A Dog's Ransom (20 page)

“You did it?” Marylyn said with surprise.

“I don’t sign them,” Greta said. “For me it spoils the composition.”

Clarence got up to look at the paintings more closely. He hadn’t known either that three of the canvases on the walls were Greta’s. Two were landscapes, sunlit white houses, a yellow beach, rather abstract and without people. Clarence was impressed. The paintings appeared to have been quickly done, but perhaps weren’t. At any rate, they looked painted by someone who knew exactly what he wanted to do, and Clarence, wanting to say this to Greta, found himself tongue-tied, because it was a compliment.

“Greece. Last summer . . .” Greta was saying to Marylyn.

“I envy you,” Clarence said to Ed.

“Envy me what?”

“Everything.”

Marylyn looked at Clarence with a hint that they should leave, and Clarence indicated that he would leave it up to her.

“It’s time we should go, I think. Thank you both—for giving us such a nice evening,” Marylyn said.

“You both must come again. We know
some
young people but not enough. Never enough.” Greta’s voice was warm.

Ed helped Marylyn with her cape.

“I’ll be in touch about Wednesday night,” Marylyn said to Greta.

“Good-bye and
zank
you!” Greta said.

“Thank
you
!”

Clarence rang for the elevator, smiling at Marylyn, afraid to speak lest he be overheard through the Reynoldses’ closed door. A certain tension had disappeared, to be replaced by a different one, the one between himself and Marylyn. As they went down in the elevator Clarence said:

“Well, aren’t they nice?”

“Yes. Better than I’d expected. He’s very attractive.”

“Ed. Yes.”

“And she paints awfully well. Really those paintings aren’t bad for someone as old as she is.”

“They really seem to want us to come back.”

It had become colder. Marylyn sank her chin into her cape collar. Her hair blew straight behind her as they walked onto 8th Street.

“Are you free Tuesday night?” Clarence asked. ‘I’m free after eight. There’s a new Bergman on.” Marylyn adored Bergman.

“It’s only Sunday. Give me some time.”

She sounded more friendly, but why couldn’t she say a direct “Yes”? He could have proposed something Monday evening, and he was giving her time by proposing Tuesday. “It’s not late now. Would you—”

“I’ve still got some work tonight, if I didn’t drink too many gin and tonics. But I only had two.”

“Going straight home? Want me to drop you in a taxi?”

“I’m not going home. I’d rather walk.”

Plainly she didn’t want him to walk with her, wherever she was going, and he was ashamed to ask where. If it was to Dannie’s on West 11th, 8th Street had not been an out-of-the-way route, because Dannie lived far west. They were at Sixth Avenue now. He kissed her cheek before she could draw back—or maybe she would not have drawn back. “I’ll call you about Tuesday. Don’t forget.”

He waved good-bye, and did not watch to see which way she walked. His spirits plummeted and he gasped. After the nice evening, after all the effort the Reynoldses had made, Marylyn—well, she wasn’t with him, now.

At that moment, Ed and Greta were clearing the table, putting things away in the refrigerator.

“You might’ve gone too far, Eddie,” Greta said. “Do you have to put all those things into words? I couldn’t.”

She didn’t mean that at all, Ed thought. She was probably glad he had said what he had. “I thought it might do some good, my sweet. Clarence—I told you he was worried about what Marylyn thought of it all.—She’s nice, don’t you think? Better than I’d expected.’

“Better how?”

“More level-headed than I’d expected. To be just twenty-two. I was expecting her to be—dumber, I suppose.”

“Kids these days are quite grown-up.”

“I don’t think Clarence is very grown-up, do you? For twenty-four?”

Greta wrapped the roast beef slices neatly in foil. “With boys it’s different. They mature later. And maybe he’s the type who sees both sides of every question.” The refrigerator door made a cozy, muffled sound as Greta closed it.

Ed went into the living-room to see if anything was left to put away, and caught sight of Juliette peeing under the table, as if its shadows could hide her. “Oh, hell, I’m late with mademoiselle! My fault, Juliette!” Ed went for a sponge reserved for this purpose in the bathroom.

He took the puppy out at once anyway. They were trying to train her for between 6:30 and 7 p.m., and tonight they had both forgotten. It was a pleasure for Ed to walk west and find more lights, more people (odd as some of them looked) and less traffic than on Riverside Drive. It was pleasant to think of Marylyn living fairly near, and having a date with Greta next Wednesday night. He hoped Clarence made out with Marylyn, because Clarence was in love. How much did Marylyn love Clarence? He must ask Greta her opinion on that.

