Mason listened patiently for two hours to Kenney's rant and Handicott's rebuke, which understood his reasons but did not justify the method. Neither was able to answer, however, for the failure to search the room. They both railed on the vague concepts of 'flawed procedures', 'oversight' and 'this is what we have'.
The girl did not press charges against Reimer. For the life she led and the prejudice of public opinion, Stone could not blame her.
The next day, no newspaper reported on the Cuvillier Park raid, the mayor's involvement or the fight against prostitution. The Daily opened with the beating of the mayor by an NYPD detective. There was no mention of the circumstances. There was an invective-laden editorial and four long pages of reporting by no fewer than five journalists who combed through Mason Stone's private life and described him as an angry, repressed man consumed by a violent hatred of white collar workers.
Even the failure of his marriage was traced to his frequent outbursts. The front-page photo, later reprinted and circulated by every newspaper in the city, showed him from behind, his arm still outstretched and his fist on the mayor's twisted jaw. The girl did not appear in the frame, hidden by his back.
It took the police chief four days, three more than he expected, to disbar him and kick him to the curb. The precinct needed to regain lost confidence, to send a signal, to calm down. A few heads had to roll.
The witness
Mason Stone still had a few questions left before he left the building.
The doorman ushered him into his tiny flat, next to the boiler room.
"I know why you're here."
"If you do, you'll save me a lot of trouble. Do you have any coffee?" he asked, looking around. She needed to get rid of that headache.
"It's because of what happened to Mrs Perkins. Just like all the others," the small, scrawny man gave him a stern, exhausted look. To him, they were all jackals now, ready to pounce on the few remains of a stripped-down prey. He probably hadn't been able to sleep much either in the last few days. "Would you like some sugar?" she continued, handing him a steaming cup.
"No, thank you." Mason wet his lips. The coffee was bad, but the day hadn't been any better, so he was content. "What do you remember about that day?"
"What I told the other cops, dozens and dozens of times. They kept me a whole night in that little room full of mirrors. Journalists came to me, too. They must have filled our bay with this story. Don't you read the papers?"
"The press is dead."
"Well, like I said, there wasn't much action that day. The lady came home around thirteen. That was the last time I saw her."
"How did she look?"
"I don't know, I just caught a glimpse of her. But I think I'm not wrong in saying that she's been more taciturn than usual over the last few days. Maybe she had some thoughts. I didn't mind, after all its normal when the end of the week is approaching and the salary is what it is, right?!"
"She didn't say goodbye?"
"She didn't stop that day. But she usually looked out at the guardhouse to ask me if I needed anything. Do you understand me? She was the one who worried about me! She was a good girl."
"Were you on good terms with Samuel?"
"Ever since they came to live here two years ago, they used to come to me for help with some repairs or errands. I have no complaints about Mr. Perkins. A hard worker, for sure."
"Did Elizabeth ever tell you anything personal? Something that, to the wrong ears, could have gotten her into trouble?"
"Elizabeth? I don't think anyone would ever hold it against her."
"And yet she's dead. How were things with her husband?"
"Working a lot, Samuel often came home late and most of the time their schedules didn't coincide. But they loved each other, I can assure you."
"How can you be sure?"
"I was married for more than forty years. I know certain looks and certain attentions."
The man's eyes ran, for a moment, to a photograph on the old sideboard in the living room. Mason got the impression of a small altar. It was the image of a smiling woman in a flowery dress.
"Can you tell me anything about Elizabeth's family?"
"Very little. For all I know, that girl could have been alone in the world. Maybe she wasn't even from New York."
"How do you know that? Something he said to her? The way he talked.? Any information could be useful to me."
At those words, the man recoiled, and an expression of embarrassment was painted on his face.
"No, mister, it was just an idea."
"I need facts, I have no use for your deductions! Stick to what you've seen," he blurted out, then the sight of the frail old man encouraged him to calm down. "What time did Mr. Perkins return that day?"
"Just before dawn. But I'm not quite sure. My son was on duty."
"Can I talk to him?"
"Not right now, I'm sorry. He's out of town this weekend. He'll be back in a couple of days. In any case, they questioned him as well. His statement was taken by Detective Matthews, I think his name is. Maybe you can talk to him."
"Perfect. Let's go back to that day, if you don't mind. Did anything else happen? Did you see Samuel Perkins leave?"
"Yes, but he was in a hurry."
"Maybe someone was waiting for him?"
"Perhaps he had overslept and was on his way to a grooming."
"Did you ever see him come back?"
"No, not me, Mr. Stone."
"Was there any unusual movement before Elizabeth was found?"
"Unusual... I don't think so, no."
"Anything 'usual' instead?"
"Around 4.00 P.M had a man come up, but it wasn't the first time."
"His name?"
