Why Me?

41

May unlocked the apartment door and walked into a living room full of cops. "For heaven's sake," she said. "If I'd known there was a party I'd have stopped and bought some cookies."

"Where've you been?" said the biggest, angriest, most rumpled plainclothesman.

"To the movies."

"We know that," said another one. "After the movies."

"I came home." She squinted at the clock on top of the TV set. "The movie got out at twenty to twelve, I took a cab, and now it isn't even midnight."

The cops looked a bit uncertain, then pretended they hadn't looked uncertain at all. "If you're in contact with John Archibald Dortmunder—" the big angry rumpled plainclothesman started, but May interrupted:

"He doesn't use his middle name."

"What?"

"Archibald. He never uses the Archibald."

"I don't care," said the cop. "You see what I mean? I don't give a fart."

Another of the cops said, "Harry, take it easy."

"It's getting me down, that's all," the big angry rumpled cop said. "Blitzes, stakeouts, crashing around, everybody on double shift. All over one goddam stumblebum with sticky fingers."

"Everybody," May told him solemnly, "is innocent until proved guilty."

"The hell they are." The cop moved his shoulders around, then said to the other cops, "All right, let's go." Glaring at May, he said, "If you're in contact with John Archibald Dortmunder, you tell him he'll be a lot better off if he gives himself up."

"Why should I tell him a thing like that?"

"Just remember what I said," the cop told her. "You could be in trouble, too, you know."

"John would be much worse off if he gave himself up."

"That's all right, that's all right." And the cops all pounded their feet on out of there, leaving the door open behind them.

May closed it. "Poo," she said, and went away to open an Airwick.