Eighty Million Eyes

4

Dr. Carl Nelson came onto the terrace not two minutes after Melanie had spoken his name, going first to her and kissing her on the cheek, and then shaking hands with Meyer, whom he had met the night before. He was promptly introduced to Carella, and he acknowledged the introduction with a firm handclasp and a repetition of the name, “Detective Carella,” with a slight nod and a smile, as if he wished to imprint it on his memory. He turned immediately to Melanie then, and said, “How are you, Mel?”

“I’m fine, Carl,” she said. “I told you that last night.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.”

“This has been very upsetting,” Nelson said. “I’m sure you gentlemen can understand.”

Carella nodded. He was busy watching the effect Nelson seemed to be having on Melanie. She had visibly withdrawn from him the moment he stepped onto the terrace, folding her arms across her chest, hugging herself as though threatened by a strong wind. The pose was assuredly a theatrical one, but it seemed genuine nonetheless. If she was not actually frightened of this tall man with the deep voice and the penetrating brown eyes, she certainly appeared suspicious of him; and the suspicion seemingly forced her to turn inward, to flee into icy passivity.

“Was the autopsy conducted?” Nelson asked Meyer.

“Yes, sir.”

“May I ask what the results were? Or are they classified?”

“Mr. Gifford was killed by a large dose of strophanthin,” Carella said.

“Strophanthin?” Nelson looked honestly surprised. “That's rather unusual, isn’t it?”

“Are you familiar with the drug, Dr. Nelson?”

“Yes, of course. That is, I know of it. I don’t think I’ve ever prescribed it, however. It's rarely used, you know.”

“Dr. Nelson, Mr. Gifford wasn’t a cardiac patient, was he?”

“No. I believe I told that to Detective Meyer last night. Certainly not.”

“He wasn’t taking digitalis or any of the related glycosides?”

“No, sir.”

“What was he taking?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was he taking any drugs?”

Nelson shrugged. “No. Not that I know of.”

“Well, you’re his personal physician. If anyone would know, it’d be you, isn’t that so?”

“That's right. No, Stan wasn’t taking any drugs. Unless you want to count headache tablets and vitamin pills.”

“What kind of headache tablets?”

“An empirin-codeine compound.”

“And the vitamins?”

“B-complex with vitamin C.”

“How long had he been taking the vitamins?”

“Oh, several months. He was feeling a little tired, run-down, you know. I suggested he try them.”

“You prescribed them?”

“Prescribed them? No.” Nelson shook his head. “He was taking a brand called PlexCin, Mr. Carella. It can be purchased at any drugstore without a prescription. But I suggested it to him, yes.”

“You suggested this specific brand?”

“Yes. It's manufactured by a reputable firm, and I’ve found it to be completely relia—”

“Dr. Nelson, how are these vitamins packaged?”

“In a capsule. Most vitamins are.”

“How large a capsule?”

“An O capsule, I would say. Perhaps a double O.”

“Dr. Nelson, would you happen to know whether or not Mr. Gifford was in the habit of taking his vitamins during the show?”

“Why, no, I…” Nelson paused. He looked at Carella and then turned to Melanie, and then looked at Carella again. “You certainly don’t think…” Nelson shrugged. “But then, I suppose anything's possible.”

“What were you thinking, Dr. Nelson?”

“That perhaps someone substituted strophanthin for the vitamins?”

“Would that be possible?”

“I don’t see why not,” Nelson said. “The PlexCin capsule is an opaque gelatin that comes apart in two halves. I suppose someone could conceivably have opened the capsule, removed the vitamins, and replaced them with strophanthin.” He shrugged again. “But that would seem an awfully long way to go to…” He stopped.

“To what, Dr. Nelson?”

“Well…to murder someone, I suppose.”

The terrace was silent again.

“Did he take these vitamin capsules every day?” Carella asked.

“Yes,” Nelson answered.

“Would you know when he took them yesterday?”

“No, I—”

“I know when,” Melanie said.

Carella turned to her. She was still sitting on the low stool, still hugging herself, still looking chilled and lost and forlorn.

“When?” Carella asked.

“He took one after breakfast yesterday morning.” Melanie paused. “I met him for lunch in town yesterday afternoon. He took another capsule then.”

“What time was that?”

“Immediately after lunch. About two o’clock.”

Carella sighed.

“What is it, Mr. Carella?” Melanie asked.

“I think my partner is beginning to hate clocks,” Meyer said.

“What do you mean?”

“You see, Mrs. Gifford, it takes six minutes for a gelatin capsule to dissolve, releasing whatever's inside it. And strophanthin acts immediately.”

“Then the capsule he took at lunch couldn’t have contained any poison.”

“That's right, Mrs. Gifford. He took it at two o’clock, and he didn’t collapse until about eight-fifty-five. That's a time span of almost seven hours. No, the poison had to be taken while he was at the studio.”

