“Too bad.” I put the money away.
That was more than he could stand. “Well, I could check with Ms. Appleby.”
“Who?”
“The supervisor,” he explained. “She got promoted because of her name,” he added in a whisper.
“Don’t be catty,” I told him. “Okay, it’s a deal. Get me face to face with Ms. Appleby, and the money is yours.”
He lifted a portion of the counter, and went through a door marked “PRIVATE.” Through the door I heard a shrill voice saying, “From the Network? TV? Send him in, by all means!”
The boy with the teeth reappeared, waved me into the office, and stuck out his hand for the money. I gave it to him, even though the evidence suggested Ms. Appleby had been waiting all her life for me to show up.
“Hello, Mr. Cobb, is it? Larry has told me what you want, and I’m afraid it’s quite impossible.” She was another schoolteacher gone wrong; at least she looked like one, of the stereotypical repressed-spinster variety. She wore rimless spectacles, her dark-blond hair was drawn back in a tight bun, and she held her lips so tight they were almost nonexistent. She clashed with her stylish uniform. I had no doubt she’d soon rise high enough in the company that she could stop wearing it. She had the glint of the fanatic in her eyes.
I was about to find out one of the things she was fanatical about.
“However,” she went on, “when I found out you were a vice-president of a television network, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Shoot,” I said resignedly.
“What is the name of the hopeless idiot who was responsible for the cancellation of ‘Star Trek’?”
I run into these people all the time. I think Gene Roddenberry put some diabolical ultrasonic vibration on the sound track that had an addictive effect on certain people’s minds.
“Ms. Appleby,” I said, “not only was that almost ten years ago, it was another network entirely.”
“That’s not the point. I would think you would want people of some intelligence to watch television, too. Yet whenever a good program is on the air, you kill it. I hardly ever watch television for that very reason. Why, the only decent show that’s been on since ‘Star Trek’ has been ‘Harbor Heights,’ and that only lasted a month!”
It was my turn to correct her. “Eight weeks,” I said. “Tell you what. If you tell me who had that car Wednesday, I will personally see to it that ‘Star Trek’ is back on the air next fall.”
“Can you do that?” She didn’t dare let herself hope.
“Of course! I’m the vice-president, right? That show will be back on the air if I have to personally whittle Leonard Nimoy’s ears into shape.”
“Well,” she said, “I suppose it’s worth a try.”
She addressed herself to one of several large filing cabinets. Big Apple wasn’t quite big enough yet to have it all computerized. “Let’s see,” she murmured, “297-VVJ. Here it is.”
I reached for the card, she pulled it away. “I will read you the name you want to know, Mr. Cobb. There’s no need for you to know everyone who has rented that particular car.”
I apologized, and took out a pencil and pad to write down what she was going to say.
I didn’t need to write it down. “The customer who rented that Green Ford LTD Wednesday afternoon was ...” she paused like a presenter at the Emmy awards, “a man named Walter Schick.”
For an instant, I became the snot-nosed street kid I had once been. “Gimme that!” I snarled and snatched it from her hand.
There it was, big as life. “Name: Walter Schick. Residence: Greenwich, Conn.” I dropped the card on the floor.
She swooped down on it like an eagle. “This is inexcusable, Mr. Cobb,” she hissed.
“What?” I snapped, then realized what I was doing. “Don’t mind me,” I said affably, “I’m schizophrenic.”
“Oh.”
“What do you have to do to rent a car around here?” I asked.
“Well, please don’t take this personally, but in your condition, I don’t think it would be wise for us to—”
“I don’t want to rent one,” I interrupted. “Just tell me what the requirements are.”
“A valid license. You need to be over twenty-one. And you have to be able to pay, of course.”
“You always do,” I said. I thought this new development over for a second. I didn’t like it at first, but when I thought it over for a few more seconds, I hated it.
“Ms. Appleby, what would you say if I were to tell you the man who rented this car has been kept alive with the aid of a respirator since January? That he’s been in a coma since then?”
