“Did the hotel have a party on the night of June tenth?”

  “June tenth? Let me see. Just a moment, please.” There was an expensive pause. “Yes, June tenth. Yes indeed, we did.”

  “Was Mrs. Phelps at the party?”

  “Yes, she was. A bright-red dress. Very attractive.”

  “What time did she arrive?”

  “The party started before dinner. It was for our guests, you understand. We’re…well, rather famous for our cocktail parties.”

  “What time did it start?” Meyer asked.

  “About four-thirty. In the afternoon.”

  “Uh-huh. And was Mrs. Phelps there when it started?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what time did she leave the party?”

  “Leave it? Why, I believe she was there all night.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, I’m not absolutely certain, of course. There were many women in red dresses. But I would say yes. Yes, I would say yes.”

  “What time did the party break up?”

  “Well, it was a fairly lively party.”

  “What time?”

  “We served breakfast at five-thirty,” the manager said.

  “What!”

  “Yes.”

  “From four-thirty the previous afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “It lasted all through the night? Until breakfast?”

  “Well, yes. We’re rather famous for our parties.”

  “You ought to be. Was Mrs. Phelps at breakfast?”

  “Yes. Definitely. I remember serving her scrambled eggs myself.”

  “Still in the red dress?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think she was around all night, is that right?”

  “We have thousands of guests,” the manager said. “They flit in and out. There’s a lot of drinking at these parties and…Well, the management doesn’t follow any of the guests’…activities too closely.”

  “I see,” Meyer said. “Checked in on the fifth and out on the four-teenth, right? Was at your party on the tenth. Okay, sir, thank you.”

  “Not at all,” the manager said, and he broke the connection.

  Meyer sat morosely at his desk for a moment and then decided to play a long shot. He called all the airlines and asked if round-trip passage had been booked from and to Miami for a Mrs. Franklin Phelps on the night of June tenth, the night of Annie Boone’s murder. And then, covering the pseudonym possibility, he asked if any woman had been booked for a round trip on that same night.

  The airlines checked their flight records. The only passage they had given to Mrs. Phelps was on an early-morning flight to Miami on June 5 and a return flight on the 14. Nor had any other woman made a round trip on the night of the 10th. Meyer thanked them and hung up.

  Disgustedly, he belched. Long shots never paid off.

  The cop who spoke to Monica Boone on the telephone was Bert Kling.

  “Hi, honey,” he said. “Know who this is?”

  “No. Who?”

  “Guess?”

  “Tab Hunter?”

  “Nope.”

  “Robert Wagner?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m not interested anymore,” Monica said.

  “Detective Kling,” he said. “Bert.”

  “Oh, hello, Bert,” Monica said warmly. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. Yourself?”

  “Oh, just fine. I got second prize in school today.”

  “Really? What for?”

  “Painting.”

  “That’s wonderful. Honey, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “We already asked your grandmother this, but she didn’t know. Maybe you would.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your mother used to see a person named Jamie. Did she ever mention him to you?”

  “Jamie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mean Jamison? Jamison Gray?”

  “What was that name, Monica?”

  “Jamison Gray. She told me all about him once. She said he was the sweetest, saddest man in the whole world, and she said he was very kind and very gentle, and she said that someday she would take me to see him.”

  “You’re not fooling me, are you, Monica?”

  “No, not at all. Jamison Gray. Yes, that’s his name. Is that the Jamie you mean?”

  “Oh honey, I hope so,” Kling said. “I certainly hope so. Thanks a lot.”

  “Bert?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know when Mommy’s coming back from her vacation?”

  Kling hesitated. “Uh…No, honey, I don’t. I’m awfully sorry.”

  “I sure wish she’d hurry,” Monica said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ll let you go,” she said brightly. “You probably have lots of crooks and things to lock up.”

  “G’bye, Monica. Thanks again.”

  He hung up and lifted the Isola telephone directory from the bottom drawer of his desk.

