Enough [A Travesty (novel) and Ordo (novelette)]

One The Adventure of the Missing R

Well, she was dead, and there was no use crying over spilt milk. I released her wrist — no pulse — and looked around the room, while fragments of imaginary conversations unreeled in my mind:

“And you say you hit her?”

“Well, not that hard. She slipped on the floor, that’s all, and smacked her head on the coffee table.”

“As a result of you hitting her.”

“As a result of her polishing the goddam floor all the goddam time.”

Laura’s clean jagged style had, as a matter of fact, killed her more than anything else. What kind of bachelor girl apartment was this, with its hulking glass coffee table and chrome lamps and white vinyl chairs and bare black floor? Where were the pillows, the furs, the drapes and hangings, the softnesses? Sterile cold hardness everywhere; it might as well be an art gallery.

“But you did hit her, is that right?”

“But it was an accident!”

If it were an accident, it might just as well have happened when I was somewhere else. I wasn’t here at all, officer, I was, uhh... Screening a film. Yes, at home by myself. Yes, I do that all the time, it’s part of my job.

I got to my feet, studying the room. If I weren’t here, what would be different?

Well, that glass, for one. It wouldn’t be standing on the murderous coffee table with Jack Daniels in it and my fingerprints all over it.

Fingerprints. Well, there’d be fingerprints everywhere in this highly-polished apartment, wouldn’t there?

“Yes, officer?”

“Do you know a Miss Laura Penney?”

“Yes, I do, casually.” Casually: “Is something wrong?”

“Have you been to her apartment?”

“A few times, I suppose, picking her up for a screening.”

Fine. I took the glass to the small kitchen, washed it, put it away, and headed for the bathroom to study the medicine chest. Razor, shaving cream, toothbrush; nothing that would lead anybody to—

Wait a minute. That little medicine bottle with the drugstore label, isn’t that—?

It is. My Valium, with my name typed on the prescription label: “Carey Thorpe, I as required for stress.” So I took one — if this wasn’t a situation of stress there is no such thing — and pocketed the bottle.

Nothing else in here, so onward quickly to the bedroom. Clothing, yes. A couple of shirts, a tie, my Emperor Nero cufflinks, some shorts, my other blue sweater—

Socks? Black, one size fits all, they could belong on anybody’s feet, so leave them. This is becoming a pretty hefty package as it is.

Anything else? Bed-table drawers, with their anonymous drugstore items. Nothing under the bed, not even dust. Fin.

Back to the living room, with my armload of dry cleaning, and Laura spread lifelike on the glossy floor, a scene from almost any John Carroll-Vera Hruba Ralston flick. This side of her looked perfectly fine.

Into my coat. Into my topcoat, distributing shirts and shorts and ties into various pockets, wrapping the sweater around my waist under all the coats. Thank God it was February, and perfectly normal to look lumpy and bulky.

Gloves on, and one final look around. Oh, God, the letter from Warner Brothers, announcing the re-release of some hoary chestnut. My name was on it, and a date making it clear the thing couldn’t have arrived earlier than today. I snatched it up and headed for the apartment door.

And what was the movie again, the one they were reissuing? I gave the letter a quick scan: A Slight Case of Murder.

Oh, really. Stopping, I gazed heavenward; or at least ceilingward. “Come on, God,” I said. “That’s beneath you.” And I got out of there.

Until the night Laura Penney did herself in most of the violence I’d known had been secondhand. Carey Thorpe is the name, and if that rings no bells you aren’t a truly serious student of the cinema. I’ll admit it’s easy to miss my general film reviewing, in publications such as Third World Cinema and The Kips Bay Voice, but my first book, Author And Auteur: Dynamism And Domination In Film, was an alternate selection of Book Find Club in the summer of 1972, and last year my second book, The Mob At The Movies: Down From Rico To Puzo, got universal raves.

Born in Boston in 1942, I came to consciousness concurrently with television. Being a spindly youth, I spent most of my childhood in front of the box, watching whatever the program directors thought fit to show me. Old movies were the mainstay of local programming then, so by 1960 when I went off to college (Penn State; anything to get away from home and family) I knew more about movies than Sam Goldwyn and less than him about anything else.

College, of course, was full of other spindly youths just like me. Perhaps our predecessors in the dorms had discussed sex and beer and goldfish-swallowing, but we discussed Hitchcock and Fuller and Greta Garbo (why did she agree to make Two-Faced Woman?). In my sophomore year my film reviews were appearing in the college paper, in my junior year my first general piece — “Billy Wilder: The Smile In The Skull” — was accepted by Montage Quarterly (twenty-five dollars and two contributors’ copies, both ripped by the mailman), and when I got my degree in American Lit I moved directly to New York City, typewriter in hand, where I’ve been ever since.

Fortunately, my maternal grandmother passed away just before I passed out of college, leaving me a trust fund with an income of about fifteen thousand a year. Unfortunately, the old bitch mistrusted me as much as she liked me, and tied up the fund so thoroughly with banks and lawyers that I can’t ever get at the principal. (Believe me, I’ve tried.) Nevertheless, the fifteen G a year has been a reasonably comfortable base, and over the last several years my writing has brought in about as much again, so I’ve lived moderately well.

On the other hand, I’d prefer to live very well, and I’d been hoping to make a killing (excuse that) with From Italy With Love. It had seemed to me America was ready for a big glossy photo-filled coffee-table book on Italian Neo-Realism of the postwar era, but so far I haven’t been able to get together with a publisher. I’ll admit seven hundred stills from Shoe Shine, Bicycle Thief, Open City and Paisan might get a little depressing, but what about all those sexy women in their tattered dresses? Sometimes I don’t understand the publishing industry.

I met my wife-to-be, nee Shirley Francesconi, about a year after I moved to New York, at a press screening. She was two years older than I and living with a drugs-politics-8mm freak, so we knew each other only socially for a year or so, and if I’d had any sense I’d have left it that way. But then her freak got busted on possession and went away for an extended rest, so we dated a while and then we lived together and then we got married and then we found out we hated each other.

The only reason we stuck it seven years instead of seven days is because my family thought Shirley was terrific. In fact, when the split finally did come last year it wasn’t to her own folks over in Queens that Shirley went home, it was to mine up in Boston. She’s been there ever since, moving slowly in the direction of divorce and annoying me about money.

The money problem is unfortunately complicated by the fact that she left while I was still high on From Italy With Love. I’d raved a lot about the vast sums that book would bring in, and Shirley wants some of it. My family is well off — my father’s an insurance company executive, he’s had his five square meals every day of his life — and they’re encouraging her to squeeze me. How’s that for a super family?

Then there’s the kids. It’s perfectly true I’m no good as a father, but I never claimed I’d be any good. If Shirley’d just gone ahead and taken the goddam pill like she was supposed to there wouldn’t be any kids, but oh, no, the pill gave her migraine. Migraine! The pill maybe gave her migraine, but the diaphragm gave her a daughter named Rita and the foam gave her a son called John, and whose fault is that? Let my parents go on supporting them if they want, who I want to support is me.

So that’s where we stand; or where we stood until Laura took that header. I’m no monk, I like female companionship, but for all I know Shirley has private detectives on me — she’ll do anything to strengthen her position for that inevitable day in court — so I impressed on both my girls the necessity for maintaining tight security. We didn’t live together, we didn’t obviously date a lot, and of course I’d explained to each of them that I’d occasionally have to take other women to screenings or press parties. (The two girls also didn’t know about one another. Laura and Kit were nodding acquaintances, with no reason ever to confide in each other, so I was about as safe as anybody ever is in this vale of tears. It was even possible to take one of my girls to a premiere attended by the other, with no suspicions raised.)

Well, all that had now come to an end. Laura, who’d at first come on as the most rabidly independent of Women’s Lib types, had been complaining more and more about our secret life, comparing herself to Back Street and other absurdities, wanting to know why I didn’t just get the divorce over and done with (why hurry a finish that could only be costly and difficult for me?) and even threatening once or twice to blow the whistle herself with Shirley. Of course she didn’t really mean it, but it was upsetting to hear her talk that way, and in fact it was a repetition of the same threat that had caused me to lose my temper tonight and pop her one, etc.

“You say Miss Penney threatened to tell your wife about this affair?”

Mm. I was right to get clear of this, as quickly and quietly as I could. So out of the apartment I went, smearing the doorknobs with my gloved hand, checking the street before leaving the building, and walking all the way over to Sheridan Square before hailing a cab to take me home.

Where I found several messages waiting on my telephone answering machine. After divesting myself of my coats and excess wardrobe I made a drink and sat at the desk to listen.

The first was a nice female voice with a British accent: “Mr. Gautier’s office calling Mr. Thorpe, in re screening on the twentieth. Could you possibly make it at four instead of two?”

I’d rather. And since I was unexpectedly dateless for that screening, perhaps the owner of the nice British accent would like to join me. Reaching for pencil and paper, I made a note to call back, while listening to the second message, from Sogeza “Tim” Kinywa, editor of Third World Cinema: “Sogeza here, Carey. Have you got a title yet on the Eisenstein piece?”

No, I didn’t. I was about to make another note when the third message started: “Oh, you’ve left already. I wanted to remind you to bring the Molly Haskell book, but never mind.”

Well. A strange sensation that, hearing a voice from beyond the grave. I erased the tape, finished my drink, and went to bed.

My street door intercom doesn’t work. I’ve talked to the super about it, but he only speaks some fungoid variant of Spanish understood exclusively on a six-mile stretch of the southern coast of Puerto Rico. I’ve also talked to the landlord, an old man with a nose like a tumor, and his response was the same as to anything his tenants say to him; a twenty-five minute diatribe on economics, expounding a theory so arcane, so foolish, so contradictory and so absurd that I’m surprised the government has never tried it. Or maybe they have.

In any event, when the bell rang at nine-thirty the morning after Laura’s accident I couldn’t find out who it was before letting them in, but who could it be other than the police? Wouldn’t they automatically question all of Laura’s friends, everybody in her address book? Bracing myself, I left my half-eaten omelet and buzzed them in.

Him in. When I opened the apartment door and listened, only one set of footsteps was trudging up the stairs. But didn’t cops always travel in pairs?

Apparently not. When he rounded the turn at the landing I saw a stranger, a chunky middle-aged man in brown topcoat and black hat, looking something like Martin Balsam in Psycho. And coming up the stairs toward me; so I should quick put on my Granny drag and run shrieking out to stab him.

In fact I should have, but of course I didn’t. Instead, I stood in my doorway looking open and honest and innocent and friendly, and when he reached the top of the stairs I said, in a we’re-here-to-help-you manner, “Yes?”

“Morning,” he said, and smiled. He was puffing a bit from the climb, and seemed in no hurry to get his words out. “Mr. Thorpe, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. Can I help you?”

“Well, sir,” he said, “I think it’s the other way around. I think I can help you.”

Not a cop? What was he, some sort of salesman? I said, “What’s this about?”

“This,” he said. Taking a white envelope from inside his coat, he extended it toward me.

Frowning, I said, “What’s that supposed to be?”

“You left it behind.” He was still smiling, in a casual self-contained way. “Last night,” he added.

“Last night?” Unwillingly I took the thing from him and turned it over to see what was written on the other side. Return address: Warner Brothers, 666 Fifth Ave. Neatly centered, neatly typed, my own name and address.

The envelope! I’d remembered the damn letter, but not the envelope. Where had it been?

He answered my unasked question: “Under her.”

“Um,” I said.

“Why don’t we talk inside?” he suggested, still smiling, and walked into the apartment. I had to move aside or we would have bumped. Then I closed the door and followed him into the living room, where he stood nodding and smiling, looking at the movie posters, the one wall of exposed brick, the mirrored alcove that gives the apartment its illusion of space, the projector and screen set up at opposite ends of the room, the unfinished breakfast on the small table by the kitchenette. “Nice place,” he said. “Very nice.”

I moved reluctantly closer to him. He didn’t look like cops in the movies, but what else could he be? “Are you from the police?”

He gave me a quick amused glance. “Not exactly,” he said, and sat down on the sofa. “The fact of the matter is, I’m a private investigator.”

“A private detective?” Several thousand private eye films swirled through my head, most of them starring Dick Powell.

“I was on surveillance last night,” he told me, “outside that apartment.”

I didn’t feel like standing any more. Sinking into my leather director’s chair I said, “So she did put a tail on me.

His smile grew puzzled. “What say?”

“My wife.”

“Oh, well,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to make trouble for an innocent party. No, sir, it didn’t have anything to do with you. It was Mrs. Penney’s husband put the agency on the job.”

“Husband?” I’d known Laura had at one time been married, but everybody has a marriage or two somewhere in their past and I’d always assumed hers was long since over and done with. “You mean, she was still married?”

“That’s my understanding,” he said. “Legally separated, I believe.”

And she’d been nagging me to break the old ties. Now I saw the whole plot; she’d hold on to husband number one until I was lined up to take his place. Devious devious women, they’re all alike. Josef Von Sternberg knew what he was talking about.

The detective spoke through my interior monologue. “The point is, I was there. I watched the two of you go into the building, and then quite some time later I watched you come out alone, and I must say, Mr. Thorpe, rarely have I seen a man act as guilty as you did. I didn’t know what it was all about, of course, but I thought probably I ought to keep an eye on you.”

“You followed me.”

“That’s just what I did,” he agreed. “And I noticed another peculiar thing. You must have let half a dozen empty cabs go by, but then when you got to Sheridan Square you were suddenly in a real frantic rush to hail a cab and jump in and holler out your address.”

He paused, with a bright alert smiling look, as though offering me a chance to compliment him on his powers of observation. I refrained.

He went on. “Well, it seemed to me you didn’t want anybody tracing you from Mrs. Penney’s apartment, and I thought that a little peculiar. So I followed you uptown here, and waited to see which lights went on, and got your name from the doorbell. You really ought to ask who’s there before you let anybody in, you know, just as a by-the-by.”

“The intercom’s broken.”

“Then you ought to get it fixed. Believe me, it’s my business and I know, you can’t have too much security.”

“I’ve talked to the super and the landlord both. Wait a minute! What are we talking about?”

“You’re right,” he said, “I got myself off the subject. I’m a bug on safety, I take all kinds of precautions for myself and I’m all the time pushing safety on everybody else. Let me see, now. After I got your name from the doorbell I went back downtown and let myself into Mrs, Penney’s apartment.”

That surprised me. “You had a key?”

“Well,” he said, with another of his little smiles, “I have a whole lot of keys. Generally there’s one for the job.”

“You broke in, in other words.”

“Well, sir, Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “I don’t think you ought to start using harsh words, you know. There’s two of us could do that.”

“All right, all right. Get to the point.”

“Well, you know what I found in the apartment.”

“This envelope,” I said, waggling the fist in which I had it imprisoned.

“Yes,” he said, “and a body on top of it. From the marks on the coffee table and the floor, it looked to me as though there’d been some sort of fracas. You struck her — there’s a bit of a gray spot on the side of the jaw, she was dead before it could swell up any — and she hit her head on the coffee table going down.”

“It was an accident,” I said.

He did a judicious pose, pursing out his lips and stroking the line of his jaw; Sidney Greenstreet. “That’s a possibility,” he said. “On the other hand, you did run away, and you did try to cover your presence in the apartment, and if you’ll look at this picture here you’ll see you do just look guilty as all hell.”

From inside his coat he had taken a photograph, which he now leaned forward to extend toward me. I took it, with the hand not crushing the envelope, and looked at a grainy but recognizable black-and-white picture of myself emerging from Laura’s apartment building. By God, I did look guilty as all hell, with my mouth open and eyes staring and head half-twisted to look over my shoulder. I also looked very bulky, as though I’d just stolen all the silver. Mostly I reminded me of Peter Loire in M. “I see,” I said.

“Infra red,” he told me. He seemed very pleased with himself. “The negative’s in my desk at the office.”

I looked up from my own staring eyes into his calmly humorous ones. “What now? What are you going to do?”

“Well, sir,” he said, “I think of that as being up to you.”

And suddenly we were in a situation I recognized from the movies. “Blackmail,” I said.

He looked a bit offended. “Well, now,” he said, “there you go with the harsh words again. I just thought you might be interested in buying the negative, that’s all.”

“And your silence?”

“I wouldn’t want to get a man in trouble, if I could avoid it.” He shifted his bulk on the sofa. “Now, I’m supposed to turn in my report by twelve noon, and it seems to me I could handle it one of two ways. Either I could say a gentleman — that would be you — brought Mrs. Penney home but left her at the street door and went away, or I could report that you went in with her and came out without her and please see photo attached.”

I said, “How much?”

“Well,” he said, “that’s a very rare photograph.”

“And I’m a very poor man.”

He chuckled at me, disbelievingly. “Oh, come along now. You’ve got a nice place in a rich part of town, you’ve—”

“This isn’t a rich part of town. A couple blocks west of here is rich, but not here.”

“This is the Upper East Side,” he informed me, as though I didn’t know where I lived.

“Look,” I said. “You just walked up the stairs yourself, do you think they have walk-ups in a rich part of town?”

“On the Upper East Side of Manhattan they do. Besides, you’re a writer.”

“I’m a movie reviewer. There isn’t any money in that.”

“You’ve had books out.”

“Film criticism. Did you ever see a book of film criticism on the best-seller list?”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the best-seller list,” he said, “but I do know from my years with the agency that successful writers tend to have nice pieces of money about themselves.”

“I don’t,” I said. “For God’s sake, man, you’re a detective, surely you could check into that, find out if I’m a liar or not. I’ll show you my checkbook, I’ll show you letters from my wife screaming for money, I’ll show you my old income tax returns.”

“Well, sir,” he said, “if you’re too poor, I think I’d be better off going for the glory of making the arrest.”

A cold breeze touched me. “Wait a minute,” I said. “I didn’t say I don’t have any money. Obviously, if I can afford to pay I’d rather do that than go to jail. It just depends how much you want.”

He frowned at me. He studied me and thought it over and glanced around the living room — and to think I’d been pleased at how expensive I’d made the place look — and at last he came to a decision: “Ten thousand dollars.”

“Ten thousand dollars! I don’t have it.”

“I won’t bargain with you, Mr. Thorpe.” He sounded rueful but determined. “I couldn’t falsify my report for a penny less.”

“I don’t have the money, it’s as simple as that.”

He heaved himself to his feet. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Thorpe.”

“I’ll tell them, you know. That you tried to blackmail me.

He gave me a mildly curious frown. “So?”

“They’ll know it’s the truth.” I jammed the photograph into my trouser pocket. “I’ll have this picture for evidence.”

He shrugged and smiled and shook his head. “Oh, they’d probably believe you,” he said, “but they wouldn’t care. Funny thing about police, they’d rather catch a murderer than a blackmailer any day in the week.”

“They’ll have both. I may go to jail, but you’ll go right along with me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” He could not have been more calm. “I’d be their whole case, you know,” he said. “Their star witness. I don’t think they’d want to cast any aspersions on their own star witness, do you? I think you’d generally be called a liar. I think generally people would say you were doing it out of spite.”

I thought. He watched me thinking, with his curly little smile, and finally I said, “Two thousand. I could raise that somewhere, I’m sure I could.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Thorpe, I told you I won’t bargain. It’s ten thousand or nothing.”

“But I don’t have it! That’s the Lord’s own truth!”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Thorpe, surely you’ve got something set aside for a rainy day.”

“But I don’t. I’ve never had the knack, it’s one of the things my father’s always hated about me. He’s the squirrel, I’m the grasshopper.”

He frowned, deeply. “What was that?”

“I don’t save up my nuts,” I explained, “or whatever grasshoppers save up. You know, you know, the children’s story. I’m the one that doesn’t save.”

“Well, Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “it seems to me you should have listened to your father.” And, turning away, he crossed the room toward the front door.

I should have killed him, that would have been the most sensible thing to do. Picked up something heavy — that can containing North By Northwest, for instance — and brained him with it. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sufficiently used to being a killer, so what I did was grit my teeth and get to my feet and say, “Wait.”

He waited, turning to look at me again, the same patient smile on his face, letting me know I could have all the time I needed. But that’s all I could have.

I said, “I’m not sure I can do it. I’ll have to borrow, I’ll have to— I don’t know what I’ll have to do.”

“Well, sir,” he said, coming back to me, “I don’t want to make things difficult for you if I can possibly avoid it. Here’s my card.”

His card. I took it.

He said, “You call me at that number before eleven-thirty if you decide to pay.”

“You mean, if I can pay.”

“Any way you want,” he said. “I’d mostly like a cashier’s check, made out to bearer.”

“Yes, I suppose you would.” I looked at the card he’d given me. Blue lettering read Tobin-Global Investigations Service — Matrimonial Specialists. In the lower left was a phone number, and in the lower right a name: John Edgarson.

“If you do call,” John Edgarson told me, “ask for Ed.”

“I’ll do that.”

“And Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “do try to look on the bright side.”

I stared at him. “The bright side?”

“You’ve had an early warning,” he told me. “If you decide not to pay, you’ve got almost three hours’ head start.”

It’s amazing what you can do in an hour when your life depends on it. By eleven o’clock, I’d converted into cash the following:

Eleven o’clock. Five after eleven. I was back in my apartment, my pockets full of cash. But where was I going to get three thousand five hundred fifty-one dollars and six cents?

My grandmother’s trust fund? Not a chance. I’d cried wolf with the people at the bank two or three times already, and they’d made it perfectly clear my well-being didn’t matter to them one one-hundredth as much as the fund’s well-being.

My father? Another blank. He had the money, all right, and plenty to spare, but even if he was willing to help — which he wouldn’t be — the cash would never get here from Boston in the next twenty-four minutes. Besides, if I did ask him the first thing he’d say — even before no — would be why.

Would Edgarson take less? Six thousand dollars in the hand was surely better than ten thousand dollars in the bush. I dialed the number on the card he’d given me, and when a harsh female voice answered with the company’s name I asked for Ed. “Minute,” she said, and clicked away.

It was a long minute, but it finally ended with a too-familar voice: “Hello?”

“Edgarson?”

“Is that Mr. Thorpe? You’re a few minutes early.”

“All I can raise is, uh, six thousand, uh, dollars. And four hundred. Six thousand four hundred dollars.”

“Well, that’s fine,” he said. “And you’ve still got twenty minutes to get the rest.”

“I can’t. I’ve done everything I could.”

“Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “I thought we had an understanding, you and I.”

“But I can’t raise any more!”

“Then if I were you, Mr. Thorpe, I’d take that six thousand four hundred dollars and buy a ticket to some place a long way from here.”

South America. The Lavender Hill Mob. But I liked the life I had here in New York, my career, my girl friends, my name on books and magazines. I didn’t want to run away to some absurd place and learn how to be somebody else.

“Well, goodbye, Mr. Thorpe,” the rotten bastard was saying, “and good luck to you.”

“Wait!”

The line buzzed at me; Edgarson, politely waiting.

“Somehow,” I told him. “Somehow I’ll do it.”

“Well, that’s fine,” he said. “I’m really relieved to hear that.”

“But it might take a little longer. You can give me that much.”

He sighed; the sound of a just and merciful man who knows he’s being taken advantage of but who is just too darn goodhearted to refuse. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mr. Thorpe,” he said. “Do you know a place in your neighborhood called P. J. Malone’s?”

“Yes, of course. It’s three or four blocks from here.”

“Well, that’s where I’ll have my lunch. And I’ll leave there at twenty after twelve to go turn in my report. Now, that’s the best I can do for you.”

An extra twenty minutes; the man was all heart. “All right,” I said. “I’ll be there.” And I broke the connection.

And now what? I went to the John to pop another Valium — my second this morning — and then I sat at my desk in the living room, forearms resting where my typewriter used to sit, and waited for inspiration. And nothing happened. I blinked around at my pencils and reference books and souvenirs and trivia, all the remaining bits and pieces of the life I was on the verge of losing, and I tried to think how and where to get the rest of that damned money.

From my brother Gordon? No. My sister Fern? No. Not Shirley, not Kit, none of my friends here in New York. It was too much money, just too much.

What story could I tell my father? “Hello, Dad, I want you to wire me four thousand dollars in the next ten minutes because—” Finish that sentence in twenty-five words or less and win... a free trip... a free chance to stay home.

There was a pistol on my desk; not a real one, a mock-up that had been used in a movie called Heller In Harlem. I’d watched some of the filming uptown, for a piece in Third World Cinema, and the producer had given me this pistol as a kind of thank-you. His name and the name of the movie and my name and a date were all inscribed on the handle.

I picked up this pistol, hefted it, turned it until I was looking into the barrel. Realistic little devil. If it actually were real I could kill Edgarson with it.

But it wasn’t real. So there was only one thing to do.

“This is a stick-up,” I said.

The teller, a skinny young black girl with her hair in rows of tight knots like a fresh-plowed field, looked at me in amused disbelief. “You’re putting me on, man.”

“I have a gun,” I said, drawing it out from beneath my topcoat lapel and then sliding it back out of sight. “You’d better read that note.”

It was a note I’d worked on for nearly fifteen minutes. I’d wanted the strongest possible message in the fewest possible words, and what I had eventually come up with — derived from any number of robbery movies — was printed in clear legible block letters on that piece of paper in the teller’s hand, and what it said was:

I realize there was a certain ambiguity in that word “us,” that I might have been threatening either to kill the teller and myself or my baby and myself, but I was relying on the context to make the message clear. My baby wasn’t present, but the teller was.

The only sack I’d had available, unfortunately, had originally come with a bottle of champagne in it, and in white lettering on its green side it clearly stated Gold Seal Charles Fournier Blanc de Blancs New York State Champagne. I’d been using it to hold the tiles in my Scrabble set. I knew it wasn’t quite the right image for somebody trying to establish himself as driven to crime by the financial crisis of his baby’s operation, but I was hoping the note and the gun and my own desperate self would carry the day.

I also had the impression, from some newspaper article or somewhere, that banks were advising their employees — telling their tellers — not to resist robbers or raise any immediate alarm. They preferred to rely on their electronic surveillance — the photographs being taken of me at this very instant, for instance — and not risk shoot-outs in banks if they could possibly avoid it.

Well, this time I was ready to have my picture taken. The clear-glass hornrim spectacles on my face were another movie souvenir, the black cloth cap pulled low over my forehead had just been purchased half a block from here, and the pieces of tissue stuffed in on both sides of my face between cheek and lower gum altered my appearance just as much as they’d altered Marlon Brando’s in The Godfather. So click away, electronic surveillance, this is one picture I won’t have to buy back.

In the meantime, the teller was reading. Her eyes had widened when I’d flashed the pistol, but they narrowed again when she studied the note. She frowned at it, turned it over to look at the blank back, picked up the champagne sack and hefted it — an R fell out, dammit — and said to me, “You sure you on the level?”

“Hurry up,” I hissed at her, “before I get nervous and start shooting.” And I flashed the gun again.

“You’re nervous, all right,” she told me. “You got sweat all over your face.”

“Hurry up!” I was repeating myself, and running out of threats. Once a toy gun has been brandished, there’s nothing left to do with it; brandishing is its entire repertoire.

Fortunately, nothing else was needed. With an elaborately unruffled shrug — I envied her calm under pressure — the teller said, “Well, it’s not my money,” (my point exactly) and began to transfer handfuls of cash from her drawer to the sack.

At last. But everything was taking too long. The big clock on the wall read five minutes past twelve and I was a long long way from P. J. Malone’s. (I’d thought it better to do my bank robbing outside my own immediate neighborhood.) I wanted to again urge speed on the girl, but I was afraid to emphasize even more the contrast between her calm and my frenzy so I remained silent, jittering from foot to foot as wads of twenties and tens and fives disappeared into my nice green sack.

She filled it, till it looked like Long John Silver’s Christmas stocking, and then she pulled the little white drawstrings at the top and pushed the sack across the counter to me. “Have a nice day,” she said, with an irony I found out of keeping under the circumstances. She might not be taking this seriously, but I was.

I was three minutes late but Edgarson was still there, lunching at his leisure in a high-sided booth at the back. I slid in across from him and he gave me his encouraging smile, saying, “There you are. I was beginning to worry about you.”

“Save your worry.” In his presence I realized how much I hated him. I’m not used to being helpless, at the mercy of another person, and if I ever had the chance to even the score with this bastard I’d leap at it.

He must have seen something of that in my face, because he became immediately more businesslike, saying, “You have the money?”

“You have the negative?”

“I sure do.” He withdrew from inside his coat a small envelope, opened it, held up an orange-black negative, and then put it back inside the envelope.

“I’ll want to inspect that,” I said. (Scenario: He hands me the negative, I pop it into my mouth and swallow it. Then what does he do?)

But he was smiling at me and shaking his head. Revised scenario: He keeps the negative, mistrusting me. “First you give me the money,” he said. “Then you can inspect this picture all you want.”

“Oh, all right.” Reaching into my pockets, I said, “I didn’t have time to get a cashier’s check. You won’t mind cash, will you?” Fistfuls of the stuff began to pile up on my paper place mat.

