“It makes you wonder. Would he been in this trouble now if he hadn’t been to prison? It makes you wonder.”

  “Don’t wonder about it, Mr. Kaplowitz.”

  “Sam. Please.”

  “Sam.”

  “Still, it makes you wonder. You know, if there had been some reason for him to rob my safe, some good reason. If his mother was sick or he needed the money very badly. But he was making a good salary here, and we gave him a big bonus at Christmas. No reason. No reason. A man like that, you can’t feel pity. Still, I feel pity. I’m sorry he did wrong again. I’m sorry he got himself in such big trouble this time.”

  “Would you happen to know if he got a job anywhere in the field since his release from prison, Mr. Kaplowitz?”

  “I don’t know. I could check, if you like. I know most of the other firms. I could check quietly. If you checked, it might scare him away. Do you want me to check around for you?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “I will. I don’t like thieves, Mr. Hawes. I like honesty. Honesty is what should be in the world.”

  “Here’s my card,” Hawes said, handing it to him. “If you find out anything, please give me a call.” Kaplowitz took the card and studied it.

  “Cotton, huh?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Hawes, when I go down to change my name, I’ll give you a ring. We go together, okay?”

  Hawes grinned. “Anytime you’re ready, Mr. Kaplowitz.”

  “Sam,” Kaplowitz said. “Please.”

  The man who came into the squadroom was holding his hat to his chest. He would one day be instrumental in solving a murder. His eyes were bloodshot, and his nose was running, and he had the disheveled look of a wino. He stood just outside the slatted-rail divider. He didn’t say a word. He stood and waited for someone to notice him. The first one to spot him was Miscolo, on his way from Clerical with a pot of coffee.

  “Help you, Mac?” he asked.

  “I wannuh…uh…is this…uh…this’s the detectives?”

  “Yeah,” Miscolo said. “What is it?” Standing close to the man, he could smell the cheap wine on his breath. He backed off a few feet. “What is it, Mac?”

  “I wannuh…uh…I wannuh talk tuddy bull who’s handlin’ the…uh…the li’l girl got killed inny…uh…inny liquor store.”

  “Meyer!” Miscolo shouted. “Somebody to see you.”

  “Is that coffee?” Meyer said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Bring it over.” He walked to the slatted-rail divider and watched Miscolo walk to his desk and pour a cup of coffee for him. He smelled the wine almost instantly, pinched his nostrils and released them, and then said, “Yup? What is it?”

  “You…uh…workin’ on the uh li’l girl who got killed inny liquor store?”

  “I’m one of the cops working on it, yeah,” Meyer said. “What is it? You kill her?”

  “Me? Hey, me? Hey, no. Not me!” The man seemed about to leave. He put on his hat and almost turned. Meyer’s voice stopped him.

  “I’m jokin’, Mac. What is it?”

  “Uh…George. You anny other one call me Mac. It’s George.”

  “Okay, George. What is it?”

  “Can I come inan siddown?”

  “Sure. Come on in. You want a cup of coffee?”

  “What is this?” Miscolo called over. “The Salvation Army?”

  “Pour him a cup of coffee,” Meyer said, grinning. “Break your heart, Miscolo.”

  “The Salvation Army,” Miscolo muttered, but he poured a cup for the wino nonetheless. Meyer led him to the desk. He picked up his own cup, lifted it, and drank. The wino reached into his side pocket, pulled out a pint of cheap wine, uncapped it, and poured some into the coffee.

  “First today,” he said. He lifted his cup.

  “What about the liquor store kill?” Meyer asked.

  “Oh. Yeah. That.”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “I seen it,” George said.

  Meyer put down his coffee cup. “You saw it.”

  “Um.”

  “The killing?”

  “No. Not…uh…that. But I seen the rest.”

  “What rest?”

  “The driving-away.”

  “We always get the ones who see the driving-away,” Meyer said. “How come you saw it?”