  “Anything?” Meyer asked.

  “Maybe,” Kling said. “Keep your fingers crossed. Gray, Jack… Gray, Jacqueline…Gray, James…Gray, James…Gray, James…Oh my God, six of them…Wait a minute, wait a minute!…Here it is, Meyer! Jamison Gray! 1220 North Thirtieth. Get your hat!”

  “Hat?” Meyer said, running his hand over his bald pate. “I never wear a hat. Makes you lose your hair, don’t you know?”

  1220 North 30th was a clean-looking four-story brownstone. Meyer and Kling found a mailbox listing for Jamison Gray, and then climbed to the fourth floor of the building and knocked on the door of Apartment 44.

  “Who is it?” a young voice asked.

  “Open the door,” Meyer answered.

  “It’s open,” the voice said.

  Kling, who was remembering Hawes’s near-fatal error, had his hand on the butt of his service revolver. Meyer snapped open the door, standing to one side of it. There was no sound from within the apartment.

  “Come in,” the voice said.

  His hand still on the gun, Kling peered around the doorframe. A boy of no more than twenty was sitting at the far end of the dark room, his face turned to the window.

  From the doorway, Kling asked, “Jamie Gray?”

  “Yes,” the boy said. He wore black trousers and a white shirt open at the throat. His sleeves were rolled up over thin forearms. He did not turn from the window. He kept staring straight ahead of him, as if unaware there was anyone in the room with him.

  “You know Annie Boone?” Kling asked.

  “Yes,” the boy said. He turned slightly from the window, but he looked at Meyer as if he thought he’d asked the question. “Did she send you?”

  “No,” Kling said. He blinked at the boy. The room was very dark. Except for the filtered shaftway light which came through the window, there was no illumination. He found it difficult to see the boy’s features clearly.

  “She didn’t?” Gray asked.

  “No.”

  “Oh,” Gray said. “I thought she might have. She hasn’t been to see me lately, so I thought maybe she sent a message or something.” He turned back to the window. Kling and Meyer moved closer to him, into the room. The boy paid no attention to them.

  “She come to see you often?” Meyer asked.

  “Yes. Once a week, at least. It helped. She’s a wonderful person.”

  “Ever take her out?”

  “Once. We walked around the neighborhood. I don’t feel like going out much.”

  “Where’d you meet, Gray?”

  “In a bar. I don’t know how. I went out one afternoon. I felt like having a glass of beer. Do you ever feel like that? Like having a glass of beer? Nothing tastes better than a glass of beer when you really feel like having one. She sat down at the table with me. Just like that.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She said, ‘What’s your name?’ I told her. I told her Jamie Gray. She was pretty drunk.”

  “Annie Boone?” Kling asked, surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Certain. Her breath smelled terribly, and she was talking strangely. She was drunk. In fact, that’s why she came up here with me. I asked her if she’d like a cup of coffee. She said, ‘Sure,’ and we came back here.”

  “And after that, she kept visiting you, huh?”

  “Yes. She came to talk. She said it was soothing.”

  “You live here alone, Gray?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I used to be a pretty good piano player. I played with a band.”

  “What do you mean used to be? No more?”

  “Well, I can still play. Naturally, I can still play. What happened has nothing to do with my playing. But it’s a little tough getting jobs. Going out and finding them, I mean. Besides, I don’t much feel like it anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, after what happened—”

  “You mean what happened to Annie?”

  “What?” Gray said, lifting his head.

  “Do you own a gun, Gray?”

  “What did you say about—”

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “No, of course not. What would I do with a gun? You said something about Annie. What—”

  “Where were you on the night of June tenth, Gray?”

  “I don’t know. What difference does it make? You said—”

  “Don’t play dumb, Gray!”

  “Dumb? Why? What happened on June tenth?”

  “You’ve seen the newspapers, Gray! Come off it!”

  “Newspapers? How could I…What is it? What are you trying to say?”

  “Were you out of this apartment on June tenth?”

