Charles Ardai - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 102, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 618 & 619, October 1993

Cowper appeared to be on the verge of objecting, looked at Roth’s expression, and smiled.

“Of course. I hadn’t realized we were being so insensitive.”

Insensitive is newspeak for stupid, thought Roth.

He took Helga’s arm and led her out of the office, where she was immediately pounced upon by Michelle Buford, the branch manager.

“Helga,” she said in a kind voice, “go home and rest. The bank will arrange for you to see Dr. Bostov—”

“I’ll be right back,” said Roth.

He joined Maguire and Polansky to become one of a trio reflected in the plate glass by the grayness of a dim fall morning: Roth of medium height, at least a month overdue for a haircut and wearing a rumpled suit that sagged because he’d never regained the weight he’d lost after his wife died a year ago; Maguire tall and thin, with styled hair and a suit that sagged through style rather than weight loss; Polansky short and broad, dressed better than both, hair trimmed and tie knotted precisely.

“The sexy manager said she had a good look at him,” said Roth. “Take her in to talk to the composite man. We’ll compare what she and Mrs. — ” He turned to Maguire. “What’s her name?”

“Helga Vivaldi.”

“—what they each say. If they agree, fine. If not, we’ll go somewhere in between.”

“Why bother?” asked Maguire. “Bank jobs are for the Feds.”

“Tell me who uses a silencer. A rejected lover? Someone whose toes she mashed when the bus lurched? Why should he anticipate shooting at all? Everyone knows tellers give up the money with no fuss. You don’t even need a weapon. Just a note.”

“You really think it was a hit? Why? Buford says Mrs. Vivaldi lives alone in an apartment, doesn’t own a car, doesn’t go anywhere or do anything except take an accounting course at the university twice a week—”

“Magoogan—” Roth never remembered names. Except his own, and many were convinced he sometimes had trouble with that. “—look at Miss Bedford.”

Maguire grinned. “Buford. It’s a pleasure.”

Michelle Buford wore a very stylish business suit with a very tight, mid-thigh skirt that showed off very long, shapely legs. Her blond hair appeared to be a frazzled halo. Roth didn’t quite approve. How she dressed was her business, of course, but in banking, confidence was the name of the game. Those old bankers with their starched white shirts and somber clothing knew that. People had to be uneasy about trusting their money to someone dressed like a high-priced call girl.

“—to her, a woman like Mrs. Vivucci couldn’t possibly generate enough emotion in a man for him to shoot her. Miss Bufoss lives in a very small world. You, Powloski—”

“Polanski,” he said automatically.

“—while Maginness here talks to Mrs. Vivandi, dig up what you can on Our Gal Helsa. Someone wants her dead, we better move fast.”

“The Feds won’t like it,” said Maguire.

“The bank job may be federal, but no federal statute covers assault with a deadly weapon. That’s ours. If all he wanted to do was to kill her, he could have mugged her or used the old hit-and-run, but if she died in a holdup, we’d never consider her the target at all. Now that he’s missed, everything’s changed. He has to finish the job any way he can, not only to earn his money but to get rid of a witness. That cement head Cowpen doesn’t realize that. He’s running the investigation by the book. Get moving.”

She sat in his car the way she’d sat in the office. Straight, with hands clasped in her lap. Nice-looking woman, thought Roth. Brown hair cut short and obviously cared for at home. Full, round face but with a lot of character. Sensibly dressed in a very subdued tweed with a little green bow at the throat of the blouse. He wondered at corporate policy that made Miss Jiggles a manager and left this one as a teller. People would be far more inclined to trust their money to her.

Must have the fastest reaction time in the world. By the time almost everyone who saw a gun pointed at them realized they were about to be shot, they were dead. Yet she’d made a pro miss. Faster than a speeding bullet. Superwoman.

He cleared his throat. “I agree with what you said. The robbery was a cover. He was hired to kill you, but hit men don’t come cheap. Who has enough money to hire one?”

She shook her head. “My Uncle Dennis is wealthy but he has no reason to want me dead. Neither does my Aunt Stephanie. Or my cousin Roger, for that matter. He lives in Hawaii.”

“Are you in your uncle’s will?”

“If I am, it’s only because he feels a family obligation and it certainly wouldn’t be much.”

“How about a rejected lover or jealous wife?”

She smiled. “Only in my dreams.”

“Dead people can’t testify,” he said thoughtfully.

She half turned to face him. “Testify to what? A crime? The only violence I’ve seen was a young woman slap a man on the bus, and that was no crime, believe me. I saw what he did. This has been a very dull week, Lieutenant. Duller than usual. Until today.”

Her apartment was on the second floor of a converted three-story brownstone; one of a long row that seemed to stretch to the suburbs. He wasn’t surprised. The tree-lined street and stately homes retained only an aura of once-gracious living, but she’d prefer that to the slick anonymity of a high-rise or condo.

Double doors with etched glass at the head of wide marble steps opened into a foyer, the hallway that once led to the rear now closed off by a door to create a first-floor apartment.

He jerked a thumb at the door, eyebrows raised.

“Mrs. Longwood,” she said. “She owns the building. Eighty years old and moves faster than I do.”

He followed her up the stairs and continued to the next flight when she stopped at a door, key in hand. He looked up the long flight.

“I know the man upstairs only to say hello. Quiet. Out most of the time. Mrs. Longwood says he owns a small business a few blocks away.”

Roth climbed the stairs and found another flight behind a door. Bare pine, not carpeted oak. The metal door at the head led to the roof, one of many stretching away on all sides like a flat black desert broken only by chimneys and occasional TV antennas belonging to those still holding out against cable company promises of wonderful new vistas of entertainment.

The door could be opened from the roof only with a key.

Back on the second floor, he found the door of her apartment open for him. He looked down into the street through the wide windows at the front, then at the postage-stamp backyards and high fences through the narrow ones in the kitchen in the rear. No means of access.

“Nice place,” he said.

She said, “Thank you,” thinking he was referring to the furnishings she’d selected so carefully. He really saw none of them but referred instead to the feeling of harmony and comfort.

“Now that you’ve had a chance to think a bit more, is there anything else you noticed about the man that you haven’t mentioned?”

“No — ah, I—” She raised one hand to stroke her throat, holding the elbow with the other, as though debating the wisdom of saying anything at all. “He, well—” The words came with a rush. “He had a young neck.”

He smiled. He knew what she meant. Women had long ago discovered that cosmetics can camouflage an ageing face, but little could be done with a neck once the skin sagged and the creases and wrinkles appeared.

He asked to use her phone.

The operator at the local FBI office said, “We don’t have a Merlin. Perhaps you mean Marlowe.”

He grunted assent. Marlowe had a nice telephone hello.

“I’m telling you this rather than Coupon—”