A Dog's Ransom Page 21

  “Oh, murderous!” said Greta. “Don’t say that, Eddie!”

  “I said I’m not!” Ed said, laughing.

  Marylyn’s dark-rimmed eyes looked from Greta to Ed. “It did throw me when I heard it. I suppose I couldn’t believe it. Now I do. But when you think—” She hesitated.

  “Think what?” Ed asked.

  “Think what kind of a creep he was, I suppose, and the fact that no one was doing anything about it.”

  Exactly, Ed thought. But if one wanted to be civilized, one ought to say that punishment by death was barbaric. And murder in anger was inexcusable. Ed didn’t care to mention that, and just now didn’t even care to think about it. For a while he indulged in feeling primitive. He even glanced at Clarence with a smile, rather a smile of brotherhood. Anyway, the reason for his speaking to Marylyn was to try to make her understand Clarence’s actions, if she didn’t already, and perhaps he had succeeded.

  “There’s so much killing everywhere,” Marylyn said, “not just in New York. Wars everywhere and for what? Sometimes you want to say, ‘Stop all of it.’ I do say it. And then this Rowaninsk—whatever it is, his death was still a death, somehow—you see. This is what makes it difficult for me to judge, even though I thought he was the worst creep I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty in the Village, believe me.”

  “I don’t think Clarence should be blamed,” Greta said.

  I’m sorry and yet I’m not sorry, Clarence thought, and set his teeth and looked at the floor.

  Ed stood up. “At least Kenneth Rowajinski isn’t around to do the same things to other people—or other dogs.” Ed now wanted to end the subject, having started it, and he hoped he had not said too much.

  “Darling, did you open the wine?” Greta asked Ed. “Is anyone hungry?”

  They moved towards the table, took plates and napkins.

  “I go to a lot of meetings,” Marylyn was saying to Greta. “Do you mean outdoor or indoor?”

  “Are things any better?” Ed asked Clarence.

  “I don’t know.”

  “She’s an attractive girl,” Ed said.

  They sat down, plates on laps or on the coffee-table. Greta and Marylyn were still talking about meetings, Greta mentioning names of people Clarence didn’t know—except for Lilly Brandstrum.

  “Sometimes I play the piano at the end and we sing,” Greta said. “What do I play? Vietcong songs, hill-billy, anything. The Battle Hymn of the Republic. We have funny words . . .”

  “They should pass the hat for Greta’s piano,” Ed said to Clarence. “It’d help pay the rent.”

  “We pass the hat for more important zings,” said Greta, who had heard this.

  “Gretchen, you take me so seriously!” Ed said.

  Greta said, “Marylyn, you must come to one of our meetings some time. Ours is just a little further east. Wednesday nights. Ours is more a cultural outlet than a political outlet,” Greta said with amusement in her eyes, casting a glance at Ed who was listening. “We would all rather grab a guitar and sing than talk about politics, really, but it’s fun.”

  “I don’t think she tells them that she has a husband who works for a corporation on Lexington,” Ed put in. “However it may soon be Long Island if the company moves.”

  Marylyn nodded. “Moving. I know. This city’s getting impossible.”

  “Not definite, but it’s in the air for us,” Ed said, “moving.”

  Marylyn and Greta began to talk again.

  “So,” Ed said, turning to Clarence, “what’s the latest?”

  “Nothing,” Clarence replied, knowing Ed meant had he been questioned again. “I may quit the force before Christmas. I want to take some business management courses. At NYU.”

  “Oh?”

  “Marylyn doesn’t like cops.”

  “I know. Business management for any particular kind of business?”

  “The motivational side. The four-day week. As long as people have to work—I can’t explain it now, in a nutshell.” Clarence felt suddenly lost, miserable, weak. He wanted to rush to Marylyn now, seize her in his arms, proclaim that she was his, and spirit her off. Instead he sat like a dolt on the hassock, talking vaguely of business administration, when actually he was as fed up with the whole system as Marylyn, fed up with built-in depreciation, advertising, wage-slaves and their own pilfering dishonesty, as fed up with the whole putrid corpse of it—as Marylyn was. Was it that he didn’t have the guts to be a revolutionary?

  Ed was thinking that Clarence Duhamell was even more vague and unformed than he had imagined. Or was he dazed, temporarily, by the events of the last few days? “Are you an only child?”

  “Yes.”

  Ed had thought so. Clarence was probably spoiled. But spoiled how? Overprotected? “You joined the police force just after school?”

  “No.” Clarence told him about the job in the personnel department of the bank, and of his two years in the army before that, just after Cornell, when he had not been sent to Vietnam because the army had found use for him in the placing of draftees in army jobs. “I had it lucky,” Clarence said.

  “What does your father do?”

  “He’s an electrical engineer with a firm called Maxo-Prop. A turbine place. It’s a nice solid job.” Clarence was aware of a note of apology in his voice.

  “Your parents are probably no older than Greta and me. Funny, I’m getting old. Forty-two.”

  “Oh, my parents are a little older than that! I’m twenty-four.”

  Greta passed the platters for second helpings. Liverwurst, sliced ham, roast beef. “No begging, Juliette! Don’t give her anything!” Then she picked up the little dog and hugged her as if she were a baby.

  “Do you go to Marylyn’s meetings?” Ed asked Clarence.

  “I have been. To two or three. Not in uniform, I assure you!” Clarence laughed. “I wouldn’t get out alive in uniform. And in civvies my hair’s not long enough—to please Marylyn. Personally I don’t care how long people’s hair is—” As long as it’s clean, Clarence started to say. “I wear mine as long as I can without getting remarks from my captains.”

  Then came coffee. Brandy if anyone wanted it.

  Marylyn and Greta were looking at a painting.

  “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

  The 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 stre
et. 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.