Cut Me In (Hard Case Crime)

by Ed McBain

  “Hello, Mr. Blake,” she said.

  “Any calls?” I asked dully.

  “Yes, Mr. Donato has been calling ever since you left. He seemed very angry, Mr. Blake.”

  “The hell with him,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “I’ll make a list, if you like.”

  “Please. I’ll be in my office.”

  I crossed the reception room and went into my own office and then I sat behind my desk and looked at Stagg Bellow’s letter where I’d left it. I read it over, and it didn’t strike me funny this time.

  Jeanette came in with a list of calls, and I scanned it quickly. Donato had called five times since I’d left the office.

  “You’d better get this joker for me, Jeanette,” I said. Then, because I still wanted to do something, I said, “Never mind, I’ll call myself. Let me have the number, will you?”

  Jeanette brought me the number, and I dialed it rapidly. I didn’t think the guy had much on his mind, but I didn’t like to make an enemy where I could make a friend, and five calls warranted a return call.

  I listened to the phone ringing on the other end, and then a sweet feminine voice said, “Universal Photostats, good afternoon.”

  “Mr. Donato, please,” I said.

  “Yes, sir. One moment, please.”

  I waited, remembering something about Donato now. He’d called the morning I’d found Del dead. He’d said something about…

  “Hello.” The voice was deep, and I pictured a big man with a lot of hair on his chest.

  “Mr. Donato?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Blake of Gilbert and Blake.”

  “Well, Jesus, it’s about time.”

  “Sorry I wasn’t in to take your previous calls, Mr. Donato. This place has been in something of a turmoil.”

  Donato laughed loudly, a booming, hearty laugh, “You certainly must be busy. I wouldn’t have kept calling, but I thought you were in a rush. I mean your partner…”

  “Maybe you’d better fill me in, Mr. Donato. I’m afraid I don’t know what this is all about.”

  “No? Oh, well sure. No trouble at all. We’re an all-night place, you see. We do printing, too, and a lot of photographic work. Legal work, too. We don’t get many orders at night, but there’s always some men here working on a job.”

  “I see.”

  “Yeah, we got two shifts. You understand.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Well, I was on the night shift a couple of nights back…let me see…it was Sunday night. Well, really Monday morning. Very early, you know. It was still dark. Before the morning shift came on.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Mr. Gilbert called, and he seemed in a very big rush. He said he needed some work done in a hurry, and could we do it for him.”

  “Mr. Gilbert called?” I asked. “Sunday night?”

  “Well, Monday morning it was. Like I told you.”

  “Yes, yes, go on.”

  “So I said, sure. We can do it. We do a lot of rush jobs, you know. I told him we’d have them ready in a few hours.”

  “Have what ready?”

  “Some photostats. He wanted a dozen made. He said I should take very good care of the original. Naturally, we always take good care…”

  “Did he come down with the original?”

  “No. I sent one of the men up. It’s right around the corner.”

  “Was Mr. Gilbert alone when your man got here?”

  “Yes. Yes, I think so. That’s right. He went to the safe, the man told me, and got out this paper and told him to be very careful with it. Twelve copies, he wanted.”

  “Mr. Gilbert took the paper out of the safe?”

  “Yeah. He got a folder out of the safe, brought it to his desk, and then took the paper from it. That’s what my man told me.”

  “And…”

  “Well, I called Monday to say the photostats were ready. I spoke to you, I think. You said you’d send a kid down for them, and he never came. We did a nice job, Mr. Blake, and since Mr. Gilbert seemed in a hurry, I’ve been calling you. I thought…”

  “This photostat,” I said. “Would you read it to me?”

  “Sure, just a second.”

  I knew, of course. I knew, and, Di Luca had been right all along.

  “Hello.”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Here it is,” Donato said. “I’ll read it to you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Gentlemen,” he read. “Thank you for your recent letter. This will grant you permission to handle exclusively the radio and television rights to all the published…”

  “That’s enough,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “Not at all. It’s important, huh?” Donato asked.

  “Not anymore,” I said. “Not anymore.”

  13.

  So there it was.

  Another red herring.

  And the agreement had really had nothing to do with it all along. Nothing at all. Del had sent the original to be photostated, and it wasn’t difficult to figure why. He’d talked with Cam Stewart, and she’d told him she didn’t remember a damned thing about signing any agreement. He’d come back to the city, realizing we were in for trouble if she stuck to that story. Instead of going directly home, or instead of going to Lydia’s place or wherever he’d have preferred going, he’d gone directly to the office and taken care of getting more copies of that agreement made.

  And he’d probably been killed shortly after Donato’s man left with the agreement. The safe was still open, and the desk light was still burning.

  I tried to recall the way I’d found him.

  He was lying in front of the safe, and the contents of the Important Papers folder were scattered on the floor. That made sense, too. He’d probably gone back to the safe to lock the folder in again. That was when he’d been shot from the door.

  So who?

  Who knew he’d be at the office?

  Someone who’d obviously followed him to Connecticut and back.

