Ten Plus One Read online

  “You call yourself a cop?” he shouted. “What kind of a cop…?”

  “I didn’t think to look, okay?” Kling said patiently. “She said it was for you, so…”

  “I thought you’d been assigned to this case.”

  “That’s right,” Kling said patiently.

  “Then why didn’t…?”

  “How the hell was I supposed to know what was in that folder?”

  “She gave it to you, didn’t she?”

  “She said it was for you.”

  “So you didn’t even look to see what…”

  “I felt inside it,” Kling said. “When she first came up.”

  “You what?”

  “I felt inside it.”

  “You felt? Did you say ‘felt’?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “To see if she was carrying a gun.”

  “Who?”

  “Cynthia Forrest.”

  “Carrying a what?”

  “A gun.”

  “Cynthia Forrest?”

  “Yes.”

  “What could have possibly given you the idea that Cynthia Forrest…?”

  “Because she came up here asking for you, and when I told her you weren’t here, she said she’d wait and then began coming through that gate. And I remembered what happened with Virginia Dodge that time, and I figured maybe this one wanted to put a hole in your head, too. That’s why. Okay?”

  “Oh, boy,” Carella said.

  “So I felt in the folder, and I looked in her purse, and when I saw she wasn’t heeled, I just took the folder and dumped it on your desk, after I had an argument with her.”

  “Without looking inside it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh, boy,” Carella said.

  “Look, I know I’m just a stupid amateur when it comes to the mastermind…”

  “Cut it out,” Carella said.

  “…of the squad, but I’m new on this case, and I don’t know who half these people are, and I’m not in the habit of opening something that was specifically…”

  “Go get him a crying towel, will you, Meyer?”

  “…left for someone else. Now, if you want to make a big federal case out of this…”

  “A man was killed last night!” Carella shouted.

  “I know that, Steve,” Kling said. “But there are a lot of other names on that college program. And while we’re arguing here about what I did or didn’t do, our man might be out taking a potshot at another one of them.” Kling paused. “You want to argue, or shall we hit the phone book and try to locate some of the others?”

  “For your information, Junior G-man, Meyer and I got to the squadroom at seven o’clock this morning, after spending all night with the family of Rudy Fenstermacher, who was killed last night because…”

  “Steve, get off my back,” Kling said. “I’m not responsible for what happened last night!”

  “Maybe you’re not!” Carella shouted.

  “No maybes!”

  “Okay! I’m trying to tell you we began checking out the names on that program the minute I found it on my desk. There were eleven people in that play, and six of them are already dead. Of the remaining five, we’ve been able to trace only two of the men. The third man isn’t listed in the phone book, and the women are probably married, with new names. We’ve already contacted the university, and they’re going to call back if they have any luck. In the meantime, we’ve called both of the men whose whereabouts are known, and they’re expecting our visit. Now, do you think if I gave you a name and address you could find your way to the right house and manage to ask the man some questions about…?”

  “Listen, Steve,” Kling said, “you’re beginning to burn me up, you know that?”

  “The man’s name is Thomas Di Pasquale. He played Fat Joe in the O’Neill play. His address is 409 Servatius, right here in Isola. He’s expecting you.”

  “What do you want to know from him?” Kling asked.

  “I want to know just what happened back in 1940.”

  Thomas Di Pasquale lived in a luxurious apartment building on the city’s South Side. When Kling rang his doorbell that morning, he shouted, “Come in, come in, it’s open,” and Kling tried the knob and opened the door onto a wide, thickly carpeted entrance foyer, beyond which was a sunken living room, and a man on a telephone.

  The man who had played Fat Joe in a college production years ago was now tall and slim, and somewhat over forty years old. He was wearing a silk dressing gown and had the telephone to his ear as Kling entered the apartment and closed the door and stood waiting in the foyer. Without looking in Kling’s direction, and without stopping his telephone conversation, Di Pasquale gestured to an easy chair opposite him, lit a cigarette, paused for a moment to allow whoever was on the other end to say something, and then said, “Hold it, Harry, hold it right there. That’s where we stop doing business. There’s nothing more to talk about.”

