Ed McBain - The House That Jack Built

Jesus.

She had sworn to herself these twenty years later to do this thing she had to do.

“Bring forth men-children only,” her Macbeth had told her all those years ago, “for thy undaunted mettle should compose nothing but males!”

Sal Agnotti. Sweet-faced Sal, trying to look regal and stern behind the fake beard, sweet, blue-eyed Sal, so young, so innocent.

Sometime soon… unless the situation changed dramatically tomorrow night…

Sometime soon… she would commit murder.

If she could summon up the strength, and the will, and the courage.

But screw your courage to the…

“Screw your courage!” Sal shouted the first time she said that line in rehearsal. Waiting in the bushes for her. Probably planned the ambush with fat professor Endicott, quaking there in her seat while Leona collapsed in helpless gales of laughter. After that, she could never get past the line without falling apart. Until, of course, it took. The line took, the words took, the meaning took, Shakespeare took, and she gave her fearful king the pep talk he needed: “But screw your courage to the sticking place, and we’ll not fail!”

She could not afford to fail.

She’d be sitting there with a .22-caliber pistol in her fist, no one to whisper words of encouragement in her ear, no one there to give her a pep talk, just little Leona all by her lonesome with the gun pointed at his head or his heart, little Leona hoping she could somehow find the courage to squeeze the trigger.

She wondered where the sticking place was.

If only she knew where the sticking place was.

God help me, she thought, I’m about to commit murder.

Charlie heard something downstairs.

He turned immediately from the window.

He listened.

Someone moving around down there in the darkness.

He got out of his chair, eased the .38 out of its holster, and tiptoed toward the steps. A board squeaked under his weight. He stopped dead in his tracks, listening again. No change in the activity downstairs. Somebody still busy down there.

He started down the steps.

Faint light coming from the living room below.

No house lights on, had to be somebody with a flashlight. Maybe even a penlight, it was that dim.

Halfway down the stairs now.

Tense, the way he always got when something was about to go down. Tight feeling in his chest. Blood racing. Gun trembling just the tiniest bit in his right hand. Holding his breath, almost. Five steps down to the level below. Four now. Three. Two. One.

He stepped around the edge of the wall enclosing the stairwell, stepped into the living room itself, the kitchen on his right, scanned the room with his eyes and his gun hand, eyes sweeping, gun sweeping, past the bookcase and the rattan chairs and the sofa, settling on the figure all in black hunched over the desk against the far wall, penlight lying on the desk top, black-gloved hands going through papers and—

Sensing something.

Suddenly turning.

Looking straight at him.

And then reaching for something on the desktop.

“Freeze!” Charlie shouted.

Too late.

It came up off the desktop too quickly, gripped firmly in the gloved hand, the right hand, the barrel glinting for a moment as it passed the spray of illumination from the propped penlight, and then there was a flash of light from the muzzle and the shocking explosion of the gun and the instant searing pain in Charlie’s shoulder and another muzzle flash and this time there was only the numbing pain of a nail being driven into his forehead and then nothing.

Irene McCauley had just got out of the shower when the telephone rang early that Thursday morning. Matthew was standing behind her, drying her back. Her eyes met his in the mirror. He kissed the side of her neck, threw the towel onto the counter, and then went into the bedroom to pick up the receiver .

It was Morrie Bloom.

“Matthew,” he said, “I have some police officers up here who tell me they were doing some work for Warren Chambers on this Parrish case. I’ve got to assume you authorized hiring them…”

“To sit the Parrish house, right, Morrie.”

“The Parrish house is a crime scene, Matthew.”

“ Was a crime scene. My client owns that house.”

“Who says?”

“The mortgage holder. First Federal of Calusa. Ralph Parrish owns the house, Morrie. Bought it for his brother to live in, but he owned it. The point is , we were in that house with the owner’s permission.”

“You and half the Calusa P.D.”

“Only four cops, Morrie.”

“One of whom is now dead,” Bloom said.

“What?”

“You heard me. Charlie Macklin. Shot to death with a thirty-eight-caliber Smith and Wesson sometime last night. Body discovered this morning at six o’clock, when Nick Alston went to the house to relieve him.”

Matthew said nothing.

“You with me?” Morrie said.

“I’m with you.”

“Any ideas?”

“Yes. You might search that house from top to bottom for…”

“We already did that, Matthew. After the first murder.”

“Did you find any baby pictures?”

“Any what ?”

“Baby pictures. Pictures of a baby nursing at her mother’s breast.”

“We weren’t looking for baby pictures, Matthew.”

“Look for them now.”

“It wasn’t baby pictures that put two holes in Macklin.”

“No, but it may have been someone looking for those pictures.”

“What do you know that I don’t know, Matthew?”

“Try the Calais Beach Castle, cabin number… hold it a minute, Morrie.” He covered the mouthpiece. Irene was at the bathroom sink, wearing a pair of bikini panties now, studying Matthew’s toothbrushes. “Is that crowd still in cabin number eleven?” he asked.

“The Hurley party?”

“Yes.”

“They were last night. Okay to use one of these?”

“Sure,” he said, and uncovered the mouthpiece. “We spotted two men watching the Parrish house,” he told Bloom. “Their names are Arthur Hurley and Billy Walker. You might look them up. Cabin number eleven at the Calais Beach Castle on Forty-one. Hurley has a record.”

“Thanks,” Morrie said. “Why are you telling me this, Matthew?”

“Because if one of them killed Jonathan Parrish, my client can go home to Indiana.”

“Right now I’m looking for who shot Charlie Macklin.”

“It may be one and the same person.”

“Maybe. Baby pictures, huh?”

“Baby pictures.”

“I’ll send some people to the house.”

“Let me know what you find.”

“Yeah,” Bloom said, and hung up.

Irene was bent over the sink, brushing her teeth. Matthew went to her, put his arms around her waist, hugged her close. They looked at themselves in the mirror.

“We look alike,” Irene said.

“We don’t look alike at all.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Why don’t we go back to bed?” Matthew said.

“Why don’t we?” she said.

They were in bed again when the telephone rang.

Irene looked at him.

“You’re busy all the time, aren’t you?” she said.

Matthew picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” he said.

“Matthew, it’s Warren. I’ve got an address for Anthony Holden. He runs a marina near the south bridge to Whisper, it’s called Captain Hook’s, don’t ask me why. What else do you need?”

“Check with Lenox Hill Hospital in New York. I’m looking for anything on the birth of Helen Abbott in August of 1969.”

“Spell that, will you?”

“Two B’s, two T’s. Parents are Charles and Elise Abbott. There was also a nurse named Lucy Strong working there when the baby was born. If you can find her, that would be helpful.”