So Long As You Both Shall Live (87th Precinct) (10 page)

“Let’s put the pictures on television,” Ollie said.

“No,” Kling said immediately.

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t want to do anything that might endanger Augusta,” Carella said.

“We flash those pictures on the telly,” Ollie said, “we’ll have two hundred calls inside of ten minutes.”

“We’ll also have a kidnapper who—”

“The answer is no,” Kling said. “Forget it.”

“I’ll tell you the truth,” Ollie said, “this doesn’t look like a kidnapping to me. It’s been almost thirty-six hours already, and not a peep from anybody about a ransom. Now, that doesn’t look like a kidnapping, not in all my years on the force. I had a kidnapping once, must’ve been three, four years ago, the guys waited eleven hours before they made contact, but that was a very long time, believe me. You get a kidnapping, they usually let you know right off what’s expected. Kidnapping’s a business like any other kind of crime, guys are in it for the money. All they want is their fifty, a hundred, two hundred G’s, whatever it is, and they want it fast. They’ll kill the victim only if they think they can be identified. Otherwise, they’ll turn the person loose in the country someplace, let him wander around bare-assed in the night till he finds a police station or somebody’s house he can make a phone call from. That’s been my experience with kidnapping, anyway. So here we got a lady snatched from a hotel room Sunday night around eleven-thirty, and here it is nine-thirty Tuesday morning, and not a peep. That ain’t a kidnapping, not the way
I
see it. That is, I don’t know
what
it is, but it ain’t a kidnapping.”

“What are you saying, Ollie?” Carella asked.

“I’m saying if it ain’t a kidnapping, then it’s something with a kook. And where you got a kook, you got serious trouble. You got danger already, you don’t
have
to worry about danger from putting a picture on television.”

“Bert?”

“Yeah, I hear him.”

“Look at it this way, kid,” Ollie said. “We got nothing else to go on. We flash those pictures, somebody recognizes him, we close in before he knows what hit him.”

“And suppose
he
’s watching television?” Kling said.

“Yeah, so what?”

“So he sees a picture of himself, and he knows we’re on to him, and he does just what you said a kidnapper does if he thinks he’s been identified. He kills the victim.”

“But this is a
kook,
” Ollie said, “and
not
a kidnapper. With kooks, there’re no rules. He might see himself on television and throw himself out the window.”

“Or throw my
wife
out the window instead. Thanks, Ollie, the answer is no.”

“Look, I got respect for your feelings,” Ollie said, “but—”

“I don’t know
what
we’re dealing with here,” Kling said. “He may be a kook like you say but he may also be a kidnapper who’s playing it cool. And in a kidnapping case if
I
’ve read the goddamn instruction manual correctly—”

“Easy does it, kid,” Ollie said.

“—the victim’s safety is of prime importance, everything else is secondary to the victim’s safety. And that has nothing to do with Augusta’s being my wife, that’s only good sound police work; you don’t do anything that might endanger the victim. Okay, Ollie, I’m telling you that putting those pictures on television may cause that guy to go off the deep end,
especially
if he’s a kook. And I can’t take a chance on him hurting Augusta for some stupid mistake we made.”

“
You’re
the one making the mistake,” Ollie said. “Those pictures should be sent to every television station in the city, and they should be sent right away. We’re sitting on the only thing we’ve got—pictures of the guy who maybe did it. What else have we got, can you tell me? Not a damn thing.”

“I’m still betting we’ll hear from him,” Kling said.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Ollie said.

There were no windows in the room, just as he had promised.

The only source of illumination was a lightbulb screwed into a ceiling fixture and operated from a switch just inside the door. The light was on now. The lock on the door was a key-operated deadbolt; it could not be unlocked from either side without a key. She walked to the door and examined the lock, and realized it had been installed only recently; there were jagged splinters of unpainted wood around the lock in the otherwise white-painted door. Against the wall opposite the door, a plastic bowl of water rested on the floor, and alongside that a bowl with what appeared to be some sort of hash in it. She went to the bowl, picked it up, sniffed at the contents, and then put the bowl down on the floor again. It was cold in the room, there was no visible source of heat. She shivered with a sudden chill and crossed her arms over her breasts, hugging herself. In the apartment outside, she heard footsteps approaching the door. She backed away from it.

“Augusta?” he called.

She did not answer. She debated lying on the floor again, pretending to be still unconscious so that she could make a run for the door when he unlocked it. But would he enter the room without the scalpel in his hand? She doubted it. She knew the sharpness of that blade, and she feared it. But she feared he might use it, anyway, whether she attempted escape or not. She waited. She was beginning to tremble again, and she knew it was not from the cold.

“May I come in, Augusta? I know you’re conscious, I heard you moving about.”

His idiotic politeness infuriated her. She was his prisoner, he could do with her whatever he wished, and yet he asked permission to enter the room.

“You
know
you can come in, why do you bother asking?” she said.

