And you are in the corridor, and the problem now is how to give the appearance of the door being locked so that you and your brothers can tug on it to no avail.
And how do you solve the problem?
By using one of the oldest mechanical devices known to mankind.
And who?
It had to be, it couldn't be anyone else but the first person to try the door after the crowbar was used on it, the first person to step close enough to "Who's there?" the voice said.
"Mark Scott?" Carella said.
"Yes? Who's that?"
"Me. Carella."
Mark stepped closer to the small fire. The smoke drifted up past his face. The flames, dwindling now, threw a flickering light onto his large features.
"I thought you'd gone long ago," he said.
He heici a rake in his hands, and he poked at the embers with it now so that the fire leaped up in renewed life, tinting his face with a yellow glow.
"No, I'm still here."
"What do you want?" Mark said.
"You," Carella said simply.
"I don't understand."
"I'm taking you with me, Mark," Carella said.
"What for?"
"For the murder of your father."
"Don't be ridiculous," Mark said.
"I'm being very sensible," Carella said.
"Did you burn it?"
"Burn what? What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the way you locked that door from the outside."
"There's no outside lock on that door," Mark said calmly.
"What you used was just as effective as a lock. And the more a person tugged against it, the more effective it became, the tighter it locked that door."
"What are you talking about?" Mark said.
"I'm talking about a wedge," Carella said, "a simple triangle of wood. A wedge..
"I don't know what you mean," Mark said.
"You know what I mean, damnit. A wedge, a simple triangular piece of wood which you kicked under the door narrow end first. Any outward pressure on the door only pulled it toward the wide end of the triangle, tightening it."
"You're crazy," Mark said.
"We had to use a crowbar on that door. It was locked from the inside. It..
"It was held closed by your wooden wedge which, incidentally, put a dent in the weatherstripping under the door. The crowbar only splintered a lot of wood which fell to the floor. Then you stepped up to the door. You, Mark. You stepped up to it and fumbled with the doorknob and-in the process-kicked out the wedge so that the door, for all intents and purposes, was now unlocked. And then, of course, you and your brothers were able to pull it open, despite your father's weight hanging against ..
"This is ridiculous," Mark said.
"Where'd you..
"I saw Roger sweeping up the debris in the hallway. The splintered wood, and your wedge. A good camouflage, that splintered wood. That's what you're burning now, isn't it? The wood? And the wedge?"
Mark Scott did not answer. He began moving even before Carella had finished his sentence. He swung the rake back over his shoulder and then let loose with it as if he were swinging a baseball bat, catching Carella completely by surprise. The blow struck him on the side of the neck, three of the rake's teeth entering the flesh and drawing blood. Mark pulled the rake back again. Carella, dizzy, stepped forward with his hands outstretched, and again the rake fell, this time on the forearm of Carella's outstretched right arm.
His arm dropped, numb. He tried to lift it, tried to reach for the Police Special in his right hip pocket, but the arm dangled foolishly, and he cursed its inability to move and then noticed that the rake was back again, ready for another swing, and he knew that this swing would do it, this swing would knock his head clear into the River Harb.
He lunged forward, inside the swing, as the rake cut the air. He grasped with his left hand, reaching for a grip on Mark's clothing, catching the tie knotted loosely around his throat. Mark, off balance from his swing, pulled back instantly, and Carella moved forward with the movement of the bigger man, shoving him backward, and then suddenly tugging forward again on the tie.
Mark fell.
He dropped the rake and spread his hands out to cushion the fall, and Carella went down with him, knowing he must not come into contact with the bigger man's hand shand which had already strangled once.
Silently, grotesquely, they rolled on the ground toward the fire, Mark struggling for a grip at Carella's throat, Carella holding to the tie as if it were a hangman's noose.
They rolled over the fire, scattering sparks onto the lawn, almost extinguishing it. And then Carella dropped the tie, and leaped to his feet and, his right hand useless, his left lacking any real power, brought his foot hack and released it in a kick that caught Mark on the left shoulder, spinning him back to the ground.
Carelia closed in.
Again he kicked, and again, using his feet with the precision of a boxer. And then, backing off, he reached behind him with his left hand in a curious inverted draw, and faced Mark Scott with the .38 in his fist.
"Okay, get up," he said.
"I hated him," Mark said.
"I've hated him ever since I was old enough to walk. I've wanted him dead ever since I was fourteen."
"You got what you wanted," Carella said.
"Get up." Mark got to his feet.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Back to the squad," Carella said.
"It'll be a little more peaceful there."
CHAPTER I8
"Where is he?" Virginia Dodge said impatiently. She looked up at the clock.
"It's almost seven thirty Isn't he supposed to report back here?"
"Yes," Byrnes said.
"Then where the hell is he?" She slammed her left fist down on the desk top.
Hawes watched. The bottle of nitro, jarred, did not explode.
It's water, Hawes thought. Goddamnit, it's water!
"Have you ever had to wait for anything, Marcia?" Virginia said to Teddy.
"I feel as if I've been in this squad room all my life."
Teddy watched the woman, expressionless.
"You ron bitch," Angelica Gomez said.
"You should wait in Hell, you dirtee bitch."
"She's angry," Virginia said, smiling.
"The Spanish onion is angry. Take it easy, Chiquita. Just think, your name'll be in the newspapers tomorrow."
"An' your name, too," Angelica said.
"An' maybe it be in the dead columns."
"I doubt that," Virginia said, and all humor left her face and her eyes.