by Parnell Hall
“Right.”
“The cops locked up your bedroom?”
“They sure did.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand. What’s to stop us from walking right in?”
“I don’t know. I suppose they have a guard.”
“You suppose?”
“I imagine they do.”
“You didn’t look?”
“No. Why should I?”
I rubbed my forehead. “Well,” I said. “Let’s go take a look.”
He frowned. “Now?”
“Yeah, now. Where’s the bedroom?”
“The bedroom?”
“Yeah. Where’s the bedroom. Let’s go take a look.” He stared at me as if I were a lunatic. Then his face registered comprehension. “Oh,” he said. “They didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“You think this is my apartment, right?” I blinked. “This isn’t your apartment?”
“Of course not.”
“Well,” I said, “then whose apartment is it?” As I said that, the front door clicked open, and a knockout of a young blonde walked in.
3
WHICH MADE IT A BRAND-NEW BALL GAME.
We were sitting in the living room of what I had assumed was Anson Carbinder’s Park Avenue apartment. If, however, the apartment was actually the property of the young blonde who had just let herself in the front door, then I needed to revise my estimate of the whole situation.
Just in case there was any doubt as to that, the young lady in question squealed, “Anson!” raced across the room, and, as he rose to meet her, fell sobbing into his arms.
Okay.
I rose and awaited an introduction.
And wondered if Richard knew about this wrinkle.
When the young woman had sobbed herself out, which actually took several minutes, I said, “Excuse me, Mr. Carbinder.”
He looked up from wiping the tears off her cheek. His glance was irritated, as if I’d interrupted a special moment.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but if I’m going to help you, you have to help me. I hate to appear nosy, but who’s your friend?”
The blonde snuffled, looked over at me. The look was not kind. “Anson,” she said. “Who’s he?”
“He’s a detective. My attorney sent him.”
So. My attorney. Rather than Richard. Which would imply Blondie didn’t know Richard. I wondered if I should count that as a point in his favor or one against.
Blondie didn’t appear convinced. Her bloodshot eyes were wide. “A detective?” she said.
“That’s right,” I said. “My name’s Stanley Hastings. I’m a private detective. I’ve been asked by Mr. Carbinder’s attorney to look into the events surrounding the death of his wife. I know these are difficult times and you’re obviously very upset, but I’d appreciate your help in this matter.”
She blinked. My help?”
“That’s right.”
“And how could I help?”
I had to bite my lip. It occurred to me, she could help best by getting hit by a truck. Just let the cops get one whiff of her, and Anson Carbinder was going to be charged with murder, attorney or no attorney.
It also occurred to me that, tactful or not, it was an idea I needed to get across.
“I need any information you have,” I said. “I realize you may not have much. I’ve just begun, so I don’t know what’s what. I’d appreciate it if you’d cooperate and fill me in. Believe me, Mr. Carbinder needs your help.”
Blondie looked as if she were going to start crying again. She turned to Carbinder, looked up at him. “Anson,” she said.
Anson Carbinder put his arm around her shoulders protectively. “There’s no call for this,” he said. “She’s obviously very upset. Anything you want to ask her, ask me.”
“Fine,” I said. “What’s her name?”
“Connie Maynard.”
“This is her apartment?”
“Yes, it is.”
“How did you get in?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If this is her apartment, how did you get in?”
“What’s that go to do with it?”
I shook my head. “No good.”
“Huh?”
“I thought you were going to answer questions for her. If you can’t do any better than that, I’ll have to ask her.”
“Now, look here—”
“No, you look here. Your wife is dead. The cops tend to think you did it. Connie here, if she wasn’t crying, would look like a million bucks. You havin’ a key to her apartment, as far as the cops are concerned, would practically clinch the case. Now, how did you get in?”
“Connie let me in.”
“When was that?”
“This morning.”
“What time?”
“Around nine o’clock.”
“This building has a doorman. He’ll know when you went in. He’ll know when she went out. I could ask him. So could the cops. What do you think he’ll say?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Are you kidding? I was sitting right here when Connie came in the door. When she threw herself sobbing into your arms. Now, how do you think that looks? You think that looks like she let you in earlier this morning and the two of you had already discussed the murder of your wife?” Carbinder considered that. “So, can I assume you have a key?”
He scowled. “You can assume anything you like. But I don’t like your insinuations.”
“Maybe not, but mine don’t matter. When the cops start insinuating, you’d better pay attention. Now, do you have a key?”
“I won’t have when the cops pick me up.”
I held up my hand, shook my head. “No, no. You’re missing the point. Remember about the doorman? You’re a murder suspect. The cops will be tracing your actions. They’ll know if Connie was here when you came in. If they can prove you have a key, it’s bad. If they can prove you got rid of a key, it’s ten times worse. Get the picture?”
Connie looked as if she were going to start bawling again. “Anson, make him stop.”
“Damn it,” he said. “See, you’re getting her upset.”
The thought, yeah, well, I didn’t kill my wife, flashed to mind.