“That’s impossible!” she said.
“It certainly is,” I agreed. “So it must have been someone else using Schick’s driver’s license. Lucky Connecticut doesn’t use pictures on the licenses. Lucky for the killer, I mean.”
“Killer?”
“Ms. Appleby, tell you what you do. Find out the name of the employee that rented out this car, at which terminal, and call me at the number on this card, and I will get you a part in ‘Star Trek.’ ”
With stars in her eyes, she said she would.
“Live long and prosper,” I told her, and left.
21
“Just one more thing ...”
—Peter Falk, “Columbo” (NBC)
THE DRIZZLE HAD TURNED into a healthy adult-sized storm, and the sun had gone down. Willowdale hospital loomed out of the darkness like the cover of a Gothic novel. I hadn’t bothered to phone ahead. Every damn crime in the case had been accompanied by a phone call.
I parked the car as near the entrance as I could. Spot squirted out of the car before I could close the door on him, and followed me into the hospital.
“Behave,” I warned him.
It wasn’t the same old lady behind the desk as was there Wednesday, but it might as well have been. This one was reading Conan the Barbarian, by Robert E. Howard. I figured someone was leaving these books around to have some fun with the volunteers.
“I’m looking for Dr. Fred Barber,” I told her when she asked if she could help me.
“No dogs are allowed in the hospital, sir,” she said.
“That’s not a dog.”
“Well, what is it then?”
“A toy. This is the first Bionic Puppy. Is Dr. Barber here?”
“Yes he is, would you like me to call him?” When I nodded, she picked up a microphone, took another look at Spot and said, “What will they think of next?” then paged the intern.
He walked into the lobby. I shook his hand, reintroduced myself, and said, “I’m glad you were here, I wasn’t sure what shift you were working.”
That made him laugh. “Interns don’t have shifts, they have marathons. Are you looking for Mrs. Schick? She’s in with her husband right now, if you want to talk to her.”
“No, don’t bother her. I just want to ask you one question: What was it you were bringing Mrs. Schick when I got here Wednesday?”
“What?”
“When I got here Wednesday, you were just coming out of Mr. Schick’s room. You told me you had just brought something to Mrs. Schick. What was it?”
“Oh, that was nothing. Personal effects. There was some kind of power failure here when Mr. Schick was brought in, and in the confusion, his personal items got put in a carton and locked in a safe. Wednesday, she remembered to ask for them, that’s all.”
“What were these things?”
“You know. Shoes, keys, wallet—”
“No clothes?”
“His clothes were covered with blood. They were thrown away months ago. Look, I’ve got to get back to work ...”
“Sure,” I said, “thanks.”
I took the Bionic Puppy back out to the car, and drove to the house on the Sound. Mrs. Locker answered the doorbell.
“Hello,” I said politely. “May I come in?”
“Hello, Mr. Cobb,” she smiled. “Come on in. I’ll tell Mi
ss Roxanne you’re here.”
“She’s home?” I asked, surprised.
“You’re calling on her, aren’t you?” Agatha asked, logically.
“Of course,” I lied. “I’m just glad she’s here.”
Roxanne joined me downstairs in a couple of minutes. She was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and faded blue jeans. I wondered what she looked like in a dress.
“I’m flattered, Cobb,” she said. “To come all this way on such a terrible night.”
“I thought you weren’t going to let your mother go alone to the hospital anymore,” I said.
She looked exasperated. “I can’t lock her up, you know. She happens to own this house. If you must know, I was going to go with her, but she skipped out while I was taking a shower. Okay?”
“All right,” I said. I figured I had more important things to worry about. “Rox, I want to take a look around the house.”
“Okay,” she shrugged. “What are you looking for?”
“A hole,” I said, “among other things. Do you happen to know where your father’s wallet is?”
“It’s at the hospital, isn’t it?”
“No, your mother got it back Wednesday. I think I’ll start upstairs. Care to tag along?”