"I don't remember. The police have the register."
"How often did you visit the Perkins'?"
"A couple of times a month, maybe more. It depended on Mr. Perkins."
"Were they in business together?"
"I beg your pardon? No, absolutely not."
"Try to explain yourself, then."
"I don't like to pry into other people's affairs."
"And who does." followed a moment of silence in which Mason didn't take his eyes off him.
"If Samuel Perkins left for work, or the bar, or wherever he was headed, there was a chance this gentleman would show up in the lobby no more than ten minutes later. Sometimes with flowers, sometimes with a package from a bakery, sometimes with a bottle."
"A suitor."
«Perhaps. But whether it was reciprocated I can't tell you."
"Did you hear Elizabeth complain about it? Generally, how long did she stay?"
"There were never any scenes. Sometimes she stayed for a few minutes, sometimes an hour. What is certain is that he never left with what he had brought."
"Could you describe him to me?"
"A distinguished, tidy fellow. A decent man."
"A man who can afford certain gifts."
"The suit was that of a well-paid man."
"Has there been anyone else after him?"
"Yes, a few deliveries, the couple on the third floor who called because their brat had clogged the sink, I brought the widower McArthur's groceries, the notary, the fuel for the boiler..."
"A notary?"
"Yeah."
"Who did he go to?"
"To the Perkins'."
"The Perkins', and you didn't think to mention that before?"
"I don't see why: I myself, a few days before...I gave the lady a package of documents. Registered mail. Very urgent."
"And you can't tell me what was in it, I suppose?"
"Sorry, I never open tenants' mail."
"And you couldn't read that many papers against the light, I understand. I bet you couldn't even tell me which firm it was."
"Certainly a big name! Unfortunately, I don't have the good memory I once had, mister."
"Did anything of this notary's impress you?"
"I remember thinking that he was very young. But perhaps it's habit; they're all generally too old and stooped, aren't they?"
"How young?"
"No more than forty."
"His appearance?"
"Black hair, pointed face, tall and serious looking. A handsome man."
"Anything else?"
"Only family stories left, are you interested?"
"He was very kind, Mr. Cochrane. And patient. I bid you good day." Mason held out his hand to the old doorman and, taking his hat, left the room.
"You didn't tell me how the coffee was!"
"Hot, Mr. Cochrane.".
A taxi ride
He walked out of the Perkins' building and felt more tired than ever. The accumulating questions weighed heavy in his notebook. His sleepy, tired eyes, bothered by the light, were slits, his temples throbbed so much that if they didn't stop soon he might not be able to take off his hat. Instead of going to the car, he stopped a taxi. He told the driver his destination and said to take it easy, let him choose the route. An unusual phrase to say to someone who makes money on the time he takes to do his job.
Stone finished transcribing Mr Cochrane's words and dozed off. Not even the noise of rush hour, the driver's bad driving and the rancid smell of the interior disturbed his sleep.
The company where Elizabeth worked as a secretary, Lloyd & Wagon's, was located in the Bronx. The underground from her home took about an hour, and who knows how many people had seen her, noticed her, desired her in the battered and dilapidated carriages she took every day. Perhaps the girl had met her murderer there, perhaps she had been observed, watched, followed once she got off at the stop. Maybe they had started chatting with a trivial excuse, maybe he had picked up her handkerchief and offered her a cup of coffee. Maybe they had become friends.
The image of Elizabeth appeared in front of him. She was still alive: her pink cheeks, her bright eyes, her sincere smile. When the girl peeped into his dream, the detective woke up, looked out of the window and tried to figure out where she was. The traffic had softened the taxi driver's driving. At that speed they would be there in about ten minutes.
"Big traffic, mister," he justified himself.
"Never mind." Mason craned his neck and read the nameplate on the dashboard. "Tim...I told her not to rush."
"Sure...sure! patience is a great virtue! If everyone thought like her!"
"You'd be a millionaire, Tim!"
"Sure, sure! Are you from New York, mister?"
"Florida adopted me when I married my wife."
"She's lost the accent a bit, though!"
"Not only that, Tim."
"You said it, mister."
Tim was a big guy with full cheeks, muscular arms and a wide waist. Judging by the colour of his sparse, yellow teeth, he was an avid tobacco chewer.
"How are you finding the Sunshine Cab, Tim?"
"Huh?!"
"What?"
"Forgive me: that's not a question I get asked often. I'd say I'm fine. In the two years I've been there, there have never been any problems."
"Is the climate good?"
"The good thing about this job, coach, is that you don't have to agree with anyone and as long as you're happy with yourself you're a lucky man. Of course, every now and then we get a few nutcases up here..."
"What about colleagues?"
"What's with all the questions, man?"
"I like to get to know the people I travel with. I love your company, it's my favourite one. I know all the Sunshine taxi drivers now!"
