5

As Kling had anticipated, Cindy Forrest was not overwhelmed by the prospect of having to spend even an infinitesimal amount of time with him. She reluctantly admitted, however, that such a course might be less repulsive than the possibility of spending an equal amount of time in a hospital. It was decided that Kling would pick her up at the office at noon Friday, take her to lunch, and then walk her back again. He reminded her that he was a city employee and that there was no such thing as an expense account for taking citizens to lunch while trying to protect them, a subtlety Cindy looked upon as simply another index to Kling's personality. Not only was he obnoxious, but he was apparently cheap as well.

Thursday's beautiful weather had turned foreboding and blustery by Friday noon. The sky above was a solemn gray, the streets seemed dimmer, the people less animated. He picked her up at the office, and they walked in silence to a restaurant some six blocks distant. She was wearing high heels, but the top of her head still came only level with his chin. They were both blond, both hatless. Kling walked with his hands in his coat pockets. Cindy kept her arms crossed over her middle, her hands tucked under them. When they reached the restaurant, Kling forgot to hold open the door for her, but only the faintest flick of Cindy's blue eyes showed that this was exactly what she expected from a man like him. Too late, he allowed her to precede him into the restaurant.

“I hope you like Italian food,” he said.

“Yes, I do,” she answered, “but you might have asked first.”

“I’m sorry, but I have a few other things on my mind besides worrying about which restaurant you might like.”

“I’m sure you’re a very busy man,” Cindy said.

“I am.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

The owner of the restaurant, a short Neapolitan woman with masses of thick black hair framing her round and pretty face, mistook them for lovers and showed them to a secluded table at the rear of the place. Kling remembered to help Cindy off with her coat (she mumbled a polite thank you) and then further remembered to hold out her chair for her (she acknowledged this with a brief nod). The waiter took their order and they sat facing each other without a word to say.

The silence lengthened.

“Well, I can see this is going to be perfectly charming,” Cindy said. “Lunch with you for the next God knows how long.”

“There are things I’d prefer doing myself, Miss Forrest,” Kling said. “But, as you pointed out yesterday, I am only a civil servant. I do what I’m told to do.”

“Does Carella still work up there?” Cindy asked.

“Yes.”

“I’d much rather be having lunch with him.”

“Well, those are the breaks,” Kling said. “Besides, he's married.”

“I know he is.”

“In fact, he's got two kids.”

“I know.”

“Mmm. Well, I’m sure he’d have loved this choice assignment, but unfortunately he's involved with a poisoning at the moment.”

“Who got poisoned?”

“Stan Gifford.”

“Oh? Is he working on that? I was reading about it in the paper just yesterday.”

“Yes, it's his case.”

“He must be a good detective. I mean, to get such an important case.”

“Yes, he's very good,” Kling said.

The table went silent again. Kling glanced over his shoulder toward the door, where a thickset man in a black overcoat was just entering.

“Is that your friend?” he asked.

“No. And he's not my friend.”

“The lieutenant thought he might have been one of your ex-boyfriends.”

“No.”

“Or someone you’d met someplace.”

“No.”

“You’re sure you didn’t recognize any of those mug shots yesterday?”

“I’m positive. I don’t know who the man is, and I can’t imagine what he wants from me.”

“Well, the lieutenant had some ideas about that, too.”

“What were his ideas?”

“Well, I’d rather not discuss them.”

“Why not?”

“Because…well, I’d just rather not.”

“Is it the lieutenant's notion that this man wants to lay me?” Cindy asked.

“What?”

“I said is it the—”

“Yes, something like that,” Kling answered, and then cleared his throat.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Cindy said.

The waiter arrived at that moment, sparing Kling the necessity of further comment. Cindy had ordered the antipasto to start, a supposed specialty of the house. Kling had ordered a cup of minestrone. He carefully waited for her to begin eating before he picked up his spoon.

“How is it?” he asked her.

“Very good.” She paused. “How's the soup?”