  “I was…uh…layin’ against the wall of the buildin’. I was… uh…blind. Drunk, I mean.”

  “You don’t mean to tell me you drink!” Meyer said.

  “Uh…yeah. Occasionally. Now and then.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I heard all the explosions. Terrible. And the noise of bottles bustin’. Terrible. Uh…terrible.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I…uh…leaned up on one elbow. This person ran out of the shop and…uh…intera car. Drove away. Whoom!”

  “Man or woman?” Meyer asked.

  “I dunno.”

  “Didn’t you see?”

  “No.”

  “You just saw this person get into a car and drive away, is that right? But you can’t tell me whether it was a man or a woman.”

  “That’s right. I was…uh…blind, you know? Ossified. Yeah.”

  “Did you happen to notice the license number?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “Year of the car?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “Make?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “You just saw someone—either a man or a woman—come out of the store and get into the car and drive away, is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that’s very helpful, George. Thanks a lot for coming up.”

  “Noddadall,” George said.

  He finished his coffee, put on his hat, and left the squadroom.

  Meyer sighed and then looked at the brighter side of things. The person driving the car may have owned either a driver’s license or a registered automobile. Unless he was an unlicensed driver driving a stolen car. In any case, the information was worthless at the moment.

  Miscolo came over to Meyer’s desk.

  “How come your father visited you here?” he asked.

  Meyer would not get angry. “Search me,” he said. “I tell him to stay away, but he keeps coming. I guess he loves me. I’m hairy, but he loves me.”

  “Did you smell that guy?” Miscolo asked.

  “My father?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure.”

  “Pretty, huh?”

  “Wonderful. I love that smell. It’s my father’s favorite cologne.”

  “He dresses neat, your dad,” Miscolo said.

  “He always did. He almost took the best-dressed award away from Adolphe Menjou one year, would you believe it?”

  “Sure, I believe it,” Miscolo said. He sobered suddenly. “He give you anything?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Meyer said. “A headache.”

  They were running out of suspects and into dead ends.

  They were running into airtight alibis and out of patience.

  They were running up one-way alleys and phone bills.

  They were running down a killer who did not yet exist.

  They were running around in circles.

  The man’s name was Arthur Cordis. He was a teller in a bank. He had known Annie Boone and dated her. When the detectives walked in and asked to talk to him, he got a little nervous. He was scrupulously honest, but it didn’t look nice for a pair of detectives to walk into a bank and ask to speak to you. It reflected on your honesty. He had never touched a dime in his life.

  The detectives looked very tired. One was named Carella, and the other was named Kling. Carella looked as friendly as a cobra. Kling looked as old as Elvis Presley. The three men walked to one of the managers’ desks. It was all very embarrassing. Very embarrassing. It made Cordis feel like a criminal even though he had never touched a dime. Things made him feel like that. He always felt guilty whenever even a paper clip was missing, even though he hadn’t been the one who’d taken it. He was just that kind of a man. Things made him feel like that.

  “Mr. Cordis,” Carella said, “we understand you were dating Annie Boone.”

  “Yes,” Cordis said. “Yes.” He wondered if they thought he had killed her. Certainly they could tell just by looking at him that he hadn’t killed her! Did killers wear eyeglasses?

  “When was the last time you dated her?” Kling asked.

  “About…about a month ago. Yes. A month. You don’t think I killed her, do you?”

  “We’re just asking some routine questions, Mr. Cordis,” Carella said. He did not smile. God, he looked just like a cobra. He was the meanest-looking fellow Cordis had ever seen in his life. He wondered if he were married, and then he wondered what sort of a masochistic woman could marry a fellow like this Carella.

  “Where’d you go that last time, Mr. Cordis?” Kling asked.

  “The ballet,” Cordis said. “Swan Lake. And…and Pas de Deux. And Fancy Free. The ballet.”

  “Where?”

  “At the center.”

  “She like it?”

  “Yes. Very much.”

