by Ed McBain
* * *
The carpet was green.
This was a remarkable feat of deduction, considering the fact that the carpet was a half inch from my face.
I pushed myself to my knees, remarking at the vividness of the green. Almost like Lydia’s eyes. It occurred to me that my complexion was probably the same color, and then I remembered the size 12 1/2 that had tried to kick my head into a corner. I put my hand to my face. It came away red.
The red was sticky and warm. It made me ill, and I held my guts together, trying not to retch. I struggled up to my feet, wondering who had stolen the bones that were supposed to be in my legs. I leaned against the wall, trying to gather strength for the long, long journey to Lydia’s door down the hall. After a while, I started the trek, leaving a smudged trail of red on the wails as I groped at them with my blood-stained hand in ineffectual attempts to steady myself. I reached Lydia’s apartment and rammed my palm against the chime panel.
I listened to the four chimes and I waited, and I pushed again, and the chimes sounded melodiously, and I kept pushing and hearing the beautiful chimes and waiting, and then it occurred to me that there were probably two entrances to the apartment, and Lydia could very easily have left by the other one without ever having to step into the hallway to find me necking with the rug.
The thought was not a particularly cheering one. I wheeled for the elevators, stabbed at the weaving button on the wall, and waited for the car. I remembered my wallet, then, and started down the hall once more, bending over when I spotted it on the carpet. The bend started the New York Philharmonic on The Anvil Chorus, but I retrieved the wallet and began looking for the stat. It wasn’t on the rug and it wasn’t in the wallet, and I realized abruptly that I no longer owned a single copy of the Cam Stewart agreement.
I went back to wait for the elevator.
Quite curiously, I wanted to see Detective Sergeant Di Luca.
5.
The German High Command in the elevator and in the lobby did not like the looks of my bloodied face. They stared at me down their noses when I asked if they’d seen Miss Rafney leave, and they finally told me they had. Their attitude made it plain that people with bleeding cheekbones did not usually frequent these hallowed halls.
I pretended my cheek was a chronic bleeder, ignored their icy stares and tones, and found my way through the lobby and out into the street. By the time I’d reached a candy store, I’d already wiped most of the blood from my face, so the proprietor didn’t give me a second look when I headed for the phone booth.
I dialed rapidly, waited while the phone rang, and then heard a rasping voice say, “Homicide, Sergeant Julian.”
“Sergeant Di Luca, please.”
“Moment.”
When Di Luca came on, he was talking to someone else in the background. He shouted a parting word, then turned his voice to the phone. “Di Luca.”
“Josh Blake. Have you got a moment?”
“All the time in the world.”
“May I come down?”
“Sure. Did you find another body?”
“Not quite.”
“All right, I’ll be waiting for you.”
“See you.”
I hung up, caught a cab, and was walking into Di Luca’s office fifteen minutes later. He stood up when I walked in, but he didn’t extend his hand. He extended his eyes instead, and they raked over the cut on my cheek.
“Who slugged you?” he asked
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“In the hallway, outside Lydia Rafney’s apartment.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I wanted to find out if she knew whether or not Del took that agreement with him.”
“Did she know?”
“Yes. She doesn’t think he did. That’s why I’m here.”
“Why?”
“Whoever dented my head took the second copy of the agreement.”
“That’s interesting. Have a seat.”
“Thanks, I’ll stand.”
“What else did she have to say?”
“Lydia?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing.” I paused. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you? The fact that I was slugged? The fact that someone swiped the only remaining copy of the agreement? Doesn’t that ring a bell?”
“Ring a bell? It starts a whole symphony, Mr. Blake.”
“It damn well should. Seems to me it narrows things down considerably.”
“How so?” Di Luca asked.
“There are only so many people who are interested in that agreement and the power it gives the agency.”
“And who are these interested parties?”
I looked at Di Luca, trying to see whether or not he had his tongue in his cheek. It was hard to read any expression on that face of his. I sucked in a breath and said, “Rutherford, for one. He’s Stewart’s Hollywood agent. Without the Gilbert and Blake agency in the picture, he could make any movie deal he wanted to. But that agreement gives us TV rights, and his hands are tied as long as we’ve got those.”
“So you figure he may have killed your partner to get the first copy, and then slugged you to get the second. That sounds logical. Shall we arrest him?”
“Are you being smart, Di Luca?”
“No, I’m being attentive. Who’s your next murder suspect?”
He was beginning to make me feel foolish, but I went on anyway. “David Becker. He’s the producer who wants the Cam Stewart properties. He’d give his right arm for them, in fact. He’s anxious to close this deal, and if the agreements were missing, he’d have clear sailing—without a lot of bickering between agents. Besides, he’s not anxious to give me twenty-five percent of his movie profits, which is what I want.”
“And your third suspect?”