“Fine.”

They ate in silence for several moments.

“What is the plan exactly?” Cindy asked.

“The lieutenant thinks your admirer is something of a hothead, a reasonable assumption, I would say. He's hoping we’ll be seen together, and he's hoping our man will take a crack at me.”

“In which case?”

“In which case I will crack him back and carry him off to jail.”

“My hero,” Cindy said dryly, and attacked an anchovy on her plate.

“I’m supposed to spend as much time with you as I can,” Kling said, and paused. “I guess we’ll be having dinner together tonight.”

“What?”

“Yes,” Kling said.

“Look, Mr. Kling—”

“It's not my idea, Miss Forrest.”

“Suppose I’ve made other plans?”

“Have you?”

“No, but—”

“Then there's no problem.”

“I don’t usually go out for dinner, Mr. Kling, unless someone is escorting me.”

“I’ll be escorting you.”

“That's not what I meant. I’m a working girl. I can’t afford—”

“Well, I’m sorry about the financial arrangements, but as I explained—”

“Yes, well, you just tell your lieutenant I can’t afford a long, leisurely dinner every night, that's all. I earn a hundred two dollars a week after taxes, Mr. Kling. I pay my own college tuition and the rent on my own apartment—”

“Well, this shouldn’t take too long. If our man spots us, he may make his play fairly soon. In the meantime, we’ll just have to go along with it. Have you seen the new Hitchcock movie?”

“What?”

“The new—”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I thought we’d go see it after dinner.”

“Why?”

“Got to stay together.” Kling paused. “I could suggest a long walk as an alternative, but it might be pretty chilly by tonight.”

“I could suggest your going directly home after dinner,” Cindy said. “As an alternative, you understand. Because to tell the truth, Mr. Kling, I’m pretty damned tired by the end of a working day. In fact, on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, I barely have time to grab a hamburger before I run over to the school. I’m not a rah-rah party girl. I think you ought to understand that.”

“Lieutenant's orders,” Kling said.

“Yeah, well, tell him to go see the new Hitchcock movie. I’ll have dinner with you, if you insist, but right after that I’m going to bed.” Cindy paused. “And I’m not suggesting that as an alternative.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“Just so we know where we stand.”

“I know exactly where we stand,” Kling said. “There are a lot of people in this city, Miss Forrest, and one of them is the guy who's after you. I don’t know how long it’ll take to smoke him out, I don’t know when or where he’ll spot us. But I do know he's not going to see us together if you’re safe and cozy in your little bed and I’m safe and cozy in mine.” Kling took a deep breath. “So what we’re going to do, Miss Forrest, is have dinner together tonight, and then see the Hitchcock movie. And then we’ll go for coffee and something afterwards, and then I’ll take you home. Tomorrow's Saturday, so we can plan on a nice long day together. Sunday, too. On Monday—”

“Oh, God,” Cindy said.

“You said it,” Kling answered. “Cheer up, here comes your lasagna.”



Because a white man punched a Negro in a bar on Culver Avenue just about the time Cindy Forrest was putting her first forkful of lasagna into her mouth, five detectives of the 87th Precinct were pressed into emergency duty to quell what looked like the beginnings of a full-scale riot. Two of those detectives were Meyer and Carella, the theory being that Stan Gifford was already dead and gone whereas the Culver Avenue fistfight could possibly lead to a good many more corpses before nightfall if something were not done about it immediately.

There was, of course, nothing that could be done about it immediately. A riot will either start or not start, and all too often the presence of policemen will only help to inflame a gathering crowd, defeating the reason for their being there in the first place. The patrolmen and detectives of the 87th could only play a waiting game, calming citizens wherever they could, spotting people they knew in the crowd and talking good sense to them, assuring them that both men involved in the fight had been arrested, and not only the Negro. There were some who could be placated, and others who would not. The cops roamed the streets like instant father images, trying to bind the wounds of a century by speaking belated words of peace, by patting a shoulder tolerantly, by asking to be accepted as friends. Too many of the cops were not friends and the people knew goddam well they weren’t. Too many of the cops were angry men with angry notions of their own about Negroes and Puerto Ricans, inborn prejudices that neither example nor reprimand could change. It was touch and go for a long while on that windy October afternoon.

