Doll Page 2

  Carella sighed. He had been on duty for close to fifty hours now, and he was tired. He had checked in at eight-forty-five Thursday morning, and been out all that day gathering information for the backlog of cases that had been piling up all through the month of March. He had caught six hours’ sleep on a cot in the locker room that night, and then been called out at seven on Friday morning by the fire department, who suspected arson in a three-alarm blaze they’d answered on the South Side. He had come back to the squadroom at noon to find four telephone messages on his desk. By the time he had returned all the calls — one was from an assistant m.e. who took a full hour to explain the toxicological analysis of a poison they had found in the stomach contents of a beagle, the seventh such dog similarly poisoned in the past week — the clock on the wall read one-thirty. Carella sent down for a pastrami on rye, a container of milk, and a side of French fries. Before the order arrived, he had to leave the squadroom to answer a burglary squeal on North Eleventh. He did not come back until five-thirty, at which time he turned the phone over to a complaining Kling and went down to the locker room to try to sleep again. At eleven o’clock Friday night, the entire squad, working in flying wedges of three detectives to a team, culminated a two-month period of surveillance by raiding twenty-six known numbers banks in the area, a sanitation project that was not finished until five on Saturday morning. At eight-thirty a.m., Carella answered the Sachs squeal and questioned a crying little girl. It was now ten-thirty a.m., and he was tired, and he wanted to go home, and he didn’t want to argue in favor of a man who had become everything the lieutenant said he was, he was just too damn weary. But earlier this morning he had looked down at the body of a woman he had not known at all, had seen her ripped and lacerated flesh, and had felt a pain bordering on nausea. Now — weary, bedraggled, unwilling to argue — he could remember the mutilated beauty of Tinka Sachs, and he felt something of what Bert Kling must have known in that Culver Avenue bookshop not four years ago when he’d held the bullet-torn body of Claire Townsend in his arms.

  ‘Let him work with me,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘On the Sachs case. I’ve been teaming with Meyer lately. Give me Bert instead.’

  ‘What’s the matter, don’t you like Meyer?’

  ‘I love Meyer, I’m tired, I want to go home to bed, will you please let me have Bert on this case?’

  ‘What’ll that accomplish?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t approve of shock therapy,’ Byrnes said. ‘This Sachs woman was brutally murdered. All you’ll do is remind Bert—’

  ‘Therapy, my ass,’ Carella said. ‘I want to be with him, I want to talk to him, I want to let him know he’s still got some people on this goddamn squad who think he’s a decent human being worth saving. Now, Pete, I really am very very tired and I don’t want to argue this any further, I mean it. If you want to send Bert to another squad, that’s your business, you’re the boss here, I’m not going to argue with you, that’s all. I mean it. Now just make up your mind, okay?’

  Take him,’ Byrnes said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Carella answered. He went to the door. ‘Good night,’ he said, and walked out.

  Chapter 2

  Sometimes a case starts like sevens coming out.

  The Sachs case started just that way on Monday morning when Steve Carella and Bert Kling arrived at the apartment building on Stafford Place to question the elevator operator.

  The elevator operator was close to seventy years old, but he was still in remarkable good health, standing straight and tall, almost as tall as Carella and of the same general build. He had only one eye, however — he was called Cyclops by the superintendent of the building and by just about everyone else he knew — and it was this single fact that seemed to make him a somewhat less than reliable witness. He had lost his eye, he explained, in World War I. It had been bayoneted out of his head by an advancing German in the Ardennes Forest. Cyclops — who up to that time had been called Ernest — had backed away from the blade before it had a chance to pass completely through his eye and into his brain, and then had carefully and passionlessly shot the German three times in the chest, killing him. He did not realize his eye was gone until he got back to the aid station. Until then, he thought the bayonet had only gashed his brow and caused a flow of blood that made it difficult to see. He was proud of his missing eye, and proud of the nickname Cyclops. Cyclops had been a giant, and although Ernest Messner was only six feet tall, he had lost his eye for democracy, which is as good a cause as any for which to lose an eye. He was also very proud of his remaining eye, which he claimed was capable of twenty/twenty vision. His remaining eye was a clear penetrating blue, as sharp as the mind lurking somewhere behind it. He listened intelligently to everything the two detectives asked him, and then he said, ‘Sure, I took him up myself.’