“I think I will,” she said. “I don’t want you to steal anything.”
I checked the master bedroom first. There was nothing in the clothing drawers except clothing. I opened Walter Schick’s closet, and saw nothing but his suits hanging there, going quietly out of style. There was no wallet in that room. I gave up looking for it.
“The study next,” I told Roxanne.
“Cobb, what are you up to?” she asked.
“You don’t want to know, Twerp. Any sooner than you have to, anyway.”
“It’s about Dad, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“He did something terrible, didn’t he?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Why can’t you leave him alone? Hasn’t he been punished enough? What more can you do to him?”
“It’s not only him,” I said. “Look, Roxanne, the other day you gave me a little lecture. Now I’ll give you one. You’re going to have to be brave, maybe as brave as you were when you kicked dope and stayed off. But it’s got to happen, or things will only be worse. Even if you hate me for it, it’s still got to happen.”
“I won’t hate you,” she said.
The study had the musty smell of the closed-off wing of a museum. It seemed bigger without Walter Schick in it, than it had when he and I had had conferences here. I knew the room fairly well, and I made a beeline for what I wanted to see, the bound editions of Broadcasting magazine, the television industry’s bible, that were kept on the bookshelves. It was said that Walter Schick had sped his rise to the top by memorizing important articles in Broadcasting, and having facts always ready.
I pulled the green-bound volume marked JAN-APR 1973 down from the shelf, and turned to the April 2 issue. The “Fates and Fortunes” section had a page missing, the page my picture had been on.
“Damn,” I said.
“What’s the matter?”
“I found the hole. I wish I could crawl into it.” I slammed the volume shut, put it back on the shelf. “Rox,” I said, “I’m going to finish this tonight, for better or worse, probably worse. Do you want to come along? It might be better to get it over with.”
She swallowed, but when her voice came, it was smooth.
“Yes, for God’s sake, let’s get it over with.”
I sat at Walter Schick’s desk and made some phone calls. The first went to the switchboard at NetHQ, merely to ascertain whether Mr. Hewlen and Mr. Falzet were working late tonight, as planned. They were.
The next call went to Manhattan Homicide South and Lieutenant Martin.
“I’m ready,” I told him.
“Ready for what?” he wanted to know.
“To cover you and the department with glory. I’m ready to solve this goddam case, and incidentally, to throw my entire life down the toilet at the same time.”
There was silence for seven seconds. Then, “Jesus, Matty, are you confessing?”
“No-oo! Look, the best way to do this is to get this Gayle Spencer—she did make it to town?”
“Yeah, she’s here.”
“Good, she’s important—she’s vital to the case. Get her, and meet me at the Network building in half an hour.”
“Yes, Mr. TV Detective, sir. Anything else I can do for you? Do you want me to bring Goldfarb along?” His voice dripped sarcasm.
That was an interesting thought. The more I thought about it, the more interesting it was. “Yeah,” I said finally. “Yeah, bring old Herschel along.”
“If I do this,” the lieutenant said, “I’m just as crazy as you are, you realize that.”
“If we’re crazy, they can’t put us in jail,” I said.
“That is a consolation,” he said. “Okay, when do you want to meet, again?”
“Half hour, NetHQ. It’ll work out,” I assured him.
The next call went to the hospital to tell Mrs. Schick I had something important to tell Mr. Hewlen, and I wanted her to be present when I did so. I said I’d be by to pick her up.
Next, I tried to call Monica. If you’re going to stage a William Powell-type denouement, you might as well make sure all your characters are present. Unfortunately, Monica was neither at her place nor at my place. I didn’t try Tony’s room in that Manhattan hospital. I’d just have to struggle along without her.
22
“You are murderer!”
—J. Carroll Naish, “The New Adventures of Charlie Chan” (syndicated)
ONLY ONE EXCHANGE OF any consequence took place on the ride back to the city. It happened just before we picked up Mrs. Schick.