By 4:00, the crowds began to disperse. The patrolmen were left behind in double strength, but the detectives were relieved to resume their investigations. Meyer and Carella went downtown to see Maria Vallejo.

Her street was in one of the city's better neighborhoods, a block of old brownstones with clean-swept stoops and curtained front doors. They entered the tiny lobby with its polished brass mailboxes and bell buttons, found a listing for Maria in apartment 22, and rang the bell. The answering buzz was long and insistent; it continued noisily behind them as they climbed the carpeted steps to the second floor. They rang the bell outside the door with its polished brass 2s. It opened almost immediately.

Maria was small and dark and bursting with energy. She was perhaps thirty-two, with thick black hair pulled tightly to the back of her head, flashing brown eyes, a generous mouth, and a nose that had been turned up by a plastic surgeon. She wore a white blouse and black tapered slacks. A pair of large gold hoop earrings adorned her ears, but she wore no other jewelry. She opened the door as though she were expecting party guests and then looked out at the detectives in undisguised puzzlement.

“Yes?” she said. “What is it?” She spoke without a trace of accent. If Carella had been forced to make a regional guess based on her speech, he’d have chosen Boston or one of its suburbs.

“We’re from the police,” he said, flashing his buzzer. “We’re investigating the death of Stan Gifford.”

“Oh, sure,” she said. “Come on in.”

They followed her into the apartment. The apartment was furnished in brimming good taste, cluttered with objects picked up in the city's better antique and junk shops. The shelves and walls were covered with ancient nutcrackers and old theater posters and a French puppet, and watercolor sketches for costumes and stage sets, and several enameled army medals, and a black silk fan, and pieces of driftwood. The living room was small, with wide curtained windows overlooking the street, luminous with the glow of the afternoon sun. It was furnished with a sofa and chair covered in deep-green velvet, a bentwood rocker, a low needlepoint footstool, a marble-topped table on which lay several copies of Paris Match.

“Do sit down,” Maria said. “Can I get you a drink? Oh, you’re not allowed, are you? Some coffee?”

“I can use a cup,” Carella said.

“It's on the stove. I’ll just pour it. I always keep a pot on the stove. I guess I drink a million cups of coffee a day.” She went into the small kitchen. They could see her standing at a round, glass-topped table over which hung a Tiffany lampshade, pouring the coffee from an enameled hand-painted pot. She carried the cups, spoons, sugar, and cream into the living room on a small teakwood tray, shoved aside the copies of the French magazine to make room for it, and then served the detectives. She went to sit in the bentwood rocker then, sipping at her coffee, rocking idly back and forth.

“I bought this when Kennedy was killed,” she said. “Do you like it? It keeps falling apart. What did you want to know about Stan?”

“We understand you were in his dressing room with him Wednesday night just before he went on, Miss Vallejo. Is that right?”

“That's right,” she said.

“Were you alone with him?”

“No, there were several people in the room.”

“Who?”

“Gee, I don’t remember offhand. I think Art was there, yes…and maybe one other person.”

“George Cooper?”

“Yes, that's right. Say, how did you know?”

Carella smiled. “But Mr. Cooper didn’t come into the room, did he?”

“Oh, sure he did.”

“What I mean is, he simply knocked on the door and called Mr. Gifford, isn’t that right?”

“No, he came in,” Maria said. “He was there quite a while.”

“How much time would you say Mr. Cooper spent in the dressing room?”

“Oh, maybe five minutes.”

“You remember that clearly, do you?”

“Oh, yes. He was there, all right.”

“What else do you remember, Miss Vallejo? What happened in that dressing room Wednesday night?”