20

T
he next morning, Clarence went to the New York City Ballet Theatre on West 58th Street and bought two tickets for Tuesday evening. Marylyn was quite fond of ballet, and he thought the tickets would please her. He went home and telephoned her from his apartment.

“Oh, it’s
you
,” she said, sounding nervous.

“Yes, me. I got tickets for tomorrow for the New York City Ballet. An all-modern program and one thing is a premiere.”

“Listen, Clare, your wop cop chum paid another visit this morning.”

“Manzoni?”

“I think that’s his name. Just rang the bell at nine o’clock so I had to grab a raincoat to talk to him, because I’m not going to talk to that shit in a bathrobe, he’d get ideas! Imagine barging in at that hour without phoning first!”

“Marylyn, he’s got no business! He’s not Homicide!”

Marylyn cursed. “He’s asking if you really spent the night that night.
You
can imagine.
You
can imagine the nasty questions.”

“Christ, Marylyn, I’m sorry. I’ll report him, I swear.”

“And so what if you report him? He was also asking about the five hundred bucks again. Jesus, I’m sick of it, Clare!”

“I’m going to report him.”

“Don’t do it for my sake. I’m moving. Now. So I can’t talk long and there’s nothing to say anyway.”

“Moving where?”

“In with somebody.”

“Who?”

“I don’t think I want to tell you, because I’d like to get the police off my back if I can. Evelyn’s taking over my place, so don’t call here again, will you?”

“But—you’ve got to tell me where
you’re
going.”

“Sorry, Clare.” It was her deeper, more serious tone, and she hung up.

Clarence’s heart was beating wildly. He thought of hopping a taxi down to Macdougal. Or would she hate that? Evelyn: a plump drip with glasses. And who was Marylyn moving in with? Dannie? Hadn’t Marylyn said he had a big apartment? Clarence took off his shirt and splashed water on his face at the sink. This was the limit. Bastard Manzoni!

He’d give the ballet tickets to the Reynoldses, Clarence thought. He’d try the Reynoldses now. If Greta wasn’t in, he could leave the tickets with the doorman with a note. Clarence walked to 9th Street. It was around 10:30 a.m.

The doorman telephoned the Reynoldses’ apartment, and someone answered.

“Please tell Mrs. Reynolds I just want to give her something. It’ll only take a minute.” Clarence wished he had brought flowers also, by way of thanking Greta for last evening.

Greta opened the apartment door.

“Pardon the intrusion,” Clarence said. “I have two tickets that I—”

“Come in, Clarence.”

Clarence went in. “For the ballet tomorrow night. I thought maybe you and Ed could use them.” Clarence held the little white envelope in his hand.

“Oh, thank you, Clarence. You’re on duty tomorrow night?”

“No. I thought Marylyn was free—frankly.”

“You had some trouble—with Marylyn?”

“Well, yes. A little.”

“Don’t you want to sit down?”

“Thank you. I’m on duty at noon, so I can’t stay.”

“Something happened? Since last night?”

“Yes, a—a patrolman named Manzoni of my precinct house—” Clarence wished Ed were here, but he plunged on, needing to tell it to someone. “Manzoni went to see Marylyn this morning. It’s the second time he went to see her. Manzoni is the one who found Rowajinski at the Village hotel. So now he’s heckling—”

“He dislikes you, this Manzoni?”

Clarence had to ponder the word “dislikes” for an instant. “He acts as if he’s got something against me. First he was on to me about the five hundred dollars I’m supposed to have taken. Now he’s asking Marylyn if I spent the whole night—Tuesday night. The main thing is, she can’t stand being quizzed like that. It’s not
her
fault.”

“Has he got a reason to think you didn’t spend the night?”

A clue, Greta meant. “I think he’s just heckling.”

“How does he know Marylyn?”

“He saw me with her on the street. On Macdougal. Now—Marylyn’s so upset she’s moving.”

“Moving to where?”

“She wouldn’t tell me. I think with a friend somewhere in the Village.” Clarence felt breathless. “I don’t want to bore you with any more of this.”

Greta patted his arm. “I think she will call me about our date Wednesday night. I’ll ask her where she’s moved to.”

