“Thanks again,” I said.
He took my hand and shook it. “Tell your partner I’m clean, will you? I’ve spent enough time on the inside.”
“I’ll tell him.”
He closed the door behind me. I waited a few minutes, and then pressed my ear to the wood. Inside the apartment, Charlie Carruthers was whistling.
Twenty-Two
This city is divided into eight different sections, each with a telephone directory of its own. I checked the books for all eight, and carne up with a total of twenty-seven Arthur Wylies scattered north, south, east, and west. With a little luck, if I started a door-to-door search that very minute, I figured I could visit all twenty-seven of them by next Saint Swithin’s Day. I decided to call the Motor Vehicle Bureau instead. There are four police clerks attached to a special unit at the MVB, and their job is to provide information to any police officer, uniformed or plainclothes, investigating a case involving a motor vehicle. The girl who answered the phone sounded nineteen, and made me feel a hundred and four. I identified myself as Detective-Lieutenant Benjamin Smoke.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” she said, “would you mind letting me have your shield number, please?”
“83-074-26,” I said.
“Yes, and what squad is that, Lieutenant?”
“The Nine-One,” I said, giving her the number of the squad I’d commanded in the dear dead days.
“And the telephone number there?”
“Aldon 7-6140.”
“Is this a registration search?” she asked.
“It is.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Arthur Wylie, no middle initial, suspect vehicle a red-and-white Volkswagen bus.”
“What year, sir?”
“I don’t have one. I’m looking for the man’s address.”
“I’ll have to get back to you on this, sir.”
“This is a homicide case,” I said.
“Ah, yes,” she said, “aren’t they all?”
“Victim’s name is Peter Greer,” I said, “employee of Haskins Mortuary on Sixth and Stilson. Check with Lower Homicide, if you like.”
“One moment, sir,” she said.
I waited one moment, and then another, and then deposited a dime when the operator told me my three minutes were up. I was beginning to believe the girl was actually checking with Homicide, and that she’d come back on the line to tell me I was a fraud. Instead, when she did come back, she said, “I’ve got that information for you, sir. We have a 1969 Volkswagen bus, red-and-white, registered to an Arthur J. Wylie at 574 Waverly Street. Did you want the registration number?”
“Yes, please.”
“S22 dash 9438.”
“Thank you,” I said, and hung up. I looked at my watch. It was now twenty minutes past four. Waverly Street was crosstown and all the way uptown, approximately a half-hour’s traveling time from where I’d parked Maria’s Pinto. I hurried back to the garage, paid and tipped the attendant, and drove off with a rising sense of gloom.
Twenty-Three
The woman who answered the door was a good-looking brunette in her middle thirties. She was wearing dark slacks and a pale-green sweater, no make-up and no shoes. Through the wood, I had told her I was a police officer, and now she asked to see my shield. She glanced at it silently and then stepped back into the apartment I followed her into the living room. It was inexpensively but tastefully furnished; someone had made a small budget go a long way. We sat in chairs facing each other.
“I’m looking for Arthur Wylie,” I said.
“I’m Helene Wylie,” she said. “His wife.” Her eyes were very blue. She squinted at me across the width of the room, giving the impression that she was either nearsighted or in pain. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap. “He isn’t here,” she said. “I don’t know where he is.”
“Would he still be at work?’
“No.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know. Why are you looking for him? Has he done something?”
“Mrs. Wylie, is your husband employed?”
“He was employed. I don’t know what he is now. He left the job in July.”
“What job was that?”
“He worked for a travel agency.”
“Where?”
“Shangri-La Travel,” she said. “On Holman and Sixty-first.”
“But you don’t know where he’s working now.”
“I have no idea.”
“Mrs. Wylie,” I said, “are you and your husband living together?”
“No,” she said. “We were separated in March.”
“Where is he living now?”
“I don’t know. His lawyer doesn’t know, either. He moved out of his old apartment in July, and we haven’t been able to locate him since.”
“What’s the last address you have for him?”
“You won’t find him there.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been there. A Puerto Rican family is living in his old apartment.”
“Why’d you go there?”
“I was worried about him. I hadn’t heard from him, and then I got a call from Leon—the owner of the agency, Leon Eisner—and he told me Arthur hadn’t shown up for work, so I... I went to his apartment. I thought he might be sick. He was living alone, you see, and I thought he might be sick. I went to find out. I love him, you see. I still love him.”
“When was this, Mrs. Wylie? When did you go to his apartment?”
“In July, just after the holiday. The Fourth fell on a Thursday, and Leon called me on Friday to say Arthur hadn’t come back to work. I went right over to the apartment.”
“And he was gone?”
“Yes. Diaz. That... that was the name of the family living there.”
“And you don’t know where he is now?”
“No. I wish I did. I’m sure if we could talk this over, we could...” She shrugged, and then suddenly turned her head away and covered her face with her hand. I waited. She stood up, walked to where her handbag was resting on top of the television set, unclasped it, and took out a handkerchief. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Mrs. Wylie, why did you and your husband separate?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Was there another woman involved?”
“No. No, there wasn’t. No.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yes, I am. I asked him, you see. When he told me he ... he wanted to leave, I... I naturally asked him if there was another woman, and he said, ‘No, Helene, there’s no one else, I simply want out.’” She blew her nose, and then sniffed. Her eyes were still wet. “After twenty years of marriage,” she said, “he simply wanted out.”
“Do you have any children?”
“No.”
“Where does the marriage stand now?”
“I don’t know. Arthur wants a divorce, and my lawyers keep telling me there’s no holding a man who wants to go.” She turned away again, fighting a fresh wave of tears. “Forgive me,” she said. “It’s just... if we had a little time, I’m sure Arthur and I could... could talk it over and... work it out, you see.” She turned back to me. “I tried to explain that to him on the phone, the last time I spoke to him. Just before he disappeared.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he wanted the divorce. He said he was through negotiating. He said if I didn’t agree to a settlement soon, I’d be sorry.”
“Had you been negotiating for a settlement?”
“Yes, through our lawyers. I turned down every offer.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want a divorce. I knew the offers were fair, I know what his earning capacity is. He’s held a lot of different jobs over the years, but his income hasn’t varied that much. So I know he was making fair offers, even generous offers, I suppose. But, you see... if I agreed to a settlement, the next step would be a divorce. And... I don’t want one. I want Arthur back.”