Give the Boys a Great Big Hand Read online

  “She did?”

  “Yes. Are you going to call her?”

  “Well, I don’t know. We’ve got to wrap up this case first.”

  “Oh, sure,” Taffy agreed. “She’s a nice girl. Very sweet.”

  “Yes, she seemed nice,” Hawes said. He felt very uncomfortable all at once.

  “Do you work nights?” Taffy asked.

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “Well, when you’re off, why don’t you stop by for a cup of coffee?”

  “All right, maybe I will.”

  “Good,” Taffy said, and she grinned.

  Carella came back into the room. “I just called Androvich’s apartment,” he said. “Thought he might be able to tell us whether or not Barbara was keeping another place.”

  “Any luck?”

  “He shipped out this morning,” Carella said. “For Japan.”

  There is a certain look that all big cities take on as 5:00 claims the day. It is a look reserved exclusively for big cities. If you were raised in a small town or a hamlet, you have never seen the look. If you were raised in one of those places that pretend to be huge metropolitan centers but that are in reality only overgrown small towns, you have only seen an imitation of the 5:00 big city look.

  The city is a woman, you understand. It could be nothing but a woman. A small town can be the girl next door or an old man creaking in a rocker or a gangly teenager growing out of his dungarees, but the city could be none of these things, the city is and can only be a woman. And, like a woman, the city generates love and hate, respect and disesteem, passion and indifference. She is always the same city, always the same woman, but oh the faces she wears, oh the magic guile of this strutting bitch. And if you were born in one of her buildings, and if you know her streets and know her moods, then you love her. Your loving her is not a thing you can control. She has been with you from the start, from the first breath of air you sucked into your lungs, the air mixing cherry blossoms with carbon monoxide, the air of cheap perfume and fresh spring rain, the something in the city air that comes from nothing you can visualize or imagine, the feel of city air, the feel of life that you take into your lungs and into your body, this is the city.

  And the city is a maze of sidewalks upon which you learned to walk, cracked concrete and sticky asphalt and cobblestones, a hundred thousand corners to turn, a hundred million surprises around each and every one of those corners. This is the city, she grins, she beckons, she cries, her streets are clean sometimes, and sometimes they rustle with fleeing newspapers that rush along the curbstones in time to the beat of her heart. You look at her, and there are so many things to see, so many things to take into your mind and store there, so many things to remember, a myriad things to pile into a memory treasure chest, and you are in love with everything you see, the city can do no wrong, she is your lady love, and she is yours. You remember every subtle mood that crosses her face, you memorize her eyes, now startled, now tender, now weeping; you memorize her mouth in laughter, her windblown hair, the pulse in her throat. This is no casual love affair. She is as much a part of you as your fingerprints.

  You are hooked.

  You are hooked because she can change her face, this woman, and change her body, and all that was warm and tender can suddenly become cold and heartless—and still you are in love. You will be in love with her forever, no matter how she dresses, no matter how they change her, no matter who claims her, she is the same city you saw with the innocent eyes of youth, and she is yours.

  And at 5:00, she puts on a different look and you love this look, too; you love everything about her, her rages, her sultry petulance, everything; this is total love that seeks no excuses and no reasons. At 5:00, her empty streets are suddenly alive with life. She has been puttering in a dusty drawing room all day long, this woman, this city, and now it is 5:00 and suddenly she emerges and you are waiting for her, waiting to clutch her in your arms. There is a jauntiness in her step, and yet it veils a weariness, and together they combine to form an image of past and present merged with a future promise. Dusk sits on the skyline, gently touching the saber-edged buildings. Starlight is waiting to bathe her streets in silver. The lights of the city, incandescent and fluorescent and neon, are waiting to bracelet her arms and necklace her throat, to hang her with a million gaudy trappings that she does not need. You listen to the hurried purposeful click of her high-heeled pumps and somewhere in the distance there is the growl of a tenor saxophone, far in the distance because this is still 5:00 and the music will not really begin until later, the growl is still deep in the throat. For now, for the moment, there are the cocktail glasses and the muted hum of conversation, the chatter, the light laughter that floats on the air like the sound of shattering glass. And you sit with her, and you watch her eyes, meaningful and deep, and you question her every word, you want to know who she is and what she is, but you will never know. You will love this woman until the day you die, and you will never know her, never come even close to knowing her. Your love is a rare thing bordering on patriotic fervor. For in this city, in this woman, in this big brawling wonderful glittering tender heartless gentle cruel dame of a lady, there is the roar of a nation. If you were born and raised in the city, you cannot think of your country as anything but a giant metropolis. There are no small towns in your nation, there are no waving fields of grain, no mountains, no lakes, no seashores. For you, there is only the city, and she is yours, and love is blind.