Nelson looked thoughtful for a moment. “Then wouldn’t it be wise to question—” he began, and stopped speaking abruptly because the telephone inside was ringing furiously, shattering the afternoon stillness.

David Krantz was matter-of-fact, businesslike, and brief. His voice fairly crackled over the telephone wire.

“You called me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How's Melanie?”

“She seems fine.”

“You didn’t waste any time getting over there, did you?”

“We try to do our little jobs,” Carella said dryly, remembering Meyer's description of his encounter with Krantz, and wondering whether everybody in television had such naturally nasty tone of voice.

“What is it you want?” Krantz said. “This phone hasn’t stopped ringing all morning. Every newspaper in town, every magazine, every cretin in this city wants to know exactly what happened last night! How do I know what happened?”

“You were there, weren’t you?”

“I was up in the sponsor's booth. I only saw it on the monitor. What do you want from me? I’m very busy.”

“I want to know exactly where Stan Gifford was last night before he went on camera for the last time.”

“How do I know where he was? I just told you I was up in the sponsor's booth.”

“Where does he usually go when he's off camera, Mr. Krantz?”

“That depends on how much time he has.”

“Suppose he had the time it took for some folk singers to sing two songs?”

“Then I imagine he went to his dressing room.”

“Can you check that for me?”

“Whom would you like me to check it with? Stan's dead.”

“Look, Mr. Krantz, are you trying to tell me that in your well-functioning, smoothly oiled organization, nobody has any idea where Stan Gifford was while those singers were on camera?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What did you say? I’m sure I misunderstood you.”

“I said I didn’t know. I was up in the sponsor's booth. I went up there about fifteen minutes before airtime.”

“All right, Mr. Krantz, thank you. You’ve successfully presented your alibi. I assume that Gifford did not come up to the sponsor's booth at any time during the show?”

“Exactly.”

“Then you couldn’t have poisoned him, isn’t that your point?”

“I wasn’t trying to establish an alibi for myself. I simply—”

“Mr. Krantz, who would know where Gifford was? Would somebody know? Would anybody in your organization know?”

“I’ll check on it. Can you call me later?”

“I’d rather stop by. Will you be in your office all day?”

“Yes, but—”

“There are some further questions I’d like to ask you.”

“About what?”

“About Gifford.”

“Am I a suspect in this damn thing?”

“Did I say that, Mr. Krantz?”

“No, I said it. Am I?”

“Yes, Mr. Krantz, you are,” Carella said, and hung up.

On the way back to the city, Meyer was peculiarly silent. Carella, who had spelled him at the wheel, glanced at him and said, “Do you want to hit Krantz now or after lunch?”

“After lunch,” Meyer said.

“You seem tired. What's the matter?”

“I think I’m coming down with something. My head feels stuffy.”

“All that clean, fresh suburban air,” Carella said.

“No, I must be getting a cold.”

“I can see Krantz alone,” Carella said. “Why don’t you go on home?”

“No, it's nothing serious.”

“I mean it. I can handle—”

“Stop it already,” Meyer said. “You’ll make me meshuga. You sound just like my mother used to. You’ll be asking me if I got a clean handkerchief next.”

“You got a clean handkerchief?” Carella asked, and Meyer burst out laughing. In the middle of the laugh, he suddenly sneezed. He reached into his back pocket, hesitated, and turned to Carella.

“You see that?” he said. “I haven’t got a clean handkerchief.”

“My mother taught me to use my sleeve,” Carella said.

“All right, may I use your sleeve?” Meyer said.

“What’d you think of our esteemed medical man?”

“Is there any Kleenex in this rattletrap?”

“Try the glove compartment. What’d you think of Dr. Nelson?”

Meyer reached into the glove compartment, found a box of tissues, and blew his nose resoundingly. He sniffed again, said, “Ahhhhhh,” and then immediately said, “I have a thing about doctors, anyway, but this one I particularly dislike.”

“How come?”

“He looks like a smart movie villain,” Meyer said.

“Which means we can safely eliminate him as a suspect, right?”

“There's a better reason than that for eliminating him. He was home during the show last night.” Meyer paused. “On the other hand, he's a doctor, and would have access to a rare drug like strophanthin.”

“But he was the one who suggested an autopsy, remember?”

“Right. Another good reason to forget all about him. If you just poisoned somebody, you’re not going to tell the cops to look for poison, are you?”

“A smart movie villain might do just that.”

“Sure, but then a smart movie cop would instantly know the smart movie villain was trying to pull a swiftie.”

“Melanie Wistful seems to think he did it,” Carella said.

“Melanie Mournful, you mean. Yeah. I wonder why?”

“We’ll have to ask her.”

“I wanted to, but Carl Heavy wouldn’t quit the scene.”