Cobb: What happened to that money you inherited last summer?
Roxanne: My father bought me a bond.
Cobb: Are you sure?
Roxanne: Of course. I clipped a coupon just last month.
That was it. After Cynthia Schick got in the car, I don’t think more than ten words were spoken, the last two being “We’re here.” I said that. Oh, and Spot barked when I locked him in the car.
Several police cars were parked illegally, and I cuddled the Network car close in behind them. They were early. I hustled the Schick women across the plaza. The plaza fountain spouted water into the sky in a pathetic effort to fight back the rain. I could sympathize with it.
In the lobby of the Tower of Babble, there was an informal gathering around the security desk. I recognized most of the people there. There was Wilkie the guard, Lieutenant Cornelius U. Martin, Jr., Detective Horace A. Rivetz, who was handcuffed to Herschel Goldfarb, a couple of subordinate plainclothesmen, and a few uniforms. The petite redhead in the green dress had to be Gayle Spencer, Devlin’s fiancée.
“You’re late,” the Lieutenant said.
“No I’m not. Miss Spencer?” I said to the girl. “Matt Cobb. I’m glad to meet you.” She didn’t extend a hand, and I was just as glad, to tell the truth.
“I wish I knew what was going on,” Miss Spencer said, with a frown that made her freckled face crease. “I have arrangements to make.”
I didn’t get a chance to answer her. “Mr. Cobb is going to reveal the murderer of your fiancé, Miss Spencer,” Lieutenant Martin said. There was an interesting undertone in his voice, made up of equal portions of “please?” and “you damn well better!”
Cynthia Schick said, “Oh, really? Does my father know about this?”
Wilkie the guard, who had been with the Network for as long as I’d been alive, answered for me. “Yes, ma’am. I called him on the house phone when the officers first got here.”
Now Goldfarb had a question. “What am I doing here? I demand to see my lawyer.”
“Shaddap, Ozzie,” Rivetz told him, just on general principles.
“Relax, Goldfarb,” I said, finally getting a chance to answer a questio
n addressed to me. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re here as an interested spectator. I don’t have a single question to ask you, I just thought you might appreciate a night on the town, instead of being cooped up. It’s up to you.”
He gave that hateful chuckle again. “In that case, I’ll stay.”
“Terrific. Lieutenant, I have to stop at my office for a second. I’d appreciate it if you would take everybody upstairs to Mr. Hewlen’s office. I’ll join you there in about five minutes.”
“Why?” he demanded. “So you can make an entrance, for God’s sake?”
I grinned at him. “What do you expect from a TV man?”
He just shook his head and walked away, muttering something about being in too deep. I wondered what he would have said if he’d known I was stopping at my office hoping to find evidence that would prevent my case from being blown away like the Flying Nun.
Harris and Shirley were waiting in the Special Projects office.
“What have you got?” I asked them.
“All of it,” Brophy said. “I thought I was kidding the other night.” He laughed.
“It’s just like you said, Matt,” Arnstein told me. “What do we do now?”
“How fond of your jobs are you? If I do all the talking up there, somebody’s going to realize how much this case depends on my unsupported word. Care to play Saul and Fred for me?”
“What?” Shirley said.
“Never mind. Care to come up and supply the vital information at the vital moment?”
“Sure,” Harris said. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Besides, Jimmy Carter has promised to make us a job anyway.”
I looked at Shirley, she nodded. “Great,” I said. I glanced over the facts they had gathered, then led the parade upstairs.
There was a bunch of bewildered people in the anteroom of Mr. Hewlen’s office. While I had remembered Mr. Hewlen telling Falzet they’d be screening pilots tonight, it had never occurred to me that the program staff of the Network would have to be there, too. You can’t think of everything.
The three of us ran a gantlet of curious stares to the office door. I opened it and went in. The room was silent as we walked to the stagelike platform where Mr. Hewlen’s desk was.
Killed in the Ratings Page 18
