Where There's Smoke полностью

“That’s enough. Anyway, is what you’re doing legal? Don’t you need a license to do what you’re doing?”

“I’m merely helping people with seemingly difficult problems, Coop.”

“I’m sure you need a license for that,” Coop said. “I could probably lock you up, you know that?”

“Don’t lock me up, okay? Just do a favor for me.”

“What favor?”

“So far, I’ve got only one thing to go on. The body was carried off in a red-and-white Volkswagen bus.”

“What year?” Coop said. He was writing again.

“The lady didn’t know.”

“What lady?”

“The lady who saw it.”

“So what do you want?”

“First, I’d like a look at your hot-car sheet...”

“There’s one in the squadroom upstairs, and another one outside in the muster room.”

“And then I’d appreciate it if you called Auto and asked them for an up-to-date.”

“Okay.”

In this city, the Automobile Squad puts out a daily mimeographed bulletin listing all the cars stolen the day before. Two copies of it are supposed to be delivered to all the precincts in the city at seven-thirty each morning—one going to the Detective Division, and the other posted in the muster room so that the uniformed men can take a look at it before going out to relieve on post. The sheet rarely arrives before noon, though, making it relatively stale by the time the next shift goes out at three forty-five. Coop had just agreed to call Auto for the most recent reports on stolen vehicles.

“What else?” he said.

“That’s it.”

“Okay. If you want to check the sheet, I’ll get on the phone to Auto.”

“Thank you, Coop.”

In the muster room outside, I looked over the mimeo­graphed hot-car sheet. Six Beetles had been stolen the day before, but only one VW bus—and it was blue. I went back to Coop’s office. He was shaking his head as I came in.

“Nothing,” he said. “You’re out of luck.”

“Will you keep me posted if it shows later?”

“I can’t call Auto every ten minutes,” Coop said.

“Just give them another ring before you go home.”

“Benny,” he said, “the Police Department is not being run for the benefit of a retired lieutenant.”

“How’s Consuela?” I said.

“Consuela’s fine, don’t change the subject.”

“And the kids?”

“The kids are fine, too,”

“Will you call Auto later?”

“I’ll call them.”

“Thank you, Coop,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah,” he answered, and waved me out.

I asked the desk sergeant for change of a quarter, and then went to the pay phone in the swing room. Two pa­trolmen were drinking coffee and exchanging atrocity stories about their respective beats. I closed the door to the booth and dialed my home number. The phone rang twice before it was picked up.

“‘Allo,” Lisette said.

“It’s me,” I said. “Were there any calls?”

“Maria calls,” Lisette said. “You are to call her back.”

“Anyone else?”

“No one. Will you be home for dinner?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Then I will leave at five,” she said.

“Lisette, I’d like you to stay tonight, if that’s all right with you. I may be getting some calls.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Are you doing it again?”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m doing it again.”

We were both referring to the fact that I’d taken on an­other case. Lisette sighed.

“Will you stay?” I asked.

“Pour sûr, I will stay,” she said, and hung up.

I tried Maria’s number, and got her answering service, which I always consider a waste of ten cents. I told the nasal-voiced girl on the other end that Benjamin Smoke had called and that I would try to get back to Miss Hochs later, but she was not to count on it. When I came out of the booth, one of the patrolmen was telling a story about a black numbers runner. I went through the muster room and down the precinct steps. There was a parking summons on my windshield. I put it in the glove compart­ment alongside a dozen similar summonses. Then I in­serted the key into the ignition, but I didn’t start the car. With my hands on the wheel, I stared straight ahead through the windshield and felt the first vague stirrings of hope. I’d touched all bases, but until I heard something further from either Henry or Coop, I had nothing concrete to go on. I intended to talk to Rhoda Gibson, of course, in an attempt to find out whether or not she’d been con­tacted by anyone demanding ransom for the return of her husband’s corpse. The body had been swiped at three a.m., and it was now close to twelve noon, and nine hours was a long enough time for the kidnapper (if such he was) to get busy on the telephone. But if there’d been no de­mand ...

My hand was shaking as I twisted the ignition key. I tried to tell myself the excitement was premature. Coop or Henry would most surely come up with a lead, and this case would end as all the others had. But I was smiling as I drove uptown to talk to Rhoda Gibson.