"What're you doing?" the patrolman asked Carella.
Carella looked up. "Me?" he said. He cursed the fact that the park was not part of his own precinct territory, cursed the fact that he did not know this patrolman, cursed the stupidity of the man, and at the same time realized he could not show his credentials because the boy might return at any moment, and all he needed was for the boy to see him. And suppose Gonzo should arrive at this moment? Good God, suppose Gonzo should arrive?
"Yeah, you," the patrolman said. "There's only two of us here, ain't there?"
"I'm sitting," Carella said.
"You been sitting for a long time now."
"I like to sit in the fresh air," Carella said, and he weighted the possibility of quickly flashing his shield, and the possibility of the patrolman quickly grasping the situation and taking off without another word. But as if to squash that possibility, the boy suddenly reappeared around the corner of the lion house, then stopped dead in his tracks, seeing the cop, and then reversed his field. But he did not disappear completely this time. This time he took up a post at the corner of the lion house, peering around the brick of the building like an advancing street soldier looking for possible snipers.
"Kind of cold to be sitting out here in the open, ain't it?" the patrolman asked. Carella looked up at him, and he could still see the boy watching behind the patrolman's back. There was nothing he could do but try to talk himself out of this without revealing himself. That and pray that Gonzo would not arrive and be scared off by the sight of a uniform.
"Listen, is there any law against sitting on a bench and eating peanuts?" Carella asked.
"There might be."
"Like what? I'm not bothering anybody, am I?"
"You might. You might try to molest the first young schoolgirl who walks by."
"I'm not going to try to molest anybody," Carella said. "All I want to do is sit here and mind my own business and get some fresh air, that's all."
"You could be a vagrant," the patrolman said.
"Do I look like a vagrant?"
"Not exactly."
"Look, officer…"
"You'd better stand up," the patrolman said.
"Why?"
"Because I'll have to search you."
"What the hell for?" Carella said angrily, constantly aware of the boy's prying eyes at the corner of the building, aware too that a search would uncover the .38 Detective's Special tucked in its holster into his waistband, and the gun would require an explanation, and the explanation would necessitate the flashing of tin, and there would go the setup. The kid would know he was a cop, and the kid would take off, and if Gonzo showed at the same time…
"I got to search you," the patrolman said. "You may be a dope peddler or something."
"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Carella exploded. "Then go get a search warrant."
"I don't need one," the patrolman said calmly. "You're either going to get searched or I'm going to clout you on the head and drag you into the station house as a vagrant. Now, how about it?"
The patrolman didn't wait for Carella's answer. He began running his night stick over Carella's body, and the first thing he hit was the .38. He yanked up Carella's jacket.
"Hey!" he shouted. "What's this?"
His voice could easily have carried to the reptile house at the other end of the zoo. It certainly carried to the corner of the lion house not fifteen feet away, and Carella saw the boy's eyes open wide, and then the patrolman brandished the gun like a Carrie Nation hatchet, and the kid saw it, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously, and then his face vanished from the corner of the building.
"What is this?" the patrolman shouted again, holding Carella's arm now. Carella listened, and he heard footsteps beating a rapid retreat on the asphalt path. The boy was gone, and Gonzo hadn't shown either. In any case, the day was shot clear up the ass.
"I'm talking to you!" the patrolman shouted. "You got a permit for this gun?"
"My name," Carella said slowly and precisely, "is Stephen Carella. I'm a 2nd/Grade Detective, and I work out of the 87th Precinct, and you just prevented me from making a possible narcotics pinch." The patrolman's red face turned a little pale. Carella looked at him sourly and said, "Go ahead, panic. It'll serve you right."
Chapter Twelve
A feather.
It was only a feather, but it was perhaps the most meaningful bit of evidence turned up in the room where Maria Hernandez had been stabbed.
There are all kinds of feathers.
There are chicken feathers, and duck feathers, and quail feathers, and goose feathers, and flamingo feathers, and horse feathers, and even Leonard Feathers.
Feathers are divided into two groups, down feathers and contour feathers.
The feather found in the room was a down feather.
Now, when a kid in the 87th Precinct held another kid in high regard, considered this kid an all-right guy, a courageous fighter, a lover, a hero, he might very well refer to the boy as a "down cat." The cat signifying boy, and the down signifying all right.
A down feather, on the other hand was not an all-right feather. That is to say, there was nothing really wrong with it, but it was in no way courageous, amorous, brave, or trustworthy. It simply happened to come from a certain part of a bird's body, as opposed to other parts of the body, and so it was called down rather than contour.
The down feather found in the room was allowed to soak in soapy water for a while, then rinsed under running water, and then rinsed again in alcohol, and then put under the microscope.
The feather had long knots consisting of several protruding tips.
In the order of sparrows, the knots are close together and conical.
In the order of wading birds, the knots are pointed and conical, the barbules hairy and hard.
Climbing birds have feathers with strongly protruding knots with four tips.
Aquatic birds have strong knots with dull points.
Chickens and other birds in the Gallinae order have feathers with the same characteristics as wading birds.
Pigeons… ah, pigeons.
Pigeon feathers have long knots consisting of several protruding tips.
The feather in the room was a pigeon feather.
The feathers in the one pillow on the bed were duck down. The feather found, therefore, had not come from the pillow. It was found stuck to a smear of blood, so chances were it was left by the killer and not left by someone who'd been in the room previous to the killer.
If the killer, therefore, had a pigeon feather stuck to his clothes, chances were he was a pigeon fancier.
All the cops had to do was track down every pigeon fancier in the city.
That job was for the birds.
The department stores on Friday, December 22nd, were a little crowded. Bert Kling could not honestly say he disliked the crowds because the crowds forced him into close proximity with Claire Townsend, and there was no girl he'd rather have been proximately close to. On the other hand, however, the alleged purpose of this excursion was to pick up presents for people like Uncle Ed and Aunt Sarah—whom Kling had never met—and the sooner that task was accomplished, the sooner he and Claire could begin spending an uncluttered afternoon together. This was, after all, a day off and he did not enjoy trudging all over department stores on his day off, even if that trudging were being done with Claire.
He had to admit that of all the trudgers around, he and Claire made the nicest looking pair of trudgers. There was a tireless sort of energy about her, an energy he usually associated with Phys. Ed. majors. Phys. Ed. majors were easily identified by short, squat bodies with muscular legs and bulging biceps. Claire Townsend had none of the attributes of the Phys. Ed. major, except the tireless energy—Claire, in Kling's estimation, was perhaps the most beautiful woman alive. She was certainly the most beautiful woman he had ever met. Her hair was black. There are blacks, you know, and then there are blacks. But Claire's hair was a total black, a complete absence of light, a pure black. Her eyes were a warm brown, arched with black brows. She had the pale complexion of a high-bred Spanish girl coupled with the high cheek bones of an Indian. Her nose was straight and her mouth was full, and she was obviously the loveliest woman in the world. Whether she was or not doesn't matter. Kling thought she was.