I'll Cry When I Kill You

by Peter Israel

  About the correspondence in particular.

  Squilletti noticed it, too.

  “Jesus,” he said at one point. “What a cold fish the son of a bitch was!”

  We were looking through the letters Bashard and Latham had exchanged. Latham, mind you, was supposed to be his oldest friend, and certainly they’d known each other since way back. Apparently whenever Latham finished writing a book, he sent Bashard a copy of the manuscript. They also wrote from time to time (Latham more than Bashard), but any personal stuff the letters contained was so formal, so dry and deadpan, it was like reading the obituaries in a newspaper—or a letter from the IRS.

  And the same with the other people, at least from Bashard’s side. Cyn Morgan, the artist, wrote short little notes that at least gave a sense of personality. And there were one or two gossipy letters about Hollywood from Hermatius. But Bashard always answered—and he always did answer—in the same deadly writing, invariably polite, sometimes short, sometimes long, but always so formal, so impersonal!

  The only possible exception we came across involved Bashard and—at various times—three of the people on our list: Brinckerhoff, Frankaman, and Wright. Bashard, I knew, was himself a collector of science fiction, as were the other three, and Sidney Frankaman was also a dealer. But what Bashard collected most seriously was his own work. There were letters from him to the others asking about prices in the market, questioning fluctuations, particularly downward fluctuations. Sometimes he bought; there was also evidence that he’d sold off duplicate copies of some of his first editions. But there were a few items of his own that he didn’t have, in particular an issue of a magazine from the 1940s called Twenty-fifth Century Tales that had printed one of his early stories. A relatively recent series of letters extending over a year or more traced the complicated affair.

  It started apparently with a letter from Sidney Frankaman, informing Bashard that he had heard of someone who had an entire set of Twenty-fifth Century Tales in mint condition, which he might be persuaded to sell at the right price. Bashard replied that he wasn’t interested in the entire set, which included some two years’ issues, but only in those that had published his own work—all of which he already owned but the one issue. Frankaman answered that he thought only the entire set might be available, because to break one issue out of it would considerably lower the value of what was left. However, if Bashard insisted on making an offer on the single issue, he would be glad to transmit it. Bashard offered $1,800 for the single issue. At the same time, he wrote Sam Wright asking his opinion on what a complete set of Twenty-fifth Century Tales might be worth in the open market. Wright replied that there were few mint sets known to be in existence, the magazine in its day having been unsuccessful and unrecognized until years later, that the last set to be offered in open auction had sold for $6,200, that he’d heard rumors of one private sale since but not of the price. It was, Sam Wright thought, a seller’s market. One month later, to the day, Bashard wrote Frankaman:

  My dear Sidney Frankaman:

  As of this date, I have had no answer to my last letter to you (photocopy enclosed).

  In consideration of our long association, I am surprised, at the least, by the absence of courtesy.

  In the expectation of a prompt reply, I am,

  Very truly yours,

  R. R. Bashard

  At this point Brinckerhoff entered the story through, it looked like, a telephone call or series of calls followed by more letters. Brinckerhoff knew of the set in question. In fact, if he had known Raul Bashard was the prospective buyer, they might have circumvented Sidney Frankaman. It was too late for that now, but possibly he, Brinckerhoff, could facilitate matters. Of course, only the full set would be for sale. Bashard answered that he saw no reason why Frankaman couldn’t be circumvented. For obvious reasons, he would prefer not to deal with someone of Frankaman’s “type.” What was the seller’s asking price? The seller would not set a price, according to Brinckerhoff, but wanted Bashard to make an offer. Bashard offered $5,250. The offer was refused. Why wouldn’t Brinckerhoff put Bashard in direct touch with the seller and let them negotiate? The seller didn’t want that.

  Little by little Bashard raised his offer to $6,750.

