Ed McBain: Poison

"Turned out the killer built himself a home-made spansule, remember?" Meyer said. "So maybe this is the same thing here."

"Maybe," Carella said.

But he knew that would be too easy.

Cross-checking nonetheless, he found a Harold Sachs and a Hillary Lawson in the personal directory he had taken from McKennon's apartment, and made a note to call them to ask about those parties. He also found a listing for a Nicholas Di Marino, whom he guessed was the Colly throwing the party this Saturday night, but he couldn't see much sense in calling him at this point.

The identical eleven o'clock appointments on March eighth, fifteenth, and twenty-ninth (another appointment McKennon would never keep) led Carella to suspect "Ellsworth" was either a doctor or a dentist. In the cross-check against McKennon's directory, he found a listing for a Ronald Ellsworth, DOS, with offices at 257 Carrington Street, here in Isola.

The Kreuger whose job was being installed was a Henry Kreuger in Calm's Point. Carella learned this from calling McKennon's boss. But Gregorio did not know either an Annie or a Frank, and there were no listings in McKennon's directory for either of them. Carella surmised that Frank Whoever had been in the hospital—hence the flowers—and that McKennon had called Annie Whoever to find out which hospital.

Carella did not enjoy movies with casts of thousands.

Neither did he enjoy cases where the possibilities multiplied geometrically.

Just once in his life, he would love investigating a case involving two men stranded on a desert island, one the victim, the other the obvious killer.

Just once.

Meanwhile, he was stuck with this one.

By eight o'clock that Tuesday night,Willis had talked to all three men on the short list of "friends" Marilyn Hollis had less than graciously provided, and he figured it was time he paid the lady herself another visit.

He did not call first.

Unannounced and uninvited, he drove to 1211 Harborside Lane, and parked his car at the curb adjacent to the small park across the street from her building. It was still bitterly cold. March had come in like a lion and was going out like a lion, so much for the Farmer's Almanac disciples. The wind tossing his hair, his face raw after only a short walk from his car across the street, he rang the front doorbell and waited.

Her voice over the speaker said, "Mickey?"

"No," he said, "it's Detective Willis."

There was a long silence.

"What do you want?" she said.

"Few questions I'd like to ask you. If you have a minute."

"I'm sorry, I can't talk to you just now," she said. "I'm expecting someone."

"When can I come back?" he asked.

"How about never?" she said, and he could swear she was smiling.

"How about later tonight?" he said.

"No, I'm sorry."

"Miss Hollis, this is a homicide…"

"I'm sorry," she said again.

There was a click. And then silence.

He pressed the doorbell button again.

"Listen," she said over the speaker, "I'm truly sorry, but…"

"Miss Hollis," he said, "do I have to get a warrant just to talk to you?"

Silence.

Then: "All right, come in."

The buzzer sounded. He grabbed for the doorknob and let himself into the entrance foyer. Another buzzer sounded, unlocking the inner door. He opened the door and stepped tentatively into the paneled living room. A fire was going in the fireplace across the room. Incense was burning. Not a sign of her anywhere.

He closed the door behind him.

"Miss Hollis?" he called.

"I'm upstairs. Take off your coat, sit down, I'm on the phone."

He hung his coat on a rack just inside the door, and then sat close to the door in a chair upholstered in red crushed velvet. Mickey, he thought. Mickey who? He waited. He could hear nothing from the upstairs levels of the house. The fire crackled and spit. He waited. Still no sounds from upstairs.

"Miss Hollis?" he called again.

"Be with you in a minute!" she called back.

He'd been waiting for at least ten minutes when finally she came down the walnut-bannistered staircase from above. She was wearing something glacial-blue and clingy, a wide sash at the waist, sapphire earrings, high-heeled pumps to match the dress. Blonde hair pulled back from the pale oval of her face. Blue eye shadow. No lipstick.

"You caught me at a bad time," she said. "I was dressing."

"Who's Mickey?" he asked.

"An acquaintance. I just called to say I'd be running late. I hope this won't take too long. Would you like a drink?"

The offer surprised him. You didn't hand a man his hat and offer him a drink in the same breath.

"Or are you still on duty?" she asked.

"Sort of."

"At eight-fifteen?"

"Long day," he said.

"Name your poison," she said, and for a moment he thought she was making a deliberate if somewhat grisly joke, but she was heading obliviously for the bar unit across the room.

"Scotch," he said.

"Ah, he's corruptible," she said, and turned to glance over her shoulder, smiling. "Anything with it?"

"Ice, please."

He watched her as she dropped ice cubes into two short glasses, poured scotch for him, gin for herself. He watched her as she carried the drinks to where he was sitting. Pale horse, pale rider, pale good looks.

"Come sit by the fire," she said, "it'll be cozier," and started across the room toward a sofa upholstered in the same red crushed velvet. He rose, moved toward the sofa, waited for her to sit, and then sat beside her. She crossed her legs. There was a quick glimpse of nylon-sleek knees, the suggestion of a thigh, and then she lowered her skirt as demurely as a nun. In an almost subliminal flash, he wondered why she had chosen a word like "cozier."

"Mickey who?" he asked.

"Mouse," she said, and smiled again.

"A male acquaintance then."

"No, I was making a joke. Mickey's a girlfriend. We're going out to dinner." A look at her watch. "Provided we're through here before midnight. I said I'd call her back."

"I won't be long," he said.

"So," she said. "What's so urgent?"

"Not urgent," he said.

Just a few things bothering

"Pressing then?"

"Not pressing, either. Just a few things bothering me."

"Like what?"

"Your friends."

"Tom, Dick and Harry?" she asked, and smiled again.

She was making reference to their first somewhat irritating meeting, but she was making sport of it now, seemingly trying to put him at ease. He thought at once that he was being conned. And this led to the further thought that she had something to hide.

"I'm talking about the list you gave us," he said. "The men you consider close friends."

"Yes, they are," she said.

"Yes, so they told me." He paused. "That's what's bothering me."

"What is it, exactly, that's bothering you, Mr. Willis?" She shifted her weight on the sofa, adjusted her skirt again.

"Nelson Riley," he said. "Chip Endicott. Basil Hollander."

"Yes, yes, I know the names."

Basil Hollander was the man who'd left a message on her answering machine saying he had tickets for the Philharmonic. His comments to Willis were echoes of what Nelson Riley and Chip Endicott had already told him. He considered Marilyn Hollis one of his very best friends. Terrific girl. Great fun to be with. But Hollander (who'd identified himself as "Baz" on Marilyn's answering machine) was a "Yes-No-Well" respondent, the kind detectives the world over dreaded. Getting him to amplify was like pulling teeth.

"Have you known her a long time?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Well…"

"A year?"

"No."

"Longer?"

"No."