Killer's Choice

'Baloney,' Kling said. 'You love it.'

'Who said no?' Meyer asked. 'Been married to the same woman for almost thirteen years now, God bless her.' His blue eyes twinkled. 'I'm getting used to my cell. I think if she left the door unlocked, I wouldn't even try to escape.'

'You've got it real tough,' Kling said.

'I love her,' Meyer said philosophically. 'What can I do? I'm a sucker for this love bit. Sue me.'

'Were you a cop when you married her?'

'Sure. We met in college. That was in…'

'I didn't know you went to college.'

'I'm a big intellectual,' Meyer said. 'You mean you didn't know? Can't you tell looking at me? I come from a long line of scholars. In the town in Europe where my grandfather came from, he was the only man who could read and write. An honour. A great honour.'

'I believe it,' Kling said.

'You should. Have you ever known me to tell a falsehood? Never. Honest John Meyer, they call me. I studied law in college, did you know that?'

'No,' Kling said.

'Sure. But when I got out of school, people needed lawyers like they needed holes in the head. I got out of school in 1940. You know what people needed then? Not lawyers.'

'What?'

'Soldiers.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah. Uncle Sam wagged his finger. I went. I had a choice? When I got out in 1944, I didn't feel like being a lawyer any more. All of a sudden, I didn't feel like struggling in a little cubbyhole office, chasing ambulances. I joined the force. That's when I married Sarah.'

'Mazeltov,' Kling said, smiling.

'Gesundheit,' Meyer replied, add the telephone rang. Meyer picked it up. 'Detective Meyer, 87th Squad,' he said. 'Who? Yes, he's here. Who's this, please? Okay, just a second.' He covered the mouthpiece. 'A guy named Ted Boone,' he said to Kling. 'Any relation to the dead girl?'

'Her ex-husband,' Kling said. 'I'll take it.' Meyer handed him the phone. 'Hello?' Kling said.

'Detective Kling? This is Ted Boone.'

'Yes, how are you, Mr Boone?'

'Fine, thank you.'

'What is it?'

'Something that might interest you. I don't know. I just went down to the mailbox. There was a letter in it. From Annie.'

'Annie?'

'Yes. It was wrongly addressed, mailed last week some time. I guess the wrong address explains why it took so long to get here. Anyway, it was rather weird.'

'Yes. Anything important in it?'

'Well, I'll let you judge for yourself. Can you come over?'

'Are you still home?'

'Yes.'

'What's the address?' Kling asked. Boone gave it to him. 'I'll be right over,' Kling said, and he hung up.

'Anything?' Meyer asked.

'Might be.'

'Not sure?'

'No.'

'Why don't you ask Detective Cotton Hawes?' Meyer said, his eyes twinkling again. 'I hear he's a regular whiz.'

'And good day to you,' Kling said, and then shoved his way through the slatted rail divider and walked out of the squad room.

Stewart City had been named after British royalty. It was a compact little area of Isola, running for perhaps three square blocks midtown, three square blocks that hugged the curve of the River Dix. Stewart City had been named after British royalty, and the apartment buildings which faced the river in terraced luxury were indeed royal. There was a time when the North Side of Isola had claimed the fashionable addresses, but those addresses had slowly become dowdy so that a River Harb apartment was no longer considered haut monde. Many River Harb apartments, in fact, were part of the 87th Precinct, and the 87th Precinct could hardly be called a fashionable part of the city.

Stewart City was fashionable. The entire South Side was not fashionable, but Stewart City was. You could not get very much more fashionable than Stewart City was fashionable.

Bert Kling felt somewhat like the country mouse visiting the city mouse. His clothes felt suddenly out of style. His walk seemed loutish. He wondered if the hayseed of the slums was showing in his blond hair.

The doorman at Stewart Terrace looked at him as if he were a grocery boy who'd come to the front door when he should have been making deliveries in the rear. Nonetheless, he held the door open for Kling and Kling entered a foyer done in the coolest modern he had ever seen. He felt as if he had stepped into a Picasso painting by accident. He felt he would be dripped on by a Dali watch at any moment. He felt trapped in the prison of a Mondrian. Hastily, he walked to the directory, found Boone's name, and then walked to the elevator bank. He buzzed and waited.

When the elevator arrived, the operator asked, 'Whom did you wish to see, sir?'

'Ted Boone,' he answered.

'Sixth floor,' the operator said.

'I know,' Kling said.

'I see.' The doors slid shut. The elevator moved into action. The operator studied Kling disdainfully. 'Are you a model?' he asked.

'No.'

'I didn't think so,' the operator said, as if this was one point for his side.

'Does Mr Boone have many models coming to his apartment?'

'Not male models,' the operator said disdainfully. 'You're a cop, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'I can always tell a cop,' the operator said. 'They have a distinct aroma about them.'

'I'm demolished,' Kling said. 'You pierced my disguise.'

'Ha,' the operator said.

'I'm really an old old man with a beard. I didn't think you'd tip so easily. It must be that distinct aroma.'

'You here about Boone's ex-wife?' the operator asked, smugly knowledgeable.

'Are you a detective?' Kling said.

'Come on,' the operator said, slightly insulted.

'I thought you might be. You interrogate excellently. Come over to the precinct. We may have a spot for you.'

'Ha, ha,' the operator said.

'I'm serious.' Kling paused. 'But you're not five eight, are you?'

The operator stood erect. 'I'm five eleven.'

'Oh, good. Over twenty-one?'

'I'm twenty-four!'

'Excellent, excellent! twenty-twenty vision without glasses?'

'Perfect eyesight.'

'Have you a criminal record?'

'Certainly not!' the operator said indignantly.

'Then you've got a career ahead of you with the police department,' Kling said. 'And you can start at the fabulous salary of close to $3,800 a year, which is probably half what you make in this place. But think of the advantages. You can stand around and take all kinds of snide remarks from the public if you're a cop. It's wonderful. Nothing like it. Makes a man out of you.'

'I'm not interested.'

'What's the matter?' Kling asked. 'Don't you want to be a man?'

'Six,' the operator said, and he looked at Kling disdainfully when he let him out of the car, and then slammed the door behind him.

Kling walked down the corridor, found Boone's door, and pushed the buzzer set in the jamb. From within the house, Kling heard a series of chimes playing a tune. He didn't recognize the tune at first because it was more intricate than anything he had ever heard on a set of chimes before. He pushed the buzzer again.

'The photographers will snap us,' the chimes chimed, 'and you'll find that you're in the rotogravure.'

Irving Berlin, Kling thought. Easter Parade. Photographers must be making good money these days if they can afford chimes that play parts of Easter Parade. I wonder if Boone would like to be a cop. Good starting salary, opportunity for advancement, excellent working con…

The door opened.

Boone was standing in it. He wore a Chinese robe which was seven sizes too large for him. 'Come in,' he said. 'I was dressing. I've got a sitting in a half hour.'