Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 3, Number 1, January, 1955

“I can imagine,” I said, holding back a smile.

“It’s no skin off your nose, and Jon honey, would I be grateful? I’ll be more grateful than you can possibly imagine, Jon sweetie.”

“Martha, go home. You’re loaded and you don’t know what the hell you’re offering.”

“I don’t, huh? I don’t, huh? I know damn well what I’m offering, Mr. Crane. Maybe you don’t know what I’m offering, huh? Hey, maybe that’s it.” Her hands roamed up the front of her blouse and stopped near the top button.

“Save that for when you’re home,” I said. “Come on, Martha let’s call it a night.”

“I think I’ll stay,” she said. “You need convincing.”

“I think you’ll go, honey.”

“I shoulda got married again,” she said morosely.

“You should have.”

“Like Cynthia. She was the smart one, all right.”

“Sure,” I said, “like Cynthia. Come on, honey.” I started steering her toward the door, and then she said, “Cynthia knew, by God, she knew it was best being married.”

“Sure,” I said. “Sure, sure.”

“And then she got killed. Damn shame, even if I didn’t like her.”

“That’s the way it goes,” I said. I was at the door now, with Martha’s elbow cupped in my hand. I started to unlock the door, and she whirled away from me.

“Is that right? Is it right she should get killed so close to her wedding?”

“What wedding?” I asked.

“Her wedding! For God’s sake, you stupid or something?”

“Yes, Martha, I’m stupid. Goodnight, doll.”

I opened the door, ready to shove her out in the hallway. She slammed the door shut and leaned against it, and then bent forward conspiratorially.

“She was gonna get married. Yes, Cynthia. Yes, little Cynthia. You didn’t know that, did you? You’re a bigshot writer, hut you didn’t know that.”

“No, I didn’t,” I said slowly. “Well, she was. So there.” Martha opened the door. “G’night, hard man. You’ll regret this someday.”

This time, I slammed the door.

“What do you mean, she was going to get married?”

“She was. Cynthia. She told me herself. Only thing she wouldn’t talk with me was business.”

“When? When was she going to get married?”

“A few weeks. I forget the exact date.”

“To whom?”

“Who? I don’t know.” Martha turned and fiddled with the door knob again. I grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, and she looked up and said, “You changing your mind, Jonny?”

“No. Who was Cynthia going to marry?”

“She didn’t say,” Martha answered. “Hey, why’re you so interested, huh? How come you’re so...”

“You’re sure she didn’t say?”

“I ought to know what she said, oughtn’t I? To know?”

“Was it Artie Schaefer?”

“She didn’t say, I told you. What do I have to do to...”

“Did she tell you anything about him?”

“Only that he was the sweetest, kindest, nicest man in the whole world.”

“That helps,” I said.

“Am I staying or going, Mr. Crane? If I stay, I want something comfortable to get into. If I’m going, the night is young, and tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“You’re going, honey.”

“Which shows all you know about women. Well, g’night, sucker.”

She opened the door, and this time I didn’t stop her. She closed it behind her, and I heard the click of her high heels down the corridor outside, and then the whine of the elevator as it started up the shaft.

Cynthia was going to get married!

And Cynthia was pregnant.

And now Cynthia was dead.

And so was Artie Schaefer.

And somewhere in that quatrain, there was meaning. Somewhere in it, but I didn’t know where. I mixed another whiskey sour, and I drank it slowly, trying to figure it all out, trying to see between the lines of the quatrain. The lines kept blurring because Andy’s face was hidden behind them, and Andy fit into the picture somewhere, too.

Had the killer mentioned his wedding plans to Andy? Or had it been the killer whom Cynthia had planned to marry? Why couldn’t it have been Artie Schaefer, or even Joe Shmoe who worked at a popcorn stand on Second Avenue? Why couldn’t it have been anyone, a boy back home, a cameramen, a sponsor, an anybody, or a nobody?

That was just it. It could have been anyone.

I finally fell asleep.

I woke up with ideas, and the ideas seemed so simple that I kicked myself around for not having thought of them before. I called Detective-Sergeant George Hilton even before I got out of my pajamas.

The first thing I said was, “Anything on Andy yet?”

“No, but we’re still working,” Hilton said.

“Well look, George, I’ve had a few ideas. Stop me if I’m wrong.”

“Go ahead.”

“First, there were a lot of cameramen in the studio the day Cynthia Finch was killed. I thought...”

“We checked on every one of them, Jon. Three all told. At the time of her death they were all in a nearby neighborhood drugstore plotting camera angles for the evening show.”

“I see. Well, one other idea. Andy was snatched on Thursday, but she was snatched either while Rocketeers was on the air, or shortly thereafter. I know because I called her right after leaving the studio.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, everyone connected with the show was at the studio when she was grabbed. I don’t know about Felix Nechler, but...”

“Thursday is a late night at Macy’s,” Hilton said, “and Nechler hasn’t missed a day’s work since this all started.”

“All right, that’s my point. It figures that the murderer had someone kidnap Andy. I mean, he didn’t do it himself. That will explain why everyone was right on the job Friday. There was no necessity to stand guard over Andy. Someone was doing that for the murderer.”

“You’ve got something there, Jon.”

“Well, today is Saturday. No one has to report to the studio, least of all the murderer. He’s probably stayed away from Andy up to now, which is why she hasn’t turned up floating in the river. But now he’s free. He’s got today and tomorrow to do whatever the hell he plans on doing, and when he reports to work Monday, no one will be the wiser. You follow me, George?”

“I’m with you. You mean if he’s going to kill her, he’ll do it over the weekend.”

“Right.”

“That means we have to work fast. The damn trouble is...”

“No leads.”

“No leads. There wasn’t a clue anywhere in her apartment.”

“I’m going to take a run down to the studio, George. Maybe I can dig up something there.”

“We’ve covered it pretty thoroughly, but if you feel...”

“I want to try.”

“Okay, Jon. Good luck. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks. So long, George.”

I hung up and then got into some street clothing after washing and shaving. I was knotting my tie when the phone rang. I left the tie hanging around my neck loose, walked into the living room, picked the phone from its cradle, and said, “Jonathan Crane.”

“Jon, I have to make this fast.” The voice was a whisper, but it couldn’t have been anyone else.

“Andy! Andy, are you all right?”

“Jon, I know who it is. I remembered.”

There was the sound of a band behind her, brasses blasting, a bass drum pounding. She was speaking in a whisper, and I could hardly hear her over the noise of the radio.

“Andy, where are you?”

The band got louder, as if someone had suddenly turned up the volume on the radio. Andy said something in a whisper, but all I heard was, “It’s...” and then her voice was drowned out by the brasses.

“Who?” I shouted. “Andy, where are you?”