'I'm Sergeant Morton Livingston, Mr Norman. Who are you trying to locate?’
'Well,' Jim said, 'us kids just called him Mr Nell. Does that -’
'Hell, yes! Don Nell's retired now. He's seventy-three or four.’
'Does he still live in Stratford?’
'Yes, over on Barnum Avenue. Would you like the address?’
'And the phone number, if you have it.’
'Okay. Did you know Don?’
'He used to buy my brother and me apple pie a'la mode down at the Stratford Diner.’
'Christ, that's been gone ten years. Wait a minute.' He came back on the phone and read an address and a phone number. Jim jotted them down, thanked Livingston, and hung up.
He dialled 0 again, gave the number, and waited. When the phone began to ring, a sudden hot tension filled him and he leaned forward, turning instinctively away from the drugstore soda fountain, although there was no one there but a plump teen-age girl reading a magazine.
The phone was picked up and a rich, masculine voice, sounding not at all old, said, 'Hello?' That single word set off a dusty chain reaction of memories and emotions, as startling as the Pavlovian reaction that can be set off by hearing an old record on the radio.
'Mr Nell? Donald Nell?’
'Yes.’
'My name is James Norman, Mr Nell. Do you remember me, by any chance?’
'Yes,' the voice responded immediately. 'Pie a'la mode. Your brother was killed . . . knifed. A shame. He was a lovely boy.’
Jim collapsed against one of the booth's glass walls. The tension's sudden departure left him as weak as a stuffed toy. He found himself on the verge of spilling everything, and he bit the urge back desperately.
'Mr Nell, those boys were never caught.’
'No,' Nell said. 'We did have suspects. As I recall, we had a lineup at a Bridgeport police station.’
'Were those suspects identified to me by name?’
'No. The procedure at a police showup was to address the participants by number.
What's your interest in this now, Mr Norman?’
'Let me throw some names at you,' Jim said. 'I want to know if they ring a bell in connection with the case.’
'Son, I wouldn't -’
'You might,' Jim said, beginning to feel a trifle desperate. 'Robert Lawson, David Garcia, Vincent Corey. Do any of those -'Corey,' Mr Nell said flatly. 'I remember him. Vinnie the Viper. Yes, we had him up on that. His mother alibied him. I don't get anything from Robert Lawson. That could be anyone's name. But Garcia . . . that rings a bell. I'm not sure why. Hell. I'm old.' He sounded disgusted.
'Mr Nell, is there any way you could check on those boys?’
'Well, of course, they wouldn't be boys anymore.’
Oh, yeah?
'Listen, Jimmy. Has one of those boys popped up and started harassing you?’
'I don't know. Some strange things have been happening. Things connected with the stabbing of my brother.’
'What things?’
'Mr Nell, I can't tell you. You'd think I was crazy.’
His reply, quick, firm, interested: 'Are you?’
Jim paused. 'No,' he said.
'Okay, I can check the names through Stratford R&I. Where can I get in touch?’
Jim gave his home number. 'You'd be most likely to catch me on Tuesday night.’
He was in almost every ~ight, but on Tuesday evenings Sally went to her pottery class.
'What are you doing these days, Jimmy?’
'Teaching school.’
'Good. This might take a few days, you know. I'm retired now.’
'You sound just the same.’
'Ah, but if you could see me!' He chuckled, 'D'you still like a good piece of pie a' la mode, Jimmy?’
'Sure,' Jim said. It was a lie. He hated pie a la mode.
'I'm glad to hear that. Well, if there's nothing else, I'll -' 'There is one more thing. Is there a Milford High in Stratford?’