Even Edgarson lost his bucolic cool at that. Staring at the money, he said, “Well, I’ll be damned. No, I don’t mind cash, not at all.”

The waiter arrived then, gave the money an astonished look, and said, “Did you intend to order anything, sir?”

“Jack Daniels,” I said. “On the rocks.”

“Just one glass?”

“Ha ha,” I said. Gesturing at the money, I explained, “I robbed a bank.”

“Ha ha,” the waiter said, and went away.

I looked at Edgarson. “I did rob a bank, you know. You’ve put me through a lot today.”

He’d had time to recover. Smiling in bemusement, shaking his head, he said, “You sure are an interesting fella to watch, I’ll say that for you.”

“Don’t bore me with your shoptalk.” I tossed over a small envelope from my publisher’s bank, where I’d cashed his advance check. “There’s fifteen hundred. You can count it, if you want.”

“I might as well,” he said, and proceeded to do so.

I kept dragging out my other money, most of it in twenties and tens with a few fifties sprinkled here and there. The eight-sixty from various pawnshops, the six hundred from the bad checks, the four-fifty from the nostalgia shops, the two seventy-five from the checking account. And another envelope; tossing it to him, I said, “My former savings account. Two thousand seven hundred sixty-three dollars and eighty cents.”

“It’s an amazing thing,” he said, placidly counting, “but most everybody’s worth more than they realize.”

“Fascinating,” I said, and pushed across the pyramid of loose bills. “Here’s another twenty-one eighty-five.”

The waiter, returning, placed my drink where my money had been and said, “How does a person get to be your friend?”

I picked up the drink. “Put this on his bill,” I said.

“I should think so,” the waiter said, and left.

I sipped and Edgarson counted. Then I sipped some more and Edgarson counted some more. Then I sipped some more and Edgarson said, “I make that six thousand four hundred and forty-eight dollars so far.” The bills, upon being counted, had disappeared into his clothing, and now he shoved my eighty cents back across the table to me, saying, “We don’t want to mess with change. But we would like to see some more greenbacks.”

“Out of my green sack,” I said, delving down inside my shirt and bringing out the swag. Propping the sack like a dildo in my lap, I loosened the drawstrings and started pulling out more cash.

This time I also did some counting, since I hadn’t had a chance yet to find out how much I’d made from my first excursion into major crime. Sorry, second excursion; I was forgetting Laura. “Two hundred,” I said, and flipped a stack of twenties across the table. “One eighty,” and a stack of tens. And so on and so on and so on.

And yet the bottom of the sack was reached too soon. I’d needed thirty-six hundred dollars, but my total profit from the bank job was only two thousand, seven hundred eighty.

Edgarson noticed it, too. “Nine thousand, two hundred and twenty-eight dollars,” he said at last. “I make you seven hundred and seventy-two dollars short.”

“I can’t rob another bank,” I said. “You’re just going to have to bend your principles in this case, or by God I’ll kill us both.” I clutched at the toy gun beneath my coat, letting Edgarson see as much of it as the bank teller had seen. “I’ve gone through enough today. I can’t go through any more.” My voice was rising, and it was by no means entirely fake.

Edgarson made calming patting motions in the air. “Take it easy,” he told me. “Take it easy, Mr. Thorpe, there’s no reason to get upset. Why, if I can’t make allowances here and there, what sort of fella would I be?”

I could tell him what sort of fella he was, but I didn’t. I merely sat there and glared at him and clutched the inscribed handle of my pistol.

“Now,” he said, and it seemed to me that through his professional calm I detected just the slightest hint of uneasiness. “Now, I think you’re being honest with me,” he said, “and you really can’t raise any more money than this, and I think it just wouldn’t be fair of me not to accept this nine thousand dollars and call it square.”

I relaxed somewhat, but my hand remained on my gun. “All right,” I said.

He took out that envelope again and extended it to me. “Here you are, my friend.”

I finally released the gun, and used that hand to take the envelope. Having peered at the negative and seen vaguely that it was the right one, I said, “And this is the only copy, right? I shudder to think what would happen if you suddenly came back with another one.”

“Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “you wrong me. There aren’t any more negatives, and there aren’t any more prints. And once I put in a false report, I couldn’t very well go back and call myself a liar, now, could I?”

That made sense. “All right,” I said.

“Speaking of which,” he said, withdrawing two larger envelopes from an inner pocket, “here’s the report I won’t be turning in. You might want to keep it yourself. This other one’s the report I will turn in, if you’d like to take a look at it.”

I would, but I glanced through the truthful one first. “Agitated manner... hurrying in a guilty fashion... seeming nervous and upset...” This Edgarson wasn’t a subtle writer, but he got his message across.

The false report made for pleasanter reading. Making sure which was which, I gave him back the false one and put the truthful copy in one of my moneyless pockets.

Edgarson signalled for the check, then said to me, “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

My hand strayed toward my pistol. “What was that?”

He did his air-patting gesture again. “Nothing to get upset about,” he assured me. “You just happened to mention you were in some sort of marital difficulty with your wife, so I’d like to suggest you have a talk with one of the staff people at my agency. It’s surprising sometimes just how—”

“What?” I couldn’t believe it. “You’re sitting there and hawking your goddam detective agency at me?”

Very earnestly he said, “You can’t do better than Tobin-Global, Mr. Thorpe. Seventy-four years of reli—”

“Stop talking,” I told him. “Do us both a favor, Edgarson, and stop talking.”

The waiter provided a welcome interruption by showing up with the check. While Edgarson gathered pieces of my money with which to pay it, the waiter gave me a look and said, “I get off at three.”

“Tell him,” I said.

Edgarson paid, and the waiter went away, and I said, “I want to come along with you when you turn in the report.”

He frowned. “That might not be wise, having the two of us seen together.”

“I’ll wait outside. But I want to know for sure you’ve gone straight to your agency and turned in that report.”

Shrugging, he said, “If it will ease your mind, Mr. Thorpe, come right ahead.”

Tobin-Global Investigations was in the Graybar Building, back of Grand Central. I rode up in the elevator with Edgarson and paced the corridor while he went inside. He was gone about three minutes, and then he came back, smiling, flashing his jacket pocket where the envelope no longer protruded, saying, “All done, Mr. Thorpe. It’s turned in and your worries are over.”

“I have to be sure,” I said. “I want to be able to sleep nights.”

“Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “I’m not any kind of trouble for you at all. Now, a man in my job has to turn in his reports, and I just turned in mine, and I wouldn’t dare tell a different story later. Not where there’s a murder mixed in.

“So I’m safe from you.”

“Absolutely.”

“Good,” I said. “Now I wonder if I could ask you a favor.”

He seemed doubtful. “Yes, sir?”

“Sooner or later the police will come ask me about last night, and I’d like to try on you what I plan to tell them and see what you think of it. From a professional point of view, I mean.”

Relieved, expansive, he said, “Well, I’d be happy to, Mr. Thorpe. That’s a very good idea.”

So, standing there in the corridor with him, I told him the story: “I took Laura to a press preview late yesterday afternoon, and then to dinner, and then home. At dinner, she told me she was worried because she believed her husband had hired somebody to murder her.”

He frowned at that. “Oh, now, Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “I don’t think you ought to start making things up, you’ll just create suspicion. It’s better to tell a simple straightforward story.”

“Well, wait a minute,” I said. “Listen to the way this one works out, and see what you think.”

Shrugging, he said, “If you insist, Mr. Thorpe, I’ll listen.”

“Fine. Anyway, at dinner Laura told me there’d been somebody hanging around and she was afraid it was the hired killer. Well, of course I didn’t believe her, I told her she was imagining things. Then, when I took her home, she pointed out a man loitering on the other side of the street and said that was the one she’d meant.” I gave Edgarson a long slow look up and down. “I think I could give a pretty clear description of that man,” I said.

His brows were coming down in an angry straight line over his eyes. “Just what the hell is all this?”

“To get on with the story,” I said, “I volunteered to go upstairs with Laura to her apartment and stay with her a while, but she said no, she’d rather be alone because she was going to try phoning her husband and maybe settling their differences once and for all. So I said good night and went home.”

“I don’t know what you think you can gain with a story like that,” Edgarson told me, “but if you tell it to anybody you’ll just make trouble for yourself, not for anybody else.”

“You told me you entered that apartment last night,” I reminded him. “I know you moved the body, because you found that envelope under it. Are you absolutely sure you didn’t leave any fingerprints, any traces of yourself at all? If you’re certain, then you’re probably safe, it’ll just be your word against mine.”

“Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “you’re a grade A son of a bitch, do you know that?”

“Of course,” I said, “I could tell a simpler story.”

If it weren’t for the pistol he knew to be in my pocket, I think he would have tried taking a poke at me. “You’d goddam better,” he said.

I smiled at him. “And you’d goddam better give me back my nine thousand dollars.”

It was good to be home again, my possessions once more about me. And it was very good to have been able to do Edgarson in the eye. If I hadn’t been able to even the score with him somehow it would surely have rankled in my mind a good long time, but as it was the expression on his face as he’d handed back fistful after fistful of green paper was a memory I would treasure always.

After a leisurely shower and shave, and a nice lunch of chicken breasts in grape sauce (left over from Kit’s last visit), I sat at my desk to tot up the results of the day’s activities and to learn that Edgarson had stiffed me for two hundred thirty dollars. I chuckled indulgently; let him save face if he wanted. Even with that petty larceny, and the incredible interest the pawnbrokers had charged me for the two-hour use of their money, my bank robbery had left me nearly twenty-four hundred dollars richer than when I’d gotten up this morning. My checking account was healthy, Edgarson was no longer a threat, and surely it wouldn’t be impossible to replace that R left behind at the bank. Life, all in all, was not unpleasant.

And what did the evening hold in store? A screening, a dinner for two? Checking my calendar, I saw that today’s notation read, “Dinner, Laura, 7:30.”

Well. Well, it looked as though I had an unexpected free evening. Wonder what Kit’s doing tonight?

I had nearly finished dialing Kit’s number when it suddenly struck me that I had better keep that original date with Laura. It was noted on my calendar, why wouldn’t it also appear on hers? At seven-thirty tonight I’d better be in the lobby of Laura’s apartment building, ready for our date, ringing her doorbell.

Two The Affair of the Hidden Lover

Somebody buzzed to let me in.

Laura? Laura, I thought, and I wasn’t sure myself whether I was thinking of Laura Penney or of the 1944 Otto Preminger movie. Either way it was the dead girl come back to life, and a nasty shock. Gene Tierney moved in the shadowy recesses of my mind, and I felt uncomfortably like Dana Andrews as I pushed open the door and crossed the pocket lobby to the pocket elevator.

When I emerged on the fourth floor a man wearing an open black overcoat and a dark gray suit was standing in Laura’s open doorway. A cop, obviously. He looked like Dana Andrews, so what did that make me? Clifton Webb?

I know nothing, I reminded myself. I am here to pick up my dinner date, and I have no idea who this man is.

I stopped, just into the vestibule, frowning and looking around as though thinking I might have gotten off at the wrong floor. In fact, I held the elevator, in case I should want to reboard.

The policeman, a black-haired fortyish Dana Andrews with cold eyes and blue chin and dandruffy shoulders, said, “Can I help you?”

My outer self remained bewildered. “I’m looking for Laura Penney.”

“Would you be Mr. Thorpe?”

So she had made a note. “Yes, I am,” I said, and released the elevator door, which grumbled shut behind me. “Is something wrong?” My hands hid themselves in my topcoat pockets.

“Come in.”

I crossed the threshold as he stood to one side, watching me. I tried not to look at the spot where I’d last seen her, but my eyes insisted, and it was with great relief that I saw nobody there. To cover my eyes’ indiscretion, I turned my head left and right, looking at everything in the room, continuing to fail to understand the situation. “Where is Laura?” I turned to the policeman, who was closing the door. “And who are you?”

“Detective Sergeant Bray,” he said. “I’m a police officer. There’s been an accident.”

“An accident? Laura?”

“Did you know Mrs. Penney well?”

“Did I know her? For God’s sake, man, what’s happened?”

“I’m sorry to break it to you this way, Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “but I’m afraid she’s dead.”

“Dead!”

“Come along,” he said, taking my elbow. “Come sit down.”

I permitted myself to be moved, as though too stunned to act from my own volition, and when he’d seated us, me on the sofa and himself to my right in the chrome-and-leather chair, I said, “An accident? What kind of accident?”

“Frankly, Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “there’s some question about that. When was the last time you saw Mrs. Penney?”

“Yesterday. We had dinner together.”

“You brought her home?”

“Yes, of course.”

“At about what time?”

“Possibly nine, nine-thirty, I don’t know exactly.”

“And when did you leave?”

“Oh, I didn’t stay,” I said. “In fact, I didn’t come up, I simply saw her to the door.”

“You didn’t come up?” He sounded mildly surprised. “Wasn’t that unusual?”

“Not at all. I wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression about our relationship, we weren’t... lovers, or anything like that. I have a steady girl friend, named Kit Markowitz.”

“You and Mrs. Penney were just good friends,” he suggested.

Was there irony in that remark? His manner seemed bland, unsuspicious; I took him at face value and said, “That’s right. But are you suggesting—” I paused, as though struck by a sudden disquieting thought. “Did somebody do something to her?”

He frowned. “Such as what, Mr. Thorpe?”

“I don’t know, I was just — I just remembered what she was saying last night.”

“And what was that?”

“It was all very vague,” I said. “She had the idea there was a man hanging around, following her. She pointed him out last night, standing on the sidewalk across the street.”

“You saw this man?”

“He was just a man,” I said. “He didn’t seem interested in Laura or me in particular. She had the idea her ex-husband had hired somebody to make trouble for her.”

“Do you know Mr. Penney?”

“No. I believe he’s in Chicago or somewhere.”

He nodded. “Could you describe the man you saw last night?”

“I only saw him for a minute. Across the street.”

“As best you can.”

“Well, I’d say he was in his mid-forties. Wearing a brown topcoat. He seemed heavyset, and I got the impression of a large nose. Sort of a W. C. Fields nose.”

Bray nodded throughout my description, but wrote nothing down. “And you say Mrs. Penney seemed afraid of this man?”

“Well, not afraid, exactly. Upset, I suppose. I offered to come upstairs with her if she was worried, but she said she wanted to phone her husband. I had the idea she wanted privacy for that.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Sergeant Bray, uh — Is it Sergeant Bray?”

“That’s right.”

“Well— Could you tell me what happened?”

“We’re not entirely sure as yet,” he told me. “Mrs. Penney fell in this room and struck her head. She might have been alone here, she might have slipped. On the other hand, it seems likely there was someone with her.”

“Why?” I asked, and movement to my left made me turn my head.

It was another one, in black pea jacket and brown slacks, coming into the room from deeper in the apartment and carrying what I recognized immediately as my socks. As I caught sight of him he said, “Al, I found these and— Oh, sorry.”

“Come on in, Fred. This is Carey Thorpe.”

Fred grinned in recognition. “Right. Dinner, seven-thirty.”

“Mr. Thorpe,” Bray said, “my partner, Detective Sergeant Staples.”

I got to my feet, unsure whether or not we were supposed to shake hands. “How do you do?”

“Fair to middling.” This one was a bit younger than Bray and looked more easygoing. He said, “Would you be the movie reviewer?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“I read you all the time,” Staples told me. “In The Kips Bay Voice. My wife and I both, we think you’re terrific, we swear by you.”

“Well, thank you very much.”

“If you say a movie’s good, we go. If you say it stinks, we stay away from it.”

“I hardly know what to say,” I admitted, and it was the truth. Such extravagant praise had never come my way before.

“Pauline Kael, Vincent Canby, we just don’t care.”

Even praise can reach a surfeit, and I was happy to be rescued by Bray, who interrupted his partner by saying, “What have you got there, Fred?”

“Oh, yeah.” He held them up like a dead rabbit. “Socks.”

Bray seemed to find that significant. “Ah hah,” he said. “I thought so.”

I said, “Excuse me, is that a clue?”

Staples probably would have answered, but Bray asked me a question first: “Was Mrs. Penney involved with any man in particular, that you know of?”

“A lover?” I shook my head, frowning with thought. “I don’t think so. She was usually available for an evening out, and I never heard her talk about any steady boy friend.”

“Well, there was one,” Staples said. “And he looks like our man, doesn’t he, Al?”

“Could be.”

I found myself watching these two as though they were characters in a movie I’d be writing up, noticing with approval the complementary types they offered. Bray was the slower and more methodical, while Staples was intuitive and emotional. Bray, in character, now said, “On the other hand, he could have come in afterward, found the body, and figured he ought to keep himself out of it.”

“I still think it’s the boy friend,” Staples said.

“Except for the glass,” Bray told him. “If he lived here, wouldn’t he have known about that?”

Something trembled in my stomach. Trying to sound no more than ordinarily curious, I said, “Glass?”

This time Staples got to answer the question. “There was one glass in the living room here,” he said, “with a partly-consumed drink in it. But in the kitchen cabinet was another glass that had been washed and put away. So the killer had a drink with her, and then after she was dead he washed his glass.”

“Fantastic,” I said. “How did you know all that? If he washed the glass, how did you find out?”

“He put it in the cabinet right side up. Mrs. Penney stored her glasses upside down, so that one glass was put away by somebody else.”

“By God,” I said, “real-life detectives are just like the movies.”

Staples grinned like an Irish setter. “We get lucky sometimes.”

“No, I can see it’s a special kind of talent,” I insisted, giving him a return overdose of praise while at the same time cursing myself for that stupidity about the glass. Of course she kept her damn glasses upside down, I knew that, but I must have been more rattled than I’d thought. The shelf is high, and the damn glasses look the same right side up or upside down.

Bray said to his partner, “If the guy was living here, he’d know which way the glasses went.”

“Not if he got rattled,” Staples said. “Besides, I don’t think he actually lived here, I think he just stayed overnight sometimes.”

I said, “That’s the significance of the socks?”

Staples grinned again; by golly, this was another chance to dazzle me with his sleuthing. “They’re more significant than that,” he said, and when he went on he addressed himself equally to his partner and to me. “These socks were the only male clothing in the bedroom. Now, the razor and stuff in the bathroom don’t mean much, they could even belong to the victim herself. But these socks mean a man, and one that stayed here often enough to keep some extra clothing around. And you see what else they mean?”

I had to admit I didn’t, but Bray already knew. “He cleaned his stuff out,” he said.

Staples pointed an approving finger at him. “Right! He left the socks because there’s no way to trace anybody from socks like these. But he took everything else because maybe they could be traced. Laundry marks, initials, whatever.” Turning his beaming face toward me, he said, “Now, you see what that means. That means guilty knowledge.”

“Ah,” I said.

Bray, the cautious one, said, “I agree with you, Fred, up to a point. There is a boy friend and he did clear his stuff out after the victim was killed. But I still think there’s a good chance he came in after she was dead, realized he could be in a lot of trouble, and tried to cover his tracks.”

“Maybe so,” Staples said. “Maybe there’s two guys out there in front of us, but I still think there’s only one.”

“And there’s something else,” Bray told him. He then had me repeat my story about the mysterious man across the street, after which he said, “So he could be the killer, too.”

I said, “Excuse me, I’m not trying to play detective with you, but she didn’t know who that man was, so she wouldn’t sit down and have a drink with him, would she?”

Staples now did his finger-pointing in my direction, saying, “Very good, Mr. Thorpe, very good. Of course it’s possible, the guy could have come up and said he had a message from her husband or whatever, she asks him in for a drink and he kills her. That’s possible, but it isn’t very likely.”

I said, “Or maybe the killer did the thing with the glass to throw you off, make you think it was somebody Laura knew socially.”

This time Staples’ smile was condescending. “Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “I hate to say this, but you’ve been seeing too many movies. In real life killers don’t get that cute. Visualize it for yourself; the guy gets in the apartment, kills Mrs. Penney, then he comes into the kitchen and turns over one glass so we’ll think he knows her socially. People just don’t act that way.”

“I suppose not,” I said.

Bray said, “I guess that’s about all we’ll need you for at the moment, Mr. Thorpe. If we want to talk to you again, I suppose you’ll be around.”

“Of course.” Smiling at them both I said, “I wasn’t planning on going out of town.”

Staples smiled back, but Bray didn’t.

Home again, I swallowed a Valium with bourbon and sat down to listen to the messages on my answering machine. The first was from Shirley, in her harsh ex-wife’s voice with its recently-acquired Boston accent: “There are some papers for you to sign, whether you like it or not. I’m sending them today, special delivery, and if we don’t get them back by Tuesday your father says I should hire a New York attorney. At your expense.”

Lovely. Next came the voice of Tim Kinywa of Third World Cinema, also sounding petulant: “Sogeza here, Carey. Could you possibly give us a title on the Eisenstein piece? I need it before noon tomorrow if at all possible.”

Damn; I’d forgotten about that. Here before me was the note I’d made, along with the note about the changed time for the screening. I underlined both, while listening to my next message. A secretary-type voice: “Mr. Thorpe, Mr. Brant will be in New York for a week, arriving Friday. If you’d care to arrange an appointment, would you phone the Sherry-Netherland sometime Saturday morning?”

I would. For six months I’d been trying to set up an interview with Big John Brant, famous old-time director of such classics as Fury At Sundown, Tank Command, Fatal Lady and Smart Alex, and finally it was going to happen. Good.

The last message was from Kit: “Hello, machine. Just wondered what your master was doing tonight. I’ll be in if he feels like calling.”

Did I feel like calling? I considered the question while I dialed Tim’s number and listened to his recorded announcement: “Hello, caller, this is the number of Sogeza Kinywa and Third World Cinema. We aren’t answering the phone just now, but if you’ll leave your name and phone number on this tape well get back to you very soon. Kwaheri, and peace.”

Nobody talks to anybody any more. We just talk to each other’s machines. “Hello, Tim,” I said to the machine. “This is Carey, and the title is ‘The Influence of Eisenstein: Stairway To The Stars.’ I have an early screening tomorrow, but if there’s any problem you can reach me at home after one.”

And now Kit. After the day I’d had I wasn’t sure I could handle the warm-human-being role tonight, but I ought to call her back anyway and see if anything developed. So I dialed, and damn if I didn’t get her machine: “Kit Markowitz here, on tape. I’m really sorry not to answer in person, but if you’ll leave a message right after the little beep, I’ll call you back just as soon as I can. Wait for it now, wait for it. Here it comes.”

She’d changed her announcement; the previous one had been more standard. After the little beep I said, “Too cute, Kit. This is Carey, and I’m home for the evening.”

After that, I settled down for a little work. A new New York-type magazine called The Loop had started in Chicago, and I’d promised them a piece called “Bogdanovitch: The Kid Brother As Leader Of The Pack.” Linking Bogdanovitch and Ryan O’Neal through the seminal figure of Lee Tracy was turning out to be more complicated than I’d anticipated.

Kit phoned half an hour later to say, “I don’t think it’s too cute.”

“It’s the wait for it that gets me.”

“But that’s the whole idea.”

“I know.”

“You’re too linear,” she said; one of her au courant but meaningless insults, the result of reading too many trade paperbacks. “You doing anything tonight?”

I’d decided by now how to handle my news. “The fact is,” I said, “I’m mostly getting over a shock. You remember Laura Penney?”

“The girl with the mouse-brown hair? The one you’ve been seeing so much of lately?”

Ah. Maybe I hadn’t been covering my tracks quite so well as I’d thought. “Well, I won’t see much of her any more,” I said. “She’s dead.”

“Good God!”

“Killed, in fact.”

“Oh, Jesus. One of those rape things?”

“I don’t think so. It happened in her apartment. I was suppose to take her to dinner tonight, I went over th—”

“You found her! Oh, my God!”

“Not quite that bad. The police were there.”

“Oh, baby, what an experience. Do they suspect you?”

I was shocked — truly shocked — at the suggestion. “Why would they do that?”

“I thought the police were supposed to suspect everybody.”

“Oh. Then maybe they do suspect me, I don’t know. They didn’t act that way.”

“You sound very jittery. Want me to come over?”

Did I? The half-finished page in the typewriter grayed before my eyes. “I’d love it,” I said.

“I love your pubic hair,” I said.

She came over to the bed, carrying the two drinks. “What kind of compliment is that?”

“A sincere one.” I took my drink and made room for her beside me in the bed. Looking at the feature in question, I said, “It’s furry, but not too much. It has a friendly quality.”

“I bet you say that to all your girls.”

I did, as a matter of fact, so I remained silent while she arranged the covers over herself. On the TV facing the bed the fifty all-time greatest hits of some obsolescent teenage castrati were being peddled in an extremely hard sell. “As somebody once said about Marion Davies,” I said, nodding at the screen, “‘Forgotten, but not gone.’”

It was nearly midnight, and if that Kallikak on the tube would ever stop yowling we would go on watching The Thin Man, a film I was enjoying this evening in a very new and different way. The day was ending far better than it had begun. Kit had come over around nine-thirty, we’d gone at once to bed, and then I’d been subjected to an hour’s conversation on the general subject What Happened To Laura Penney And Why? Kit, like Detective Staples, believed that Laura had a secret boy friend and that he was the killer. I couldn’t tell her she was absolutely right, of course, but on the other hand I didn’t want to be suspiciously negative, so I maintained a thoughtful neutrality on the subject and let Kit do most of the talking.

A good girl, Kit, all in all, about the best of my recent women. An acquisitions editor for a reprint publisher, she was attractive, divorced, childless, bright, funny and self-supporting; what more could a liberated male want?

William Powell returned, with Asta. They put Myrna Loy in a cab headed for Grant’s Tomb and went off hunting the murderer by themselves. Kit said, “Could it be Jay English?”

I looked at her. “Could what be Jay English?”

“The secret lover.”

“He’s a fag,” I pointed out.

“Well, maybe he’s trying to go straight.” She squinted at the TV, but it was Laura’s murder she was trying to solve, not Julia Wolfe’s. “That’s why they kept it secret, because they weren’t sure it would work out.”

“In the first place,” I said, “Jay English doesn’t want to go straight. And in the second place, he’s still living with that fellow whatsisname.”

“Dave Something.”

“That’s the one.”

“Ah!” Sitting up straighter in the bed, she said, “He’s the killer!”

“Who?”

“Dave. Because he found out about Jay and Laura!”

“You’re a madwoman,” I told her.

“Then who do you think it is?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

She studied me, as though trying to guess my weight. “You were hanging around her a lot lately,” she said. “Maybe you’re the one.”

“If I am,” I said, “you’re in a lot of trouble right now.”

There was no way to tell from her expression whether she was serious or joking. “You took her to that press screening yesterday.”

“Only because you couldn’t go.”

“What did you do after?”

“We went to dinner, I took her home, I came back here.”

“You weren’t here at ten o’clock.”

“Of course I was.”

“I called at ten and got your machine.”

I put my drink on the bedside table and half-turned to face her. “Are you serious?”

“I called at ten,” she repeated, “and I got your machine.” Yet she didn’t look or act as though she thought of herself as being in bed with a murderer.

I said, “I was running a film, for a piece I’m doing. Top Hat. You know I turn the machine on when I do that.”

“I bet the police suspect you,” she said.

“Do you?”

“What?” She stared at me, startled, and said, “Hey! You’re really upset.”

“Of course I am.”

“I don’t really think it’s you, silly,” she said, thumping me on the belly. “I think it’s Jay’s boy friend Dave.”

“So do I,” I said. “But the big question is, who do you think killed Julia Wolf?”

“Who?”

I nodded at the TV screen, where Asta was finding another body. “In the movie we’re allegedly watching.”

“Oh.” She shrugged, not very interested. “I’ve seen it before,” she said. “It’s the lawyer.”

Three The Wicker Case

In the morning Kit called her office with some he, and then we went to the screening together; some French ancien vague item called L’Abbé de Lancaster, full of reaction shots and shrugged shoulders. “They smoke a lot in the provinces, don’t they?” Kit said after a while.

Following a quick lunch together, Kit went on to work and I returned to the apartment to put together my review of L’Abbé de Lancaster for The Kips Bay Voice. But before that I had telephone messages to run.

Three of them. The first, from Tim Kinywa, thanked me for the title and told me there were no problems, while the third was from a “friend” of mine, a fellow film critic, saying, “Nothing important, I’ll call again.” I knew what that was; he had a collection of his magazine pieces coming out, and he wanted a plug.

But it was the second call that disturbed me. “That recording sounds exactly like you, Mr. Thorpe,” said the cheery voice of Detective Sergeant Fred Staples. “When you get home, would you give Detective Staples a call? The number is seven seven five, five four nine nine. Thanks a lot.”

Now what? Kit’s casual unsuspicious questioning last night had shaken my confidence, and I was no longer sure I could keep ahead of the team of dour-methodical-Bray and cheerful-intuitive-Staples. Why would he be calling me? What had I forgotten?

So I swallowed a Valium and returned the call. He was in, and he said, “Hi, Mr. Thorpe. You free for a while this afternoon?”

“I, well, yes, I suppose so. Why?”

“I’d like to ask your help,” he said.

