by Ed McBain
A little of it had rubbed off on me, I guess. I’d changed a great deal since I first joined up with Del—but I hadn’t changed completely. Which was another reason for the agency’s phenomenal rise. Whereas editors were all so much dirt to Del, I treated them like human beings. Between us, we had them by the well-knowns. Those who liked me as a person brought their business to the agency. And those who feared Del’s power also brought their business to the agency. No matter how you spelled it, they were bringing business to the agency.
That didn’t change my mind about Del, though. I didn’t like the hold he had on so many of the editors, and I’d told him about it more than once. He’d told me to quit if I wanted to—but he’d also reminded me of the clause in our partnership agreement. It was a simple one. The partnership could be dissolved at any time, but if it were not dissolved by mutual consent, then the dissolving partner forfeited the business name and agreed not to establish a competitive business for a period of six months after the dissolution.
I shoved my way into the elevator and took it down to the main floor.
Del was dead now, and Gail would probably want no part of the agency. She’d probably sell me her share for a flat sum and a percentage, and that was certainly all right with me.
I walked up to Eighth, cursing the heat, and cursing the stupid cop Di Luca with his goddamn tweed suit and his jumpy questioning. He was probably putting Tim through the same wringer by this time, and I wondered just what he hoped to accomplish by grilling everyone in the office. It occurred to me then that I was probably a prime suspect, and the idea amused me. Josh Blake, murderer.
I was still smiling when I piled into the Buick and drove oat of the garage with the top down. I was also sweating. It took me a good twenty minutes to get crosstown again, and by that time I was soaked to the skin. I took the East River Drive, heading uptown, thankful for the faint breeze that blew off the river, glad that the traffic was thin and I could keep the car moving at a fairly rapid clip.
I didn’t notice the cab behind me until I’d turned off the Drive at Ninety-sixth Street, It caught my eye, and then I forgot it.
Until I made a left and saw it make a left, too.
For a moment, I thought Di Luca had sent some of his gumshoes after me, but it seemed unlikely that cops would use a cab. As an experiment, I took a tight turn at the next corner.
The cab turned right, too.
That settled it. I cut crosstown, the heat beginning to close in on the car again. I turned right on Third Avenue, left again at the next corner, then left on Lexington. I drove downtown on Lex for three blocks, took a right to Madison, another right on Madison, and then back across to Second, after two blocks on Madison.
It didn’t do any good. The cab was still behind me.
I began to get a little worried. The memory of Del’s body was still fresh in my mind, and I expected the cab to pull up alongside at any moment, machine guns blasting, the way I’d seen it a dozen times in the movies. I was sweating freely, and I didn’t know whether or not the heat was causing it. I kept an anxious eye on the rear-view mirror, waiting for the cab to pull up. It didn’t. It kept a respectable distance behind me, and I began to realize I wasn’t going to become a target.
Then why was I being followed?
I tried to take my mind off the cab. I thought of a nice cool drink at home, with the electric fan blowing on my bare legs as I sat in my shorts.
The cab didn’t leave me.
I began to relax a little, and finally I said the hell with it.
The cabbie had glue on his grille, and I could lead him a chase all over the city, and we’d still wind up together in front of my apartment. I headed straight for it, with the cab in the rear-view mirror all the way down to the building.
When I pulled into the garage under the house, I saw the cab slow down and then drive past, just as if the bastard hadn’t been tailing me for the past half hour. I couldn’t see who was in the back seat.
I cut the ignition, wiped the sweat from my forehead, and then started for the elevator and the drink awaiting me upstairs.
3.
I didn’t expect to find Gail Gilbert there.
There was a drink, too, but it was firmly clutched in Gail’s hand, her crimson fingertips curved around it. She shook the glass a little, and the ice clinked against the sides, and the brown liquid sloshed over the top, running down the sweating sides of the glass.
She was sitting, or I should say sprawling, in the chair near the bar. The doors on the bar were open, the fluorescent lights dancing on the clean, glistening rows of glasses inside. A bottle of brandy rested on top of the bar, with its cork upturned next to it. Alongside the bar, the doors on the television-radio-phonograph console were wide open, as if she’d gone to that by error, mistaking it for the bar unit which was its twin.
Gail Gilbert is an attractive woman. She looked particularly appealing this morning. She wore her hair cut close to her head, carefully clipped to give a careless, casual, wind-blown appearance. This morning it looked more tousled than ever, either by accident or design. It curled close to her neck, spilled onto the whiteness of her forehead, framed the oval of her face like a churning black sea embracing a small white sailboat.
She was wearing a pale blue denim duster, and I wondered if every woman in the city of New York had suddenly lost her marbles. First the girl earlier this morning, wearing nylon stockings when the thermometer mercury was ready to overflow, and now Gail wearing a duster fastened tight around her with three buttons: one at the throat, another smack between her full breasts, and the third just about where her navel should be. Her head was thrown back against the cushions, with her cameo nose pointed at the ceiling, her lips parted slightly over even, white teeth. Her eyes were closed when I came in, and she didn’t stir as I crossed the room. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, long, curving, accentuated by the dark blue heels she wore. The duster was tucked down between her legs, outlining the fluid curve of her thighs.