“Ah,” he said, and she heard a key being inserted into the lock. The door opened. He stepped into the room and closed and locked the door behind him. “How are you?” he asked pleasantly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said. She was studying his face more closely than she had in the hotel room. She was memorizing the straight blond hair, and the slight scar in the blond eyebrow over his left eye, and the white flecks in the blue eyes, and the bump on the bridge of his nose, where perhaps the nose had once been broken, and the small mole at the right-hand corner of his mouth. He was wearing dark-blue trousers and a pale-blue turtleneck shirt. There was a gold ring on his right hand, with a violet-colored stone that might have been amethyst; it appeared to be either a college or a high school graduation ring. He wore a wristwatch on his left wrist. His feet were encased in white sweat socks and sneakers.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said, and smiled. He turned abruptly then, and left the room without explanation, locking the door behind him. She moved into a corner of the room the moment he was gone, as though her position was more protected there in the right angle of two joining walls. In a little while she heard the key turning in the lock again. She watched the knob apprehensively. It turned, the door opened. He came into the room carrying a half-dozen or more garments on wire hangers. Holding these in his left hand, he extricated the key from the outside of the lock, and then closed the door and locked it from the inside. The clothing looked familiar. He saw her studying the garments, and smiled.

“Do you recognize them?” he asked.

“I’m…not sure.”

“These were some of my favorites,” he said. “I want you to put them on for me.”

“What are they?” she asked.

“You’ll remember.”

“I’ve worn them before, haven’t I?” she said.

“Yes. Yes, you have.”

“I’ve modeled them.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly.”

She recognized most of the clothing now—the chambray-blue safari jacket and matching shorts she had modeled for
Mademoiselle,
the ruffled-edged cotton T-shirt and matching wraparound skirt she had posed in for
Vogue,
yes, and wasn’t that the high-yoked chemise she had worn for
Harper’s Bazaar?
And there, the robe that—

“Would you hold these, please?” he asked. “The floor is clean, I scrubbed it before you came, but I would rather not put them down.” He shrugged apologetically and extended the clothes to her. “It will only be for a moment,” he said.

She held out her arms and he draped the garments across them, and turned and went to the door. She watched as he unlocked it again. He left the key in the keyway this time, and he left the door open behind him. But he did not go very far from the room. Just outside the door, Augusta could see a standing clothes rack and a straight-backed wooden chair. He carried the clothes rack into the room first, taking it to the far corner where Augusta had earlier retreated. Then he carried the chair in, and closed and locked the door, and set the chair down just inside it, and was preparing to sit when he said abruptly, “Oh, I almost forgot.” He moved the chair away from the door again, and again inserted his key into the lock. “Would you hang the clothes on the rack, please?” he said. “I won’t be a moment.” He unlocked the door, opened it, and went out. She heard him locking the door again from the other side.

The clothes rack was painted white, a simple standing rack with one vertical post to which were attached, at slanting angles and at varying heights, a series of pegs. She carried the clothes to the rack and hung them on the pegs. She noticed as she did so that at least one of the garments—the safari jacket—was in her size, and she quickly checked the others and learned that
all
of them were exactly her size. She wondered how he had known the size, and guessed he had got it from the suit she’d been wearing—but had he bought all this clothing
after
he’d taken her from the hotel room? One of the garments on the rack was a robe she had modeled for
Town & Country.
She took it down, and was putting it on when the door opened again.

“What are you doing?” he said. He spoke the words very softly. “Take that off.”

“I was a little chilly, I thought—”

“Take it off!” he said, his voice rising. “Take it off this instant!”

Silently, she took off the robe, put it back on the hanger, and hung it on the rack. He was standing just inside the open door now. In his left hand he was holding a paper bag with the logo of one of the city’s most expensive department stores on it.

“I did not give you permission,” he said.

“I didn’t know I needed permission,” Augusta said. “I was cold. It’s cold in here.”

“You will do only what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. Is that clear?”

She did not answer.

“Is it?”

“Yes, yes,” she said.

“I don’t believe I like that note of impatience in your voice, Augusta.”

“I’m sorry.”

He locked the door behind him, put the key into his pocket, moved the chair so that its back was against the door again, and then said, “We are to have a fashion show.” He smiled and extended the small parcel he was holding. “Here,” he said. “Take it.”

She walked to where he was sitting, and took the paper bag from his hands. Inside the bag, she found a pair of pale-blue bikini panties and a blue bra. The panties were a size five, the bra was a thirty-four B.

“How did you know my sizes?” she asked.

“They were in
Vogue,
” he said. “The April issue. Last year, don’t you remember? ‘All About Augusta.’ Don’t you remember?”

“Yes.”

“That was a very good article, Augusta.”

“Yes, it was.”

“It didn’t mention Detective Bert Kling, though.”

“Well…”

“In an article titled ‘All About Augusta,’ it would hardly seem honest to neglect mentioning—”

“I guess the agency felt—”

“You’re interrupting, Augusta.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That is truly a vile habit. In my home, if I ever interrupted, I was severely thrashed.”

“I won’t interrupt again. I was only trying to explain why the article didn’t mention Bert.”

“Ah, is that what you call him? Bert?”

“Yes.”

“And what does he call you?”

