Lady Killer

'Pete want to pick him up?'

'I haven't told him yet.'

'What's his name?'

'M. Samalson.'

'You'd better tell Pete quick,' Hawes said. 'I got a good look at the guy who slugged me. If it was Samalson, I'll know it.'

'And we've also got the prints to compare, in case your memory's faulty,' Carella said. He paused. 'How'd you make out with Lady Astor?'

Hawes winked and said nothing.

Carella sighed and went into Byrnes's office.

The closest Calm's Point precinct to M. Samalson's home address was the 102nd. Byrnes put in a call to the detective squad there and asked them to pick up and deliver Samalson as soon as possible.

At 2.00 p.m. a new batch of kids in dungarees and red-striped tee shirts was trotted into the precinct squad-room. Dave Murchison was brought up from the desk. He looked the kids over, stopped before one of them, and said, 'This is the kid.'

Byrnes walked over to the boy.

'Did you deliver a letter here this morning?' he asked.

'No,' the boy said.

'He's the kid,' Murchison insisted.

'What's your name, son?' Byrnes asked.

'Frankie Annuci.'

'Did you bring a letter here this morning?'

'No,' the kid said.

'Did you come into the building and ask for the desk sergeant?'

'No,' the kid said.

'Did you hand a letter to this man here?' Byrnes said, indicating Murchison,

'No,' the kid said.

'He's lying,' Murchison said. 'This is the kid.'

'Come on, Frankie,' Byrnes said gently. 'You did deliver that letter, didn't you?'

'No.'

There was fear in the boy's wide blue eyes, fear of the law, a fear deeply ingrained in the mind of every precinct citizen.

'You're not in any trouble, son,' Byrnes said. 'We're trying to find the man who gave you that letter. Now, you did deliver it, didn't you?'

'No,' the kid said.

Byrnes turned to the other detectives, his patience beginning to wear thin. Hawes walked to the boy, joining Byrnes.

'You've got nothing to be afraid of, Frankie. We're trying to find the man who gave you that letter, do you understand? Now, where did you first meet him?'

'I didn't meet anybody,' the kid said.

'Get rid of the rest of these kids, Meyer,' Byrnes said. Meyer began shuttling the other boys out of the room. Frankie Annuci watched their departure, his eyes growing wider.

'How about it, Frankie?' Carella asked. Unconsciously he had drifted into the circle around the boy. When Meyer had got rid of the other boys, he came back to stand with Byrnes, Hawes, and Carella. There was something amusing about the scene. The ridiculousness of it struck each of the detectives at the same moment. They had automatically assumed the formation for intense interrogation, but their victim was a boy no older than ten, and they felt somewhat like bullies as they surrounded him, ready to fire their questions in machine-gun bursts. And yet, this boy was a possible lead to the man they were seeking, a lead that might prove more fruitful than the thus far phantom name of M. Samalson. They waited, as if unwilling to begin the barrage until their commanding officer gave the signal to fire.

Byrnes opened it.

'Now, we're going to ask some questions, Frankie,' he said gently, 'and we want you to answer them. All right?'

'All right,' Frankie said.

'Who gave you the letter?'

'Nobody.'

'Was it a man?'

'I don't know.'

'A woman?' Hawes asked.

'I don't know.'

'Do you know what the letter said?' Carella asked.

'No.'

'Did you open it?'Meyer asked.

'No.'

'But there was a letter?'

'No.'

'You did deliver a letter?'

'No.'

'You're lying, aren't you?'

'No.'

'Where'd you meet the man?'

'I didn't meet anybody.'

'Near the park?'

'No.'

'The candy store?'

'No.'

'One of the side streets?'

'No.'

'Was he driving a car?'

'No.'

'There was a man?'

'I don't know.'

'Was he a man or a woman?'

'I don't know.'

'The letter said he was going to kill somebody tonight. Did you know that?'

'No.'

'Would you like this man or this woman to kill somebody?'

'No.'

'Well, he's going to kill somebody. That's what the letter said. He's going to kill a lady.'

'She may be your mother, Frankie.'

'Would you like this man to kill your mother?'

'No,' Frankie said.

'Then tell us who he is. We want to stop him.'

'I don't know who he is!' Frankie blurted.

'You never saw him before today?'

Frankie began crying. 'No,' he said. 'Never.'

'What happened, Frankie?' Carella asked, handing the boy his handkerchief.

Frankie dabbed at his eyes and then blew his nose. 'He just came over to me, that's all,' he said. 'I didn't know he was gonna kill anybody. I swear to God!'

'We know you didn't know, Frankie. Was he on foot or in a car?'

'A car.'

'What make?'

'I don't know.'

'What colour?'

'Blue.'

'A convertible?'

'No.'

'A sedan?'

'What's a sedan?'

'Hard-top.'

'Yes.'

'Did you see the licence number?'

'No.'

'What happened, Frankie?'

'He called me over to the car. My mother said I should never get in cars with strangers, but he didn't want me to get in the car. He asked me if I wanted to make five bucks.'

'What did you say?'

'I said how?'

'Go ahead, Frankie,' Byrnes said.

'He said I should take this letter to the police station around the corner.'

'What street were you on, Frankie?'

'Seventh. Right around the corner.'

'Okay. Go ahead.'

'He said I should come in and ask for the desk sergeant and then give it to him and leave.'

'Did he give you the five dollars then or later?'

'Right then,' Frankie said. 'With the letter.'

'Have you still got it?' Byrnes asked.

'I spent some of it.'

'We wouldn't get anything from a bill, anyway,' Meyer said.

'No,' Byrnes said. 'Did you get a good look at this man, Frankie?'

'Pretty good.'

'Can you describe him?'

'Well, he had short hair.'

'Very short?'

'Pretty short.'

'What colour eyes?'

'Blue, I think. They were light, anyway.'

'Any scars you could see?'

'No.'

'Moustache?'

'No.'

'What was he wearing?'

'A yellow sports shirt,' Frankie said.

'That's our man,' Hawes put in. 'That's who I tangled with in the park.'

'I want a police artist up here,' Byrnes said. 'Meyer, get one, will you? If this Samalson doesn't work out, we may be able to use a picture to show around.' He turned sharply. The phone in his office was ringing. 'Just a second, Frankie,' he said, and he went into the office and answered the phone.

When he returned, he said, 'That was the Hundred and Second. They checked Samalson's home address. He isn't there. His landlady says he works in Isola.'

'Where?' Carella asked.

'A few blocks from here. A supermarket called Beaver Brothers, Inc. Do you know it?'

'I'm half-way there,' Carella said.

On the telephone, Meyer Meyer said, "This is the Eighty-seventh Squad. Lieutenant Byrnes wants an artist up here right away. Can you—?'

Cotton Hawes knew the instant Carella brought the man into the squad-room that he was not the man who'd assaulted him in the park.

Martin Samalson was a tall, thin man wearing the white apron of a supermarket clerk, the apron somehow emphasizing his gauntness. His hair was blond and wavy and worn long. His eyes were brown.