Ed McBain: The Last Dance

the retail market in Germany. But it's still available here. That's another name for it, by the way. La Roche. Or even just Roach. How much did Blaney say the old man had dropped?"

"At least two mills."

"Would've knocked him out in half an hour. It's supposed to be ten times stronger than Valium, no taste, no odor. You really never heard of it?"

"Never," Carella said.

"It's also called the Date-Rape drag," Meyer said. "When it first got popular in Texas, kids were using it to boost a heroin high or cushion a cocaine crash. Then

some cowboy discovered if he dropped a two-mill tab

in a girl's beer, it had the same effect as if she drank a

six-pack. In ten, twenty minutes, she's feeling no pain.

She loses all inhibitions, blacks out, and wakes up the

next morning with no memory of what happened."

"Sounds like science-fiction," Carella said.

"Small white tablet," Meyer said, "you can either dissolve it in a drink or snort it. Ruffles is another name. The Forget Pill, too. Or Roofenol. Or Rib. Costs three, four bucks a tab."

"Thanks for the input," Carella said.

The men were on their way to Andrew Male's bank.

They were now in possession of a court order auth

orizing them to open his safe deposit box. Inside that box, by Cynthia Keating's own admission, there was an insurance policy on her father's life. Her husband had also told them that his law firm was in possession of her father's will, which left to husband and wife all of the old man's earthly possessions—which did not amount to a hell of a lot. A passbook they'd found in the apartment showed a bank balance of $,.. The old man had also owned a collection of rpm's dating back to the thirties and forties, none of them rare, all of them swing hits of the day—Benny Goodman, Harry James, Glenn Miller—played and replayed over and over again until the shellac was scratched and the grooves worn. There were a few books in the apartment as well, most of them dog-eared paperbacks. There was an eight-piece setting of inexpensive silver plate.

True enough, in a city where a five-dollar bill in a

tattered billfold was often cause enough for murder, these

belongings alone might have provided motive. But not for

two people as well off as the Keatings. Besides, this had

not been a case of someone choosing a random victim on

the street and then popping him, something that happened

all the time. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble

here, first drugging the old man and next hanging him.

The prize had to be worth the trouble.

Carella pulled the car into a No Parking zone in front

of the bank. He flipped down his visor to show the pink

police paper that normally warned off any cop on the beat,

and then stepped out of the car and dashed through the

rain toward the front of the bank, Meyer pounding along

behind him.

Their court order opened the dead man's safe deposit

box, and sure enough, they found an insurance policy for

$,, with Andrew Male's daughter and son-in-law

listed as sole beneficiaries. The policy did, in fact, contain

a suicide exclusion clause:

Section . SUICIDE

If the insured dies by suicide within one

year from the Date of Issue, the amount

payable by the Company will be limited to

the premiums paid.

But the policy had been issued almost ten years ago.

Thursday night was the night in question.

According to what Cynthia Keating had told them,

she'd spoken to her father at nine that night, and had found

him hanging dead at nine-thirty or so the next morning.

A check with the telephone company confirmed that she

had indeed called his number at : the night before, and

had spent two minutes on the phone with him. This did

not preclude her later taking the subway across the river and into the trees, going up to his apartment, dropping a few pills in his wine or his beer or his bottled water, and

then hanging him over a hook.

But—

Cynthia maintained that after having telephoned her

father, she had gone to meet her girlfriend Josie at the

movie theater a block from her apartment and together

they had seen a movie that started around : and ended around :, after which she and her friend Josie had gone for tea and scones at a little snack bar called Westmore's. She had returned home at around twelve-thirty, and had not left the apartment again until the next morning at around twenty to nine, at which time she had taken the subway across the river, and walked to her father's apartment, only to find Dad, poor Dad, hanging in the closet, and I'm feeling so bad. The movie she'd seen was part of a Kurosawa retrospective. It was titled High and Low, and it was based on a novel by an American who wrote cheap mysteries. A call to the theater confirmed the title of the film and the start and finish times. A call to her girlfriend Josie Gallitano confirmed that she had accompanied Cynthia to the movie and had later enjoyed a cup of tea and a chocolate-covered scone with her. Cynthia's husband, as was to be expected, confirmed that he had found her asleep in bed when he got home from a poker game at around one o'clock. She had not left the apartment again that night.

There had been six other men in that poker game.

Keating claimed that the game had started at eight o'clock

and ended at around a quarter past midnight. The six other

men confirmed that he had been there during the times he'd stated. His wife, as was to be expected, confirmed

that he'd come home at around one a.m., and had not left

the apartment again that night.

It appeared to the detectives that their two prime suspects had airtight alibis and that whoever had dropped Rohypnol into Andrew Male's drink and draped him over a closet hook was still out there boogying someplace.

At Hale's funeral on Sunday morning, they listened to a minister who had never met the man telling his sole remaining relatives what a fine and upstanding

human being he'd been. Cynthia Keating and her husband

Robert listened dry-eyed. It was still raining when the first shovelful of earth was dumped onto Male's simple wooden casket.

It was as if he had never existed.

From home that Sunday night, Carella called Danny Gimp.

"Danny?" he said. "It's Steve."

"Hey, Steve," Danny said. "Whatta ya hear?"

This was a joke. Danny Gimp was an informer. He—

and not Carella—was the one who heard things and passed them on. For money. The men didn't exchange any niceties. Carella got right down to business.

"Old guy named Andrew Hale . . ."

"How

old?" Danny asked.

"Sixty-eight."

"Ancient," Danny said.

"Got himself aced Thursday night."

"Where?"

"Apartment off Currey Yard."

"What time?"

"ME puts it around midnight. But you know how accurate PMFs are."

"How'd he catch it?"

"Hanged. But first he was doped with a drug called

Rohypnol. Ever hear of it?"

"Sure."

"You have?"

"Sure," Danny said.

"Anyway," Carella said, "the only two people who had any reason to want him dead have alibis a mile long. We're wondering if maybe they knew somebody handy with a noose."

"Uh-huh."

"He's a lawyer . . ."

"The dead man?"

"No. One of the suspects."

"A criminal lawyer?"

"No. But he knows criminal lawyers."

"That doesn't mean he knows hit men."

"It means there could've been access."

"Okay."

"Ask around, Danny. There's twenty-five grand in

insurance money involved here."

"That ain't a lot."

"I know. But maybe it's enough."

"Well, let me go on the earie, see what's what."

"Get back to me, okay?"

"If I hear anything."