  Well, who knew he was in Connecticut? Who knew he was with Cam Stewart? Who…

  I remembered something. I remembered something, and I knew suddenly who the murderer was. I swung out from behind the desk and left the office fast. Very fast.

  I drove as rapidly as I could. It was close to five, and I met a lot of home-bound traffic. I tried to keep patient, thinking of the killer, and knowing what had rekindled the spark that led to Cam’s death. I blamed myself, and there was a deep feeling of guilt inside me. But there was also a hatred that was slow boiling, like a dark brew reaching up into my brain. I kept my hands tight on the wheel, and my eyes glued to the road, and I thanked the power of the big Buick, and I kept thinking of the killer, and the hatred kept rising inside me.

  I pulled up to the house, and I sprinted to the front door and rang. The door opened a crack, and then opened wider.

  “Josh! This is a surprise.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  I walked into the room, and I spotted the suitcase right off, with the underwear stacked beside it. I turned and said, “You going somewhere, Gail?”

  Gail Gilbert smiled. “Yes. A little trip, I thought. This confusion has been too much for me, Josh. I thought…”

  “The spark’s dead, huh? You’ve had a little time to pull yourself together, and you’ve read the writing on the wall. It’s time to blow.”

  “What the devil are you ranting about?” she asked, a perplexed frown crossing her forehead.

  “Murder, Gail,” I said. “Plain, simple motivated murder.”

  She stood with her shoulders back, her breasts tight and high against the silk dress she wore. Her hair still looked wind-blown—that carefully coiffed, wind-blown look. Her eyes were bright and blue, with white flecks sharp against the pupils.

  “All right,” she said, “let’s play games if you want to. I hope you don’t mind if I finish packing.”

  “Not at all. Pack a lot. It’s going to be a
long trip.”

  She cocked one raven brow in exasperation and then walked over to the suitcase, exaggerating the swing of her hips, still trying, even though it was all over now. She began putting the underwear into the valise. She arranged it in neat piles, carefully patting each pile. When she was finished with the underwear, she turned and went into the bedroom, coming back with a stack of sweaters.

  “You’re quiet,” she said. “Maybe you’re finished.”

  “I haven’t started yet, Gail.”

  “Then start. Start and get it over with.”

  “All right, from the beginning. From when you first found out Del was playing house with Lydia, whenever that was. From when you learned he was the kind of husband people whisper about behind their hands. From when you first learned that, Gail.”

  “I’ve known that for a long time, Josh. If you’re trying to build a murder story on…”

  “Sure, it takes a while for the hatred to really build up. How long was it eating away inside you, Gail?”

  “I don’t see any reason to…”

  “It reached the danger point last Friday. Del told you he was going to Connecticut to see a client. You didn’t believe him. You followed him there, suspicious as hell, and your suspicions seemed correct. He had gone to see a woman. You followed him back to the office on Sunday night, and you killed him there.”

  “Don’t be ridic…”

  “You killed him, Gail. You killed him because the hatred and the jealousy were building in your heart for a long, long time. This was the last straw. This was the last lie, and you had a lonely weekend in Connecticut—while Del was with another woman—to think about it. And the hatred flamed higher, so you followed him, and you purged the hatred by filling his head with bullets. You killed him, Gail. You killed him while he stood near the safe, ready to…”

  “All right, all right. I killed him. I killed the bastard and I’d do it again. I’d do it again right now. You understand that, Josh? I’d kill him again.”

  “But he wasn’t enough, was he? The hatred wasn’t quite purged, and so you went after Lydia, and you gave her the same thing he got, and that would have been the end of it but…”

  “Was it wrong? Was it wrong to kill the slut who’d taken him away from me?” She glared at me, and then her mouth twisted into an ugly thing. “Sure, I killed her. I killed her before she even had a chance to scream. I waited for her, and I gave it to her, and I watched the goddamn whore while she died!”

  I looked into her eyes, behind her eyes, and I saw the whole tortured world that was Gail Gilbert’s. I was going to tell her that I knew she was the one who’d fired at me from the roof across from my apartment. I was going to tell her that she’d tried to kill me because even I had turned away her love. And failing in that, and with a new hatred kindled within her, she had gone to Connecticut and killed Cam Stewart—killed the last woman Del had been with. I was going to tell her all that, but the look in her eyes stopped me, and I held my tongue.

  “What’s wrong with me?” she asked. “What is it, Josh? Why did he turn to her? Why, why?”

  “I don’t know, Gail.”

  “I’m pretty,” she said, almost to herself. “You know that I…I’m warm…and pretty…” She caught herself and stopped, and a crafty glint came into her eyes. She seemed to remember suddenly that I knew she’d killed her husband and the two women. She reached into the suitcase, and the .45 that came up in her fist was big and black and ugly.

  “How’d you find out, Josh? How?”

  “One slip, Gail. I don’t think you were trying very hard to cover. I don’t think people do when they’re murdering wholesale.”

  “What slip? What?”

