Classic. I was dealing with a classic husband on the run. As depressing as this realization was, it was followed within the next thirty seconds by an overwhelming sense of despair. It was then that I suddenly understood the entire scheme. And although I admitted it had taken at least a modicum of ingenuity to concoct, the stupidity of its execution disappointed me nonetheless. I now knew what would happen next. I didn’t know when it would happen, or where it would happen, or even how Natalie and Arthur hoped to make it convincing after such sloppy foreplay, so to speak. But it would undoubtedly happen soon, unless I got to them first and stopped the urgent timetable that had been set in motion on Sunday night. The saddest part of it all was that it didn’t even matter any more. Stop them or not, the damage had already been done; an innocent bystander named Peter Greer had already lost his life.
Despondently, I started the long drive downtown to Oberlin Crescent.
Twenty-Four
I didn’t expect to find Wylie in his apartment, and he didn’t disappoint me. Or, depending upon how you looked at it, his absence was grievously offending in that he was performing absolutely according to expectations. It was now close to six-thirty. Dusk was already upon the city, nighttime fast approaching; if Wylie planned to do with John Hiller’s corpse what I anticipated he’d do, his scheme would best be implemented in the dark. Stan Durski looked puzzled. He had let me into the apartment with a passkey, and he followed me around now as I opened empty drawers and peered into empty closets.
“Looks like he flew the coop,” he said.
“Looks that way. Did you see him go?”
“Nope,” Durski said.
“Did he tell you he was moving out?”
“Nope. Makes no never-mind to me, though. Had the rent paid till October first. Only thing bothers me is all this furniture he left behind. Another load of crap to get rid of,” he said, and shook his head.
“Mr. Durski,” I said, “were you awake at eleven-thirty, twelve o’clock last night?”
“I was,” he said.
“You didn’t see Mr. Wakefield when he got home, did you?”
“Nope, I didn’t.”
I looked around the apartment again. I could find absolutely nothing that told me where he had gone. I thanked Durski, and then went downstairs and walked to the garage where Natalie Fletcher had habitually parked her station wagon. A different attendant was in the small office, but he was listening to the same rock-and-roll station. I identified myself, and told him I was looking for a 1969 Volkswagen bus.
“Red-and-white?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s Mr. Wakefield’s,” he said. “He was in here just a little while ago. I almost didn’t recognize the poor guy.”
“What do you mean?”
“He had to shave off all his hair. His mustache, too. He’s got some kind of skin disease, he told me. The doctor made him shave all his hair off. Something, huh? He looked like that guy on television. What’s that guy’s name, the one who plays the baldy-bean cop?”
“What time was he in here?”
The attendant looked at his watch. “About a half-hour ago,” he said. “Put some valises in the bus, and drove off.”
“Anything else in the bus?”
“Like what?”
“Like anything five feet eleven inches long?”
“Huh?”
“Anything wrapped up or covered?”
“No, I didn’t notice anything like that,” the attendant said.
“Were you here when he came in last night?”
“No, I go off at eleven. He must’ve come in after that. Manuel must’ve been here. He’s got the eleven-to-eight shift.”
“Have you got Manuel’s phone number?”
“Huh?”
“I want to call him.”
“Oh. Sure, it’s on the wall there. You see that card there? That’s all the guys who work here.”
I looked at the card. There were half a dozen hand-lettered names on it. I found the name Manuel Herrera, and alongside it his telephone number. “Thanks,” I said, and went out into the garage and dialed the number from the wall phone alongside the men’s room. The same stale urine stench assailed my nostrils. A woman answered on the sixth ring. She spoke with a Spanish accent. I told her I wanted to talk to Manuel, and she said, “Wait a minute, please.” I waited. When he came on the line, I recognized his voice as belonging to the man who’d allowed me to rummage through his trash basket the night before.
“This is Lieutenant Smoke,” I said, “I talked to you last night about Natalie Fletcher’s Buick station wagon.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I said. “Were you working when Amos Wakefield brought his VW bus in?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Came in close to midnight, must’ve been.”
“Anything in the car?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you happen to notice whether there was anything on the floor of the car?”
“Just the rug,” he said.
“What kind of a rug?”
“Just a rug he had rolled up.”
“Did he say anything about it?”
“Just asked me to keep an eye on it, that’s all. I parked it up on the second floor and locked all the doors.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”
“Yeah, don’t mention it,” he said. He sounded puzzled. I hung up and walked out of the garage. The sky to the west was shaded from black to blue to purple where the last thin line of daylight limned the tops of the buildings. I looked at my watch. It was seven minutes past seven. It would be dark within the next five minutes.
A rug. He had wrapped John Hilier’s body in a rug. Had that been Natalie Fletcher’s idea? Had she remembered a time in her youth when she’d been carried into Caesar’s presence rolled inside a rug? I sighed heavily, found a pay phone that was not close to a toilet, called Henry Garavelli’s shop, and got no answer. I then called my own apartment. I let the phone ring a dozen times, and then hung up. Lisette had already gone home.
Twenty-Five
It was ten minutes to eight when I got to the Twelfth Precinct. The desk sergeant told me Captain Cupera was out. I asked for Detective Horowitz, and the sergeant told me he was out, too. I didn’t bother asking for O’Neil. Instead, I politely inquired whether it would be okay to use the pay phone in the swing room. The sergeant shrugged. I walked away from the desk and into the next room. A patrolman was sitting there in his undershirt, drinking coffee. I had the feeling he was the same patrolman who’d been there yesterday. I went into the phone booth, closed the door, and dialed the Twelfth Precinct. In the muster room outside, I heard the telephone ringing.
“Twelfth Precinct,” the desk sergeant said. “Sergeant Knowles.”
“Captain Cupera,” I said.
“Who’s calling?”
“Deputy Inspector Walsh,” I said.
“One moment, sir.”
I waited.
“Captain Cupera,” Coop said.
“Coop,” I said, “this is Ben, don’t hang up.”
“Benny, I told you—”
“I’m right outside in the swing room,” I said. “I’ve got some information for you.”
“What kind of information?”
“I know who owns that Volkswagen bus, and I’ve got the registration number.”
“Come in,” he said. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
I hung up and went out into the muster room again. Coop had already buzzed the sergeant. As I approached the desk, he said, “It’s okay for you to go in. I wish they’d make up their damn minds.” I crossed the room to the frosted-glass door and knocked.