Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  “Julie Steinmetz,” I repeated. “A fashion model. She was murdered last Thursday night.”

  His jaw dropped open. “Murdered!”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Why? You don’t know her.”

  He blinked twice. “Yes, but still. You come in here and ask me if I know someone, and then tell me she’s been murdered. I mean, it has to be some kind of joke.”

  I shook my head. “No joke. Julie Steinmetz was murdered. Shot through the heart. In a motel somewhere near Poughkeepsie. The Pine Hills Motel. Ever hear of it?”

  He’d recovered his composure. “I never heard of it, and I never heard of her.”

  “That’s funny. Because there’s evidence linking her to the City Council.”

  He stared at me. “What?”

  “That’s right.”

  From the living room a woman’s voice called, “Steve? Who is it?”

  He winced slightly. “Nothing, dear,” he called out. He turned back to me. “I really know nothing about this. You’d better go.”

  “A couple more questions. You never heard of the Pine Hills Motel?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve never been there?”

  “No.”

  “Last Thursday night. You didn’t go there last Thursday night?”

  “Certainly not.”

  A woman came through the door carrying a baby. She looked hassled, and I didn’t blame her. I have one kid and know it’s a handful. She had at least three.

  “Steve?” she said. “What is it?”

  Fletcher looked hassled too. “Nothing, honey. This is a reporter, and he’s just leaving.”

  “A reporter?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher?” I said. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I have a kid of my own, I know what it’s like. But you could help me out too. I’m covering the story of a woman who was murdered last week.”

  Her eyes widened. “Murdered?” she said. They all seem to say that.

  “Yes.”

  “But what does that have to do with us?”

  “Nothing,” Fletcher said.

  “Your husband’s right,” I said. “Probably nothing at all. This is a young woman from New York City. Her name was Julie Steinmetz. She was murdered at the Pine Hills Motel near Poughkeepsie sometime last Thursday night.”

  Mrs. Fletcher looked totally baffled. She turned to her husband. “Steve?”

  Fletcher threw up his hands. “Don’t ask me, honey. I know nothing about it.”

  She looked at him a moment, then turned to me. “Then why are you here?”

  “It’s silly, I know. But there is evidence linking Miss Steinmetz to the Albany City Council.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right.”

  “To my husband?”

  “No, ma’am. That’s how you can help me. Your husband says he doesn’t know the woman. And that he wasn’t at the Pine Hills Motel last Thursday night. I’m sure he wasn’t, and it would be nice to eliminate him from consideration. So last Thursday night I would assume he was home with you. Could you confirm that fact?”

  Fletcher’s face reddened. “Now see here,” he said. “I will not have you cross-examine my wife.”

  My eyes widened in mock surprise. I put up my hands. “I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “I didn’t want you to get that impression. Please try to understand. I have to follow up this lead to the City Council. But I am not a muckraker, I am a responsible journalist. You are a respected politician and a family man. If you weren’t involved in this, I don’t even want to print your name. That’s why I’m asking your wife the question. Because I would like to wipe you off the list.

  “But you have to understand, I have a responsibility to follow up the story. And in the event you refuse to let your wife answer the question, then I have to print it. Because then it’s news. ‘Councilman Fletcher declined comment and refused to disclose his whereabouts on the night of the murder.’ You see what I mean?”

  The power of the press. That line worked as well on Fletcher as it had on the gray-haired clerk. He frowned and bit his lip.

  When he did, his wife jumped in. She was a feisty young woman, who had been wanting to answer all along.

  “Oh yeah?” she said. “Well, you print that and you’re going to have a libel suit on your hands. I don’t know what it is you’re talking about, but my husband was not involved, and he can prove it.”

  “He was with you, then?”

  “No, he wasn’t. Thursday night is his poker night. He played till two in the morning. You see, it’s better than if he’d been here with me. He’ll have six witnesses to confirm it.”

  I turned to Fletcher. “You played poker that night?”

  Fletcher frowned. “Please. My wife sometimes speaks without thinking—forgive me honey—but let’s say ’cards.’ I met some friends to play cards.” He smiled for the first time since I’d opened the door. “The word ‘poker’ has certain connotations. I’m a public figure. I would not like to read in print that I had been gambling.”

  “I assure you that won’t happen.” I said. “Well, I guess that does it. Councilman. Mrs. Fletcher. Thank you very much, I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”

  I bowed and smiled myself out the door. I went out and got in the car.

  Well, about what I’d expected. No new information. Just a confirmation, if you could call it that, that Councilman Fletcher was Check-hat. Not a dead certainty, but a damn good bet. And despite my assurances that I would let the matter drop, it was another good bet that high on Councilman Fletcher’s priorities would have been sneaking calls to his poker buddies to ask them to confirm that last Thursday he’d been there all night and never left the game.

  Yeah, that was the picture all right. But what did it get me? Nothing, expect for the fact that in my opinion, his surprise at hearing Julie Steinmetz was dead had been genuine. Which would, of course, clear him of being the murderer. And while I didn’t really want a family man with a wife and kids to be guilty of murder, I sure would have liked to have come up with another suspect besides me.

