Killer's Choice

It would have been easy to believe she was a crackpot.

But even in a precinct like the 30th, Hawes had learned that the ones who look like crackpots are very often sane and reliable witnesses. In fact, the sober-looking citizens very often turned out to be the nuts. So he gently led the old woman away from the crowd and into the grocery store, holding her elbow, the way he would have held the elbow of his own grandmother. Crazy Connie seemed to enjoy the notoriety. She looked up at Hawes as if she had won him on a blind date and was terribly pleased with her good fortune. Hawes, grinning like a courtier, led her to a chair.

'Won't you sit down, madam?' he said.

'Miss,' Crazy Connie corrected.

'Ah yes, of course. What is your name, Miss?'

'Connie,' she answered. 'Connie Fitzhenry.' Her voice was clear and bold. It did not at all sound like the voice of a crackpot.

'Miss Fitzhenry,' Hawes said pleasantly, 'one of the patrolmen tells me you saw a man get into a car and drive away. Is that right?'

'What's your name?' Connie asked.

'Detective Hawes,' he said.

'How do you do?'

'How do you do? Is that right?'

'Is what right, sir?' Connie asked.

'That you saw a man get into a car and drive away?'

'I did indeed,' Connie said. 'Do you know how old I am?'

'How old, Miss Fitzhenry?'

'Seventy-four. Do I look seventy-four?'

'I would say you weren't a day over sixty.'

'Would you really?'

'I would really.'

'Thank you.'

'About this man…'

'He came running around the corner,' Connie said, 'and he got into a car and drove away. I saw him.'

'Was he carrying a gun?'

'No, sir.'

'Any other weapon?'

'No, sir.'

'What makes you think he was the man who held up Mr Rigatoni?'

'I didn't say I thought he was the man who held up anyone. I'm only saying he came around the corner and got into a car and drove away.'

'I see,' Hawes said, and he began to think he'd judged wrongly this time. Connie Fitzhenry was showing all the signs of a first-grade crackpot. 'What I'm driving at, Miss Fitzhenry,' he said, 'is why you felt the man was in any way suspicious.'

'I got my reasons,' Connie said.

'What are they?'

'My reasons.'

'Yes, but…'

'You think this young man held up Mr Rigatoni?' Connie asked.

'Well, we're trying to…'

'What did he look like?' Connie asked.

'Well…'

'What colour hair did he have?'

'Blond,' Hawes said.

'Mmm-huh. Eyes?'

'We don't know.'

'What was he wearing?'

'A sports shirt with no tie. A sports jacket. And black gloves,' Hawes answered, suddenly wondering how he had got on the wrong end of the interrogation stick. He looked at Connie. Connie wasn't saying a word. 'Well?' he asked.

'Well what?'

'Well, is that the man you saw?'

'That's the man I saw, all right.'

'Well!' Hawes said. 'Now we're getting somewhere.'

'I knew there was something fishy as soon as he pulled away from the kerb,' Connie said. 'I didn't need your description.'

'What made you think so?'

'Why, the man was bleeding,' Connie said. 'His blood is all over the sidewalk around the corner.'

Hawes nodded to the patrolman, and the patrolman left the shop to check on Connie's statement.

'Did you happen to notice the licence plate on the car?'

'Yes, I noticed it,' Connie said.

'What number was it?'

'Oh, I didn't notice the number. I just noticed there was a licence plate on the car.'

'What year and make was the car?' Hawes asked. 'Would you know that?'

'Of course I would. You don't think I do, do you? You don't think a seventy-four-year-old woman wonders about such things. Well, I can tell you the year and make of any car on the road. I've got good eyes. Twenty-twenty vision even though I'm seventy-four years old.'

'What was the…'

'That car across the street there is a 1954 Buick. The one behind it is a Ford station wagon, 1952. The one…'

'How about the one that man got into?' Hawes asked.

'You don't think I know, do you?'

'I think you do know,' Hawes said. 'I just wish you'd tell me.'

Connie grinned crookedly. 'It was a 1947 Dodge.'

'Sedan?'

'Yes.'

'Four-door or two?'

'Four-door.'

'What colour?'

'Green. Not the manufacturer's green. The Chrysler Corporation never put a coat of green like that on any of their cars.'

'What sort of green was it?'

'Almost a Kelly green. That car'd been repainted. That wasn't the original paint job.'

'Are you sure?'

'I can tell you any car on the road. I'm good on cars. I never saw an original paint job like that one. Not even today with the crazy colours they're putting on cars.'

'Well, thanks a lot, Miss Fitzhenry,' Hawes said. 'You've certainly been a help.' He was leading her to the doorway of the grocery store. She stopped, smiled up at him pleasantly, her crooked teeth showing.

'Don't you want my address?' she asked.

'What for, Miss Fitzhenry?'

'So you'll know where to send the cheque,' she said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

In the squad room, Bert Kling was talking on the phone to his fiancée, Claire Townsend.

'I can't talk,' he said.

'Can't you even say you love me?'

'No,' he said.

'Why not?'

'Because.'

'Is someone standing near your desk?'

'Yes.'

'Who?'

'Meyer.'

'Did you call me?' Meyer asked, turning.

'No. No, Meyer.'

'Do you love me?' Claire asked.

'Yes,' Kling said. He glanced surreptitiously at Meyer. Meyer was not a fool, and he probably knew exactly what Claire was asking, and was probably enjoying Kling's discomfort immensely. Kling would never understand women. A beautiful girl like Claire, a sensible girl like Claire, should realize that a Detective Squad Room was not the place to be bandying about words of love and devotion. He formed a mental picture of her as she spoke, the black void of her hair, the brown depths of her eyes, the narrow nose, the high cheek bones, the curved length of her body.

'Tell me you love me,' she said.

'What are you doing?' he asked.

'I'm studying.'

'For what?'

'A sociology exam.'

'Good. Go study. If you want to graduate this semester…'

'Will you marry me when I graduate?'

'Not until you get a job.'

'If you were a lieutenant, I wouldn't have to get a job.'

'I know, but I'm only a Detective 3rd.'

'This is my last exam.'

'Did you pass the others?'

'Snaps.'

'Good. Go study.'

'I'd rather talk to you.'

'I'm busy. You're wasting the taxpayers' time.'

'All right, Conscientious.'

'Conscientious, anyone?' Kling asked, and Claire burst out laughing.

'That does it,' she said. 'Good-bye. Will you call me tonight?'

'Yes.'

'I love you, cop,' she said, and she hung up.

'The girl friend?' Meyer asked.

'Mmm,' Kling said.

'L'amour, it's wonderful,' Meyer said.

'Go to hell.'

'I'm serious. June, moon, spoon, croon. When's the wedding?'

'Not this June, that's for sure.'

'Next June?'

'Maybe sooner.'

'Good,' Meyer said. 'Get married. There's nothing like marriage for a cop. It gives him a sense of justice. He knows already what it feels like to be a prisoner, so he doesn't hurry to make false arrests.'