“Oh, nothing. We were just talking. Stan was relaxing while those singers were on, and I just sort of drifted in to have a smoke and chat, that's all.”

“What did you chat about?”

“I don’t remember.” She shrugged. “It was just small talk. The monitor was going and those nuts were singing in the background, so we were just making small talk, that's all.”

“Did Mr. Gifford eat anything? Or drink anything?”

“Gee, no. No, he didn’t. We were just talking.”

“No coffee? Nothing like that?”

“No. No, I’m sorry.”

“Did he take a vitamin pill? Would you happen to have noticed that?”

“Gee, no, I didn’t notice.”

“Or any kind of a pill?”

“No, we were just talking, that's all.”

“Did you like Mr. Gifford?”

“Well…”

Maria hesitated. She got out of the rocker and walked to a coffee table near the couch. She put down her cup, and then walked back to the rocker again, and then shrugged.

“Did you like him, Miss Vallejo?”

“I don’t like to talk about the dead,” she said.

“We were talking about him just fine until a minute ago.”

“I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” she corrected.

“Then you didn’t like him?”

“Well, he was a little demanding, that's all.”

“Demanding how?”

“I’m the show's wardrobe mistress, you know.”

“Yes, we know.”

“I’ve got eight people working under me. That's a big staff. I’m responsible for all of them, and it's not easy to costume that show each week, believe me. Well, I…I don’t think Stan made the job any easier, that's all. He…well…well, really, he didn’t know very much about costumes, and he pretended he did, and…well, he got on my nerves sometimes, that's all.”

“I see,” Carella said.

“But you went into his dressing room to chat, anyway,” Meyer said through his nose, and then sniffed.

“Well, there wasn’t a feud between us or anything like that. It's just that every once in a while, we yelled at each other a little, that's all. Because he didn’t know a damn thing about costumes, and I happen to know a great deal about costumes, that's all. But that didn’t stop me from going into his dressing room to chat a little. I don’t see anything so terribly wrong about going into his dressing room to chat a little.”

“No one said anything was wrong, Miss Vallejo.”

“I mean, I know a man's been murdered and all, but that's no reason to start examining every tiny little word that was said, or every little thing that was done. People do argue, you know.”

“Yes, we know.”

Maria paused. She stopped rocking, and she turned her head toward the curtained windows streaming sunlight and very softly said, “Oh, what's the use? I guess they’ve already told you Stan and I hated each other's guts.” She shrugged her shoulders hopelessly. “I think he was going to fire me. I heard he wouldn’t put up with me any longer.”

“Who told you that?”

“David. He said—David Krantz, our producer—he said Stan was about to give me the ax. That's why I went to his dressing room Wednesday night. To ask him about it, to try to…well, the job pays well. Personalities shouldn’t enter into a person's work. I didn’t want to lose the job, that's all.”

Did you discuss the job with him?”

“I started to, but then Art came in, and right after that George, so I didn’t get a chance.” She paused again, “I guess it's academic now, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

Meyer blew his nose noisily, put his tissue away, and then casually said, “Are you very well known in the field, Miss Vallejo?”

“Oh, yes, sure.”

“So even if Mr. Gifford had fired you, you could always get another job. Isn’t that so?”

“Well…word gets around pretty fast in this business. It's not good to get fired from any job, I’m sure you know that. And in television…I would have preferred to resign, that's all. So I wanted to clear it up, you see, which is why I went to his dressing room. To clear it up. If it was true he was going to let me go, I wanted the opportunity of leaving the job of my own volition, that's all.”

“But you never got a chance to discuss it.”

“No. I told you. Art walked in.”

“Well, thank you, Miss Vallejo,” Carella said, rising. “That was very good coffee.”

“Listen…”

She had come out of the bentwood rocker now, the rocker still moving back and forth, and she stood in the center of the room with the sun blazing on the curtains behind her. She worried her lip for a moment, and then said, “Listen, I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

Meyer and Carella said nothing.