  At this point Sidney Frankaman came back into the picture. Sidney Frankaman was outraged to have learned that Bashard had tried to deal behind his back. If Bashard still wanted to buy the set, he would have to deal with Frankaman. Bashard replied that he hadn’t tried to deal behind Frankaman’s back, but that he’d assumed, in the absence of an answer to his last letter (photocopies enclosed of original letter and reminder letter), that Frankaman had lost interest. He was still prepared to pay $6,500 for the entire set. Frankaman countered that he knew Bashard’s last offer had been $6,750, accused Bashard of dealing in bad faith, and said that even $6,750 was unacceptable and embarrassingly low. The seller’s asking price, he said, was $11,000, and it was nonnegotiable. In fact, the set would be withdrawn from sale within seven days if Bashard declined to meet the price.

  A flurry of phone calls and telegrams followed. Bashard wanted to know what percentage Frankaman’s commission was. Frankaman refused to tell him. Bashard called Brinckerhoff; Brinckerhoff was no help. Bashard accused Frankaman of gouging. Frankaman replied that the price was $11,000.

  In the end, Bashard wrote one last letter:

  Dear Frankaman:

  Enclosed you will find my check in the amount of $11,000 (eleven thousand dollars) as payment in full for one complete set of Twenty-fifth Century Tales, mint condition, as per our discussions.

  You will note that the check is postdated by one week. This is to allow you to send me the above-mentioned set by courier for my inspection. If I find its condition satisfactory, you may submit my check for deposit. If I do not, the set will be returned to you by courier and payment stopped.

  I must warn you, sir, that the last thing on earth I will tolerate is to have appeared the fool within the science-fiction community. If this appears to be the case, and/or if this transaction is publicized, then I will look to you for satisfaction in full.

  Very truly yours,

  R. R. Bashard

  Bashard’s warning notwithstanding, we found two further letters—one from Brinckerhoff, one from Sam Wright, both congratulating Bashard on his acquisition.

  For once, Bashard didn’t seem to have answered.

  “It sure looks like they fleeced him,” Squilletti said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “All three of them probably. Frankaman anyway.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “What do you mean, ‘maybe so’? The stuff’s garbage. My old man used to read magazines like that. They called them pulps. They’re garbage.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “I guess he could afford it.”

  “Yeah,” Squilletti said. “Besides, it doesn’t add up to murder.”

  No, it didn’t add up to murder. Maybe they’d fleeced Bashard, but Bashard was the one who was dead. Hard as we looked though, it was as close as we came to anything out of the ordinary that afternoon. What were the motives for murder? the three of us asked each other. And for a particularly bloody murder? Money and passion. Most of the people on the list were well off, if the computer was right. A couple weren’t, but no one was what you’d call destitute, and how could they profit from Bashard’s death anyway? And passion, whether hate, jealousy, revenge, or whatever—maybe it was there, hidden somewhere, but it sure wasn’t evident to us on the green screen.

  By the time we got through hashing and rehashing the twelve people on Bud’s list, it was well into the afternoon. Bud Fincher and I divided them up. At first Squilletti wanted to assign a man to go with each of us, but we talked him out of it.

  We still had Price to do, and Squilletti wanted to talk to MacGregor and Kohl.

  “Phil,” Bud Fincher reminded me, “didn’t you want to run Al through the hate stuff?”

  I remember sighing.

  “That’
s right, I did.” Maybe it wasn’t important, but I wanted to walk Squilletti back to where we’d been before the BashCon and through what now seemed, I admitted in hindsight, to have led us off the track.

  “Are any of these people in there?” Squilletti asked, pointing at the list.

  “No,” I answered.

  “Then I don’t see why—never mind,” he interrupted himself, reaching for a cigarette. “Go ahead.”

  We ran through some samples. He saw some Sex Dangerous and Money Dangerous. He even saw those correspondents whom Bud’s people had never succeeded in tracing. A couple of times he whistled low—there were, as I’ve said before, some pretty steamy examples. But his mind wasn’t really on it, and you could hardly blame him. Because if the answer was in the hate mail, then we were wasting our time with the people who’d been on the second floor of the hotel annex. We’d have to start all over again, where Bud Fincher and I had started, going through the whole wide world, practically, to look for a murderer angry enough to beat a man to death with a fire poker.