“Augusta. Or sometimes Gus. Or Gussie.”

“I prefer Augusta.”

“Actually, I do, too.”

“Good. We are at least in agreement on something. Blue is your favorite color, the article said. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Does the blue please you?”

“Yes, it’s fine. When did you buy these clothes?”

“Last month,” he said. “When I knew what had to be done.”

“You still haven’t told me—”

“The ceremony will take place tomorrow evening,” he said.

“What ceremony?”

“You will see,” he said. “My mother was a model, you know. In Europe, of course. But she was quite well-known.”

“What was her name?” Augusta said.

“You would not know it,” he said. “This was long before your time. She was murdered,” he said. “Yes. I was a small boy at the time. Someone broke into the house, a burglar, a rapist, who knows? I awakened to the sounds of my mother screaming.”

Augusta watched him. He seemed unaware of her presence now, seemed to be talking only to himself. His eyes were somewhat out of focus, as though he were drifting off to another place, a place he knew only too well—and dreaded.

“My father was a leather-goods salesman, he was away from home. I leaped out of bed, she was screaming, screaming. I ran across the parlor toward her bedroom—and the screaming stopped.” He nodded. “Yes.” He nodded again. “Yes,” he said, and fell silent for several moments, and then said, “She was on the floor in a pool of her own blood. He had slit her throat.” He closed his eyes abruptly, squeezed them shut, and then opened them almost immediately. “Well, that was a long time ago,” he said. “I was just a small boy.”

“It must have been horrible for you.”

“Yes,” he said, and then shrugged, seemingly dismissing the entire matter. “I think the pants suit will suit you nicely,” he said, and grinned. “Do you understand the pun, Augusta?”

“What? I…”

“The suit. The suit will suit you,” he said, and laughed. “That’s good, don’t you think? The hardest thing to do in a second language is to make a pun.”

“What’s your
first
language?” she asked.

“I come from Austria,” he said.

“Where in Austria?”

“Vienna. Do you know Austria?”

“I’ve skied there.”

“Yes, of course, how stupid of me! In the article—”

“Yes.”

“—it said you skied in Zürs one time. Yes, I remember now.”

“Do you ski?”

“No. No, I have never skied. Augusta,” he said, “I wish you to take off the clothes you are now wearing and put on first the panties and brassiere, and then the suit.”

“If you’ll leave the room…”

“No,” he said, “I’ll stay here while you change. It will be more
intime, n’est-ce pas?
Do you speak French?”

“A little. I’ll put on the clothes only if you—”

“No, no,” he said, and laughed. “Really, Augusta, you are being quite ridiculous. I could have done to you whatever I wished while you were unconscious. You’ll be pleased to learn I took no liberties. So now, when you—”

“I would like to go to the toilet,” she said.

“What?”

“I have to move my bowels,” she said.

A look of total revulsion crossed his face. He kept staring at her in utter disbelief, and then he rose abruptly and shoved the chair aside, and unlocked the door and went out of the room. She heard the lock clicking shut again, and rather suspected the fashion show had suddenly been canceled. Smiling, she went to the wall opposite the door, and sat on the floor with her back against it. She felt a bit warmer now.

There was no time in the room.

He was her clock, she realized.

She dozed and awakened again. She sipped water from the bowl. She nibbled at the meat in the other bowl. When she grew cold again, she put on the long white robe over her clothes, and sat huddled on the floor, hugging herself. She dozed again.

When he came into the room again, he left the door open. He was wearing a dark-brown overcoat, and in the open V of the coat, she could see the collar of a white shirt, and a dark tie with a narrow knot. Behind him, from a window somewhere in the apartment, there was the faint wintry light of early morning.

“I must go to work now,” he said. His tone was colder than it had been.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“It’s six-thirty
A.M
.”

“You go to work early,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“What sort of work do you do?”

“That is no concern of yours,” he said. “I will return by three-thirty at the latest. I will prepare you for the ceremony then.”

“What sort of ceremony is it to be?” she asked.

“I see no harm in telling you,” he said.

“Yes, I’d really like to know.”

“We are to be married, Augusta,” he said.

“I’m already married.”

“Your marriage has not taken effect.”

“What do you mean?”

“It has not been consummated.”

She said nothing.

“Do you remember the wedding gown you wore in
Brides
magazine?”

“Yes.”

“I have it. I bought it for you.”

“Look I…I appreciate what—”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said.

“What?”

“I don’t think you
do
appreciate the trouble I’ve gone to.”

“I do, really I do. But…”

“I didn’t know your shoe size, that’s why I didn’t buy any shoes. The article about you didn’t mention your shoe size.”

“Probably because I have such big feet,” she said, and smiled.

“You shall have to be married barefooted,” he said.

“But, you see,” she said, refusing to enter into his delusion, “I’m
already
married. I got married on Sunday afternoon. I’m Mrs. Bertram…”

“I was there at the church, you don’t have to tell me.”

“Then you know I’m married.”

“Are you angry about the shoes?”

“You have a trick,” she said.

“Oh? What trick is that?”

“Of refusing to face reality.”