“I didn’t like Stan, and maybe he was going to fire me, but I’m not nuts, you know. I’m a little temperamental maybe, but I’m not nuts. We didn’t get along, that's all. That's no reason to kill a man. I mean, a lot of people on the show didn’t get along with Stan. He was a difficult man, that's all, and the star. We blew our stacks every now and then, that's all. But I didn’t kill him. I…I wouldn’t know how to begin hurting someone.”

The detectives kept staring at her. Maria gave a small shrug.

“That's all,” she said.

The afternoon was dying by the time they reached the street again. Carella glanced at his watch and said, “Let's call Bob, see if he had any luck with our friend Wetherley.”

“You call,” Meyer said. “I feel miserable.”

“You’d better get to bed,” Carella said.

“You know what Fanny Brice said is the best cure for a cold, don’t you?” Meyer asked.

“No, what?”

“Put a hot Jew on your chest.”

“Better take some aspirin, too,” Carella advised.

They went into the nearest drugstore, and Carella called the squadroom. O’Brien told him he had tried Wetherley's number three times that afternoon, but no one had answered the phone. Carella thanked him, hung up, and went out to the car, where Meyer was blowing his nose and looking very sick indeed. By the time they got back to the squadroom, O’Brien had called the number a fourth time, again without luck. Carella told Meyer to get the hell home, but Meyer insisted on typing up at least one of the reports on the people they’d talked to in the past two days. He left the squadroom some twenty minutes before Carella. Carella finished the reports in time to greet his relief, Andy Parker, who was a half hour late as usual. He tried Wetherley's number once more, and then told Parker to keep trying it all night long, and to call him at home if he reached Wetherley. Parker assured him that he would, but Carella wasn’t at all sure he’d keep the promise.

He got home to his house in Riverhead at 7:15. The twins met him at the door, almost knocking him over in their headlong rush to greet him. He picked up one under each arm, and was swinging them toward the kitchen when the telephone rang.

He put down the children and went to the phone.

“Hello?” he said.

“Bet you thought I wouldn’t, huh?” the voice said.

“Who's this?”

“Andy Parker. I just called Wetherley. He told me he got home about ten minutes ago. I advised him to stick around until you got there.”

“Oh,” Carella said. “Thanks.”

He hung up and turned toward the kitchen, where Teddy was standing in the doorway. He looked at her silently for several moments, and she stared back at him, and then he shrugged and said simply, “I guess I can eat before I leave.”

Teddy sighed almost imperceptibly, but Mark, the elder of the twins by five minutes, was watching the byplay with curious intensity. He made a vaguely resigned gesture with one hand and said, “There he goes.” And April, thinking it was a game, threw herself into Carella's arms, squeezed the breath out of him, and squealed, “There he goes, there he goes, there he goes!”



Art Wetherley was waiting for him when he got there. He led Carella through the apartment and into a studio overlooking the park. The studio contained a desk upon which sat a typewriter, an ashtray, a ream of blank paper, and what looked like another ream of typewritten sheets covered with penciled hen scratches. There were several industry award plaques on the wall, and a low bookcase beneath them. Wetherley gestured to one of the two chairs in the room, and Carella sat in it. He seemed extremely calm, eminently at ease, but the ashtray on his desk was full of cigarettes, and he lighted another one now.

“I’m not used to getting phone calls from the police,” he said at once.

“Well, we were here—”

“Especially when they tell me to stay where I am, not to leave the apartment.”

“Andy Parker isn’t the most tactful—”

“I mean, I didn’t know this was a dictatorship,” Wetherley said.

“It isn’t, Mr. Wetherley,” Carella said gently. “We’re investigating a murder, however, and we were here yesterday, but—”

“I was staying with a friend.”

“What friend?”

“A girl I know. I felt pretty shook up Wednesday night after this…thing happened, so I went over to her apartment. I’ve been there the past two days.” Wetherley paused. “There's no law against that, is there?”