The recurring police line from British mystery movies came into my head: “We’d like you to help us with our inquiries.” That line was never spoken to anybody but the murderer. I said, “I’ll be happy to help, if I can. I’ll be in all afternoon.”

“I’ll come over in about, oh, half an hour. Okay?”

“Fine,” I said.

I spent the half hour doing the film review, and I’m afraid I gave the poor Abbé of Lancaster a heavier drubbing than he deserved. I was still pounding away when the bell rang. Taking it for granted this was Staples, I buzzed to let him in and popped another Valium while he came upstairs.

It was Staples; cheerful and bouncy as ever, but puffing a bit from the climb. He shook my hand and greeted me merrily enough, but was there a hint of suspicion deep within his eyes? Remembering the movie lore that policemen don’t drink with people they intend to arrest — wasn’t that from Beat The Devil? — I said, “Care for a drink? A beer? Some wine?”

“No, thanks,” he said, still smiling. “Too early in the day for me.”

Hell and damnation. Hoping only that he would turn out to be another blackmailer, I closed the door and offered him a chair. Taking it, he said, “First off, I might as well tell you you’re off the hook. Not that you were ever on it, at least not very much.”

I looked at him, not sure I understood. “Off the hook?”

“Your innocence has been established,” he said.

I sat down in the director’s chair. “Well,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

“The funny thing is,” he told me, “it was through that fella that Laura Penney told you about. The one she said was following her.”

“It was?”

“We got in touch with the husband last night. Mr. Penney. And darn if he didn’t have private detectives watching his wife. He’d just put them on the case a few days ago.”

“They don’t seem to have helped much.”

“They were supposed to collect evidence for a divorce or something.” Shaking his head, he said, “I can’t understand anybody like that, can you? Sneaking around, putting detectives to watch their wife. Maybe it’s because my own marriage is so good, but I just can’t comprehend a man who’d do a thing like that.”

Nodding, I said, “I know, it doesn’t seem right. But if you look in the Yellow Pages, there’s a lot of agencies specializing in that sort of thing. They must get their customers somewhere.”

“I suppose so.” This insight into a darker corner of human nature had robbed Staples almost entirely of his sunny smile, but now he rallied, saying, “But in this case it did us some good.”

“You found the killer?”

“Not yet, but we’ve narrowed things down. We got in touch with the detective agency this morning, and they gave us their dossier. We have photographs of just about everybody Mrs. Penney saw in the last few days. We even have a picture of you. Want to see it?”

Peter Lorre in M. “I’d be fascinated.”

He took from his jacket pocket a white envelope with a red rubber band around it. First he transferred the rubber band to his wrist, then he opened the envelope and took out a little bunch of photographs; small ones, about two-and-a-half by four-and-a-half. He selected one of these, chuckled at it, and handed it over.

Not Peter Lorre in M. Rock Hudson and Doris Day in Pillow Talk. That was me there, seeing Laura chastely to her door, and this photograph did not suggest that I would next go upstairs with her and commit murder.

“Nice picture,” Staples suggested.

I sighed. “The last time Laura was alive. May I keep this?”

“Well, sure,” he said. “We don’t need it, because you aren’t the killer.”

“This picture tells you that?”

“No, the fellow who took the picture told us. He was on watch outside the apartment building until one in the morning, and he’s willing to swear you never went back into the place during that time.”

Why wouldn’t he swear to it? Never went back in; that was the simple truth. (And how it must have galled Edgarson that he couldn’t put my head in the noose.)

Could I still make a little trouble for him? I said, “Then the private detective must have seen the killer.”

“If he did,” Staples said, “he didn’t recognize him. Or it’s possible the killer was already in the apartment, waiting for Mrs. Penney, and he used another way out of the building. Say through the side exit from the basement. Which would suggest premeditation.”

“From Sergeant Bray’s description,” I said, “it didn’t sound like premeditation. It sounded more like a fight, an angry flare-up or something.”

Staples nodded. “Everything points to a sudden argument with a friend. That’s why I’d like you to take a look at the rest of these pictures—” extending them across to me “—and see how many of the men you can identify.”

“Ah. You think it might be one of these.” Half a dozen photos; I riffled through them and saw a succession of blurred but familiar faces.

“We’re not limiting ourselves to those,” Staples told me. “At this point, it could be anybody.”

“Except me,” I said, and the phone rang.

Chuckling and nodding, Staples said, “That’s right, except you.”

I got to my feet, crossing toward the desk, saying over my shoulder, “I’ll turn on my answering machine, so we won’t be interrupted.”

But, through the phone’s second ring, Staples said, “I’d rather you did answer it, if you don’t mind. I left this number at the office, so it might be for me.”

“Oh. Fine.”

And damned if it wasn’t. When I picked up the receiver and said hello, a gruff male voice that might have been Sergeant Bray said, “Staples there?”

“Coming up.” I turned and extended the receiver, saying, “You were right.”

He came smiling over to take the phone and announce himself cheerily into it. To be polite I pretended absorption in the photographs — cold faces, bulky overcoated bodies, Laura in several unimportant public moods, cinema verite at its absolute lowest — while I listened to Staples’ share of the conversation.

It turned out to be the wrong share; the meat was with the other participant. Staples limited himself mostly to yeah and nope and got it, while making quick pencil notes in a small pad. Finishing with, “Be right there,” he hung up and put his pad away.

He was leaving? Good; exonerated or not, I still felt nervous in his presence.

But even though he’d promised to be right there, he showed no hurry about moving on. Turning to me, he said, “Would you know a movie director named Jim Wicker?”

“Two features,” I said. “Neither very good. I don’t know him personally, he’s a West Coast type. Young, up from television commercials, hasn’t shown much promise vet.

“Well, he won’t show any at all from now on,” Staples told me. “Somebody just shot him.”

“Shot him?”

“About four blocks from here, while he was watching his new movie.” Chuckling in his bubbly way he said, “I guess that’s real criticism, huh?”

“New movie?” I tried to remember what I’d read in the trades recently about Jim Wicker. “Oh, that would be The Sound Of Distant Drums, for Lanisch-Sanssky.”

“Lanisch-Sanssky? Do you know these people?”

“I know who they are, they’re in my field.”

“Would that be Hugo Lanisch?”

“Yes, of course. He ran Twentieth Century Fox for six weeks three or four years ago. Why?”

“Because it was in his house that Wicker got killed,” Staples said. Then, apparently struck by a sudden thought, he said, “Listen, Mr. Thorpe, how would you like to come along?”

“Come along? In what way?”

“You could see the way a police investigation works in real life,” he said. “And you could fill us in on who these people are. I wouldn’t introduce you or anything, you’d just be that sort of quiet cop in the corner. What do you say?”

I laughed; I couldn’t help it. I had become the detective’s sidekick. “I say, lead on!” I told him.

Edgarson was in a car across the street. He was bundled up in there, but I recognized him right away, with his glinting little eyes glaring out from around the sides of his nose.

I turned my back, and Staples and I, barrel-shaped in our overcoats, stuffed ourselves into his battered green Ford with the police ID on the sun visor, and then we waited quite a while for Staples to get the engine going. He kept flooding it, but remained cheerful, with continuing comments about the cold weather. “I’d like to go down to Puerto Rico right after New Year’s,” he said, “and not come back till St. Patrick’s Day.”

“Amen,” I said.

“If only I could afford it.”

“Amen again.”

He looked surprised. “Really? Not prying or anything, Mr. Thorpe, but I had the idea you were sort of well off.”

“I suppose I give that impression,” I said. (And didn’t I know it.) “But I pretty much live up to the hilt of my income. And then, I don’t have a family to support. Or a car,” I added, as the Ford’s engine at last turned over.

“That makes a difference,” Staples agreed. He gunned the motor a lot, and finally we got under way, with Staples saying, “There’s no point turning on the heater. Takes it ten minutes to warm up, and we’ll be there by then.”

I’d brought the Laura photos with me, and now I said, “Did you want to talk about these pictures first, or the Jim Wicker business?”

“Fill me in on Wicker,” he said. “And this fellow Hugo Whatsit.”

“Lanisch,” I said, and went on to tell him what I knew of Lanisch-Sanssky Productions and Jim Wicker. Hugo Lanisch and Gregor Sanssky, both old-line movie executives who’d been with the studios thirty or thirty-five years ago when the studios really meant something, had gone into independent production about fifteen years back, turning out whatever was popular at the moment. They’d made some science-fiction movies in England at one time, and more recently they’d done a few period murder mysteries. They’d done well enough, but they’d never had a major success.

Nor had Jim Wicker, a young man of about thirty, a Californian who had served his apprenticeship grinding out television commercials, graduated to a season of television adventure shows, and then made two unremarkable theatrical feature films, the first for American International and the second for some independent producer down in Florida. Wicker was a technician, a man who did unexciting work but who always brought his projects in on time and within budget. He was a perfect choice for Lanisch-Sanssky; dependable and inexpensive.

All the time I was telling Staples this unoriginal set of film lives I was also feeling the peevish stare of Edgarson on the back of my neck. Was he following us? I didn’t dare turn around to look, and the doubt made it hard to keep track of what I was saying.

Staples asked a few questions about Wicker and Lanisch, but once he moved from the business level to the personal I was no longer any help to him. I didn’t know if Wicker was married or even heterosexual. I didn’t know if Lanisch was in debt.

“Well, here we are,” Staples said, and pulled in at a handy hydrant on 67th Street between Madison and Park. “It’s that town house there. You just keep silent and leave everything to me.”

“Right.”

We got out of the car and I chanced a quick look back. I didn’t see Edgarson anywhere, but I could still feel him.

Bray didn’t like my presence, and he made no bones about it. Staples and I met him just inside the front door, where he’d been chatting with a uniformed policeman, and he gave me one quick disapproving glance before saying to his partner, “What’s this?”

“Mr. Thorpe can be very helpful, Al,” Staples said “He knows a lot about these people.”

Bray studied me. “You know Lanisch?”

“I don’t know any of them personally,” I said. “But I do know who they are.”

Staples said, “He filled me in on the way over. Don’t worry, Al, he’ll stand in the corner and he won’t say a word.”

“He’s your guest,” Bray said, as though saying he’s your responsibility. Turning away, he said, “They’re all upstairs.”

Staples gave me an encouraging smile, which I hesitantly returned. Leaving the uniformed cop to his guard duty at the front, we followed Bray through a stark high-ceilinged living room to a small elevator with a porthole window in the door.

The movie business had apparently been very good indeed to Huga Lanisch, if it had bought him this town house. It was quite some place, five stories high, done in a kind of Bauhaus-modern style, full of white walls and chrome balls and sharp diagonals. There was also this elevator, which the three of us crowded into and which rose at a slow enough pace for Bray to give us the full story en route. “There’s a special room upstairs where they show movies,” he said. “Six people were in there, including Wicker, and when the movie was over Wicker was dead in his chair. He’d been shot in the back of the head and the gun was on the floor behind him. No prints.”

Staples said, “Could anybody else get in during the movie?”

“No. There’s only one door, and anybody coming in has to walk right in front of the screen.”

“So the killer’s definitely one of the five others watching the movie.”

Bray looked sour. “One of them,” he agreed, and the elevator stopped. He pushed open the door and we followed him into a square high-ceilinged room with black carpeting and puffy white low chairs and another uniformed cop. “This way,” Bray said, and the three of us trooped across the room and through an open doorway on the far side.

The scene of the crime. Oh, my God, and the victim himself, lying sprawled in a white leather chair and looking perfectly ghastly. His eyes were open and staring ceilingward, but the eyeballs were sunk too deep in the sockets, as though everything inside there had shriveled. A great sticky-looking stain the color of beaujolais smeared the white leather back of the chair. My victim had been much more discreet.

With difficulty, I forced myself to look at the rest of the place, which was a very plush little screening room. Ten of the white leather chairs, on chrome rollers, were scattered about the gray carpet, intermixed with small white formica parsons tables. The entire wall to the left of the entrance formed the screen, flanked by drapes which would probably close when no movie was being shown. Framed movie posters were mounted on the side walls, and a small but generous bar was built in at the back.

Staples said, “I thought you said there was only one door.” He nodded toward a second door, next to the bar.

“Projection booth,” Bray told him. “It’s like a little closet in there, and no other way out.”

“Ah.” Staples walked around the body in the chair, studying it from different angles. “Deader’n hell, isn’t he?”

Bray said to me, “If you’re going to throw up, there’s a John back past the elevator.”

“I’m not going to throw up.” In fact, I wasn’t at all queasy, though I preferred not to look at the dead man. Bray had simply been letting me know again that he didn’t like my being here.

Staples, having studied the corpse long enough to memorize it, now said, “Fine. Where’s our suspects?”

“Back this way.”

We went out through the other room again, past the elevator, down a short white hall, and into a bookcase-enclosed room done in shades of orange and brown. Tall narrow windows at the far end of the room showed the February nakedness of tree branches and the rear of some building on 68th Street. The low chrome-armed chairs in here were covered with brown corduroy and on them were sitting half a dozen distressed-looking people. I saw no one I knew, but two or three of the faces were familiar, probably from press parties. All of the faces were troubled and nervous, as though we were tax men here for an audit. Another uniformed policeman stood stolidly in a corner, pretending to be a guard in a bank.

Bray addressed the group: “I’m sorry for the delay, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll try not to take much longer. I’m Detective Sergeant Bray, and this is Detective Sergeant Staples. We’d like to find out what happened. Does anybody have any suggestions?”

The troubled faces turned toward one another, this way and that, but the only one who spoke was a tall slender ash-blonde woman in black slacks and a pearl gray sweater, who asked, as though hoping against hope, “I suppose it must have been one of us?”

“It does seem that way,” Bray told her. “I’m sorry. Unless someone has another theory?”

But no one did. The faces remained troubled, and attentive.

Bray said, “All right. Then we might as well begin.”

The interrogation that followed was informal in style but very thorough, starting with the names and functions of everyone present. The oldest man here, sixtyish, almost completely bald, stocky, with a vaguely Mittel-European accent, was our host, Hugo Lanisch, co-producer of the film they’d been watching. The slender blonde in the black slacks was his most recent wife, Jennifer; in her early thirties, cool and beautiful and well-bred, she looked as though she’d come with the town house, and probably she had.

There was one black among the white faces, a bearded plump fortyish man named Gideon Fergus, who’d been hired to write the music for the film. I remembered his work from several black exploitation movies; mostly bongos and electric guitars.

Then there were two people from United Films, the company that had financed the movie and would be its distributor. The stout black-haired mid-forties woman with the serious hornrim glasses and the overly loud way of speaking was Ruth Carr, the East Coast story editor and presumably the one who had interested United Films in the project in the first place. And the 35-year-old slender fag in the leather pullover and big yellow glasses and long blond hair was Barry McGivern, the company’s assistant advertising director.

Finally there was the projectionist, a neatly dressed young man of about 25 named Jack March. An executive in embryo, March had an earnest expression, short blond hair, metal-rim glasses and a modest California tan. He had apparently decided his role at a murder was to look very alert, in case anybody should want coffee.

Having established names and pedigrees, Bray turned the floor over to Staples, who cheerfully but insistently worked out where everybody had been seated during the screening. With only six in the audience, they had not clustered together but had been fairly widely distributed through the room. Staples eventually had to produce paper and pencil and do a sketch plan of everybody’s position, but when he was finished the layout was clear. Wicker had been the farthest from the screen, so that any of the others could have left his or her seat, traveled on hands and knees, and approached him from behind without being seen by anyone else.

Except the projectionist. Young March had been watching the film through a small window next to the projector, but it turned out he’d seen the movie before — he was the messenger who’d brought it here from the cutting room on the west coast — and he hadn’t been completely attentive. He explained there were always things to be done in the projection booth, but that was undoubtedly a polite falsehood; the second time through, A Sound Of Distant Drums was probably more than a bit boring. Besides, if the killer had stayed on his knees behind Wicker the projectionist would have been unlikely to see him in any case.

So now the characters and the setting had been established. A rich old movie producer, his rich young wife, a third-rate black composer, two studio functionaries and a reliable small-time director had gathered in a room to watch for the first time a film in which they were all interested. What they were seeing was a rough cut, still several minutes too long and with no musical score. In the course of this screening, one of the others had shot the director, for reasons yet to be established.

But before getting to motive, Bray was interested in one more physical aspect of the crime: the sound of it. Taking over from Staples, he said, “Mr. Wicker was killed with a .25 calibre revolver. Now, that wouldn’t make as much noise as a .45 automatic, but it wouldn’t exactly be quiet either. Just how loud is this movie you were watching?

It was Gideon Fergus, the black composer, who answered: “Not very loud at all. It’s much more of a mood piece than Jim’s other films, probably because it’s the first time he was doing his own original script. And there wasn’t any music yet, of course.”

Barry McGivern, the advertising man from United Films, said, “Well, there was that one shot in the movie. Remember? Just after they get off the train.”

Ruth Carr, the stout story editor with the loud voice, loudly said, “Do I remember? I’ll say I remember, it scared me half to death.”

Bray, the patient bulldog, said, “There was a gunshot in the movie?”

There was general agreement; yes, there had been one gunshot in the movie. Barry McGivern drove home the obvious point: “The killer could have fired his gun at the same precise moment.”

“Very tricky to get it that close,” Bray said. “But possible, I suppose. Did anybody hear Wicker make any kind of sound just after the shot?”

Ruth Carr said, “I’m afraid nobody heard anything just after the shot, because I gave out a yell.”

Barry McGivern told her indulgently, “I must say, Ruth, you startled me more than the gunshot did.”

Bray said, “You screamed?”

“I’m sorry,” Ruth Carr said, but her smile was more proud than sheepish. “I’ve always been that way, I’m a real sucker for movies. They catch me every time.”

“All right.” Bray’s disinterest in Ruth Carr’s little personality traits was so total that even she noticed it, and looked offended. He ignored that, too, saying to the group at large, “Were there any other loud noises in the course of the film? Anything else that might have covered the sound of a shot?”

Gideon Fergus said, “There were two or three door slams, but I don’t know that they were that loud.”

Ruth Carr said, “And the jet taking off. That one hurt my eardrums.”

A little discussion ensued among Gideon Fergus, Ruth Carr and Barry McGivern as to whether or not the wail of a jet taking off was the kind of sound that would cover the noise of a gun being fired. Hugo and Jennifer Lanisch, I noticed, took no part in this discussion, nor in any of the talk that had preceded it. They sat fairly close together, but not touching and not looking at one another, and though God knows they were far from twins — he with his gleaming round bald head and deeply-lined face, she with her oval face framed by heavy ash-blonde hair — their expressions were nearly identical. Both were defensive, blank, rigidly controlled, tightly held in check. Looking at them, the thought came to me: Was Jennifer playing around with young Jim Wicker?

This same thought had apparently occurred to both Bray and Staples, and once the sound-effects discussion ran itself out the two detectives began poking delicately into the general question of motive. How long had each of our suspects known Jim Wicker, what was the state of each relationship, how had the relationship been formed? The questions were general, and ostensibly aimed at all the suspects equally, but it was plain that the questions were focusing more and more frequently on Jennifer Lanisch.

Were Bray and Staples doing this out of perversity? Or was it possible they didn’t know who the murderer was? Finally it seemed to me the only thing to do was break my promise of silence, which I did by saying, “Well, of course Jack March is the killer, but that still leaves the question of why. I suppose once we find out his real name the motive will become more clear.”

Everybody stared at me, even the uniformed cop in the corner. Bray looked as though he might burst a blood vessel, but Staples was merely bewildered, and when he said, “What are you talking about?” I heard in his voice the forlorn prayer that I would actually know what I was talking about.

I did. “I suggest his real name isn’t Jack March,” I said, “because he’s so obviously in disguise. You’ll notice the tan on the lower half of his face is lighter than on the upper half, meaning he’s just recently shaved off a full beard. Also, his clothing is all brand spanking new, suggesting he’s been used to a different sort of garb. That short haircut also looks very recent, and those spectacles are fakes, with clear glass. I have a pair myself, they were a prop in a movie, and they reflect light differently.”

By now, everybody was staring at young March instead of at me, and March didn’t like it at all. “That’s silly,” he said. “Yes, I shaved off my beard when I got this job, but that doesn’t mean I killed anybody.”

“You were the only one behind Wicker while the film was being screened,” I pointed out.

Staples, looking at me with hope and terror and warning all mixed in his expression, said, “Any of the others could have crawled around behind Wicker, we already established that.”

“Taking a chance on being seen by the projectionist? Besides, I haven’t yet mentioned the real proof.”

“Then I wish you would,” Staples said, and I could see Bray silently agreeing.

“The gun was fired,” I said, “in conjunction with a loud sound in the film, probably a gunshot. But the gunshot in the film was so unexpected that Miss Carr screamed when it happened. Only someone who had seen the picture before would know about that gunshot and be able to anticipate it and use it. And only March, who carried the print here from Los Angeles, had seen the picture before. Only March knew the film.”

“I knew it, all right,” March said, and by the sudden harshness in his voice I knew we’d be hearing the truth now. “I knew it because I wrote it! And that son of a bitch stole it from me! I trusted him, I... I... This was my only chance to get even with him, while he’s watching it himself, sitting there watching the script he, he—” And March dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands.

I turned smiling to Staples. “Elementary, my dear Watson,” I said.

Four The Problem of the Copywriter’s Island

Staples went whee-whee-whee all the way home. “Did you see Al Bray’s face?” he demanded, and answered his own question by laughing out loud and slapping his gloved palm against the steering wheel.

I had in fact seen Al Bray’s face, and he’d looked as though a movie marquee had fallen on him. He didn’t say anything to me, but he kept looking in my direction like a Flat Earther faced with an astronaut. I, on the other hand, had sense enough to remain modest and to fade into the background after I’d done my little turn. There was no point preening; any man who intends to rub a cop’s nose in it had better be on safer ground than I was.

Anyway, March’s breakdown and confession had essentially finished that job, so Staples soon took me away, leaving Bray to care for the details. Morgue and technical people were just arriving as we reached the sidewalk, and while Staples had a word or two with them I scanned the block for Edgarson. He was nowhere to be seen; had the presence of the police scared him off?

Now Staples was driving me home, crowing all the way, and not sobering till he’d parked again next to the fire hydrant near my building. Then he said, “If you could do the same thing on the Laura Penney killing, it would be a great help.”

I could do the same thing, as a matter of fact, but I wasn’t going to. Young Jack March had been a great lesson to me, had I been in need of a great lesson: he’d demonstrated the folly of quitting. I had made a very nice circumstantial case against him, and no doubt in time the police would have established his true identity and his motive for killing Jim Wicker, but without the confession would it ever have been proved? If the gun couldn’t be traced directly to March — and my guess was that it couldn’t — some small doubt would have to remain, and with a halfway decent defense attorney that small doubt could surely be turned into an acquittal. March, the premeditated murderer, had planned everything up to the crime itself, but then had lost his moorings, his sense of purpose and his nerve. I, the unpremeditated murderer, hadn’t planned anything until after the event, but because I’d retained my nerve and my sense of purpose I was now the only human being on Earth who had been fully cleared in that killing.

But what Staples wanted was an expression of cooperation and sincerity of purpose. I obliged, telling him, “By God, I wish I could just point a finger and say, ‘That’s the killer,’ I was very fond of Laura, you know, I’ve realized that more and more since her death.”

Sympathetic understanding gleamed in Staples’ eyes. “I know what you mean. But we do have those photographs. We could go over them now, and maybe something’ll click for you.”

“Fine.” Then, because hospitality seemed necessary under the circumstances, and also because it was damn cold in Staples’ unheated car, I said, “Want to come up? We can have coffee and be comfortable.”

“Good idea.”

So the two of us climbed the stairs to my apartment and spent a while uncoating ourselves. Then I went to the kitchenette to make coffee, while Staples wandered around the living room, looking at my memorabilia. Seeing him near the desk, I called, “Would you mind switching on the phone machine? I want to hear my messages.”

“Sure.” He hovered over it, willing but unschooled. “What do I do?”

“Turn the switch to playback and press the rewind button.”

He did both, and I went on with my coffeemaking while the machine gibberished itself backward at high speed and then began to unreel my latest messages: “Hi, Carey, it’s, urn, Jack Freelander. Um. It looks as though, um, Esquire, um, might want that piece, um, um, I told you about, um, about the pornographic movie biz. Um. Would you be, um, free some time soon? I’d like to, um, pick your brains. Also, um. Do you happen to know, um, where Laura Penney is? Um. She doesn’t answer her phone. Um. See you later. Um. Um.”

I called, through the final stutters of Jack Freelander’s message, “How do you like your coffee?”

“Regular.” Staples came to the kitchenette doorway, saying, “I feel like I’m eavesdropping, listening to all that.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Meantime, the second message had started. “Hi, sweetie, it’s Kit. I’ll be tied up this evening, but give me a call tomorrow. And I still say Jay English did it.”

“Christ,” I muttered. I gave Staples his coffee, and the two of us went back to the living room and message number three:

“Hello, Mr. Thorpe. How does it feel to be a murderer?”

After I put the mop away and made myself another cup of coffee, Staples insisted we listen to that last message another half dozen times, in hopes I’d eventually recognize the voice:

“Hello, Mr. Thorpe. How does it feel to be a murderer? Hello, Mr. Thorpe. How does it Hello, Mr. Thorpe feel to be a how does it Hello, Mr. how does it feel, how does it, Mr. Thorpe, feel to be a murderer? a murderer? a murderer?”

“I just don’t know,” I said. “The voice sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.”

Finally Staples gave up, saying, “He called you ‘Mr. Thorpe’, so I guess whoever he is he doesn’t know you all that well.”

“I guess he doesn’t. Excuse me a minute.” And off I went to the John, to pop a Valium. What did humanity do before these wonderful pills?

Back in the living room Staples was reading my movie posters, but his mind was still on the message, because he said, “Would you run it just once more? I’m sorry, I know it upsets you, but I want to record it.”

Turned out he had a cassette recorder in his overcoat pocket. Damn it to hell. I considered accidentally erasing the message but I was afraid I’d trigger Staples’ suspicions, so we played the thing one last time while his little machine turned a beady ear on my little machine, and then at last I could erase the bastard and sit down with my coffee, waiting for the Valium to take hold.

Staples tried to reassure me: “We run into a lot of nuts like that, Mr. Thorpe. They get an idea in their heads, and they don’t want to be distracted by facts.”

I said, “What if you hadn’t already cleared me, what would you be thinking now?”

He chuckled. “I’d be a lot more interested in talking with that particular nut, to tell the truth.” Then he said, “Forget about it, Mr. Thorpe, it’s a closed incident. Let’s look at those photos.”

So we did. Six pictures of Laura, with as many men, all of whom I knew to one extent or another. Going through them one at a time, I gave Staples a name and capsule biography for each, and resisted the temptation to plant suspicion in his mind about any specific one of these prime suspects.

That was a question I hadn’t as yet resolved in my own mind. If I hadn’t killed Laura — and the official line was that I had not — then someone else must have done it. Would it be better to provide that someone else, or could we content ourselves with a simple unsolved murder? There are hundreds of unsolved murders every year, why shouldn’t Laura Penney’s be among them? For the moment, at least, that seemed the better way, so I made none of the leading remarks that occurred to me concerning each of these escorts, but simply provided Staples with basic uncolored information: name, occupation, relationship with the deceased.

And one of them turned out to be that same Jay English whose name Staples had heard Kit mention on my answering machine, in the sentence, “I still say Jay English did it.” He remembered that comment, of course, and asked several questions, with me assuring him the whole thing had been a joke, if not in very good taste, considering the unequivocal homosexuality of its subject. Joke or not, Staples made sure to get the roommate’s name spelled right: David Poumon.

One of the other photos was of Laura with her father, a straight-backed well-preserved old gent I’d met once several months ago, when he was in town from upstate. If Staples was so interested in unusual sexual relationships, how about intimating something incestuous there to keep his busy mind occupied? No; once again I restrained myself and moved on to the next, which happened to be the same stammering Jack Freelander who’d just left, um, a message on my machine.

After I’d done all the pictures once, with Staples making notes in his small pad and giving each suspect his own page, he led me back through all six again, asking leading questions, poking here and there in search of motive, and damn if he didn’t suggest father-daughter incest himself. He led up to it gradually, with questions about whether Laura saw her father seldom or often, what she had to say about him, and so on, and finally he asked the question straight out: “Do you think there was anything going on there?”

“Going on?”

“Well, you say he’s a widower, and she’s separated from her husband.”

I was astounded, not at the concept but that Staples should voice it. Apparently he specialized in thinking the unthinkable. I said, “He’s her father! You don’t think — I mean, what do you think?”

He shrugged, his expression as open and cheerful as ever. “I think people have love lives,” he told me. “One way or the other, they make that connection. Now, here’s a woman, she’s thirty-two years old, she’s been married, she’s separated from her husband, all she has is these casual non-sexual dates with a number of different men. She doesn’t seem to have anybody that’s really important to her.”

“That’s possible,” I said. “There are people who prefer to be alone.”