  “I don’t go out much at night. Or even during the day. Not since the acid—”

  “Where were you on June tenth?” Meyer snapped. “Where were you on the night Annie Boone was killed?”

  “Killed!” Gray screamed. He leaped out of the chair and whirled to face the two men. “Killed!” He stared at them blankly. “Killed! Killed!”

  Kling’s service revolver was already in his hand, pointing at Gray’s midsection. Meyer stared at Gray, at the blank eyes in the old-young face.

  “Put up the gun, Bert,” he said softly. “He’s blind.”

  Cotton Hawes vindicated himself on the day they captured Charles Fetterick.

  The call from Sam Kaplowitz came in at 8:27 A.M. Hawes was summoned to the phone.

  “Detective Hawes,” he said.

  “Mr. Hawes, this is Sam.” He paused. “Kaplowitz.”

  “How are you, Mr. Kaplowitz?”

  “Fine, thank you. I’ve located Charlie Fetterick.”

  “Where?” Hawes asked quickly.

  “He’s working for a place called Simpson Engraving. That’s in Riverhead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. From what Mr. Simpson told me, he’s ready to fire him. He hasn’t been in to work for the last week or so.”

  “Thank you,” Hawes said. “Mr. Kaplowitz, I want to get on this right away. Thanks a million for calling.”

  “Don’t mention it. Glad to be of assistance.”

  Hawes hung up. He looked up the number for Simpson Engraving and called it. There was no answer. He had a cup of coffee and tried again at 9:10. He spoke to a man named Alec Simpson who said that Fetterick had been working for him for six months. He was a good worker, until just recently. Without calling in or anything, he’d stayed away from work. It came as no surprise to Hawes that the absenteeism had started on the day after Havilland’s death, the day after Fetterick had been wounded. He asked if Simpson had an address for Fetterick. Simpson had two. The one Fetterick had first used—his mother’s apartment, 312 Bragin Street in Riverhead—and a later one, 127 Boxer Lane. Hawes jotted down the Bragin Street address, thanked Simpson, took his service revolver from the top drawer of his desk, and walked over to where Carella was typing.

  “I’ve found Fetterick,” he said. “Want to be in on the collar?”

  “Think I’ll get shot?” Carella asked.

  Hawes smiled. “There’s a chance,” he said. “The help is sort of inexperienced.”

  “But maybe solid nonetheless,” Carella said. He clipped his holstered gun into his back pocket. “Let’s go.”

  They drove to Riverhead in silence. If either of the men felt any particular tension, neither showed it. When they reached 312 Bragin, they got out of the car silently and looked for Fetterick’s name in the mailboxes. He was in Apartment 2A. They went upstairs quietly. This time, Hawes un-holstered his gun before Carella did. This time, Hawes threw off the safety before Carella did. When they reached the apartment door, Carella stood to one side of it, and Hawes backed off for the kick. He hit the lock flatfooted, and the door sprang open.

  The room was dead silent. They could see an easy chair and a corner of the bed from where they stood in the hallway.

  “Out?” Hawes whispered.

  “I guess,” Carella said.

  “Cover me.”

  Hawes stepped into the room cautiously.

  The arm came from behind the open door. It looped itself around Hawes’s throat and yanked him backward. He was too surprised to flip Fetterick over his shoulder. He had only time to shout, “Steve! Get out!” before he felt the sharp snout of the automatic against his spine.

  “Get in here, cop!” Fetterick said. “You run, and your pal is dead.”

  “Go, Steve!” Hawes said.

  Carella came into the room.

  “Drop the hardware,” Fetterick said. “Both of you. Quick!”

  Hawes dropped his gun. “Shoot, Steve,” he said. “Drop him!”

  “You do, and your pal’s dead,” Fetterick warned. “Drop the gun.”

  Carella dropped the .38.

  “Inside,” Fetterick said.

  Carella moved away from the door, and Fetterick kicked it shut.