“We’ll call her later. Make a note.”

“Yes, sir,” Meyer said. He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “This case stinks.”

“Give me a good old-fashioned hatchet murder any day.”

“Poison is a woman's weapon as a rule, isn’t it?” Meyer asked.

“Sure,” Carella said. “Look at history. Look at all the famous poisoners. Look at Neill Cream and Carlyle Harris. Look at Roland B. Molineux. Look at Henri Landru, look at…”

“All right, already, I get it,” Meyer said.

Lieutenant Peter Byrnes read Kling's report that Thursday afternoon, and then buzzed the squadroom and asked him to come in. When he arrived, Byrnes offered him a chair (which Kling accepted) and a cigar (which Kling declined) and then lighted his own cigar and blew out a wreath of smoke and said, “What's this ‘severe distaste for my personality’ business?”

Kling shrugged. “She doesn’t like me, Pete. I can’t say I blame her. I was going through a bad time. Well, what am I telling you for?”

“Mmm,” Byrnes said. “You think there's anything to this prison possibility?”

“I doubt it. It was a chance, though, so I figured we had nothing to lose.” He looked at his watch. “She ought to be down at the BCI right this minute, looking through their pictures.”

“Maybe she’ll come up with something.”

“Maybe. As a follow-up, I called some of the families of Redfield's other victims. I haven’t finished them all yet, still a few more to go. But the ones I reached said there’d been no incidents, no threats, nothing like that. I was careful about it, Pete, don’t worry. I told them we were making a routine follow-up. I didn’t want to alarm them.”

“Yeah, good,” Byrnes said. “But you don’t feel there's a revenge thing working here, is that it?”

“Well, if there is, it’d have to be somebody Redfield knew before we caught him, or somebody he met in stir. Either way, why should anybody risk his own neck for a dead man?”

“Yeah,” Byrnes said. He puffed meditatively on his cigar, and then glanced at the report again. “Four teeth knocked out, and three broken ribs,” he said. “Tough customer.”

“Well, Fairchild's a new cop.”

“I know that. Still, this man doesn’t seem to have much respect for the law, does he?”

“To put it mildly,” Kling said, smiling.

“Your report says he grabbed the Forrest girl by the arm.”

“That's right.”

“I don’t like it, Bert. If this guy can be so casual about beating up a cop, what’ll he do if he gets that girl alone sometime?

INTERROGATION OF MILES VOLLNER AND CYNTHIA FORREST,

Miles Vollner is president of Vollner Audio-Visual Components at 1116 Shepherd Street. He states that xxxxxxx he returned from lunch at about 1:45 P.M. on Wednesday, October xxxxx 13th to find a man sitting in his reception room. The man refused to give his name or state his business, and thereafter threatned Mr. Vollner’s receptionist (Janice Di Santo) when Vollner asked her to call the police. Vollner promptly went down to the street and enlisted the air of Patrolman Ronald Fairchild, shield number 36-104, 87th Precinct, who accompanied him back to the office. When xxxx confronted by Fairchild, xxxxxx the man stated that he had come there to see a girl, and when asked which girl, he said, Cindy. (Cindy is the nickname for Miss Cynthia Forrest, who is assistant to the company psychologist.)

Vollner sent for Miss Forrest who looked at the man and claimed she did not know him. When she attempted to leave, the man grabbed ger by the arm, at which point Fairchild warned him to leave her alone, moving toward him and rasing his club. The man attacked Fairchild, kicking him repeatedl in the head and chest after he fell to the floor. Fairchild xx was later sent to Buena Vista Hospital. Four teeth xxxx had been kicked out of his mouth, and he had suffered three broken ribs. Vollner states he hd never before seen the man, and Miss Forrest states so, too.

Miss Forrest is the daughter of the deceased Anthony Forrest (DD Reports 201A-46-01 through 201A-46-31) first victim of the sniper killings two years xxxxx six months ago. Check of records show that Lewis Redfield was tried and convicted first degree murder, sentenced to death in the electric chair, executed at Castleview Penitentiary last March. There seems to be no connection between this case and the sniper murders, but have arranged for Miss Forrest to look at mug shots of any prisoners serving time at Castleview (during Redfield's imprisonment there) and subsequently released. Doubt if this will come up with a make since Redfield was in the death house for entire length of term before execution, although he may have had some contact with general prison population and arranged for harrassment of Miss Forrest and other survivors of his victims.

Miss Forrest’s previous contact with me on sniper case has left severe distaste for my personality. If subsequent investigation is indicated, I respectfully submit that case be truned over to someone else on the squad.

“Well, that's the thing.”

“I think we ought to get him.”

“Sure, but who is he?”

“Maybe we’ll get a make downtown. From those mug shots.”

“She promised to call in later, as soon as she's had a look.”