  ‘You took a man up to Mrs Sachs’s apartment Friday night?’ Carella asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  Cyclops thought for a moment. He wore a black patch over his empty socket, and he might have looked a little like an aging Hathaway Shirt man in an elevator uniform, except that he was bald. ‘Must have been nine or nine-thirty, around then.’

  ‘Did you take the man down, too?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What time did you go off?’

  ‘I didn’t leave the building until eight o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘You work from when to when, Mr Messner?’

  ‘We’ve got three shifts in the building,’ Cyclops explained. ‘The morning shift is eight a.m. to four p.m. The afternoon shift is four p.m. to midnight. And the graveyard shift is midnight to eight a.m.’

  ‘Which shift is yours?’ Kling asked.

  ‘The graveyard shift. You just caught me, in fact. I’ll be relieved here in ten minutes.’

  ‘If you start work at midnight, what were you doing here at nine p.m. Monday?’

  ‘Fellow who has the shift before mine went home sick. The super called me about eight o’clock, asked if I could come in early. I did him the favor. That was a long night, believe me.’

  ‘It was an even longer night for Tinka Sachs,’ Kling said.

  ‘Yeah. Well, anyway, I took that fellow up at nine, nine-thirty, and he still hadn’t come down by the time I was relieved.’

  ‘At eight in the morning,’ Carella said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is that usual?’ Kling asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did Tinka Sachs usually have men coming here who went up to her apartment at nine, nine-thirty, and weren’t down by eight the next morning?’

  Cyclops blinked with his single eye. ‘I don’t like to talk about the dead,’ he said.

  ‘We’re here precisely so you can talk about the dead,’ Kling answered. ‘And about the living who visited the dead. I asked a simple question, and I’d appreciate a simple answer. Was Tinka Sachs in the habit of entertaining men all night long?’

  Cyclops blinked again. Take it easy, young fellow,’ he said. ‘You’ll scare me right back into my elevator.’

  Carella chose to laugh at this point, breaking the tension. Cyclops smiled in appreciation.

  ‘You understand, don’t you?’ he said to Carella. ‘What Mrs Sachs did up there in her apartment was her business, not anyone else’s.’

  ‘Of course,’ Carella said. ‘I guess my partner was just wondering why you weren’t suspicious. About taking a man up who didn’t come down again. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh,’ Cyclops thought for a moment. Then he said ‘Well, I didn’t give it a second thought.’

  ‘Then it was usual, is that right?’ Kling asked.

  ‘I’m not saying it was usual, and I’m not saying it wasn’t. I’m saying if a woman over twenty-one wants to have a man in her apartment, it’s not for me to say how long he should stay, all day or all night, it doesn’t matter to me, sonny. You got that?’

  ‘I’ve got it,’ Kling said flatly.

  ‘And I don’t give a damn what they do up there, either, all day or all night, that’s their business if they’re old enough to vote. You got that, too?’

  ‘I’ve got it,’ Kling said.

  ‘Fine,’ Cyclops answered, and he nodded.

  ‘Actually,’ Carella said, ‘the man didn’t have to take the elevator down, did he? He could have gone up to the roof, and crossed over to the next building.’

  ‘Sure,’ Cyclops said. ‘I’m only saying that neither me nor anybody else working in this building has the right to wonder about what anybody’s doing up there or how long they’re taking to do it, or whether they choose to leave the building by the front door or the roof or the steps leading to the basement or even by jumping out the window, it’s none of our business. You close that door, you’re private. That’s my notion.’

  ‘That’s a good notion,’ Carella said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘What’d the man look like?’ Kling asked. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ Cyclops said. He glanced at Kling coldly, and then turned to Carella. ‘Have you got a pencil and some paper?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carella said. He took a notebook and a slender gold pen from his inside jacket pocket. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘He was a tall man, maybe six-two or six-three. He was blond. His hair was very straight, the kind of hair Sonny Tufts has, do you know him?’