  Two men in love with the city, Detective Carella and Detective Hawes, joined the throng that rushed along her pavements at 5:00 that afternoon. They did not speak to each other for they were rivals for the same hand, and honorable men do not discuss the woman they both love. They walked into the lobby of the Creo Building and they took the elevator up to the eighteenth floor, and they walked down the deserted corridor to the end of the hall, and then they entered the office of Charles Tudor.

  There was no one in the waiting room.

  Tudor was locking the door to his inner office as they came in. He turned, still stooping over, the key in the keyhole. He nodded in recognition, finished locking the door, put the keys into his pocket, walked to them with an extended hand, and said, “Gentlemen. Any news?”

  Carella took the proffered hand. “Afraid not, Mr. Tudor,” he answered. “But we’d like to ask you a few more questions.”

  “Certainly,” Tudor said. “You don’t mind if we sit here in the waiting room, do you? I’ve already locked up my private office.”

  “This’ll be fine,” Carella said.

  They sat on the long couch against the wall covered with strippers.

  “You said you were in love with Bubbles Caesar, Mr. Tudor,” Carella said. “Did you know that she was seeing at least one other man for certain, and possibly two other men?”

  “Barbara?” Tudor asked.

  “Yes. Did you know that?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Did you see her very often, Mr. Tudor? We’re not referring to your business relationship right now.”

  “Yes. I saw her quite often.”

  “How often?”

  “Well, as often as I could.”

  “Once a week? Twice a week? More than that? How often, Mr. Tudor?”

  “I suppose, on the average, I saw her three or four times a week.”

  “And what did you do when you saw her, Mr. Tudor?”

  “Oh, various things.” Tudor gave a small shrug of puzzlement. “What do people do when they go out? Dinner, dancing, the theater, a motion picture, a drive in the country. All those things. Whatever we felt like doing.”

  “Did you go to bed with her, Mr. Tudor?”

  “That is my business,” Tudor said flatly. “And Barbara’s.”

  “It might be ours, too, Mr. Tudor. Oh, I know, it’s a hell of a thing to ask, very personal. We don’t like to ask, Mr. Tudor. There are a lot of things we don’t like to ask, but unfortunately we have to ask those things, whether we like to or not. I’m sure
you can understand.”

  “No, I’m afraid I cannot,” Tudor said with finality.

  “Very well, we’ll assume you were intimate with her.”

  “You may assume whatever you wish,” Tudor said.

  “Where do you live, Mr. Tudor?”

  “On Blakely Street.”

  “Downtown? In The Quarter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Near Barbara’s apartment?”

  “Fairly close to it, yes.”

  “Did you ever go to Barbara’s apartment?”

  “No.”

  “You never picked her up there?”

  “No.”

  “But you were seeing her?”

  “Yes, of course I was seeing her.”

  “And yet you never went to her apartment. Isn’t that a little odd?”

  “Is it? I despise the housing facilities of most working girls, Detective Carella. When I call on a young lady, I find the curiosity of her roommates unbearable. And so, whenever a young lady shares an apartment with someone else, I prefer to meet her away from the apartment. That is the arrangement I had with Barbara.”

