Ed McBain: Cinderella

Cabin number eight.

The one he’d rented to the man with the Karmann Ghia.

The first thing Vincent saw when he burst into the cabin — maybe the first thing he wanted to see — was the money on the table. Lots and lots of crisp green bills in little wrappers, the legend “$1000” on each of the wrappers. Open dispatch case beside them.

The next thing he saw was Jenny.

She was lying on the bed. She was bleeding very badly. Her face, her arms, her legs where her skirt was pulled back.

A very big man was standing over her, his back to the door. He turned when Vincent came in. He had a very narrow mustache. There was a knife in his hand. The blade of the knife was covered with blood.

Vincent thought I’ve come this far and shot the man between the eyes. The man toppled backward onto the bed, almost onto Jenny. The other man in the room was reaching into his coat. Vincent figured he was reaching for a gun, so he shot him, too.

He went to the table and started packing the wrapped bundles of bills into the dispatch case. He closed the dispatch case.

From the bed, Jenny whispered, “Help me.”

Vincent said, “Ta, darling.”

“Please,” she said.

But he was already gone.

The last and only time Matthew was shot, Detective Morris Bloom gave him a piece of advice.

“Matthew,” he’d said, “never get in the way of a man with a gun. If you see a man with a gun coming toward you, move aside and let him go by. If you feel like being a hero, trip him as he goes by. But never get in his way.”

Matthew didn’t particularly feel like being a hero.

But he had heard the shots when he was talking to the police on the phone in his room, and the shots combined with the screams he’d earlier heard were enough to propel him out of cabin number eight, into the rain, and sprinting for cabin number three when he saw Hollister coming out of there with a dispatch case in one hand and a gun in the other.

Hollister was running for one of the cabins further up the line.

Matthew did just as Bloom had advised.

He stepped aside to let Hollister go by.

But even though he didn’t particularly feel like becoming a hero, he tripped him.

And when Hollister fell headlong onto the gravel, Matthew kicked him in the head.

Which was something else Bloom had taught him.

It had started on a Sunday, and it was ending on a Sunday.

But as Daniel Nettington had once pointed out, the cops in Calusa had no respect for Sunday.

Matthew was in the pool when the doorbell rang at ten o’clock that morning. He got out of the water, went walking wet and dripping through the house, and opened the door on Detectives Hacker and Rawles, both wearing business suits and ties.

“Okay to come in?” Rawles said.

“Sure,” Matthew said.

They went out back and sat by the pool.

The sun was bright. The three H’s — Hot, Humid, and Hazy — were full upon them once again. The detectives sat sweltering in their clothing. Somehow their attire gave them a real or imagined advantage: business suits vs. swimsuit; work vs. play.

Nobody thanked Matthew for having called the police last night.

All Rawles wanted to know was whether or not Hollister had said anything to him.

“No,” Matthew said.

“Nothing, huh?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Tell me again what happened,” Rawles said.

“I heard screaming from cabin number three,” Matthew said, “and I immediately called the police.”

Nobody was yet thanking him for this noble action.

“While I was on the phone, I heard shots. I ran out and was heading for the cabin when Hollister came out carrying a—”

“You knew his name, did you?”

“Yes.”

“How’d you happen to know his name?”

“That’s a long story.”

“I’ve got plenty of time,” Rawles said.

“I haven’t,” Matthew said. “If you want background...”

“We have a right to know how you happened to be at that motel last night, where two men were killed and a woman cut, and another man kicked in the head.”

“I kicked him in the head.”

“Yes, that’s what you told us. Why’d you kick him in the head?”

“It’s what Bloom said I should do if I ever tripped a man carrying a gun.”

Rawles looked at him.

“Why’d you trip him?” Hacker said.

“I was getting to that,” Matthew said.

“I want to know how you knew his name,” Rawles said.

“I’ll be happy to tell you all that in a deposition,” Matthew said. “But not here and not now.”

“When?”

“You name it.”

“Tomorrow morning at nine,” Rawles said.

“I’ll be there,” Matthew said.

Rawles nodded.

Matthew nodded.

Hacker looked at both men and shrugged.

“You were heading for the cabin...” Rawles prompted.

“Yes, when he came out carrying a dispatch case and a gun. He seemed to be heading for a cabin up the line...”

“Cabin number five,” Hacker said, and nodded.

“Where the coke was,” Rawles said.

“Four keys.”

“High-grade shit.”

“I didn’t know about that,” Matthew said.

“You just happened to be where a dope deal was going down, huh?” Rawles said.

“I’ll tell you all about how I happened to be there when you take the deposition,” Matthew said.

“Did you know at the time what was in that dispatch case?” Hacker asked.

“No.”

“Two hundred and forty thousand dollars and change,” Hacker said.

“So I’ve been told,” Matthew said, though he didn’t think of five hundred dollars as “change.”

“Did Hollister threaten you with the gun?” Rawles asked.

“No.”

“And he didn’t say anything to you?”

“Nothing.”

“So why’d you trip him?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Did kicking him in the head seem like the right thing to do?”

“Yes. Unless I wanted to get shot. Which I didn’t.”

“Because he’s claiming now we’re the ones messed him up,” Hacker said.

“Well, that’s easily refuted,” Matthew said.

“Didn’t say a word to you, huh?” Rawles said.

“Nothing.”

“Ain’t saying a word to us, neither,” Hacker said. “Asked for a lawyer right off, started yelling police brutality, and then clammed up.”

“On the face of it,” Rawles said, “it looks like he’s the one killed the two Miami punks, but we won’t know for sure till we get a ballistics report.”

“How about Otto? Are you running a ballistics—”

“Otto?” Rawles said. “You mean Samalson?”

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Matthew said. “Somebody killing Otto?”

“Oh, is that what it’s all about?” Rawles said.

“That’s news to us,” Hacker said.

“What we thought it was all about was four keys of high-grade coke and two hundred and forty thousand plus dollars, that’s what we thought it was all about.”

Matthew looked at him.

“Detective Rawles,” he said, calmly and levelly, “were any bullets recovered in Otto’s car?”

“One in the car,” Rawles said, “the other still in his head.”

“Then compare them with a test-firing from Hollister’s gun.”

“Why? How do you tie him with Otto?”

“Otto was asking him questions.”

“About what?”

“The girl.”

“The one who got cut?”

“Yes. Have you talked to her yet?”

“She says she was walking along 41 minding her own business when these two Hispanics pulled up in a red LeBaron convertible, threw her in the car, and drove her to the motel.”