Westlake, Donald E - SSC 02

by Enough (v1. 1)

  "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. / cant 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:

  Dear Mr. Thorpe:

  Having been unable to reach you by phone, I have decided to return these documents to you, though of course Tobin-Global stands prepared to assist you in your marital situation in any way we can. Unfortunately, we have no record of your ever having engaged our services.

  These documents were found in the desk file of Mr. John Edgarson, a former employee no longer with the firm. If Mr. Edgarson was working for

  you privately, I must point out that by the terms of Mr. Edgarson's employment he was required to relay all potential client arrangements to Tobin-Global. The resources of a large organization like Tobin-Global are, of course, much more useful in delicate marital situations than the services, no matter how well-intentioned, of any one individual.

  If you were under the impression that Mr. Edgar-son was taking some action on your behalf, would you get in touch with me?

  Sincerely,

  Walter Carter, V, P.

  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. 'Til 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 Brav 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,

  He can blow himself up all he wants, but he should have thrown away the key to the basement door at Penney's.

  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 cliche 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 dav.

  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 over-reacting 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.