  Kling took the seat opposite Di Pasquale, and pretended not to be listening to the conversation.

  “No, Harry, but when you start talking in terms of forty G’s for someone of this guy’s standing and reputation, we got nothing further to say. So if you don’t mind, Harry, I’m very busy, and I’m late for the office now, so…”

  Kling lit a cigarette while Di Pasquale listened for a few seconds. “Yeah, well, then, let me hear you really talking, Harry. Who? That’s a screenwriter by you? That’s a French fag by me. He can’t even speak English, you expect him to do a screenplay about the West? For Chrissake, Harry, make sense.”

  He covered the mouthpiece, looked up at Kling, said, “Hi, there’s some coffee in the kitchen, if you want some,” and then immediately said into the phone, “What do I care if he won the French Academy Award? You know what you can do with the French Academy Award, don’t you? Look, Harry, I’m not interested in who you can get for forty G’s. If you want to hire a French fag to write a screenplay about the West, then go right ahead. And good luck to you.” Di Pasquale paused. “What do you mean, how much am I asking? Make me a sensible offer, for Chrissake! Start around, a hundred, and then maybe I’ll listen a little.” He covered the mouthpiece again. “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” he said to Kling.

  “I’ve already had breakfast.”

  “Well, if you want a cup, there’s some in the kitchen. What do you mean, he never got a hundred in his life? He got a hundred and a quarter from Metro the last time out, and the time before that he got a hundred and five from Fox! Now, you want to talk, Harry, or you want to waste my time? Well, what is it? Who? Harry, what do I care about Clifford Odets? I don’t represent Clifford Odets, and anyway, can Clifford Odets write a Western? Well, then, fine. If Clifford Odets can write anything, then you just go get Clifford Odets. Yeah, and see what he costs you! What? No. No, we’re starting at a hundred thousand, that’s where we start to talk. Well, you think about it, Harry, and give me a ring back. I’ll be leaving for the office in a little while. Please, Harry, don’t start with the old song and dance again. I don’t care if you’re gonna have Liz Taylor in the picture, which you’re not anyway. Stick Liz Taylor in front of the camera without lines to say, and see how long she can ad-lib, go ahead. Will you call me back? What? How much? Seventy-five? Don’t be ridiculous. If I even called him up and told him seventy-five, you know what he’d do? He’d go right over to William Morris tomorrow. That’s the truth. I wouldn’t insult him. Well, you think about it, I’ve got company. What? Yeah, yeah, six naked blondes, what do you think? We know how to live here in the East. Call me back, baby, huh? I wouldn’t steer you wrong, believe me, baby, have I ever sold you a lox? This guy writes like a dream, you could shoot the movie right off the paper it’s written on, you don’t even need actors, huh, baby? Good, good, I’ll hear from you, fine, goodbye, baby, yeah, at the office, so long, sure, baby, think about it, right, goodbye now, yeah, nice talking to you, so long, baby.”

  He h
ung up and turned to Kling.

  “Big jerk, he never made a good movie in his life. You want some coffee?”

  “Thanks, I’ve had breakfast.”

  “So have a cup of coffee, it’ll kill you?”

  Di Pasquale turned and walked toward the kitchen. Over his shoulder he said, “What’s your name?”

  “Detective Kling,” Kling yelled after him.

  “You’re a little young to be a detective, ain’t you?”

  “No, there are men my age who’ve…”

  “Where’d you get that tan?” Di Pasquale shouted from the kitchen.

  “I was on vacation. Just got back to work yesterday.”

  “Looks terrific on you, kid. Blond guys look great with tans. Me, I turn red like a lobster. You take cream and sugar?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, I’ll bring the works out. Seventy-five grand, he offers. I wasn’t kidding him. I call the writer with an offer like that, he’ll tell me to go straight to hell.” Di Pasquale came back into the living room carrying a tray with the coffeepot, the cups, and the cream and sugar. He put the tray down and said, “You wouldn’t prefer a drink, would you? No, too early in the morning, huh? What the hell time is it, anyway?”

