"This is a homicide we're investigating," Brown said, and fixed Lawton with a scowl that was in itself homicidal.
Lawton's teller tapes were kept in a locked drawer under the counter. His stamp was in that same locked drawer. He unlocked it now, and searched through what he called his proof sheets, looking for and finding at last the one dated the ninth of July. A tape that did indeed look like an adding-machine tape was stapled to it. Lawton had handled a hundred and thirty-seven counter transactions on that day. None of them was for an exact two-thousand-dollar withdrawal in cash. But one of the recorded transactions rang a bell.
The computer printout on the tape showed the date, and then the time, and then:
113-807-40 162 772521
SW $2400
"The first number is the account number," Lawton explained. "The next number is the number of the IBT branch here, one-sixty-two. The last number is my teller's number."
"What's the SW stand for?" Brown asked.
"Savings withdrawal. Twenty-four hundred is what the customer took out of his account. It's likely that I gave it to him in a two-thousand-dollar strap and four hundred in loose bills outside the strap."
"Can you trace that account number …"
"Yes."
"… and give us the customer's name?"
"If Mr Granville says it's okay."
Mr Granville said it was okay to give them the customer's name.
When the computer punched it up, Lawton said, "Oh yes."
"Oh yes what?" Brown asked.
"He's been withdrawing twenty-four hundred in cash every month since March."
The customer's name was Thomas Mott.
He didn't know what they were talking about.
"There must be some mistake," he said.
They always said that.
"No, there's no mistake," Carella said.
They were standing in the center aisle of his antiques shop on Drittel Avenue. A German grandfather clock bonged the hour: six p.m. again. It was always six p.m. here. Mott seemed annoyed that they'd arrived just as he was about to close. Everyone seemed annoyed at having to work a long day today.
But the cops had been on the job since seven forty-five this morning.
"You do remember withdrawing twenty-four hundred dollars in cash on the ninth of this month, don't you?" Carella asked.
"Well, yes, but that was a very special circumstance. A man came to me with a rare William and Mary tankard, and he would accept only cash for it. He didn't know what he had, it was truly a steal. I went to the bank …"
"At twelve twenty-seven p.m.," Brown said, showing off.
"Around then," Mott said.
"That's what the teller tape says," Brown said.
"Then that's what it must have been."
"Who's this man with the rare William and Mary tankard?" Carella asked.
"I'm sure I have his name in the file somewhere."
"Then I wish you'd find it for us," Carella said. "And while you're at it, maybe you can look through your records for the withdrawals you made on June first, which was a Friday, and May first, which was a Tuesday, and April second, which was a Monday, and March …"
"I don't recall any of those withdrawals," Mott said.
"The teller tapes," Brown reminded him, and smiled pleasantly. "That's when the withdrawals started. In March."
"Twenty-four hundred every month."
"For a total of twelve thousand dollars."
"Remember?"
"Yes, now that you mention it. . ."
They always said that, too.
". . . I do remember withdrawing that amount each month. Against just such an opportunity as the rare William and Mary."
"Ahhh," Brown said.
"Then that explains it," Carella said.
"What it doesn't explain," Brown said, "is how that twelve thousand dollars ended up in Susan Brauer's cash box."
Mott blinked.
"Susan Brauer," Brown said, and smiled pleasantly again.
"Remember her?" Carella asked.
"Yes, but…"
"She came to your shop every now and then, remember?"
"She was in here on the ninth, remember?"
"To look at a butler's table you'd told her about…"
"Yes, of course I remember."
"Do you remember giving her twenty-four hundred dollars in cash every month?"
"I never did such a thing."
"Since March," Brown said.
"Of course not. Why would I have done such a thing?"
"Gee, I don't know," Brown said. "Why would you?"
"The woman was a customer, why would . . .?"
"Mr Mott … we found a currency strap in her apartment …"
"I don't know what that is, a currency …"
"… and we've traced it back to your account. The money came from your account, Mr Mott, there's no question about that. Now do you want to tell us why you were paying Susan Brauer twenty-four hundred dollars a month?"
"For the past five months …"
"Two thousand in a strap …"
"The rest in loose hundreds …"
"Why, Mr Mott?"
"I didn't kill her," Mott said.
He'd met Susan …
He'd called her Susan in deference to her wishes; nobody calls me Suzie, she'd said.