“The author, Cam Stewart. We’ve never met, but there’s a goodly chunk of cash involved here, and everyone likes the smell of money. With that agreement out of the way, the deal would go through quickly, and a pile of cash would pour into the dusty coffers.”
“Mmmm,” Di Luca commented.
“What does that mean?”
He shrugged. “The same thing your theories mean. Nothing. I don’t buy complicated murder motives. I don’t buy everyone getting so het up over a lousy movie deal. I don’t buy murder for a piece of paper. It’s implausible, Blake. If it came in from one or your authors, you’d toss it into the wastebasket.”
“Haven’t you ever had a case that didn’t go according to the way you wanted it?”
“Once,” Di Luca admitted. “An ax murder. I thought it was the husband. It turned out to be the janitor, because the broad had spurned his advances. A simple motive. Right down the line. The motives are always simple, Blake. You come up with a bunch of crap, and I’m supposed to round everyone up and start looking for an elusive scrap of paper. Cloak and dagger stuff, the missing plans, the secret plot to blow up the Treasury Building.” He shook his head. “No, Blake. I’m not buying.”
“What are you buying?”
“That depends. For example, what did you do last night?”
“Why?”
“The dead man was your partner. Your hands still aren’t clean.”
“I was home.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
“With whom?”
“A girl.”
“Lydia Rafney?”
“No.”
“Did you know she was shacking with Del?”
“No.”
“Then why’d you go to see her this morning?”
“I told you. I thought she might know about the agreement.”
“Why should she know? Was she a silent partner?”
“No.”
“Wasn’t it because she was very close to Del? So close that they shared the same bed?”
“I never asked her.”
“I did,” Di Luca said drily. “There’s no secret about it, Blak
e. She admitted it freely. So why are you trying to protect her maidenly purity?”
“I’m not. All right, she was shacking with Del. What difference does that make?”
“None. Except that Del was out of town last night, and you were home. You still haven’t told me whom you were with.”
“A girl. I forget her name.”
“Lydia Rafney?”
“I answered that one already.”
“It wasn’t Lydia Rafney?”
“No.”
“Was it Gail Gilbert?”
“Hell, no.”
“Did Mrs. Gilbert know about her husband’s little affair?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Did she or didn’t she?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I will,” Di Luca snapped. “What time did you get into the office this morning?”
“Nine-thirty.”
“Who was there?”
“Everyone but Lydia.”
“Where was she?”
“How would I know?”
“Didn’t you check? Your receptionist said you asked her to call Lydia’s home.”
“I did.”
“Was she there?”
“No.”
“Where was she?”
“I don’t know. The switchboard operator there said she was on her way to the office.”
“What time did she get in?”
“About ten, I guess.”
“Exactly?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look at my watch.”
“Why not?”
“I’d found Del a few minutes earlier. I still wasn’t thinking clearly. What the hell difference does it make what time a secretary walks in?”
“You seemed disturbed about that when you asked your receptionist to call her.”
“That was before I found Del dead.”
“What time did you find him?”
“About nine-forty or so, I suppose.”
“Did you look at a clock then?”
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“I buzzed Tim Kennedy and asked him to come into Del’s office.”
“Why?”
“Because I was confused. I didn’t know what to do.”
“And then what?”
“Then I called the police.”
“Before or after Lydia Rafney came in?”
“Before, I think. No, it was after. She was there when the call went through.”
“You said she came in at ten.”
“About that time.”
“Your call here was clocked in at nine-fifty-three.”
“All right, she came in a little earlier than ten.”
“Seven minutes earlier, to be exact. Why’d you pick on ten o’clock as her time of arrival?”
“I didn’t pick on anything. I just thought she came in at ten.”
“Was she supposed to come in at ten?”
“She’s supposed to come in at nine.”
“Yes, but on this particular morning, was she supposed to come in at ten?”
“She’s supposed to be there at nine every morning.”
“Is she usually?”
“No.”
“Then why were you so angry about it this morning?”
“Circumstances. That pesty writer, I wanted her to help me get rid of him.”
“Are you usually sore when she comes in late?”
“Not unless something important is up.”
“Have you ever bawled her out about lateness before?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I just haven’t.”
“Because you knew she was shacking with Del?”
“Maybe.”
“Yes or no.”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“You didn’t want to offend Del, is that it?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“Then why’d you bawl her out this morning? Weren’t you worried about offending Del anymore?”
“I told you…”
“Or did you know Del was dead, that he was beyond offending? Is that why you bawled her out?”
I suddenly realized that Di Luca had effectively led the conversation to the point where I was admitting I’d had angry words with Lydia. That hadn’t been the case at all. I’d been sore, but when she finally did arrive at the office, I hadn’t mentioned her lateness at all.
“I didn’t bawl her out,” I said. “You know I didn’t.”
“Sure, I know.” Di Luca grinned boyishly. “Why don’t you go home, Mr. Blake? I’ll think about what you’ve told me. Maybe we’ll look up these characters.”