“Maybe we’ll be lucky.”

“Maybe.”

“If we’re not, I think we ought to smoke out this guy. I don’t like cops getting beat up, that's to begin with. And I don’t like the idea of this guy maybe waiting to jump on that girl. He knocked out four of Fairchild's teeth and broke three of his ribs. Who knows what he’d do to a helpless little girl?”

“She's about five-seven, Pete. Actually, that's pretty big. For a girl, I mean.”

“Still. If we’re not careful here, we may wind up with a homicide on our hands.”

“Well, that's projecting a little further than I think we have to, Pete.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I think we ought to smoke him out.”

“How?”

“Well, I’m not sure yet. What are you working on right now?”

“Those liquor-store holdups. And also an assault.”

“When was the last holdup?”

“Three nights ago.”

“What's your plan?”

“He seems to be hitting them in a line, Pete, straight up Culver Avenue. I thought I’d plant myself in the next store up the line.”

“You think he's going to hit again so soon?”

“They’ve been spaced about two weeks apart so far.”

“Then there's no hurry, right?”

“Well, he may change the timetable.”

“He may change the pattern, too. In which case, you’ll be sitting in the wrong store.”

“That's true. I just thought—”

“Let it wait. What's the assault?”

“Victim is a guy named Vinny Marino, he's a smalltime pusher, lives on Ainsley Avenue. About a week ago, two guys pulled up in a car and got out with baseball bats. They broke both his legs. The neighborhood rumble is that he was fooling around with one of their wives. That's why they went for his legs, you see, so he wouldn’t be able to chase around anymore. It's only coincidental that he's a pusher.”

“For my part, they could have killed him,” Byrnes said. He took his handkerchief from his back pocket, blew his nose, and then said, “Mr. Marino's case can wait, too. I want you to stay with this one, Bert.”

“I think we’d do better with another man. I doubt if I’ll be able to get any cooperation at all from her.”

“Who can I spare?” Byrnes asked. “Willis and Brown are on that knife murder, Hawes is on a planet of his own, Meyer and Carella are on this damn television thing, Andy Parker—”

‘Well, maybe I can switch with one of them.”

“I don’t like cases to change hands once they’ve been started.”

“I’ll do whatever you say, Pete, but—”

“I’d appreciate it,” Byrnes said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You can follow up the vendetta possibility if you like, but I agree with you. It’ll probably turn out to be a dead end.”

“I know. I just felt—”

“Sure, it was worth a try. See where it goes. Contact the rest of those survivors, and listen to what the Forrest girl has to say when she calls later on. But I wouldn’t bank on anything along those lines, if I were you.” Byrnes paused, puffed on his cigar, and then said, “She claims she doesn’t know him, huh?”

“That's right.”

“I thought maybe he was an old boyfriend.”

“No.”

“Rejected, you know, that kind of crap.”

“No, not according to her.”

“Maybe he just wants to get in her pants.”

“Maybe.”

“Is she good-looking?”

“She's attractive, yes. She's not a raving beauty, but I guess she's attractive.”

“Then maybe that's it.”

“Maybe, but why would he go after her in this way?”

“Maybe he doesn’t know any other way. He sounds like a hood, and hoods take what they want. He doesn’t know from candy or flowers. He sees a pretty girl he wants, so he goes after her—even if it means beating her up to get her. That's my guess.”

“Maybe.”

“And that's in our favor. Look what happened to Fairchild when he got in this guy's way. He knocked out his teeth and broke his ribs. Whatever he wants from this girl—and it's my guess all he wants is her tail—he's not going to let anybody stop him from getting it, law or otherwise. That's where you come in.”

“What do you mean?”

“That's how we smoke him out. I don’t want to do anything that’ll put this girl in danger. I want this punk to make his move against you, Bert.”

“Me?”

“You. He knows where she works, and chances are he knows where she lives, and I’ll bet my life he's watching her every minute of the day. Okay, let's give him something to watch.”

“Me?” Kling said again.

“You, that's right. Stay with that girl day and night. Let's—”

“Day and night?”

“Well, within reason. Let's get this guy so goddamn sore at you that he comes after you and tries to do exactly what he did to Fairchild.”

Kling smiled. “Gee,” he said, “suppose he succeeds?”

“Fairchild is a new cop,” Byrnes said. “You told me so yourself.”

“Okay, Pete, but you’re forgetting something, aren’t you?”

“What's that?”

“The girl doesn’t like me. She's not going to take kindly to the idea of spending time with me.”

“Ask her if she’d rather get raped some night in the elevator after this guy has knocked out her teeth and broken some of her ribs. Ask her that.”

Kling smiled again. “She might prefer it.”

“I doubt it.”

“Pete, she hates me. She really…”

Byrnes smiled. “Win her over, boy,” he said. “Just win her over, that's all.”