“Certainly not.” Carella smiled. “I’m sorry if we inconvenienced you, but we did want to ask you some questions.”

Wetherley seemed slightly mollified. “Well, all right,” he said. “But there was no need, really, to warn me not to leave the apartment.”

“I apologize for that, Mr. Wetherley.”

“Well, all right,” Wetherley said.

“I wonder if you could tell me what happened in Stan Gifford's dressing room Wednesday night. Just before he left it.”

“I don’t remember in detail.”

“Well, tell me what you do remember.”

Wetherley thought for a moment, crushed out his cigarette, lighted a new one, and then said, “Maria was there when I came in. She was arguing with Stan about something. At least…”

“Arguing?”

“Yes. I could hear them shouting at each other before I knocked on the door.”

“Go ahead.”

“The atmosphere was a little strained after I went in, and Maria didn’t say very much all the while I was there. But Stan and I were joking, mostly about the folk singers. He hated folk singers, but this particular group is hot right now, and he was talked into hiring them.”

“So you were making jokes about them?”

“Yes. While we watched the act on the monitor.”

“I see. In a friendly manner, would you say?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well…Then George came in. George Cooper, the show's AD.”

“He came into the room?”

“Yes.”

“How long did he stay?”

“Oh, three or four minutes, I guess.”

“I see. But he didn’t argue with Gifford, did he?”

“No.”

“Just Maria?”

“Yes. Before I got there, you understand.”

“Yes, I understand. And what about you?” Carella asked.

“Me?”

“Yes. What about your argument with Gifford before the show went on the air?”

“Argument? Who said there was an argument?”

“Wasn’t there one?”

“Certainly not.”

Carella took a deep breath. “Mr. Wetherley, didn’t you say you wished Stan Gifford would drop dead?”

“No, sir.”

“You did not say that?”

“No, sir, I did not. Stan and I got along very well.” Wetherley paused. “A lot of people on the show didn’t get along with him, you understand. But I never had any trouble.”

Who didn’t get along with him, Mr. Wetherley?”

“Well, Maria, for one. I just told you that. And David Krantz didn’t particularly like him. He was always saying, within earshot of Stan, that all actors are cattle, and that comedians are only funny actors. And George Cooper didn’t exactly enjoy his role of…well, handyman, almost. Keeping everyone quiet on the set, and running for coffee, and bringing Stan his pills, and making sure everybody—”

“Bringing Stan his what?”

“His pills,” Wetherley said. “Stan was a nervous guy, you know. I guess he was on tranquilizers. Anyway, George was the chief errand boy and bottle washer, hopping whenever Stan snapped his fingers.”

“Did George bring him a pill Wednesday night?”

“When?” Wetherley asked.

“Wednesday night. When he came to the dressing room.”

“Wetherley concentrated for a moment, and then said, “Now that you mention it, I think he did.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yes, sir. I’m positive.”

“And did Stan take the pill from him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did he swallow it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Carella rose suddenly. “Would you mind coming along with me, Mr. Wetherley?” he asked.

“Come along? Where?”

“Uptown. There are a few things we’d like to get straight.”



The few things Carella wanted to get straight were the conflicting stories of the last three people to have been with Gifford before he went on camera. He figured that the best way to do this was in the squadroom, where the police would have the psychological advantage in the question-and-answer game. There was nothing terribly sinister about the green globes hanging outside the station house, or about the high desk in the muster room or the sign advising all visitors to stop at the desk, or even the white sign announcing DETECTIVE DIVISION in bold black letters, and pointing toward the iron-runged steps leading upstairs. There was certainly nothing menacing about the steps themselves or the narrow corridor they opened onto, or the various rooms in that corridor with their neatly lettered signs, INTERROGATION, LAVATORY, CLERICAL. The slatted-wood railing that divided the corridor from the squadroom was innocuous-looking, and the squadroom itself—in spite of the wire-mesh grids over the windows—looked like any business office in the city, with desks, and filing cabinets, and ringing telephones, and a water cooler, and bulletin boards, and men working in shirtsleeves. But Art Wetherley, Maria Vallejo, and George Cooper were visibly rattled by their surroundings, and they became more rattled when they were taken into separate rooms for their interrogations. Bob O’Brien, a big cop with a sweet and innocently boyish look, questioned Cooper in the lieutenant's office. Steve Carella questioned Maria in the Clerical Office, kicking out Alf Miscolo, who was busy typing up his records and complained bitterly. Meyer Meyer, suffering from a cold, and not ready to take any nonsense, questioned Art Wetherley at the table in the barely furnished Interrogation Room. The three detectives had decided beforehand what questions they would ask, and what their approach would be. In separate rooms, with different suspects, they went through a familiar routine.

