Part 26 (1/2)

”Can I go now?”

”With G.o.d,” he said. ”You do that statement about your talk with Obermeyer?”

I went into my pocket and came up with a folded trio of lined yellow sheets of paper. I handed the packet to Viviase, who took it with a look of resignation. He opened the folded sheets and looked at them.

”At least I can read your writing,” he said. ”I'll have it typed up for you to sign. Wait outside.”

I got up and went into the hallway. Viviase moved past me with my report. There was a low wooden bench. I sat as far from the other person on the bench as I could.

It was somewhere over ninety degrees outside and about eighty inside the hall. The man at the end of the bench was wearing a heavy winter coat. He was smiling, a kind of goofy, pleased smile. He looked a little like my Uncle Benny when he was fifty: dark, too much hair, not enough chin, but plenty of nose.

I looked at the wall. There was a photograph of a policeman in dress uniform. The photograph was old. I fixed my eyes on it.

”It's my birthday,” the guy at the other end of the bench said.

”Congratulations,” I answered, still looking at the cop in the picture.

”Had a big birthday lunch at the Cuban place farther down on Main.”

I nodded.

”I've had a birthday lunch at a different foreign restaurant every year for the last five years,” he said with an air of accomplishment. ”Greek, Italian, Jewish, Chinese. This year was Cuban.”

”Yeah?” I said, feeling I had to say something.

”Yeah. I go alone. My family's back in Holland, Michigan,” he said. ”I used to fix clocks there. Holland, Michigan. They have a big tulip festival in Holland every year.”

”I've heard,” I said.

”I'm a witness,” he said. ”Murder. Man got shot in the Cuban restaurant two booths away from me. I was eating my refried beans. There was just me and these two guys and one shot the other one and got up and walked out.”

I looked at him, trying to decide if he had seen a murder or had simply wandered into police headquarters, plopped on the bench, and started telling a story to the first person who would listen to him. I didn't say anything.

”Didn't get a good look,” he said. ”Guy just goes bloughy with the gun. Bloughy, you know. Twice. Gets up and goes. But I heard the other guy, the guy he shot, say his name. That's why I'm sitting here. I'm trying to remember the name. I'm good with faces, not with names.”

He had slid toward me on the bench. I was already sitting on the end.

”Carnahan,” he said.

”Nice to meet you,” I said, without giving my name.

”No, I think the name of the guy was Carnahan. That's it. Carnahan. Or maybe it was Wisnant.”

”I can see how you'd get the two confused,” I said.

”No, it was something more like Pergamont,” he said. ”That's why I'm sitting here, trying to remember. They should have asked me what the guy looked like, the killer. I'm good with faces. Just saw him for a second, but that's enough. I used to fix watches.”

”You said.”

”Moncreiff,” said the man.

”The name of the shooter?”

”No, my name. Simon Moncreiff.”

He held out his hand. I took it.

”You told the police that you only saw the shooter for a second.”

”Less than a second,” he said, hands deep in his pockets, thinking. ”You think it would help if I went through the alphabet?”

”Can't hurt,” I said. ”Give you something to do.”

”It won't work,” he said. ”Terrible with names. Good with faces, people.”

”What did the guy look like?” I asked, looking down the hall for Viviase.

”The dead guy?”

”The killer.”

”Five-foot-seven or seven and a half, one hundred and sixty or sixty-five pounds, blue suit with a dark stain that looked like the State of Tennessee on the left lapel. Light skin with a little blue mole on his neck, right side. Green eyes. Good teeth except for a lower one on the right. Chipped. Looks a little like a volcano with the top missing. Good wrist.w.a.tch. Rolex, about five years old. On his right wrist. Means he's left-handed, which was the hand he had the gun in. Ring, real gold on his wedding finger, initials J.G. etched on it. Little scar, hardly see it, just under his right nostril, right here.”

He pointed under his nose.

”Shoes?”

”Armani, black,” he said.

”You tell this to the police?” I asked.

”No,” he said. ”They asked me what I saw of the shooter and I said I just saw him for a part of a second maybe. Than they got all interested in my hearing his name.”

Viviase was coming back now. He handed the statement and a pen to me and looked at Moncreiff while I signed.

”Come up with a name yet?” he asked.

”Might have been Kooperman,” the man in the overcoat tried. ”Or Salter.”

I handed the statement back to Viviase and said, ”You might want to ask Mr. Moncreiff what the killer looked like,” I said.

”I didn't get a very good look,” Moncreiff said.

I got up.

”Ask him,” I repeated, and started toward the stairway.

Behind me I could hear Viviase ask patiently, ”What did the killer look like?”

I started down the stairs and heard Moncreiff begin with, ”Five-foot-seven or seven and a half...”