David Krantz worked for a company named Major Broadcasting Associates, which had its offices downtown on Jefferson Street. Major Broadcasting, or MBA as it was familiarly called in the industry, devoted itself primarily to the making of filmed television programs, but every now and then it ventured into the production of a live show. The Stan Gifford Show was—or at least had been—one of the three shows they presented live from the city each week. A fourth live show was produced bimonthly on the Coast. MBA was undoubtedly the giant of the television business, and since success always breeds contempt, it had been given various nicknames by disgruntled and ungrateful industry wags. These ranged from mild jibes like Money Banks Anonymous, through gentle epithets like Mighty Bloody Assholes, to genuinely artistic creations like Master Bullshit Artists. Whatever you called the company, and however you sliced it, it was important and vast and accounted for more than sixty percent of the nation's television fare each week.

The building on Jefferson Street was owned by MBA, and featured floor after floor of wood-paneled offices, ravishing secretaries and receptionists exported from the Coast, and solemn-looking young men in dark suits and ties, white shirts, and black shoes and socks. David Krantz was a solemn-looking man wearing the company uniform, but he wasn’t as young as he used to be. His secretary showed Meyer and Carella into the office, and then closed the door gently behind them. “I’ve met Mr. Meyer,” Krantz said, a trace of sarcasm in his voice, “but I believe you and I have only had the pleasure on the telephone, Mr. Caretta.”

“Carella.”

“Carella, forgive me. Sit down, won’t you. I’m expecting a call on the tieline, so if I have to interrupt our chat, I know you’ll understand.”

“Certainly,” Carella said.

Krantz smoothed his mustache. “Well, what is it you want to know?”

“First, did you find out where Gifford went while he was off camera?”

“I haven’t been able to locate George Cooper. He's our AD, he's the man who’d know.”

“What's an AD?” Carella asked.

“Assistant director,” Meyer said. “I talked to him last night, Steve. He's the one who timed that tape for me.”

“Oh.”

“I tried to reach him at home,” Krantz said, “but no one answered the phone. I’ll try it again, if you like.”

“Where does he live?” Carella asked.

“Downtown, in The Quarter. It's his responsibility to see that everyone's in on cue. I’m sure he would know just where Stan went while the folk singers were on. Shall I have my secretary try him again?”

“Please,” Carella said.

Krantz buzzed for his secretary. In keeping with company policy, she was a tall and beautiful redhead wearing a tight green sweater and skirt. She listened attentively as Krantz told her to try Cooper's number again, and then said, “We’re ready on that call to the Coast now, Mr. Krantz.”

“Thank you,” Krantz said. “Excuse me,” he said to Carella and Meyer, and then he lifted the receiver. “Hello, Krantz here. Hello, Frank, what is it? Who? The writer? What do you mean, the writer? The writer doesn’t like the changes that were made? Who the hell asked him for his opinion? Well, I know he wrote the script, what difference does that make? Just a second now, start from the beginning, will you? Who made the changes? Well, he's a perfectly capable producer, why should the writer have any complaints? He says what? He says it's his script, and he resents a half-assed producer tampering with it? Listen, who is this fellow, anyway? Who? I never heard of him. What's he done before? The Saturday Review says what? Well, what the hell's some literary intelligentsia magazine got to do with the people who watch television? What do I care if he's a novelist, can he write television scripts? Who hired him, anyway? Was this cleared here, or was it a Coast decision? Don’t give me any of that crap, Frank, novelists are a dime a dozen. Yeah, even good novelists. It's the guy who can write a decent television script that's hard to find. You say he can write a decent television script? Then what's the problem? Oh, I see. He doesn’t like the changes that were made. Well, what changes were made, Frank, can you tell me that? I see, um-huh, the prostitute was rewritten as a nun, um-huh, I see, and she doesn’t die at the end, she performs a miracle instead, um-huh, well, how about the hero? Not a truck driver anymore, huh? Oh, I see, he's a football coach now, I get it. Um-huh, works at the college nearby the church, um-huh. Is it still set in London? Oh, I see. I see, yes, you want to shoot it at UCLA, sure, that makes sense, a lot closer to the studio. Well, gee, Frank, off the top of my head, I’d say the revisions have made it a much better script, I don’t know what the hell the writer's getting excited about. Explain to him that the changes are really minor and that large stretches of his original dialogue and scenes are intact, just the way he wrote them. Tell him we’ve had pressure from the network, and that this necessitated a few minor—no, use the word ‘transitional’—a few transitional changes that were made by a competent producer because there simply wasn’t time for lengthy consultations about revisions. Tell him we have the highest regard for his work, and that we’re well aware of what the Saturday Review said about him, but explain that we’re all in the same goddamn rat race, and what else can we do when we’re pressured by networks and sponsors and deadlines? Ask him to be reasonable, Frank. I think he’ll understand. Fine. Listen, what did the pregnant raisin tell the police? Well, go ahead, guess. Nope. Nope. She said, ‘I was graped!’ “ Krantz burst out laughing. “Okay, Frank, I’ll talk to you. Right. So long.”

