Ed McBain: The House That Jack Built

Warren listened at the doors.

And nodded affirmation.

Someone was in there.

Matthew could hear the sounds, too.

Someone rattling around in there.

Searching?

For what?

The doors were locked. It took Warren twelve seconds to loid the Mickey Mouse lock with an American Express credit card.

No one in the living room. Dim shapes taking form in the darkness. A sofa. Several rattan easy chairs. A bookcase. A coal scuttle. A desk against one wall. A blacker rectangle, a doorframe. Beyond the doorframe a sound again. Warren put his hand on Matthew’s arm, cautioning him. They waited.

A kitchen beyond the door.

Silence now.

An open window. A curtain flapping on the wet sea wind.

Another sound.

Their eyes adjusted to the darkness.

A refrigerator. A sink. A counter. A table. On one of the chairs—

Eyes.

A mask.

“Freeze!” Warren shouted, and crouched, and thrust the gun forward in a two-handed policeman’s grip.

“It’s…” Matthew started, too late.

Warren had already blown away the raccoon.

In Florida, raccoons look like hyenas. They are not soft and cuddly and cute the way they are in northern climes. They do not need as much fur down in the Sun Belt. You never feel like hugging them or petting them. They are not adorable. They do not waddle out of the canals and waterways, they slink. Their sparse wet fur clings to their skinny bodies, and they move with a swift, hyenalike gait as they forage for food. They can open garbage cans as deftly and as effortlessly as a burglar or a cop opening a locked door. If they get inside your house, they will wreak havoc there. Better a hurricane than a raccoon.

Warren Chambers was happy he’d shot the raccoon.

“They carry rabies,” he said.

Frank Summerville was not happy that Matthew and Warren had broken into the Parrish house and killed the raccoon.

“You’re not a private eye,” he said.

“I know,” Matthew said. “I’m an attorney. Warren’s the private eye.”

“Be that as it may,” Frank said, “you had no right breaking into the Parrish house.”

They were in Frank’s office. Summerville & Hope on Heron Street. The street name conjured a big Florida bird preening in Florida sunshine — but it was still raining. Frank’s description of Hell was rain in Florida. A displaced New Yorker, forty years old, five feet nine and a half inches tall, with a round face, dark hair, and brown eyes. Constantly talking about the Big Apple. He called Calusa the Little Orange. He called Miami the Big Tamale, a slur on its Hispanic population. He hated Florida. Matthew kept wondering why he didn’t simply move back to New York. And hoping he wouldn’t. He was a good friend and a good partner.

And something was troubling him today.

Something more than the interminable rain and the dead raccoon.

He knew his partner well.

Something in those eyes.

“What is it?” he asked.

“What is it? You break into a house ten minutes after the police are done there…”

“Parrish is sure the killer’s coming back.”

“That’s exactly what I would say if I was the killer and I wanted my attorney to think I wasn’t the killer.”

“Frank… he’s innocent.”

“So he says.”

“I wouldn’t have taken the case if I thought…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know your code.”

Silence.

Matthew looked into those eyes again.

“You want to tell me about it, Frank?”

“Your code? Sure. You think…”

“No, not my code.”

“You think the world is full of either good guys or bad guys. The good guys don’t commit murder.”

“That’s my code, huh?”

“On the evidence,” Frank said, and nodded curtly.

Another silence.

“Tell me,” Matthew said.

“Tell you what?”

“Whatever it is.”

“Come on, it’s nothing.”

“What is it?”

“Come on, you don’t want to hear this shit.”

“I do.”

Frank looked at him. He sighed heavily. He turned away, facing the window. Rain riddled the panes.

“Leona,” he said.

Leona Summerville, his wife. Two or three years younger than Frank. An inch shorter than he was. Wore her black hair cut in a Dutch bob these days. Narrow, pretty face and high cheekbones. Tip-tilted nose. Generous mouth and a dazzling smile. Wasp waist, flaring hips, long legs, and exuberant breasts. On the League to Protect Florida Wildlife, went to meetings once a week. Which was maybe why Frank was upset about the raccoon.

“What about her?” Matthew asked.

Frank turned from the window. Behind him, rainsnakes slithered.

He did not say anything for a very long time. Matthew waited.

“I think she’s playing around,” Frank said.

Words.

No pictures yet.

Well, yes, the immediate picture of Leona fiercely naked in a faceless stranger’s embrace. An erotic video shot. Snapped off instantly and willfully, gone in an immediate electronic flurry; Matthew did not want to see it.

But the words kept coming.

Leona’s inadequately explained absences and lame excuses over the past few months. I’m going to a movie with Sally. I have to get my nails done, the manicurist moonlights at home at night. The girls are going out for dinner Monday night, we thought Marina Lou’s. I have to shop for my sister’s anniversary present, the stores are open late tonight. I’ll be gone all day Saturday, I’m tagging plants for the church sale. And the phone calls. Hangups whenever Frank picked up. Hello? And a hangup. Or, more recently, men — they sounded like different men each time — asking for Betty or Jean or Alice or Fran and then apologizing for having dialed the wrong number. The underwear hidden in the back of her dresser drawer. Crotchless panties he’d never seen her wear. Garter belts and seamed stockings. Bras with nipple-holes. The new haircut. A new perfume. A different brand of cigarettes. And last night…

“This gets personal,” Frank said.

“Let me hear it.”

“She was with the wildlife people… that’s what she told me. Went to the meeting after dinner, got home at a little before midnight. The meetings usually break up around eleven-thirty.”

He hesitated.

“Matthew, I don’t want to believe this.”

“Neither do I.”

He seemed on the edge of tears.

“She… you know, she… she wears a diaphragm. When we… before we make love, she… she goes into the bathroom and… and puts it on. Inserts it, whatever.”

He turned to face the window again. It was still raining.

“I was in bed when she got home. I watched her undress. And I… I wanted to make love, you know, so when she got into bed beside me, I started… you know… kissing her and… and touching her… and…”

Pictures again.

Both of them naked in bed. Frank outrageously erect, Leona accepting his wild caresses. His hands wander her breasts, her belly, and at last search her out below, fingers exploring. She moves to get out of bed, “I don’t have anything on,” she says quickly, and tries to roll away from him, but she is too late, his fingers are already inside her.

“She was wearing the diaphragm,” Frank said.

Silence except for the rain.

“She was wearing it when she left the house, Matthew.”

The steady drilling of the rain on the leaves of the palm outside his window.

“She… she said she was hoping we’d make love, planning on it. But that… that isn’t Leona. She never… I mean… it’s always been a spontaneous thing with her.”

Matthew nodded.

“Did you call any of these people?” he asked. “The wildlife people? To see if there really was a meeting last…?”