  “And apparently an arrangement she preferred. The girls she lived with tell us no man ever came to that apartment to pick her up or take her home. What do you think of that, Mr. Tudor?”

  Tudor shrugged. “I am certainly not responsible for Barbara’s idiosyncrasies.”

  “Certainly not. Did Barbara ever come to your apartment?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I live with my father,” Tudor said. “He’s a very old man. Practically…well, he’s very sick. I’m not sure he would have understood Barbara. Or approved of her. And so he never met her.”

  “You kept her away from your apartment. Is that right?”

  “That is correct.”

  “I see.” Carella thought for a moment. He looked at Hawes.

  “Where’d you neck, Mr. Tudor?” Hawes asked. “In the backseat of an automobile?”

  “That is none of your business,” Tudor said.

  “Would you know whether or not Barbara had another apartment?” Hawes asked. “Besides the one she shared with the two girls?”

  “If she had one, I never saw it,” Tudor said.

  “You’re not married, of course,” Carella said.

  “No, I’m not married.”

  “Ever married, Mr. Tudor?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the status now? Separated? Divorced?”

  “Divorced. For a long time now, Detective Carella. At least fifteen years.”

  “What’s your ex-wife’s name?”

  “Toni Traver. She’s an actress. Rather a good one, too.”

  “She in this city?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. I was divorced from her fifteen years ago. I ran into her in Philadelphia once about eight years ago. I haven’t seen her since. Nor do I care to.”

  “You paying her alimony, Mr. Tudor?”

  “She didn’t want any. She has money of her own.”

  “Does she know about you and Barbara?”

  “I don’t know. She couldn’t care less, believe me.”

  “Mmmm,” Carella said. “And you didn’t know about these two other guys Barbara was seeing, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But surely, if she was seeing them, and if you called for a date or something, she must have said she was busy on that night, no? Didn’t you ever ask how come? Didn’t you want to know why she was busy?”

  “I am not a possessive man,” Tudor said.

  “But you loved her.”

  “Yes. I loved her, and I still love her.”

  “Well, how do you feel about it now? Now that you know she was dating two other man, maybe sleeping with both of them, how do you feel about it?”

  “I…naturally, I’m not pleased.”

  “No, I didn’t think you would be. Did you ever meet a man named Karl Androvich, Mr. Tudor?”

  “No.”

  “How about a man named Mike Chirapadano?”

  “No.”

  “Ever go to The King and Queen?”

  “Yes, of course. I sometimes picked Barbara up at the club.”

  “Mike was a drummer in the band there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” Carella paused. “He seems to have vanished, Mr. Tudor.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. At the same time that Barbara did. What do you think of that?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Think they ran off together?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Do you have a black raincoat and umbrella, Mr. Tudor?”

  “No, I don’t. A what? A black raincoat, did you say?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  “No, I don’t have one.”

  “But you do have a raincoat?”

  “Yes. A trench coat. It’s gray. Or beige. You know, a neutral sort of—”

  “And the umbrella? Is it a man’s umbrella?”

  “I don’t have an umbrella. I detest umbrellas.”

  “Never carry one, right?”

  “Never.”

  “And you don’t know of any other apartment Barbara might have kept, right?”

  “I don’t know of any, no.”

  “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Tudor,” Carella said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Not at all,” Tudor answered.

  Outside in the hallway, Carella said, “He smells, Cotton. Wait for him downstairs and tail him, will you? I’ll be back at the squadroom. I want to check on his ex-wife, see if I can get a line on her.”

  “What are you thinking of? Jealousy?”

  “Who knows? But some torches have been known to burn for more than fifteen years. Why not hers?”

  “The way he put it—”

  “Sure, but every word he spoke could have been a lie.”

  “True.”

  “Tail him. Get back to me. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  “Where do you expect him to lead me?”

  “I don’t know, Cotton.”

