Where There's Smoke полностью

I looked at the card. There were half a dozen hand-lettered names on it. I found the name Manuel Herrera, and alongside it his telephone number. “Thanks,” I said, and went out into the garage and dialed the number from the wall phone alongside the men’s room. The same stale urine stench assailed my nostrils. A woman answered on the sixth ring. She spoke with a Spanish accent. I told her I wanted to talk to Manuel, and she said, “Wait a minute, please.” I waited. When he came on the line, I recognized his voice as belonging to the man who’d allowed me to rummage through his trash basket the night before.

“This is Lieutenant Smoke,” I said, “I talked to you last night about Natalie Fletcher’s Buick station wagon.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” I said. “Were you working when Amos Wake­field brought his VW bus in?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Came in close to midnight, must’ve been.”

“Anything in the car?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you happen to notice whether there was anything on the floor of the car?”

“Just the rug,” he said.

“What kind of a rug?”

“Just a rug he had rolled up.”

“Did he say anything about it?”

“Just asked me to keep an eye on it, that’s all. I parked it up on the second floor and locked all the doors.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” he said. He sounded puzzled. I hung up and walked out of the garage. The sky to the west was shaded from black to blue to purple where the last thin line of daylight limned the tops of the buildings. I looked at my watch. It was seven minutes past seven. It would be dark within the next five minutes.

A rug. He had wrapped John Hilier’s body in a rug. Had that been Natalie Fletcher’s idea? Had she remem­bered a time in her youth when she’d been carried into Caesar’s presence rolled inside a rug? I sighed heavily, found a pay phone that was not close to a toilet, called Henry Garavelli’s shop, and got no answer. I then called my own apartment. I let the phone ring a dozen times, and then hung up. Lisette had already gone home.

It was ten minutes to eight when I got to the Twelfth Precinct. The desk sergeant told me Captain Cupera was out. I asked for Detective Horowitz, and the sergeant told me he was out, too. I didn’t bother asking for O’Neil. In­stead, I politely inquired whether it would be okay to use the pay phone in the swing room. The sergeant shrugged. I walked away from the desk and into the next room. A patrolman was sitting there in his undershirt, drinking coffee. I had the feeling he was the same patrolman who’d been there yesterday. I went into the phone booth, closed the door, and dialed the Twelfth Precinct. In the muster room outside, I heard the telephone ringing.

“Twelfth Precinct,” the desk sergeant said. “Sergeant Knowles.”

“Captain Cupera,” I said.

“Who’s calling?”

“Deputy Inspector Walsh,” I said.

“One moment, sir.”

I waited.

“Captain Cupera,” Coop said.

“Coop,” I said, “this is Ben, don’t hang up.”

“Benny, I told you—”

“I’m right outside in the swing room,” I said. “I’ve got some information for you.”

“What kind of information?”

“I know who owns that Volkswagen bus, and I’ve got the registration number.”

“Come in,” he said. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

I hung up and went out into the muster room again. Coop had already buzzed the sergeant. As I approached the desk, he said, “It’s okay for you to go in. I wish they’d make up their damn minds.” I crossed the room to the frosted-glass door and knocked.

“Yeah, yeah, come in,” Coop said.

He did not offer me a chair. He pointed his finger at me instead, and said, “Don’t ever say you’re Walsh again, you hear me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Let me hear what you’ve got.” An odd smile suddenly replaced his frown. A moment ago he had told me he was going to enjoy this. He was now beginning to enjoy it even before I began talking.

“The bus is registered to a man named Arthur J. Wylie at 574 Waverly Street,” I said. “S22 dash 9438.”

Coop was still smiling. He was making me very ner­vous. I realized he knew something I didn’t know.

“Tell me,” I said.

‘Tell you what, Benny? I simply wish to commend you for your fine work. You’re still a good cop, it’s a shame you’re not on the force.”

“You already know who owns the bus, is that it?”

“We know.”

“How long have you known?”

“Ever since the FBI got back to us.”

“You found some latents on the crowbar,” I said. “That’s what was in the lab report.”

“On the pendant,” Coop said, and nodded. “A good thumb print. The I.S. came up negative, so we ran it through the FBI. They got back to us around five o’clock. Turns out the guy who left the thumb print was in the Navy during the Korean War. He didn’t have a criminal record, but his prints were on file.”

“Arthur J. Wylie,” I said.

“That’s who,” Coop said.

“So the next thing you did was call the MVB.”