Yom Kippur Murder (19 page)

In my pocket I had felt the silky fabric of one of Aunt Meg’s beautiful scarves. I had used it once in the rain, stuffed it in the pocket, and left it there. Without moving my feet toward the other occupants of the bin, I opened my bag silently and felt around for the roll of quarters. I took it out
and hefted it. It would do nicely. I placed it in the center of the silk scarf, gathered the four corners, and knotted them. Then, holding the loose ends, I swung the scarf so that the weighted center made circles in the air. I had myself a sap.

I moved carefully to the open bin door and waited just behind it. I’ve always thought that the defenders of those old forts had the advantage over the Indians in time of attack. Now I was a defender. I had a weapon and I would use it.

He kept stumbling on things, so I knew he didn’t have a flashlight or didn’t want to use it. He never turned on the basement lights. I just waited, holding the silk scarf, trying not to think of the rats’ nest only a few feet from where I stood. Sooner or later he would start trying the doors to the bins.

It was sooner. I heard the squeal of hinges to my left, then another squeal a little closer. I heard him whisper something, probably an obscenity or a string of them, but I couldn’t make out the words. Then I heard his footsteps get closer. The slatted door moved just a little. A dark figure passed about a foot beyond the door.

I lifted the sap and swung it for all I was worth. Contact!

He shouted, “Ow!” and brought his hand up to his head.

I swung again.

This time he went down. I stepped on top of him to get out, turned on the flashlight, which I’d been holding in my other hand, and ran for the door. Before going up the stairs to one, I tried the outside door at the basement level once again. It opened easily and I went out into the cool night, up the stairs, around the building through the alley to the street and up toward Broadway.

I didn’t get there. A police car appeared miraculously as I reached West End. I hailed it, told my story in rapid bursts as I tried to catch my breath, got in, and directed them to 603. We all flew out of the car and ran for the front door. I unlocked the inside door, and the policemen charged ahead for the stairwell. The door, of course, opened easily and down they went, calling to me to stay behind. As I leaned against the wall, Ian Gallagher walked in the front door.

* * *

They never found him, of course. One of the policemen said I probably hadn’t hit him very hard. Eventually I went down and showed them where I thought I’d been hiding. Yes, there was evidence of a rats’ nest, a lot of footprints in the dust, and even something on the filthy floor that might have been a fresh bloodstain. But the man was gone.

As for Ian, he had suddenly remembered that he needed some cornflakes or something for breakfast and had hurried out before the neighborhood bodega closed. (“An’ you said an hour, darlin’, so I thought you meant a little more.”)

I gave another statement to the police, kissed Ian good night, and drove home. My jeans weren’t new and stiff anymore. I’d broken them in good.

I skipped my walk on Monday morning and very nearly skipped breakfast. I don’t have to tell you I hadn’t slept well and I was a pack of nerves. No one besides Bettina knew what was going on, but I felt if I told either Arnold or Jack, they’d come and get me to prevent me from going through with it. I half hoped Jack would call, as he often did, before leaving for work so that I could break down and tell him what had happened last night and what I was doing this afternoon. But no one called, and the morning dragged on.

At five after ten I called Franciotti’s number. He wasn’t there. He would be in soon. But I couldn’t wait.

I left a fairly detailed message with the officer who answered. I gave him my name and Bettina’s name and address, the time of our meeting, and the fact that someone was coming there who might have killed Nathan Herskovitz.

“I think they arrested a suspect in that case,” the officer said politely.

“But it may have been the wrong one. Look, I’ll call Sergeant Franciotti back about eleven or a little after. I’ll be on the road till then. Will you see to it that he’s available?”

“I can’t promise, ma’am. If something comes up, he—”

“Officer, the man I’m meeting may be a killer. You can’t tell me maybe.”

“I’ll give the message to the sergeant,” the officer said noncommittally.

“Thank you.”

I left the house feeling apprehensive. I was getting myself into another mess, and what was worse, getting an old woman
into the same mess. If anything happened to her, I would never forgive myself—if I survived.

