The door to Byrnes’s office opened briefly. Meyer’s bald head appeared. “In here, Steve,” he said, and then closed the door again instantly.
Carella took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and frowned again. He had begun frowning a lot lately. He knew exactly why.
Ever since he had learned the dead man’s alias—the patently transparent “John Smith”—he had been going through the files of known criminals in an attempt to locate the man’s real name. He had found nothing even resembling the dead man. It was now the twenty-eighth of April and he seemed no closer to identifying his man—much less solving his case—than he’d been on the day the body was discovered in the park. He supposed that set some sort of record for inept detection but, by Christ, he was really trying, and nothing seemed to jell. He had considered the possibility that the shapely Lotte Constantine had done in the old man herself, and he had assigned Bert Kling to a surveillance of the girl while he himself had tried to get a line on her. From what he could gather, the girl was perfectly clean. She had come to the city from Indiana some four years back. She had held a series of unrelated jobs before landing the job as cigarette girl in the Harem Club two years back. She had never been in trouble with the police. Her employer at the Harem described her as “a lovely, quiet girl.” Her affection for the dead “John Smith” had apparently been very real. Her co-workers at the club informed Kling that since she’d met the man who called himself “Johnny,” she had not dated another man, even though men at the club were constantly asking her. Bert Kling, reporting on the girl’s movements, stated that she generally slept late, went to dancing school on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, dramatics classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and reported for work daily at the Harem at 8:00P.M . where she donned her abbreviated costume and black net stockings, not removing them until three in the morning, at which time she went directly home. Kling had been tailing her since April eighteenth and this was the twenty-eighth. In one of his reports, Bert Kling wrote,“She has a lovely behind, this girl, and I don’t mind tailing her. But Steve, I think she’s clean. I think I’m wasting my time.”
Carella was inclined to agree, but he decided to maintain the surveillance for at least a few more days.
But now, considering the seeming innocence of this girl, considering the fact that she and “John Smith” really did seem to be in love with each other, it occurred to him that the man might possibly have been telling her the truth. In fact, Carella could find no really good reason for assuming the man had lied. And, in thinking about the situation, Carella realized that he had fallen into the trap of accepting the nearest and easiest conclusion without bothering to search for the more elusive but perhaps more rewarding answer. And, as frequently happened in such cases, thereal truth was as close to hand as was theapparent truth. In this case, it was even closer.
John Smith was an obvious alias.
That was the apparent truth.
The girl Lotte Constantine had told Carella that John Smith was retired, and living on his social security checks. Carella pulled the Isola telephone directory to him and looked up “UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT” and, under that, “SOCIAL SECURITY ADMIN.” The small type advised Carella to “See US Govt Health Educ&Welfare Dept of,” so he looked up “HEALTH EDUC & WELFARE DEPT OF” on the same page but slightly to the left, under that he found:
Social Security Admin—
Bur of Old Age & Survivors Ins—
For Info Call The Office Nearest Your
Home—
Isola Dist Offices—
And beneath that were four listings for offices in Isola, none of which were near his home (which happened to be in Riverhead) but one of which was fairly close to the squadroom of the 87th Precinct, from whence he was making the phone call. Carella asked Murchison for an outside line, and he dialed the number. He identified himself, told the switchboard operator what information he was seeking, and was promptly connected to a woman with a kindly voice who said her name was Mary Goodery. Carella could not have invented a better name to have gone with that gentle voice. He told Mary Goodery what he wanted, and Mary Goodery asked him to wait.
When she came back onto the line, she said, “Yes, indeed, we do have records for a Mr. John Smith.”
“You do?” Carella said, amazed because he was certain the thing could not be as simple as all that.
“Yes, sir, we do.”
“This John Smith is how old, please?”
“Just one moment, sir,” Mary Goodery said, and she studied her record card, and then her voice came back to the telephone, “Sixty-six in March. He has been receiving Federal social security benefits for more than a year now.”
“Would you know if he was also working? I mean, in addition to receiving his checks?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. You understand, don’t you, that anyone who earns more than one hundred dollars a month—that’s twelve hundred dollars for the year—is automatically disqualified for social security benefits?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yes,” Miss Goodery said.
“I see. But you wouldn’t know whether or not he was holding down a job which paid him less than a hundred a month, would you?”
“I have no record of that, sir, no.”
“Thank you, Miss Goodery.”
“Not at all,” she said, and she hung up.
Carella put the receiver back into the cradle and sat staring reflectively through the open window.
“Oh, my God!” he said suddenly, and he pulled the phone to him, got an outside line, and dialed rapidly.
“Social Security Administration,” a voice said.
“Would you get me Miss Goodery, please?” Carella said.
“Just a moment, sir.”
Carella waited, wondering how he’d ever got to be a detective, wondering how it happened that aklutz like him could manage to stay alive in a job which sometimes required quick thinking, wondering how…
“Miss Goodery,” that good woman said.
“This is Detective Carella again,” he admitted. “I forgot to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Do you—do you have an address listed for John Smith?” Carella said, and he winced at his own stupidity.
“An address? Why, yes, I’m sure we do. If you’ll just wait while I get his folder again.”
“Certainly,” Carella said, and he leaned back to wait.
In a few moments, Mary Goodery came back with the address for an apartment building on Franklin Street.
FANNY GOT HER IDEAthat afternoon at lunch, and she moved on it as soon as she had discussed it with Teddy. “Discussed” is perhaps the wrong word. For, whereas Teddy was perfectly capable of having a discussion, the conversation which took place at the kitchen table that afternoon was not a discussion but a monologue.
The twins had already been fed and put in for their nap. Fanny had made a batch of scrambled eggs and onions for herself and Teddy, and the two women sat at the kitchen table now, eating in silence, the strong aroma of onions and eggs and hot coffee filling the large kitchen. Both women wore slacks, Teddy’s form-fitting and trim over a youthful body, Fanny’s form-fitting over a body which was thick and solid and which had served its mistress well for more than fifty years. Teddy was shoveling a forkful of eggs into her mouth when Fanny said, out of the blue, “Why would they first strip the uniform off him and then throw it into an incinerator?”