“You said you weren’t drinking coffee, Miss Vallejo,” Carella said. “Mr. Cooper tells us there were coffee containers in that room. Were there or weren’t there?”

“No. I don’t remember. I know I didn’t have any coffee.”

“Did Art Wetherley?”

“No. I didn’t see him drink anything.”

“Did George Cooper hand Gifford a pill?”

“No.”

“Were you arguing with Gifford before Art Wetherley came in?”

“No.”



“Let's go over this one more time, Mr. Cooper,” O’Brien said. “You say you only knocked on the door and poked your head into the room, is that right?”

“That's right.”

“You were there only a few seconds.”

“Yes. Look, I—”

“Did you give Stan Gifford a pill?”

“A pill? No! No, I didn’t!”

“But there were coffee containers in the room, huh?”

“Yes. Look, I didn’t give him anything! What are you trying…?”

“Did you hear Art Wetherley say he wished Gifford would drop dead?”

“Yes!”

“All right, Wetherley,” Meyer said, “when did Cooper give him that pill?”

“As soon as he came into the room.”

“And Gifford washed it down with what?”

“With the coffee we were drinking.”

“You were all drinking coffee, huh?”

“Yes.”

Who was?”

“Maria, and Stan, and I was, too.”

“Then why’d you go to that room, Maria, if not to argue?”

“I went to…to talk to him. I thought we could—”

“But you were arguing, weren’t you?”

“No. I swear to God, I wasn’t—”

“Then why are you lying about the coffee? Were you drinking coffee, or weren’t you?”

“No. No coffee. Please, I…”



“Now hold it, hold it, Mr. Cooper. You were either in that room or not in it. You either gave him a pill or you—”

“I didn’t, I’m telling you.”

“Did you ever give him pills?”

“No.”

“He was taking tranquilizers, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t know what he was taking. I never brought him anything.”

“Never?”

“Once maybe, or twice. An aspirin. If he had a headache.”

“But never a tranquilizer?”

“No.”

‘“How about a vitamin capsule?”



“He handed him the pill,” Wetherley said.

“What kind of a pill?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think!”

“I’m thinking. A small pill.”

“What color?”

“White.”

“A tablet, you mean? Like an aspirin? Like that?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so. I don’t remember.”

“Well, you saw it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but…”



They put it all together afterward in the squadroom. They left the three suspects in the lieutenant's office with a patrolman watching over them and sat around Carella's desk and compared their answers. They were not particularly pleased with the results, but neither were they surprised by them. They had all been cops for a good many years, and nothing human beings perpetrated against each other ever surprised them. They were perhaps a little saddened by what they discovered each and every time, but never surprised. They were used to dealing with facts, and they accepted the facts in the Stan Gifford case with grim resolution.

The facts were simple and disappointing.

They decided after comparing results that all three of their suspects were lying.

Maria Vallejo had been arguing with Gifford, and she had been drinking coffee, but she denied both allegations because she realized how incriminating these seemingly isolated circumstances might seem. She recognized quite correctly that someone could have poisoned Gifford by dropping something into his coffee. If she admitted there had been coffee in the dressing room, that indeed she and Gifford had been drinking coffee together, and if she then further admitted they’d been arguing, could she not have been the one who slipped the lethal dose into the sponsor's brew? So Maria had lied in her teeth, but had graciously refused to incriminate anyone else while she was lying. It was enough for her to fabricate her own way out of what seemed like a horrible trap.