“Good morning,” I said.
She lifted her head slowly, stared across the room at me, tilting one raven eyebrow onto the smooth curve of her brow.
“Hello, hello,” she said, her voice slurred. I realized then that she was carrying a snootful, and I began to wonder just what the hell she was doing here. I also wondered if she knew someone had thoughtlessly let the blood out of Del’s head. I took off my jacket and tossed it over to the couch. My shirt was soaked through to the skin, and I unbuttoned it, pulling it out of my trousers. I tossed my tie onto the jacket, and then took off the shirt.
“Hope you don’t mind, Gail,” I said, not really giving a damn whether she did or not. “This heat. How can you stand a coat in the house?”
“Not a coat,” she said, smiling. “S’duster.”
I walked to the bar, filled a tall glass with ice, and then spilled brandy over it. I took a long swig before I spoke again.
“How’d you get in?”
“Key,” she said.
“Key?”
“You gave one to Del a long time ago. ’Member when he had to pick up some stuff here?”
I vaguely remembered an office emergency, when I had to hold the fort, and I’d given Del a key to my place. “Mmm, I remember.”
“Little Gail remembered, too.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Not long enough,” she said. “Got here too late. I wanted to catch you before you left.”
“Oh? Why? What’s up?”
She swirled the drink in her glass again, and the ice made little tinkling sounds. It was stifling in the room, even though she’d had the fan on. Its tiny electric hum filled the air now, hung between us like an Oriental chant. I could feel the perspiration pouring down my bare chest. I took another swig of the brandy, enjoying the cold feel of the ice against my lips.
“Sauce for the goose,” she said. She leaned forward, putting her drink down on the arm of the chair, then gripping both arms of it to
pull herself up. She had a little difficulty. She stretched out her legs, and the duster pulled back over her knees, showing the curving fullness of both calves. No stockings. Gail was a sensible girl. She finally got to her feet, wobbled unsteadily for a moment, and made her way to the coffee table. She leaned over to remove a cigarette from the container there, and her breasts pushed out against the denim of the duster.
“How do you mean?” I asked. I really wasn’t listening to what she said. I was thinking She knows about Del, and she’s trying to drown it with brandy. I was also thinking I wanted to call the office to make sure any important calls would get routed to my home number.
“Del,” she said, putting the cigarette between her lips.
“Yes,” I said. “Hell of a thing.” I should have said more, I know, but I’m never good at giving condolences.
“One hell of a thing,” she agreed. She looked down at the coffee table, her glance running right over the lighter alongside the cigarette box. “Say, can’t a girl get a goddamn light?” she asked.
I reached over, handing her the lighter. “Help yourself, Gail,” I said. “I want to make a call.”
Gail, clicking away at the lighter while I dialed, succeeded in getting a few feeble sparks but no flame. I was waiting for Jeanette to answer when Gail walked over to me, handing me the lighter.
“Do this for me, will you?”
I took the lighter, thumbed it into flame. Gail put one arm on the chair behind me, leaned over. She pressed her knee against my thigh, and I looked up into her face, a little puzzled. Her eyes were closed as she drew in on the cigarette. For a moment, I thought I’d mistaken the pressure of her knee. Then Jeanette’s voice came onto the line.
“Gilbert and Blake, good morning.”
“This is Mr. Blake,” I said. “Are the police still there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are they finished with Tim?”
“Yes.”
“And Lydia?”
“She just left for home, sir.”
“All right, Jeanette. Listen, if there are any calls, will you give them my home number and ask them to call here? I’ll be here most of the day.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have there been many calls?”
“Several, sir.”
“Want to read them off?”
I waited while Jeanette got the list of calls. Gail stood close to me, her brow lined with confusion. “Did you say police?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “They’ve been all over the goddamned office, like rats climbing out of the wood…”
“I’ve got those calls, sir,” Jeanette interrupted.
“Let’s have them.”
“Mr. Sarran called.”
“Sarran? Who the hell is Sarran?”
“R. J. Sarran, the book critic, he said.”
“Who else called?”
“Mr. Donato, about the photostats again.”
“Who else?”
“James Finch at Harper and Brothers.”
“What did he want?”
“He didn’t say.”
“He can wait. Who else?”
“A woman at Street and Smith. About a release for some science-fiction anthology.”
“Anyone else?”
“No, sir.”
“Dave Becker, Carlyle Rutherford, Cam Stewart?”
“No, sir, none of them.”
“If any of the three call, give them my home number. If anyone else calls, just tell them Mr. Gilbert has had an accident and the office will be closed today. Got that?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Becker, Mr. Rutherford, and Mr. Stewart. I have that, sir.”