"Ah, I know who you are! You could have told me right away! Carl and Peter talk about her all the time!" Mason knew that Tim the taxi driver was lying. We always tend to agree with someone who is disturbing us, who is strange to the point of frightening us, someone whose back we are turning and whose movements we can't keep an eye on.
"And Sam, how is he? I haven't had a run in with him in a while."
"Look, mister, I don't want any trouble," gone was the high jester's voice and the talkative manner, Tim had become a bundle of nerves.
"And you won't have any, but try to keep your eyes on the road. That's a good boy." Mason had moved closer to Tim's seat and was now speaking quietly.
"Who are you?"
"I'm a guy who takes corners better than you do."
"I don't know anything about Sam."
"I just want you to tell me what he's like. You work at Sunshine enough to know him."
"He was ok"
"Try to be a little more forthcoming, mate." Tim stopped chewing the dark mush, wiped his lips with his free hand and swallowed. He hadn't dared roll down his window to spit out the excess saliva. Mason thought that had been a very bitter pill to swallow.
"None of us have ever had a problem with Sam. He's not a chatterbox, he just gets on with it. He worked a lot of overtime and covered a lot of people's shifts. He did it on the side. The pay isn't much but it's enough for me, you know, I don't have anyone..."
"Let's save the story of your life for the second date, shall we?"
"Yes, sir. Excuse me."
"What did he do when he got off work?"
"When he got off, he always went straight home. Is it true what they say, the things he did to his wife?"
"What do they say?"
"Well, that's why he ran away, isn't it?"
"Was there anywhere he used to hang out with you colleagues, just to take the stress off work, have a drink and a cigarette? A bar, for example?"
"Dude that's against the law!"
"Yeah, I got the word, but you know what? I don't believe in rumours. How about you, Tim?"
"No, sir."
"Then we get along great. I love MaC's. It's located in Jersey, do you know it?"
"No, mister."
"It's not bad, but don't order cognac: the real thing ran out over a year ago. Now it's just fuel and cough syrup. What do you recommend?"
"Tennant's. It's by the harbour, on the Hudson, I don't know if you know..."
"Clear."
"He wasn't a regular, he only came in from time to time and never stayed too long, he didn't drink or smoke. We used to drag him along. He wasn't a man of many words."
"What's the codeword?"
"What? Ah, Tammany."
"How much do I owe you for the ride, Tim?" Mason caught a glimpse of the Lloyd & Wagon's sign and was about to ask him to stop.
"Compliments of the company, mister," he said, relieved that that service was coming to an end.
"Take five dollars for the chat." Stone extended the money over Tim's shoulder, after he had pulled over, and got out. He crossed the street and reached the entrance to Lloyd & Wagon's. It was a low, two-storey building.
He was greeted on the threshold by a frantic Andrew Lloyd. The large windows on the first floor had announced Mason as having just stepped out of the taxi.
Stone advanced through the offices without waiting for his client, his hands buried in his raincoat, his gaze vaguely distracted as Lloyd entered his field of vision. Mason found him funny and more awkward than when he had first met him: he hopped around him, industrious as a bee, never ceasing to ask how the investigation was going, that he shouldn't bother so much but that he could contact him by phone. Mason Stone knew his business well enough to realise that Elizabeth's former employer was under intense stress. He studied the place, the environment, the atmosphere that Elizabeth Perkins had experienced while she was alive.
He found it cosy, not particularly baroque. Partly sad. As they passed by, the heads of the employees had popped out of their paperwork and loculi like springs from a broken clock.
Unfortunately, the visit proved fruitless.
He was able to inspect the girl's desk, although Matthews' team had already taken away all the interesting items. Except for a few items of stationery, the drawers were empty. On the table there was only a picture of her with Samuel. She asked Lloyd if she could keep it so that she would have no difficulty in recognising the man if she came across him. The department had not yet released the sketch. Maybe Lloyd had been right after all. Matthews and his people weren't losing any sleep over the girl.
As the boss's personal assistant, Elizabeth had few opportunities for dialogue with her colleagues. Everyone, however, thought she was a smart woman. She had not seemed strange to anyone in the last week, some said they had not noticed, others did not remember. Only one employee, Martha, Wagon's secretary, said that on a couple of occasions her eyes and nose had seemed red. She told Mason that she had let it go, believing it to be just a seasonal cold. She herself had had a fever the week before.
Mason avoided Andrew Lloyd's questions about her progress by asking if he could make a phone call. As long as he was on the suspect list, the fewer details he knew the less he could get in his way. Lloyd offered him the phone installed in his office, as if relieved that it was out of sight. After a few seconds, the switchboard connected him. April answered at the same time that Mason was pushing Lloyd away with his eyes. The man closed the door behind him.