Ed McBain - Downtown

Jessica was sniffing the bouquet.

... said in a televised news conference that he would be exonerated once the true and complete story was...

“Mmmm, sweet,” Jessica said.

The newscaster said that the dollar had fallen against most major currencies in U.S. trading.

“Taste it,” Jessica said.

The newscaster said that a new cold front was moving in from the Canadian Rockies.

It seemed to Michael that he might have been listening to this very same newscast yesterday or two weeks ago or two months ago. Some American corporation was always selling off something to the Japanese, elected senators were always being indicted for breaking one law or another and then assuring the public that they would be proven innocent once the true facts were known, the American dollar was always weaker against most major currencies, there was always a cold front moving in from the Canadian Rockies, even in the summertime, and there was always and forever a continuing conflict in the Middle East. Even at Christmastime. Peace on earth, the man had said, but where was it? Meanwhile, Jessica was sipping her cognac.

The newscaster started giving the weather forecast for New York City and vicinity. Continued cold...

“Mmmm,” Jessica said.

... temperatures in the single digits...

“This is sooo good,” she said.

... possibility of more snow before morning.

“Terrific,” Michael said.

“But you haven’t tasted it yet,” she said.

“I meant the weather.”

The newscaster was now telling everyone to stay tuned for an uninterrupted program of Christmas music. No mention of the dead body found in the rented automobile. No mention of Michael Barnes, the wanted desperado. Another voice came on, saying there would now be uninterrupted music until the next news report at four A.M. Something medieval flooded from the speakers.

Michael took a sip of the cognac.

“Yes,” he said, “delicious. Who’s Mama?”

“Mama?”

“In Crandall’s appointment calendar, it said ‘Call Mama.’ And he was also supposed to meet her at eight o’clock last night. So who’s Mama?”

“Arthur’s mama is dead.”

“I know. So whose mama was he calling and meeting?”

“Maybe Albetha’s.”

“No, they don’t get along.”

“Well, certainly not my mama. She’s on vacation in London, England.”

“Then whose?”

“I have no idea. How’d you sec Arthur’s calen...?”

“Do you know why he went to the bank on Monday?”

“I think he goes to the bank every day,” Jessica said, and shrugged.

“He wouldn’t have gone there to cash a check, would he?”

“How would I know?”

“For nine thousand dollars?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

“Which is exactly a thousand dollars less than has to be reported to the IRS.”

“Really? Gee.”

“Who else was at that Christmas party?”

“What Christmas party? How do you know about the Christmas party?”

“I was in Crandall’s office earlier tonight. Do you know anyone who lost a pair of red silk panties?”

“Gee,” she said, “no.”

“Okay, who’s Charlie?”

“Which Charlie? There are a lot of Charlies in this city, you know.”

“Yes, I know. Which Charlie did Crandall know?”

“Well, there’s Charlie Nichols, no relation to Jack Nichols the big movie star.”

“You mean Jack Nicholson, don’t you?”

“Exactly. Charlie Nichols used to be on Mister Ed years ago. Arthur used him in Winter’s Chill. To do one of the voices.”

“A horse’s voice?”

“No, a ghost’s voice. There are a lot of ghosts in the picture. Or at least I’m supposed to think they’re ghosts. The character I play. She thinks they’re ghosts. They’re trying to drive her crazy, you see. The character I play.”

“Like Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight?”

“No!” she said sharply. “Not at all like Gaslight. Don’t even breathe the word Gaslight. This is a very scary picture.”

“So was Gaslight.”

“Will you please stop with Gaslight ? This is a much better picture than Gaslight, you’ll see when it opens.”

“When will that be?”

“On the second. That’s a Thursday. So we’ll catch the Weekend section of the Times. When they review all the new movies. The Friday paper.”

“What does Charlie Nichols look like?”

“What difference does it make? He’s only a voice.”

“Yes, but what does he look like?”

“I never met him. I just told you, he’s a voice.”

“Have you met any Charlies who are more than voices?”

“Everybody has met a Charlie who is more than a voice.”

“I mean, who is also a Charlie that Crandall knows.”

“I can’t think of any other Charlies he knows.”

“You said he knows a lot of Charlies.”

“No, I said there are a lot of Charlies in this city is what I said.”

“But Charlie Nichols is the only Charlie that Crandall knows.”

“He’s the only Charlie that I know Arthur knows. For all I know, Arthur may know a hundred Charlies, maybe even a thousand Charlies, there are probably millions of Charlies in this city. All I’m saying is that Charles R. Nichols is the only Charlie...”

“Okay, I’ve got it. Do you know where he lives?”

“No.”

“But I do.”

The voice came from behind him.

A man’s voice.

He turned at once.

Arthur Crandall was standing in the doorway to the bedroom. Fat and short and bald and wearing the same three-piece suit he’d worn on television, a Phi Beta Kappa key hanging on a gold chain across the front of his vest.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Barnes,” he said.

“Who’s the dead man?” Michael asked. “And why are you running around town telling people I killed him?”

“Which of course you didn’t do,” Crandall said, and looked at his watch.

“And why are you looking at your watch?” Michael asked.

“I was wondering when the police would get here,” Crandall said. “I called them the moment you arrived. They should be...”

“Thank you for the warning,” Michael said, and started for the door. “It was nice meeting you both, there certainly are some charming and delightful people here in downtown New...”

“No,” Crandall said, and reached into his pocket.

His hand came out with a gun in it.

Everybody in this city has a gun, Michael thought.

And took a step toward him.

“No, please don’t,” Crandall said. “This is a gun, you know.”

“So is this,” Michael said.

You usually knew in that first split second whether the other guy was serious.

In Vietnam, lots of guys had to prove they were big macho killers, had to keep telling this to themselves over and over again because otherwise they’d go weak with terror whenever a leaf rattled out there in the jungle. So one way they tried to prove it was to lean on anybody they thought would back down. Come to think of it, this may have been the origin of all that Russian roulette stuff in The Deer Hunter. Because lots of times out there, weapons came into play during the showdown process.

Now if you were going to lean on somebody, it was usually better not to choose some guy who weighed three hundred pounds and was built like the Chesapeake and Ohio. Because this man would chew up both you and your rifle and then spit out railroad spikes. So you didn’t go bumping on him, you didn’t go waving your weapon around in his face unless you felt it would be patriotic to get killed by a fellow American instead of a gook.