“Not many. And not Laura Penney. It doesn’t feel right, Mr. Thorpe. She had a lover, I’m sure of it.” Gesturing at the photos on the table next to me, he said, “In among all those men in her life was the man in her life. But he was kept hidden. Why?”

“I see what you mean,” I said. “A lover wouldn’t be kept hidden unless there was a reason for it.”

“Right.” He checked off the possibilities on his fingers. “He’s married. He’s homosexual and doesn’t want to make a complete break with the homosexual world. He’s her father.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Neither do I,” Staples assured me. “But at this stage of the game, I keep an open mind.”

I was beginning to feel a bit wary of that open mind of Staples’. If he was so eager to think the unthinkable, why wouldn’t it occur to him to play with the thought that my guaranteed innocence might in itself be an indication of guilt? I was, after all, the Least Likely Suspect. And as with all Least Likely Suspects, I was in reality the Murderer.

Staples and I talked for half an hour more, with him drawing another three or four names from me of men who knew Laura but whose pictures had not been snapped by the private detectives. Finally he seemed satisfied that he’d squeezed me dry, and he made ready to leave, saying, “I do appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Thorpe. And the coup you pulled in the Wicker killing this afternoon was really beautiful. You made my day.”

“It’d be interesting to find out the rest of that story.”

“Oh, I’m sure Al Bray’s got the whole thing by now.” Then, seeming to be struck by a sudden thought, he said, “Say. That girl friend of yours is tied up tonight, isn’t she?”

Meaning Kit, who had said so on the machine. “Yes, I guess she is.”

“Why not have dinner with us? Patricia and me. She’d love to meet you, she’s as big a fan as I am. And I’ll have the story from Al by then, I can tell it to you at dinner.”

“Oh, I don’t think I should—”

“Listen, you’re not imposing.” He was very eager, very determined. “And Patricia’s a wonderful cook. I tell you what, I’ll call her from here, you’ll see there’s no problem. Okay?”

I was ambivalent. On the one hand, I wanted to be near Staples as much as possible, I wanted to know what he was thinking so I could steer him away from dangerous shallows. On the other hand, his presence made me nervous. As to the grubby details of Jack March and his fatal grudge against Jim Wicker, they interested me not at all.

But Staples was waiting for an answer, all eagerness and bounce. “All right,” I said. “If it’s all right with your wife.”

“Patricia’s gonna flip,” he assured me. “Okay if I use your phone?”

“Go right ahead.”

He did, and though he kept his voice too low for me to hear the exact words — I had politely removed myself to the far end of the room — the syrupy note in everything he said suggested he couldn’t have been a husband more than fifteen minutes. True love birds, icky-wickies together. But it was too late now to back out.

Cradling the phone at last, Staples turned his beaming smile toward me and said, “It’s all set, Mr. Thorpe. I’ll pick you up around seven-thirty, okay?”

“Fine,” I said. “But if I’m going to eat at your table, I think you’d better call me Carey.”

“Terrific.” He stuck out his hand, saying, “And I’m Fred.”

The hunter and the quarry shook hands.

It was like being stuck in one of the sweeter Disney cartoons, one of the early ones where the sentimentality really cloys. Great pink clouds of love floated everywhere, and tiny bluebirds seemed to flutter just beyond my peripheral vision.

Patricia Staples wasn’t at all difficult to look at, but God have mercy if she wasn’t a penance to listen to. Of medium height and weight, with silky blonde hair and clear innocent blue eyes, pert lips and straight nose, she looked like something on a corn flakes box or on the cover of a 1943 issue of Liberty Magazine, and in the course of dinner alone she called her husband “sweetness” and “honey” and “sugar” often enough to produce terminal diabetes. (Even though he did send nearly half of them back.)

Staples had told me that he and his Patricia had been married almost three years, yet they looked and sounded and acted like the most simpering of honeymooners. Staples later claimed this aspect was the result of their decision not to have children, apparently allowing them to be infantile without competition, but I prefer to believe that Staples was attracted to her lavish wholesomeness because of its contrast with the seamier side of his own work.

The gilded cage enclosing this contented canary was a seventh-floor co-op apartment in a grim red-brick building in Corona, Queens, not far enough from the Long Island Expressway. One saw it out there, churning away in the blighted darkness beyond the living room windows like a diorama of life on the planet Jupiter. The apartment itself was warm and yellow and bright, with furniture that must have looked just as flimsy and just as tacky in the various Long Island showrooms from which it had been purchased. A great rectangular green-and-yellow painting of a meadow glade in spring, the grandmother of all jigsaw puzzles, dangled over the sofa like an eavesdropper, while Staples and I sat daringly beneath it, drinking Corona Hills Scotch with club soda and chatting about great murder mysteries of fact and fancy.

Patricia, meantime, bustled about. Queen of her domain, a housewife so utterly satisfied with her lot as to make all the efforts of Women’s Lib seem like an exercise in counting grains of sand, Patricia Staples spent that entire evening, it seemed to me, with a white apron over her pale blue dress, carrying a casserole to the table between two heat-mittened hands. This, by God, was what the boys of Guadalcanal Diary had been fighting for.

Well of course it wasn’t quite that bad. It doesn’t take that long to carry a casserole, nor to cook one, but even when Patricia Staples was sitting in the uneasy chair on her husband’s left hand her mind and heart appeared to be still in the kitchen.

As to her being a fan of mine, I saw early on that she was a fan of no one and nothing but her husband. She gave eager agreement to everything he said, whether sensible or foolish, and he gave her the blind compliment of assuming that all her parrot responses were the product of an independent but wonderfully sympatico mind.

Staples apparently preferred not to talk shop in his wife’s presence, so when we all sat down to dinner-chicken, rice, tomatoes, celery and much much more, all in the same Corning ovenproof bowl — the talk turned to movies, and I’m afraid I found it impossible not to become a pompous bore. But they did keep demanding it; Patricia invariably agreed with Fred, who invariably agreed with me, who had no one to agree with but myself. It would take a far more Calvinist personality than mine to resist such an opportunity for pontification. I spoke in long compound sentences, like an early draft of one of my own articles, and in fact I quoted from my previous works several times. Patricia didn’t mind, since she wasn’t particularly aware of my existence anyway, but Fred for all his eagerness did begin to glaze after a while.

Dinner, like all good things, came to an end, and while Patricia retired again to her kitchen to “tidy up” (a phrase they both used, both of them) Staples and I seated ourselves once more beneath the leaning painting, this time with Corona Hill VSOP Olde Brandy, and after the few obligatory propaganda remarks from Staples about how good it must be for a bachelor to eat a real meal for a change we went back to shoptalk, the subject being murder. This time, though, it was murder closer to home: “You haven’t asked,” Staples pointed out, “about the Wicker case.”

“That’s right,” I agreed. “I haven’t.”

He took that to mean I wanted to know, so he told me. It was one of those convoluted stories of betrayal, disguise, coincidence and overly-complicated scheming that mystery stories always end with, and though I nodded a lot while Staples reeled it off I didn’t retain a word of it, except the fact that Jack March’s real name turned out to be Andrew Thomas Cauldenfield. (Ever since Lee Harvey Oswald, murderers have had prominent middle names, just as tall farm youths used to have prominent adam’s apples.)

Patricia joined us soon after that, and the talk switched back to movies, and that was when Gaslight came up. Staples announced it to be one of his all-time favorite pictures, “but Patricia’s never seen it.”

“I have a print,” I said. And I found myself extending an invitation: “Would you like to come see it?”

Staples stared at me. “A print? You mean you own that movie, you have it right there in your apartment?”

“I have copies of more than twenty films,” I told him, “and access to almost anything else I’d like to see. The studios loan prints to people in the field.”

Staples viewed me with something like awe, and even Patricia seemed impressed. Staples said, “By golly, if I had that I don’t think I’d ever leave the house.”

“It’s like anything else,” I told him. “You get used to it after a while.”

We then discussed the best time for them to come see Gaslight and decided on Sunday afternoon at three. Staples would be working earlier that day, but Patricia could take the subway to Manhattan, meet her husband for lunch, and then the two would come over to my place for the screening.

Soon after that it was time to leave. Staples suggested he drive me back to Manhattan, and though I insisted I’d be perfectly content in the subway he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I thanked Patricia for a delicious dinner, shook her cool hand, and her husband and I rode the elevator down to the basement garage where he kept his car.

The ride back was full of conversation, by which I mean that Staples kept up a cheerful flow of talk to which I added occasional appropriate punctuation. It was becoming clear that in Staples’ eyes I was a celebrity, and he was delighted to have collected me. My own feelings were too complicated for me to think about, so I simply floated on the surface of my mind, letting it all happen.

At my door, Staples pulled to a stop and shook my hand, saying, “It was really nice to have you out, Carey. Really nice.”

“I appreciated it, Fred. And that’s a wonderful girl you have there.”

“Don’t I know it,” he said, with a big grin.

“See you Sunday, Fred,” I said, and opened the car door.

“Right you are. Goodnight, Carey.”

“Goodnight, Fred.”

I stepped out onto the street, closed the door after me, and the Ford growled away, its exhaust thick and white in the cold air. I crossed the sidewalk, went up the stoop reaching for my keys, and a dark figure came out of a corner of the vestibule to hit me very hard in the stomach. I doubled over in pain and shock, trying not to lose my balance and fall backwards down the steps, and he hit me again, this time in the side, just above the waist.

It was brief, but horrible, and I suspect very professional. Grabbing a handful of my coat, he pulled and tugged and crowded me into the darkness of the vestibule and then punched and kicked and kneed me half a dozen times in quick succession, as I sagged down the wall. All of the blows were to my body, and all seemed placed with some kind of anatomical precision, and all were very painful.

Then it was over and he was gone, without my ever seeing his face or hearing his voice; though of course I knew at once who it was. I sat on the floor of the vestibule, having trouble breathing, and a while later I found the keys I’d dropped and let myself into the building and up several thousand stairs to the apartment, where Edgarson’s voice on my answering machine said, “We’re calling about your debt, Mr. Thorpe. We look forward to early payment.”

Two hours in a hot tub helped somewhat, and so did both Valium and bourbon, but when I dragged myself out of bed Friday morning I was as stiff and sore as though Edgarson had just finished kicking me that very second.

I was supposed to go to a noon screening at MGM, but I found myself reluctant to leave the apartment. Also to answer the phone; so I turned on the answering machine with the monitor button pushed, enabling me to hear my callers as they were leaving their messages. That way, I could speak to anyone I chose, and avoid the rest. Meaning Edgarson.

Even such painful clouds as this one have silver linings. After another long soak in the tub, followed by more pills, I decided to table the problem of Edgarson for a while, and actually managed to get some work done on my next projected piece for Third World Cinema, with the tentative title, “John Cassavetes: The Apotheosis Of The Inarticulate.” Though Edgarson didn’t call, several other people did, but I wasn’t in the mood for any of them and I ignored their messages and went on with my work.

Then, just as I had written, “Onset improvisation sounds so good in theory that it’s a shame it sounds so bad in practice,” the phone rang again, and after my recorded announcement (“Hi. Carey Thorpe’s answering machine here. Please leave your name and a phone number where I can reach you, and I’ll be back to you first chance I get.”) Staples’ voice said, “Fred here, Carey. I was hoping to catch you at home. We’ve got another—”

A policeman; exactly what I needed. Not waiting to listen to any more, I picked up the phone, switched off the machine, and said, “Here I am. I’m here.”

Staples, headed off in mid-message, floundered briefly before saying, “Hello? Carey?”

“I was working,” I told him, “so I left the machine on.”

“Oh, I won’t bother you, then, I just—”

“No, no, that’s fine, I’m ready to take a break. What’s happening?”

“Well, we’ve got another one,” he said. “Feel brilliant today?”

“Another murder?”

“Another tricky murder. Regular murders we get all the time. Want to come along?”

With Staples I would be safe from Edgarson. “Absolutely,” I said.

This time, happily, the body had been removed. In fact, Staples and I had the small apartment on West 76th Street entirely to ourselves.

The victim was a thirty-three-year-old bachelor, an advertising copywriter named Bart Ailburg. His one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a brownstone half a block from Central Park featured a pleasant large living room with windows overlooking back gardens featuring plane trees.

Much could be gathered about Ailburg from his home. The excessive masculinity of his imitation lion-skin bed throw and all those hoofs and horns scattered about as paperweights, ashtrays, lamps and general decoration, combined with the sloppy pile of male physique magazines under the bed, suggested rather strongly a homosexual tendency. The travel posters on the walls, the two shelves of travel reference books handy to his desk, and the small souvenirs grouped on the mantle over the nonfunctional fireplace indicated that his job was connected with travel advertising. And the three locks on his front door, taken with the fact that he had two medicine chests in the bathroom, both crammed with prescription bottles and all kinds of patent medicines, suggested a timid hypochondriac, a cautious unassertive sort of man.

Staples reconstructed the crime for me. This living room was rectangular, with sofa, TV and so on at the end near the kitchen and with the desk and bookcase at the end by the windows. The desk was centered in front of the windows, and Ailburg had been sitting at it, facing the room, working. Doing a travel ad, in fact, writing out a draft in pencil on a lined yellow legal pad; his writing was spidery, neat, rather small. The killer had picked up a bone-handled letter opener from the desk and had stabbed Ailburg six times in the neck and back. Ailburg, bleeding a terrific amount, had fallen forward onto the desk and had shortly afterward died, leaving most of the desk drenched in blood except for the legal pad, which had been under him.

Judging from stains on the bathroom floor, the killer had become smeared with blood and had next taken a bath. Since it had been necessary for him to take a bath rather than merely wash at the sink, it was a reasonable presumption that he had been naked when he’d done the killing.

The apartment had not been ransacked, nothing appeared to have been stolen.

The ad Ailburg had been working on had been due this morning, for a deadline later today. When Ailburg, invariably a prompt and reliable worker, had failed to show up and also failed to answer his phone, one of the partners in the ad agency sent a messenger, who persuaded the building’s superintendent to enter the apartment. They discovered first that only the door’s regular lock was fastened, leaving both the chainlock and the police lock undone, and then they discovered Ailburg himself.

The report had reached Staples and Bray shortly after ten this morning. All of the normal things had been done, neighbors questioned, movements checked, and nothing interesting had turned up. Ailburg, a man of regular habits, had apparently come home directly from the office yesterday, had spent a quiet evening at home, and had then been murdered sometime between midnight and three in the morning.

“Al Bray,” Staples finished, “is ready to put it down to one of your fag murders. Rough trade. You know, where a fellow goes cruising in Central Park and comes back with some tough young stud who bumps him off.”

“No,” I said. “Not this time.”

Staples grinned at me. “That’s what I say, too.”

“In the first place,” I said, “Ailburg might have gone cruising, but he wouldn’t come back with anybody tough. That wasn’t his style.”

“Well, you can’t say that for sure,” Staples said. “When you get into people’s sex lives, it’s hard to make predictions.”

“Ailburg had a deadline this morning,” I said. “If he was such a conscientious type, he might go out looking for a friend after he got the work done, but not before.”

“There I agree with you,” Staples said. “That was my point exactly with Al.”

“Also,” I said, “a cautious man wouldn’t let a stranger behind him with a sharp letter opener.”

“No, he wouldn’t. But the killer was probably naked, don’t forget that.”

“A lover,” I said. “But someone Ailburg knew, not some pick-up. You don’t go get yourself a brand new sex partner and then sit down calmly to do some work while this new body prances around naked.”

Staples said, “That’s right. The feeling I had in this room was that it was somebody Ailburg was comfortable with, somebody he didn’t have to play host to.”

I said, “I don’t see the problem. It was one of Ailburg’s boy friends. How many did he have?”

Staples held up a well-thumbed black address book. “There are over sixty men’s names in here,” he said. “Homosexuals still tend to be pretty secretive about who their lovers are. We’ve got no fingerprints, no witnesses, no clues, nothing. It would be a long, hard, dull job to check out every one of these guys, and we could still never come up with the right one.”

“Ah,” I said. “That’s why Bray’s content to think it’s a pick-up killing.”

“Sure,” Staples said. “If the job’s tough, we have to do it, but if it’s impossible we can forget it.”

Walking around the room, I said, “I suppose you’ve looked for letters, anything that could give you specific names of boy friends.”

“Nothing,” Staples said.

I’d been avoiding the desk, which was still smeared with caked brown blood. The rough outline of Ailburg’s torso and arms was clear in the center, with the pencil and the legal pad. Going over at last to that part of the room, I saw that both windows were securely locked, that there was no fire escape here, and that we were too high for anyone to have climbed in from the back. Finally I turned my reluctant attention to the desk.

Other than the bloodstains, it was neat, the work space of a methodical man. A small Olympia portable typewriter was pushed to one side, near the beige telephone. And on the legal pad was written:

“A very rough draft, apparently,” I said. “There weren’t any other worksheets around?”

Staples shook his head. “From the looks of things, he’d just started to work when he was killed.”

I said, “Which was sometime between midnight and three in the morning. That wasn’t in character for the man, not to start work until so late at night on something that was supposed to be turned in the next morning.”

“That bothered me, too,” Staples said. “But I’m not sure what it means.”

“An argument,” I suggested. “The killer came here probably in the early evening, and they had one of those droning dragged-out arguments that lovers get into.”

“Most lovers,” Staples said, with a big smile, suggesting that he and his Patricia should be exempted.

“Certainly,” I said. “Anyway, Ailburg had this work to do, so finally he just told his boy friend, ‘I’m going to work’ and he sat down here and started writing. And not doing very well, either, probably because he was still troubled about the fight. I mean, ‘The peace of the beaches,’ that’s a terrible line.”

“It does sound funny,” Staples said.

“Now, the boy friend,” I went on, “got really mad when Ailburg started to ignore him. The fight wasn’t settled, and there Ailburg was at his desk, writing away just as though nothing had happened. So the boy friend came over, in a rage, and let him have it.”

“Fine.” Staples waved the address book again. “Which one?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

We spent another five minutes looking at the place, but there was nothing left to see. Staples, who’d been expecting me to come up with another of my little magic turns, watched me with fading hope, but I knew I wasn’t going to repeat my success. Finally I said, “I guess the Wicker case was just beginner’s luck.”

“I knew this was a tough one,” Staples said, with a game smile, “that’s why I called you.”

“Sorry I couldn’t—” Then I stopped, and frowned over at the desk.

Staples was saying, “Oh, come on, Carey, if I can’t do my job there’s no reason you should— What’s up?”

“There’s something wrong,” I said. “Just a minute.”

I went back to the desk, Staples following me, and frowned again at that bit of copywriting. “That isn’t right,” I said.

“What isn’t right?”

“I’ve been to the Caribbean, and Antigua isn’t that close to St. Martin. Not at all. Wait, hold on.”

Sitting at Ailburg’s desk, forgetting for the moment any squeamishness I might have felt, I looked through his reference books for an atlas. Finding one, I turned to a map of the Caribbean and said, “See? Here’s St. Martin, and here’s Antigua way down here.”

Staples touched the map with a blunt finger. “What’s that little island there? The one by St. Martin.”

When he removed his finger, I bent to read the lettering: “Anguilla.”

“Anguilla, Antigua.” Staples shrugged, saying, “He was upset from the argument, that’s all, he just got mixed up.”

“Does that make sense?” I studied Ailburg’s writing again, shaking my head. “No, it doesn’t. This was his job, he knew what island was where. And look how he broke that sentence, starting a new line after the word ‘charming.’ It looks awkward.”

Staples said, “I don’t see what you’re driving at.”

I was sitting now where Ailburg had been, and I rested my forearms on a blood-free part of the desk. “Ailburg is sitting here,” I said. “The boy friend comes around behind him, Ailburg sees him pick up the letter opener. He isn’t sure what’s happening, but he’s afraid. And he quick starts a new line of copy, telling us who the boy friend is.”

Staples leaned over my shoulder to read aloud. “‘Capital city of Antigua.’ You mean that’s supposed to be a message?”

“Let’s see.” Back to the atlas I went. “The capital city of Antigua is St. John. Is there anybody named St. John in that address book?”

Staples, obviously unsure whether I was a genius or a lunatic, leafed through the address book, ran his finger down a column, and gave me a slow smile. “How about Jack St. Pierre?”

“That’s your man,” I said. “It’s up to you to prove it, but he’s the guy to concentrate on.”

Five The Footprints in the Snow

Staples drove me home, and on the way we discussed the murder that had first brought us together. All of Laura’s male friends and acquaintances had been interviewed by now, several had been eliminated via unassailable alibis, and the active list had been reduced to five; not including, I was happy to see, Laura’s father.

But further reduction from five was proving difficult, if not impossible. No one of the suspects was more or less likely to be the elusive secret boy friend, none would admit to any but the most casual relationship with Laura, and unfortunately this victim had not left behind a clue to the boy friend’s identity. (Using Ailburg as an example, Laura might have been found, for instance, clutching a publicity still of Cary Grant. Or Harry Carey. Or perhaps a tattered paperback copy of Herself Surprised.)

In any event, the investigation was currently at a standstill. “But that doesn’t mean we’ve given up,” Staples assured me. “Whenever you’ve got a good-looking career girl murdered, there’s always a lot of media pressure to keep the case alive. Channel five won’t even mention Bart Ailburg, but they still talk about Laura Penney on the news every night.”

“From my point of view, of course,” I said, “I’m glad to hear that. That’s one killer I really want found.”

“Well, I told you our five suspects,” he said, and reeled off the names again. (There’s no point my giving the list; the killer’s name wasn’t on it.) “If you could come up with another of your brilliant deductions,” Staples told me, “we could really use it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Shortly thereafter he dropped me at my apartment, and went on to pick up Al Bray and go question Jack St. Pierre. It was still daylight, though rapidly growing dark with heavy clouds and the threat of impending snow, and no one was lurking for me in the vestibule. I let myself into the building, climbed the stairs, unlocked my apartment door, and entered to find Edgarson sitting in my leather director’s chair, reading this afternoon’s Post. “Well, there you are,” he said, folded his paper, and got to his feet.

I went down the steps three at a time, out the front door, and directly into a passing cab.

I spent the night at Kit’s place on East 19th Street. We awoke late — it was Saturday, so Kit didn’t have to work — and found that the promised snowstorm had indeed arrived, creating a cold slushy world of difficulty and discomfort. Fat white flakes were still drifting endlessly downward from a dirty gray sky, the radio weather forecast spoke of “gradual clearing” — by April, probably — and Kit had decided she had the flu.

Which created an additional complication. Like most independent people, minor illness made Kit bad-tempered, and I soon realized she wanted me the hell out of there so she could snuffle in peace.

But where would I go? Was Edgarson still in my apartment? I dialed my number, but only heard my own confident voice on the machine. I left me no message.

Then I remembered Big John Brant, the movie director. He was in town, and I was supposed to phone him this morning about our interview. So I called the Sherry-Netherland, and soon had Brant on the line, sounding gruff but friendly. I identified myself, and reminded him of the interview, and he said, “Well, what about right now?”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’m downtown.”

“Then come uptown,” he said, and chuckled, and broke the connection.

I pocketed half a dozen of Kit’s Valiums, my own supply being in captured territory. “Get well soon,” I told Kit, and kissed her irritable cold cheek, and went out into the disgusting world.

Q: “In your film, Don’t Eat The Yellow Snow, what is the symbolism of the repeated appearance of the small black dog in the background of so many of the shots?”

A: “Oh, yeah, that damn dog. Well, I’ll tell you, that’s a funny story. That was Sassi’s dog, you know. Wha’d she call that damn thing? Rudolph, that was it. Anyway, that was her third — no, second — her second feature with American Artists. She was shacked up with Kleinberg then, you know, so he’d give her anything she wanted. She wasn’t even supposed to be in that picture, only Kate said she wouldn’t work for Kleinberg for any amount of money, and Kleinberg left the script around in the bathroom or some damn place, and Sassi read it and said, I wanna do that picture. So we were stuck with her. And she had this shitty little dog, Rudolph, and that dog wasn’t trained at all. Run around, you couldn’t control it, and finally I just said shit, I said, let the damn little thing stay in there, I don’t give a rat’s ass. Just so it doesn’t get in the airplane sequence, that’s all, and you know, it damn near did. Just about the end of the picture, the shitty little thing got itself run over by an Oregon state trooper. Sassi tried to get the fellow fired, but Kleinberg didn’t run Oregon, so that was that.”

The interview was not going at all well. I suppose it was mostly my fault, since I was distracted by the problem of Edgarson, but Big John Brant wasn’t helping very much. No matter what I asked him, from the broadest possible questions about thematic undercurrents to the narrowest points of technique, all I got back were these rambling reminiscences about nothing in particular. Scatology and gossip seemed to be his only subjects.

And I’d spent sixty dollars on a cassette recorder to preserve this tripe. It wasn’t until after I’d left Kit’s place that I’d realized I was carrying none of my normal interviewing tools, so when I’d reached midtown I’d bought a pen and a pad and this cheap little recorder, and all I was recording so far was sex and shit.

Nevertheless, it’s my own conviction that a bad interview is never really the interviewee’s fault. There are two participants in an interview, but only one of them is supposed to be professional. I’ve interviewed actors with an IQ of seven and managed to make them sound at least competent, if not brilliant. It was the Edgarson business that was clouding my mind, with the result that I was permitting Brant to maunder along with virtually no guidance at all.

The setting also encouraged this feckless informality. Brant had a high-floor suite here at the Sherry-Netherland, with windows overlooking Central Park and the Plaza, where the still-falling snow made the world look like a Currier & Ives Christmas card that had inadvertently gone through the washing machine. A tall and slender and mind-crunchingly beautiful girl came into the room from time to time to add another couple of logs to the fire. Brant and I both sipped bourbon over ice as we sat before the crackling flames, and the contrast between this warm beautiful room and the cold snowy aspect of Central Park almost demanded a discursive droning conversational style, in which nothing could get accomplished.

Brant, too, was a problem. An old man now, with liver spots on hands and forehead, with great knobby knuckles and wrists, with that old man’s style of sitting as though he were a sack of rusty machine parts, his best work was behind him and he no longer kept his brain tuned to the sharp clarity that had given the world such films as Meet The Gobs, All These Forgotten and Caper. He was garrulous and relaxed and perfectly content to bend a young stranger’s ear for an hour or so while the snow fell outside and the beautiful girl performed her function of keeping his old body warm.

But something had to be done, if any useful material at all were to come out of this meeting, so finally, after the memoir of the dog Rudolph, I decided my only choice, since Edgarson persisted in distracting me from my job, was bring him into the interview. Maybe he would help us get moving in a more useful direction.

Q: “I’d like to ask you now a more or less specific question of technique, based on a film other than one of yours.”

A: “Somebody else’s picture?”

Q: “Yes. This is a work in progress being done by a young filmmaker here in New York. I’ve seen the completed portion, and I’d like to ask you how you would handle the problem this young filmmaker has set for himself.”

A: “Well, I’m not sure I get the idea what you want here, but let’s give it a try and see what happens.”

Q: “Fine. Now, the hero of this film is being blackmailed in the early part of the picture. But then he gets rid of the evidence against himself, but the blackmailer keeps coming around anyway. He’s bigger than the hero, he threatens to beat him up and so on, he even moves into the hero’s apartment, he still wants his blackmail money even though the evidence is gone. The hero doesn’t want to go to the police, because he’s afraid they’ll get too interested in him and start looking around and maybe find some other evidence. So that’s the situation, as far as this young filmmaker has taken it. The blackmailer is in the hero’s apartment, the hero is trying to decide what to do next. Now, if this was one of your pictures, how would you handle it from there?”

A: “Well, that depends on your story.”

Q: “Well, I think he wants the hero to win in the end.”

A: “Okay. Fine.”

Q: “The question is, where would you yourself take it from there?”

A: “Well, what’s the script say?”

Q: “That doesn’t matter. That’s still open.”

A: “Open? You have to know what happens next.”

Q: “Well, that’s up to you. What would you have happen next?”

A: “I’d follow the script.”

Q: “Well, they’re doing this as they go along.”

A: “They’re crazy. You can’t do anything without a script.”

Q: “Well... They’re working this from an auteur assumption, that it’s up to the director to color and shape the material and so on.”

A: “Yeah, that’s fine, but you got to have the material to start with. You got to have the story. You got to have the script.”

Q: “Well... I thought the director was the dominant influence in film.”

A: “Well, shit, sure the director’s the dominant influence in film. But you still gotta have a script.”

Well, that wasn’t any help. What was I supposed to do, go ask three or four screenwriters for suggestions? Is the director the auteur or what the hell is he?

I did keep trying along in this vein for a few more questions, but they didn’t get me anywhere. So far as I could see, Big John Brant’s career had come down to this; he was the fellow who told the cameraman to point the camera at the people who were talking. And to think how high in the pantheon I’d always placed this man.

The script. Only a hack cares about the goddam script. What I needed was to talk to a real director; Hitchcock, or John Ford, or John Huston, or Howard Hawks. What happens next? That was my question. Sam Fuller would have an answer to that. Roger Corman, even.