Which was disturbing on many levels. First was the hostility factor. Was my resentment of Anson Carbinder due to his attitude, his position, or the fact that he was playing around with a flashy blonde?
Second was the realization that I had all but convinced myself of his guilt.
“Very sorry, I’m sure,” I said. “Look. I’m not a lawyer, I’m a detective. This isn’t really my place. I make the suggestion because Richard isn’t here. I’m saying to myself, What would Richard want? You want me to stop doing that, fine. At least I’ll be able to tell Richard I made the attempt. For what it’s worth, I advise discretion. What you do is entirely up to you.”
I took a breath, exhaled. “Now, to the matter at hand. This is not your apartment. Where is your apartment?”
“It’s not an apartment. It’s a town house. On East Sixty-second. Between Park and Lex.”
I tried not to raise my eyebrows. Connie’s apartment was at Park Avenue and Sixty-fifth. The phrase, just blocks away, came to mind.
I did not voice it.
“You own a town house?”
“That’s right.”
“The whole building?”
“Of course.”
“Anyone else live there?”
“No.”
“Just the two of you?”
“That’s right.”
“No children?”
“No.”
“No basement apartment? No maid, no super? No one else on the premises?”
“No.”
So. No one to interview. That simplified that.
“Okay, let’s talk about your alibi.”
“What about it?”
“This poker game—where was it?”
“At Sammy’s house
.”
“Uh-huh. Who’s Sammy, and where’s his house?”
“Sammy is Sam Kestin. He has a town house on Fifth Avenue.”
“Where on Fifth Avenue?”
“Actually just off Fifth. On Sixtieth Street.”
“I’ll need his address. And the name and address of everyone else in the game.”
“The names I have. The addresses I would have to look up.”
“Where are they?”
“In my address book.”
“Where’s that?”
“At home.”
My beeper went off, and when I called in, Wendy/Janet gave me an assignment to go to Harlem and interview a man who’d fallen on a city bus. There was no talking her out of it, either. Richard hadn’t told her I was investigating a murder, and until she heard differently, I was on the clock. And there was no way she could hear differently with Richard in court, so if cases came in they were mine.
In a way, I was glad. I could handle a trip-and-fall on a city bus. That was about my speed.
The Anson Carbinder case was something else.
4
“I’M SORRY I DIDN’T THINK OF IT.”
The person who was sorry was Richard. The thing he was sorry about was not telling Wendy/Janet to stop assigning me work when he’d called in from court during noon recess. But he hadn’t thought of it, and so, after the trip-and-fall in Harlem, I’d done a hit-and-run in Brooklyn, a medical malpractice on Staten Island, and another trip-and-fall in Queens. As a result, I’d missed Richard’s conference with his client later that afternoon and been lucky to catch him when he’d stopped by the office on his way home.
“No problem,” I said. “I’m just telling you why I wasn’t able to work on this.”
“Damn.”
“Hey, but no big deal. Your client isn’t even charged.”
“I consider that a mere formality.”
“Oh?”
Richard shrugged. “Husband/wife thing. Cops always pick the husband. Here they got one with blood on his hands. Quite a bit, from what I hear.”
“There was blood in the bed.”
“Indeed there was.”
“And he got into bed in the dark.”
Richard grimaced. “Try selling that to a jury.”
“Are you saying you couldn’t do it?”
“Are you kidding me?” Richard got up from his desk. He was a small man but compensated for it with an incredible amount of nervous energy. Let him argue a point and he became immense. He swung into full spiel now. “Is it unusual that a man would get undressed and get into bed in the dark? I think not. We are talking about a man who had been married—how long?—seven years? He’s out at a late-night poker game—returning when?—two in the morning? Do you think such a man really wants his wife to wake up and say, What are you doing? What time is it? Why are you so late? And... How much did you lose?” Richard shook his head. “No, I don’t think we’ll have any problems on that score. The problem is The Godfather bit.”
“Huh?”
“In bed with the dead wife. Feeling the blood. Throwing the covers off. Just like the horse’s head.”
“That’s just what Carbinder said. That it was like The Godfather.”
“Of course he did,” Richard said. “It was the first thing he thought of, first thing I thought of, first thing the jury’s going to think.”
“And that’s bad?”
“It sure is. The Godfathers, a movie. You give people a scene from a movie and you know what they think? They think you made it up.”
“Oh.”
“But that’s not your problem. That’s my problem. Your problem is chasing down these poker players.”
“It will be, once I get the list.”
“Oh?”
“His address book was home. He couldn’t go home because his apartment’s a crime scene.”
“He’s home now.”
“Oh?”
“The cops released it.”
“Just like that?”
“It took a little prodding, but what the hell. They had their shot. They can’t hold it forever.”
“Right.”
“So give the guy a call, get your list, track ’me down.”
“Will do. Just tell the girls not to give me any work.”
“No problem. Sorry about today.”
“You going to be here tomorrow, or are you still in court?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Oh? What happened to the case?”
