Ed McBain - Puss in Boots

He stared down at her.

“See what I brung back with me?” he said, and showed her the cleaver.

Silence.

“Wherefore, O harlot,” he said, “hear the word of the Lord. Thus saith the Lord God; Because thy filthiness was poured out, and thy nakedness discovered through thy whoredoms with thy lovers, and with all the idols of thy abominations... ”

He ran his thumb along the cutting edge of the cleaver.

“I will judge thee,” he said, “as women that break wedlock and shed blood are judged, and I will give thee blood in fury and jealousy.”

He nodded.

“So will I make my fury toward thee to rest,” he said, “and my jealousy shall depart from thee, and I will be quiet, and will no more be angry.”

He nodded again.

The sign outside read:

No name. No Burgess Diehl, like in the phone book. But this was the right address, there on the post below the sign, 3755 Timucuan Point Road. Dirt road leading in off the main road. Henry made the turn.

It was a beautiful day, and the mint juleps and the martinis were still working their magic, and he felt very happy, felt almost like bursting into song as he drove past foliage that looked like a jungle in here. The road ran past a big lake. Kept on twisting and turning, full of potholes, bumpety-bumpety-bump. Henry drove along it for half a mile or so, he guessed, came at last to a house. Well now, he thought. Hothouses back there behind the house, exotic orchids, right? Little cinder-block building near them, looked like a chicken house or something. He pulled up the brake, turned off the ignition key, and got out of the car.

He was walking toward the house when a door in the cinder-block building opened. A man came out. Looked like a farmer. Big tall man with wide shoulders and muscular arms, Henry figured him to be in his early forties, craggy face, blond hair, bib overalls with no shirt under them, muddy workboots. He was carrying a bloodstained cleaver in his right hand, and a bloodstained brown paper bag in his left hand. Chicken farmer, Henry thought. Out back getting his Sunday night dinner. Whap! The idea was comical somehow. Henry almost laughed.

“Mr. Diehl?” he said.

The man stared at him.

Blue eyes. Shaggy eyebrows above them. Tanned, leathery face.

“I’m Henry Gardella,” Henry said.

The man said nothing. Kept staring at him.

“I’m trying to locate a woman named Margaret Diehl. I’ve been calling all day, thought I’d come out in person.” He smiled. “Would you happen to know her?” he asked.

He still thought this was pretty funny. Big dumb chicken farmer standing there with a cleaver in one hand and his chicken dinner in a bag in the other hand.

“What do you want with her?” the man said.

“Are you the Mr. Diehl who’s listed in the phone book?”

“What do you want with her?” the man said again.

“If she’s the woman I’m looking for, I produced a movie she—”

The words scarcely left his mouth. The man’s eyes flared. A sound like a mixture of pain, anger, and torment burst from his mouth. He dropped the bloodstained brown paper bag. He raised the cleaver.

Holy shit, he’s coming at me! Henry thought.

All at once, it didn’t seem so funny anymore.

“Hey,” he said, “listen... ”

But the man was closing the distance between them, cleaver raised above his head, eyes blazing.

“Whoremaster!” he shouted, and Henry turned and started running.

He ran toward the lake.

He was suddenly very sober.

He could hear the man’s heavy breathing behind him.

Kept running toward the lake.

Saw something lying there on the bank, long and gray and...

He stopped dead.

Holy...

A hand closed on his shoulder. He felt himself being spun around.

“No, don’t,” he said.

At ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, December 23, Cynthia Huellen came in to tell Matthew she hoped the office Christmas party this year wouldn’t be as rowdy as the one last year. Cynthia was a native Floridian with long blonde hair and a glorious tan that she worked at fanatically; never a weekend went by that did not find Cynthia on a beach or a boat. Twenty-five years old, employed by the firm as a receptionist, she was easily the most beautiful person in the law offices of Summerville and Hope. Matthew and Frank kept telling her to quit the job and go to law school instead. She already had a BA from the University of South Florida, and they would take her into the firm the minute she passed her bar exams. Cynthia just grinned and said, “No, I don’t want the hassle of school again.”

Apparently she did not want the hassle of another rowdy party again, either. Matthew had left the party early last year. He did not know whether it had become rowdy or not. But here was Cynthia telling him that the otherwise staid and proper attorneys who worked here (four of them in addition to Matthew and Frank) had drunk a bit too much and had conveniently forgotten during a long afternoon of wassail that some of them (two) were married and some of them (the other two) were going steady with girls Cynthia actually knew . And whereas she didn’t mind a little camaraderie and brotherly love, she, and the other three girls working here, didn’t like being chased around desks, either.

“So maybe you can sort of drop a few hints here and there, because it can get a little embarrassing, okay?”

The party was scheduled to begin at four that afternoon.

Matthew promised he would drop a few hints.

At ten minutes to eleven, Cynthia buzzed him to say that a Mrs. Holmes from Calusa Travel was on five. “Are you planning a trip?” she asked.

“Did she say what it’s about?” Matthew asked.

“Nope.”

“I’ll take it,” he said, and punched a button in the base of his phone, and lifted the receiver.

“Hello?” he said.

“Mr. Hope?”

“Yes?”

“Ginny Holmes, Calusa Travel.”

“Yes, Miss Holmes,” he said.

“Mrs. Holmes,” she said. “I’m sorry to be bothering you this way, but I don’t know where to send this check.”

“What check?” he said.

“It would have gone out yesterday afternoon, as I promised Mr. Gordon—”

“Mr. Gordon?”

“Yes, the accountant for the Prudent Company.”

“The Prudent Company?”

“Yes. Mrs. Markham’s company. The refund check was ready to go out yesterday afternoon, but Mr. Gordon never told me which bank to send it to.”

I’m sorry, Mrs. Holmes,” Matthew said, “but I’m not following you.”

“He told me to make it payable to the Prudent Company, and send it to her bank for deposit to the account. But he never said which bank it was. And I deposited her check back in November, so I don’t have it any more to look at.”

“Her check?”

“Yes, for the airfare to Mexico City. And the hotel deposit. I’m afraid I can’t get the deposit back from the Camino Real. They were supposed to be there on the first, you know, so it’s a little late to be canceling now. I suppose I should have telexed them the moment I read about her getting killed and Mr. Markham being in jail. But as I explained to Mr. Gordon, I really didn’t know what to do. Anyway, I have the check for the airfare, so if you’ll just tell me which bank to—”

“Mrs. Holmes,” Matthew said, “I’m still not—”

“This is Matthew Hope, isn’t it?” Ginny said.

“Yes?”

“I assumed... I read in the paper that you’re representing Mr. Markham, so I automatically assumed you were also handling Mrs. Markham’s estate.”

“No, I’m not,” Matthew said.