Well, it was all hopeless. The interview with Brant meandered along, being of no use personally and damn little professionally, until Miss Fireperson came in a little after twelve with a pointed reminder: “Don’t forget your luncheon appointment, J. T.” So I also wouldn’t be getting lunch. I gathered up my paraphernalia, shook hands, smiled, said some lies, listened to just one more scatological anecdote, and took my departure.

As far as the hotel bar, where I swallowed another of Kit’s Valiums with bourbon and water, ate a handful of peanuts for lunch, and gradually came to a decision. I could no longer spend my life wandering through a snowstorm from one reluctant haven to the next. I had to reclaim my own home. I had to get Edgarson out, and me in, and I had to do it now.

I had one more bourbon to confirm this decision and to warm me for the trek uptown, and then I left the hotel and turned toward home. Since I lived less than ten blocks from here — up four and over five, approximately — and since traffic was utterly snarled by the snow, there was no point trying to find a cab, so I walked. I was dressed warmly enough, except for my shoes, and I simply kept stumping through the slush, irritable but determined.

There’s something both lazy and inexorable about a major snowstorm. No wind, no real storm at all, just billions and billions of wet white smudges floating down like Chinese armies, and after a while there doesn’t seem to be any reason why it should ever stop. Maybe that low gray-black sky contains unlimited quantities of these wet white smudges, maybe they’ll just keep drifting down like this forever. Maybe human fife developed on the wrong planet.

Along the way, I bought a chainlock at a hardware store on 3rd Avenue. I couldn’t help remembering Bart Ailburg, whose door had been armed with a lock like this but who had been murdered anyway. However, no true parallel applied. Ailburg had been murdered by a loved one, which in my case was not the issue.

At the house, I spent ten minutes searching out Romeo, the super, and finally found him drinking wine in the tenants’ storeroom in the basement. He wasn’t drunk, I was happy to see, but he was surly. “I doan wuk Sahdy,” he told me, trying to hide the brown paper bag with its cargo of Hombre or Ripple.

“You don’t work ever,” I informed him. “But you’ll come upstairs with me now or I’ll call Goldbender and tell him I found you drunk in the basement and lighting matches.”

Surliness turned to a kind of clogged outrage. “I ayn drunk!” Then he comprehended the rest of my sentence and was, for just an instant, completely baffled. Innocence bewildered him, he didn’t know at first what to do with it. But he soon enough recovered, crying out, “Motches? I doan got no motches! I doan hob no stinkin motches!”

“And,” I went on, wanting to be certain he understood the threat I was making, “I’ll tell Goldbender that I intend to call the police about a super being drunk and fighting matches in the basement.”

Maddened by this maligning of his virtue, Romeo waved his arms in the air, slopping wine on himself and on the stored possessions of the tenants as he cried, “I doan hob no motches!”

“Goldbender is going to think about his insurance,” I pointed out, “and—”

“I doan hob no motches!”

“And,” I insisted, “he is going to fire you. Particularly,” I added, “when he smells you.”

Romeo became aware of the spillage and began fretfully to pat himself with his free hand. “You makin me nervis,” he said, and he sounded as though soon he might cry.

“Come along, Romeo,” I said. “Put your lunch down over there and come along.”

“This ay muh lunch.” He frowned from the bag to me, and returned to an earlier worry. “An I doan hob no motches.”

“Come, Romeo.” I turned away, not looking back till I reached the stairs, when I saw that Romeo, however much he might be bewildered and mistreated, was also sensible. He was coming along.

As we plodded up the several flights of stairs together, me squoshing in my cold wet shoes, Romeo said, “Wha jew wan, anyway?”

“Just come along,” I told him.

What I wanted from Romeo was his presence. We would enter, Edgarson would approach me, Edgarson would see the witness, Edgarson would depart. The details would work themselves out, but at the finish Edgarson would definitely depart.

Except that he wasn’t there. Gingerly I let myself into the apartment, Romeo snuffling in my wake, and nothing moved in the semi-darkness of the living room. I switched on lights, I looked quickly in bedroom and kitchen and bath, and the apartment was empty. Edgarson had vacated on his own.

Romeo had remained by the door, shoulders hunched against injustice, and when I emerged from the kitchen he said, “O.K. Here I am. Wha jew wan?”

“That’s fine, Romeo,” I told him. “Thank you very much, I won’t be needing you any more.”

Then, of course, he didn’t want to leave. At first he’d been bewildered and surly when I’d brought him up here, and now he was bewildered and surly when I released him. There’s no pleasing some people.

But he did finally go, and I immediately brought out my hammer and screwdriver from the storage cabinet under the bathroom sink and proceeded to mount the chainlock. It was in two parts; a metal plate from which dangled a six-inch chain with a metal ball on the end of it, and a longer metal plate with a long slot. The plate-with-chain I screwed into place on the doorframe at about chest height, then stretched the length of chain out horizontally and marked on the door how far the ball would reach. Next I fixed the longer plate onto the door in the right position, slipped the ball into the wide space in the slot, and experimentally opened the door. When I did so the chain tightened, because the ball was stuck in the narrower part of the slot, and the door wouldn’t open more than four inches.

There. Let Edgarson play with his keys now, it would take more than a key to come through that door. He could open it wide enough to reach his arm in, but that was all.

Safe at last, I turned my attention back to the apartment. Surely Edgarson would have done something to commemorate his visit. Excrement on the floor? Mousetraps in the bed? Something destructive, or nasty, or both?

But I’d misjudged him. The man had beaten me up Thursday night, and yet when he’d had a full day and night to himself in my apartment he’d done nothing to it at all. He seemed to have no pattern, no consistency in his behavior, and if that was deliberately planned to increase my nervousness it was very successful. If I’d found all my dishes broken or all the furniture knocked over in the living room I would have been more angry but less tense, because I would have known what I was up against and what he was likely to do next. This way, it was impossible to guess where or when Edgarson would once more pop up, or what his manner would be when he did make his next appearance.

This time, he had contented himself with going through my personal papers and with leaving me a short but complete note, typewritten and sitting on my answering machine:

The phone woke me at nine-thirty Sunday morning and it was Staples, sounding slightly irritated through his normal cheeriness. “Do you feel brilliant this morning, Carey?”

“What? What?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“No, but you might. What time is it?”

“Nine twenty-seven. Up late last night?”

Yes, as a matter of fact. I’d stayed up till nearly three, distracting myself from thoughts of Edgarson by trying to make a sensible interview out of Brant’s twaddle. But I was awake now, so I sat straighter in the bed and said, “That’s okay, I ought to get up anyway. What’s happening?

“Another little problem.”

“Problem? You mean a murder?”

“Well, that’s the question. I say it’s a clear-cut case of suicide, but Al Bray keeps saying it feels funny. He doesn’t have a bit of evidence, it just feels funny.”

So that was why Staples was annoyed. It wasn’t so much that Bray disagreed with him, which surely must have happened more than once in the course of their partnership, as that Bray was disagreeing on Staples’ grounds. It was Staples who was supposed to have feelings and be intuitive, while Bray was assigned the role of the methodical plodder. To have the plodder suddenly intuit all over the place could be unsettling.

I said, “You mean you think it’s suicide and he thinks it’s murder?”

“He doesn’t know what he thinks,” Staples said. “It just doesn’t feel right. So he asked me to call you.”

“He asked? Al Bray?”

“We made a deal. If you agree with me it was suicide, Al won’t make any more fuss and we’ll put in our report and that’s the end of it.”

“What if I think it’s murder?”

He chuckled; a bit challengingly, I thought. “Then you’ll have to prove it,” he said.

They sent a car for me, with a uniformed policeman as chauffeur. I hadn’t been happy about leaving the apartment untended, since the chainlock only works when there’s someone inside to attach it, but then I remembered a stunt from several hundred spy movies. I took a paper match, bent it double, and wedged it between door and frame just below the bottom hinge. It protruded just enough to be seen, if you knew where to look, and if anyone opened my apartment door the match would fall. It wouldn’t keep Edgarson out, but it would warn me in time if he’d returned. If the match was on the floor when I came back I’d know Edgarson was once again in residence, and off I’d go for Romeo.

Outside, the policeman was standing beside his unmarked black Plymouth, his breath steaming in the cold air. The snow had stopped but the sky was still gray and heavy with low clouds, and the temperature was dropping.

Our destination was Central Park West near 89th Street, and on the way the cop filled me in on the situation. At eight-twenty this morning, a tenant of the building in question had come out to walk his dog, and found the crushed body of a woman lying face up on the sidewalk. The tenant returned immediately to the building and informed the doorman, who called the police. The doorman also obtained a blanket and went out to cover the body, at which point he realized the victim was someone he knew, a tenant who had occupied one of the penthouse duplexes atop the building. Apparently she had fallen or jumped or been pushed from the terrace up there.

A patrol car responded to the first call, but no one went up to the dead woman’s apartment until the precinct detectives arrived, and then it took considerable banging and doorbell-ringing to rouse the woman’s husband, who had been asleep and had not been aware of his wife’s absence from the apartment. According to the husband, his wife had been despondent and depressed recently and had spoken of suicide.

The couple’s name was Templeton, George and Margo, and they were both in their early fifties. He was a millionaire in the real estate business in the city, with ownership of office buildings and Broadway theaters among his holdings, and she was a one-time actress who had given up her career twenty-five years ago to marry him. They had two sons, both now grown and living away from New York. They had been to a party last night where both had become very drunk and where George Templeton freely admitted they had quarreled publicly over whether or not he had ruined her life twenty-five years ago by marrying her. They had returned home, continuing the argument in their chauffeur-driven limousine and in their bedroom, until Templeton had either gone to sleep or passed out from drink. And he had known nothing more until the pounding of the police at his door had awakened him.

The Templetons kept a staff of three servants, but only one of these — the maid — lived in the apartment, and she invariably spent her Saturday nights and Sundays with her family in New Hyde Park.

As to the time of death, the Weather Bureau said the snow had stopped at just about eight o’clock this morning. The body had been found at eight-twenty, and both the tenant who’d found it and the doorman who’d covered it swore there was no snow on top of the body. After eight o’clock, then, and before eight-twenty.

I was primed with all of this by the time we reached the building, and I was happy to see the body was no longer on the sidewalk. Clean and neat, that’s the way I like my murders.

My chauffeur-cop accompanied me into the building and up in the elevator. Going up I reviewed what he’d told me, and decided Al Bray was probably right. It not only sounded like murder, it sounded like my murder, plus a terrace. I mean the murder I’d committed. Argumentative women don’t commit suicide, they don’t want to give the opposition the satisfaction. What most likely happened was that George Templeton, tired and drunk and getting older by the second, had finally popped Margo a good one to shut her up and she’d done herself a fatal injury in hitting the floor. Not wanting the scandal or the trouble of a manslaughter trial, George had chucked her over the terrace, pretended to be asleep, and then told the police his wife had been suicidal lately.

I felt ambivalent about exposing old George; in a way, we were members of the same fraternity.

It was a two-story apartment, with a spiral staircase.

The elevator let me off directly into the living room, on the apartment’s lower floor, where Staples and Bray were sitting together on green velvet sofas, having a stiff-necked discussion. It ended when they saw me, and they both got up and came over, Staples looking a bit cocky and defiant, Bray awkward but determined.

It was Bray who did the talking, after we’d exchanged ritual hellos. “I feel a little funny about this situation, Mr. Thorpe,” he said. “It goes against the grain with me. But there’s something wrong here, I know there is, and I just can’t put my finger on it. You’ve come up with a couple of off-the-wall solutions the last week, so maybe you can do something this time.”

Staples added, “Even if it’s just to put those feelings of Al’s to rest.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I admitted. “You people are trained, I’m not. I’ve just had beginner’s luck.”

“Maybe you’ve still got it,” Bray said. “Come along.”

We went up the spiral staircase in single file, Bray and then me and then Staples, who said, “Templeton isn’t here right now. His doctor’s in this building and he’s down there, under sedation. If you need to talk with him, we can work something out.”

At the head of the stairs was the master bedroom, large and ornately furnished, with french doors leading to the terrace. Windows flanking the french doors featured hanging plants, with frost-blackened leaves.

Staples now took over, saying, “No one’s gone out on the terrace yet. It’s exactly the way we found it. Come take a look.”

I went with him. He opened the french doors and I stood in the doorway as he pointed out the obvious, saying, “You’ll notice there’s footprints in the fresh snow. But there’s only one set of them, and they lead straight out to the railing, and they don’t come back.”

I nodded. “So I see.”

“We took the shoes off the body,” he went on, “and compared them with the nearest prints, and those prints were definitely made by those shoes.”

“Ah.”

I stood frowning at the terrace. The recent windless snow, the current bitter cold, had combined to create an almost perfect tableau for us, as though it were a model made out of papier maché. Two lawn chairs were folded away to one side of the terrace, which was otherwise unfurnished. The layer of snow on the floor was two to three inches thick, and in it the footprints showed clearly. There was no other disturbance of the snow of any kind out there. Beyond the snow-topped wrought iron railing was Central Park, far below, shrouded in grayish white.

Cold air was seeping in, despite the lack of wind. I stepped back from the doorway, shivering a little and looking again at the frostbitten hanging plants. I said, “Have you been keeping this door open very much?”

“Not much at all,” Bray said. “Why? Does it matter?”

“I don’t know if anything matters,” I told him. “I’m just trying to get a picture of the situation.”

Staples said, “Shall I close it now?”

“Might as well.”

Staples closed the french doors and then he and Bray watched me as I wandered around the bedroom, studying things at random and trying to come to a decision. Finally I turned to Bray and said, “I’m sorry, Sergeant Bray. I’m not saying you’re wrong, but this time inspiration just refuses to hit.”

He frowned at me, and I could feel his confusion and his mistrust. He believed I was lying, but he didn’t know why. He said, “You don’t see any indication of murder, eh?”

“Indication? I don’t see any proof. There’s plenty of indication, but you already know that. The argument at the party, the amount of alcohol they’d drunk, all the rest of it.”

“But no proof.” Now it was Bray’s turn to wander the room, glowering at this and that. “There’s something here,” he said. “I know it, but I just can’t get hold of it.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help,” I told him. “I hate to spoil a perfect batting average.”

“You’re not spoiling it,” Staples assured me. Now that he was being vindicated his manner was bluff and hearty. “If there’s nothing here, and you find nothing, then you’re still batting a thousand.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m not saying Sergeant Bray is wrong. I do know what he means, that there’s a certain something about all this that doesn’t feel just right. But I don’t know what it is any more than he does.”

That mollified Bray, without spoiling Staples’ pleasure, and soon afterwards they sent me off again to be driven home. Staples’ farewell to me was, “See you at three.”

“What? Oh, Gaslight.” That had entirely slipped my mind. “You and your wife at three. Absolutely.”

Bray being present for this exchange, it became necessary to widen the invitation to include him, and he thanked me and said he’d try to make it. But his mind was still on the death of Margo Templeton, and his vague conviction that something was wrong.

Well, he would find it or he wouldn’t. I’d done what I could for my fraternity brother.

Good luck, George.

Six The Chainlock Mystery

I was rewriting my questions to match Big John Brant’s answers when Staples called again. “It looks like I’m going to be late,” he said. “We’ve had a new development.”

Poor George. “In the Templeton case?”

Not poor George. “No, as a matter of fact, it’s in the Laura Penney case.”

Why did my heart flutter? I was the one in the clear.

“A new development? That’s wonderful.”

“We’re not sure yet,” Staples told me. “It’s an anonymous letter with a tip in it.”

Edgarson! That son of a bitch, that rotten filthy bastard! Clutching the phone so tightly that my fingers hurt, I said, “A tip? What kind of tip?”

“It’s all very vague and roundabout. But it isn’t just some crank who read about it in the papers, because it’s got details in it that only an insider would know.” Then he dropped the other shoe: “Do you know any friend of Mrs. Penney’s with connections in Boston?”

“Boston? You mean, besides me?”

Staples said, “You? I thought you were a native New Yorker.”

“No, I’m a Boston boy.”

“Well, it can’t be you. Can you think of anybody else?”

“I’ll put my mind to it,” I promised.

“Fine. Anyway, the reason I called, I might be a little late for the movie. Patricia’s coming direct to your place and I’ll meet her there. If that’s okay with you.”

“Of course. No problem.”

“Fine. See you then.”

I was in the kitchenette, putting together a quick lunch prior to the screening, when it seemed to me I heard some scratching sounds at the front door. Stepping out to the living room, a piece of baloney in my hand, I saw the door partway open and a hand reaching through to poke at the chainlock.

“Hah!” I cried. “Hah, you son of a bitch, you won’t get in now!”

The hand withdrew and the door closed. He’d given up, the bastard.

Wait a minute. Was there something on the chainlock? Squinting, trying to see, I moved toward the door as the man on the other side gave it a sudden loud thump. The door shook, and the chainlock ball fell out of its slot. The chain swung free, and the door opened wide, and Edgarson came walking into my apartment.

“Yak!” I ran back to the kitchenette, exchanged the slice of baloney for my longest and sharpest knife — which was neither particularly long nor particularly sharp — and then I crouched in the doorway, snarling and at bay. “Don’t come any closer!”

Edgarson gave me a pitying smile. “Do you want to see how I’d take that knife away from you?”

“I’m serious about this,” I said.

So he came over and took the knife away and tossed it into the sink and released my arm. “Now we can talk,” he said.

I headed toward the door, but he didn’t follow. Instead, he stood in the kitchenette doorway and called after me, “It’s mighty cold out there.”

And I in my shirtsleeves. Hand on the doorknob, I looked back at him and saw he wasn’t behaving in a threatening manner. He was simply standing there by the kitchenette, watching me, waiting for me to settle down. Also, he hadn’t been more physical than necessary in disarming me of the knife. Hesitant, not sure what I should do next, I said, “What do you want, Edgarson?”

“You know what I want.”

“I have friends coming here pretty soon,” I told him. “Including two policemen.”

“I’ve noticed that about you, Mr. Thorpe,” he said, and crossed the room casually to sit on my sofa. “You’ve gotten real chummy with those two officers.”

“They told me about that anonymous letter you wrote.”

That produced a happy smile. “Oh, you know about that already, do you? I was going to mention it.”

Releasing the doorknob, I moved back into the living room, saying, “This isn’t fair, you know. It really isn’t fair.”

He spread his hands. “What isn’t fair, Mr. Thorpe? You owe me ten thousand dollars. You’ll pay me before twelve o’clock noon tomorrow.”

“I don’t owe you! The evidence is destroyed, you don’t have anything on me any more.”

“Oh, that little razzle-dazzle you pulled, about what story you’d tell.” He shook his head, his smile turning down at the corners. “Well, that’s in the past now, isn’t it, Mr. Thorpe? You’ve already told your story, haven’t you? And you can’t change your story any more than I can change mine.”

“So it’s a stalemate,” I said.

“Not quite.” His smile became happier again. “There’s still one difference between us,” he said. “I didn’t kill Mrs. Laura Penney, but you did. And I know you did.”

“But you can’t do anything about it. You just admitted as much, you can’t change your story.”

“That’s right, Mr. Thorpe. About the only way I can be a good citizen now is anonymously.”

“You can’t prove anything.”

“Well, sir, Mr. Thorpe, what proof do I have to have to write an anonymous letter? All I need do is attract their attention, wouldn’t you say so? And leave the rest to them?”

“You already did that.”

“Oh, that one.” Modestly he smiled and shook his head. “I could do a lot better than that, Mr. Thorpe.”

“Is that right? What could you say? How is an anonymous letter going to—”

The phone rang. I glanced over at it, annoyed, and then finished my sentence as I crossed the room to answer it. “—be more persuasive than I am? I know them now, they’re my friends. Hello?”

Staples: “Fred again, Carey. Listen, this is taking a while, I’m definitely going to be late.”

Glowering at Edgarson, I said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Fred.”

“Patricia’s on her way, though. And I’ll get there just as soon as I can.”

“We won’t start without you,” I promised.

“You know,” he said, “it’s amazing how many people don’t really come from New York.”

“Is that right?”

“Tell you all about it when I see you.”

“Right. So long.”

I hung up, and Edgarson said, “Let’s see, now, would that be Fred Staples? Detective Sergeant, Homicide South?”

“Excuse me a minute,” I said, and went into the bathroom, where I swallowed a Valium with Alka Seltzer. Then I stood for a long minute looking at my reflection in the mirror.

I knew what I had to do. What choice was there?

I got the hammer from the storage cabinet under the sink, and then I eased open the door just far enough to see him out there. He was on his feet, strolling comfortably around, at home and at ease. He stopped at the bookcases, he browsed, he selected an issue of Third World Cinema and leafed through it. Would he stop at the two-page spread of stills from the porno movie?

He would. Clutching the hammer, I slipped out of the bathroom and across the carpeted living room floor. Remembering how readily he had taken that knife from me, wincingly aware of what he might do if he saw me coming at him with a hammer in my hand, I found myself torn between the needs of speed and silence, and I did a sort of frantic tip-toe plunge across the room, lifting the hammer high over my head.

I was zipping Edgarson into the Valpack when the doorbell rang.

I looked up. The digital clock on my desk read 3:02; Staples, or possibly his wife.

I finished zipping, then ran into the bathroom, turned off the water, dried the hammer, put it away. As I was coming out of the bathroom the doorbell rang again. To stall any longer would be suspicious, so I buzzed my visitor in and then dragged the Valpack into the bedroom, where with great difficulty I managed to hang it in the closet.

Trotting back to the living room, I scooped into a desk drawer the former contents of Edgarson’s pockets, and then just had time to double-check that the bloodstain on the floor was completely cleaned up. Then there came the knock at the hall door, and I opened it to admit Patricia Staples, bundled up like Anna Karenina. “Mrs. Staples. Come in.”

She came in, and we transferred a series of hats, coats, scarves and gloves from her person to the hall closet, during which I told her of her husband’s most recent phone call and she agreed that yes, Fred had told her he might be late, but she was used to that. It was hard to keep to a schedule if you were a policeman’s wife.

While agreeing with all that, I took a few seconds to frown at my breached chainlock. It looked no different from before, it appeared not to have been damaged in any way, and yet Edgarson had come through it as though it were made of grass. How had he done it?

“What a nice place you have here,” Mrs. Staples was saying, moving on into the living room.

So we had a few minutes of chit-chat of the normal type, ending with her deciding to have a bourbon and water if that’s what I was having. It was.

I went off to the kitchenette to mix the drinks, and she made me very nervous by roaming around the living room, looking at this and that. Was there anything left to be noticed?

I brought the drinks out as quickly as possible, and she smiled at me and said, “You know, bachelors aren’t supposed to be good housekeepers, but you keep this place just spick and span.”

“Well,” I said, “I just shove everything out of sight.”

I induced her to sit on the sofa, and sat down beside her. She raised her glass. “Cheers.”

I agreed, and we drank, and I said, “Of course, I’m not really a bachelor.”

She raised mildly interested eyebrows. “You’re married?”

“Separated. My wife is in Boston, getting a divorce.”

“How sad.” She leaned toward me slightly. “Do you have children?”

“Two. A boy and a girl.”

“Do you get to see them?”

What a thought. “Sometimes,” I said. “Not as much as I’d like, of course.”

“Of course.” She sipped at her drink, ruminating. “Divorce is such a terrible thing.”

I could do this conversation from across the street: “And yet, sometimes it’s the only answer.”

She sighed, and sipped, and sighed again, and said, “Did you read that article in last month’s Readers Digest?”

“‘New Hope For Dead People’?”

Big blue eyes blinked slowly. “What?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Which article did you mean?”

“The one by the Monsignor about divorce.”

“No, I missed that one.”

“He felt it was a very serious step.”

“I feel that way, too.”

“Particularly for the children.”

Enough about the damn children. I said, “Well, the grownups feel it too, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” She paused, thinking her goldfish thoughts, sipping away at her bourbon, looking as beautiful and as intelligent as a sunset. Gazing away across the room, she said, “Fred can’t have children.”

“Ah,” I said.

“Not on a Sergeant’s salary.”

“Oh,” I said.

Another sigh, another sip. “It’s difficult to bring a child into the world these days.”

“Sometimes it’s difficult not to.”

Those eyes beamed at me again. “Beg pardon?”

“Nothing. I was just agreeing with you,” I explained, and the sound of the telephone saved me.

It was Fred: “Listen, Carey, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m just not going to get there at all. Al Bray and I are up to our asses in this thing, it looks as though it might be the break we were looking for.”

My back was to Patricia. I closed my eyes and said, “The anonymous letter?”

“It just might do it. Wish us luck.”

“Oh, I do.”

“The problem is, we aren’t going to be able to get away, not for hours.”

I looked at Patricia Staples, sitting on my couch. I would have to go on talking with her, and there would be no search parties to rescue me. “That’s a shame,” I said.

“Well anyway, Patricia’s there, isn’t she?”

“Right here,” I said brightly.

“And the whole point was for her to see the picture. Would you mind? I mean, as long as she’s there.”

“You’re sure you wouldn’t like me to wait?”

“We’ll be hours, Carey. Thanks for the thought, but you and Patricia go ahead, okay?”

“If you say so.”

“Could I talk to her?”

“Of course.”

I turned the phone over to Patricia, and noted that both glasses seemed to be empty. While husband and wife spoke together, I carried the glasses into the kitchen, built new drinks, and fretted over Edgarson’s anonymous damn letter. Was he coming from beyond the grave — or the Valpack — to even the score? Had he revealed more than he’d realized in that first anonymous letter?

And yet, it seemed unlikely Fred Staples would have talked to me the way he had if the trail were leading in my direction. Or that he would cheerfully leave me alone with his wife.

Encouraged by those thoughts, I carried the drinks back to the living room to discover that Patricia was off the phone now and looking at my movie posters. She accepted the new drink with thanks, downed some of it, and said, “Well, I guess we’re supposed to go ahead and see the movie.”

“Right,” I said, and while I got out the print and threaded the first reel into the projector I said, “I want you to know I feel proud that Fred trusts me alone with you.”

“Oh, it’s me he trusts,” she said carelessly. “He thinks if you made a pass at me I’d push you away.”

Was there something ambivalent in that remark? I frowned at her, but her expression was as blank as ever. I went back to threading the film. (I would have had everything set up ahead of time, except for Edgarson dropping in.) With the film ready, I placed the projector, turned the sofa at right angles to the wall, and switched on my telephone machine so we wouldn’t be disturbed. “There we are,” I said. “All set. If you’ll just sit where you were...”

She did. I switched off the lights and on the projector, waited to be sure the focus and frame were right, and then sat down next to her. Gaslight began.

The first time Ingrid Bergman became frightened, Patricia clutched my hand. She held it tight, while all the time gazing at the screen, and the second time Ingrid Bergman became frightened Patricia drew my hand into her lap and held it there with both of hers.

What a warm lap. The backs of my knuckles were being pressed downward into the cleft, and heat radiated up like rose petals from that crotch. On-screen, Joseph Cotten suspected something was wrong, but smooth Charles Boyer had command of the situation. And the third time Ingrid Bergman became frightened Patricia did some complex rubbing movement involving hands and body and knuckles, and at that point enough was enough. So I reached across with my free hand, and drew her face to mine, and drank deeply the nectar of her lips.

She did not struggle. Nor, on the other hand, did she particularly enter into the proceedings, though both her hands did continue to press my hand deeply into her lap. Generally I would say that she took this kiss the way she had taken the conversation that had preceded it; with mild polite interest.

All kisses must end, and at the finish of this one Patricia drew back her face just far enough so we could see one another’s eyes in the flickering reflected light from the screen. Solemnly we looked at one another. Solemnly she said, “We shouldn’t.”

Okay, kid, I know all about that line. “Right,” I said, and rolled her off onto the floor.

“I love your pubic hair,” I said.

She gazed down at herself. “It is nice, isn’t it? All furry and soft. But boy, in the summertime I just have to shave and shave and shave. Because of the bathing suits.”

“You must look fantastic in a bikini.”

She smiled at me. I was learning that she loved compliments above all other things. “You’ll have to see me sometime.”

“I intend to.”

We were in the bedroom now. The first reel of Gaslight had been running itself out as we’d finished our first encounter, so I’d quickly shut down the projector and hustled this incredible woman in here onto the bed, where we could vary our approaches without danger of skinning our elbows or knees.

It was the first time I’d ever made love to a woman in a bedroom with a murder victim hanging in the closet, particularly a victim of my own, and I must say it made absolutely no difference at all. I was neither turned off nor were my responses heightened. Possibly I’m abnormal.

My reaction, however, was completely normal when Patricia got off the bed and crossed the room to open the closet door. “Ummm,” I said. “Ummm, unnn, ungg.”

“Do you have a robe? Oh, here it is. Terrycloth, I love terrycloth, it feels so nice against my skin.”

Beyond her the pole sagged from the weight of the Valpack. She closed the door, slipped into my robe, gave me a smile and a bye-bye finger waggle, and went off to the bathroom.

