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

“No,” he said, “I don’t think so.”

© 1993 by Charlene Morgenstern

© 1993 by Betty Rowlands

Betty Rowlands came to crime writing after a career writing instructional materials for students of English as a second language. But already she has produced a number of notable stories and books. She debuted in 1988 with an award-winning short story which EQMM reprinted this year. 1993 will see the publication of her fourth novel in both the U.K. and the U.S. (Exhaustive Enquiries/ Walker & Co.).

Vince was out when I phoned so I left a message on his answering machine. He called back a couple of hours later.

“Pete? Is something wrong?”

“Why should there be?”

“You said you had something on your mind.”

He didn’t sound quite himself. I thought, Maybe he has problems of his own. His career has been one huge success story, but I’ve often heard him say it isn’t always wine and roses.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said. “It’s simply... I’d like your advice... as an old friend and fellow writer. Is it okay if I call round?”

“Sure.” He sounded relaxed again. “Come for a bite of supper. I’m doing sweet-and-sour pork, there’s plenty for two.”

“I’ll do that — thanks.”

Vince and I have known one another since our college days. He’s never married. Not that he’s gay; far from it. He just prefers to “eat a la carte” as he puts it — quite an apt turn of phrase, seeing how many dishy birds he’s pulled in his time. He’s a handsome bastard, the bronzed, muscular type they all seem to go for.

I picked up a bottle of wine at the off-licence before going to Vince’s flat. It’s pretty swish, all custom-made furniture and David Hockney originals. He makes a fortune from writing TV soaps and commercials. Mind you, I could chum out that sort of crap just as well as he does — better, in fact, if I do say so myself — only my literary aspirations have until now been a bit higher. Not that this has paid off in worldly terms, if you get my meaning. Trying to get a decent advance for a serious novel is like milking a plastic cow, but I don’t complain. I’ve always been one for looking on the bright side.

Vince came to the door wearing a cook’s apron over his designer slacks and surrounded by a whiff of onions and garlic. “Pete, old son, good to see you!” he said, with a flash of porcelain-capped teeth. His eye lighted on the bottle. “Come and pour some snorts while I get on with the stir-fry.”

I followed him into the kitchen, drew the cork, and filled a couple of glasses. We said cheers and drank.

“Mm, that’s a nice one,” said Vince. He put down his glass and began slicing carrots, his back towards me. Under the close-fitting knitted shirt I could see the movement of his shoulder blades. “Evelyn gone out this evening?” he asked casually.

“She’s away at the moment.”

“Oh, right.” He picked up a courgette and started work on it. Chop, chop, chop went the knife, pivoting up and down on its point. It looked lethally sharp, but he handled it like a professional. Food is his hobby. I munched a piece of celery and watched, fascinated.

Vince tipped the vegetables into a pan of hot oil and swished them around with chopsticks. With his spare hand he drained his glass and held it out in my direction. I gave him a refill.

We ate facing one another across the limewood kitchen table. I wasn’t very hungry, but the food was really good and I tried my best to do it justice. I said, “If you ever get fed up with writing you can get a job as a chef.”

He looked pleased as he lifted his glass in acknowledgement. “So, how can I help you?”

I’d thought very carefully about what I was going to say. I put down my fork and said, “It’s time I made some money. Real money, not the peanuts my books have brought in so far.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were doing all right. Wasn’t your last novel short-listed for some award or other?”

I laughed, a little bitterly. “Oh sure. If you measure success in terms of critical acclaim, Night Follows Morning was a wow. The trouble is, hardly anyone actually bought the bloody thing. I just about clawed back the advance.”

“ I bought it. I even read it. Didn’t really understand it, mind.” Vince gave what romantic novelists described as an impish grin. I’ve seen quite sensible, mature women turn gooey as butterscotch sauce under its impact. “Anyway,” he went on, “you’ve always said you’re not interested in making a fortune.”

“I’m not, not for myself. It’s Evelyn. You were right. There is a problem.”

The grin faded. “What sort of problem?”

I swallowed hard. It was all I could do to get the words out. “Got herself pregnant, didn’t she?”

Vince’s jaw dropped. He took a pull from his glass, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and said, “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” I waited for a moment and then said, “It isn’t mine.”

“Pete, I’m so sorry.” He looked genuinely concerned.

“I suppose it’s partly my fault,” I said. Vince, temporarily rendered speechless by another mouthful of wine, made swimming movements with his free hand and shook his head in contradiction. “Oh yes,” I insisted. “We always seem to be short of cash and I spend too much time holed up in my study. I’ve neglected her, haven’t I?”

Vince reached for the bottle and topped up his glass. He went to do the same for me but I waved him away. “I don’t know what to say,” he muttered. “I had no idea.”

“Neither had I until I heard her puking in the bathroom three mornings in a row.” I looked him straight in the eye. “Vince, you’re an old friend and I need your help.”

He looked puzzled. “You’ve lost me. You hinted it was about your writing...”

“It is. I’ve decided to write a crime novel. It’s mayhem and murder that bring in the big bucks, isn’t it?”

“Ye... es, I suppose so. Bit of a comedown for you, though.”

“Not necessarily. This will be an in-depth study of the psychology of a killer. I’m going to write from his point of view, live with him, share his thoughts and emotions from the day he realises what he has to do right up to the moment he confronts his victim. You see, Vince, this affair of Evelyn’s has made me understand what drives a man to commit the ultimate crime.”

I must have sounded quite intense, because he gave me a very strange look and got up from the table. He glanced over his shoulder once or twice as he filled the cafetière and got out cups and saucers. “Black or white?” he said.