‘Mrs Barter,’ Fred said. ‘Pretty woman.’
‘How could you tell?’ I said.
‘That she’s pretty? Hell...’
‘No. That she was Mrs Barter. All I saw was legs.’
Fred shrugged. ‘Who else would be in Mike Barter’s apartment?’
‘That’s praiseworthy logic.’ I said.
‘Look,’ Fred said, ‘if you had a wife who looked like Mike’s wife does, there wouldn’t be nobody else in that room. You don’t have to be a big city cop to figure that one.’
‘Never having met Mrs Barter—’
‘Take my word for it,’ Fred said emphatically, closing the conversation. He paused a moment, and then re-opened it with remarkable versatility. ‘Take my word for it.’ he said.
We waited.
There was an air of unreality about the room. Early morning is an intimate time of day. You don’t stand around with strangers at 5.15 a.m. You talk with friends who’ve come to pick you up for a fishing trip. You smoke a cigarette with your wife in a warm bed with rumpled sheets and you watch the dawn come up. You share a cup of coffee while the kids fidget at the kitchen table waiting to start on the long-promised vacation. You stand in a doorway, and you kiss your girl good morning after the senior prom. Or you meet the fellows in the local all-night hamburger joint, and you talk about last night’s escapades, and you laugh a little, and you share the morning with them because they are your friends. Early morning was never intended for strangers. You do not start a new day with a stranger.
I was starting a new day with a stranger.
He leaned against Mike Barter’s desk, and he idly tweaked his nose. Then he stared at his thumb and forefinger. The he said, ‘There’s oil on the nose, did you know that? You can put a nice polish on a pipe by first rubbing your nose flaps and then rubbing the briar. Lots of people don’t know that.’
I was tired. I hadn’t slept since seven-thirty yesterday morning. I didn’t want to hear about nose flaps from a state trooper named Fred. I didn’t smoke a pipe. I wouldn’t have cared if my own nose contained enough oil to warrant a derrick which would bring me four million dollars a year. There was only one person I wanted to be with, only one person whose hand I wanted to take when the sun came up. I didn’t know where that person was.
Someone in the back rooms dropped the record player arm. Music invaded the cabin again. The arm was lifted and then dropped in its proper groove at the beginning of the record. There were a few whispered syllables, the intimate conversation of needle and groove before the waxed impressions were captured. And then the record started. Frank Sinatra. At 5.15 a.m. At least there was one old friend in the room.
‘He don’t sing so hot,’ Fred said.
‘I like him.’ I was beginning to feel the kind of tension that comes with no sleep and too much pressure. If Fred had said another word about the merits of my old friend Frank Sinatra’s voice, I would have punched him right in the nose. At the moment, Sinatra seemed like the only sane thing in the world, the only sure thing I could count on. I waited for Fred to say more. I unconsciously clenched my right fist.
‘I like Country-Western,’ he said.
‘What do you suppose is keeping Barter?’ I asked.
‘Wiping his face,’ Fred said. ‘Yep, Country-Western.’
‘What takes a man so damn long to wipe off a little shaving cream?’
‘You’re jumpy,’ Fred said. ‘You got to learn to take life in stride.’
The door opened. The legs flashed into view again, and then the closing door screened them. They were good legs. Barter smiled.
‘You like Country-Western?’ Fred asked him.
‘Sure do,’ Barter said. He had wiped the shaving cream from his face. There was a streak of clean skin across the beard stubble, the area he’d shaved before we arrived. It looked like a wide white scar. ‘You fellows care for a cup of coffee?’ Barter asked.
‘No,’ I said quickly.
‘I might go for a cup of coffee,’ Fred said.
‘No damn coffee,’ I said. ‘Let’s get over to that cabin.’
‘He’s jumpy,’ Fred said.
‘Can’t blame him,’ Barter answered. ‘Been up,all night. I’m a little jumpy myself.’
‘Well, might as well see that blood,’ Fred said. ‘We can always have the coffee later.’
‘Let’s go, let’s go,’ I said impatiently.
‘Got to get the keys,’ Barter said. He went to a peg on the wall and took down the ring of keys. ‘Okay.’
He went out of the office. Sinatra was still singing. Occasion ally, a woman’s voice picked up snatches of the song and then let it die in a hum. The voice was low and throaty. If it belonged to the legs, they made a lethal combination. The sun was climbing. The lake was still and serene. I was the last man on earth, and I was walking across a beautiful stage-set with professional actors who knew their parts while I had forgotten all my lines.
Barter climbed the steps to eleven and inserted the key in the lock. I looked at Fred. Fred grinned at me. Barter threw open the door.
‘Right in here,’ he said.
Almost before he entered the cabin, Fred said, ‘I don’t see no blood.’
‘In the closet,’ I said.
‘Where’s that?’
‘Over here,’ Barter said. He threw open the closet door. Fred walked over to it. I waited.
‘No blood in here,’ Fred said.
‘What do you—?’
‘Take a look for yourself.’
I went to the closet. There was a square of linoleum tacked to the floor, tacked securely to the floor, tacked to fit exactly the floor of the closet. The closet smelled of soap.
‘Rip up the linoleum,’ I said.
‘What for?’
‘You’ll find a scrubbed floor. But you can’t scrub all the blood out of wood. Rip up the linoleum.’
‘You know I can’t do that,’ Fred said. ‘How can I destroy another man’s property? For Pete’s sake, you’re a cop. You know I can’t—’
‘I’m a cop, and I know what you can do and what you can’t do, and I also know it doesn’t make any difference when you really want to do something. I’m telling you there’s blood under that linoleum. You going to rip it up, or do I have to go over your head?’
‘Over my head how?’ Fred asked.
‘Other cops. Goddamnit, there are other cops in this state! I’ll o to your crusading D.A., or even to your State’s Attorney! Now ow about it?’
‘No.’ Fred said.
‘Okay, pal,’ I said. ‘Let’s end this farce right now.’ I started out of the cabin. Fred stepped into my path.
‘Which farce are you talking about?’
‘My missing girl, and this blood, and the runaround I’ve been getting from every damn tinhorn I’ve contacted. What the hell are you running here? A little dictatorship? Okay. We’ll see how the D.A. feels about kidnap and possible homicide. We’ll see how he—’
‘Lower your voice,’ Fred said.
‘Don’t tell me what to do, pal. I’ll talk as—’
‘I’ll tell you once more. Lower your voice.’
‘And I’ll tell you once more. I’ll—’
Fred grabbed my arm. ‘You’d better come along with me,’ he said.
‘What!’
‘Disorderly conduct. Disturbing the peace.’
‘What!’ I said again. I shook his hand off my arm, and I took a step backward, balling my fists.
‘If you want to add assault to it, start swinging,’ Fred said.
I was ready to do just that when he yanked the .38 Police Special from the holster at his side.
‘That’s a good boy,’ he said, and he grinnned, and Barter winked at him.