Where There's Smoke полностью

“What do you mean?” I said.

“We found the body.”

“What?”

“We found a corpse that fits the description you gave me.”

“Where’d you find it?”

“In an empty lot on Tyrone and Seventh.”

“Forty-two years old, five-eleven—?”

“Yeah, yeah, about a hundred eighty-five pounds, dark hair.”

“Clothed or naked?”

“Clothed. A blue pin-striped suit.”

“Where’s the corpse now?”

“It was at the morgue.”

“Saint Augustine’s?”

“Yes, but your friend probably picked it up already.”

“What friend?”

“The undertaker. I called him the minute we found the stiff.” Coop hesitated. “Did I do something wrong, Benny?” he asked. “I didn’t cut you out of a fee or any­thing, did I?”

“No, no,” I said. “Actually, you did a very good job.”

“Okay,” he said, “I got to run. Take care, huh?”

As soon as he hung up, I called Abner’s funeral home. He answered the phone on the third ring.

“Hello?” he said.

“Abner, it’s Benjamin Smoke.”

“Ah,” he said, “good. I’ve been trying to reach you. Your housekeeper—”

“I understand Mr. Gibson has been located.”

“He has indeed,” Abner said. “I’ve just returned from the hospital mortuary, in fact.”

“It was Mr. Gibson then?”

“No question. I’ve already sent one of my drivers to pick up the body.”

“Well then, everything seems to have worked out well,” I said.

“Yes. I can’t thank you enough, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t thank me,” I said. “Thank the Police Depart­ment.”

“Well, you were the one who alerted them. I must con­fess I was a bit irritated when Captain Cupera called. I hadn’t gone to the police in the first place because I was—”

“I’m sure he handled it discreetly, Abner.”

“Oh yes, most discreetly. I have no complaints, Lieu­tenant, none at all. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you sent me your bill immediately so that—”

“No need for that, Abner. I hardly did anything at all.”

“Well... thank you again, Lieutenant.”

“Goodbye, Abner,” I said, and hung up.

I deposited another dime, called Henry Garavelli’s shop, and got no answer there. I then called Maria, got her instead of her service this time, and asked if she would care to join me for a late lunch. Maria said she’d be delighted. I made more change at the cigar counter, went back to wait outside the booth—which a fat lady in a flowered bonnet had usurped during my brief ab­sence—and then called my apartment and told Lisette where I’d be if Henry tried to reach me. I didn’t want him to continue flogging a dead horse, so to speak.

I felt rather odd as I walked back to the car.

There was neither the disappointment of having cracked a case, nor the joy I’d hoped for in failure. There was, in fact, nothing at all.

Maria Hochs had inherited blond hair and blue eyes from her father, an exquisite profile from her mother, and hips and breasts that could claim ancestral influence both Latin and Teutonic. Her long legs were strictly American. She was a beauty, and bright besides, with an infectious sense of humor and a self-confident ease about herself as a woman. She was thirty-four years old, still taking act­ing lessons, still making the rounds daily, still working showcases in little theaters scattered throughout the city, still hoping to become an internationally famous star. One of the things I had to overlook about Maria was her interminable chatter about acting. Maria was always “up for a part.” Maria had always been “called back” to read again, Maria was always certain she’d have won the cov­eted role if only they hadn’t “really been looking for” a redhead. Or a brunette. Or someone shorter. Or someone taller. Or someone older. Or younger. Or black. Or Chi­nese. I suffered through her eternal optimism only because she was more mature and realistic concerning other aspects of her life.

She was now telling me about an audition she’d had that morning for a role in a television soap, while simul­taneously demolishing a large order of osso bucco, a side order of spaghetti all’aglio, and a plate of rugula salad. I’d chosen this particular restaurant for our lunch date be­cause I knew it wasn’t frequented by Mafia hoods. In my estimation, southern Italians know nothing at all about good food, and the worst cuisine in the world is Sicilian. If I know the Mafia eats someplace, I stay away from it because (a) I might get ptomaine poisoning, and (b) I might get shot. One never knows when the Family goons will decide to uphold their ridiculous code of honor by opening fire on two cheap thieves at a nearby table. Since I trust no one’s aim but my own, I normally try to avoid a rain of bullets fired by a cockeyed button man.