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"Perfect. You break through and I'll come in."
Koontz blew out the window with a shoulder strike and Mason jumped in, the iron flush. Thanks to the glow of the night behind him he could make out the outline of the bed, the ruffled sheets, the second-hand furniture filled with bottles of perfume and ampoules of ointments. If the mouse had not gone to hide under the bed, the room was safe. Before he could signal Koontz to follow him in, the bathroom door handle, ajar, returned his reflection. Certain that a puff of wind had not moved it, Mason approached in silence. He didn't have time to wonder why that room had escaped the search of Handicott and Kenney's men, for a groan came from it. Koontz peeped out. Mason warned him not to make a sound.
"Can you hear me? I'm Detective Stone, New York Police Department. If it's not too much trouble, I'd come in. I'm armed and this cold gives my fingers a little tremble."
There was no answer. Mason opened the cabinet door with the toe of his shoe and, despite the prevailing darkness, checked the corners. Less than a metre from him was a massive figure. It seemed to be holding a weight. Measuring the space by eye, he realised that, in a firefight, the situation could quickly escalate. He raised his revolver.
"How about putting down what you've got there?"
"You'd be much better off getting out, closing the door behind you and forgetting what you think you saw," the man said. Stone understood the consistency of the huge bundle, and how the man was trying to disguise his voice.
"Doing what's best has never been my strong suit," he said, flipping the switch he'd found by feeling the wall. As the brim of the hat shielded him from the glare, the annoyance was only of the other holding back, too frightened to struggle. The man's arm was around her neck, his hand pressed over her mouth, his lipstick smudged and his make-up smeared. Blinded, the man swung a left in Mason's direction but caught it with a glancing blow. With the momentum of that dodge Mason threw himself at him and a fist went into his stomach. The grip on the girl suddenly lost conviction.
"Stop! I am the mayor..." the man managed to shout before the policeman's right hand reached his face. At the same moment a flash of lightning snapped behind them and was followed by the sound of a small deflagration. Mason dropped the man who had taken to covering his face and grabbed the woman still in shock.
"What the hell did you do?" reaching him, Koontz, had brought company with him: the Daily's rookie, his target levelled.
The mayor, lying beside Stone's feet, blinked and gasped like a freshly caught tuna. Since Koontz had entered the scene, the pulled, violent expression had disappeared.
"You beat up the mayor!"
Regardless, Mason took care to cover the half-naked girl who was too scared even to say thank you. "Put handcuffs on this man," he said instead.
"Mr. Reimer, you're under arrest."
The first citizen's protests were to no avail: Koontz did not show him any special treatment.
"You saw that man attack me! I am the mayor!"
"Sure, sure, sir. He's going to file a complaint with the district. Now follow me, please."
"He'll pay for this! Tell me the name of that cop!" he ranted as Koontz escorted him toward one of the patrol cars. A small crowd had gathered outside the building and as the rookie captured what had happened, Reimer turned one last time to look at Mason Stone.
Only then did the detective see the angry man he had confronted again. In front of the crowd, the mayor ranted about the abuse of police power and the violence of some officers who, instead of serving and protecting, were a threat to the community they were supposed to be defending. He promised that such incidents would not happen again.
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?"
