Ed McBain - The House That Jack Built

“Where?”

“From that fuckin’ mouse-fart lawyer who came to the motel.”

“Right, I didn’t think of that. It had to be him.”

“Of course it was him.”

“But what I’m saying, we can forget all about those pictures now. ’Cause the cops’ll go in there with a hundred guys, they’ll toss everything in the house, they’ll find the pictures. And without the pictures, the old lady’ll keep telling us to fuck off, and that’s that. The deal is blown, Artie, we’re finished here in this shit town.”

“Yeah,” Hurley said.

But he was thinking they weren’t quite finished.

The first thing he had to do was teach little Miss Helen Abbott with her big fuckin’ belly not to be so quick about letting strange lawyers in and telling them the secrets of the universe. That was the first thing. Teach her what it meant to keep her mouth shut about important matters, knock out all her fuckin’ teeth if that was the way to teach her.

The next thing to do was to locate Mr. Matthew Hope and let him know that you don’t fuck with Arthur Hurley.

You don’t go to the police and blab that Arthur Hurley was watching a house where a cop got killed, you don’t fuck Arthur Hurley out of a million bucks because you got a big fuckin’ lawyer mouth, you don’t do that to Arthur Hurley, man.

You just don’t.

Ralph Parrish did not like the way Calusa County was taking care of him.

The Indiana corn farmer had a lot of complaining to do about the jailhouse clothing he was wearing, and the jailhouse swill they were forcing him to eat, and the fact that he had to protect his ass day and night or he’d pretty soon be wearing dresses the way his dead faggot brother had. Those were Parrish’s exact words: “My dead faggot brother.”

Matthew was here at the county jail to ask Parrish about his dead brother and some of his friends. He had to wait until Parrish went through his roster of complaints, though, and then he had to wait further while Parrish told him he saw no reason for a law-abiding citizen to be kept behind bars without bail when no one had the slightest shred of evidence to prove he had committed a crime. Matthew explained that the State Attorney believed he had proof enough to convict Parrish for the crime of murder, fratricide no less, which a judge had considered heinous enough to cause him to deny bail. Parrish went on complaining for the next ten minutes. He was a man of the outdoors, used to the sun on his shoulders and back, used to working under an open sky. Confinement was taking its toll. Matthew listened patiently and sympathetically. Keeping the farmer under lock and key did. in fact, seem like cruel and unusual punishment. But someone had killed his brother. And the state believed he was the man.

“I hate this place,” he said in conclusion.

“I know,” Matthew said.

“Are we making any progress?”

“Maybe,” Matthew said, and filled him in on the most recent developments.

“I knew he’d go back to that house!” Parrish said. “He’s our man, Matthew. Find him and…”

“Yes, but that hasn’t been too easy so far,” Matthew said. “Does the name Arthur Hurley mean anything to you?”

“No. Who is he?”

“Someone who was watching your brother’s house. Together with a man named Billy Walker. Ring a bell?”

“No.”

“Do you know anything about these baby pictures Abbott mentioned?”

“No.”

“Anything about his daughter. Helen? Or her alleged mother. Elise Brechtmann?”

“I’ve never heard of either of them.”

“Brechtmann Beer? Golden Girl Beer?”

“I don’t drink beer.”

“Tell me, Mr. Parrish…”

“Gall me Ralph.”

“Ralph then. Why’d you buy the house here in Galusa?”

“I had plenty of money, my brother had nothing. I figured if I could help him…”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Seven years ago, you bought the house down here. Why?”

“I just told you. My brother needed…”

“But why Calusa? Why not Key West, or Miami, or Pahn…”

“Actually, my brother did spend some time in Key West, but he said it was a bit too fruity, even for him. He much preferred Calusa.”

“When was that?”

“Key West? It must have been during the Sixties sometime. When young people were roaming all over the country. All over the world, in fact. In tattered blue jeans, but with thousands of dollars in American Express checks in their pockets.”

“Was your brother one of those?”

“Yes. A plastic hippie.”

“How old was he then?”

“Well, let me think. This had to have been 1968, 1969 — he would’ve been twenty or so. Yes. Around twenty.”

“When he went to Key West?”

“Yes. Well, all over Florida.”

“Calusa?”

“Yes, Calusa.”

“Was he gay at the time?”

“He was gay before he left Indiana.”

“How long was he here in Calusa?”

“I have no idea. This must have been… well, let me see. I know he left home sometime in September, yes, it was the fall of 1968, and he wasn’t home for Christmas, so I know he was still here in Florida someplace, and I think… just a minute now… yes, now I remember. I sent him a birthday card here in Calusa. His twenty-first birthday. He was renting a house on Fatback Key, I sent it to him there. Yes. I’m sure of that.”

“When did he leave Calusa?”

“I don’t know exactly. I know he was in Woodstock during the summer of ’69, the big thing up there, the flower children thing, he sent me a card from Woodstock. And then he left for Europe sometime that fall, and he was there for almost a year, France, Italy, Greece, and then he went on to India…”

“When did he come back to the States?”

“In 1972.”

“Back to Indiana?”

“No. San Francisco and Los Angeles and San Diego and some time in Mexico, he loved traveling. And then New York, he lived in New York for a long time. And then from there to Calusa.”

“Which was when?”

“Well, when I bought the house on Whisper Key.”

“For him to live in.”

“Yes.”

“In 1981.”

“Yes.”

“Did your brother ever mention a man named Anthony Holden?”

“No, I don’t recall that name.”

“He used to work for the Brechtmann brewery. He was the purchasing agent there in 1982. Holden. Anthony Holden.”

“I’m sorry.”

“This would have been a year after you purchased the house.”

“Yes. But I really don’t remember ever hearing of him.”

“Did your brother ever mention any of his friends to you?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so. We corresponded regularly, and occasionally I came down here, or he’d come to Indiana…”

“Did you ever meet Anthony Holden down here?”

“No, not that I recall.”

“But you did meet some of your brother’s friends on the occasions when you were here.”

“Yes.”

“But none of them were Anthony Holden.”

“No.”

“And he never mentioned the name in any of his letters.”

“Never. Not to my recollection.”

“How about Elise Brechtmann?”

“No. I told you earlier…”

“Could she have been someone your brother met on his first visit to Florida?”

“I have no idea.”

“Were you corresponding back then as well? In ’68 and ’69?”

“Not too often. In fact, it sometimes seemed as if Jonathan had dropped into a black hole. I wouldn’t hear anything for months, and then suddenly I’d get a postcard from some like village in Iran…”

“But while he was here in Florida? Did he write to you then?”