Christ. Since the Valium supply was temporarily cut off, I padded barefoot out to the living room, switched on the smallest dimmest light, found my glass, and made myself a fresh bourbon on the rocks. When I carried it back to the bedroom Patricia was there, getting dressed. “It’s terribly late,” she told me.

“Don’t worry about it. Want a drink?”

“No, I’d better go on home. Fred worries.”

Fred was entitled, though I didn’t say so. “Listen,” I said. “You just saw Gaslight, remember?”

“Of course,” she said, and gave me a surprisingly lewd smile.

“I mean you have to be able to talk about the movie,” I pointed out, and while she dressed and did her face and fussed with her hair and generally cared for herself like a conscientious gardener I gave her the plot and principal incidents of Gaslight. By then she was ready to leave, so still naked I walked her to the door. “Now, remember,” I said, helping her to bundle into her coats and hats and gloves and scarves, “Charles Boyer was doing it, and the jewels were the decoration in the dress.”

She nodded. “The jewels were in the dress.”

“See you soon,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” she said, sparkly-eyed, and kissed my nose, and left. I watched her down the first flight of stairs, then shut the door, turned, and stepped smack on a thumbtack.

“Ow!” I said, naturally, and hopped around on one foot till I got the thumbtack out. Then I limped around on one and a half feet, cursing, until it occurred to me to wonder where that damn thumbtack had come from. Surely not from my desk, way over at the other end of the room.

I turned on more lights, bewildered, and at first I found nothing at all. Then, also on the floor, I came across a smallish rubber band. Where had these things come from?

Edgarson. The chainlock.

Yes. When I closely studied the chainlock, there was a tiny puncture in the wood of the door just past the metal plate with the slot. Now I saw what Edgarson had done. He had looped the rubber band around the chain, then with the thumbtack had fastened both ends of the rubber band to the door. With the door open, the rubber band was stretched out across the metal plate with the slot in it. When Edgarson closed the door, the rubber band naturally contracted, pulling the chain with it sliding the ball through the slot to the wide opening. When he thumped the door, the ball fell out.

Another illusion shattered.

Seven The Riddle of the Other Woman

The phone had rung three times while Patricia was here, so I listened to my messages while going through the drawerful of Edgarson’s possessions, the things formerly in his pockets.

Only two messages; one caller had hung up without saying anything. The first of the verbal callers was Jack Freelander, umming and stuttering his way through another request to pick my brains for his damn porno article that Esquire would never publish anyway, and the other was Kit: “Hi, baby. I’m feeling a lot better all at once. I was mean yesterday, wasn’t I? Drove you out into the storm. Come on back, and I’ll make it up to you?”

Any other time, honey, but just at the moment I am (a) rather drained of my vital fluids, and (b) occupied with an unexpected guest who just keeps hanging around.

Edgarson’s effects: One wallet, containing thirty-seven dollars, four credit cards, a Tobin-Global laminated ID card with his photograph on it, a New York driver’s license, about twenty assorted business cards, a few crumpled old newspaper clippings that made no sense to me, and several pieces of paper scribbled over with notes to himself; phone numbers and the like. Three key rings, loaded with keys. A claim check for a parking garage over on First Avenue. A Boy Scout knife, with enough doohickeys and thingamabobs to dismantle a tank. A plastic pouch with a little pocket screwdriver set. A circuit tester. Various envelopes containing official-looking documents concerning bail-bond jumpers and repossessable automobiles. A small address book — I wasn’t in it. A half-used checkbook, with all the stubs blank. A little metal box containing thumbtacks, paper clips, rubber bands, washers and so on. A small roll of black electric tape. A tattered paperback copy of One Of Our Agents Is Missing, by E. Howard Hunt. A dollar and thirty-seven cents in change.

I pocketed the wallet and claim check and change, stuffed the key rings and knife and screwdriver set and circuit tester and little metal box and roll of electric tape back into the drawer, and shredded the envelopes, checkbook and address book into the wastebasket, on top of the paperback. Then I bundled into my overcoat and left the apartment.

It was now shortly after eight in the evening, and the neighborhood was full of cars from Queens, which is the normal weekend cross we have to bear in this part of the city. The air was very cold, the sky was still leaden and low, and while the main avenues had been cleared of snow the side streets were still rather clogged.

I found the parking garage on First Avenue, and Edgarson’s claim check got me the same dirty blue Plymouth Fury he’d been following me around in. I paid the tab out of Edgarson’s wallet, tipped the boy an Edgarson quarter, and drove on back to my place, where I parked next to Staples’ favorite fire hydrant.

Lugging that Valpack down the stairs was the hardest and least appetizing part of the whole job. Thump, thump, thump all the way down. I couldn’t lift the thing, so I also had to drag it through the snow on the sidewalk and then heave and push and cram it up over the rear bumper and into the trunk. Finally it arranged itself in there, and I slammed the lid and drove out to Kennedy Airport, where a TWA skycap said, “You can’t park here, sir.

“I just want to leave my luggage. It’s too heavy for me to carry.”

He gave me a superior smile, but when I opened the trunk and he tried to lift the Valpack by the handle his expression suggested he’d just found a hernia. “My my,” he said. “That is heavy.”

Should I do a joke about there being a body in it? No, I should not.

The skycap struggled the Valpack onto his cart and said, “Do you have your ticket, sir?”

“Not yet.”

“And where will you be going?”

Feeling a cool climate was best under the circumstances, I said, “Seattle.”

“Fine, sir. You’ll find your bag at the ticket counter.”

I thanked him, gave him one of Edgarsons dollars, and he wheeled Edgarson away.

Driving out to the long-term parking lot, I considered leaving it at that, but time and confusion were my allies here, so I took the inter-airport bus back to TWA, and used one of Edgarsons credit cards to buy him a nonstop round trip ticket to Seattle, first class. My Valpack was tagged, two clerks wrestled it onto the conveyer belt, and Edgarson rolled away on the start of his journey westward. My clerk compared the quickly-scrawled signature I’d just perpetrated with Edgarson’s quickly-scrawled signature on the credit card, was satisfied, gave me the card and the ticket, and wished me a pleasant journey. “Thank you very much,” I said. “I love Seattle this time of year.”

For only fifteen more of Edgarsons dollars, a taxi took me to my general neighborhood in Manhattan. I had emptied his wallet en route, keeping the money and stuffing the cards and papers into my overcoat pockets, and in the course of a six-block stroll I distributed the wallet and its former contents into twenty-five or thirty trash receptacles. Then I returned home, to find that more people had been in conversation with my answering machine.

Two of them; the Staples family. Patricia’s message was first, and was both brief and evocative. What an astonishing way for that woman to talk. When Fred’s voice came on immediately after I felt a certain brief discomfort, which was not at all eased by what he had to say:

“More developments in the Laura Penney case, Carey. I think maybe you could be a big help after all. Call me at the office.” And he gave his number.

I phoned Patricia first, and we said warm things back and forth, about how much we had enjoyed and how much we would enjoy and so on, and then she said she’d be in Manhattan tomorrow afternoon and would I be home between two and three? Oddly enough, I would.

Next, I said, “Sweetheart, I hate to mention this, but Fred does come here sometimes. I’d hate to have him accidentally recognize any voices on my answering machine, if you follow me.”

“You mean you don’t want me to tell you those things any more?”

“Don’t talk to some cold machine,” I explained. “Talk to my warm ear.”

So she did, at some length and in some detail concerning the morrow, and when at last I managed to end the conversation I was feeling a bit humid. I went and washed my face in cold water before phoning her husband.

The guttural New York voice that answered told me Staples wasn’t there, but when I identified myself he gave me a number where Fred could be reached. I jotted it down, hung up, and realized I had just written Kit’s phone number.

Could that be right? Confused notions of swapping, keys-on-the-floor, Fred And Patricia And Carey And Kit, mingled in my mind with the more realistic thought that Staples was at work right now on Laura’s murder, and this work of his had apparently brought him to an interview with my girl.

Which meant I had a choice. I could phone Staples to find out precisely what was going on, or I could use that ticket to Seattle. (Replacing it first, since the original was now in a dozen pieces in as many trash baskets.) So far, though, Seattle was still the alternate; I dialed Kit’s number.

And Kit answered. She sounded, I thought, a little tense. I said, “It’s me, honey. I got two messages to call.”

“Oh, hello, Carey.” Enunciated with clarity but no warmth; announcing me to Staples, of course.

Pretending I hadn’t a care in the world, I said, “Feeling better, eh?”

“Yes. I guess it was one of those twenty-four hour bugs.”

“When I get a twenty-four hour bug, it stays a week.”

“Could I call you back, Carey? I’m a little tied up right now.”

“With Fred Staples,” I said. “That was my other message, he wants to talk to me.”

“Oh? I didn’t— Hold on.”

I held on, and the next voice I heard belonged to Fred Staples. I listened hard for nuances in that voice, changes in his attitude toward me, but he was the same ebullient Fred as ever: “Hey, there, Carey, how you doing?”

“Just fine,” I said.

“You never told me you had such a terrific girl friend.”

I answered in appropriate mode: “Keeping her for myself, Fred.”

He chuckled, then said, “You going to be around the rest of the evening?”

“Sure.” Some long-winded explanation of my absence from the apartment trembled on my lips, but I forced it down. The guilty man flees, as they say, where no man pursueth. Also, there’s the fella that protests too much.

“I’d like to drop over,” Staples was saying. “In half an hour or so, okay?”

“Coffee or bourbon?” (No drink with potential arrestee.)

“Mmmm... Better make it coffee.”

Taking comfort from that hesitation, I said, “I’ll have it waiting.” But I missed the first time, when I tried to cradle the phone.

If you’re going to commit a murder — and in the first place, I don’t recommend it — one thing you should definitely not do afterward is have sex with the investigating officer’s wife. It merely makes for a lot of extraneous complication.

In fact, generally speaking, it seems to me that all police officers’ wives are better left alone. In the first place, their husbands walk around all the time with guns. And in the second place, there are so many other things a cop can do to you if he’s annoyed; he carries as much power in his badge as in his pistol. So all in all I would suggest that policemans’ wives, like nuns, should be left to Mexican bandits.

There’s nothing like ignoring your own advice. But I hadn’t after all intended all that with Patricia Staples; it had just, well, happened.

Whatever my intentions, though, well-armed police officer Fred Staples was about to walk into the scene of (a) Edgarson’s launching, and (b) his own cuckolding. No matter how much Valium or how much bourbon I put away, I remained convinced that something, some small tiny forgotten thing, from at least one of those misadventures would attract Fred’s bright eye. Though I ran the vacuum cleaner, though I made the bed, though I went over the apartment half a dozen times, I still didn’t feel secure when the doorbell rang nearly an hour later. I wasn’t ready, but I let him in.

Al Bray wasn’t along, which I took as another hopeful sign. He came up the stairs, we smiled at one another, and said hello and shook one another’s hands, and then he came on in without apparently noticing anything about anything. I poured coffee for both of us, he sat on the sofa where Patricia lately had lain, and I settled tensely into the director’s chair.

“I called Patricia before I came over,” he told me. “She said she had a terrific time.”

“That’s good,” I said. “It was my pleasure.”

“She asked me to tell you she really loved Gaslight.”

In my own recent conversation with Patricia, the word ‘gaslight’ had become a kind of double entendre private joke. Was she deciding to play a dangerous game? Hoping she wasn’t, I made some sort of conventional response and then said, “But you’ve got to tell me why you went to see Kit. I’m burning with curiosity.”

He said, “Well, she did know Mrs. Penney, of course.”

“Not all that well.”

Was he being evasive? He said, “When a case doesn’t break right away, you tend to reach out farther and farther, hoping to pick up one end of the string.”

“Kit’s only relationship with Laura was through me,” I pointed out.

“That’s right. And you’re from Boston.”

Good God; was he suspecting me? Carefully I said, “I don’t think I follow.”

“Here’s the anonymous letter.” He extended it toward me.

A sheet of ordinary white paper, with a typewritten message and no signature:

I cleared my throat. “That’s the least intelligible letter I’ve ever seen in my life,” I said, noticing that that bastard Edgarson had even managed to use my own first initial in the right place. “C,” indeed.

Taking the letter back, putting it away inside his jacket, Staples said, “You and Kit Markowitz have been going together for five or six months, haven’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“But you’ve been keeping it quiet, because you’ve got this divorce under way with your wife.”

“Right again.”

“That’s why you’d go out with other women sometimes, Laura Penney and different other women.”

“Sure.” I shrugged, being casual if it killed me. “Kit knows all about that. The idea was, if I went out with a number of different women it would make less trouble in dealing with my ex-wife. But if I seemed to be heavily involved with just one girl, then Shirley might start to act like a woman scorned, if you know what I mean.”

“Shirley. That’s your wife.”

“Right.”

Nodding, thinking things over, Staples said, “The other day, you told me you missed Laura Penney more than you’d thought you would. She was closer to you than you realized.”

“Yes?”

Staples leaned forward, his face much more serious than usual. “Women understand emotions a lot more quickly than men. I’ve noticed it time and again.”

“You’re probably right. But I don’t know where you’re heading.”

“Kit Markowitz understood more than you did about your feelings for Laura Penney.”

“She did?”

“What if,” he said, and he was watching my face as though he expected to see words form on it, “what if Kit thought you were even closer with Laura Penney than you were?”

“I don’t know. What if she did?”

But he had another hypothetical question to ask: “What if I told you she went through her date book for the last four months, and she’d seen you less than one-quarter of those days?”

“Well, we both work, we both have lives of our own.”

“But she did that with the date book before I ever talked with her,” Staples said. “She was thinking about it, you see what I mean?”

Which was an insight into Kit I could have lived without. I said, “Maybe she feels neglected.”

“I think she does.”

“She never let me know about it.”

“Well, she’s an independent woman, isn’t she? She wouldn’t, uh, what’s that saying? Wear her heart on her sleeve.”

“I suppose she wouldn’t.”

Back he went to his hypothetical questions: “But what if she looked around,” he said, “to see what you were doing that three-quarters of the time you weren’t with her? Wouldn’t she see that you were spending a lot of time with Laura Penney?”

“Oh, not that much.”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Al Bray went through Laura Penney’s calendar again this afternoon, and she saw a lot of you, Carey. A lot of you. Over a four month period, you had dates with Kit Markowitz forty-three times and with Laura Penney forty-five times. That’s two more.”

I coughed, and cleared my throat, and said, “What’s all this building up to, Fred?”

He said, “Maybe we’ve been making a mistake all this time, Carey. We’ve been concentrating on men friends, but it doesn’t have to be that way.”

Now what in hell was he talking about? “I’m just not following you, Fred.”

So he explained: “Laura Penney died when she hit her head on the glass coffee table in her living room. It was the fall that killed her, and it didn’t necessarily have to be a very strong punch that knocked her down. A little struggle, she loses her balance, it could happen just like that.”

“Meaning what? Come on, Fred, for God’s sake what are you driving at?”

“A woman could have done it,” he said.

He suspected Kit! Kit!

I stared at him. Relief washed through me like sunrise, and I barely restrained myself from laughing in his face.

He said, “Think about it. Here’s a woman thinks Laura Penney is taking her man away. She goes over to have it out. They argue, they fight, Laura falls and is killed. The other woman is frightened, she’s going to run away, but then she looks around and finds male clothing in the bedroom. Either she thinks the clothing belongs to her boy friend, or she decides to confuse the issue. In either case, she takes the clothing away with her. Or there’s Al Bray’s theory that she just leaves and then the boy friend shows up, finds the body, and clears his stuff out himself. But in any case, the woman did the killing.”

I said, “You mean Kit? Kit wouldn’t kill anybody, that’s just ridiculous.”

“Not on purpose, maybe. But an accident, in the middle of a fight? She has a pretty good temper, doesn’t she?”

“She isn’t violent, for God’s sake.”

“Nevertheless,” Staples insisted, “of all the Boston connections, that’s the one that shows the most promise.”

“But there isn’t any Boston connection,” I told him. “Kit’s a New Yorker.”

“The Boston connection is you.” Pulling out the anonymous letter again, he said, “Listen to this, if we put your names in here instead of these letters, making Laura Penney ‘A’ and you ‘B’ and Kit Markowitz ‘C.’ Then it reads, ‘If Laura Penney got too close to Carey Thorpe, what would Kit Markowitz do?’”

“Call me up and yell at me,” I said. “That’s what she’d do.”

“Did she call you up and tell you about her date book?”

“No. So what?”

“So she’s maybe a little more secretive than you think.” Satisfied with himself, he leaned back on the sofa, putting the letter away again as he said, “Tomorrow we’ll get hold of that private detective who was watching Mrs. Penney’s building, and we’ll run Kit Markowitz through a lineup and see if he recognizes her.”

Oh, you will, eh? And good luck to you, too. Aloud I said, “I just don’t believe any of it.”

“We’ll see.” Staples nodded, and sipped at his coffee. “We were making too quick an assumption,” he told me. “Assuming it had to be a man.” He patted the pocket containing Edgarson’s troublemaking letter. “This tip may have put us on the right track after all.”

“Not if it makes you believe Kit Markowitz killed anybody,” I said. “Is that really what you’ve been working on all day?”

“We started with half a dozen possibilities, but pretty soon they narrowed down to her. For one thing, she doesn’t have an alibi.”

“Why? Where does she say she was?”

“At home, alone. No witnesses.”

“Didn’t anybody call her? Didn’t she talk to anybody on the phone?”

“She tried calling you, she says,” Staples told me, “but she got your answering machine and she didn’t leave any message.”

“That’s right,” I said. “She told me that the next day. I was home, but I was screening a film.”

Staples finished his coffee, then said, “I’ll tell you something else, Carey. You’re an absolutely brilliant natural detective, the most fantastic I’ve ever seen. You’ve got a real knack for it. But you can’t get anywhere with this case, and do you know why?”

I did know, as a matter of fact, but it would be interesting to hear what he thought so I said, “No. Why?”

“You’re too close to it. You’re emotionally involved.”

“You may be right,” I said.

I phoned Kit and she said, “Is he gone?”

“Staples? Just left.”

“I’ll be right there,” she said, and hung up, and arrived fifteen minutes later, looking angry and determined. Taking off her coat, she said, “He thinks I did it.”

“Slow down,” I advised her. “You want a drink?”

“I will not slow down.” She hung up her coat and marched into the living room. “That damn fool thinks I killed Laura Penney. Over you!” And she turned to glare at me as though it were my fault. (Well, I suppose it was, at that.)

“Absurd on the face of it,” I said.

“There’s only one thing to do.”

I didn’t like her glower. “And what would that be?” I asked.

“We have to find the killer ourselves.”

“What?”

“That idiot Staples is out there right now,” she said, waving an arm at the window and the cold dark snowy world beyond it, which as it happened did not at this moment contain Staples, who had gone home for dinner with his Patricia, “and all he’s trying to do is find evidence to convict me.”

“Which he’ll never find.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” she said. “I have no alibi.”

“Millions could say the same.”

“He could build up a case against me.”

“Staples? I don’t see how. You didn’t do it, so where’s his proof?”

“Circumstantial evidence,” she said, in the manner in which people in Victorian novels used to say “madness in the family.”

“What circumstantial evidence?”

“How do I know?” She was pacing around my room, waving her arms. “Remember The Wrong Man?”

“The Hitchcock film, with Henry Fonda?”

“He was convicted of murder, and he didn’t do it.”

“That was a mistaken identification.”

“How about Call Northside 777? Jimmy Stewart as the reporter. And both of those movies were based on real life cases.”

“You need a drink,” I decided, because I needed a drink, and headed for the kitchenette.

She followed me, still waving her arms. “And while he’s spending all his time trying to railroad me, who’s looking for the real killer? Nobody! And he’ll get away.”

Amen. I said, “Kit, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. This is just another one of Staples’ brainstorms, he gets one a day, like rain in Mexico City. The other day he thought Laura was having an affair with her father, and the father killed her.”

“Well, now he’s convinced that I killed her. And it’s up to us to prove him wrong.”

I made the drinks while she raved on, and carried them back to the living room. Kit wasn’t prepared to sit, but I was, and when she paused briefly to deal with her drink I said, “Life doesn’t work like the movies, Kit. The innocent person getting off the hook by finding the real killer, that doesn’t happen.”

“Well, it’s going to happen this time.” She stood in front of me, straddle-legged with determination. “And you’re going to help.”

“How? There isn’t even anything to do.”

“Of course there is. For one thing, we’ll go to the funeral.”

“Funeral?”

“Laura’s funeral, tomorrow morning at ten.”

Laura’s funeral. She’d been dead almost a week by now, and I’d taken it for granted she’d already been dispatched to her final resting place, but probably the coroner had delayed things. In any event, I certainly didn’t want to go to the funeral. “What on earth do you want to go there for?”

“We’ll see who shows up.” She plopped down beside me on the sofa, eager and intent. “And you’ve been talking with Staples, you know what’s been done in the investigation so far. Have they definitely eliminated anybody? I mean, besides you.”

“Well, they were hot on the idea of the secret lover for a while,” I said. “And they narrowed that down to five.”

“Five? Terrific! Just a minute, let me get pen and paper.” And up she jumped.

Gloomily I watched her cross the room to rummage through my desk. This was ridiculous, but what could I do about it?

Back she came, bristling with pen and paper. “I’ll stay here tonight, all right?”

“Wonderful,” I said, with less than my usual enthusiasm.

“Then we can go to the funeral together in the morning.” She readied the pen. “Now, who are these five?”

Eight The Secret of the Locked Door

Oddly enough, all five were at the funeral. And so were Kit and I, and so was Staples.

It was quite a large turnout, in fact, mostly with faces I was used to seeing at cocktail parties. Laura’s father was in the front row with a heavy-faced black-haired gent I took to be the husband from Chicago. There appeared to be no other family members in attendance.

This funeral was taking place in some Croatian or Ukrainian chapel on East 9th Street. The style of the place was early Frankenstein, and so were the huddled old charladies intermixed with the mourners, mumbling to themselves like so many Madame Khrushchevs in a bad mood. These people had been ethnic since before the word was popular.

And Laura, it turned out, had been one of them. She had introduced her father to me once as “Frank Ward,” but now I learned another seven or eight Eastern syllables had been lurking behind that Anglo brevity all the time. And what about that husband, the alleged Penney? Did those flat cheekbones look Wasp? They did not.

Poor Laura. Born in upstate New York, she’d spent her life as a full-fledged American, only to depart as an immigrant. Remembering her bigotry — I don’t think there were any groups she cared for — I knew this ceremony would only upset her. It was just as well she wasn’t here to see it.

Kit kept whispering and murmuring to me throughout the service, but I paid little attention, since all she was doing was adding to the original list of five suspects. Taking a leaf from Staples’ book, she was casting a critical eye on the women in attendance and finding most of them suspicious. She’d bought a steno pad on the way down, and did a lot of cramped note-taking, as though she’d be writing up this affair for the old home town paper.

The box containing the remains was prominent in the center aisle, on a wheeled bier draped in purple and black. Gazing at it, I did regret my touch of bad temper.

After the ceremony, a dozen cars would follow the hearse out to the graveyard in Queens, but Kit’s detective ardor, I’m happy to say, didn’t extend that far. Nor did Staples’; seeing him move away from the line of mourners shuffling out to the cars, I went over to him and said, “Anything new?”

“Not with me. How about you?”

“Well, you got Kit mad.”

He seemed amused. “I did?”

“She’s decided to find the killer herself, and show you up.”

“Fine. But if Edgarson says he saw her last Tuesday night, it’ll be all over.”

Edgarson? Was I supposed to know that name? Playing it safe, I repeated it with a question mark, and Staples explained he was the detective, etc. “Oh,” I said. “Is that all set up?”

“Not yet. He’s supposed to call me next time he checks in with his office.”

Don’t hold your breath. I said, “Let me know when you switch to a new theory, okay? Kit’s about to drive me crazy.”

Grinning, he said, “Why don’t you come up with something? If you can’t show that somebody else is guilty, at least prove to my satisfaction that your girl is innocent.”

“I’ll work on it,” I promised.

“Come along with me,” he suggested. “If we spend one concentrated day on this case maybe we can crack it.”

“Sorry. I’ve already promised Kit I’d play Mr. and Mrs. North.” I gestured to where she was standing in a corner of the chapel, arms folded as she glowered in our direction.

“Later on, then, Around two?”

At two, Patricia would be dropping by for more Gaslight “I don’t think so, Fred. I’ll be with Kit most of the day.”

“Well, I wish you luck.”

“I believe I’m going to need it.” I left Staples and rejoined Kit, who wanted to know everything that had been said. “Let’s go back to the States first,” I suggested, “and have a cup of coffee.”

Which we did, in a Second Avenue health food restaurant full of heroin addicts. Kit went through her expanded list of suspects and I managed to contract it again slightly by removing three of the women who I knew happened to be a part of the alibis of various former male suspects. Another of the female suspects I eliminated by simply laughing the idea to scorn, but that still left two women and five men on the list. Six men, since she insisted on adding Jay English, the famous homosexual. Seven men; Jay’s boy friend Dave Poumon was swept ashore on the next tide.

“Nine suspects,” I said. “What are you going to do with all those people?”

“Throw a party,” she said. “We’ll get them all drinking and relaxed, and ask some penetrating questions.”

“God help us,” I said. “And when will this overdone scene take place?”

“Today’s Monday. Why not Friday? Everybody spends their weekends in town this time of year.”

“Friday’s a long way off,” I pointed out. “I thought you were feeling a certain urgency about all this.”

“Oh, we have lots to do before the party.” She had this all thoroughly planned, I could see that much. “We’ll want to know which penetrating questions to ask,” she explained.

“Ah, of course.”

She ruminated over her list. “I’ll make some phone calls this afternoon. I can ask Betty about Claire.” She made a note, then another, saying, “And Lucy Fishman used to go with Jack Henderson, so I’ll find out about him from her.” She frowned at her list, made another note, made a question mark, underlined something, and switched her frown to me. “You can start with Staples,” she said.

“I can?”

“There was something about an anonymous letter. See if you can get a look at it.”

“I’ll try,” I promised.

She tapped her list with the pencil point. “There’s a possibility he already checked out Jay English and Dave. Could you find out?”

“Clever questioning might turn the trick,” I said.

“Also Claire and Ellen. See if he has anything on them.”

“Will do.”

“Could you get to him this afternoon?”

An unexpected mobile of deceit suspended itself delicately in my brain. “I think maybe I could,” I said.

“Then come down to my place for dinner and we’ll compare notes.”

“Lovely idea.”

“Around seven?”

“Perfect,” I said.

Between two and three, when Staples thought I was with Kit and Kit thought I was with Staples, I was with Patricia, enjoying Gaslight. At twenty past three, alone and refreshed and energetic from the shower, I popped a Valium and phoned Staples at his office, but he wasn’t there. I left a message and worked on the Cassavetes article until four-thirty, when Staples called. “I thought you were with Miss Markowitz.”

“We laid our plans,” I said, “but then she went off to do some girl-talk type sleuthing of her own.”

“Would you like to do some boy-type sleuthing? We’ve got another one.”

“New York must be on the verge of depopulation.”

“This one’s imported. From Visaria.”

“From what?”

“Visaria.” He spelled it, which didn’t help.

“Is that a country?”

“I don’t know if they’ve got a country,” he said, “but they’ve got a mission at the UN, and the head of it just got himself killed. You feel ready for a locked room mystery?”

Staples had sent a car for me again, which delivered me to a small remodeled brick town house on 46th Street between First and Second Avenues. This entire neighborhood was full of United Nations missions and foreign embassies, each nation putting on as much show as it could afford. At East Side prices, the smaller countries couldn’t afford much, and this narrow four-story architectural nonentity was about par for a modest mission like that from Visaria.

If I’d hoped for some insight into the style and culture of Visaria from the interior of the mission I was doomed to disappointment. The building, probably in advanced disrepair when Visaria bought it, had apparently been purchased as a Handyman’s Special and furnished out of Sears, Roebuck. The floors, which felt spongy and unreliable underfoot, had all been covered with cheap solid-color wall-to-wall carpeting. Dropped ceilings, those fiberboard rectangles in a white metal grid, screened off the no-doubt-hideous original ceilings with clean new hideousness, and the original walls were covered with pale-tone panelings in simulated wood grain. Light was provided by fluorescent panels in the dropped ceilings. It was like being in a real estate office in a shopping center, with furnishing to match; imitation-wood formica desks, imitation-leather vinyl sofas, and real metal square wastebaskets.

The building was narrow, and not very deep, so there was minimal floor-space. One entered from the street into a vestibule with a staircase leading up; the staircase too was covered with cheap carpeting. A sign hanging over the stairs was neatly hand-printed AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Another sign, waist-height, standing on its own chrome leg in front of the stairs, said INFORMATION, with an arrow pointing to the right.

An interior wall had apparently been removed here, so that the vestibule and the former living room had become one oddly-shaped receptionist’s office. It was appropriately furnished, including paintings that might have been views of the forests and lakes of Visaria but that looked to me like the forests and lakes of northern Michigan. A small rack of tourist literature near the entrance had an indefinably scraggy and hopeless air about it, as though even the Visarians could think of no sensible reason for anyone to visit their country.

