Ed McBain - Puss in Boots

Behind the desk stood a big red-faced man with his hand extended. Unruly brown hair and bright blue eyes. Beer belly hanging over his belt. Wearing tan slacks with brown loafers, a yellow shirt open at the throat, tie pulled down, cuffs rolled up onto his forearms. His grip was firm and dry and strong.

“Arthur Haggerty,” he said, “nice to meet you. Have a seat.”

Matthew sat in a wooden chair on the other side of the desk.

“What can I do for you?” Haggerty asked.

Matthew got straight to the point.

“Mr. Haggerty,” he said, “when I made my demand for discovery, I specifically asked for any police reports made in connection with this case. You—”

“You’re referring to the Markham case, of course.”

“Yes, that’s the case I’m handling.”

“I’m handling several cases at the moment, you see,” Haggerty said, and smiled. “So. How can I help you?”

“I’ve just come from a visit with my client,” Matthew said. “He corroborates information I now have about a murder that took place in New Orleans ten years ago, on which extensive police reports were made, none of which were provided by you in your response.”

“Are you referring to the knife murder of Jennifer Bowles Markham, the wife of Carlton Barnaby Markham at the time?”

“I am.”

“What’s your question?”

“Why wasn’t I supplied with those New Orleans police reports?”

“You asked for police reports in connection with the case. By ‘the case,’ I assumed you meant the murder of Prudence Ann Markham. That’s the case you’re handling, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Haggerty, let’s not fence around here, okay?” Matthew said. “We’re not in court yet, and you’re not playing to a jury. My client tells me he was questioned endlessly about the murder of his former wife. He tells me that for almost a full week he was considered a suspect by the New Orleans police—”

“Yes, he was.”

“—but that finally the police decided he’d had nothing to do with the murder.”

“Well, the case remains unsolved, if that’s what you mean.”

“You know exactly what I mean, Mr. Haggerty. He wasn’t arrested, and he wasn’t charged. The murderer was never found.”

“Mmm,” Haggerty said.

He tented his hands and looked over them.

He waited for what seemed an extraordinarily long time.

Still playing to an absentee jury.

“You know, of course,” he said at last, “that Markham never came up with a reasonable alibi for where he was while his wife was being stabbed twenty times on a deserted back street in the French Quarter.”

“The New Orleans police—”

“Yes, well, the New Orleans police. Markham claimed he was at the movies , Mr. Hope. Does that sound familiar to you?”

“He was at the movies.”

“So he says. And so the police up there apparently accepted. Because they could find no evidence to support a homicide charge. No weapon, no bloody—”

“No anything . They were newlyweds, they’d only been married for four months, the whole damn experience was shattering to him.”

“I’m sure it was. Especially since his wife was playing around with another man.”

“Markham didn’t know that,” Matthew said, “and I don’t want to argue an investigation which for good reason never resulted in an arrest. All I want to know—”

“Yes,” Haggerty said.

Matthew looked at him.

“Yes, I do plan to introduce this material at the trial.”

“Then why didn’t you send me the New Orleans police reports?”

“A communications failure,” Haggerty said, and shrugged. “I thought you were interested only in any Calusa documents relating to—”

“I’d like those reports now,” Matthew said.

“Sure,” Haggerty said. “I’ll have them delivered by hand later this afternoon. Anything else?”

“You know, of course—”

“Sure. I’ll be waiting for it. And then we’ll let a judge decide, okay?”

“Denied it, huh?” Frank said.

“Said he saw no reason why Haggerty shouldn’t be allowed to introduce this material.”

“What’s this about the former wife playing around?”

“The New Orleans cops had evidence that she’d been dating a musician up there. They were trying to get Markham to admit he knew about it. That was their attempt at establishing motive.”

“Did he know about it?”

“Not according to him.”

“Is Haggerty going to try showing the new wife was playing around, too?”

“I’ve got his list of witnesses. I don’t see anything there to indicate—”

“How about this Mason woman who lives next door? You think she might testify along those lines?”

“I... well, that never occurred to me.”

“Then why’d you ask that the material be excluded?”

“Because I didn’t want a jury thinking what the New Orleans cops thought. That Markham killed a hot-pantsed wife who was cheating on him.”

“Married only four months, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Messing around with a musician.”

“A junkie trumpet player.”

“I’d have killed her myself,” Frank said.

“Which is just why I asked for exclusion.”

“How about the guy living on the other side? Raddison, is that his name? You think he’s got anything on Prue? He was pretty damn interested in everything going on next door. Maybe he spotted a boyfriend going in and out.”

“I didn’t ask him anything along those lines. I just found out about this New Orleans thing yesterday, Frank.”

“Well, if the material’s going to be admitted... ”

“Yeah, I know, I’d better ask some more questions.”

The two men were silent for a moment.

“That movie alibi,” Frank said.

“I know.”

“Always at the movies while his wives are getting stabbed.”

“I know.”

They were silent again.

“The thing is... ,” Matthew said, and then stopped and shook his head.

“Yeah, what?” Frank said.

“No, nothing.”

“Say it.”

“The killer up there... ”

“Yeah?”

“They never found him, Frank.”

Another silence, longer this time.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Frank said.

Matthew shook his head again.

“You’re thinking maybe Markham makes a habit of stabbing his wives. That’s what a jury’s going to think, you know. The minute Haggerty brings up the New Orleans murder—”

“Well, why the hell do you think I filed the motion?” Matthew said heatedly. “I know what a jury’s going to think. The son of a bitch got away with one murder, but he won’t get away with another one.”

“Never mind the jury,” Frank said. “What do you think?”

Matthew sighed heavily.

“I don’t know,” he said.

So that’s it, Warren thought.

Time to quit lollygagging around and get on the stick. Because this morning’s demand for Notice of Alibi meant that he and Matthew had better come up with something damn soon, or their man would be sent to the chair on evidence as circumstantial as that supporting Aunt Hattie’s phantom lover who she claimed ran off to Kansas City with a high yeller girl named Suella Simms. Aunt Hattie believed that her long-ago lover actually existed, and as evidence of his substantiality had shown the entire family letters presumably written while he was a soldier in Italy during World War II. The letters were from someone named Abner Cross, who Warren later learned had been killed in action in the year 1945 and who couldn’t possibly have run off to Kansas City or anyplace else in the year 1949. But try telling that to Aunt Hattie.