Part 20 (2/2)

”Bernie? Are you all right?”

”G.o.d,” I said, looking at my watch. ”As if I didn't have enough things to do and enough stops to make. There's never enough time, Carolyn. Have you noticed that? There's never enough time.”

”Bernie...”

I leaned across, opened the door on her side. ”Go make nice to the Blinns,” I said, ”and I'll catch you later.”

CHAPTER Seventeen.

I called Ray Kirschmann from a sidewalk phone booth on Second Avenue. The Bulldogs had more than doubled the point spread, he informed me dolefully. ”Look at the bright side,” I said. ”You'll get even tomorrow.” called Ray Kirschmann from a sidewalk phone booth on Second Avenue. The Bulldogs had more than doubled the point spread, he informed me dolefully. ”Look at the bright side,” I said. ”You'll get even tomorrow.”

”Tomorrow I got the Giants. They never got anybody even unless he started out ahead.”

”I'd love to chat,” I said, ”but I'm rushed. There's some things I'd like you to find out for me.”

”What am I, the Answer Man? You want a lot for a coat.”

”It's mink, Ray. Think what some women have to do to get one.”

”Funny.”

”And it's not just a coat we're talking about. You could get a nice collar to go with it.”

”Think so?”

”Stranger things have happened. Got a pencil?” He went and fetched one and I told him the things I wanted him to find out. ”Don't stray too far from the phone, huh, Ray? I'll get back to you.”

”Great,” he said. ”I can hardly wait.”

I got back into the car. I'd left the motor running, and now I popped the transmission in gear and continued downtown on Second Avenue. At Twenty-third Street I turned right, favored the Hotel Gresham with no more than a pa.s.sing glance, turned right again at Sixth Avenue and left at Twenty-ninth Street, parking at a meter on Seventh Avenue. This time I cut the engine and retrieved my jump wire.

I was in the heart of the fur market, a few square blocks that added up to an ecologist's nightmare. Several hundred small businesses were all cl.u.s.tered together, sellers of hides and pelts, manufacturers of coats and jackets and bags and accessories, wholesalers and retailers and somewhere-in-betweeners, dealers in tr.i.m.m.i.n.g and by-products and fastenings and b.u.t.tons and bows. The particular place I was looking for was on the far side of the avenue a couple doors west on Twenty-ninth Street. There Arvin Tannenbaum occupied the entire third floor of a four-story loft building.

A coffee shop, closed for the weekend, took up the ground floor. To its right was a door opening onto a small hallway which led to an elevator and the fire stairs. The door was locked. The lock did not look terribly formidable.

The dog, on the other hand, did. He was a Doberman, bred to kill and trained to be good at it, and he paced the hallway like an inst.i.tutionalized leopard. When I approached the door he interrupted his exercise and gave me all his attention. I put a hand on the door, just out of curiosity, and he crouched, ready to spring. I withdrew my hand, but this did not mollify him much.

I wished Carolyn were with me. She could have given the b.a.s.t.a.r.d a bath. Clipped his nails, too, while she was at it. Filed his teeth down a bit.

I don't screw around with guard dogs. The only way I could think to get past this particular son of a b.i.t.c.h was to spray poison on my arm and let him bite me. I gave him a parting smile, and he growled low in his throat, and I went over and broke into the coffee shop.

That wasn't the easiest thing in the world-they had iron gates, like the ones at Barnegat Books-but it was more in my line of work than doing a wild-animal act. The gate had a padlock, which I picked, and the door had a Yale lock, which I also picked. No alarms went off. I drew the gate shut before closing the door. Anyone who took a close look would see it was unfastened, but it looked good from a distance.

There was a door at the side of the restaurant that led to the elevator, but it unfortunately also led to the dog, which lessened its usefulness. I went back through the kitchen, opening a door at the rear which led into an airless little airshaft. By standing on a garbage can, I could just reach the bottom rung of the fire escape. I pulled myself up and started climbing.

I would have gone right up to the third floor if I hadn't noticed an unlocked window on the second floor. It was too appealing an invitation to resist. I let myself in, walked through a maze of baled hides, climbed a flight of stairs, and emerged in the establishment of Arvin Tannenbaum and Sons.

Not too many minutes later I left the way I'd come, walking down a flight, threading my way between the bales of tanned hides, clambering down the fire escape and hopping nimbly to earth from my perch on the garbage can. I stopped in the coffee-shop kitchen to help myself to a Hostess Twinkie. I can't say it was just what I wanted, but I was starving and it was better than nothing.

I didn't bother picking the lock shut after me. The springlock would have to do. But I did draw the gates shut and fasten the padlock.

Before returning to the Pontiac, I walked over to say goodbye to the dog. I waved at him and he glowered at me. From the look he gave me I could have sworn he knew what I was up to.

It was Mrs. Kirschmann who answered the phone. When I asked to speak to her husband she said ”Just a minute,” then yelled out his name without bothering to cover the mouthpiece. When Ray came on the line I told him my ear was ringing.

”So?”

”Your wife yelled in it.”

”I can't help that, Bernie,” he said. ”You all right otherwise?”

”I guess so. What did you find out?”

”I got a make on the murder weapon. Porlock was shot with a Devil Dog.”

”I just ate one of those.”

”Huh?”

”Actually, what I ate was a Twinkie, but isn't a Devil Dog about the same thing?”

He sighed. ”A Devil Dog's an automatic pistol made by Marley. Their whole line's dogs of one kind or another. The Devil Dog's a .32 automatic. The Whippet's a .25 automatic, the Mastiff's a .38 revolver, and they make a .44 Magnum that I can't remember what it's called. It oughta be something like an Irish Wolfhound or a Great Dane because of the size, but that's no kind of name for a gun.”

”There's a h.e.l.l of a lot of dogs in this,” I said. ”Did you happen to notice? Between the Junkyard Dog defense and the Marley Devil Dog and the Doberman in the hallway-”

”What Doberman in the hallway? What hallway?”

”Forget it. It's a .32 automatic?”

”Right. Registration check went nowhere. Coulda been Porlock's gun, could be the killer brought it with him.”

”What did it look like?”

”The gun? I didn't see it, Bern. I made a call, I didn't go down to the property office and start eyeballin' the exhibits. I seen Devil Dogs before. It's an automatic, so it's a flat gun, not too large, takes a five-shot clip. The ones I've seen were blued steel, though you could probably get it in any kind of finish, nickel-plated or pearl grips, anything you wanted to pay for.”

I closed my eyes, trying to picture the gun I'd found in my hand. Blued steel, yes. That sounded right.

”Not a big gun, Bern. Two-inch barrel. Not much of a kick when you fire it.”

”Unless that's how you get your kicks.”

”Huh?”

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