“I just hate to think of that cat sitting there waiting,” Carella said, and the telephone rang. He snatched the receiver from the cradle.
“87th Squad, Carella,” he said.
“This is Allan Carter,” the voice on the other end said.
“Ah, Mr. Carter, good,” Carella said, “I’ve been trying to reach you. Thanks for returning my call.”
“Is this about Sally Anderson?” Carter asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I know nothing whatever about her death.”
“We’d like to talk to you anyway, sir,” Carella said. “As her employer—”
“I’ve never heard it described that way before,” Carter said.
“Sir?”
“I’ve never heard a producer described as an employer,” Carter said, raising his voice as though Carella hadn’t quite heard him the first time around. “In any event, I was in Philadelphia last night. Her death came as a total surprise to me.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure it did,” Carella said. He paused. “We’d still like to talk to you, Mr. Carter.”
“We’re talking now,” Carter said.
“In person, Mr. Carter.”
There was a silence on the line. Carella leaped into it.
“Can you see us at three?” he asked. “We won’t take up much of your time.”
“I have an appointment at three,” Carter said.
“When will you be free, sir?”
“This is Saturday,” Carter said. “I just got back from Philly, I’m calling you from home. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and Monday’s a holiday. Can we meet sometime Tuesday? Or Wednesday? I won’t be going back to Philly till late Wednesday.”
“No, sir,” Carella said, “I’m afraid we can’t.”
“Why not?” Carter said.
“Because a twenty-five-year-old girl’s been murdered,” Carella said, “and we’d like to talk to you today, sir — if that’s all right with you.”
Carter said nothing for several seconds.
Then he said, “Four o’clock,” and gave Carella the address, and hung up abruptly.
5
Allan Carter lived in a high-rise apartment building snugly nestled into a row of luxury hotels overlooking Grover Park West. Because the streets had not yet been plowed entirely clear of snow, it took the detectives almost a half-hour to drive the fifty-odd blocks from the station house to Carter’s building. Actually, if the forecast for more snow tomorrow was accurate, the sanitmen were laboring somewhat like Hercules in the Augean stables. The day was gloomy and bitterly cold. The snow had hardened and was difficult to move. As the detectives approached Carter’s building, a uniformed doorman was trying to break away the ice that had formed in front of the doorway after the sidewalk had been shoveled. He worked with a long-handled ice-chipper that would have made a good weapon, Carella thought. Meyer was thinking the same thing.
Another uniformed man was sitting behind a desk in the lobby. Carella and Meyer identified themselves, and the man picked up a phone, said, “Mr. Carella and Mr. Meyer to see you, sir,” and then cradled the receiver and said, “You can go right up, it’s apartment 37.”
The uniformed elevator man said, “They say it’s gonna snow again tomorrow.”
Meyer looked at Carella.
They got off on the third floor, walked a long carpeted hallway to Carter’s apartment, pressed the bell button set in the doorjamb, heard chimes sounding inside, and then a voice calling, “Come in, it’s open!”
Carella opened the door, and almost tripped over a piece of brown leather luggage in the entrance hall. He stepped around the bag, motioned for Meyer to be careful, and then moved from the foyer into a vast living room with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the park. The naked branches of the trees beyond were laden with snow. The sky behind them was gray and roiling. Allan Carter was sitting on a long sofa upholstered in a pale green springtime fabric. He had a telephone to his ear. He was wearing a dark brown business suit over a lemon-colored shirt. Gold cufflinks showed at his sleeves. A chocolate brown tie hung loose over his massive chest. The top button of his shirt was unfastened. Listening to whoever was on the other end of the phone connection, he gestured for the detectives to come in.
“Yes, I understand that,” he said into the phone. “But, Dave... uh-huh, uh-huh.” He listened impatiently, sighing, pulling a face, tugging simultaneously at a lock of the thick white hair that crowned his head. The white hair was premature, Carella guessed; Carter seemed to be a man in his early forties. His eyes were a piercing blue, reflecting wan, fading winter light from the window wall. He looked suntanned. Carella wondered if the weather was better in Philadelphia than it was here. He suddenly thought of all the Philadelphia jokes he knew. He had never been to Philadelphia.
“Well, what did Annie get?” Carter said into the phone. He listened and then said, “That’s exactly my point, Dave. This is a bigger hit than Annie ever was. Well, that’s just too damn bad, things are tough all over. You tell Orion the price is firm, and if they can’t meet it, tell them to pass, they’re just wasting our time here. I recognize I’m talking deal-breaker, Dave, I’m not a babe in the woods. Tell them.”
He hung up abruptly.
“Forgive me,” he said, rising and coming to where the detectives were standing, his hand extended. “I’m Allan Carter, can I get either one of you a drink?”
“No, thanks,” Carella said.
“Thanks,” Meyer said, shaking his head.
“So,” Carter said. “Hell of a thing, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” Carella said.
“Any idea yet who did it?”
“No, sir.”
“Some lunatic,” Carter said, shaking his head and walking toward the bar. He lifted a decanter. “Sure?” he said. “No?” He shrugged, poured two fingers of whiskey into a low glass, added a single ice cube to it, said, “Cheers,” drank the entire contents of the glass in a single swallow, and poured more whiskey into it. “Philadelphia,” he said, shaking his head as if simple mention of that city explained his need for alcoholic reinforcement.
“When did you learn about her death, Mr. Carter?” Carella asked.
“When I got off the train. I picked up a paper at the station.”
“What were you doing in Philadelphia?”
“Trying out a new play there.”
“Another musical?” Meyer asked.
“No, a straight play. Big headache,” Carter said. “It’s a thriller... have you seen Deathtrap?”
“No,” Meyer said.
“No,” Carella said.
“It’s sort of like Deathtrap. Except it’s lousy. I don’t know how I ever got talked into doing it. First time I’ve ever done a straight play.” He shrugged. “Probably go right down the drain when it gets here. If it ever gets here.”
“So you read about Miss Anderson in the papers,” Carella prompted.
“Yes,” Carter said.
“What’d you think?”
“What could I think? This city,” he said, and shook his head.
“How well did you know her?” Carella asked.
“Hardly at all. Just another one of the dancers, you know? We’ve got sixteen of them in the show. Have you seen the show?”
“No,” Meyer said.
“No,” Carella said.
“I’ll get you some house seats,” Carter said. “It’s a good show. Biggest hit this town has seen in a long time.”
“Who hired her, Mr. Carter?”
“What? Oh, the girl. It was a joint decision.”
“Whose?”