  “It’s nine-thirty, Mr. Di Pasquale.”

  “Yeah. You know what time that guy called me? The guy working with you?”

  “Carella?”

  “Yeah, him. He called me at seven-thirty, the middle of the night! I woke up, it was so dark I thought I went blind.” Di Pasquale laughed and poured from the coffeepot. “So what’s up, kid?”

  “Mr. Di Pasquale, were you in a play called The Long Voyage Home in 1940 at Ramsey University in this city?”

  “Whaaaat?” Di Pasquale said.

  “Were you in a play…?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard you, but my God, where did you find that out? That was before the beginning of time, almost. That was when dinosaurs were still roaming the earth.”

  “Were you in that play, Mr. Di Pasquale?”

  “Sure I was. I played Fat Joe, the bartender. I did a pretty good job, too. I wanted to be an actor then, but I was too fat, you see? When I got out of college, I used to go around making my calls, and all the casting directors told me I was too fat. So I went on a crash diet, look at me now, a ninety-seven-pound weakling, people kick sand in my face. But the funny part was, once I slimmed down, I didn’t want to be an actor anymore. So what am I now? An agent! And I do more acting on that telephone every day of the week than I did all the while I was a professional actor. So what about the play, kid, drink your coffee.”

  “Do you remember any of the other people who were in that play, Mr. Di Pasquale?”

  “Only one, this broad named Helen Struthers. Boy, boy, boy, boy, was she something! Beautiful girl, beautiful. I wonder if she ever made it.”

  “Do you remember a man named Anthony Forrest?”

  “No.”

  “Randolph Norden?”

  “Randolph Norden…yeah, yeah, wait a minute, he played the Swede, yeah, I remember him.”

  “Mr. Di Pasquale, do you read the newspapers?”

  “Sure, I do. Variety, Hollywood Reporter…”

  “Any of the dailies?”

  “Hollywood Reporter is a daily,” Di Pasquale said.

  “I meant outside of the trade papers.”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Mr. Di Pasquale, have you read any of the newspaper coverage on the sniper who’s killed six people to date?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you know that Randolph Norden was…?”

  “Oh, my God, Randolph Norden!” Di Pasquale said, and he slapped his forehead. “Holy Jesus, how come it didn’t ring a bell? Of course! Of course, for God’s sake! He was killed by this nut, wasn’t he? So that’s why you’re here. What happened? Who did it?”

  “We don’t know yet. I mentioned Randolph Norden only because you said you remembered him. But, Mr. Di Pasquale, there seems to be a pattern to the killings…”

  “Don’t tell me,” Di Pasquale said, and he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

  “What?”

  “He’s after all of us who were in the play.”

  “We think that’s a possibility, sir.”

  “I knew it.”

  “How did you know it, Mr. Di Pasquale?”

  “What else could it be? Kid, I been selling stories to the movies since before you could walk. What else could it be? Some nut has taken it in his head to knock off everybody who was in that crummy play. Naturally. It stands to reason. Did he get Helen Struthers yet? Because that would be a real shame, believe me. This was a beautiful girl. Though who knows, she may have grown up to be a beast, huh? Who knows?”

  “You don’t seem particularly frightened by the idea of…”

  “Frightened? What do you mean?”

  “Well, if he’s killing everyone who was in that play…”

  “Me? You mean me?”

  “You were in the play, Mr. Di Pasquale.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “So, you see…”

  “Nah,” Di Pasquale said. He looked at Kling seriously for a moment, and then asked, “Yeah?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Pssssss,” Di Pasquale said.

  “Do you have any idea who might be doing this, Mr. Di Pasquale?”

  “Have some more coffee.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Who could be doing this, huh? Six, you say, huh? Who? Who were the ones killed?”

  “Anthony Forrest. I believe you said you didn’t know him.”

  “No, it doesn’t register.”

