Ed McBain (37 page)

"There she goes!" Freddie yelled. "Into that joint!"

Ralphie pulled the car over and screeched to a stop.

"Come on, Coe!" Williston yelled, reaching into the backseat and pulling David out into the rain with him. Up ahead, David saw Wanda duck into the aquarium exhibit.

The building was a two-story affair. Upstairs was where the two porpoises were fed every day while spectators goggled and cheered. The downstairs level was a dimly lit stone-and-concrete dungeon, where lighted glass walls showed the other big fish.

A porpoise was in the closest tank. The downstairs level ran for a hundred feet and angled off in an L showing the other side of the second tank, the tank in which a giant turtle, a sand shark, and a giant grouper were kept. The aquarium was dead silent. The fish drifted past silently and eerily. The tortoise pressed against the glass. Behind him the shark flashed into view.

"Upstairs," Williston shouted, pointing to the stairway at the end of the corridor, running for the steps.

Freddie's gun was in his hand. He was standing on David's left, and David could see the wad under his suit jacket near his right shoulder. His wound. As they approached the steps, David gripped the railing and brought both feet up, jackknifing into the air, aiming his heels at the wad on Freddie's right shoulder.

Freddie's scream pierced the air, echoed down the passageway as he dropped to the floor. David charged up the steps. Freddie was still screaming behind him.

"Wanda!" he yelled.

Behind him, Williston leveled the .38 in his fist, and fired. David heard the shot, felt searing pain in his right leg, stumbled forward. Wanda was huddled against the wall at the far end of the aquarium, near the open porpoise tank. A sign behind her read:
FEEDING TIME—2
:30
AND
7:00
P.M. TWO
empty buckets lay on the feeding platform. The porpoises kept breaking the surface of water, coming up for air. David started to run toward her, but he felt suddenly dizzy and weak, and he slipped to the floor, close to the railing near the open lip of the first tank.

Wanda dropped the suitcase, and came running toward him. She was still carrying the Luger. He heard Williston's heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then he saw Williston's head appear, and then the hand with the gun came into view.

"Okay," he said, grinning. "End of the road, Miss Grew. Give me those notes!"

"I think not," she said, and fired.

She fired four shots in a row. The first two shots sailed over Williston's head. The third one caught him in the chest, and the fourth one caught him in the stomach. His own gun went off, and then he staggered back toward the railing around the tank. He hung poised over the railing for a moment, and then folded over it into the tank. He was a big man. Water splashed up and over the lid of the tank. In an instant, the grouper darted from one corner, and the sand shark lunged from the other. Both of them made it to Williston's body at about the same time.

Wanda ran to where David lay on the floor.

"Are you all right?" she said.

He was about to lose consciousness. He nodded, shook his head, nodded again.

"Who was the dead man on my boat?" he asked.

"John Meadows, my secretary," she said. "He let them believe they were looking for a man. I'm—"

There were footsteps on the stairs.

The aquarium cashier burst into view.

"There they are!" she shouted. "They came in without paying!"

A patrolman was on the stairs behind her.

"There's another one outside," David said. "A man in a black Cadillac. He murdered the Sun City reporter."

"Get the guy in the black Caddy," the patrolman yelled down to his partner. He turned to David. "All right," he said gruffly. "What the hell's going on here? Who's that guy downstairs with his arm in a sling? And who the hell are you, lady?"

"Leslie Grew," David said, and then he relaxed in her arms and hoped she'd still be there when he came to again.

This story first appeared in 1952, in a magazine called
Verdict.
It was one of the several short short stories I wrote under the Hunt Collins pseudonym. It was probably first submitted to
Manhunt,
and when rejected there—shame on you, Scott!—went to
Verdict,
one of the many detective magazines trying to imitate
Manhunt's
spectacular success. (I still think Scott was editing each and every one of them.)

Whereas I later wrote several novels under the Richard Marsten pseudonym, Hunt Collins wrote only one, the book that first attracted the attention of Herb Alexander (remember?) and started the whole 87th Precinct saga.
Cut Me In
was about a murder in a literary agency. (Guess where I got the background for it.) The title referred to the venal practice of taking commissions, and the book was an Innocent Bystander story, like the one that follows.

