Barlow’s street was quiet. From another block, Carella could hear the sound of the bells on an ice-cream truck. Too early, he thought. You should hit the street after supper, you’re too early. The lawn in front of the Barlow house was turning green: The grass was wet. He wanted to reach down suddenly and touch the wet grass. Up the street, he heard the sound of an automobile turning into the block. He went up the front walk and rang the doorbell. There was no answer. He tried it again. He could hear the chimes sounding somewhere deep inside the silent house. A car door slammed somewhere up the street. He sighed and rang the bell a third time. He waited.
Coming down the front steps, he backed several paces away from the house and looked up at the second-story windows. He wondered if Barlow hadn’t possibly gone directly into the shower upon returning home from work, and he began walking toward the side of the house, looking for a lighted bathroom window upstairs. He kept to the concrete ribbons of the driveway leading to the garage at the back of the house. A high hedge began on the right of the driveway, leading to the fence of the house next door. He went all the way to the back of the house, looking up at the windows. None of them were lighted. Shrugging philosophically, he started back for his car.
The hedge was on his left now, blocking his view of the street, an effective shield screening the back yard.
As he passed the hedge, he was struck.
The blow came suddenly, but with expert precision. He knew it wasn’t a fist, he knew it was something long and hard, but he didn’t have much time to consider exactly what it was because it struck him across his eyes and the bridge of his nose and sent him stumbling back against the hedge, and then someone shoved at him, pushing him beyond and behind the hedge as he tried to cover his face with one hand, tried to reach for his revolver with the other. Another blow came. There was a soft whistling sound on the early night air, the sound a rapier makes, or a stick, or a baseball bat. The blow struck him on his right shoulder, hard, and then the weapon came back again, and again there was the cutting whistle and he felt the sharp biting blow on his left shoulder, and his right hand suddenly went numb. His gun dropped to the ground. The end of the weapon gouged into his stomach like a battering ram, and then the sharp edge was striking his face again, repeatedly, numbingly. He lashed out at the darkness with his left hand, there was blood in his eyes, and a terrible pain in his nose. He felt his fist connect, and he heard someone shout, and then his assailant was running away from him, his shoes clattering on the concrete driveway strips, and then on the sidewalk Carella leaned against the hedge. He heard a car door slamming somewhere up the street, and then the sound of an engine, and then the shrieking of tires as the car pulled away from the curb.
License plate, he thought.
He went around to the other side of the hedge as the car streaked past. He did not see the plate. Instead, he fell forward flat on his face.
* * * *
11
They picked up Amos Barlow at ten o’clock that night, when he returned to his house in Riverhead. By that time Carella had been taken to the hospital where the intern on duty dressed his cuts and insisted, over his protests, that he spend the night there. Barlow seemed surprised by the presence of policemen. Neither of the arresting officers told him why the detectives of the 87th wanted to question him. He went along with the two patrolmen willingly and even agreeably, apparently assuming that something had turned up in connection with his brother.
Cotton Hawes greeted him in the squadroom and then led him to the small interrogation room off the entrance corridor. Detectives Meyer and Kling were sitting there drinking coffee. They offered Barlow a cup, which he refused.
“Would you prefer some tea?” Hawes asked.
“No, thank you,” Barlow said. He watched the three men, waiting for one of them to say something important, but they were seemingly involved in a ritual they had no desire to disturb. They chatted about the weather, and they cracked a joke or two, but they were mostly intent on consuming their beverage. Hawes finished his tea before the other two men finished their coffee. He put down his cup, took the tea bag from the saucer and dropped it delicately into the cup, and then said, “Where were you all night, Mr. Barlow?”
“Were you trying to reach me?”
“Yes,” Hawes said pleasantly. “You told detectives Meyer and Carella that you’re usually home by six, but you seemed to be a little late tonight.”
“Yes,” Barlow said.
“We called your office, too,” Meyer put in. “Anderson and Loeb, isn’t that right? 891 Mayfair?”
“That’s right.”
“A cleaning woman answered the phone,” Meyer said. Told us everyone had left.”
“Yes, I left the office at about five-thirty,” Barlow said.
“Where’d you go then?” Kling asked.
“I had a date.”
“Who with?”
“A young lady named Martha Tamid.”
“Address?”
“1211 Yarley Street. That’s in Riverhead, not far from the Herbert Alexander Oval.”
“What time did you pick her up, Mr. Barlow?”
“At about six. Why?”
“Do you drive, Mr. Barlow?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you have trouble driving?” Kling asked. “I notice you use a cane.”
“I can drive,” Barlow said. He picked up the cane and looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. He smiled. “The leg doesn’t hinder me. Not when I drive.”
“May I see that cane, please, sir?” Hawes asked.
Barlow handed it to him. “Nice-looking cane,” Hawes said.
“Yes.”
“Heavy.”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Barlow, did you go home at any time this evening?” Meyer asked.
“Yes.”
“When was that?”
“At ten o’clock. Your patrolmen were there. They can verify the time.” Barlow looked suddenly puzzled. “I’m sorry, but why are you… ?”
“Did you go home at any time before ten o’clock?” Meyer said.
“No.”
“At, say, six-thirty?” Kling asked.
“No. I didn’t get home until ten. I went to pick up Martha directly from the office.”
“What’d you do, Mr. Barlow? Go out to dinner? A movie?”
“Dinner, yes.”
“No movie?”
“No. We went back to her apartment after dinner.”
“Where’d you eat, Mr. Barlow?”
“At a Japanese restaurant in Isola. Tamayuki, something like that. Martha suggested the place.”