  “Randolph Norden.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Blanche Lettiger.”

  “Blanche Lettiger, no, don’t remember her.”

  “Salvatore Palumbo.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “You know him?”

  “Yeah, little Italian immigrant, hot stuff. He was studying English at night session, you know? So he wandered into a rehearsal one night after his class, and it happened we needed somebody for one of the bit parts, I forget which it was. So this little guy who could barely speak English, he took the part. He’s supposed to be British, you know? It was a hot sketch, him walking in and talking like a cockney with an Italian accent a mile long. Funny guy. He got killed, huh? That’s too bad. He was a nice little man.” Di Pasquale sighed. “Who else?”

  “A man named Andrew Mulligan.”

  “Yeah, I read that. The district attorney. I didn’t realize it was the same guy from the play.”

  “And last night, a man named Rudy Fenstermacher.”

  “That makes five,” Di Pasquale said.

  “No, six,” Kling said.

  “Norden, right?”

  “Yes, and Forrest, and Lettiger…”

  “And the little Italian guy…”

  “Right, that’s four. And Mulligan and Fenstermacher. That’s six.”

  “That’s right, six. You’re right.”

  “Can you tell me a little about the play?”

  “We did it in the round,” Di Pasquale said. “We were all kids, you know how these amateur things are. All of us except the little Italian guy, what was his name?”

  “Palumbo.”

  “Yeah, he must’ve been maybe thirty-five years old. But the rest of us were all kids, and I guess the play stunk. I can hardly remember it, tell you the truth. Except for this Helen Struthers, who played one of the whores, she wore one of these very low-cut peasant blouses. I wonder what ever happened to her.”

  “We’re trying to locate her now. You wouldn’t know whether she got married, would you? Or left the city?”

  “Never saw her before the play, or after it. Oh, yeah, maybe in the halls, you know, between classes, hello, goodbye, like that.”

  “Did you graduate from Ramsey, Mr. Di Pasquale?”

  “Sure. I don’t sound like a college graduate, do I?”

  “You sound fine, sir.
”

  “Look, you don’t have to snow me. I know what I sound like. But the movie business is full of pants pressers. If I sounded like a college graduate, they’d all get nervous. They want me to sound like I work in a tailor shop, too. So that’s the way I sound.” He shrugged. “Listen, I can still quote Chaucer, Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote, but who wants to hear Chaucer in the movie business? You quote Chaucer in a producer’s office, he’ll send for the guys in the white jackets. Yeah, I graduated, class of June 1942.”

  “Were you in the service, Mr. Di Pasquale?”

  “Nope. Punctured eardrum.”

  “Tell me some more about the play.”

  “Like what? It was a little college play. We cast it, we rehearsed it, we performed it, we struck it. End of story.”

  “Who directed it?”

  “The faculty adviser, I forget his na—no, wait a minute. Richardson. Professor Richardson, that was it. Boy, the things you remember, huh? This was more than twenty years ago.” Di Pasquale paused. “You sure somebody’s trying to…?” He shrugged. “You know, twenty years is a long, long time. I mean, like, man, that has to be one hell of a grudge to carry for twenty years.”

  “Was there any trouble during rehearsals, sir, would you remember?”

  “Oh, the usual junk. You know actors. Even the pros are disgusting, all ego and a mile high. Well, amateurs are worse. But I can’t remember any big fight or anything like that. Nothing that would last twenty years.”

  “How about Professor Richardson? Did everyone in the cast get along with him?”

  “Yeah, a harmless guy. Nothing on the ball, but harmless.”

  “Then you can’t remember anything that might have caused this kind of extreme reaction.”

  “Nothing.” Di Pasquale paused reflectively. “You think this guy is really out to get all of us?”

  “We’re going on that assumption, Mr. Di Pasquale.”

  “So where does that leave me? Do I get police protection?”

  “If you want it.”

  “I want it.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  “Pssssss,” Di Pasquale said.

  “There’s just one other thing, Mr. Di Pasquale,” Kling said.