Ed McBain: Poison

"Ten months?"

"No."

"Less than ten months?"

"Yes."

"Five months?"

"No."

"Less than ten months but more than five months?"

"Yes."

"Eight months?"

"Yes."

"How well did you know her?"

"Well…"

"For example, were you sleeping with her?"

"Yes."

"Regularly?"

"No."

"Frequently?"

"No."

"Occasionally?"

"Yes."

"Do you know anyone named Jerry McKennon?"

"No."

And like that.

The thing that troubled Willis was that the men had sounded identical.

Taking into allowance their different verbal styles (Hollander, for example, had interrupted the questioning with a surprisingly eloquent and exuberant sidebar on a pianist Willis had never heard of), accepting, too, the differences in their life styles and vocations (Hollander was an accountant, Riley a painter, Endicott a lawyer), and their ages (Endicott was fifty-seven, Riley thirty-eight or -nine, Hollander forty-two), taking all this into account, Willis nonetheless came away with the feeling that he could have tape-recorded his first conversation with Marilyn and saved himself the trouble of talking to the three men on her list.

We're very good friends, the lady had said.

We sleep together occasionally.

We have a lot of fun.

They do not know Jerry McKennon.

They do not know each other.

Yet three different men who did not know each other had defined their relationship with Marilyn Hollis exactly as she had described it. And each of them had come up with substantial alibis for Sunday night and Monday morning—while McKennon was either killing himself or getting himself killed:

Nelson Riley was with the lady in Vermont on Sunday night—or so he'd said. He was still there on Monday morning, taking a few final runs with her on icy slopes before starting the long drive back to the city.

Chip Endicott was at a Bar Association dinner on Sunday night, and at his desk bright and early Monday morning.

On Sunday night, Hollander had been to a chamber music recital at Randall Forbes Hall in the Springfield Center complex downtown. On Monday morning at eight o'clock, while McKennon was presumably gasping his life out to an answering machine, Hollander was on the subway, commuting to his job at the accounting offices of Kiley, Benson, Marx and Rudolph.

All present and accounted for.

But Willis could not shake the feeling that he'd seen the same play three different times, with three different people playing the same character and repeating the playwright's lines in their own individual acting styles.

Had Marilyn Hollis been the playwright?

Had she picked up the phone the moment the detectives left her and told Nelson, Chip, Baz—mustn't forget old taciturn Baz—that the police were just there, and she'd appreciate it if they said they were dear good buddies who never heard of anyone named Jerry McKennon, thanks a lot, catch you in the sack sometime.

But if so—why?

Her alibi was airtight.

But so were the others.

If only they hadn't sounded so very much alike.

Well, look, maybe the relationships were identical.

Maybe Marilyn Hollis defined the exact course a "friendship" would take and God help the poor bastard who strayed an inch from that prescribed path.

Maybe.

"Tell me more about them," he said.

"There's nothing more to tell," she said, "they're good friends."

And then, suddenly and unexpectedly: "Have you ever killed anyone?"

He looked at her, surprised.

"Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

He hesitated a moment, and then said, "Yes."

"How did it feel?"

"I thought I was asking the questions," he said.

"Oh, the hell with the questions," she said. "I've already talked to all three of them, I know exactly what you said and exactly what they said, so why go through it all over again? You're here because they all gave you the same story, isn't that right?"

This time he blinked.

"Isn't it?"

"Well… yes," he said.

"Now you sound like Baz," she said, and laughed. "I adore him, he's such a sweetheart," she said. "I adore them all, they're such good friends."

"So they said."

"Yes, I know what they said. And you think they were lying, that I rehearsed them, whatever. But why would I have done that? And isn't it entirely possible that we think of each other exactly that way? As very good friends? All of us? Separately?"

"I suppose."

"Do you have any good friends, Mr. Willis?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Well…"

"Ah, there's Baz again."

"I have friends," he said, and wondered about it for the first time.

"Who? Cops?"

"Yes."

"Women cops?"

"Some of them."

"Who are friends?"

"Well… I don't think any of the women cops I know are… well… what you'd call friends, no."

"Then what? Lovers?"

"No, none of the women I see are cops."

"Do you have any women friends at all? Women you could actually call friends?"

"Well…"

"You do a very good Baz imitation, Mr. Willis. Do I have to keep calling you Mr. Willis? What's your first name?"

"Harold."

"Is that what your friends call you?"

"They call me Hal."

"May I call you Hal?"

"Well…"

"Oh, come on, I didn't for Christ's sake murder him! Relax, will you? Enjoy your scotch, enjoy the fire, call me Marilyn, relax !"

"Well…"

"Hal?" she said.

"Yes?"

"Relax, Hal."

"I'm relaxed," he said.

"No, you're not relaxed. I know when a man is relaxed, and you're not relaxed. You're very tense. Because you think I murdered Jerry and you're sure that's why I offered you a drink and the comfort of my fire, isn't that right?"

"Well…"

"If you want to be my friend, be honest with me, will you please? I hate phonies. Even if they're cops."

He was looking at her in open astonishment now. He took a quick swallow of scotch and then—to reassure himself that he was a working cop with some serious questions to ask—immediately said, "Well, you have to admit it was sort of funny, getting the same playback from three different…"

"Not at all," she said. "None of them would know how to lie, that's why they're my friends. That's what we enjoy with each other, Hal. Relationships that are entirely free of bullshit. Have you ever had such a relationship in your life?"

"Well… no. I guess not."

"You're missing something. Would you like another drink?"

"I know you've got a date…"

"She can wait," Marilyn said, and rose from the couch. "Same thing?"

"Please," Willis said, and handed her his glass.

He watched her as she moved toward the bar.

"Are you looking at my ass?" she said.

"Well…"

"If you are, then say so."

"Well, I was. Until you mentioned it."

She came back to him with the drink. She handed him the glass and sat down beside him. "Tell me about the man you killed," she said.

"It wasn't a man," Willis said.

He hadn't talked about this in a long long time. Nor did he want to talk about it now.

"A woman then."

"No."

"What does that leave?"

"Forget it," he said. He swallowed most of the scotch in his glass, rose, and then said, "Miss Hollis, I know you're busy, so maybe it'd be best if I…"

"Scared?" she said.

"No, not particularly."

"Then sit down."

"Why?"

"Because I like talking to you. And talking is the way people begin."

He looked at her.

"What is this?" he said.