Ed McBain - Goldilocks

This could have been Monday morning last week or the week before. There was no excited buzz in the air, no seeming knowledge of the fact that last night, not too many miles from here, a woman and her two daughters had been stabbed to death. True enough, there were sometimes fatal stabbings or shootings in Calusa, but these were normally the result of barroom brawls that got out of hand. It was rare that we had a sensational murder. The only one I could remember in the three years I’d been living here had taken place on Stone Crab Key — the Howell murder case. The reverberations of that one had rumbled through the city for months. This morning, it seemed the only people who yet knew anything at all about the murders on Jacaranda Drive were the ones who’d been at Jamie’s house last night. I was suddenly chilled; one of those people was the murderer.

“The reason tennis has become such a popular sport,” Mark said, “is that it gives women a legal opportunity to show their panties. If women had to play tennis in long dresses, they’d suddenly take up quilting. But the way it is now, a woman reaches up to serve, she bends over to receive, the whole world can see her panties and comment on her beautiful ass. It’s wonderful. Do you have time for coffee, counselor, or must you go plead the Sacco-Vanzetti case?”

“I have time for coffee,” I said.

There were half a dozen men and four women sitting at tables inside the screened-in coffee shop. Mark looked the women over as we went to the counter. One of the women, a busty blonde wearing a white T-shirt and very short shorts, blatantly looked him over in return. He winked at her, and she turned away and began an overly animated conversation with the woman sitting on her right. Mark ordered two coffees, and asked if I wanted a cheese Danish. I said I’d skip the Danish. We took a table just inside the screen, overlooking court number five. Two very strong women players were playing singles on it. One of them appeared to be in her late sixties, but she had a serve that was giving her younger opponent a lot of trouble. I watched them in silence for several moments, sipping my coffee, savoring it. Mark’s attention was on the blonde who’d earlier appraised him. When I asked him what he’d been doing lately, he missed the question. I repeated it.

“Professionally or socially?” he asked. “Never mind, the hell with professionally. Socially’s more interesting. Do you remember my telling you about a young lady named Eileen?”

“Yes, the National Airlines stewardess.”

“No that was Arlene.”

“I don’t remember anyone named Eileen.”

“Anyway, we’ve become very friendly.”

“Good,” I said.

“Not so good,” Mark said. “She’s moving back to Ohio. She’s had an offer to teach at Oberlin. She called me last night, said she desperately had to see me. I told her I couldn’t. She said, ‘But I’m leaving for Ohio !’ I said, ‘I know you’re leaving for Ohio, honey, but that’s not till September. This isn’t even March yet.’”

“So did you go see her?”

“No, I couldn’t, I had a poker game. Your friend’s game.”

I looked at him. “My friend’s game?”

“Jamie Bircher. You introduced me to him once a long time ago. At Marina Blue.”

“Purchase, do you mean? Jamie Purchase?”

“Yeah. An internist or something?”

“You played poker with him last night?”

“Well, don’t sound so shocked, Matt. It’s perfectly legal, you know.”

“Yes, I know, I just...”

“Didn’t remember me from a hole in the wall. Shook hands, how do you do, Mr. Goldman, sat down and started counting his chips.” Mark shrugged. “Hell with him,” he said.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Are you a regular in the game?”

“No, no, a friend of mine called yesterday afternoon — ten minutes before Eileen did, as a matter of fact. Art Kramer, do you know him? He sells real estate out on Whisper.”

“No, I don’t know him.”

“Two of his players had dropped out, he asked if I’d do him a favor and play. I played in the game once a long time ago. I didn’t much like it, so I never went back. They don’t play any wild games, just five-card draw or seven-card... do you play poker?”

“Yes.”

“Art doesn’t . Not really. He loves the game, but he can’t play it to save his ass. You know how much he lost last night?”

“How much?”

“Forty dollars. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but these guys play for nickels and dimes. Your friend walked out with a bundle.”

“My friend?”

“Tell me, Matt, has your tennis elbow moved up into your ear?”

“You mean Jamie Purchase?”

“Yes, your friend. Jamie Purchase your friend. Jamie Purchase the internist. Ask him to take a look at your ear, Matt.”

“You mean he won?”

“Yes. Very good, Matt. That’s exactly what I meant when I said he walked out with a bundle. He won. Excellent, Matt, you’re doing very—”

“No, wait a minute. He won? He won ?”

“ Must be an echo in this place,” Mark said. “Yes, he won. Or to put it yet another way, he won, yes. Cashed in his chips, said good night and walked out.”

“Did he say why he was leaving?”

“He was tired, poor fellow. Said he had to go home and get some sleep.”

“He said he was going home?”

Mark looked at me. “I feel certain I’m speaking English,” he said, “but...”

“Mark, did he actually say he was going home?”

“Yes, he actually said he was going home. Not a very nice thing to do, Matt. You don’t walk out of a game when you’re winning. We played till one o’clock, but he’d already taken sixty bucks out of the game by eleven.”

“Is that when he left? Eleven?”

“A little before eleven, in fact.” Mark shook his head. “It wasn’t the first time, either. According to Art, your friend makes a habit of it.”

“Of what? Leaving the game early?”

“Yeah.”

“When he’s winning, do you mean?”

“Even when he’s losing. Art likes to have seven players in the game, keeps it lively. When somebody leaves the game early it changes the dynamics. I’ll bet Art tries to ease him out. He was mad as hell last night, I can tell you that.” Mark paused. “What’ll your friend do then? Without the poker game for his alibi?”

“Well... I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you? It’s plain as day, Matt. Your friend’s got a little something going on the side. Listen, more power to him. But can’t he find a better alibi than a poker game? I mean, can’t he at least go perform an appendectomy every Sunday night?”

I spent the next ten minutes in a telephone booth outside a gasoline station. The traffic at a quarter to ten had thickened considerably, automobiles and trucks moving bumper to bumper in both directions. For as long as I’d been living here, there’d been talk of financing an interstate superhighway that would divert traffic away from the city and ease the burden on U.S. 41. They were still talking about it. The talk said that even if they started building it this very minute, it wouldn’t be ready for ten years. By that time, the line of traffic on the Trail would be frozen solid from Tampa all the way down to the Everglades.

I called Aggie first.

The phone rang three times before she answered it.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hi.”

“Matt, good! I was just getting ready to leave the house.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got a dumb rehearsal. Is there any possibility you can get away this afternoon?”

“Why?”

“Julie’s got a guitar lesson, and Gerry’s got basketball practice. They’re both being picked up, I’ll be free till at least five.”