"You want to ask me stupid questions," she said. "That is what you want
to do. I'm right?"
"I only--"
"I know nothing," she said. "Nothing of any kind." She closed her mouth
and stood regarding him as if he were a particularly repulsive statue.
Malone looked past her into the living room beyond the door.
It was faded, now, but it had once been bright and colorful. There was
an old rug on the floor, and tables were everywhere. The one bright
thing about the room was the assortment of flowers; there were flowers
everywhere, in vases, in pots and even in windowboxes. There was also a
lot of crockery statuary, mostly faded, chipped or worn in some way. The
room looked to Malone as if its last inhabitant had died ten years
before; only the flowers had been renewed. Everything else had not only
the appearance of age, but the look of having been cast up as a
high-water mark by the sea, which had receded and left only the tangled
wreckage.
The woman cleared her throat and Malone's gaze came back to her. "I can
tell you nothing," she said.
"I don't want to talk to you," Malone said again. "I want to talk to
Mike."
Her eyes were very cold. "You from the police, and you want to talk to
Mike. You make a joke. Only I don't think the joke is very funny."
"Joke?" Malone said. "You mean Mike's not here?"
Her gaze never wavered. "You know he is not," she said. "Ten minutes ago
the policemen were taking him away to the police station. How then could
he be here?"
"Ten minutes ago?" Malone blinked. Ten minutes ago he had been looking
for this apartment. Probably it hadn't taken Lynch's men ten minutes to
find it; they weren't strangers in New York. "He was arrested?" Malone
said.
"I said so, didn't I?" the woman said. "You must be crazy or else
something." Her eyes were still cold points, but Malone saw a glow of
tears behind them. Mike was her son. She did not seem surprised that the
police had taken him away, but she was determined to protect him.
Malone's voice was very gentle. "Why did they arrest him?" he said.