Ed McBain - Downtown

“No,” he said.

“A ploy, right? Murderer sticks around, lady thinks. Gee, he can’t be the murderer.”

“No, not a ploy.”

“You going to slay my children in their beds?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You better not. And don’t call me ma’am. I’m at least five years younger than you are. What size suit do you wear?”

“Thirty-eight long.”

“Arthur’s a forty-six regular. Come along with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Put you in a Santa suit.”

He followed her up the stairs.

“Why do they think you killed somebody?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“But you didn’t, huh?”

“I didn’t. It wasn’t even my wallet. All they stole from me were my credit cards and my driver’s license. And my library card.”

They were in the master bedroom now. Four-poster bed covered with a gauzy canopy. Imitation Tiffany lamp in one corner. Plush velvet easy chair. Old mahogany dresser.

“What are you doing here?” Albetha asked.

“I thought you might be able to help me.”

“How?”

“This was before I knew your husband was still alive.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a pity,” she said. “Him still being alive.”

“You’re divorcing him, right?” Michael said.

“Right.”

“Because of Jessica.”

“Right.”

“Jessica who?”

“Here, put this on,” she said, and handed him a Santa Claus suit on a hanger. “I’ll get some pillows.”

“Jessica who?” he asked again.

Albetha went to the closet. He began taking off his trousers. “Wales,” she said. “Why do you want to know?”

“What does she look like?”

“She looks like a bimbo,” Albetha said. Her back was to Michael. She was reaching up for a pair of pillows on the closet shelf. The trousers were much too large for him. He suspected they’d be too large even with pillows in them.

“What color hair does she have?”

“The same color hair all bimbos have,” Albetha said. “Blonde. Even black bimbos have blonde hair.”

“Is she black then?”

“No,” Albetha said. “Here. Stuff these in your pants.”

He accepted the pillows.

“She’s white?”

“Yes. Even as the driven snow.”

“I need something to fasten these pillows with,” he said.

“I’ll get one of Arthur’s straps.”

She went to the closet again.

“Are her eyes blue?” he asked.

“No. Brown.”

Which eliminated the woman in the bar. Whose star sapphire ring he hadn’t stolen. And who’d called herself Helen Parrish.

“How does your husband happen to know her?” he asked.

“Intimately,” Albetha said, and came back with a very large brown belt.

He took the belt, wrapped it around the pillows, and buckled it. He fastened the trousers at the waist. They felt good and snug now.

“How do you know she wears red panties?” he asked.

“Don’t ask me about her goddamn panties. Goddamn blonde bimbo with her red panties. God knows what I may have caught from her panties.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had her panties on once.”

“How’d that happen?”

“They were in my dresser drawer. Can you imagine that? He hides his bimbo’s panties in my dresser drawer, mixed in with all my own panties. So I go to put on a pair of red panties, I put on her panties instead. I got out of them the second I realized I’d made a mistake. But who knows what I may have caught from them?”

“Well, you only had them on for a second.”

“Even so. That’s why they won’t let you return panties, you know. Department stores. I wanted to call her and ask who she’d been intimate with lately. Besides my husband. You can get trichinosis from just eating the gravy,” she said.

“You can?”

“Sure. From the pork. So don’t tell me about only a second. Who knows what was in her panties?”

“Well, there’s no sense worrying about it now,” Michael said.

“Sure, you don’t have to worry, you’re not the one who was in her panties. Do you think I can get them analyzed? Put them in a paper bag and take them to a lab and get them analyzed?”

“For what?”

“For whatever she may have. I really would like to call her, I mean it. Hey, Jessie, how are you? Listen, do you remember those red silk panties Arthur left in my dresser drawer? They’re walking across the room all by themselves, who’ve you been with lately, Jess?”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t tell a perfect stranger who...”

“I’m not such a perfect stranger, I had her panties on. Also, she’s no stranger to my husband, believe me.”

“Does she work for him or something?”

“She’s an actress,” Albetha said. “She’s in his new movie.”

“I didn’t know there was a new movie.”

“How would you know there was any movie at all?” Albetha asked, and looked at him suspiciously.

“A person who said he was your husband told me all about War and Solitude.”

“When was this?”

“Earlier tonight. In a bar. Before he stole my car,” Michael said, and put on the Santa Claus jacket.

“Was this person five-feet eight-inches tall, chunky, going bald, with brown eyes, a pot belly, and a Phi Beta Kappa key on his vest? From Wisconsin U?”

“No, he was...”

“Then he wasn’t Arthur.”

“I know he wasn’t. Now I know. But he was very credible at the time. Told me all about your husband’s work, gave me his business card...”

“Arthur’s business card?”

“Yes.”

“Well, anyone could have that. Arthur hands them out all over the place.”

“Does the name Helen Parrish mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“She’s not an actress or...?”

“No.”

“Or anyone with whom your husband may have worked?” “My husband has worked with a lot of women over the years, but I don’t remember anyone named Helen Parrish. He was in television before he made Solly’s War, and in television...”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“We called it Solly’s War. Because the man who put up the money was named Solomon Gruber, and he was always yelling about budget, and about frittering away time, that was his favorite expression, ‘Arthur, you’re frittering away time.’ Arthur hated him.”

“What does he look like?”

“Gruber? An Orthodox rabbi.”

“He wouldn’t be a big, burly guy with a crew cut and a beard stubble, and hard blue eyes, would he?”

“No, he’s tall and thin and hairy.”

“Solomon Gruber.”

“Yes.”

“Who put up the money for War and Solitude.”

“Yes. And lost it all. Or most of it.”

“How much, would you say?”

“Did the film cost? Cheap by today’s standards. Cheap even by the standards twelve years ago, when it was shot.”

“How much?”

“Twelve million.”

“That’s cheap?”

“Here’s the beard,” Albetha said.

He put on the beard.

“And the hat,” she said.

He put on the hat.

She studied him.

“The kids think Arthur is Santa Claus, but you’ll have to do,” she said. “Come on downstairs and drink your milk and eat your cookies. If you keep your back to them...”

“Tell me about your husband’s new picture.”

“Strictly commercial,” she said. “Solly hopes. He financed this one, too.”

“What’s it called?”

“Winter’s Chill. It’s a suspense film. What the British call a thriller.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen it.”

“It doesn’t open till the second.”