The Shattered Raven

by Edward D. Hoch

  Max Winters chuckled. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea. For the good of the organisation, and all that stuff. You might even enjoy yourself.”

  “I don’t know.” Barney thought about it—about Susan Veldt a little, but mostly about what the directors were asking him to do. “There’s not a clue in it anywhere. We’ve got more than three hundred suspects—anyone in that room. We’ve even got twenty or so waiters. Besides which, just about anybody in the city could have walked in there without being noticed, the way people were shuffling around.”

  “But we have a list of the prime suspects,” Max reminded him. “This guest list right here. With the seating arrangements and all. Maybe the police will be able to pin down that radio gadget a little better. Maybe they’ll say the killer had to be within twenty feet—or ten feet. If so, that would narrow down the suspects right away.”

  Barney shook his head. “They’re not going to say that. We’re stuck with a murder that could have been committed by anybody in that room.”

  “You’ll work on the case?” Harry Fox asked.

  “I’ll look around for a day or two,” Barney agreed. “And I’ll try and get this gal off our necks. I’m not pretending to be any sort of detective, though. It’s for the police to find out who killed him. We can help a bit, that’s all.”

  Harry had another idea. “How about this all-night radio show tomorrow? Are we going on with it as planned?”

  Barney had forgotten Skinny Simon’s proposal in the rush of events. “What do you think?”

  “We should do it,” Harry said. “It’s important to us now. We can get our message across to the people, maybe even appeal for some sort of help. But I think you should be on the show with the rest of us, Barney—especially if you’re undertaking the investigation. It would give us a peg for the whole discussion.”

  Max Winters was far from certain. “What if Skinny Simon says something about violence being encouraged by mysteries?”

  “Someone will say that anyway, and we might as well be there to defend ourselves. Right?” This came from Harry Fox.

  Barney interrupted before things got too heated. “Okay. I’ll do it. You two guys are going on the show?”

  “Right.”

  “We still need two others.”

  Max spoke up. “We’ve got two others. Dick McMullen will do it. I think he’s anxious to stay on my good side and get back to being an agent. Then I’ve got another one lined up too. I haven’t been sleeping all morning, you know. Frank Jesset—the confession magazine editor. That friend of Ross Craigthorn’s.”

  “Friend?” Betty asked. “They weren’t looking too friendly when I saw them last night.”

  “Okay,” Max said. “So maybe we’ll have the murderer right there with us. Craigthorn brought two people with him—his secretary, Miss Sweeney, and Frank Jesset. Maybe he’s been shacking up with Miss Sweeney all these years and Jesset wanted a piece of the action. Maybe Jesset rigged that thing up to kill him. Barney—I’ll bet if you play your cards right, you can get a confession out of him right on Skinny Simon’s show.”

  “Sure, sure.” Barney said.

  The awards dinner was traditionally followed by a cocktail party, and although they played it down after the previous night’s events, they hadn’t entirely cancelled it. Barney was standing by the front window looking out at the busy evening street when he saw Susan Veldt coming in the downstairs door. He put on his brightest smile as he walked to the door to greet her.

  10 Susan Veldt

  SHE HAD NEVER SEEN such a place—smoky and crowded and gloomily detached. It seemed different from the small, somewhat cheerless library she’d visited earlier in the week.

  Barney Hamet was already pressing a cold drink into her hand. “Scotch and water. I hope it’s your brand,” he said.

  “Thanks. I thought you might cancel the cocktails in view of last night’s events.”

  “This is basically a pretty private affair and we’re just talking things over. We didn’t encourage any outsiders to come in. Could I interest you in dinner?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Well, I was planning to wash my hair and write a few letters.”

  “Hair washing and letter writing are for nights when there’s nothing else swinging. You want to stay a bachelor gal the rest of your life?”

  She laughed a bit and gave in easily. “All right, dinner it is. But didn’t you promise to phone me today?”

  “I was busy every minute. I’ll tell you about it.”

  They left MWA headquarters around eight o’clock and decided to eat nearby. They crossed the street to the Absinthe House and ordered something there. She found herself relaxing and enjoying it, even though she couldn’t quite figure what Barney Hamet had in mind.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said. “You know—the real you.”

  “The real me! What do you want me to tell you? About my old boy-friends? About how I’m a career girl?”

  “I suppose. Where do you live, for instance?”

  “Opposite Central Park—above the zoo. I can hear the lions every night.”

  “And the wolves?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “Those too. Sometimes I hear ambulances—and I always hear parades. It’s that sort of an apartment.”

  “It’s that sort of a city,” he said.

  “Tell me about this murder,” she asked finally, over dessert.

  “What’s there to tell? The man is dead and I suppose somebody there killed him. I sure don’t know who, though.”

  “No ideas?”

  “No ideas.”

  “It will be sort of funny if it was one of you mystery writers.”

  “It wasn’t one of us mystery writers. I don’t think there was an MWA member in that room who would have committed a crime under those circumstances. I’d be willing to bet on it.”

  They took a cab uptown and she was surprised to find that it was already ten-thirty when they reached her apartment.

  “Come on up,” she said casually.