  Well, so much for that. Check-hat was pretty much of a washout. But at least I’d tried. Now, while I had the adrenaline flowing, it was time to opt for POP.

  I checked the computer printout. Kevin Drexel’s address was on Clinton Avenue. I’d have to buy a street map somewhere and find out where that was.

  Before I did I checked the black and white sketch map of the government center, and I got lucky. Clinton Avenue was on it, just half a dozen blocks from the government center, the one thing in Albany I had any chance to find.

  I turned around and headed back the way I came. Before long, I caught sight of The Egg, and took my bearings off of that.

  The way I figured it, POP was a good bet. From what little I’d seen of him, he struck me as a young, aggressive, hustler type, the kind of guy who could conceivably be involved with a girl in Julie Steinmetz’s league. I figured him to be single and live alone. Of course, as MacAullif tells me, my judgment isn’t that hot, so I couldn’t really be sure. But I figured him for an apartment rather than a private home.

  For once I figured right. The address on Clinton was an apartment house. As I drove up, I tried to spot POP’s car to see if he was home. It couldn’t have been easier. It was double-parked with the flashers on right outside the door. I pulled in by a fireplug half a block away and waited.

  He was out in ten minutes. He hopped in the car, cut the flashers, snapped on his headlights and pulled out. I snapped on my lights and pulled out after him.

  It was getting on toward dinnertime, so I figured that was where he was heading. If so, I hoped he wasn’t picking up a date. I didn’t want to have to strut my stuff in front of her. I wanted to talk to him alone.

  I got my wish. POP drove about a mile out of town and pulled into a rather posh-looking restaurant. He parked his car in the lot and went in. I parked in the lot and went in too.

&nb
sp; Just inside the door was a hatcheck room. Beyond that, the door to the bar and restaurant.

  POP had checked his coat and was already heading for the bar. I checked my coat too. Even if I didn’t have dinner, talking to POP was going to cost me a buck.

  I walked over to the bar. POP had already given his order, and the bartender had moved off and grabbed a cocktail shaker. There was an empty seat next to POP. I slid into it, turned to him and said, “Councilman Drexel?”

  He turned, looked at me. If there was any sign of recognition, I didn’t catch it.

  My initial impression of POP had been pretty accurate. He was young, say late twenties, with carefully groomed hair and the features of a soap opera star. He also had a sporting, competitive air to him. The type of guy who does well with women and prides himself on it. The type of guy women admire and men want to kick in the butt.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Stanley Hastings, Albany Times. I wonder if you could give me a few minutes?”

  He smiled what I took to be a politician’s smile. “I always have time for the press,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if you could give me a statement.”

  “A statement? About what?”

  “Julie Steinmetz.”

  He winced perceptively. Then he recovered. If that indeed was what he was doing. Because the recovery was so good, frankly I couldn’t tell.

  He frowned and shook his head. “You reporters,” he said. “You’re all the same.”

  “What?”

  *’Look here, Mr. … uh …”

  “Hastings.

  “Mr. Hastings. Look here. I’m a city councilman. I’m also a bachelor. I happen to date a lot of women.” He smiled. “Women seem to like me.” He gave me a roguish, man of the world look.

  I wanted to kick him in the butt. “Yeah? So?”

  “So every few weeks some enterprising reporter hunts me up and throws the name of some woman at me. And then it gets in the papers. I can’t say I mind that much. It probably helps me with as many voters as it hurts. But that’s beside the point. The point is, half of these stories are true, and half of them aren’t. And I beg your pardon, but on the whole the press doesn’t give a damn which is which.”

  I felt defensive, which was strange, since I wasn’t really a reporter. But I guess I just disliked the man so much, I felt he was attacking my bogus profession. “That’s not true,” I said.

  He held up his hands. “Of course, of course. Far be it from me to malign the press. But you know how it works. A reporter throws a name in my face. If I say I know her, it gets printed. If I say I don’t know her, that gets printed—‘Councilman Drexel denied rumors linking him with Miss So-and-so.’ If I say ‘No comment,’ that gets printed—‘Councilman Drexel declined to comment on …’ So you see, whether I actually knew the woman or not is scarcely the issue.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “You know, Councilman, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a person evade a question more persistently than you’re doing.”

  He frowned. “Exactly what I was talking about. You prove my point. I tell you my position, you tell me I’m evading. You didn’t let me finish. I’ll have you know I’ve consulted an attorney to know what to do in cases like this. Now my attorney tells me whether it’s a paternity suit, a breach of promise, or merely a simple question of whether I knew the woman, I’m to decline comment and simply let the press print what they like. Because they will anyway, and that way at least I stay out of any legal difficulties.” He smiled a superior, condescending smile.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “Then let me define the situation you’re not commenting on. The woman in question is Julie Steinmetz. The allegation is that you called on her at a motel.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “A motel?”

  “That’s right.”

  He chuckled. “Well, that is one area I can comment on. As I said, I’m a bachelor. If I want to see a young woman, I’ll bring her to my apartment. I don’t have to go to a motel.”

  “You’re denying you called on Julie Steinmetz at a motel?”

