Ralph dialed this Sixth Precinct number, and heat rose again to his face as he envisaged policemen calling on John Sutherland on Grove Street in perhaps less than a quarter of an hour from now.
The station answered, and Ralph gave his message: in regard to the murder of Elsie Tyler on Greene Street, he, Ralph Linderman, wanted to inform the police that John Sutherland, and Ralph spelt the name and gave Sutherland’s address, should be considered a number-one suspect as killer.
“We’ll note it down, sir. If you want to come in and see us, you can.”
“Thank you.”
Ralph aired God first. God had been quite surprised to see him at this hour and had been leaping about, barking in his repressed way, nuzzling against Ralph’s knees. God got a short but happy airing, and Ralph promised him a longer one later.
At the precinct station, Ralph repeated his statement, gave his own name and address, which the officer at the desk did not write down. The officer kept bumping the end of his ballpoint pen on the blotter in an absent way, and he looked as if his mind were partly on something else.
“I know this girl who was killed!” Ralph repeated. “This man Sutherland came to see me around five-thirty or six today—or yesterday now. He asked me what I was doing at the time Elsie was killed. Can you—can you—”
“Can I what?”
“Can you call up the people who’re handling this? There must be a homicide squad, no?”
“Several.”
“Can you please telephone the one who’s handling this and ask them if they’ve talked to Sutherland? Maybe they have him already! I’d like to know.”
“Are you any relation of this girl who was killed?”
“No.”
The man moved, but slowly, as if he were debating whether to pick up the phone. He dialed, spoke to someone in unintelligible monosyllables, asked Ralph his name again, then said “John Sutherland,” much to Ralph’s satisfaction.
Long wait.
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.—I see.—Yep. Well, it’s something!” Here he laughed. “Yep, thanks, pal.” The round, tanned face of the policeman looked up with more interest. “Yes, they know about John Sutherland. They’ve been in touch with him.”
“Then you’ve got him?” Ralph’s brows concentrated, his lips were ready to smile in triumph. “He’s in jail?”
“Well—I was told Sutherland was called up by this girl’s friend just after the girl was killed. Right after.” The cop nodded. “Thanks for your information, sir. We’re handling it.”
Ralph stood motionless. “You’re fooling me, because it isn’t proven yet. All right, but—”
“No, sir. Now look, I just went to the trouble to check this out. Sutherland was called up by the girl who lives with the—the murdered girl. Now get that through your head. G’night, sir.”
“Good night. Thank you,” Ralph said with a cold politeness. He left the station, unconvinced, and went in quest of a Times, though since the crime had occurred around 4 in the afternoon yesterday, he doubted that the Times had reported the events on Greene Street.
Ralph got his Times and bought also the 4-star Daily News, and looked first at the Times under an inadequate streetlamp, found on page two a short item headed Young Model Slain.
Elsie Tyler, 21, died minutes after being assaulted by a person or persons unknown on the doorstep of her apartment house on Greene Street. The young woman whose family lives in upstate New York had been a model for fashion photographers in the last months. Police are following leads on suspects.
Ralph looked down Seventh Avenue, thinking of the spot of light on the left side of the avenue, out of sight from where he stood, the coffee shop where Elsie had used to work. She had risen in life, to be sure, she had started to earn more money, and for how many months. Six? Maybe only four? She had glowed like a comet—or like a yellow rose—and someone had smashed her!
Who else but Sutherland?
At home, Ralph perused the tabloid, looking for police leads (none, the account was brief, with nothing at all about a suspect), looking for anything about the kind of life Elsie had been leading. There were no details, but the phrases “strikingly attractive” and “popular model of young women’s fashions” and “the sophisticated young siren who made it” implied a fast life to Ralph. He could imagine.
He imagined Elsie in the Sutherlands’ circle, moneyed people, the leisure crowd, the jet set, people who would keep Elsie up all night and ply her with drink and drugs.