“Good girl. ’Bye, Jeanette.”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I cradled the phone and turned to Gail. I found her with her eyes wide and her mouth open.
“Wh…what did you just say?”
“About what?”
“About…Del. About…about an accident.”
It hit me like a falling boulder. Good Christ, she hadn’t known Del was dead. And I’d broken it to her in the worst possible way. In fact, I’d done worse than simply break it to her, clean and crisp. I’d hinted at it on the phone, and now the worst part was still ahead of me.
“Gail…” I bit down on my lip, crossed the room and killed the brandy left in my glass. The ice had already melted down, leaving the drink flat and weak.
“What is it?” she asked. She was holding her glass tightly, and her knuckles were white, the skin pulled taut against the bone.
“Del’s dead,” I said quickly.
It was almost as if I’d hit her in the stomach. She backed away from me a few paces, still holding to the glass the way she’d hold to a life preserver. She closed her eyes tightly, leaned against the bar, and bent her head. She didn’t say anything for a long while.
Then, as if she’d finally gripped her insides together, she looked up and asked, “How?”
“Three bullets in his head. I found him this morning when I…”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. The police are on it now.”
I expected her to cry, or scream, or something. She just stood there, though, and said, “It takes a while to get used to it.”
“Yeah.”
“Especially when I came here to…to…”
She stopped speaking, turned rapidly and filled her glass again.
“You’d better go easy,” I said.
She tossed off the brandy in one gulp, then turned to fill her glass once more.
“Gail…”
“Shut up, Josh. Please shut up. Just let me do what I want to do, and shut up. Please, Josh.”
She took another fast swallow, and then began nursing the drink, sipping at it slowly, rolling the glass between her hands. There was sweat on her brow, and the duster clung to the lines of her body, hung there limply.
I could hear the buzz of the fan, insistent, like flies attacking a felled horse. The ticking of my watch was loud in the room. The heat seemed to magnify everything, throwing it back into the face like a petroleum explosion.
She didn’t look at me. She stared at an invisible spot in the rug, rolling the glass, clinking the ice.
“I’m glad,” she said at length.
“What?”
“I’m glad. I’m glad someone killed the bastard.”
There was a moment of silence in the room, and then the shrill clamor of the telephone sliced into the air, shredding the silence, leaving nothing but the heat.
I lifted the receiver. “Yes?”
“Mr. Blake?”
“Yes.”
“Di Luca.”
“Who?”
“Di Luca. You know. Sherlock Holmes.”
“Oh.”
“We’re just about finished here, Mr. Blake. We’ll be carting the body away in a few minutes, and I’ll be leaving some of the boys to give the place a thorough going-over. Thought you’d like to know.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Who was the guy you threw out?”
“What? I’m sorry, I…”
“This morning. Some guy was up with a book. You tossed him out on his can. What was his name?”
“Oh, him. I don’t remember.”
“Mr. Blake, we can…”
“Gunnison,” I said, remembering abruptly. “That was his name. Why?”
“No special reason. He was sore, huh?”
“He was sore, and I was sorer.”
“Got a bad temper, Mr. Blake?”
“Only when I’m being pestered,” I snapped.
Di Luca chuckled. “Your partner ever pester you?” he asked.
“Look, Mr. Law,” I said, “are you insinuating…”
“Nothing of the sort. I never insinuate, Mr. Blake. I book or I don’t book. But I never hint.”
“Are you booking me?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I’m busy.”
“Mmm,” he said. “Me too. Goodbye, Mr. Blake.”
I slammed the phone down and said, “That goddamned petty tyrant. The police force is full of…”
“They don’t know yet?” Gail asked.
“They’ve got a Cro-Magnon in charge of the investigation,” I said, pouring more brandy. “With him around, they’ll never know.”
“Did you hear what I said before?”
“Yes,” I said. “I heard.”
“Well?”
“You’re looped. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I’m not looped. I wasn’t looped when I first got here, either. I was, after waiting for you—but not when I got here, and not now. I could drink a vat of 69 and not be looped.”
“Well, that’s fine. If you’re not looped, you’re insane.”
“Come off it, Josh.”
“I don’t follow you, Gail.”
“Del was a bastard,” she said. “I’m glad someone shot him. I’d have done it myself, eventually. Someone just saved me the trouble.”
“You’d better not tell that to Sherlock.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Di Luca. The Inspector-General. Sam Spade, Phil Marlowe, and Perry Mason all rolled into one.”
“Why not tell him? It’s what I think. I’ll tell anyone what I think,” Gail said. She swallowed another big gulp of brandy, winced as it went down. “God, I wish I could get drunk again. Goddamn it, you’ve taken the edge off my high.”
“You’d better go home,” I said. “Di Luca should be looking you up pretty soon. He’ll suspect we got together to plan Del’s murder if he finds you here. His moronic mind works that way.”