I arrived in the Seventies at ten to eleven, ten minutes before the parking restrictions went off north of Seventy-second Street. I drove to Seventy-third, where there were still a few spots on the new good side (they start parking there half an hour early and sit in their cars till eleven) and lots of spaces on the new bad side. The bad side would do me fine. It was good till eight tomorrow morning, and assuming I was alive later today, I had no intention of staying overnight.

I walked down to Seventy-second and over to Bettina’s building. She buzzed me in and I went upstairs.

“So when do the police come?” was the first thing she asked.

“I haven’t been able to reach Sergeant Franciotti,” I told her honestly. “I’d like to call him now.”

“In the kitchen.”

I called the precinct and asked for him. He had been in earlier, but he was gone. They didn’t know when he would return, but they’d be glad to take a message.

“I’ve been leaving messages since yesterday,” I burst out in a rather uncharacteristically loud and angry voice. “It hasn’t done much good. I need him at this address before two o’clock this afternoon. It may be a matter of life and death.”

Whoever I was talking to asked for the details. I spelled them out again. He said he’d get a message to Franciotti, but I had the feeling he thought I was nuts.

“And please,” I finished, “I don’t want a police car parked outside the building with its lights going.”

“Sergeant Franciotti drives an unmarked vehicle,” the officer said in a monotone.

I hung up.

“You didn’t get him?”

“He’s been in and now he’s out. Bettina, I can’t let you stay here with me if there’s going to be trouble and I can’t
get the police. If he doesn’t call back and I can’t reach him, here’s what we’ll do.”

I had given it some thought on the drive from Oakwood. At a quarter to two Bettina would go to someone’s apartment in the building—I thought she must have a friend here, having lived here so long—or out to a nearby coffee shop. At two she would call the 911 number and say there was a robbery in progress and give her address. I figured they’d have to respond to that. If Franciotti was too busy doing other things, someone else could make the collar. (That’s what Jack would say; I still think of it as an arrest.)

Bettina agreed, but I sensed she was disappointed. There was a woman down the hall she was friendly with and who was likely to be home. Just to be sure, I had her call. There was no problem with two o’clock.

“Where’s the book?” I asked.

“You want to show it to him?”

“I think I have to. If he doesn’t see it, he’s likely to smell a trap and run.”

“I’ll get it.”

She came back and laid it in my hands. It was really too precious to fool around with, but I had no choice. What a collection Nathan must have had if this was only one of many.

“It’s so beautiful,” Bettina said, admiring it. “It was one of his best.”

Something in her face struck me. “Was it you?” I asked.

She looked confused. “Was what me?”

“Are you the one he was in love with?”

She blushed, then laughed. “You have quite an imagination. No, he wasn’t in love with me. We had no affair. I was my husband’s wife, with no regrets.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. You’re looking for something. Maybe we’ll find it this afternoon.”

She put together a beautiful lunch with several salads and smoked fishes. I was too nervous to eat, which she guessed as I picked at everything. She promised to wrap it all up and give it to me to take home.

I called the precinct twice more with no luck and decided we would have to go with our alternate plan.

“What’s my name?” I said to her.

“What?”

“I’m your daughter.”

“Rita Cohen,” she said instanüy. “Tell him Mrs. Cohen. He doesn’t have to know your first name.”

I actually laughed. During my years in the convent, I was known only by my first name, and since my vows, by my first two, Sister Edward Frances, after both my parents. Now, suddenly, I was going formal with a suspected killer.

“I don’t have a wedding ring,” I said.

“Wait.” She went into the back of the apartment and came back with a gold signet-type ring. “Wear it backward. He’ll never know.”

I put it on. It was a little big, but it would do. “That’s good. Would you write down the address and phone number of where you’ll be and leave it for me?”

She wrote on a piece of notepaper and went into the kitchen. “Under the napkin holder,” she said, returning. “What else can I do?”

“Just remember the number 911.”

“I will. I’ll watch from Mrs. Hauser’s door. When I see him get off the elevator, I’ll call.”

“Good. Now I have to think of a place to put that book.”

“Maybe in the bedroom.”

“No. I don’t want him following me, and I don’t want to leave him alone in this room.”