  He waved his hand. “Not at all. Regarding your questions, I have no comment. I’m merely making a general statement that I would not take any woman to a motel. And any person that says that I did would be printing a falsehood.”

  “I see,” I said. “Then the falsehood that I’ll be printing will be that you called on Julie Steinmetz at the Pine Hills Motel in the vicinity of Poughkeepsie.”

  He frowned. “Poughkeepsie?”

  “That’s right. And the woman you didn’t call on was Julie Steinmetz of New York City.”

  “New York City?”

  “That’s right.”

  I must say the guy was good. He managed to put just the right tone of incredulous skepticism in his voice so that, even though I knew better, I couldn’t help feeling like a fool.

  “You intend to print that I called on a woman from New York City in a motel in Poughkeepsie?” he said.

  “Unless you’d care to comment.”

  “I most certainly don’t. I must say even the most sordid gossipmongers, who are happy to believe everything they read in the papers, will find that stretching it a little thin.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “You see, I have a handle for the story.”

  “What is that?”

  “She was murdered.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Murdered?”

  I was right. They all did it.

  “That’s right. Murdered. Which makes it a bit more of a story, don’t you think? Now in light of that, would you care to comment?”

  He drew himself up. “In light of that, I don’t think I should give you the time of day.” He shook his head. “I had no idea to what depths you reporters would stoop, but this takes the cake. You find some woman who’s been murdered. You come throw her name at me. You don’t tell me why. You go through the usual song and dance, and then tell me the woman’s been murdered. Now you’ll print my refusal to comment and make a big stink out of the whole thing.” He shook his head, piously deploring the wickedness of the world in general, and me in particular.

  A knockout of a young blonde came up to the bar and put her hand on his shoulder. “Hi, Kevin,” she said.

  He looked at her, smiled, put his arm around her. “Hi, honey.”

  She looked at me. “Who’s this?”

  “He’s a reporter, and he’s leaving.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Another reporter. And what does this one claim?”

  “That I took some girl to a motel.”

  She smiled. “Oh? Did you?”

  “No, but I have to decline comment. You know the bit.”

  “Of course.” She turned to me. “But you’ll print it any way, won’t you?” she said archly. “Even though it isn’t true. Well, Kevin happens to be with me now. That’s Jean Carr. CARR. You could print that if you wanted, but you won’t. You know why? Because it happens to be true.”

  “No,” I said. “Because it isn’t interesting. Julie Steinmetz is ’cause she happened to get murdered.”

  Her jaw dropped open. “Murdered?”

  Chalk up another one. That made it unanimous.

  “That’s right. At the Pine Hills Motel. The motel he didn’t take her to.”

  She stared at me a moment. Then she smiled. Then giggled. Then looked slyly up at him. “Gee, honey,” she said. “You didn’t tell me you’d killed anyone.”

  He smiled back. “Must have slipped my mind.” He slid down off his barstool. His face got hard. “Now you see here,” he said. “You print any damn thing you want. I can’t stop you. But I can sue you for libel, and don’t think I won’t. But that’s neither here nor there. This young lady and I are going to have dinner, and you’re not going to spoil it. So, as the saying goes, go peddle your papers.” He smiled a superior smirk. “That’s what you people do, isn’t it?”

  He turned and led the young blonde off toward the dining room.


  I stood and watched him go.

  I can’t say I liked him much. For one thing, he was lying—I was almost sure of it. He was a pompous, pretentious, son of a bitch, and he was lying his ass off. In a murder investigation. One in which I was a prime suspect. Which was infuriating.

  If that was all of it. If it wasn’t also that he was a young, handsome playboy, picking up attractive blondes as if they were a dime a dozen, and then flaunting them in my face, as if realizing I was an old fart of a family man whose days of dating attractive young blondes were far behind him. And even then were few and far between. And approached without finesse, confidence, or savoir faire.

  I bought my coat back for a buck, went out to the parking lot, got my car, and headed home.

  I can’t say I felt great. Every instinct had told me talking to POP and Check-hat would be a waste of time. I’d done it anyway, and it had been a waste of time. I didn’t know whether I should feel good about having my judgment vindicated, or stupid for not trusting it to begin with.

  There was no reason for me to feel so bad. Kevin Drexel must have really gotten to me. Because Albany had been a thin thread to begin with and, I had to admit, it had more or less panned out. I’d found Check-hat. I’d found POP. I was a lot farther along than when I’d started the day.

  Yeah. That was the trouble. I was farther along all right. By talking to Check-hat and POP and coming up empty, I had advanced all the way to a dead end. Which left me right back where I started, not knowing what to do next.

  Worse, I had advanced to the point where I had to abandon my original theory. About it being blackmail, I mean. Because, like it or not, the City Councilmen just weren’t involved in anything important enough to be blackmailed about. So she couldn’t be blackmailing them about their jobs. And if she was blackmailing them as individuals, then it was just too much of a coincidence that both of the men she was blackmailing happened to be on the City Council. So that theory didn’t wash.

  It was depressing. Here I was, driving home to New York. In defeat. In retreat. Back to square one.

  And worse off than when I started. I’d come to Albany with a theory I thought made sense. Only it didn’t make sense, and now I had no theory at all.