He hung up. The door to his office opened a second afterward, and the pretty redhead paused in the doorframe and said, “I still can’t reach Mr. Cooper.”

“Keep trying him,” Krantz said, and the girl went out. “I’m sorry about the interruption, gentlemen. Shall we continue?”

“Yes,” Carella said. “Can you tell me who was in that booth with you last night?”

“You want the names?”

“I’d appreciate them.”

“I anticipated you,” Krantz said. “I had my secretary type up a list right after you called this morning.”

“That was very thoughtful of you,” Carella said.

“In this business, I try to anticipate everything.”

“It's a pity you couldn’t have anticipated Gifford's death,” Carella said.

“Yeah, well, that was unforeseen,” Krantz said absolutely straight-faced, shaking his head solemnly. “I’ll have my secretary bring in that list.” He pushed a button on his phone. “She used to work for our head of production out at the studio. Did you ever see tits like that before?”

“Never,” Carella said.

“They’re remarkable,” Krantz said.

The girl came into the office. “Yes, sir?”

“Bring in that list you typed for me, would you? How’re you doing with Mr. Cooper?”

“I’ll try him again, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Yes, sir,” she said and went out.

“Remarkable,” Krantz said.

“While she's getting that list,” Carella said, “why don’t you fill us in, Mr. Krantz?”

“Sure. Gladine was in the booth with me, she's usually there to take any notes I might—”

“Gladine?”

“My secretary. The tits,” Krantz said. He gestured with his hands.

“Oh. Sure.”

“My associate producer was up there, too. Dan Hollis is his name, he's been with MBA for close to fifteen years.”

“Who was minding the store?” Meyer asked.

“What do you mean?”

“If you and your associate were in the sponsor's booth—”

“Oh. Well, our unit manager was down on the floor, and our director was in the control booth, of course, and our assistant director was making sure everyone—”

“I see, okay,” Meyer said. “Who else was in the sponsor's booth with you?”

“The others were guests. Two of them were sponsors’ representatives; one was a Hollywood director who's shooting a feature for the studio and who thought Gifford might be right for a part; and the other two were—”

The door opened.

“Here's that list, sir,” Gladine said. “We’re trying Mr. Cooper now.”

“Thank you, Gladine.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and walked out. Krantz handed the typewritten list to Carella. Carella looked at the list, and then passed it to Meyer.

“Mr. and Mrs. Feldensehr, who are they?” Meyer asked.

“Friends of Carter Bentley, our unit manager. He invited them in to watch the show.”

“That's all then, huh? You and your secretary, your associate Dan Hollis…Who's this Nathan Crabb?”

“The Hollywood director. I told you, he—”

“Yes, fine, and Mr. and Mrs. Feldensehr, and are these last two the sponsor's men?”

“That's right.”

“Eight people in all,” Carella said, “And five of them were guests.”

“That's right.”

“You told us there were six guests, Mr. Krantz.”

“No, I said five.”

“Mr. Krantz,” Meyer said, “last night you told me there were six.”

“I must have meant Gladine.”

“Your secretary?” Carella said.

“Yes. I must have included her as one of the guests.”

“That's a little unusual, isn’t it, Mr. Krantz? Including an employee of the company as a guest?”

“Well…”

There was a long silence.

“Yes?” Carella said.

“Well…”

There was another silence.

“We may be investigating a homicide here, Mr. Krantz,” Meyer said softly. “I don’t think it's advisable to hide anything from us at this point, do you?”

“Well, I…I suppose I can trust you gentlemen to be discreet.”

“Certainly,” Carella said.

“Nathan Crabb? The director? The one who was here to look at Stan, see if he was right for—”

“Yes?”

“He had a girl with him, the girl he's grooming for his next picture. I deliberately left her name off the list.”

“Why?”

“Well, Crabb is a married man with two children. I didn’t think it wise to include the girl's name.”

“I see.”

“I can have it added to the list, if you like.”

“Yes, we’d like that,” Carella said.

“What time did you go up to the sponsor's booth?” Meyer asked suddenly.

“Fifteen minutes before the show started,” Krantz said.

“At seven-forty-five?”

“That's right. And I stayed there right until the moment Stan got sick.”

“Who was there when you arrived?”

“Everyone but Crabb and the girl.”

“What time did they get there?”

“About five minutes later. Ten to eight—around then.”

The door to Krantz's office opened suddenly. Gladine smiled and said, “We’ve reached Mr. Cooper, sir. He's on 03.”

“Thank you, Gladine.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and went out.