We looked around the living room silently. Not the piano. Not the piano bench. Not under the seat cushions. There were shelves of records near the stereo and filled bookcases on the walls. Nothing seemed right.

Finally I said, “I think I’ll just put it under the sofa.”

“That’s good.”

I lifted the skirt and laid the book on the bare floor. I looked at my watch. It was one-thirty.

“Maybe you ought to go,” I said.

“Patience. The doorbell didn’t ring yet, did it?”

“Can you fix the door so it’ll close and not lock?”

“All you do is press the little button.” She showed me.

“Good. Leave it that way. When he comes, I’ll turn the bolt to open it, but I won’t turn it when I close the door. That way, the police can get in by turning the handle.”

“You’ve thought of everything. I can’t see how this can fail.”

It can fail if he decides to take the book and kill me, I thought. I lose my life, she loses her book, and no one has Nathan’s killer.

“When he rings,” I said finally, “I’ll call you at Mrs. What’s-her-name’s.”

“Mrs. Hauser. I’ll answer the phone.”

“Bettina, I think you should go. He might get in downstairs with a tenant, and then I won’t know he’s here till he’s at the door.”

She came over and kissed me. “Don’t worry so much. It’s all under control. I’ll watch from the door, you’ll call, we’ll get him.”

“I hope you’re right.”

She smiled and left the apartment.

You know what an eternity is. It’s the time it takes for something terrible to happen—or something wonderful. I wear a very inexpensive, very accurate watch powered by a battery. It’s the closest thing I have to jewelry, but I wear it because it tells me the time. Two o’clock came and went. I had a near hysterical thought that maybe the book man couldn’t find a place to park and had to give up the whole thing.

Then the downstairs bell rang. I went to the kitchen, pressed the speak button, and called, “Who is it?”

The answer was garbled, but I was pretty sure he said, “The book man.”

I pressed the buzzer. When I was sure he’d had time to get through the door, I found Bettina’s note and dialed the number.

She answered on the first ring.

“He’s on his way up,” I said.

“Don’t worry. As soon as I see him, I’ll call the police.”

I hung up. Should she have waited? What if he came in and tied me up and found the book and ran before the police got here?

“Steady, Kix,” I said out loud. “You are a calm person. You can handle anything.”

I was an idiot. I was endangering both my life and a precious book.

Down the outside hall I could hear the elevator door open and close. This was it. I checked my “wedding ring” and stood in the middle of the living room, waiting.

I heard a man’s voice outside and wondered fleetingly who he was talking to. Then the doorbell rang.

“Who is it?” I called, feeling ridiculous.

“It’s me.” The voice was deep.

I opened the door. A stoutish man with thinning, graying hair, dressed in a suit, walked in. Behind him was a younger, shorter, man with dark, unkempt hair and a day’s growth of beard. He was dressed in a leather jacket and jeans.

“Who’s he?” I asked.

“My helper.”

“He’s not coming in.” I tried to close the door on him, with less success than last night.

“Yes he is.” The book man pushed the door open, dislodging me, and the helper came in and slammed it. “You’re not the woman I talked to.”

“I’m her daughter.”

“Where’s Mrs. Strauss?”

“She’s out for the afternoon.”

“I don’t like this. Where’s the book?”

“Do you have the money to pay for it?”

The book man smiled. “First I look at the book. Then you tell me how much you want for it. Then we arrive at a price. Then you see the money. That’s how business is done.”

I hadn’t gone to his business school. “I want to see that you have money with you. Show it to me.” I was starting to be afraid that the whole transaction would last three minutes and they’d be long gone if and when the police showed up.

The book man pulled a wallet out of his jacket pocket as the helper prowled around, casing the room. He opened it and riffled through the wad of bills in it. “Good enough?”

“That’s fine.”

“Let me see the book.”

I had stalled about as long as I dared. I walked over to the sofa, knelt down, and started to reach under the skirt.

“What are you doing there?” the book man said with agitation. “Get her.”

The smaller man flew at me, knocking me over roughly
so that I banged my head on the floor, and held me down so that I couldn’t move.