Ralph convinced himself that he should lie low for another twelve hours, wait for more news from the radio (he had no TV and wanted none) or newspapers. He ate his salami sandwich and banana after all, while slowly pacing his living-room. God watched him, looking uneasy, hoping for another walk. Yes, he would wait for more details, little things that might point to Sutherland, and if he found them—Sutherland would be clever in trying to wriggle out, of course, but there was too much against him. Sutherland was a good runner, and could have done the murder and got back in time for the telephone call from Elsie’s friend Marion, if that telephone call was to be believed. Or were Sutherland and Marion in cahoots? That was a possibility that Ralph would keep in mind. The latest tabloid had said that “another young woman” with whom Elsie shared the apartment had telephoned a hospital and then “a man friend” for assistance, but the victim had died within seconds of the fatal blows. Ralph imagined attacking Sutherland with a similar weapon, just a brick maybe, smashing his skull, and though he himself might be caught for it, the price he might pay—several years in prison—would be well worth it. Yes.
Ralph did air God again, walked him west on Grove (the Sutherlands’ lights were out) and through Bedford and Barrow to Bleecker again, to Seventh and down to the coffee shop where Elsie had used to work, and which was now shut and dark as if in mourning. He went on downtown to Houston, but did not cross it. To walk past Elsie’s house on Greene Street would be too horrible. And maybe journalists, “the press”, would be standing around outside, photographing, trying to extract titbits from neighbors.
He went to bed at nearly 4, exhausted by his thoughts, though he could not sleep. He did not have to go to work tomorrow, he’d been fired. Good! Ejected from that filthy hole run by a pair of two-legged rats who sucked money from the depravities: prostitution, drug-dealing, gambling, idleness, and the pickers of pockets. Good riddance to Shapiro and company! Let them give him a “bad reference” too! Ralph felt sure of his ground, ground, sounder than that of the Hot Arch Arcade! He turned and twisted. He could sleep tomorrow as long as he liked, he reminded himself. That was small consolation.
The ringing of the telephone awakened him. It was just past 8, Ralph saw. “Hello?”
“Hello. Am I speaking to Ralph Linderman?”
“Yes.”
“This is Police…” The rest of the statement was lost on Ralph.
The important thing was that they wanted to talk to him. “Yes, I am home. Yes—sir.”
“Good, because we’re just around the corner.”
Ralph dressed in haste, and closed the door on his small bedroom. His living-room looked presentable, so Ralph started making his coffee. Then his doorbell rang, and Ralph answered at once with the buzzer—necessary or not, he never knew in this house. And what would the people in the house think of cops traipsing up? They could just as well think he’d summoned the cops to complain about the noise, as that the police had come to get after him about something!
There were two policemen. Ralph offered them chairs, but only one sat down, while the other looked around, looked also at the PREPARE TO MEET THY DOG card. Asked for his place of employment, Ralph gave the address of the Hot Arch Arcade, because that had been true until so recently, and the firing business was of no relevance, he thought.
“You were a friend of Elsie Tyler’s?”
“I knew her as a neighbor,” Ralph replied, “when she lived near here. Lived on Minetta Street for a while.”
“When is the last time y
ou saw her?”
Ralph thought hard. “Could be—six weeks—No, more than two months, I’m pretty sure.—Who told you to talk to me? Mr John Sutherland?”
“No, we—We’re asking around everywhere, you know. We just talked to the people where the girl used to work—down here. They gave us your name.”
Ralph barely nodded. He knew they meant the coffee shop. The people there, that female manager, had no doubt put in a bad word for him.
“How long’ve you known Elsie Tyler, sir?”
Again Ralph thought. “Maybe a year, a little more.”
“She ever come up here to visit you?”
“Oh, no, sir! No. We just said hello to each other on the street sometimes—passing.”
The cop wrote something on his tablet which had a big clip at the top. “The people at the place where she worked said you used to talk to her a lot when you came in there. Coffee shop.”
“I talked with her. Not a lot.”
“They said the girl tried to avoid you.”
Ralph felt annoyance, a bitter amusement. “I warned her against associating with the wrong people. Yes.”