  ‘Sonny Tufts?’ Carella said.

  ‘That’s right, the movie star, him. This fellow didn’t look at all like him, but his hair was the same sort of straight blond hair.’

  ‘What color were his eyes?’ Kling asked.

 
‘Didn’t see them. He was wearing sunglasses.’

  ‘At night?’

  ‘Lots of people wear sunglasses at night nowadays,’ Cyclops said.

  ‘That’s true,’ Carella said.

  ‘Like masks,’ Cyclops added.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was wearing sunglasses, and also he had a very deep tan, as if he’d just come back from down south someplace. He had on a light grey raincoat; it was drizzling a little Friday night, do you recall?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Carella said. ‘Was he carrying an umbrella?’

  ‘No umbrella.’

  ‘Did you notice any of his clothing under the raincoat?’

  ‘His suit was a dark grey, charcoal grey, I could tell that by his trousers. He was wearing a white shirt — it showed up here, in the opening of the coat — and a black tie.’

  ‘What color were his shoes?’

  ‘Black.’

  ‘Did you notice any scars or other marks on his face or hands?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was he wearing any rings?’

  ‘A gold ring with a green stone on the pinky of his right hand — no, wait a minute, it was his left hand.’

  ‘Any other jewelry you might have noticed? Cuff links, tie clasp?’

  ‘No, I didn’t see any.’

  ‘Was he wearing a hat?’

  ‘No hat.’

  ‘Was he clean-shaven?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did he have a beard or a mustache?’ Kling said.

  ‘No. He was clean-shaven.’

  ‘How old would you say he was?’

  ‘Late thirties, early forties.’

  ‘What about his build? Heavy, medium, or slight?’

  ‘He was a big man. He wasn’t fat, but he was a big man, muscular. I guess I’d have to say he was heavy. He had very big hands. I noticed the ring on his pinky looked very small for his hand. He was heavy, I’d say, yes, very definitely.’

  ‘Was he carrying anything? Briefcase, suitcase, attaché—’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did he speak to you?’

  ‘He just gave me the floor number, that’s all. Nine, he said. That was all.’

  ‘What sort of voice did he have? Deep, medium, high?’

  ‘Deep.’

  ‘Did you notice any accent or regional dialect?’

  ‘He only said one word. He sounded like anybody else in the city.’

  ‘I’m going to say that word several ways,’ Carella said. ‘Would you tell me which way sounded most like him?’

  ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  ‘Ny-un,’ Carella said.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Noin.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Nahn.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Nan.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘That’s it. Straight out. No decorations.’

  ‘Okay, good,’ Carella said. ‘You got anything else, Bert?’

  ‘Nothing else,’ Kling said.

  ‘You’re a very observant man,’ Carella said to Cyclops.

  ‘All I do every day is look at the people I take up and down,’ Cyclops answered. He shrugged. ‘It makes the job a little more interesting.’

  ‘We appreciate everything you’ve told us,’ Carella said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  Outside the building, Kling said, ‘The snotty old bastard.’

  ‘He gave us a lot,’ Carella said mildly.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We’ve really got a good description now.’

  ‘Too good, if you ask me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The guy has one eye in his head, and one foot in the grave. So he reels off details even a trained observer would have missed. He might have been making up the whole thing, just to prove he’s not a worthless old man.’

  ‘Nobody’s worthless,’ Carella said mildly. ‘Old or otherwise.’

  ‘The humanitarian school of criminal detection,’ Kling said.

  ‘What’s wrong with humanity?’

  ‘Nothing. It was a human being who slashed Tinka Sachs to ribbons, wasn’t it?’ Kling asked.

  And to this, Carella had no answer.

  A good modeling agency serves as a great deal more than a booking office for the girls it represents. It provides an answering service for the busy young girl about town, a baby-sitting service for the working mother, a guidance-and-counseling service for the man-beleagured model, a pied-à-terre for the harried and hurried between-sittings beauty.

