Эд Горман - Murder on the Aisle

They pushed Tobin aside as they got Marcie ready for the gurney.

Tobin knew he had to get out of here before the guard came back or the man would hold him for the police. He went over to Marcie and said, “Did he get the tape tonight?”

She was on the gurney, strapped in. “No. Because I didn’t even know what he was looking for. He hit me and panicked and ran.”

“Without the tape?”

She nodded, then grimaced. “Without the tape.”

“And you didn’t recognize his voice?”

“He kept a handkerchief over his face. I couldn’t even see him really.”

One of the ambulance men, irritated at how close Tobin was standing, said, “Would you mind moving back, buddy?”

Then Tobin left, into the shadows of the corridor, out one of the side doors to the street, sneaking up in back of his waiting cab.

By now he knew, of course. Knew well and sadly.

He gave the driver an address and sat back, trying to figure out how he was going to handle it. On the way over he made a single stop, a phone booth. He was getting as good at phone-boothing as Clark Kent. Huggins didn’t seem at all happy to hear from him. Even less happy about having to get out of bed. Huggins said, “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

“Then you’ll want to get an early start on the day. You’ve probably got a lot of shopping left to do.”

Tobin hung up and got back in his cab and went back across the cold city.

3:27 A.M.

There were still lights shining from the second floor when Tobin’s cab pulled up. This time he paid off the driver and sent him away.

The security guard recognized him and even offered a little sort of salute. Tobin tried to return the gesture but he couldn’t, quite. Maybe it was because he didn’t like saluting, but more probably it was because of what lay ahead of him. Now that he knew whom he was looking for, he’d almost rather not know.

The elevator didn’t take long enough getting him to the second floor. When he stepped out into the reception area he saw that all that remained of the party now was in debris — a depressing spectacle of streamers that had crashed to earth, confetti that looked like colorful vomit, plastic glasses filled with the dregs of drinks and floating cigarette butts to give the liquid the color of urine samples. Smoke choked the air. Perfumes mixed too sweetly. But there was something else odd, too — the complete lack of humanity. This might have been one of those Twilight Zone shows about the last man on earth: He finds everything set up for a party but nobody to share it with.

Then a voice said, “You know, don’t you, Tobin?”

He turned and saw Frank Emory leaning against a filing cabinet, a drink tilted precariously in his hand. Frank looked as if he’d been partying for a week and had forgotten to sleep.

“Yeah,” Tobin said, “I know.” He shook his head. “You sat in your office and told me you were a failure — even though you’d already sold your company. When I found that out, I started thinking.”

“I really wouldn’t have let them arrest you.”

“I’ll take your word for that.”

Frank had some of his drink. Then he set it down calmly on the filing cabinet and scratched his beard-stubbled chin. “I really do give a damn about you; have I ever told you that?”

“Yeah, you’ve told me that, Frank.”

“But I was in a bind.”

“I’ll grant you that, Frank. You were in a big bind. A big one.”

“So I didn’t have a lot of choice.”

Tobin shook his head, hating Frank and pitying him at the same time. “Richard was killed because you were afraid that if the company that was going to buy you out found that Richard was taking payola, the deal would be off, right?”

Quietly, Frank said, “Right.” Then he flung his arm dramatically around the room. “You know what my oldest son says when he thinks something’s neat?”

“What does he say, Frank?”

“He says ‘bitchin’. As in ‘That’s a ‘bitchin’ car’ or ‘That’s a ‘bitchin’ movie.’ Well, you know what, Tobin?”

“What?”

“Tonight we had one ‘bitchin’ good party here. You know that?”

“I’m happy for you, Frank.”

Frank eyed him as soberly as he could. “I really do give a damn about you, Tobin. I really do.”

“Ebsen had to be killed, too.”

“Ebsen.” This time when Frank waved his hand it was with a sense of dismissal. “He was really slime. He was trying to blackmail Dunphy for stealing his script — which Dunphy did , in fact — but then he followed him around with one of those goddamn shotgun microphones and that’s how he found out Dunphy was taking bribes.”

“Two people, Frank. Killed. Jesus.” He was exhausted. Frank sort of hugged the filing cabinet. Sort of put his face down on it.

“I’m sorry, Tobin.”

“For what?”

Frank’s head rose and he looked at Tobin. “For what? What the hell are you talking about? I’m sorry I killed Richard and even that slimy bastard Ebsen.” This was the most animated he’d been since Tobin had entered the office. “I killed them and I’m going to have to pay for it.”

Gently, Tobin said, “You didn’t kill them, Frank.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Of course I did.”

“Frank, I know you very well — remember?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t have what it takes to kill somebody.”

“Oh, sure, I see what you’re saying. Old wishy-washy Frank Emory. He doesn’t have the balls to kill anybody. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Tobin? That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Frank, that’s what I mean.”

“Well, you’re wrong. I not only killed one person, I killed two. Two fucking people, Tobin, do you understand that?”

“Where is she, Frank?”

“Who?”

“Dorothy.”

“What the hell’s Dorothy got to do with this?”

“You don’t have the balls, Frank, but Dorothy does.”

From behind him a female voice said, “I’m going to take that as a compliment, Tobin.”

Dorothy had come out from one of the darkened offices. She looked remarkably fresh, even lovely.

“You like a drink, Tobin?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I would.”

“Scotch all right?”

“Scotch is fine.”

She went over to the bar and poured the three of them healthy doses of Scotch, then brought them over. She’d put on perfume recently and as she brushed close to him the smell of it was erotic.

She stood next to Frank and said, “The funny thing was, I didn’t have to kill either of them.”

“Why not?” Tobin said.

“You remember seeing me the night Richard was killed?”

“Downstairs, when I was telling Frank he should go have an IRA cocktail?”

“Exactly.”

“What about it?”

“Well, do you remember one of the grips came up and said Frank had a phone call?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the phone call was from Frank’s lawyer. The papers had just been signed.”

“God,” Tobin said. “So no matter what came out in the press about Richard taking bribes—”

She laughed. He could hear the shock and panic and terror in the sound. “Yes. But I went into his dressing room without knowing that the deal had been signed and killed him. For absolutely no good reason at all. Frank and I were already off the hook as far as the company goes.”

She finished her Scotch in a gulp. “I think I need a little more.”

Tobin followed her to the bar. Everything there looked sad and depressing. Mashed-up paper cups and cigarette butts everywhere, and various kinds of dips smeared all over the once-white tablecloth.