H
E HAD WITNESSED A MURDER, AND THE SIGHT HAD
sunken into the brown pits that were his eyes. It had tightened the thin line of his mouth and given him a tic over his left cheekbone.

He sat now with his hat in his hands, his fingers nervously exploring the narrow brim. He was a thin man with a mustache that completely dominated the confined planes of his face.

He was dressed neatly, his trousers carefully raised in a crease-protecting lift that revealed taut socks and the brass clasp of one garter.

"That him?" I asked.

"That's him," Magruder said.

"And he saw the mugging?"

"He says he saw it. He won't talk to anyone but the Chief."

"None of us underlings will do, huh?"

Magruder shrugged. He'd been on the force for a long time now, and he was used to just about every type of taxpayer. I looked over to where the thin man sat on the bench against the wall.

"Well," I said, "let me see what I can get out of him."

Magruder cocked an eyebrow and asked, "You think maybe the old man would like to see him personally?"

"Maybe. If he's got something. If not, we'd be wasting his time. And especially on this case, I don't think..."

"'Yeah," Magruder agreed.

I left Magruder and walked over to the little man. He looked up when I approached him, and then blinked.

"Mr. Struthers?" I said. "I'm Detective-Sergeant Cappeli. My partner tells me you have some information about the..."

"You're not the Chief, are you?"

"No," I said, "but I'm working very closely with him on this case."

"I won't talk to anyone but the Chief," he said. His eyes met mine for an instant, and then turned away. He was not being stubborn, I decided. I hadn't seen stubbornness in his eyes. I'd seen fear.

"Why, Mr. Struthers?"

"Why? Why what? Why won't I tell my story to anyone else? Because I won't, that's why."

"Mr. Struthers, withholding information is a serious crime. It makes you an accessory after the fact. We'd hate to have to..."

"I'm not withholding anything. Get the Chief and I'll tell you everything I saw. That's all, get the Chief."

I waited for a moment before trying again. "Are you familiar with the case at all, sir?"

Struthers considered his answer. "Just what I read in the papers. And what I saw."

"You know that it was the Chiefs wife who was mugged? That the mugger was after her purse and killed her without getting it?"

"Yes, I know that."

"Can you see then why we don't want to bring the Chief into this until it's absolutely necessary? So far, we've had ten people confessing to the crime, and eight people who claim to have seen the mugging and murder."

"I
did
see it," Struthers protested.

"I'm not saying you didn't, sir. But I'd like to be sure before I bring the Chief in on it."

"I just don't want any slipups," Struthers said. "I ... I don't want him coming after me next."

"We'll offer you every possible protection, sir. The Chief, as you can well imagine, has a strong personal interest in this case. He'll certainly see that no harm comes to you."

Struthers looked around him suspiciously. "Well, do we have to talk here?"

"No, sir, you can come into my office."

He deliberated for another moment, and then said, "All right" He stood up abruptly, his fingers still roaming the hat brim.

I led him to the corridor, winking over my shoulder at Magruder as we went out When we got to my office, I offered him a chair and a cigarette. He took the seat, but declined the smoke.

"Now then, what did you see?"

"I saw the mugger, the man who killed her." Struthers lowered his voice. "But he saw me, too. That's why I want to make absolutely certain that ... that I won't get into any trouble over this."

"You won't, sir. I can assure you. Where did you see the killing?"

"On Third and Elm. Right near the old paint factory. I was on my way home from the movies."

"What did you see?"

"Well, the woman, Mrs. Anderson—I didn't know it was her at the time, of course—was standing on a corner waiting for the bus. I was walking down toward her. I walk that way often, especially coming home from the show. It was a nice night and..."

"What happened?"

"Well, it was dark, and I was walking pretty quiet, I guess. I wear gummies—gum sole shoes. The mugger came out of the shadows and grabbed Mrs. Anderson around the throat, from behind her. She threw up her arm, and her purse opened and everything inside fell on the sidewalk. Then the mugger lifted his hand and brought it down, and she screamed, and he yelled, 'Quiet, you witch!' Then he lifted his hand again and brought it down again, all the time yelling, 'Here, you witch, here, here,' while he was stabbing her. He must have lifted the knife at least a dozen times."