“They settled.”
I was sure they had. Opposing counsel in Richard Rosenberg’s cases usually settled as soon as they saw the effect he had on juries. Ordinarily, being deprived of battle would have pissed Richard off. Fortunately, he had this murder case. “I see,” I said. “Listen, Richard.”
“Yes?”
“You’ve evidently known Anson Carbinder for some time.”
“Not really. He’s a member of my club.”
“Oh?”
“My country club. I play golf with him.”
“You play golf?”
Richard cocked his head. “Are you kidding? I happen to be a seven handicap.”
That was a surprise. I knew nothing about Richard’s personal life and had no idea he was athletic. “Uh-huh,” I said.
“Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering how well you know him.”
Richard frowned. “Why?”
“When you spoke to him today, was that at his house?”
“No. It hadn’t been released yet.”
“I’m wondering just where you saw him.”
“I assume the same place you did.”
“Would that be the apartment of a Ms. Connie Maynard?”
“What’s your point?”
“I’m wondering if the police know of her existence.”
“And why would you be wondering that?”
“Because it would seem to be a material point.”
“To who? Stanley, this man is not accused of having a sweetheart on the side. He’s accused of killing his wife. If you’re saying this looks like a motive for the crime, I beg to differ. If the guy’s banging the broad already, what’s the problem? It’s not like his wife’s preventing him from doing it. So why knock her off?”
“Richard.”
“No, no. I’m very upset that you would think that way. It’s just the type of wrong thinking that makes a case like this so hard to try.”
“Richard,” I said, but he was off again.
“What we have here is your basic motiveless crime. Now, the cops might like to say this young girl’s a motive, but it doesn’t wash. Why does he kill his wife to get her when he’s already got her? They’d have to have something else. Like his wife knew of the affair, was threatening him with divorce, and was in a position to take him to the cleaners if she did.”
“You’re saying that’s not the case?”
“Don’t be silly,” Richard said. “And even if it was the case—even if that were true—the whole thing still makes no sense. I mean, assume the guy’s lying. Assume Anson Carbinder did kill his wife. Well, what must have happened then? He goes out, plays poker till two in the morning, comes home, wakes up his wife, and cuts her throat.
“Then he calls the cops. They arrive, find his wife dead and him covered with blood. Of course the cops would never suspect a thing. It would be the perfect crime.”
I smiled. “Hey, Richard.”
“Yeah?”
“Save it for the jury.”
5
ALICE GOT RIGHT TO THE HEART OF THE MATTER.
“Did he do it?”
“I don’t think so.”
Alice frowned. “Your judgment isn’t that good.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I mean in things like that. Of course your judgment’s good. I just mean in matters of human nature.”
It’s sometimes hard to tell what Alice means, because what Alice says means whatever she wants it to mean.
My wife, Alice, could anchor any debate team in the United States. She is without peer. Over the years I have learned that whatever her opinion is, I agree with it. Because, if I don’t, it will not take her long to convince me that I should. So why bother?
Admittedly, that is an intellectual judgment and will not work on any emotional issue. Particularly with regard to sex, where often I will find myself arguing a lost cause.
But I had no wish to argue this.
“Alice, my opinion is the guy didn’t do it. But I could very well be wrong.”
“Why do you think he didn’t do it?”
“It’s too stupid.”
“What do you mean?”
“That was Richard’s argument. The guy calls the police, covered with blood, says, Someone killed my wife. If he’s guilty, did he really think the cops wouldn’t suspect him?”
“Same thing if he’s innocent,” Alice said.
“What do you mean, same thing?”
“Same situation. Why wouldn’t he think the cops would suspect him?”
“Because he didn’t do it. If you’re innocent, you don’t expect to be suspected.”
“And if you’re guilty, you do?”
“Of course.”
“So you don’t do it if you’re guilty?”
“That’s right.”
“So,” Alice said. “If he killed his wife, he wouldn’t call the cops and tell ’em she was dead, because he’d think they’d suspect him?”
“That’s right.”
“But,” Alice said, “he’s an intelligent man and he knows that. So he says, If I call the cops, they’ll think I did it. But if I don’t call the cops, they’ll know I did it. Because not calling the cops is an indication of guilt. So calling the cops has to be an indication of innocence, so that’s what I’ll do.”
I blinked. Alice had taken the logic three hundred and sixty degrees back to what it originally was.
“Right,” I said. “Calling is a sign of innocence. He called the cops, so he’s probably innocent.”
“No, no, no,” Alice said. “You’re missing the point. We’re taking the premise that he’s guilty. And saying, if he’s guilty, would he call the cops? Or can we justify his calling the cops if he’s guilty. Which, of course, we can. So, for all we know, the man is guilty.”
See what I mean? Can’t argue with her.
“Right,” I said. “For all we know. Because we don’t know anything yet. When we get the results of the autopsy, when we get the medical report, when they fix the time of death—then we should be able to prove he didn’t do it.”