  Maybe that explains why I missed it. Or rather missed seeing what wasn’t there anymore.

  Or even saw and registered what wasn’t there, but simply didn’t pay attention.

  S.O.W.

  CHAPTER

  8

  NAME: Price, Robert white Caucasian male Age: 31

  Health: excellent Physical condition: excellent

  Sign: Taurus IQ test: 119

  Function: Security Officer Earnings: $35,000 annum

  Employer: R. R. Bashard

  Marital status: single Children: none

  Net worth: Est: $41,000 (see Bashard, financ.)

  Education: B.S. U of So. Calif., OCS, USN, graduated 51 in class

  Military Service: six years USN, San Diego, Ca., Pensacola, Fla., Canal Zone, Washington D.C.; last rank: Lt. j.g.; reason for separation: resign. w/o prej.

  “Why’d you leave the Navy?” Squilletti asked.

  “Ask the Navy,” Price, Robert replied.

  “C’mon, c’mon, you can do better than that,” Squilletti said sharply. We were sitting on the back terrace near the swimming pool, otherwise deserted, and though it was late in the afternoon we were into the longest days of the year and the sun was still hot over the hilltop.

  Price shrugged slightly. He had changed out of his funeral garb. He wore buck shoes with red soles and white socks, sharply pressed chinos and a red-and-blue-striped polo shirt that looked like it, too, had just come from the laundry. Ditto his crew cut and the clean-shaven lantern jaw.

  “The peacetime Navy’s no place to get ahead. I was passed over once for promotion. I was told I was going to be passed over again.”

  “So you got out.”

  “I resigned, yes.”

  “How’d you come to work for Bashard?”

  “I was recommended to him.”

  “Who recommended you?”

  “It worked through Navy channels.”

  “Why’d you take the job?”

  “Why? Because the pay was good, better than I could’ve gotten elsewhere. He told me if I’d give him two years, he’d stake me to whatever I wanted to do.”

  “How long have you worked for him?”

  “Two years and four months.”

  “Oh? What made you stay on?”

  “I almost didn’t. He promised me a bonus if I gave him another six months.”

  “How come you almost didn’t?”

  “Because of his daughter.”

  Squilletti paused, as though to give Price room to elaborate. But Price didn’t elaborate. He held his head stiffly, chin in, eyes straight ahead.

  “You mean you didn’t like her?” Squilletti asked.

  “I didn’t say that. But I was hired to take charge of Bashard’s security, not to be his daughter’s chauffeur.”

  “Hmmm,” Squilletti said. “So you ended up driving Grace around a lot. You must’ve gotten to know her pretty well. What do you think about her?”

  “Spoiled,” Price said. “Otherwise okay.”

  “Did you screw her?”

  That was vintage Squilletti, but Price didn’t blink.

  “No,” he said.

  “No?” Squilletti repeated, raising his eyebrows. “How come? You must’ve had plenty of opportunities.”

  But Price didn’t rise to the bait. All he said was: “I worked for him.”

  Squilletti took him away to other background subjects—dead end, I thought—then tried to get him to talk about the relationship between Grace and Bashard. But he didn’t get very far. Yes, Price said, they fought sometimes, mostly about Grace’s freedom to come and go, to do whatever she wanted. Mostly Bashard won. But if Price had anything to add to what we already knew, he wasn’t putting it on the table.

  “Do you think she killed him?” Squilletti asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, come on, you were there, you knew the people. You’ve got to have an opinion.”

  “Why don’t you ask Revere?”

  “I’m not asking Revere,” Squilletti persisted. “I’m asking you.”

  “Revere was the one in charge.”

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  “It has everything to do with it. Revere was the one in charge, and he blew it.”

  I started to butt in, but Squilletti waved me off.

  “What do you mean, he blew it?”

  Then it came out, a little of it anyway. Maybe the strongest feeling a guy like Price has is resentment at being passed over. He’d been in charge of security, he said, and he’d always gotten the job done. But then Bashard hired this hotshot from New York (me), without so much as asking Price’s advice, and this hotshot had blown it. He had fallen asleep on the job.