Krantz picked up the phone. “Hello,” he said, “Krantz here. Hello, George, I have some policemen in my office, they’re investigating Stan's death. They wanted to ask you some questions about his exact whereabouts during the show last night. Well, hold on, I’ll let you talk to one of them. His name's Capella.”

“Carella.”

“Carella, I’m sorry. Here he is, George.”

Krantz handed the phone to Carella. “Hello, Mr. Cooper,” Carella said. “Are you at home now? Do you expect to be there for a while? Well, I was wondering if my partner and I might stop by. As soon as we leave here. Fine. Would you let me have the address, please?” He took a ballpoint pen from his inside jacket pocket, and began writing the address on an MBA memo slip. “Fine,” he said again. “Thank you, Mr. Cooper, we’ll see you in a half hour or so. Good-bye.” He handed the phone back to Krantz, who replaced it on the cradle.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Krantz asked.

“Yes,” Meyer said. “You can ask your secretary to get us the addresses and phone numbers of everyone who was in the sponsor's booth when you went up there last night.”

“Why? Are you going to check to see that I really went up there fifteen minutes before the show?”

“And remained there until Gifford collapsed, right?”

“Right,” Krantz said. He shrugged. “Go ahead, check it. I’m telling the exact truth. I have nothing to hide.”

“We’re sure you haven’t,” Carella said pleasantly. “Have her call us with the information, will you?” He extended his hand, thanked Krantz for his time, and then walked out past Gladine's desk, Meyer following him. When they got to the elevator, Meyer said, “Remarkable!”

The Quarter was all the way downtown, jammed into a minuscule portion of the city, its streets as crowded as a bazaar. Jewelry shops, galleries, bookstores, sidewalk cafes, espresso joints, pizzerias, paintings on the curb, bars, basement theaters, art movie houses, all combined to give The Quarter the flavor, if not the productivity, of a real avant-garde community. George Cooper lived on the second floor of a small apartment building on a tiny, twisting street. The fire escapes were hung with flowerpots and brightly colored serapes, the doorways were painted pastel oranges and greens, the brass was polished, the whole street had been conceived and executed by the people who dwelt in it, as quaintly phony as a blind con man.

They knocked on Cooper's door and waited. He answered it with the same scowling expression Meyer had come to love the night before.

“Mr. Cooper?” Meyer said. “You remember me, don’t you?”

“Yes, come in,” Cooper said. He scowled at Meyer, whom he knew, and then impartially scowled at Carella, who was a stranger.

“This is Detective Carella.”

Cooper nodded and led them into the apartment. The living room was sparsely furnished, a narrow black couch against one wall, two black Bertoia chairs against another, the decorating scheme obviously planned to minimize the furnishings and emphasize the modern paintings that hung facing each other on the remaining two walls. The detectives sat on the couch. Cooper sat in one of the chairs opposite them.

“What we’d like to know, Mr. Cooper, is where Stan Gifford went last night while those folk singers were on,” Carella said.

“He went to his dressing room,” Cooper answered without hesitation.

“How do you know that?”

“Because that's where I went to cue him later on.”

“I see. Was he alone in the dressing room?”

“No,” Cooper said.

“Who was with him?”

“Art Wetherley. And Maria Vallejo.”

“Wetherley's a writer,” Meyer explained to Carella. “Who's Maria—what's her name?”

“Vallejo. She's our wardrobe mistress.”

“And they were both with Mr. Gifford when you went to call him?”

“Yes.”

“Would you know how long they were with him?”

“No.”

“How long did you stay in the dressing room, Mr. Cooper?”

“I knocked on the door, and Stan said, ‘Come in,’ and I opened the door, poked my head inside and said, ‘Two minutes, Stan,’ and he said, ‘Okay,’ and I waited until he came out.”

“Did he come out immediately?”

“Well, almost immediately. A few seconds. You can’t kid around on television. Everything's timed to the second, you know. Stan knew that. Whenever he was cued, he came.”

“Then you really didn’t spend any time at all in the dressing room, did you, Mr. Cooper?”

“No. I didn’t even go inside. As I told you, I just poked my head in.”

“Were they talking when you looked in?”

“I think so, yes.”

“They weren’t arguing or anything, were they?”

“No, but…” Cooper shook his head.

“What is it, Mr. Cooper?”

“Nothing. Would you fellows like a drink?”

“Thanks, no,” Meyer said. “You’re sure you didn’t hear anyone arguing?”

“No.”

“No raised voices?”

“No.” Cooper rose. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have one. It's not too early to have one, is it?”

“No, go ahead,” Carella said.

Cooper walked into the other room. They heard him pouring his drink, and then he came back into the living room with a short glass containing ice cubes and a healthy triple shot of whiskey. “I hate to drink so damn early in the afternoon,” he said. “I was on the wagon for a year, you know. How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know,” Carella said.