Several people were now in this room. Two of them were Staples and Bray, several others appeared also to have some sort of official connection with today’s event, and the last two were a weepy-eyed heavyset girl sitting at the receptionist’s desk and a truculent-looking bruiser hulking on one of the vinyl sofas. He reminded me for some reason of this morning’s funeral, probably because he seemed ethnic in much the same way. If Laura’s husband had grown up big enough to play professional football he might have looked a lot like this fellow.

Staples, seeing me arrive, came over and said, quietly, “I won’t introduce you. We’ll just take a little walk through and I’ll describe the situation.”

“Right.”

“You see the girl sitting at the desk?”

“The receptionist?”

“Right. She came back from lunch at one o’clock this afternoon. So did the guard.”

“The blocking back on the sofa?”

“That’s the one. Visaria has its own political problems, just like everybody else. His job is to sit out here and make sure there aren’t any incidents.”

“No wonder he doesn’t look happy.”

“The point is,” Staples said, “both of those characters were in this room from one o’clock until after the body was found. Neither of them left for a second, not to go to the John, not for anything. They both swear to it.”

“Could they be in cahoots with one another?”

“Look at them,” Staples suggested.

I looked at them. Judging from appearances — generally a good way to judge, by the way — between them they might just be able to figure out how to open a box of corn flakes. “Okay,” I said.

“Now let’s go to the scene of the crime.”

Staples led the way. We had to walk through the little cluster of people near the inner door, and it turned out that at least two of them were Visarian. Or anyway foreign, since they were speaking together in some language that seemed to consist principally of the letter “k,” spoken with varying degrees of emphasis. One of these two intercepted Staples on his way by, saying, “You are making progress?”

“We are making progress,” Staples told him. They smiled at one another, and Staples moved on, me following. I too smiled at the Visarian, and he smiled back.

Staples paused at the door. “As you see, it had to be broken in.”

“Locked from the inside, eh?”

“Locked and bolted. The door fit snugly. There’s no way to throw that bolt except from this side.”

I studied the door, the wrenched wood, the hardware. I said, “And I assume the only fingerprints on the bolt belonged to the dead man.”

“Of course.”

“This is a pretty elaborate setup,” I said. “What’s it all about?”

“There’d been threats on this fellow’s life,” Staples said. “Some political thing at home. So he spent his working hours in this room with the door locked on the inside. If anyone wanted to see him, the receptionist would buzz, tell him who was waiting, and he’d come over and unlock the door.”

“All right.” I looked hesitantly into this inner room. “The body still here?”

“No, it was taken away. He’d been strangled with wire, sitting there at his desk.”

My adam’s apple gave a little twinge. “Charming,” I said, and roved around the room a bit.

It was almost identical with the room outside; same ceiling, same paneled walls, same spongy carpeted floor. A little money had been spent on the desk, but the other furnishings were still bottom-of-the-line from some office furniture discount house. There was, however, a paper shredder in one corner, to show that this was a serious diplomatic operation.

A pair of tall windows at the back had a clear close view of a brick wall. Heavy iron bars masked both windows on the outside. I said, “I assume those bars have been checked.”

“Just as solid as they look,” Staples assured me.

A door behind the desk led to a small bathroom done in the same minimal style as everything else. This would be the corner of the house directly behind the staircase. The one window in the bathroom was also guarded by iron bars, and was in any event too small to crawl through. I noticed two dirt smudges on the vinyl tile floor, but nothing else in here of interest.

When I returned to the office, Bray had come in looking glum and harassed. “I hope you feel brilliant,” he told me.

“Not yet,” I admitted.

Staples said to Bray, “Give the man time.”

“All he wants,” Bray said. To me he said, “By the way, in that Templeton case, the woman that went off the terrace, it looks as though you and Fred were right.”

“Oh, really?”

Bray shrugged. “We never came up with anything,” he said. “I resisted the idea, but I guess it really was suicide after all.”

So George had gotten away with it. Good for him. I said, “They can’t all be murders, can they?”

“I suppose not,” Bray said.

Staples said, “But this one definitely is. Let me tell you the situation, Carey. The chief of mission, Ivor Kaklov, lived here in the building, up on the top floor. The receptionist and the guard also live here. They spent an ordinary morning, Kaklov in this office and the other two outside, and at twelve Kaklov came out and they went upstairs for lunch.”

I said, “Locking the office behind them?”

“No,” Staples said. “It was only kept locked when Kaklov was in it.”

“How about the front door?”

Bray said, “That was locked, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the kind you can open by slipping a credit card down between the door and the jamb.”

I said, “So the killer came into the building while everybody was at lunch, and hid in here. In the bathroom, in fact.”

Staples said, “Ah, good man. You saw those smudges on the bathroom floor.”

“Of course,” I said. “We have sloppy weather outside. Even if the killer took a cab he wouldn’t get out right at this address, so he did some walking and he tracked dirty snow in with him. It melted while he waited for Kaklov to finish lunch.”

Bray said, “That part we can work out for ourselves. We know how the killer got in, and what he did after he got here. The question is, how in hell did he get out again?”

I nodded. “That’s the question, all right. I wonder what the answer is.”

Nobody told me. So I turned away again, wandering around the room, looking at this and that. There was a certain atmosphere of disarrangement in the area of the desk, which was only to be expected, but otherwise the place retained its neat anonymity.

Well, not quite. The paper shredder was out about three feet from the wall, standing alone and awkward into the room like a volunteer robot. It didn’t look as though it belonged there, so I went over to check, and from the indentations in the carpet I could see that the machine usually stood against the wall. It had been moved out here, by some person for some reason.

It was a heavy machine, about waist height, but it moved readily enough on its casters. There was nothing underneath it. There was no shredded paper in the white plastic bag in the bottom half. A dirt smudge on the beige metal top suggested nothing in particular. When I pushed the On button the machine gnashed its many teeth but nothing came out.

Staples and Bray had been watching me, and now Staples came over to say, “Something?”

“I’m not sure.” I frowned at him, frowned at the room, at all its lumber yard banality.

“You’re onto something.” Staples was staring at me as though I were an egg and he’d just heard cracking sounds.

I said, “Kaklov and the receptionist and the guard all went upstairs at twelve. They all came down together at one?”

“Right.”

“Kaklov came in here, and the other two stayed outside. That was at one o’clock. When was the body found?”

“Three-thirty. A phone call from outside came through for Kaklov, the receptionist buzzed, there wasn’t any answer, she knocked on the door, she and the guard talked it over, and finally the guard broke the door in.”

“Between one and three-thirty, did Kaklov have any visitors?”

“No.”

“Any other phone calls?”

“No.”

Bray had also come over, and now he said, “The preliminary medical report says he’d been dead at least a couple of hours when he was examined. Meaning probably before two.”

I said, “Or as close to one o’clock as the assassin could make it.”

“Looks that way.”

I frowned at the room. The answer was in here somewhere. I felt I could almost reach out and touch it. I said, “The assassin came in during lunch and hid in the bathroom. Kaklov came in at one o’clock, locked the door, and the assassin killed him. The guard broke the door down at three-thirty, and Kaklov was in here alone.” Looking back at Bray, I said, “What about after they found the body? Any time when there wasn’t anyone around?”

But Bray shook his head. “There’s a special police detachment a block from here,” he said. “For the UN. There were officers on the scene within five minutes, and both the receptionist and the guard swear they stayed right in that office the whole time.”

“I was afraid that was the answer.” I leaned against the paneled wall, folding my arms and looking around this damn bland enigmatic room. I said, “I find myself thinking of the Sherlock Holmes dictum: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ So what are the impossibilities here?”

Bray said, “The whole thing is impossible. This isn’t the kind of case I like.”

“No, let’s think about it.” I looked over at the desk again, where the killing had taken place. “The assassin getting in was possible. The assassin committing the crime was possible.”

“The assassin getting out again,” Bray said. “That’s impossible.”

“So we eliminate that.” Smiling as though I knew what I was doing, I said, “In approved Sherlock Holmes style, we eliminate the impossible. The assassin did not get out. So where does that leave us?”

“Up a tree,” suggested Staples.

“Up a—” Then it hit me. “Of course!”

They both stared at me. Half-whispering, Staples said, “You’ve got it?”

“Of course I’ve got it. If the assassin didn’t get out of this room, Fred, then he’s still here.”

Bray said, “If you mean suicide, Kaklov did it himself, it won’t work. A man can’t strangle himself, not that way.”

“No, there was a killer,” I agreed. “But the point is, he’s still in this room. That’s what the dirt on the paper shredder is all about.”

“Dirt on the paper shredder?” Staples went over to frown at it. “Yeah, you’re right. So what?”

“Think, Fred. Think about the dirt on the bathroom floor.”

“Smudged footprints.” He transferred his bewildered frown from the paper shredder to me. “He stood on the paper shredder?”

“Certainly. Don’t you know where he is?” I pointed up. “He’s in the ceiling.”

I was right, of course. Dropped ceilings are constructed of a metal gridwork hung by wires from the beams of the original ceiling. The two-foot by four-foot fiberboard rectangles simply lie in this grid, and can be pushed up and out of the way. A space of a foot or more is left below the old ceiling, to leave room for the fluorescent light fixtures and for the fiberboard pieces to be slipped up over the grid.

The gridwork isn’t very strong, and wouldn’t normally support the weight of a man, but this was a special case. First, the killer had brought in two six-foot lengths of thin lumber and placed them diagonally across the grid, spreading the weight. Second, the killer wasn’t a man but a woman, a slender twentyish girl who couldn’t have weighed over a hundred pounds.

A hundred very nasty pounds, I might say. When Fred Staples, following my suggestion, climbed up on the paper shredder, lifted the nearest section of fiberboard and stuck his head in between the ceilings to look, she kicked him in the face. He gave a yelp and came catapulting off the shredder and into my arms, the fiberboard rectangle bouncing and careening around us, while at the same time the girl came through another ceiling section and landed feet first on Al Bray’s head.

Both cops were yelling, I was falling down from the weight of Fred Staples, and Al Bray was being beaten to the ground by the furious knees, heels, elbows, fists and forehead of the woman wrapped around his neck. She was dressed all in black — shoes, slacks, sweater — and she’d descended more like a demon than a human being.

“Stop her!” Bray yelled from the floor, and I wriggled out from under Staples just in time to snap my fingers around her near ankle as she scurried for the door.

I learned to regret that. She turned back the way a cat does when its hind leg is grabbed. The first thing she did was leave three long fingernail gashes on my right wrist, and the second thing she did was leave four long fingernail gashes on my left cheek. Then Bray arrived, and hit her very very hard with his fist on the side of her head, just above the ear. (He later explained that in all head-punching the target should be an area covered by hair, to minimize visible bruises later. Every trade has its expertise.)

The girl fell down when Bray hit her, and he immediately stepped on her long hair, so she couldn’t get up again. When she snapped her head around to bite his ankle he rested his other foot on her throat and said, “Think it over.”

She thought it over, glaring up at everybody, and while she was thinking Fred Staples put her wrists in handcuffs behind her back. They stood her up then, and frisked her in a thorough blunt irritable way that had nothing of sex in it at all.

Meantime, my wrist and face were both beginning to sting. I licked my wrist, but couldn’t do much about my face. I also went to the nearest vinyl divan and sat down, feeling a bit shaky.

The girl had suddenly become very vocal. She shouted a lot of fierce things, undoubtedly of a political nature, burning with passion and historical ignorance, but since this Nathan Halizing was being done in that k-k-k language I took to be Visarian I remained ignorant of her specific quarrel with the late Mr. Kaklov. Al Bray rapped her with a knuckle in the hair a couple of times and she subsided, but continued muttering and glaring at everybody.

Bray and a uniformed cop then took the girl away, and Fred Staples came over to me with a handkerchief extended in his right hand. “What’s that for?” I said. “I’m not crying.”

“No, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m what?” Grabbing the handkerchief, I pressed it to the stinging side of my face, and it came away with diagonal red lines on it. “That’s my blood!”

“Better come with me,” he said.

Nine The Death of the Party

After the hospital, where they gave me a shot and a scrub and some gauze bandage on my cheek, I went with Staples back to my apartment and we discussed the Laura Penney murder some more. He assured me they were investigating possibilities other than the guilt of Kit Markowitz, meaning they were still checking into the five original male suspects. I asked him the questions Kit had assigned me, and he said no, they hadn’t established solid alibis for Jay English or Dave Poumon, mostly because the initial interview with that pair had seemed conclusive enough. As for Claire and Ellen, Kit’s two alternate female suspects, Staples acknowledged they’d studied Claire a bit without establishing much of anything, but Ellen came as a surprise to him. He made himself a note, and I said, “Our investigations overlap.”

“The more the merrier,” he told me. “I really want to solve this Laura Penney murder, Carey.”

“Good,” I said.

Next I asked him about the anonymous letter, and he turned out to have a Xerox copy of it on his person. He let me make my own copy, in longhand, and then a phone call from his office summoned him away.

I hadn’t wanted to check my messages while he was there, not being absolutely certain Patricia wouldn’t be cute in spite of my warning, but it turned out to be just the usual dull band of voices, including Shirley, calling from Boston again about those damned papers she wanted signed: “I know you have them by now, and this time I’m serious. If I don’t receive them by tomorrow, my Boston attorney is going to hire a New York attorney. At your expense.”

Papers, papers. Yes, I remembered receiving them, but had I ever signed and returned them? With all this other stuff going on, I was pretty sure I hadn’t, but when I went through the crap on my desk they weren’t there.

Damn. Who needed this annoyance? I spent ten minutes searching the apartment, in every likely and unlikely corner, and finally had to give up and call Shirley, a thing I hate to do. One of the brats answered — until John’s voice changes, which I presume it will some day, there’s no way to tell them apart, even if I wanted to — but then Shirley came on the line and I said, “Look, I’m not trying to make trouble, but I lost those damn papers.”

“You’re such a bullshitter, Carey.”

“Well, that’s all right, you do what you want to do, only if you send me another set I’ll sign them right away and send them straight back.”

Some snarling followed, until it was agreed I’d be sent another set of papers, and then we both hung up and off I went for the Valium. That, plus the medication I’d been given at the hospital, plus the hectic life I’d been leading recently, combined to knock me out all of a sudden, and I staggered to the bed and slept until seven-thirty, when the phone woke me, being Kit, wondering where I was.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll be right there.” And I was, extending the anonymous letter out in front of me as a peace offering.

“Wonderful!” she said, clutching at it. “How did you do it?”

“I have my methods, Watson.”

So then dinner, which was already late, had to be delayed further while Kit immersed herself in the anonymous letter, reading aloud its cryptic algebra: “If A got too close to B, what would C do?” With paper and pencil, she proceeded to put columns of names under the letters A and C, reserving B for Laura. Gradually she demonstrated to her own satisfaction that everybody she knew could go in one column or the other, and that most names could go in both. “Oh, really!” she said, at last. “Being anonymous is one thing, but being a smartass is something else. Why didn’t she say what she meant?”

“She?”

“This was obviously written by a woman.”

“Ah.”

“Look at this sentence about the husband. ‘He doesn’t know anything about it.’ That’s a woman saying that. A man wouldn’t even mention the husband at all.”

“I see. Very clever.”

Having announced this deduction, Kit went back to studying the columns of names again, and it began to look as though we’d never get to dinner, until I pointed out that Laura need not necessarily be character B, but could also be character C. Kit frowned at the sheets of paper in front of her and said, “How could that be?”

“Well, for instance, what if Laura had a secret yen for Jack Freelander, but—”

“That’s ridiculous. Jack?”

“Wait a minute. What if she thought Claire Wallace was the competition? Then that sentence could read, If Claire Wallace got too close to Jack Freelander, what would Laura Penney do?’”

Kit mouthed the words, vertical frown lines in her forehead. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning Laura might have Claire over to her place to talk it out. There’s an argument, Claire hits her, and that’s it.”

“Claire? Is that possible?”

“It could be a lot of people. Let’s see.” I ran a finger down column A. “Now, what if—?”

“Oh, I’ve had enough! Let’s have dinner.” Kit flung down her pencil, got up from her desk, and gave me a puzzled frown. “What happened to your face?”

“You noticed,” I said, touching the bandage. “A girl fell out of a ceiling and scratched me.”

“What?”

So at last I had her attention away from the anonymous letter, and over dinner I told her my latest exploit, and she was properly impressed. Of course, after dinner we had to play with the names and the columns again for another hour or so, but I didn’t mind, now that I’d been fed. This detective business could be rather restful at times.

The whole week was very restful, in fact, much more so than the preceding seven days. By Tuesday afternoon Kit had finished inviting all her suspects to the Friday night party, and all had agreed to come. (No reason for the get-together was given, the guests being allowed to believe it was simply an ordinary Thank-God-It’s-Friday & Isn’t-Winter-Awful party.) After I’d delivered to Kit the copy of the anonymous letter, plus Staples’ answers to her other questions, she had no further active role for me to play other than as the sounding board who listened every evening to that day’s sleuthing and conclusions. At different times between Tuesday morning and Friday afternoon she conclusively demonstrated the guilt of four different people, and subsequently just as conclusively exonerated all four of them again. It was a pleasure to observe all of this deducing and detecting, particularly since I had already peeked at the last chapter.

When I wasn’t being Dr. Watson with Kit, I was playing a very different kind of doctor with Patricia Staples. Fascinating woman! My initial impression could not have been more wrong. I had thought of her as the ultimate mousy housewife, totally absorbed in husband and casseroles, when in fact her absorption was totally with Patricia Staples. She was incredible to watch, a woman with no more concept of the world outside herself than a canary. She agreed with everything Fred said — and now with everything I said — not because she was lost in her man but because she was lost in herself. Fred admired her and kept her comfortable, so she responded by being agreeable. If he said a particular movie was wonderful or a particular politician was no good, why not agree with him? Neither the movie nor the politician mattered at all, even existed at all, insofar as she was concerned, so what difference did it make what anybody said about them?

This self-absorption might have been annoying if it had taken some other form — selfishness, for instance, or arrogance. As it was, her pleasure in her own existence kept her sunny in temperament, and left her with no great requirement for anything more. Should someone — Fred, me, whoever it might be — do something to make her happy (give her a compliment, say, or take her out to dinner, or screw her inventively), she accepted it as her due, and with gratitude returned the favor fourfold. Make her happy, she’ll make you happy. Gaslight, it turned out, made us both very happy indeed, several times that week.

At the same time, the riskiness of our game — my game — kept me from ever fully concentrating on its rewards. I am the quarry, I kept reminding myself, in a murder investigation which is still very much alive. It is insane for me to he cuckolding the primary investigating officer. And yet I could never bring myself to kick Patricia Staples out of bed.

As for her husband and Bray, they came up with no more “interesting” homicides, though Staples did call from time to time with some piece of news about one or another of our recent cases. Jack St. Pierre, for instance, the fellow I’d pegged as the murderer of the copywriter, Bart Ailburg (misplaced island), had run away but had been found staying with a cousin in San Diego, and when apprehended had immediately confessed. As to the Visaria murder, the assassin had now been identified as one Kora Haaket, and two of her co-conspirators had been found lurking in a Volkswagen up the block from the mission. Their guilt had been established by their Visarian nationality, their history of anti-government politics, the presence in their Beetle of a woman’s coat with Kora Haaket’s name sewn in it, and their mistake of not only carrying guns but actually shooting these guns at the police who approached their car to question them. A double mistake, that; one of the guns, a defective American product bought locally, had blown up in its operator’s hand. Both co-conspirators were now in the hospital and doing well, though their future was in doubt. Since legally the Visarian mission was considered Visarian territory rather than American, the Visarians were asking for extradition of Kora Haaket and the other two for trial in their native land. Since trial in Visaria would inevitably lead to execution, and since execution in Visaria was by flaying, the Legal Aid defense attorney assigned to the trio was trying to obfuscate due process in every way he could. It was likely the three Visarians would remain in jail for the rest of their natural lives, awaiting a final decision on the extradition order.

On the Laura Penney murder, Staples continued to have no further news, except that he’d followed Kit’s idea about Ellen Richter, and had found her to have an unimpeachable alibi for the time of the killing.

Oh, and the matter of Edgarson. He was found, in a TWA storage room at the Seattle airport, sometime Wednesday night, as Staples informed me over the phone on Thursday afternoon. “His office isn’t sure what he was going out to Seattle for,” he said, “but apparently one of his cases had got him involved with some mob types. He bought the ticket himself, at the airport, three hours before takeoff, but then apparently he got lured to some quiet place and was murdered. Hit on the head. He had one of those big folding suitcase things, and they stuffed his body in it and checked it through to Seattle on Edgarson’s own ticket.”

“Mob types, you say?”

“It has all the earmarks. We’re putting the question out to some of our informants now.”

“This is bad news for Kit,” I said. “I know for sure he would have exonerated her.”

“Well, it keeps the situation pretty much the way it was,” he said. “We’ll keep working on it.”

That day also I got the substitute set of papers from Shirley — I never had found the first set — and I immediately signed them and sent them back to Boston.

I also got some work done at last. The first several days after Laura’s death I’d been so busy with these other things that almost none of my real work got done, but during the course of this week I finished the Cassavetes piece and made major headway in carving a rational interview out of the block of wood left me by Big John Brant.

Then came Friday, and Kit’s party.

I don’t much like parties. Too many people in too small a space, drinking too much and talking too loudly and usually creating at least one new set of permanent enemies. No matter how carefully the guest list is assembled, there’s usually one social gaffe to start the ball rolling — or roiling — and the discontent breeds like maggots in a dead horse.

This time, the guest list had been compiled with no reference at all to the usual social niceties. Jack Meacher and Perry Stokes were both invited, for instance, even though Perry would naturally bring his wife Grace, who had run away briefly to East St. Louis with that same Jack Meacher three summers ago. But Jack and Perry were among the male suspects, so here they were, willy-nilly, glowering at one another across Kit’s living room while Grace sat unobtrusively near the bar, putting away the cheap Scotch with a funnel.

Jack Meacher provided an added fillip by showing up with Audrey Feebleman; the first hint to anybody that there was trouble between Audrey and her husband Mort. Irv and Karen Leonard, who had managed to keep their marriage green — if not to say gangrenous — for nine wonderful years by combining moral disapproval of others with very tight security on their own peccadilloes, spent most of the party standing in a corner together back-biting everyone else present, until Karen suddenly went off to dance the hustle with Mark Banbury, who had arrived with Honey Hamilton, an absolutely luscious blonde I had always coveted.

Let’s see; and who else? Ellen Richter, who had been invited as a suspect but who had since been cleared by Staples, arrived with Jack Freelander, who was still a suspect and who was still determined to pick my brains for that asinine magazine piece of his. He hummed and stuttered at me all evening, like a defective hearing aid.

The other female suspect, Claire Wallace, a tall cool girl of the sort who models long skirts in the women’s magazines, showed up with a lurking shifty-eyed fellow introduced as Lou, who had long graying hair and heavy bags under his eyes, who wore dungarees and a flannel shirt and a leather vest, and who looked generally like an unsuccessful train robber. And the representatives of the sexual Third World, Jay English and Dave Poumon, brought along some messy fag hag named Madge Stockton; one of those plump girls who wears forty shawls and combs her hair with barbed wire.

So there we were, eighteen oddly assorted people in one smallish living room, with February taking place outside. Kit had a stack of easy rock music on the turntable, to fill in the sound until conversation should commence, and I served as bartender for the first hour, until the guests were properly lubricated. The secret of a successful party, if there is any such thing, is to get some alcohol into each guest right away, but then slow the liquor and provide some food, to keep them from becoming dysfunctional. Also hide the chairs; if everybody sits down, the party dies. Also have the food and liquor tables as far from one another as possible; that way, the drinkers will cluster in one place, the eaters will cluster in another, and the well-rounded types will circulate. Keep them standing and walking and drinking and eating, and pretty soon they’ll act as though they’re at a party.

Which they did. The usual conversations took place, I traveled around trying unsuccessfully to avoid Jack Freelander, and Kit prowled among her suspects like a choirmaster through a chorus in which one voice is singing flat. Her method was fairly direct; she just kept talking with people about Laura Penney’s murder, which was now an event ten days in the past, so it could be discussed as unsolved history, like the John F. Kennedy assassination. Fairly early on, I passed her in conversation with Jack Meacher and heard her say, “One of the people in this room is a murderer.”

“Oh, I think it was a burglar did it,” Jack said. “Do these little sandwiches come from Smiler’s?”

I didn’t listen to Kit’s response, since Jack Freelander was gliding toward me again, but several times later that evening I heard her deliver the same old-movie line to several other guests, and the responses ranged from Karen Leonard’s jaded, “Well, I’m never surprised by anything anybody does,” to Jay English’s avid, “Who?”

“One of them. One of the people in this room is a murderer.”

Well, it was true, wasn’t it? I danced with Honey Hamilton while her date, Mark Banbury, was busy dancing with Karen Leonard, and Kit just kept hacking through the underbrush. And the party, despite its origins, became a party.

My flight from Jack Freelander made me unwary in other directions, and I abruptly found myself in conversation with Madge Stockton, the pudgy girl brought by Jay English and Dave Poumon. “I understand a friend of yours was murdered recently,” she said.

“Most of us knew her,” I admitted, nodding my head to include the other party goers.

“It’s so hard to keep track of an individual death, isn’t it?” she said. “There are so many deaths, so many injustices, they all blend together.”

“Well, that depends how closely they affect you.”

She smiled; she had bad teeth. “That’s right,” she said. “It isn’t morality at all, it’s personal convenience, personal emotions. None of us really care how many strangers get killed.”

Well, if you’re going to a cocktail party you have to expect cocktail party conversation. I said, “Naturally, it affects you more if it happens to somebody you know.” And even as I was saying it, I knew I was giving this girl an irresistible opportunity to quote John Donne.

Which she took. I received the tolling of the bell with my best glazed smile, and she said, “But the point really is morality, isn’t it? People are liberal or conservative these days, they believe in women’s rights or property rights or whatever, some of them are even still ethical, but nobody’s actually moral any more. Nobody hates sin.” Then she nodded, looking amused at herself, and said, “See? People smile if you even use the word sin.”

Was I smiling? Yes, I was. Wiping it off, I tried another catch phrase: “The only sin is getting caught.”

But I wasn’t to get off so lightly. “Not even that,” she said. “That was twenty years ago, when people were much more naive. Now we know what happens if you get caught. A lecture tour and a best-seller.”

“And Laura Penney’s killer?”

“He probably regrets it,” she said. “Because of the inconvenience. But I don’t suppose he’s ashamed of himself, do you?”

“Ashamed?” What an odd word.

She gave me another flash of her bad teeth. “Nobody’s ashamed of anything any more, are they?”

“Well, there’s a lot in what you say,” I said. “Woops, looks like I need a new drink. Excuse me.” And I fled.

While I was making that new drink, which in fact I did need, Grace Stokes, extremely drunk, got into a sudden unintelligible loud argument with her husband Perry and then stormed out, thumping her right shoulder against the doorpost on the way by. Jack Meacher, the Don Juan of East St. Louis, kept his attentions firmly fixed on his current date, Audrey Feebleman, until Perry Stokes also left, following his wife’s trail but not repeating the shoulder-doorpost thump.

Time passed. I made a date with Honey Hamilton for lunch and an afternoon screening next Tuesday. Jay English and Dave Poumon shook everybody’s hand and left, taking their moral fruit fly with them. Lou, the apparent train robber, shot up in the John, an action of which we all disapproved; Claire Wallace apologized for him and took him away. Feeling mellow after my successful gambit with Honey Hamilton, I gave Jack Freelander fifteen minutes of my valuable time and the son of a bitch actually took notes. He and Ellen Richter left shortly afterward, and I heard Kit trying to talk about Laura’s murder with Mark Banbury, whose reaction was to tell her how he was coming along with his analysis: “Doctor Glund says I’m very nearly ready to start dealing with my repressed hostilities.”

Repressed hostilities; the world could use more of those.

“We’ll clean up in the morning,” Kit said.

“Good,” I said, and yawned. Mark Banbury and Honey Hamilton, the last of our guests, had just departed, and the old clock on the wall read two-fifteen.

“What we’ll do now,” she went on, “is put down on paper everything we got.”

“Everything we got?” Then I remembered; we were investigating a murder. “Have mercy, Kit,” I said. “We’ll do that in the morning, too.”

“No, we might forget things.” She was already opening her secretary-desk, sitting down, gathering pencils and sheets of blank paper. “One thing I know for sure,” she said. “It isn’t Irv Leonard.”

Intrigued despite myself, I drew up a chair and said, “Why not?”

“If the killer was a man,” she explained, “then it follows that he was the secret lover, and Irv wasn’t the secret lover.”

“How can you be so sure? He and Karen both play around on the side, you know that as well as I do. They’re the biggest marital hypocrites in New York.”