“But—” Clarence was torn. “She doesn’t seem to want me to know. Thanks anyway. Maybe it’s better if I don’t know for a while. I’ve got to take off now.”

As usual when he left the Reynoldses’ house, Clarence felt a sudden emptiness, an aloneness. He arrived at the station house at ten to twelve, and changed into uniform.

Captain Paul Smith was in charge now, a plump red-faced man with a serious manner. When Clarence went in for briefing, Smith said, “Patrolman Duhamell?” as if he weren’t quite sure. “Homicide’s been trying to reach you this morning. They’re out there having coffee. Better go see them.” He gestured in the direction of the back hall.

“Yes, sir.” Clarence went down the hall. Two or three men in plainclothes were standing drinking coffee out of paper cups, talking and laughing.

“Patrolman Duhamell?” one asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Come in here, please.”

Clarence followed him into an empty room which was more a storeroom than an office, though there was a desk. Another of the men came with them.

“I’m Detective Vesey. Detective Collins there. I know you’re on duty now, but this’ll just take five minutes.—How’re you doing, Duhamell?” Vesey nodded meaninglessly. He looked as if he had all the information he wanted.

“All right, sir.”

“Did you hear the report on your gun?”

“No, sir.” Clarence glanced at the second man who was watching him, smoking. They were all standing.

“Suppose I told you that gun had blood on it? Rowajinski’s blood?”

Clarence hesitated a second. “I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Cool,” said Vesey to his colleague.

Clarence was aware of sweating under his arms. He watched Detective Vesey pull some papers from an inside pocket of his overcoat.

“Duhamell, you were the logical suspect and we hit it right. Right?”

Collins gave a nod.

“What’re you going to do, Duhamell? Going to admit it? Face up? Come clean?—It’ll be easier for you.”

Clarence felt weak, transparent, and deliberately stood straighter. “No,” he said, in quite a righteous-sounding tone.

Vesey smirked with impatience and nodded again. “Duhamell, you’re going to get a going over. You know what that means.”

Show me the report, Clarence was thinking, show me it, if it’s true. Maybe they were putting on an act. And he wouldn’t have put it past them to show him a faked report.

“Back to work, Duhamell. We shall see you again.”

They went out first. Clarence walked back to Captain Smith’s office. The briefing was still going on, and there were eighteen or twenty patrolmen in the room. Smith was talking about handbag-snatching in the Park. Housewives had been complaining a lot lately. Clarence recalled Santini’s voice saying, “They oughta know better than to carry handbags when they’re walkin’ the kids. They never learn till they’ve all had it once.” Clarence got his patrol assignment, picked up his two-way radio, and went out with the rest.

There was a sturdy west wind off the Hudson, and it was rather cold. Clarence waved a greeting to a doorman behind a glass door on Riverside Drive. The doormen were different from the ones Clarence saw on his night shift, but he knew these faces from his former day shifts. Had the detectives been bluffing? They must have been, because if they were trying to break him down, what better start than to show him a report of blood on the gun? However, the working over. That was no bluff. Homicide wanted solutions. They roughed up the innocent with the guilty, Clarence knew. He was wondering if he could stand up to it? The fact he had killed the Pole, in a curious way, didn’t count: he felt he ought to stand up to anything, ought to deny his guilt forever. He felt that he owed it to the Reynoldses. Guilt in a moral sense seemed to play no part. Perhaps that was abnormal. But hadn’t Ed said, “I might have done it myself”? And would Ed suffer any guilt if he had? Not much, Clarence thought. Maybe none at all.

Clarence had just turned the corner at Riverside Drive into 105th Street, going east, when two shots sounded ahead of him. He stared for an instant without seeing where the shots had come from, then ran forward towards West End Avenue. At once there were two more shots, tinkles of breaking glass, laughter, and a woman on the sidewalk screamed, and Clarence saw that the shots were coming from a car moving slowly towards him. An arm, a hand with a smoking gun protruded from a window of the car, and there was more wild laughter. Clarence was sprinting for the car. Another shot, and a spatter of glass at the front door of an apartment building. A startled window flew up on Clarence’s left, and was immediately banged shut again.