"And you saw him? You saw his face?"

"Yes. She dropped to the ground, and he came running up the street toward me. I tried to get against the building, but I was too late. We stood face-to-face, and for a minute I thought he was going to kill me, too. But he gave a kind of a moan and ran up the street."

"Why didn't you come to the police at once?"

"I ... I guess I was scared. Mister, I still am. You've got to promise me I won't get into any trouble. I'm a married man, and I got two kids. I can't afford to..."

"Could you pick him out of a lineup? We've already rounded up a lot of men, some with records as muggers. Could you pick the killer?"

"Yes. But not if he can see me. If he sees me, it's all off. I won't go through with it if he can see me."

"He won't see you, sir. We'll put you behind a screen."

"So long as he doesn't see me. He knows what I look like, too, and I got a family. I won't identify him if he knows I'm the one doing it."

"You've got nothing to worry about." I clicked down Magruder's toggle on the intercom, and when he answered, I said, "Looks like we've got something here, Mac. Get the boys ready for a run-through, will you? And set up a screen for the witness."

"Right. I'll let the Chief know."

"Buzz me back," I said, and hung up.

"I won't do it unless I'm behind that screen," Struthers said.

"I've asked for a screen, sir."

I was still waiting for Magruder to get back, when the door opened. A voice lined with anguish and fatigue said, "Mac tells me you've got a witness."

I turned from the window, ready to say, "Yes, sir," and Struthers turned to face the door at the same time.

His eyebrows lifted, and his eyes grew wide.

He stared at the figure in the doorway and I watched both men as their eyes met and locked for an instant.

"No!" Struthers said suddenly. "I ... I've changed my mind. I ... I can't do it. I have to go. I have to go."

He slammed his hat onto his head and ran out quickly, almost before I'd gotten to my feet.

"Now what the hell got into him all of a sudden?" I asked.

Chief Anderson shrugged wearily.

"I have no idea," he said.

Two of the major characters in the 87th Precinct novels are Detective Arthur Brown and Deputy Chief Surgeon Sharyn Cooke. They're both black. But long before these two characters were born, I was experimenting with writing from the viewpoint of blacks. In 1954, the same year I tried to become Gregory Miller in
The Blackboard Jungle,
this story by Richard Marsten appeared in
Manhunt.

H
E SANG SOFTLY TO HIMSELF AS HE WORKED ON THE
long white beach. He could see the pleasure craft scooting over the deep blue waters, could see the cottony clouds moving leisurely across the wide expanse of sky. There was a mild breeze in the air, and it touched the woolly skullcap that was his hair, caressed his brown skin. He worked with a long rake, pulling at the tangled sea vegetation that the norther had tossed onto the sand. The sun was strong, and the sound of the sea was good, and he was almost happy as he worked.

He watched the muscles ripple on his long brown arms as he pulled at the rake. She would not like it if the beach were dirty. She liked the beach to be sparkling white and clean ... the way her skin was.

"Jonas!"

He heard the call, and he turned his head toward the big house. He felt the same panic he'd felt a hundred times before. He could feel the trembling start in his hands, and he turned back to the rake, wanting to stall as long as he could, hoping she would not call again, but knowing she would.

"Jonas! Jo-naaaas!"

The call came from the second floor of the house, and he knew it came from her bedroom, and he knew she was just rising, and he knew exactly what would happen if he went up there. He hated what was about to happen, but at the same time it excited him. He clutched the rake more tightly, telling himself he would not answer her call, lying to himself because he knew he would go if she called one more time.

"Jonas! Where the devil are you?"

"Coming, Mrs. Hicks," he shouted.

He sighed deeply and put down the rake. He climbed the concrete steps leading from the beach, and then he walked past the barbecue pit and the beach house, moving under the Australian pines that lined the beach. The pine needles were soft under his feet, and though he knew the pines were planted to form a covering over the sand, to stop sand from being tracked into the house, he still enjoyed the soft feel under his shoes. For an instant, he wished he were barefoot, and then he scolded himself for having a thought that was strictly "native."