“Thanks,” I said drily.
“I like you, too.”
I got up and stalked out of his office, slamming the door behind me. I felt drained, as if my brain had been picked clean by vultures. That lousy son of a bitch! He’d given me a grilling, and he’d made me look silly as hell; and worse, he’d even made me feel guilty.
It was hotter in the street now. Thinking about the heat in New York did not make me any cooler. For the second time that day, I wanted to be back in my apartment with a cool drink in my hand, and my backside immersed in a tub of water. I might even try immersing my backside in a cool drink, and forget the water completely. The idea appealed to me immensely. The thought of ice cubes bouncing off my naked torso was an ingenious one.
I thought of Gail Gilbert and her naked torso. That thought didn’t help the heat any. So I switched back to thinking about the ice cubes again. I thought of those for a little while, trying to hail a cab, while the heat tried to parboil my brain. When I got the cab, I leaned back and gave the driver my address. Then I started thinking about Gail again.
I’d really treated her in a most cavalier manner. Actually, she hadn’t deserved such a brush-off, especially not after what had happened to Del. I cursed myself for a slob, and a boor, and the worst kind of an idiot, and by the time I reached my apartment I was ready to call her and kiss her feet.
I opened the door, ripped off my shirt and trousers, mixed a cool Tom Collins, and then dialed her number, a Yonkers exchange. The phone rang three times before she lifted the receiver.
“Hello.” Her voice was soft.
“Gail? This is Josh.”
I’d been worrying about the heat until then, but the temperature of her voice suddenly transported me to Siberia. “Yes, what is it?”
“I…I felt I owe you an apology.”
“Isn’t that nice.”
“I’m sorry about what happened, Gail, I…”
“I am, too. Let’s Just forget it.”
“No, really, Gail. I behaved rather poorly, I’m afraid, and…”
“Excuse me, Josh,” she said coldly. “There’s someone at the door.”
“I’ll hold on,” I told her.
I heard the receiver clatter as she put it down on the table. I even heard her heels clicking as they moved away from the phone. I didn’t hear anything then, so I sat back to wait, the phone in one hand, and the Tom Collins in the other.
The drink was cool. I sipped at it leisurely, thanking the powers that be for allowing Mr. Collins to invent such a wonderful little heat chaser, I sipped some more.
And I waited.
I took a big gulp, and another big gulp, and pretty soon the drink was gone, so I fished into the glass for the cherry I’d thoughtfully included. It took me a little while to get the cherry since I had the use of only one hand. I finally got it, though, and I chewed it and swallowed it, and then I remembered I was holding the phone with my other hand.
“Gail?” I asked.
There was no answer.
I glanced at my watch. Good God, she’d been gone for more than five minutes already!
“Gail!” I shouted.
I thought of Del Gilbert lying dead in his office. And I thought of the beating I’d taken in the hallway of Lydia’s building. A tight panic crowded my chest
There was no answer.
6.
I called her name once more, and then I hung up quickly. I snatched the receiver from its cradle almost immediately, and dialed Di Luca’s number. The same cop I’d had earlier came on.
“Homicide, Sergeant Julian.”
“Di Luca, please. And hurry.”
“Sam,” the sergeant called. “Some bug in a hurry.”
Di Luca took the phone and said, “Di Luca speaking.”
“This is Josh Blake again.”
“Hello, Blake,” he said dully.
“I’ll get to the point, Di Luca. I was just talking to Gail Gilbert on the phone. She left the phone to answer the door. She never came back to the phone.”
“How long was she gone?” Di Luca asked.
“More than five minutes.”
“Maybe she forgot about you.”
“I doubt it.”
“So?”
“I think you’d better get to Yonkers damned fast.”
He surprised me. I expected a long argument and perhaps a harangue, but Di Luca obviously recognized the potential danger as well as I did. “I’ll get right over,” he said.
“Will you call me when you get there?”
“All right.”
“I’ll stay by the phone.”
“So long.” He clicked off, and I held the dead receiver for a moment before putting it back into the cradle. I was worried. I was really worried now. You can take one murder in your stride, without losing much sleep over it, and you can laugh about a comparatively minor slugging. When the thing begins spreading, though, it’s time to worry. It’s time to start chewing things over—chewing them hard.
And there were a lot of things that needed chewing.
Like Del’s reason for hieing back to the city and going straight to the office.
Why the hell would he do a thing like that?
Lots of reasons, sure. Like what?
Like a hot manuscript that needed immediate marketing. So Del left a big deal in Connecticut to rush home, when Tim or I or even Lydia could handle it perfectly well.
No, not a hot property. Our hottest property at the moment was Cam Stewart.
Maybe his business in Connecticut was finished. That was logical enough. He’d closed the deal, maybe, saw no reason to stick around any longer, and came back home.