Clarence dashed obliquely into the street towards the car as the next shots exploded. He felt a jolt in his right leg. Glass behind him fell, sounding like treble piano notes, on cement. Clarence grabbed the extended arm with the gun just as the car put on speed. He held on to the arm, the gun fell from the black hand, and Clarence ran to keep up with the car, jerking at the arm of the man who was now yelling with pain. Then the back fender of the car hit Clarence and bounced him off, he landed on his shoulder, rolled a couple of times and was checked against the wheel of a parked car. Clarence pushed himself to a seated position, dazed. To his right, at Riverside Drive, the car was turning fast around the corner. To his left he saw someone reaching for the gun in the street.

“Don’t touch the gun!” Clarence said.

He got up. Two men came forward, hesitated as if he were dangerous, or perhaps they thought he needed no help. Clarence went and got the gun, picked it up by the tip of its barrel. An adolescent boy stared at him wide-eyed from the curb. A doorman was following him along the pavement.

“You got hit?”

Clarence was limping. He knew the doorman by sight. “Did you see the license number?”

“Sorry, I didn’t. Look! Lookit what the bastards did to my door!—Hey, you’re hit!”

“Anyone get the license of that car?” Clarence asked, because there were many more people on the street now and several windows had gone up on both sides of the street. Suddenly there were twenty or thirty people standing around, asking questions, cursing the shooters as if their personal property had been destroyed, or as if the gunfire had given them an outlet for pent-up rage.

“Hoodlums!”

“Had an R in it!” said a small boy’s voice.

“An old black Cadillac!”

“Blacks! Spades! I saw ’em!”

“Look at that door! Jesus! What’s next around here?”

“Foot’s bleeding!” said the same boy’s voice.

Just as Clarence started to switch on his walkie-talkie, a patrol car arrived and braked at the curb, its siren dying down. Two officers got out and, not seeing Clarence at first, began talking to the bystanders. They were talking to a woman Clarence had not seen, whose hand was dripping blood. The woman was holding out her limp hand, gripping its wrist. One of the officers trotted back to his car and started talking on his radio.

Clarence felt faint. He had lost his cap. He looked around on the street for it. No luck. A kid had probably made off with it. Clarence went to speak with the officers. He didn’t know either of them, and assumed they were from the Frederick Douglass Park and Amsterdam area just east.

“You were here?” an officer asked Clarence.

“Yes. A black car with three or four men in it. Blacks. I have the gun.” Clarence was carrying it still by the tip of the barrel.

“You’re hurt, eh?” The officer looked down at Clarence’s feet.

Blood was overflowing his right shoe, and his foot was soaking. Clarence’s senses took another lunge. The officer helped him into the patrol car. The other officer said something about waiting till the ambulance came for the woman.

They arrived at Clarence’s precinct house.

“Lost your cap?” someone said. “What’s happened?”

Clarence sat on a chair, while someone pulled the leg of his trousers up above his calf.

“Went through,” a voice said.

Clarence started giving his report; time and place, but the scene was dissolving like a spotty, grayish film fading out.

“. . . old Cadillac, they said . . . This officer got the gun . . .” Another officer had taken over for him.

Clarence toppled off the chair, and felt himself caught in a slow-motion swoop by the arms of a policeman. He was aware of being laid out flat on a stretcher, and aware of feeling nauseous. Then he arrived at a hospital. They gave him a needle in the arm.

He awakened in a bed, in a room with five or six other beds, a man in each one. His right leg hurt below the knee. His right shoulder was stiff with bandages, his forearm held by an absurdly light-looking cheesecloth sling. The window showed a clear blue sky. Was it today—Monday—or Tuesday? His wrist-watch was gone. It wasn’t even on the bed table. A nurse in white scurried into the ward, looking about to drop a tray which appeared excessively heavy.

She said it was 9:30 a.m., Tuesday. His watch was in the table drawer. His shoulder? He had a fractured collarbone.

“And my leg?”

“A flesh wound. Nothing broken. You were lucky.”

Her smile made him feel somehow worse.

Clarence dozed. Then the nurse came back and said:

“Your mother’s here.”

His mother came into the room shyly, not seeing him at first. Clarence raised his left arm. His mother’s lips formed a silent “Oh” as she tiptoed towards him. She had three oranges in a cellophane bag.

The nurse provided a chair and departed.

“Clare, darling, are you in pain?”

“No. I think I’m full of dope. Anyway it’s not serious.”

“The nurse said you’d be out in a few days, but you’re not to go back to work for three weeks at least.—What happened, Clare? Or don’t you want to talk?”