Art Wetherley had indeed wished his employer would drop dead, and he had wished it out loud, and he had wished it in the presence of someone else. And that night, lo and behold, Stan Gifford did collapse, on camera, for millions to see. Art Wetherley, like a child who’d made a fervent wish, was startled to realize it had come true. Not only was he startled; he was frightened. He immediately remembered what he’d said to George Cooper before the show, and he was certain Cooper would remember it, too. His fear reached new dimensions when he recalled that he had been one of the last few people to spend time with Gifford while he was alive, and that his proximity to Gifford in an obvious poisoning case, coupled with his chance remark during rehearsal, could easily serve to pin a thoroughly specious murder rap on him. When a detective called and warned him not to leave the apartment, Wetherley was certain he’d been picked as the patsy of the year, an award that did not come gold-plated like an Emmy. In desperation, he had tried to discredit Cooper’s statement by turning the tables and presenting Cooper as a suspect himself. He had seen Cooper bringing aspirins to Gifford at least a few times in the past three years. He decided to elaborate on what he’d seen, inventing a pill that had never changed hands on the night Gifford died, senselessly incriminating Cooper. But a frightened man doesn’t care who takes the blame, so long as it’s not himself.

In much the same way, Cooper came to the sudden realization that not only was he one of the last people to be with Gifford, he was the last person. Even though he had spent several minutes with Gifford in the dressing room, he thought it was safer to say he had only poked his head into it. And whereas Gifford hadn’t stopped to talk to a soul before he went on camera, Cooper thought it was wiser to add a mystery cameraman. Then, to clinch his own escape from what seemed like a definitely compromising position, he remembered Wetherley’s earlier outburst and promptly paraded it before the investigating cops, even though he knew the expression was one that was uttered a hundred times a day during any television rehearsal.

Liars all.

But murderers none.

The detectives were convinced, after a grueling three-hour session, that these assorted liars were now babbling all in the cleansing catharsis of truth. Yes, we lied, they all separately admitted, but now we speak the truth, the shining truth. We did not kill Stan Gifford. We wouldn’t know strohoosis from a hole in the wall. Besides, we are kind gentle people; look at us. Liars, yes, but murderers, no. We did not kill. That is the truth.

We did not kill.

The detectives believed them.

They had heard enough lies in their professional lives to know that truth has a shattering ring that can topple skyscrapers. They sent the three home without apologizing for any inconvenience. Bob O’Brien yawned, stretched, asked Carella if he needed him anymore, put on his hat, and left. Meyer and Carella sat in the lonely squadroom and faced each other across the desk. It was five minutes to midnight. When the telephone rang, it momentarily startled them. Meyer lifted it from the cradle.

“Meyer, 87th Squad,” he said. “Oh, hi, George.” To Carella, he whispered, “It’s Temple. I had him out checking Krantz’s alibi.” Into the phone again, he said, “What’d you get? Right. Uh-huh. Right. Okay, thanks.” He hung up. “He finally got to the last person on Krantz’s list, that Hollywood director. He’d been to the theater, just got back to the hotel. His little bimbo was with him.” Meyer wiggled his eyebrows.

Carella looked at him wearily. “What’d Temple get?”

“He says they all confirmed Krantz’s story. He got to the sponsor’s booth a good fifteen minutes before the show went on, and he was there right up to the time Gifford got sick.”

“Mmm,” Carella said.

They stared at each other glumly. Midnight had come and gone; it was another day. Meyer sniffed noisily. Carella yawned and then washed his hand over his face.

“What do you think?” he said.

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

The men were silent.

“Maybe he did kill himself,” Carella said.

“Maybe.”

“Oh, man, I’m exhausted,” Carella said.

Meyer sniffed.

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