  “Big cops,” he said. “Saw you the minute you pulled up downstairs. Big cops.”

  “What now, Fetterick?” Carella asked.

  “Big sons of bitches,” Fetterick said. “Because of you bastards, I couldn’t go to a doctor. I’m still carrying the slug, you bastards.” He stood behind Hawes with the gun muzzle tight against Hawes’s back. Carella moved across the room. “No funny stuff,” Fetterick said. “One cop’s already dead. A few more won’t make it any worse.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” Carella said. “You could get off with life.”

  “What kind of life? I done the prison bit already, thanks. I either get away clean this time or I get the chair. That’s the way I want it.” He winced. The strain of keeping his arm around Hawes’s neck was telling on his wounded shoulder. “Sons of bitches. Couldn’t even go to a doctor,” he said.

  “Where’s your mother, Fetterick?”

  “Down getting something for breakfast. Leave her out of this.”

  “She’s harboring a criminal.”

  “She doesn’t know anything.”

  “She knows you’re wounded.”

  “She doesn’t know it’s a gun wound. You got her on nothing. How’d you get to me? Was it the paint job on the car the first time?”

  “Yes.”

  “I had to have it done. I thought it got spotted once. I couldn’t chance it. What about now?”

  “You shouldn’t have looked for engraving work.”

  “Engraving’s my work,” Fetterick said.

  “We thought burglary and robbery was,” Hawes said snidely.

  “Shut up!” Fetterick warned. Again, he pulled the gun back and then rammed it forward. Hawes felt the snout dig into his flesh. He braced himself.

  “You guys don’t have me tagged for this Annie Boone crap in the papers, do you?”

  “Was it you?” Carella asked.

  “No. I got an alibi a mile long. That’s one thing you don’t stick me with.”

  “Why don’t you put up the gun like a good boy?” Carella asked.

  “What for? So I get life on the state? Big deal. You guys walked into a coffin. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You’re a stupid punk,” Hawes said. “You wouldn’t know how to—”

  Fetterick pulled back the gun, ready to jab it into Hawes’s back again. This time, Hawes was waiting for it. He moved quickly, twisting his body the moment the barrel left his back, twisting it inside the gun, throwing his weight at the same time so that he knocked the gun hand to one side, leaning forward simultaneously, his arms reaching up, his hands grabbing the arm that circled his neck.

  The automatic in Fetterick’s fist exploded, but Fetterick was in midair when it did, spiraling over Hawes’s back. Carella was halfway across the room. Hawes threw Fetterick like a sack of flour. He landed on his back, sat up, and was bringing the automatic to bear when Carella kicked him. He kicked him in the arm, and the second shot went wild, and then Hawes took a flying leap, all 190 pounds of him landing on Fetterick like a falling boulder. He pinioned Fetterick’s arms and then began hitting him until he was senseless. Fetterick dropped the gun. He lay breathing heavily on the floor.

  “That was a big chance,” Carella said to Hawes.

  “He was ready to shoot us,” Hawes said.

  “Yeah. Did I thank you?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks,” Carella said. “Let’s drag this hunk of crap down to the car.”

  Charles Fetterick did not kill Annie Boone. His alibi for the night of June 10 was as solid as a rock. It didn’t help Fetterick very much because the cops already had him on one murder. But, giving the devil his due, Fetterick did not kill Annie Boone.

  “Who killed her?” they had asked at first.

  And now they were asking something else again. Now they were asking, “Who was killed?” They had asked questions about a girl named Annie Boone, and they had learned that there were many girls named Annie Boone, and to know who had killed Annie, they first had to discover which of the Annies had been killed. The vivacious redhead? The intellectual reader and balletgoer? The pool-shooter? The divorced wife? The mistress? The mother? The daughter? The social drinker? The drunkard? The girl who talked with a blind boy? Which was Annie? And which Annie had been killed? Or were they all Annie, and had the killer murdered someone who was all things to all men?