“Yes,” Kit agreed, “and each of them always knows exactly what the other one’s doing. Neither of them ever admits it, but they always know who the other one is hanging around with. So I had a little chat with Karen, and I just kept mentioning names until she froze up, and she froze up when I mentioned Susan Rasmussen. Remember the New Year’s party at Hal’s place? Irv was hanging around with Susan then, so if he’s still hanging around with her he definitely wasn’t involved with Laura.”

“Why not? Why couldn’t he have two girls?”

“Not Irv Leonard,” she said. “Some men might do that. You could do it, for instance. But not Irv Leonard.”

I didn’t much care for that crack. “If you say so, Sherlock.”

“Oh, and it isn’t Jack Meacher either.” She made another note.

“How do you figure that?”

“I talked with Audrey,” she told me. “Jack was with her that evening, but she hadn’t split with Mort yet, so Jack lied to the police. But if the police ever come back and ask again, he’ll tell the truth this time.”

“Not Sherlock,” I said. “I was wrong. You’re Inspector Maigret.”

“I knew I’d get somewhere, if I could only bring all the suspects together in one place.”

“And now you’ve cut the list to six, out of an original nine. Fast work.”

“Oh, we can cut more than that.” She was scribbling furiously on her sheets of paper now. “Like, it isn’t Jay English or Dave, so that’s two more gone.”

“And what made them go?”

“They got married last month,” she said. “To each other, in San Francisco. Dave showed me their newspaper clipping. The only way either of them could have been a suspect was if Jay was trying to go straight by having an affair with Laura, and he obviously wasn’t.”

“Out of the closet and off the hook.”

But Kit was in no mood for jokes. “That leaves four,” she said. “No, three; it wasn’t Claire Wallace.”

“Not Maigret either,” I said. “Maybe Miss Marple. Why isn’t it Claire Wallace?”

“Because the only reason she would have had for fighting with Laura was over Jerry Fishback, assuming Jerry was the secret lover. But I found out tonight she broke up with Jerry just after New Year’s, and started going with that whatever-his-name-was...”

“Lou. The shooting gallery king.”

“Dreadful man.”

“The last survivor of the sixties,” I agreed.

“They’ve been going together for two weeks. So Claire didn’t have any motive.”

“I stand in awe of you,” I said.

“So that leaves Jack Freelander and Mark Banbury and Perry Stokes.” She gave me a quick look, saying, “You were talking with Jack Freelander. Did you get anything?”

I was in a quandary. I hadn’t actually been engaged in sleuthing tonight, since I knew damn well there was nothing to sleuth about, but wouldn’t it look strange if I had nothing at all to report? So I took the plunge and said, “Well, you can cross him off your list.”

She pounced on that. “I can? How do you know for sure?”

How did I know for sure? “Well,” I said, “you know he’s doing that piece on pornographic movies for Esquire.”

“I think everybody on earth knows that,” she said, “except the people at Esquire.”

“Well, um— He borrowed that Farber book from me, Negative Space. I hadn’t thought of it before, but he borrowed it that afternoon and he called me that night to ask—”

“What night? You mean the night Laura was killed?”

“Right. He borrowed the book from me that afternoon I gave it to him at the screening I took Laura to.” Which was perfectly true. Everything I’d said so far was true, but the conversation I was about to report as having taken place the night of the killing had actually taken place two hours ago in this room. “So he called that same night,” I said, “and he—”

“But you had your machine on. Remember? You were running a film.”

Damn. Suddenly things were getting complicated, it was hard to remember the safe places to put my feet. “That would have been later,” I said. “Around, uhh, eleven-thirty. Anyway, he called and he’d read most of the book by then, and he had a million questions to ask. You can imagine, reading the collected reviews of Manny Farber. But the thing is, he couldn’t possibly have done that much reading in the Farber book and at the same time have gone off and gotten into a quarrel with a girl friend and killed her and all the rest of it.”

Kit continued to peer closely at me. She said, “What movie was that you were running?”

“Why? What difference does it make?”

“You told me what it was, and I’m trying to remember.”

So was I. The titles of the twenty-four prints I own blurred together in my mind. “Gaslight,” I guessed. “I think that was it.”

“Ah,” she said.

“Anyway,” I pointed out, “that eliminates Jack Freelander. So all we have left is Mark Banbury and Perry Stokes.”

“No, we don’t,” she said. With a strange little smile on her lips, she drew a big pencil X through the notes she’d just made.

I said, “What’s that for?”

“It was Top Hat,” she said.

I looked at her. I knew what she was talking about, but I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge it. I said, “What was Top Hat?”

She looked at me, studying me as though trying to guess my weight. “I knew you were the secret lover,” she said. “I knew it all along. But I thought there had to be somebody else besides you.”

“Kit,” I said. “Hold on a minute. Are you accusing me?”

“You were seeing an awful lot of Laura Penney,” Kit said. “And the only reason the police think I’m guilty is because even they know you’re the likeliest one to have been the secret lover.”

“But I’ve been exonerated, remember? I’m the one with the cast-iron alibi.”

“Are you really? Let’s look at that alibi again, why don’t we?”

“Kit,” I said, “this isn’t doing either one of us any good. It’s late, we’re both tired, we’ve both been drinking, we’re both likely to say foolish things.”

“I want to talk about your alibi, Carey.”

“Well, I don’t.” And then I was on my feet, irritated beyond endurance. “What the hell does Laura Penney’s death mean to you anyway?” I remembered the fat girl and her talk of morality and sin, and I said, “You aren’t involved in this out of any moral anguish or anything like that. The cops got down on you, that’s all, that’s the only reason you’re even thinking about the subject or asking the question.”

Kit, very quiet, was watching me pace back and forth. She said, “Meaning what?”

“Meaning you know you’re innocent, and you know they can’t prove you guilty, so leave it alone. Don’t play detective, leave that to the pros.”

“Meaning I might get hurt?”

“Meaning were already into B-movie dialogue,” I pointed out. “Don’t complicate things, all right?”

“You killed her, Carey.”

It was said, stated out loud, hanging there in the air between us. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again she was watching me. I said, “The private detective saw me leave.”

“You bribed him,” she said. “And he’s disappeared. But the police are looking for him, and when they find him maybe he’ll tell a different story.”

So she didn’t yet know that Edgarson was dead. But when she found out — and the way she was poking around, she was bound to find out — she would not make Staples’ mistake. She would draw the lines correctly, and they would lead straight to me.

“Oh, Kit,” I said. “Why did you have to get into all this?” And I took a step toward her.

“I’ll scream,” she said.

“Only once,” I told her.

What a mess. I hadn’t wanted any of this, and one thing had led to the next, and now I had the death of Kit Markowitz to deal with. And she was the best girl friend I ever had.

All the way uptown in the cab, dabbing at the new scratches on my face and wrists, I tried to figure out what to do, and by the time I got home I had a plan. It was desperate and dramatic, but under the circumstances I didn’t see what else there was to do.

I left my overcoat on when I entered the apartment, went directly to the kitchen, blew out the two pilot lights on the top of the stove, and switched on all four burners. With gas hissing into the room, I went back to the living room, picked up my heaviest glass ashtray, and prepared to hit myself on the back of the head with it.

Which turned out to be very difficult to do. In the first place, I had this automatic tendency to duck, combined with this other automatic tendency to pull my punches. Also, I didn’t want to hit myself hard enough to knock myself out. All I wanted was a bump, a bruise, some indication that violence had taken place, and finally, after three painful glancing blows, I gave myself a good one that hurt like fury. “Ow ow ow ow ow,” I said, dancing around the room, dropping the ashtray and clutching at my head, getting so angry from the pain that I actually went back and kicked the ashtray, and then I hurt at both ends.

Well, anyway, the job was done, and when I touched the sore spot on the back of my head a minute later my fingertips came away a little damp with blood. Fine. Now we give the seeping gas five minutes or so to make some headway in the apartment, and then we throw that rotten ashtray through a window and we stagger out into the hall yelling help help help, and the obvious conclusion is that the murderer of Laura Penney, believing that Kit and I were getting too close to him, had attempted to murder us both, succeeding with Kit and nearly succeeding with me.

If there had only been some point at which everything could have been reversed. Sitting in the black leather director’s chair with my overcoat still on and my head still aching, I kept going over and over the events of the last ten days, trying to find something that could have been done differently, some decision that would have ended with Kit still alive now, and the more I thought about it the more inevitable it all became. From the moment I’d lost my temper and punched Laura and she’d slipped on that shiny floor, every step had followed with the regularity and inevitability of a heartbeat.

Funny smell the gas company adds to their product, so you’ll know when it’s in the air. I’ll wait till it gets a bit stronger, then get up from here and find the ashtray... kicked it under the sofa... throw it out the window... run out to the hall... stagger out to the hall... sleepy... very heavy body in this chair... stagger out to hall soon... be able to relax after this... danger all gone... relax... relax... head doesn’t hurt so much any more...

Ten Memoirs of a Master Detective

“You were lucky,” Staples said.

“I sure was.”

I sure was. The explosion had saved my life. I’d gone to sleep in that damn chair, overcome by the gas, and if I hadn’t forgotten about the pilot light in the oven Staples would have had two unsolved murders that night. As it was, the explosion knocked out windows and summoned help just as efficiently and much more dramatically than I could have done, and when I woke up I was in a private room in a city hospital with a policeman on the door, and I was swathed in enough bandages to make me qualify as snow sculpture.

The policeman at the door, seeing me awake, summoned a nurse and a doctor and Staples, in that order. The nurse refused to answer my questions; she was there only to take my temperature, pulse and half a dozen other things. The doctor joked away all my questions; he was there only to read the nurse’s report. But Staples was perfectly willing to answer questions: “It’s Saturday,” he said. “Twenty minutes to three in the afternoon.”

“But what happened?”

“Somebody tried to kill you,” he said.

“Tried to kill me!”

“Tell me about last night.”

So I told him about last night, the party, the assembled suspects, the post-mortem that Kit and I had done in which we’d eliminated three names from the list but had come to no other firm conclusions, then my departure, the cab ride home, “and then I don’t know. I can’t remember anything after I went into the apartment.”

“You were hit on the head,” Staples told me. “The killer set your oven to explode, hoping it would look like an accident. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“The oven?” Suddenly I realized what I’d done. Good God! “I might have been killed!”

Staples nodded soberly. “I think that was the general idea.”

I wiggled my various parts under the covers, trying to figure out if they were all still there. “How bad— What hap— How am I?”

“Concussion. Some scratches and bruises, a few minor burns. Nothing serious. You were lucky.”

“I sure was.” Then I realized my distraction was keeping me from getting on with the original scenario. I could brood about exploding ovens later; for the moment, I had a role to play: “But why?” was my first prepared line. “Why would anybody do such a thing?”

Staples looked grim. “It seems,” he said, “you and Miss Markowitz did better than you knew last night. You must have gotten close to the killer without realizing it.”

“You mean, he thought we were onto him? And that’s why he tried — Good God, Kit!” I struggled up off the pillow. “Call her, Fred, she’s in danger!”

His grimness increased, as he rested a hand on my shoulder. “I already thought of that, Carey. I’m sorry, we were too late.”

“Too late? What do you mean? You don’t mean—”

He nodded. “I’m sorry. He must have gone down to her place as soon as he left your apartment last night.”

“Kit,” I said.

He patted my arm. “Don’t worry, Carey. We’ll get him.”

“Kit,” I said.

I spent nine days in the hospital, and all in all it was very pleasant. I had visitors as often as I wanted, I had as much rest as I wanted, and by the fourth day I had my typewriter and manuscripts and could even get some work done.

Staples visited at least twice a day, sometimes with Al Bray and sometimes alone. On his second visit I gave him Kit’s conclusions about the innocence of Jay English and Dave Poumon, plus the unrevealed alibi of Jack Meacher, and we agreed it was ironic that Kit had proved her own innocence by becoming another victim. He kept assuring me he was making progress, and indicated he was leaning more now in the direction of Irv Leonard. (I hadn’t mentioned Kit’s conclusions in re Irv, feeling the list of suspects was shrinking rather alarmingly as it was.) Staples also had me go over and over and over the events of the party searching for that one small item that had scared the killer, but we never seemed to find it.

Patricia visited several times, with her husband’s knowledge, and once we managed to perform an unnatural sex act together. Honey Hamilton also visited, twice, seeming very warm and sympathetic and eager to console me for my tragic loss. Other friends visited, some smuggling in bottles of bourbon, but most of the time I remembered to keep a long face.

There were only two bad moments. One was when Jack Freelander arrived with a rough draft of his porno article; trapped in bed, I had no choice but to read the damn thing and make comments. The other incident, more serious, was one of the times Staples brought my mail. He was stopping at my apartment every day to see how the reconstruction was coming along — they were putting in a new kitchen and fixing the walls — and was also picking up my mail. On Wednesday when he arrived, the bundle included a large white envelope with a familiar-looking blue logo on the return address. What was it?

Tobin-Global!

The detective agency, Edgarson’s private detective agency!

(I had by now been living a Valium-free existence for nearly a week, and it was astonishing what a difference it made in moments of stress. What did Mankind do before these wonderful pills? Reality is drabber and slower and grayer without them, but the scary moments are suddenly faster and far more terrifying. My three murders had been serious, of course, but they had happened at a pace where I could retain control over myself and events. Now, with only the hospital’s grudgingly-dispensed pain killers inside me, a simple matter like this envelope nearly killed me with fright. Consequences seemed more real, dangers more possible. Valium had made it possible for me to walk my tightrope as though there were a net. Now, the chasm yawned plainly beneath me.)

Had Staples seen this return address? Had he made the connection? Should I explain it somehow, make up some story? Should I look in the envelope?

No. No to everything. In a panic situation, the best thing to do is nothing. If Staples had made the connection he’d mention it himself. (But officially I’d never met Edgarson! How could I explain this discrepancy?)

Closing my eyes to that drop, forcing myself to an appearance of calm without the assistance of pills, I casually put the mail on the bed, the Tobin-Global envelope face down, and Staples and I spent ten minutes discussing the latest developments in the case. Karen Leonard had an alibi for her husband for the night of the party, but Staples had taken a dislike to her — an easy thing to do — and therefore thought she might be lying. I can’t stand it, I kept screaming inside my head, but I did stand it, and at last he left, and I clawed my way into that white envelope, and found—

What? Shirley’s papers, the original set that I hadn’t been able to find. Utterly bewildered, I read the accompanying letter:

I liked the straightforward way in which Walter Carter maligned the dead; apparently his opinion of Edgarson was just as high as mine. And I also appreciated his decision to send these papers back. What an unsuspected little time bomb Edgarson had left in his wake! Undoubtedly he’d stolen those papers during that period when he was occupying my apartment, and I couldn’t begin to guess what smarmy use he’d intended to make of them.

Well. All’s well that ends well. I took from under my mattress a bottle of smuggled bourbon and made do as best I could for the absence of Valium. Shirley’s papers, covering letter and envelope and all, went out with that day’s trash, and on the following Monday I left the hospital and went home.

The new stove and sink and refrigerator were in, but the wall between the kitchenette and the living room had so far been only partially sheetrocked, leaving some of the raw new studs exposed. The living room windows had been replaced. There’d been some damage in the living room, primarily breakage of small objects like lamps, with the principal casualty being my answering machine. The carpet had also suffered both fire and water damage, and would have to be replaced. But most of these things were insured, and in any event the apartment was certainly livable.

I felt rested and refreshed. In the hospital, I’d finished the Cassavetes piece and now I had “Big John Brant: The Acorn And The Oak” just about ready for its final draft. Patricia was coming over tomorrow afternoon to permit me to worship once more at her shrine, and I had a date with Honey Hamilton for Thursday night. Life, which had been full of turmoil for a while, was at last settling down again.

I also felt utterly safe. Staples had begun to look guilty in my presence the last few days, meaning the investigation was stymied once more; this time, I should think, permanently. He’d suggested as I was leaving the hospital that they keep me under police protection for a while, since the killer might have it in mind to try for me again, but I pointed out the needlessness of that: “Since he hasn’t been arrested by now, he knows he must be safe from me, that I don’t know or didn’t notice whatever it was. It would be much more dangerous for him to try to kill me again than to leave things alone.” Staples agreed at last, reluctantly, and so I was finally again a private citizen. There’d been many a twist and turn in the trail since I’d stupidly lost my temper with Laura Penney that night, but it was all over now. I was home and dry.

When the doorbell rang at two o’clock Friday afternoon I was on the phone with Honey, the two of us murmuring at one another the way people will on the day after their first night together. “It’s the doorbell, sweetheart,” I said. “I’ll call you back later.” We made kissing noises at one another, and I hung up.

And who was this at the door? Patricia? But she’d said she wouldn’t be able to come around any more this week; not till next Tuesday at the earliest. But I could find out who my guest was before seeing her, or him; as a part of the general renewal and repair around this place, the intercom had been fixed, and it was now possible for me to lean close to the grid in the wall, push the button to the left, and say, “Who is it?”

“Fred Staples, Carey.”

“Come on up.”

I hadn’t seen Staples all week. He’d been avoiding me, I’d assumed, because he had nothing new to report on the Laura Penney-Kit Markowitz murder case. Since I was reasonably sure he still had nothing to report on that case, maybe this meant he had another of his unusual homicides to show me. That would be nice; it had been quite a while since I’d had the chance to flex that muscle.

Nevertheless, the thought of facing Fred Staples still made me sufficiently nervous that I went to the bathroom and popped a Valium before opening my front door. He came thumping up the stairs in his hat and raincoat — an early March rain was drizzling outside — and he had Al Bray with him. “Welcome,” I said. “Come on in. Coffee?”

“No, thanks, Carey.” Staples seemed a little awkward with me, and Al Bray merely nodded his hello.

Was something wrong? They came in, I shut the door, and we all stood in the living room together. I said, “Something wrong, Fred?”

“We got a new development,” he said.

I made myself look eager. “In the Laura Penney case?”

“Another anonymous letter,” Staples told me. “Apparently from the same source.”

“Anonymous letter?” But Edgarson was the source of that first letter, how could he have sent another one now? Postmarked Seattle? Or maybe he’d made some sort of arrangement that the letter should be sent automatically if he didn’t stop it.

Staples had reached down inside his raincoat and his jacket and was now extending the letter toward me. “Same kind of paper, same kind of typing,” he said.

God damn that Edgarson, would he never leave me alone? I took the letter and opened it and read,

That wasn’t Edgarson. I’d blown myself up long after Edgarson had been removed from the scene. And what was this nonsense about a key? Looking at Staples and Bray, seeing their serious faces, I said, “This thing accuses me of being the killer.”

Nodding, Staples said, “It does read that way, Carey.”

“But you know I’m not the killer. Never mind all this business about blowing myself up, you know I didn’t kill Laura Penney.”

Staples was doing all the talking, while Bray just watched, and now Staples said, “The basement door to that building is around on the side street. The detective wouldn’t have been able to see it, so you could have gone in that way. And I must say, Carey, that if you did go in that way, it suggests premeditation.”

I said, “But I don’t have any such key. I never did have. Why would I have a key to the basement of some building I don’t even live in?”

Staples smiled a little, as though pleased with me. “I’m glad to hear that, Carey,” he said. “If you’d said you did have a key, I would have been a little troubled.”

“Well, I don’t.”

Staples and Bray looked at one another, both still solemn-faced, and then Staples sighed and shrugged and looked at me again and said, “We’ve gotten to be pretty good friends, Carey. I hope this won’t spoil that.”

“No, of course not, why should it?” Handing the anonymous letter back to him, I said, “I guess that must be the same nut that left the message on my answering machine that time. Probably the other anonymous letter was about me, too.”

“Probably was,” Staples agreed. And that should have been the end of it, except that he stood there holding the anonymous letter in one hand, rapping the folded edge of it against his other thumbnail and frowning as though unhappy about something.

I said, “Is there more?”

“I’m afraid there is, Carey. You know we’re pretty much at a dead end in this case, so we have to follow any lead we get. I’m sorry.”

“Well, sure. I understand that.”

Into his jacket he went again, and came out with a folded document that looked vaguely like a lease. “So we went to court,” he said, “and got a search warrant. I’m sorry, Carey, but we have to look for that key.”

I was surprised, and more than a little annoyed. “For God’s sake, Fred, I told you I never had such a key.”

“We’re going to have to search the premises. I’m sorry,” he added, saying that for the fourth or fifth time. He kept being sorry, but on the other hand he was obviously determined to search the apartment.

Patricia. Had she left any little something-or-other that her husband shouldn’t see? No, I didn’t think so, but what a hell of a complication that would make.

Al Bray now finally spoke. “Do you have a key ring, Carey?”

“Yes, of course.” I took it from my pocket and handed it to him. From his own trouser pocket he took an ordinary Yale-type brass key, and compared it with all of mine.

What if one matched? But it couldn’t, I didn’t have any goddam basement key. This whole thing was absurd.

Nevertheless, I felt a surprising rush of relief when at last he shook his head, handed me back my keys, and said, “Not there.”

“Of course not,” I said.

“We’ll want to search now, Carey,” Staples said.

“Go right ahead. Do you want me to help?”

Staples grinned, but not with much humor. “I don’t think so,” he said.

Al Bray said to me, “Why not just sit down on the sofa there? We won’t take very long.”

So that’s what I did. I sat on the sofa, and Al Bray went into the bedroom to conduct the search there while Fred Staples searched in the living room, and I tried to figure out just what the hell was going on around here.

In the first place, who had sent that anonymous letter, and why? And what was all this about a key? What was happening? For the first time, I didn’t feel in control of the situation, and that was frightening.

I understand the police slang word for a search is “toss,” though Staples and Bray hadn’t used that word with me. In any event, they tossed my place for about five minutes before Staples looked up from my bottom desk drawer to call, “Hey, Al? I think I got it.”

I stared at him across the room, and as Bray came hurrying out of the bedroom I got to my feet. But Staples pointed a severe finger at me, saying, “You wait there for just a minute, Carey.”

So I waited. Whatever key Staples had just found in my desk drawer was matched against the key from Bray’s pocket, and I could see by the looks they gave one another that it was a match. I said, “Fred, what have you got there? Let me see it, will you?”

So they brought it over to me, and both of their faces were much harder now. Al Bray had the two keys in the palm of one hand, and he held it out so I could see them.

Two keys. Both Yale-type, both brass. The hills and valleys looked identical. The only difference was that one of them — the one Staples had just found — was shiny and new.

I said, “I never saw that key before in my life.” And even as I was saying it, I could hear what a weak cliché line it was. How many movies had contained that line, and how many times had it been believed?

Also my next remark: “Somebody planted it there!”

“I’m sorry, Carey,” Staples said. But this time he didn’t sound sorry at all.

I said, “Wait a minute. Look at it, it’s brand new.”

Bray said, “Only used once, maybe.”

“But it’s not mine!”

Bray put the two keys away in his pocket. Staples said, “Better get your coat on, Carey.”

In the car, heading downtown through the pelting rain, I figured it out. Al Bray drove, up front with the police radio intermittently squawking, and Staples rode in back with me. I spent the first dozen blocks trying to get my bearings, trying to understand what had happened and why — had Edgarson planted that key there? — and then I turned my head and saw Staples’ stony profile, saw him looking straight ahead with no expression at all on his face, and all at once I got it.

“Oh, damn it to hell,” I said. I didn’t speak loudly enough for Bray to hear, not over the radio and the windshield wipers and the rain, but Staples heard me all right. A muscle moved in his jaw.

I said, “You were afraid the killer might try for me again anyway, regardless of what I’d said. So you were keeping an eye on me, without letting me know. Being a pal.”

Staples neither moved nor spoke. The hard gray glass of the window beyond him streamed with rainwater.

I could see it, I could see exactly how it had happened. Tuesday afternoon he’d been watching, and Patricia had come into my building, and two hours later Patricia had come out again, and when he’d questioned her casually that evening she’d undoubtedly said she’d been home all day.

In fact... In fact, now that I thought about it, there was that annoying phone call about ten minutes after Patricia’d arrived. Without my answering machine, we’d had to put up with the ringing until the caller had quit. Eighteen rings, I remember counting them.

Staples in a phone booth, counting the eighteen rings.

But what a hell of a revenge. All right, all right, he used to carry on so much about how perfect Patricia was, what a perfect couple they were, so this thing had to leave him with a certain amount of egg on his face, but wasn’t he overreacting just a little? I mean, he was framing me for murder.

He was framing me. For murder.

He had written that anonymous letter himself. He had carried that incriminating key into my apartment in his own pocket.

All right. What man does, man can undo. I had to persuade him, that’s all, I had to convince him that he didn’t want to do this thing. And I only had a few minutes, because once we got downtown and the official business started, there wouldn’t be any way for him to change his mind.

But how? What should I say to him? Tell him that Patricia loves him, that we’d had one brief crazy mistake and—?

No. That expressionless rockbound face told me one thing for sure; I should not mention Patricia’s name. Somehow I had to get him to stop doing this thing without ever saying out loud his reason for doing it.

What, then? Friendship? No; it wasn’t long enough or deep enough. Danger to himself? There wasn’t any, to begin with, and in any event I was sure he didn’t care.

Professionalism. Pride of accomplishment, that was my only chance. Leaning closer to him, speaking softly enough so Bray wouldn’t be able to hear, I said, “You don’t want to do this, Fred. If you do this, the real killer will get away.”

Nothing. No response.

“You don’t want that to happen, Fred. Think of poor Laura Penney, think of Kit. If you do this, their deaths will go unpunished.”

Nothing.

“Fred,” I said, becoming more desperate, “don’t you care who killed Laura and Kit? Don’t you care?”

He looked at me, at last. He studied me for five seconds with his very cold eyes, and then he said, “No.” And faced front.

I couldn’t believe it. “But that’s your job,” I said. “That’s your vocation. Doesn’t it matter to you?”

Apparently he was finished expressing himself. He sat silent, facing front.

I kept trying for another twenty blocks, talking at him every time the radio blare cut Al Bray out of earshot, appealing to Staples’ moral sense, his ethics, his pride in a job well done, and I might as well have been talking to an Easter Island statue. The only time he spoke or moved or did anything at all was when I skirted the subject of Patricia, just hinting slightly at the reason for all this, and when I did that he said, while still facing front, “Better be careful. You could get yourself shot trying to escape.”

He meant it, too.

After that I subsided, casting about in my mind for some other way off this hook, and gradually I became very annoyed. I had done everything right, everything. I had committed three murders and covered myself brilliantly and gotten away with all three of them clean, and now this overly-possessive husband, this damned jealous—

Framed for a murder I committed! It isn’t fair, it just isn’t fair.

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” I said at last, driven by exasperation. “The wrong one of us is a detective, that’s for sure. The only way you can make an arrest is to frame somebody. Who’s going to solve your crimes for you after I’m gone?”

He didn’t respond to that either, so I gave him some more: “You can’t do anything right, do you know that? No wonder—” But, no; I did not want to be shot trying to escape. So I started again: “You couldn’t even get George Templeton.”

He frowned at that, and turned finally to give me a puzzled look. “Templeton?”

“The fellow whose wife went off the terrace in the snow.”

“I remember him. What about him?

“I only took your side because I thought you were my friend,” I told him. “But Al Bray was right, Templeton killed his wife.”

Staples squinted, apparently trying to read on my face whether I was lying or not. “You’re just saying that,” he decided. “Because you’re sore.”

“Am I? I’ll tell you the two things that prove it. The frostbitten plants in the window, and the fact that the only disturbances in the snow on the terrace were the footprints.”

“Explain,” he said.

“Templeton hit her and she died,” I explained. “Hours before he threw her out. He kept the terrace doors open and the body nearby to delay rigor mortis, so she’d look as though she died later than she did. He put on her shoes and walked out to the end of the terrace, being very careful not to touch anything, and then walked backwards off the terrace in the same footprints. And then put the shoes back on the body.”

“That’s just a theory,” Staples said. “There isn’t any proof.”

“Not now, not any more. The only way you’ll get Templeton is to frame him. But that morning there was proof, only you were too dumb to see it.”

He was stung, but controlling himself. “What proof?”

“Drunk or sober,” I told him, “there was no way for Mrs. Templeton to leave that terrace without disturbing the snow on top of the railing. And it was untouched.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

“She never went off that terrace,” I told him. “Templeton carried her downstairs and threw her out the living room window.”

“You’re right.” He shook his head and looked at me in obvious admiration, and actually smiled at me. “I’m going to miss you, Carey,” he said.

Which was when it finally became real for me. The chill air of prison touched the nape of my neck, and I crouched more miserably inside my coat. Staples meant what he said; he would miss me. He liked me, he was pleased to think of himself as my friend, despite everything. But he would also frame me for Laura Penney’s murder, frame me solid and convincing, and nothing on earth would stop him.

I couldn’t talk any more. I turned away, staring out the side window at the rain, looking at my future. How different it would be from my past. All my cleverness, buried inside a stone.

Staples was still marveling over my final deduction. “You really are something, Carey,” he told the back of my head. “In a lot of ways I don’t care for you very much, but you sure are one hell of a detective.”