  “Quiet girl?”

  “Very refined.”

  “Ever see her shoot pool, Mr. Cordis?” Carella asked.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Pool.”

  “That’s what I thought…Do you mean Annie? Annie Boone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shooting pool? Well, I should hardly think so. I mean, she simply wasn’t that kind of a girl.”

  “Did you know she was divorced, Mr. Cordis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever meet her daughter?”

  “Monica? Yes.”

  “Ever talk to her on the telephone?”

  “Who? Monica, do you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose so. Once or twice. Why?”

  “Talk to her recently?”

  “Why, no. Not since before the last time I saw Annie. Why?”

  “Where were you on the night she was killed, Mr. Cordis?”

  “That was Monday, June tenth. I remember,” Cordis said. “I remember distinctly. I remember reading the papers the next day. I was shocked. Such a quiet girl. Refined, do you know? Refined. You don’t meet that sort of girl very much these days. Read a lot, too. Dreiser, and Thackeray, and Balzac, and Dostoevski. A big reader. I bought her A Fable for Christmas.”

  “A fable? Which fable?”

  “A Fable,” Cordis said. “Faulkner.”

  “Did she like it?”

  “Loved it, I’m sure. A very nice girl. Splendid. A splendid girl. I was rather serious about her.”

  “And yet you hadn’t seen her for a month, is that right?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly right. And that’s exactly why I stopped seeing her for a while. Because I was getting so serious about her.” “I see.”

  “It makes you think, doesn’t it, gentlemen? A wonderful girl like Annie. I stopped seeing her, and now she’s dead, and now I’ll never see her again.”

  “You still haven’t told us where you were on the night of June tenth, Mr. Cordis,” Carella said.

  “You don’t think I killed her, do you?”

  “We’d like to know where you were that night, Mr. Cordis.”

  “I was at home.”

  “Alone?”

  “No.”

  “Who with?”

  “My mother.”

  “You live with your mother, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just the two of you home alone that night?”

  “No. A neighbor-woman was in, too. We played gin together. My mother likes cards.”

  “Annie like cards?”

  “I don’t know. I never asked her.”

  “Were you ever intimate with her, Mr. Cordis?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well…”

  “Oh! No, never. Why do you ask?”

  “We just wanted to know.”

  “No, never. Well, I kissed her. Several times. Well, a few times, anyway. She wasn’t that kind of a girl. You didn’t take liberties with Annie. You just didn’t.”

  “She ever mention a man named Jamie to you?”

  “Jamie? I don’t believe so. Is that for James?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Jamie, Jamie…wait. Yes, she did. I recall now. I got rather angry. Well, not angry. That is—”

  “Did you get angry, Mr. Cordis?”

  “Yes. Well, as matter of fact, I did. She was out with me, and I didn’t appreciate her discussing some other fellow. There is such a thing as courtesy. Not that Annie was ever discourteous. Never.”

  “Except this once,” Carella said.

  “Yes. Just this once. And I admit I got rather peeved. She seemed…Well, she seemed rather fond of this Jamie, whoever he was.”

  “What did she say about him?”

  “Only that she visited him in his flat and that he was very charming.”

  “Did she say where the flat was?”

  “Somewhere in Isola.”

  “Where in Isola?”

  “She never said.”

  “What else did she say about Jamie?”

  “Nothing that I can recall. Well, I told her I didn’t think it was quite proper for an attractive young lady to go visiting a gentleman in his flat, and she sort of laughed.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said, ‘Jamie’s a darling. I adore him.’ Something like that. Perhaps the intonation is wrong, but it was something like that. I got rather miffed. I repeated that I didn’t think it was proper for her to see him in his flat.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “She said, ‘Arthur, don’t be ridiculous. I’m as safe with him as I am with you.’ That’s what she said.” Cordis looked at Carella. “Is…ah…Is something amusing?”

  “No, no,” Carella said. “Not at all. Go ahead.”