“Twenty-eight. I look older than that, don’t I?”

“No, I wouldn’t say so,” Carella said.

“I used to drink a lot,” Cooper explained, and then took a swallow from the glass. The scowl seemed to vanish from his face at once. “I’ve cut down.”

“When Mr. Gifford left the dressing room,” Meyer said, “you were with him, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you meet anyone between the dressing room and the stage?”

“Not that I remember. Why?”

“Would you remember if you’d met anyone?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Then the last people who were with Gifford were Art Wetherley, Maria Vallejo, and you. In fact, Mr. Cooper, if we want to be absolutely accurate, the very last person was you.”

“I suppose so. No, wait a minute. I think he said a word to one of the cameramen, just before he went on. Something about coming in for the close shot. Yes, I’m sure he did.”

“Did Mr. Gifford eat anything in your presence?”

“No.”

“Drink anything?”

“No.”

“Put anything into his mouth at all?”

“No.”

“Was he eating or drinking anything when you went into the dressing room?”

“I didn’t go in, I only looked in. I think maybe there were some coffee containers around. I’m not sure.”

“They were drinking coffee?”

“I told you, I’m not sure.”

Carella nodded and then looked at Meyer and then looked at Cooper, and then very slowly and calmly said, “What is it you want to tell us, Mr. Cooper?”

Cooper shrugged. “Anything you want to know.”

“Yes, but specifically.”

“I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”

“What is it, Mr. Cooper?”

“Well…well, Stan had a fight with Art Wetherley yesterday. Just before the show. Not a fight, an argument. Words. And…I said something about I wished Stan would calm down before we went on the air, and Art…Look, I don’t want to get him in trouble. He's a nice guy, and I wouldn’t even mention this, but the papers said Stan was poisoned and…well, I don’t know.”

“What did he say, Mr. Cooper?”

“He said he wished Stan would drop dead.”

Carella was silent for a moment. He rose then and said, “Can you tell us where Mr. Wetherley lives, please?”

Cooper told them where Wetherley lived, but it didn’t matter very much because Wetherley was out when they got there. They checked downstairs with his landlady, who said she had seen him leaving the building early that morning, no he didn’t have any luggage with him, why in the world would he be carrying luggage at 10:00 in the morning? Carella and Meyer told the landlady that perhaps he would be carrying luggage if he planned to leave the city, and the landlady told them he never left the city on Thursday because that was when MBA ran the tape of the show from the night before so the writers could see which jokes had got the laughs and which hadn’t, and that was very important in Mr. Wetherley's line of work. Carella and Meyer explained that perhaps, after what had happened last night, the tape might not be run today. But the landlady said it didn’t matter what had happened last night, they’d probably get a replacement for the show, and then Mr. Wetherley would have to write for it, anyway, so it was very important that he see the tape today and know where the audience laughed and where it didn’t. They thanked her, and then called MBA, who told them the tape was not being shown today and no, Wetherley was not there.

They had coffee and crullers in a diner near Wetherley's apartment, debated putting out a Pickup-and-Hold on him, and decided that would be a little drastic on the basis of hearsay, assuming Cooper was telling the truth to begin with—which he might not have been. They were knowledgeable and hip cops and they knew all about this television rat race where people slit each other's throats and stabbed each other in the back. It was, after all, quite possible that Cooper was lying. It was, in fact, quite possible that everybody was lying. So they called the squadroom and asked Bob O’Brien to put what amounted to a telephone surveillance on Wetherley's apartment, calling him every half hour, and warning him to stay right in that apartment where he was, in case he happened to answer the phone. O’Brien had nothing else to do but call Wetherley's apartment every half hour, being involved in trying to solve three seemingly related Grover Park muggings, so he was naturally very happy to comply with Carella's wishes. The two detectives discussed how large a tip they should leave the waitress, settled on a trifle more than fifteen percent because she was fast and had good legs, and then went out into the street again.

The late afternoon air was crisp and sharp, the city vibrated with a shimmering clarity that caused buildings to leap out from the sky. The streets seemed longer, stretching endlessly to a distant horizon that was almost visible. The landmarks both men had grown up with, the familiar sights that gave the city perspective and reality, seemed to surround them intimately now, seemed closer and more intricately detailed. You could reach out to touch them, you could see the sculptured stone eye of a gargoyle twelve stories above the street. The people, too, the citizens who gave a city its tempo and its pace, walked with their topcoats open, no longer faceless, contagiously enjoying the rare autumn day, filling their lungs with air that seemed so suddenly sweet. Carella and Meyer crossed the avenue idly, both men smiling. They walked together with the city between them like a beautiful young girl, sharing her silently, somewhat awed in her radiant presence.

For a little while at least, they forgot they were investigating what looked like a murder.