  Art and Leslie Cutler ran a good modeling agency. They ran it with the precision of a computer and the understanding of an analyst. Their offices were smart and walnut-paneled, a suite of three rooms on Carrington Avenue, near the bridge leading to Calm’s Point. The address of the agency was announced over a doorway leading to a flight of carpeted steps. The address plate resembled a Parisian street sign, white enameled on a blue field, 21 Carrington, with the blue-carpeted steps beyond leading to the second story of the building. At the top of the stairs there was a second blue-and-white enameled sign, Paris again, except that this one was lettered in lowercase and it read, the cutlers.

  Carella and Kling climbed the steps to the second floor, observed the chic nameplate without any noticeable show of appreciation, and walked into a small carpeted entrance foyer in which stood a white desk starkly fashionable against the walnut walls, nothing else. A girl sat behind the desk. She was astonishingly beautiful, exactly the sort of receptionist one would expect in a modeling agency; if she was only the receptionist, my God, what did the models look like?

  ‘Yes, gentlemen, may I help you?’ she asked. Her voice was Vassar out of finishing school out of country day. She wore eyeglasses with exaggerated black frames that did nothing whatever to hide the dazzling brilliance of her big blue eyes. Her makeup was subdued and wickedly innocent, a touch of pale pink on her lips, a blush of rose at her cheeks, the frames of her spectacles serving as liner for her eyes. Her hair was black and her smile was sunshine. Carella answered with a sunshine smile of his own, the one he usually reserved for movie queens he met at the governor’s mansion.

  ‘We’re from the police,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective Carella; this is my partner, Detective Kling.’

  ‘Yes?’ the girl said. She seemed completely surprised to have policemen in her reception room.

  ‘We’d like to talk to either Mr or Mrs Cutler,’ Kling said. ‘Are they in?’

  ‘Yes, but what is this in reference to?’ the girl asked.

  ‘It’s in reference to the murder of Tinka Sachs,’ Kling said.

  ‘Oh,’ the girl said. ‘Oh, yes.’ She reached for a button on the executive phone panel, hesitated, shrugged, looked up at them with radiant blue-eyed innocence, and said, ‘I suppose you have identification and all that.’

  Carella showed her his shield. The girl looked expectantly at Kling. Kling sighed, reached into his pocket, and opened his wallet to where his shield was pinned to the leather.

  ‘We never get detectives up here,’ the girl said in explanation, and pressed the button on the panel.

  ‘Yes?’ a voice said.

  ‘Mr Cutler, there are two detectives to see you, a Mr King and a Mr Coppola.’

  ‘Kling and Carella,’ Carella corrected.

  ‘Kling and Capella,’ the girl said.

  Carella let it go.

  ‘Ask them to come right in,’ Cutler said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The girl clicked off and looked up at the detectives. ‘Won’t you go in, please? Through the bull pen and straight back.’

  ‘Through the what?’

  ‘The bull pen. Oh, that’s the main office, you’ll see it. It’s right inside the door there.’ The telephone rang. The girl gestured vaguely toward what looked like a solid walnut wall, and then picked up the receiver. ‘The Cutlers,’ she said. ‘One moment, please.’ She pressed a button and then said, ‘Mrs Cutler, it’s Alex Jamison on five-seven, do you want to take it?’ She nodded, listened for a moment, and then replaced the receiver. Carella and Kling had just located the walnut knob on the walnut door hidden in the walnut wall. Carella smiled sheepishly at the girl (blue eyes blinked back radiantly) and opened the door.

  The bull pen, as the girl had promised, was just behind the reception room. It was a large open area with the same basic walnut-and-white decor, broken by the color of the drapes and the upholstery fabric on two huge couches against the left-hand window wall. The windows were draped in diaphanous saffron nylon, and the couches were done in a complementary brown, the fabric nubby and coarse in contrast to the nylon. Three girls sat on the couches, their long legs crossed. All of them were reading Vogue. One of them had her head inside a portable hair dryer. None of them looked up as the men came into the room. On the right-hand side of the room, a fourth woman sat behind a long white Formica counter, a phone to her ear, busily scribbling on a pad as she listened. The woman was in her early forties, with the unmistakable bones of an ex-model. She glanced up briefly as Carella and Kling hesitated inside the doorway, and then went back to her jottings, ignoring them.