  “That’s all there is to tell,” Cordis said. “She never mentioned him again. I put off seeing her for a while because I was getting rather too fond of her. And then…then I read she was dead.” Cordis looked at the desktop.

  “And you were with your mother and a neighbor on the night she was killed, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “From what time to what time?”

  “From about seven-thirty to midnight.”

  “Leave the apartment all that while?”

  “No.”

  “What was the neighbor’s name?”

  “Mrs. Alexander.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cordis,” Carella said, and he rose. Kling rose, too. Cordis remained seated.

  “Is it all right? May I go back to my position now?”

  “Sure,” Carella said. “If you don’t hear from us again, you can just forget we were ever here.”

  Arthur Cordis went back to his teller’s cage. He never did hear from Carella and Kling again because, sure enough, he’d been playing cards on June 10 between 7:30 and 12:00 with his mother and Mrs. Alexander.

  Mrs. Franklin Phelps did not seem surprised to see Meyer and Kling again. She opened the door for them, smiled and said, “Gentlemen, I was expecting you. Do come in.”

  The detectives followed her past the smoky mirror and into the period living room. They all sat.

  “Why were you expecting us, Mrs. Phelps?” Meyer asked cordially.

  “Because I figured it would occur to you sooner or later that I am a prime murder suspect.”

  “Well,” Meyer said patiently, “we work rather slowly. We plod along, plod along.”

  “I’m delighted you’re back,” Mrs. Phelps said. “It gets lonely when Franklin’s away.”

  “Mrs. Phelps,” Meyer said, “we’d just like to check a few items.”

  “Yes?”

  “You knew your husband was having an affair with Annie Boone, is that right?”

  “Yes. And I knew he was paying her far more than she was worth at the shop. I knew all this, and I rather resented it, but I thought I’d wait until it blew over. These things do blow over, you know. That’s what I told you. I am repeating that to you now. I did not kill Annie Boone. Let me set you straight on that at once.”

  “You have what is commonly known as a damn good motive, Mrs. Phelps.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Phelps smiled. “I haven’t got the other two ingredients, though.”

  “What do you mean, Mrs. Phelps?”

  “The means and the opportunity.”

  “You don’t own a gun? Is that it?”

  “No, I don’t own one. Never have, never will. I detest guns. There isn’t a weapon in this house, and there never will be one.”

  “You could have come across a gun, Mrs. Phelps. Guns aren’t too difficult to come by these days.”

  Mrs. Phelps shrugged. “Granted. Perhaps I did. Perhaps I bought one—without showing the necessary pistol permit, which I do not own—but perhaps I did manage to buy one. Perhaps I paid a hockshop owner an exorbitant price in order to acquire a pistol. Perhaps I did. But what about opportunity, Detective Meyer? Isn’t that important?”

  “What about it, Mrs. Phelps?” Meyer said. “You tell us.”

  “Annie Boone was killed at the liquor store. That’s a long way from where I was.”

  Meyer sighed patiently. “You drive, don’t you, Mrs. Phelps?”

  “Yes, I drive,” she answered, smiling thinly. “But—”

  “Then what was to stop you from—”

  “But,” she continued, “I could hardly have driven to the liquor store from Miami Beach. It’s several thousand miles, isn’t it? That’s where I was on the night Annie Boone was killed.”

  “I see,” Meyer said somewhat sourly.

  “I suggest you call the Hotel Shalimar. Speak to the manager there. He will confirm the length of my stay, and he will also tell you that I was at a party given for the guests that night. He’ll remember me. I’m good fun at a party. Call him.” Mrs. Phelps smiled brightly. “Will that be all, gentlemen?”

  The cop who spoke to the manager of the Shalimar on the long distance wire at the city’s expense was Meyer Meyer.

  “When did Mrs. Phelps check in?” he asked.

  “On the fifth of June,” the manager said.

  “And when did she check out?”

  “On the fourteenth.”