  He glanced around the apartment, taking in the modern art reproductions and a few originals.

  “This is a nice place. How many rooms?”

  “This one. The bedroom. The bath. That’s all. It goes for a fancy figure, but I think it’s worth it for entertaining. A nice neighbourhood. Right in the next block is one of the most expensive co-op apartments in New York City.”

  He grunted and downed his Scotch. “Come sit by me,” he suggested, and she took him up on the offer. “I haven’t necked with a girl since high school.”

  11 Barney Hamet

  “THIS IS YOUR PLACE, mister,” the Taxi driver said.

  “Yeah.” Barney gave him a big tip and went up. He switched on the one o’clock news, but there was nothing new on Ross Craigthorn—just the fact that funeral services would be held Monday. Monday seemed a long way off. Then he remembered the radio show the following night. He should sleep late in the morning—have at least a few of his wits about him for the thing.

  When he woke, rolled over and looked at the clock, he saw that it was ten minutes to ten. Well, almost eight hours. He couldn’t expect any more than that, not with losing an hour to the start of Daylight Savings Time. He thought about calling Susan, decided against it, but then did it anyway after breakfast.

  “Hello,” she said, all sweetness. Maybe she was expecting her boss, or her sister in Chicago.

  “Hello.”

  “Who is this?”

  “A fellow named Barney Hamet. Spent a little time with you last night.”

  “Oh, Barney! I really didn’t expect to hear from you—not this soon at least. You’re calling to tell me you’ve cracked the Craigthorn murder case!”

  “No.” He had a sudden impulse. “I want you to spend tonight with me.”

  “Tonight?” she asked a little uncertainly, not understanding what he meant.

  “Yeah, tonight. I’m going to be on an all-night radio show, Skinny Simon’s show, with some of the other
writers. Great chance for you to stay up late. Drink black coffee and listen to all us mystery writers kick around the Craigthorn murder case. How about it?”

  “Well … would I be on the show?”

  “I’ll get you a seat in the control booth. Nice padded chair next to the engineer.”

  She was silent a moment Then, “All right, I’ll come. What time?”

  “You know where Skinny’s station is?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Okay. Meet me there at eleven-thirty. I’ve got to round up some other people and make sure they know. Max Winters is probably off on a bender and heaven knows where the rest are. One of them is a friend of Craigthorn’s, and I haven’t even talked to him about it yet.”

  He hung up and stared at the phone for a minute. He called the MWA number, but of course Betty was not there on Sunday. He finally reached her at her apartment and suggested she come to the studio that night for a while. “You can serve coffee and make notes and things, Betty, and if somebody doesn’t show up, maybe you can fill in.”

  She was a bit hesitant. “I’m no good on the radio—not with my voice. And I’m sure not going to stay up all night listening to you guys talk.”

  “Any idea where Max Winters is?”

  “Probably at his hotel. Have you tried there?”

  “Not yet. Look—how about these other people that are supposed to be on the show? Frank Jesset? Do you know how to reach him? And Dick McMullen?”

  “Jesset?”

  “That friend of Craigthorn’s. Max seemed to think he was going to be on.”

  “I’ll try to reach him,” she said. “I gather Harry is all set. He seemed to know the details.”

  He hung up and headed for Max’s hotel. He was in his room all right, but he wasn’t alone. Detective George, the big man in the rumpled suit from Friday night, was there with him.

  “Well, well,” George said, getting to his feet. “It’s Mr. Hamet again. Nice to see you. Mr. Winters here was just telling me you’re going to be doing some investigating on the case.”

  “Strictly off the record,” Barney hastened to inform him. “I used to be a private detective. They think I might be useful, more as a public relations expert than as a sleuth, though.”

  George nodded. “I’ve been talking to Mr. Winters about his recollections of what happened.”

  Max sat in his chair, smoking a cigarette and looking just a bit bored. “What’s there to say? I’ve gone over the story five times already. I didn’t know Craigthorn. I never even watched his television show. He was there and he got shot and now he’s dead, but my plane leaves for California tomorrow.”

  George frowned at him. “They don’t have murders in California, Mr. Winters?”

  “Sure, they have murders. And they have cops, too. I write about them all the time. But New York is still a different thing. You’re all in a hurry here. I think you’re in a hurry to die.”

  “Not on the freeways, at least,” the detective said. “I think I’m about finished with you though. Do you have a few moments, Mr. Hamet? I wonder if I could take you downstairs and buy you a cup of coffee in the lobby.”

  Barney saw no way out of it “Max, you’re all set for the radio show tonight?”

  “Sure am.”

  “Right. We’re supposed to be at the studio around eleven-thirty. I’ll see you there.”

  He rode down on the elevator with Detective George, exchanging casual pleasantries about the weather, which was warm, but clouding over.

  “Last Sunday in April. I always hope for good weather this time of the year,” George said.

  “You live in the city?”

  “Yeah. Got a wife and family. I generally have Sundays off, except when there’s a case like this. With Craigthorn getting killed, we’ve got an extra ten men working on the thing.”

  In the coffee shop, Barney stirred some sugar into his coffee and waited for the detective’s questions.