“Such as who, for instance?”
Ralph smiled, thinking that he had seen a lot of wrong people with Elsie, but didn’t know any by name. “The young toughs in the neighborhood. I don’t know their names.—Such people as might have killed her—and did!” Ralph was aware that he trembled, and pushed his hands into his pockets.
The cop looked at him. “No names to give us?”
“Excuse me!” Ralph got up because his coffee had perked over and put the gas out. He turned the gas off. “I don’t know the names of these young hoodlums I used to see her with,” he said as he came back. “But I told the police at the Tenth Street station last night John Sutherland should be considered.” Ralph spoke calmly, and nodded for emphasis.
“We’ve talked with John Sutherland.”
“And he mentioned me, I suppose. He gave my name?”
“N-no, I don’t think he did.” The policeman looked at his colleague, who was still strolling about and looking as if he weren’t listening to the conversation. “You and Sutherland know each other? How is it you know him?”
Ralph suspected that this was a trick question. Just what had Sutherland said about him that the police didn’t want to tell him? “I returned his wallet. He lost his wallet on Grove Street and I returned it to him.”
“Really? When was this?”
“Last August. Ask Sutherland. His name and address was in it, so I called him up and returned it with the money in it.”
“Did you?—And then?”
“Then?—Then I noticed that Elsie was visiting him. He got acquainted with her at that coffee shop. He was having an affair with her. He didn’t tell you that? No, of course he would deny it!”
“No-o,” said the cop with another look at his fellow cop, who had picked this up too. “You’re sure of that, Mr—um—Linderman? An affair?”
“Yes. I’m a guard. A nightwatchman. I saw Elsie coming and going from his house. At odd hours.”
The cop wrote on his pad. “When, for instance?”
Ralph was suddenly impatient. “The main thing is, they were having an affair! Or Sutherland was using her as a prostitute!” The policeman in front of Ralph seemed not human, but a robot that didn’t care, taking down facts maybe, but not caring or thinking at all about what the facts meant. “Don’t you see what I mean? The wife knew. Mrs Sutherland. They were both having affairs—with other people.”
“Who?—When you say both—?”
Now the other cop was listening too.
“Mrs Sutherland with her men friends or man friend. I saw him once. Tall nearly bald man.”
The cop looked up from his tablet with a slight smile, shaking his head in a way that Ralph felt was patronizing. “Mr Lin—”
“John Sutherland was here,” Ralph interrupted, “here.” He pointed to his floor. “Just minutes after he murdered Elsie. He’d run here, and he was pouring with sweat. He asked me where I’d been—yesterday at four in the afternoon. He was trying—”
“You’re saying Sutherland was here yesterday?”
“Yessir. He didn’t tell you that? No, he wouldn’t! He’s trying to put the blame on me, but he can’t because he—”
“Sit down, Mr Linderman. Let’s all sit down.” The seated cop motioned.
The other cop and Ralph took chairs.
Ralph wiped perspiration from his forehead. “Yes. John Sutherland came here yesterday afternoon around five-thirty. I was in the middle of shaving. I’d been trying to sleep all afternoon. Just ask any of the people in this house, if you don’t believe me!” Ralph gestured toward his apartment door. “They’ll tell you I was complaining about the noise they make. It’s a noisy house here, kids screaming, people yelling. I have to sleep in the daytime because I work at night. I had to go on duty at eight last night.”
This seemed to make an impression, Ralph saw. The cop or detective with the clipboard was writing. He had removed his cap. He had very neat brown hair cut with a military shortness. He murmured to his colleague:
“Sutherland didn’t say anything last night about coming here, did he? Didn’t mention Linderman’s name. I’d have had it.”
“No, sir.”
“And Sutherland’s a runner, don’t forget that,” Ralph put in.
“What d’y’ mean, a runner?” asked the other cop.
“He jogs. He could’ve covered that distance between Greene Street and here—oh, six minutes, seven. And he was covered with sweat yesterday. I thought he was going to pass out.”
