refrigerator. She took lemons from the fruit drawer, and then went to the cupboard for the bottle of gin.
“Dames,” he said again.
She poured a double shot of gin into a tall glass. She spooned sugar into the glass, and then she went to one of the drawers.
“Hey!”
He saw the knife in her hand.
“Don’t get ideas with that. Just slice the lemon.”
She sliced the lemon and squeezed both halves into the glass. She poured club soda until the glass was three-quarters full, and then she went back to the refrigerator for the ice cubes. When the drink was finished, she handed it to him.
“Make one for yourself,” he said.
She shook her head.
“I said make one for yourself! I don’t like to drink alone.”
Patiently, wearily, she made herself a drink.
“Come on. Back in the living room.”
They went into the living room, and he sat in an easy chair, wincing as he adjusted himself so that his shoulder was comfortable.
“When the knock comes on that door,” he said, “you just sit tight, understand? Go unlock it now.”
She went to the door and unlocked it. And now, knowing that the door was open, knowing that Steve would enter and be faced with a blazing .45, she felt fear crawl into her head like a nest of spiders.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
She shrugged. She walked back into the room and sat opposite him, lacing the door.
“This is a good drink,” he said. “Come on, drink.”
She sipped at the Collins, her mind working ahead to the moment of Steve’s arrival.
“I’m going to kill him, you know,” he said.
She watched him, her eyes wide.
“Won’t make any difference now, anyway, will it? One cop more or less. Make it look a little better, don’t you think?”
She was puzzled, and the puzzlement showed on her face.
“It’s the best way,” he explained. “If he knows something, well, it won’t do to have him around. And if he doesn’t know anything, it’ll round out the picture.” He struggled in the chair. “Jesus, I’ve got to get this shoulder fixed. How’d you like that lousy doctor? That was something, wasn’t it? I thought they were supposed to be healers.”
He talks the way anyone does, she thought. Except that he talks so casually of death. He is going to kill Steve.
“We were figuring on Mexico, anyway. Going to leave this afternoon, until your boyfriend came up with his bright idea. We’ll take off in the morning, though. Soon as I take care of this.” He paused. “Do you suppose I can get a good doctor in Mexico? Jesus, the things a guy will do, huh?” he watched her face carefully. “You ever been in love?”