how much was to be gotten on his own turf and then determined to get it.”
“Which is why he’s been so careful to throw you off the track,” Noel said, “by making it seem as though a psychopath or the mob were behind it. But can’t you locate him through the ownership papers of the bars?”
“He’s a silent partner. The up-front owner is usually some nobody. In half the cases the legal ownership hasn’t changed. But we’re certain Mr. X has taken over anyway. Everything even vaguely connected with this case has been checked out dozens of times.”
“Even me?”
Loomis seemed to be expecting that question. “What do you want to know? You were born October twentieth, 1947, in Alameda, California. Your family moved to Mamaroneck, New York, in 1952. You went to Swarthmore College in 1965, majored in English literature for two years, then switched to social sciences. You studied two years after that, from 1970 to 1972 at Columbia University, worked part-time in a children’s afterschool center on Rivington Street. In 1969 you married Monica Sherman, also of Mamaroneck. You paid two thousand, three hundred and forty-five dollars in income taxes to the federal government last year. You have a savings account and a special checking account at Manufacturers Hanover Trust, its Murray Hill branch. Your health insurance expired three years ago and was picked up by New York University one month later. Your status changed from family plan to individual in a group at that time. Your Social Security number is one four seven, three three, nine eight—”
“All right,” Noel said, “I believe you. That’s pretty impressive. But I thought you believed I had nothing to do with it?”
“I believed you, Mr. Cummings, but I had to check out your story. You were followed for seventeen days. When you went out bicycling in the morning, one car followed you halfway, another the rest of the way. The day after the murder, you changed routes—which didn’t surprise us. You kept to the new route consistently. On Wednesday, two weeks ago, you went to two Fellini movies.”
“Are you still following me?”
“You were dropped four days ago. Even if you were deliberately keeping a low profile, you couldn’t possibly have looked so clean to us.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’m not a homosexual.”
“That wouldn’t prove a thing.”
Noel had an anxious thought. “Did you tap my phone?”
“We’re not authorized to do that. But—as I said—you were our prime suspect, until you checked out to be exactly what you seemed to be.”
Noel was intrigued—and secretly pleased—that he’d been a suspect. What would Alison say when she heard that? Noel could already see her mouth form an O of surprise. He was surprised, himself.
“Why tell me all this?” he asked.
“To be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Cummings, we’re back to square one. So we try something different. Since Mr. X can smell policemen, we get people to work for us who aren’t policemen. People like you.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, it took a minute for Noel to register astonishment. “Me? You’re kidding?”
“Why not?”
“It’s not my kind of thing,” Noel tried to explain. “Look around you, what does this place look like to you?”
“Like the somewhat sparsely furnished apartment of a New York University sociology professor. That’s why we need you.”
“I’m not trained for it. I’ve never even handled a gun.”
“You won’t have a gun. You won’t need one. It won’t be that kind of job. Look at yourself, Mr. Cummings, you’re in better shape than most rookies fresh out of the Police Academy. You do two, three hours of exercise a day?”
“Something like that. But…”
“How would you like to come down to the academy? I’ll lay two-to-one odds you outrun, outjump, outreact, and outthink any man there. We’ve watched you, you know.”
“That may be so,” Noel said, trying not to feel too flattered. “But
“Which is why he’s been so careful to throw you off the track,” Noel said, “by making it seem as though a psychopath or the mob were behind it. But can’t you locate him through the ownership papers of the bars?”
“He’s a silent partner. The up-front owner is usually some nobody. In half the cases the legal ownership hasn’t changed. But we’re certain Mr. X has taken over anyway. Everything even vaguely connected with this case has been checked out dozens of times.”
“Even me?”
Loomis seemed to be expecting that question. “What do you want to know? You were born October twentieth, 1947, in Alameda, California. Your family moved to Mamaroneck, New York, in 1952. You went to Swarthmore College in 1965, majored in English literature for two years, then switched to social sciences. You studied two years after that, from 1970 to 1972 at Columbia University, worked part-time in a children’s afterschool center on Rivington Street. In 1969 you married Monica Sherman, also of Mamaroneck. You paid two thousand, three hundred and forty-five dollars in income taxes to the federal government last year. You have a savings account and a special checking account at Manufacturers Hanover Trust, its Murray Hill branch. Your health insurance expired three years ago and was picked up by New York University one month later. Your status changed from family plan to individual in a group at that time. Your Social Security number is one four seven, three three, nine eight—”
“All right,” Noel said, “I believe you. That’s pretty impressive. But I thought you believed I had nothing to do with it?”
“I believed you, Mr. Cummings, but I had to check out your story. You were followed for seventeen days. When you went out bicycling in the morning, one car followed you halfway, another the rest of the way. The day after the murder, you changed routes—which didn’t surprise us. You kept to the new route consistently. On Wednesday, two weeks ago, you went to two Fellini movies.”
“Are you still following me?”
“You were dropped four days ago. Even if you were deliberately keeping a low profile, you couldn’t possibly have looked so clean to us.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’m not a homosexual.”
“That wouldn’t prove a thing.”
Noel had an anxious thought. “Did you tap my phone?”
“We’re not authorized to do that. But—as I said—you were our prime suspect, until you checked out to be exactly what you seemed to be.”
Noel was intrigued—and secretly pleased—that he’d been a suspect. What would Alison say when she heard that? Noel could already see her mouth form an O of surprise. He was surprised, himself.
“Why tell me all this?” he asked.
“To be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Cummings, we’re back to square one. So we try something different. Since Mr. X can smell policemen, we get people to work for us who aren’t policemen. People like you.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, it took a minute for Noel to register astonishment. “Me? You’re kidding?”
“Why not?”
“It’s not my kind of thing,” Noel tried to explain. “Look around you, what does this place look like to you?”
“Like the somewhat sparsely furnished apartment of a New York University sociology professor. That’s why we need you.”
“I’m not trained for it. I’ve never even handled a gun.”
“You won’t have a gun. You won’t need one. It won’t be that kind of job. Look at yourself, Mr. Cummings, you’re in better shape than most rookies fresh out of the Police Academy. You do two, three hours of exercise a day?”
“Something like that. But…”
“How would you like to come down to the academy? I’ll lay two-to-one odds you outrun, outjump, outreact, and outthink any man there. We’ve watched you, you know.”
“That may be so,” Noel said, trying not to feel too flattered. “But
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