The short-haired cop sat back, smiling tiredly. “Around five-thirty he was here?”
“Between five-thirty and six, yes.”
“How long was he here?”
“Maybe ten minutes. He didn’t sit down. I asked him why he was so upset, asked him if something had happened to his little daughter, or to Elsie, and he said, ‘No, no.’ I can hear him now! And he looked mad—angry, when he found out I’d been here all afternoon.”
The short-haired cop shook his head with an air of sadness or tiredness. “Mr Linderman, we have it from Marion Gill—Elsie Tyler’s friend—”
“Yes, I’ve heard her name, Marion Gill,” said Ralph attentively.
“Well, she called up Sutherland right after the attack, Sutherland was home, and he went running to Greene Street. You can forget about Sutherland as the killer, Mr Linderman.”
Ralph was still not convinced. “Then he can forget about me, too! I’d appreciate that!”
The other cop smiled a little.
Ralph hated the smile, hated the atmosphere suddenly. So Sutherland had really been home? “Is this Marion telling the truth?”
The short-haired cop wiped his brow. “Yes, sir. She was upstairs in the apartment when it happened. We—”
“How do you know?” Ralph had suddenly thought of another scenario: Marion jealous of Elsie, because Sutherland liked Elsie more than he liked Marion. Had Marion killed her?
“Let me finish, sir. Marion’s account of this was corroborated by a couple of people in the Greene Street house. They heard the yells below, they saw Marion running down the stairs. Two people saw her.”
Ralph bit his underlip, then said, “Sutherland was having an affair with both of them, you know.”
The other cop leaned forward, grinning at the note-taking cop, started to say something, but the short-haired cop silenced him with a wave of his hand. The other cop gave a big, silent laugh, however.
What was funny, Ralph wondered.
“We check out the house here?” asked the second cop.
“Yep.”
They moved, said thanks to Ralph, asked him where he would be today and the next days.
“Here. I live here,” Ralph replied.
They departed, and Ralph closed his apartment door, and on second thought slid the chain bolt. Coffee. He lit the gas again. Then he went back to his d
oor, and listened with an ear against it.
Ralph heard a mumble of voices on the floor below, the shrill but still unintelligible yipping of the dumpy young woman—the new one—who detested him. She might hate him, but she’d be the first to swear he was home all yesterday afternoon, yelling at her kids and threatening to boot them down the stairs.
God looked up at him and wagged his tail, as if happy to see his master’s smile. Ralph patted the dog’s black-spotted head.
“We’ll have the last laugh, God,” Ralph said.
Ralph stood straighter as he went to watch his coffee. Justice! Not “blood revenge” as the Jews were always screaming, just plain old justice with proven facts, no revenge or tit for tat, because people got jail sentences now, not death. Ralph was convinced that Sutherland had something to do with it. Had he possibly hired a killer? Should he suggest this to the police while they were still here? No, best not, Ralph thought. It was a classic, guilty people trying too hard to pin the blame on someone else. He mustn’t look guilty or anxious in the eyes of the police, not for a minute.
As he poured his coffee, Ralph remembered a vivid dream he’d had last night: a couple of small boys in this house had attacked God, grabbed him by the legs, stuck a knife into his belly, and Ralph had retaliated by kicking a boy in the abdomen, hitting the other boy on the front of his neck with a judo whack, and in his dream, he had killed them both. His reply to the judge or to someone in the dream who was questioning him was: “God is more important than these vermin!” Or had he said “My dog”? Anyway, he had meant his dog, not a god, but in the dream, the judge had looked puzzled.
33
Jack jumped at the sound of the doorbell, sure that it was Natalia. Hadn’t she her keys? He smiled a little as he pressed the release button, and felt that his face cracked with the smile. It had not been a smiling morning. The telephone had rung at least four times, their friends asking in astounded voices what he knew about Elsie, if he knew who might have done it. And Natalia had phoned around 9 to say that she was meeting Elsie’s parents that morning and would invite them to lunch, and that she would try to be home “in the early afternoon”. Anyway, she had arrived.