  Carella went back to the squadroom. He learned that Toni Traver was a fairly good character actress and that she was at the moment working in a stock playhouse in Sarasota, Florida. Carella talked to her agent who told him that Miss Traver was not accepting alimony from her ex-husband. In fact, the agent said, he and Miss Traver had wedding plans of their own. Carella thanked him and hung up.

  At 8:00 P.M. that night, Cotton Hawes called in to report that Tudor had shaken the tail at 7:30.

  “I’m sorry as hell,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Carella answered.

  The clothes turned up the next morning.

  They were wrapped in a copy of the New York Times. A patrolman in Calm’s Point found them in a trash basket. His local precinct called Headquarters because there was a bloodstain on the black raincoat, and Headquarters promptly called the 87th. The clothes were sent to the lab where Grossman inspected them thoroughly.

  Besides the raincoat, there was a black flannel suit, a pair of black lisle socks, and a black umbrella.

  An examination of the clothing turned up some rather contradictory facts, and all of these were passed on to Carella who studied them and then scratched his head in puzzlement.

  To begin with, the bloodstain on the raincoat belonged to the “O” group, which seemed to tie it in with the hands, and to further tie in with Mike Chirapadano whose service record had listed him as belonging to that blood group. But a careful examination of the black suit had turned up a subsequent small bloodstain on the sleeve. And this bloodstain belonged to the “B” group. That was the first contradiction.

  The second contradiction seemed puzzling all over again. It had to do with three other stains that were found on the black suit. The first of these was of a hair preparation, found on the inside of the collar where the collar apparently brushed against the nape of t
he neck. The stain was identified as coming from a tonic called Strike. It was allegedly designed for men who had oily scalps and who did not wish to compound the affliction by using an oily hair tonic.

  But side by side with this stain was the second stain, and it had been caused by a preparation known as Dram, which was a hair tonic designed to fight dandruff and dry, flaky scalps. It seemed odd that these two scalp conditions could exist in one and the same man. It seemed contradictory that a person with a dry, flaky scalp would also be a person with an oily scalp. Somehow, the two hair preparations did not seem very compatible.

  The third stain on the suit jacket was identified as coming from the selfsame Skinglow cosmetic that had been found in the corner of the airline’s bag, and this led to some confusion as to whether a man or a woman had worn the damn suit. Carella concluded that a man had worn it, but that he had embraced a woman wearing Skinglow. This accounted for that stain, but not for the hair tonic stains, which were still puzzling and contradictory.

  But there were more contradictions. The human hairs that clung to the fiber of the suit, for example. Some were brown and thin. Others were black and thick and short. And still others were black and thin and very long. The very long black ones presumably were left on the suit by the dame who’d worn the Skinglow. That embrace was shaping up as a very passionate one. But the thin brown hairs? And the thick black short ones? Puzzlement upon puzzlement.

  About one thing, there was no confusion. There was a label inside the suit jacket, and the label clearly read: Urban-Suburban Clothes.

  Carella looked up the name in the telephone directory, came up with a winner, clipped on his holster, and left the squadroom.

  Cotton Hawes was somewhere in the city glued to Charles Tudor, whose trail he had picked up again early in the morning.

  Urban-Suburban Clothes was one of those tiny shops that are sandwiched in between two larger shops and that would be missed entirely were it not for the colorful array of offbeat clothes in the narrow window. Carella opened the door and found himself in a long narrow cubicle that had been designed as a coffin for one man and that now held twelve men, all of whom were pawing through ties and feeling the material of sports coats and holding Italian sports shirts up against their chests. He felt an immediate attack of claustrophobia, which he controlled, and then he began trying to determine which of the twelve men in the shop was the owner. It occurred to him that thirteen was an unlucky number, and he debated leaving. He was carrying the bundle of clothes wrapped in brown paper and the bundle was rather bulky and this did not ease the crowded atmosphere of the shop at all. He squeezed past two men who were passing out cold over the offorange tint of a sports shirt that had no buttons.