  “The morning Del was killed. I went home when the police were through with me, and I found you there. You were looped, and you insisted Del had been with a woman the night before. I told you he’d been with a client. You said, ‘No, Josh, A woman. I know.’ That’s what you said, Gail. I remembered that a little while ago in my office, and it was all clear then. You see, neither Del nor I knew that Cam Stewart was a woman. It’s no secret, but there just aren’t many people who know. You knew because you’d seen her. You followed Del there, and you followed him back and…”

  “Shut up,” she said suddenly. She lifted the .45, and I knew she’d used it three times before, and when I saw her thumb snap off the safety, I knew she could use it again.

  “Don’t be foolish, Gail,” I said.

  She didn’t answer me. She kept staring at me with her chest heaving, and her finger around the trigger, her knuckles white.

  “You’d be very foolish, Gail,” I repeated. “He’s dead now. He’s dead and gone, and I’m not the sucker I used to be.”

  She looked at me quizzically, and she said nothing. I was beginning to sweat, but she couldn’t see the sweat. She saw only the smile on my face, and the phony lust in my eyes—the lust that covered the fear inside me.

  “I thought a long time, Gail. I wondered what he’d have done in my place. With me dead, and with my wife in his arms. Lovely. Desirable. Everything a man could want. I wondered what he would have done, and I know now, Gail. I know damn well.” I took a step closer to her, watching the gun, wetting my lips and hoping she was taking the hook. Because if she wasn’t, there’d be one more corpse, and the tag on his toe would say Joshua Blake.

  “You…you mean that, Josh?” she asked. She still held the gun pointed at my stomach. But she wanted to believe. She wanted desperately to believe me.

  “Honey,” I said, “I’m through being a sucker. This should have happened a long time ago. It should have happened when you came to my apartment, only I was too much of a fool to see then. And it should have happened here yesterday. It didn’t, but it’s not too late. It’s not too late, Gail.”

  I took another step closer, and I held out my arms and she stared at me for a moment, her face trembling. I saw the .45 waver, and when I looked into her eyes, all the loneliness was there, all the hunger of a desirable woman who’s been kicked around for a long time, all the emptiness and the yearning. For a second, I felt like a Grade-A heel. And then I remembered Cam Stewart, and I didn’t feel anything anymore.

  Gail lowered the gun. She lowered it, and she came to me, and she lifted her head and her lips, and there was gratitude in her eyes and something else, something that comes only when you know you’re loved and wanted.

  I hit her. I hit her hard with my balled fist, right on the point of her jaw. I felt like a bastard because I’d never hit a woman in my life. Her eyes went blank instantly, and she dropped to the floor with the .45 clunking heavily beside her. I looked down at her, with her dress up over her thighs, her mouth open, her eyes shut, the long black lashes against her face, and I wondered what had driven Del.

  I felt tired all at once, very tired.

  I went to the phone and dialed Di Luca. I told him I had his murderer, and I told him where I was.

  He made it to Yonkers in fifteen minutes flat.

  * * *

  I got roaring drunk that night. I went to a bar called The Cockatoo, and I tried to wash it all out of my mind. I drank heavily and steadily, and after a while the memories began to fade. I didn’t think they’d ever leave completely. But for a little while, I was free. Just for a little while.

  I sat at the bar, and I drank, and I listened to the muted music of the juke, and I watched the soft lighting under the mirror.

  The blonde appeared magically in the mirror.

  “Hello, Josh,” she said.

  I turned to face her stool, and our knees touched, and the touch was familiar. I looked at her, and I didn’t remember. There was a puzzled smile on her face. She kept smiling at me, and I put my hand on her knee and said, “Baby, you and I should…”

  “I know,” she said.

  “You know?”

  She smiled again, and I remembered all at once. She closed her hand over mine and whispered, “My name is Janice. This is where I came in.”r />
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  Now Die in It

  He woke me by shaking me and shouting my name, and I came out of sleep with a cocked fist, ready to smash his head open. The nightmare had been on me again, the dream in which Toni laughed at me, half-naked in Parker’s arms, the dream that always ended the same way: my .45 going back and down, again and again, against Parker’s rotten face, and Toni screaming over and over in the background. Only this time there was a new voice in the dream, and it shouted, “Matt! Matt Cordell!”

  I jerked up violently, and I brought my fist back, and I felt strong hands close on my wrist.

  “Matt, for God’s sake, it’s me, Rudy!”

  I forced my eyes open and blinked in the semidarkness of the room. There was a cot under me, and a blanket over me, and a gorilla sat on the edge of the cot, leaning over me. The gorilla’s name was Rudy, and I remembered him vaguely as a guy I’d know long ago, a guy who lived somewhere in the Bronx.

  I passed my hand over my face, trying to wipe away the sleep. I rubbed my bristled jaw, then I reached for the pint of wine, took a long swallow, and asked, “What the hell is it, Rudy?”

  “Boy, you’re harder to find than a needle in a haystack.”

  “Maybe you haven’t been trying the right places.” We were in a two-bits-a-night flophouse on the Bowery, and I didn’t imagine Rudy was well acquainted with this particular type of resort. “What’s so important, Rudy?”

  “We need your help, Matt. My wife told me to get a detective.”

  “Then why don’t you get one? Is that why you woke me? Rudy, I ought to…”