  What would Price have done in my place?

  He wouldn’t have fallen asleep on the job. He wouldn’t have gone to bed with the boss’s daughter. If anybody had wanted to get to Bashard, they’d have had to climb over Price’s dead body.

  “He was some kind of man,” Price said. “Great. He treated me like a … like a …”

  His face had gone all stiff, muscles on bone. For a split second, I thought he was going to blubber. Instead, he did a strange thing. His neck arched, his chin tucked into his collarbone. Then, with an upward heave of his chest, his chin lifted and at the same time he seemed to gain a couple of inches in height.

  Ramrod straight.

  Squilletti glanced at me, I glanced at Bud Fincher, Bud Fincher looked back. None of us could read it. Whether Price was covering up or literally pulling himself together, it was strictly name-rank-and-serial-number time.

  Squilletti led him through the night of the murder. He didn’t add anything to what we already knew. He’d been the last one out of the suite. Bashard was going to bed. Grace was already in her room. He’d shut the suite door behind him, and he and I had made sure it was locked. Then he’d taken a shower and gone to sleep; the next thing he knew I was knocking on his door.

  He’d opened the door in his undershorts, I remembered. I remembered seeing one of those portable pants pressers behind him, with his pants in it.

  Squilletti then took him back to Jules Verne, the poisoned Doberman. According to Price, someone had thrown poisoned meat through the fence and they’d never found who’d done it.

  “But Grace thought her father did it, didn’t she?” Squilletti asked.

  “I heard her say something like that.”

  “Why would she have said something like that if it wasn’t so?”

  “She was very attached to the dog.”

  “If that’s what she thought, though,” Squilletti persisted, “mightn’t it have made her want to kill him?”

  But all Price said was: “She wanted to do a lot of things she didn’t do.”

  “Like what things?” Squilletti asked, but he couldn’t make Price be more specific.

  Squilletti then showed him Bud Fincher’s list. Price either knew them all, or knew
of them. The only ones he’d met at the house, he thought, were Morgan, Varga and Whitefield. Cyn Morgan had been out on different occasions, Varga and Whitefield maybe once or twice. Several times he’d driven Cyn Morgan to the local bus stop, once into the city. He thought he’d talked to all the others on the list on the telephone, except maybe Oliver Latham.

  Did any of them have any grudge against Bashard? Not that he was aware of. Were there ever any arguments, or signs of enmity? Not that he was aware of.

  “What’s going to happen to you now, Price?” Squilletti asked.

  Price shrugged.

  “Mr. Camelot asked me to stay on,” he said, “but it won’t last long. I’ll have to find another job.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s over,” Price said. “He’s dead.”

  We made as if to get up from the table, but Squilletti had an afterthought or two.

  “Did you know Bashard was dying?” he asked. “That he had a brain tumor? I mean, before last weekend?”

  “I didn’t,” Price answered. “But it stood to reason.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I used to drive him to a clinic in New York.”

  “And he told you he was sick?”

  “He never told me anything,” Price said. “He always said he’d gotten a clean bill of health. But you don’t go to the doctor that often and get a clean bill of health. And when my two years were up and he renewed me …” He paused. Then: “It’d have been for more than six months otherwise.”

  True to form, Bud Fincher and I got hung up in Lincoln Tunnel traffic. At that time of day, they’ve got four lanes coming out of the tunnel and only two going in, and the inbound traffic was backed up almost all the way to the New Jersey Turnpike. We inched along in the exhaust fumes, hashed and rehashed our material, and got nowhere.

  By the time I got uptown the office was closed, but a message from the Counselor told me to come up to the fifth floor. I could hear the hum of conversation, the tinkling of glasses, even before I got off the elevator. Party time. People thronged on the terraces in the pleasant dusk and overflowed inside around the bar, and I saw the Counselor’s Wife, in yellow chiffon, moving animatedly from cluster to cluster.