  “So you were a private eye, huh? I don’t think that I ever really met one. It’s a heck of an admission for a detective to make, but I never really got to know any of you fellas.”

  “I like to think of myself as a writer now,” Barney said.

  “Yeah. I read your last book. That was a pretty sexy cover.”

  “I don’t do the cover art.”

  “No, of course not.” He sipped his coffee. “What do you think about this thing? Who do you think killed Craigthorn?”

  “I’m pretty sure it was not a member of MWA. This gimmick with the bullet being fired electrically from a pipe taped to a microphone—it’s too much like the sort of thing some clever murderer would imagine some equally clever author dreaming up. I think the whole gimmick was just a plot to kill Craigthorn and put the blame on our organisation.”

  “You think anyone would really want to do that? Why, Mr. Hamet?”

  “Not mainly to discredit the organisation—but just to throw attention away from the real killer. There were a lot of non-writers at the dinner Friday night. Even some friends of Craigthorn’s.”

  “Yeah. You probably mean the secretary, Miss … ah …” He flipped through his notebook, then came up with the name. “Yeah, Miss Sweeney. She’s sort of a looker. You think he was sleeping with her?”

  “I’m sure I’ve told you I didn’t know the man.”

  “Somebody at MWA must have known him to choose him for the award.”

  “I guess so,” Barney admitted. “Harry Fox, one of our associate members, gets around town, sees a lot of people. He probably suggested it to the board of directors.”

  “What about this friend that came with him—Frank Jesset? He’s some sort of an editor, isn’t he?”

  “True confessions magazine, from what I understand,” Barney said.

  George grunted and tried to smooth down his wild hair. “So you’ve got no ideas about the thing? You were pretty sharp finding that electrical device in the podium.”

  “I was standing right next to him when he was shot. It wasn’t too difficult to see where the bullet came from.”

  “What about this statuette, the Raven award? Why did he pull it out of your hand?”

  “He was obviously trying to tell me something—perhaps to name his murderer. I don’t know.”

  “There was no Raven at the dinner. There was no bird of any sort. We checked the girls—Robin, you know, is sort of a nickname. But there weren’t any, Mr. Hamet.”

  Barney lit a cigarette. “Have you considered the possibility that Craigthorn was not the intended victim? That this device misfired at the wrong moment?”

  “Well, who was the intended victim then?” the detective wanted to know. “The awards were kept pretty confidential, as I understand it, all except the one to Craigthorn. I doubt if any outsider would even have known that Harry Fox was going to give his little talk. They certainly wouldn’t have known that people like Max Winters were going to win. You were the only one definitely scheduled to speak, outside of Craigthorn. Are you telling us the bullet was meant for you?”

  Barney could not in all honesty tell him that “I don’t know who it was meant for. I suppose it was meant for Craigthorn. A killer as clever as this one wouldn’t have fired the thing at the wrong moment.”

  “I hear you’re having a little all-night radio session tonight on KJON.”

  Barney nodded. “Skinny Simon’s show. Listen in.”

  “I can’t stay up all night listening to the radio. The wife would think I was some sort of a nut. You tell me if anything exciting happens.”

  Barney nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  “And if you get any tips on the case, pass them along to me. We’re always happy to have some extra help.”

  “Right.”

  Barney left him in the coffee shop and headed back to his own apartment. Maybe he could catch a few hours sleep before the appearance on Skinny’s show. At least he could try.

  The studios of KJON were just south of Times Square, in one of those nondescript
office buildings that was not tall enough or new enough or modern enough to attract more than a passing glance. Tourists sometimes mistook it for part of the garment district, though that was several blocks further to the south. This building held the usual assortment of offices—a bank on the ground floor, a few lawyers, and at the top, three floors given over to the studios of KJON radio.

  In a city with as many radio stations as New York, it was theoretically possible for someone to spend most of his existence without ever happening upon the all-night talk shows of KJON, but for those who did, the experience was not one to be quickly forgotten. Skinny Simon’s voice, for one thing, came through on the radio in a deep, demanding tone, completely free from the body which lacked its authority. It was possible that Skinny was made for radio. He certainly was not made for television, where one look at his sagging frame and drooping eyelids gave many Friday night viewers the shudders. Though he was not as thin as he had been when he acquired his nickname back in college, he gave the impression of always being in motion, like a runner or a high-jumper, with arms sometimes actually waving as he talked.

  During the MWA dinner he had been fairly well in control of himself, but now Barney saw him in full flight.

  “Barney! Barney! Glad you could make it! What time is it?”

  “Almost eleven-thirty.”

  “Where are the rest of those guys?”

  “Who’s here so far?”

  “Just Harry Fox. I thought you were going to have five people here for me!”

  “They’ll be here—don’t worry. You’ve got a half-hour till show time,” Barney reassured him, following along into a large drab studio with a control booth at one end. The engineer was there, but neither Susan Veldt nor Betty had made an appearance as yet.

  “Some detective was here questioning me a while ago,” Skinny said.

  “A fellow named George?”

  “I guess that was the name. What are they doing—going down the whole guest list?”

  “I suppose so,” Barney said. “Did you know Craigthorn?”