Ed McBain - Lady Killer

A small neatly-lettered white card told him that Philip Bannister lived in Apartment 21. Hawes wiped sweat from his lip, and then climbed to the second floor. Every door on the floor was open in an attempt to produce a cross-current circulation of air. The attempt failed miserably. Not a breeze stirred in the hallway. The door to Apartment 21 was open, too. From somewhere inside the apartment, Hawes heard the unmistakable chatter of a typewriter. He knocked on the doorjamb.

'Anybody home?' he called.

The typewriter continued its incessant jabbering.

'Hey! Anybody home?'

The clatter of the keys stopped abruptly. 'Who is it?' a voice shouted.

'Police,' Hawes said.

' Who ?' The voice was utterly incredulous.

'Police.'

'Just a second.'

Hawes heard the typewriter start up again. It went furiously for some three and a half minutes and then stopped. He heard a chair being scraped back, heard the pad of bare feet through the apartment. A thin man in undershirt and striped under-shorts came into the kitchen and walked to the front door. He cocked his head to one side, bis bright brown eyes gleaming.

'Did you say police ?; he asked.

'Yes, I did.'

'It can't be Grandfather because he's dead. I know Dad drinks a bit, but what kind of trouble can he be in?'

Hawes smiled. 'I'd like to ask you a few questions. That is, if you're Philip Bannister.'

'The very same. And you are?'

'Detective Hawes, Eighty-seventh Squad.'

'A real cop,' Bannister said appreciatively. 'A real live detective. Well, well. Enter. What's the matter? Am I typing too loud? Did that bitch complain about it?'

'What bitch?'

'My landlady. Come in. Make yourself homely. She's threatened to call the cops if I type at night again. Is that what this is?'

'No,' Hawes said.

'Sit down,' Bannister said, indicating one of the chairs at the kitchen table. 'Want a cold beer?'

'I can use one.'

'So can I. When do you think we'll get some rain?'

'I couldn't say.'

'Neither could I. Neither can the weather bureau. I think they get their forecasts by reading yesterday's forecast in the newspapers.' Bannister opened the icebox door and pulled out two cans of beer. 'Ice melts like hell in this weather. You mind drinking it from the can?'

'Not at all.'

He punctured both cans and handed one to Hawes.

'To the noble and the pure,' he toasted, and he drank. Hawes drank with him. 'Ahhhhh, good,' Bannister said. 'The simple pleasures. Nothing like them. Who needs money?'

'You live here alone, Bannister?' Hawes asked.

'Entirely alone. Except when I have visitors, which is rarely. I enjoy women, but I can't afford them.'

'You employed?'

'Sort of. I'm a freelance writer.'

'Magazines?'

'I am currently working on a book,' Bannister said.

'Who's your publisher?'

'I have no publisher. I wouldn't be living in this rat trap if I had a publisher. I'd be lighting cigars with twenty-dollar bills and I'd be dating all the high-class fashion models in the city.'

'Is that what successful writers do?'

'That's what this writer is going to do when he's successful.'

'Did you buy a ream of Cartwright 142-Y recently?' Hawes asked.

'Huh?'

'Cartwright 14—'

'Yeah,' Bannister said. 'How the hell did you know that?'

'Do you know a prostitute called The Lady?'

'Huh?'

'Do you know a prostitute called The Lady?' Hawes repeated.

'No. What? What did you say?'

'I said-'

'Are you kidding?'

'I'm serious.'

'A prost—Hell, no!' Bannister seemed to get suddenly indignant. 'How would I know a prost—? Are you kidding?'

'Do you know anyone called The Lady?'

'The Lady? What is this?'

'The Lady. Think.'

'I don't have to think. I don't know anybody called The Lady. What is this?'

'May I see your desk?'

'I don't have a desk. Listen, the joke has gone far enough. I don't know how you found out what kind of typing paper I use, and I don't particularly care. All I know is that you're sitting there drinking my good beer which costs me money Dad works hard to earn, and asking me foolish questions about prost—Now, what is this, huh? What is this?'

'May I see your desk, please?'

'I don't have a goddamn desk! I work on a table!'

'May I see that?'

'All right, all right, be mysterious!' Bannister shouted. 'Be a big-shot mysterious detective. Go ahead. Be my guest. The table's in the other room. Don't mess up anything or I'll call the goddamn commissioner.'

Hawes went into the other room. A typewriter was on the table, together with a pile of typed sheets, a package of carbon paper, and an opened box of typing paper.

'Do you have any paste?' Hawes asked.

'Of course not. What would I be doing with paste?'

'What are your plans for tonight, Bannister?'

'Who wants to know?' Bannister asked, pulling back his shoulders dignifiedly, looking the way Napoleon must have looked in his underwear.

'I do,' Hawes said.

'Suppose I don't care to answer you?'

Hawes shrugged. The shrug was very meaningful. Bannister studied the shrug and then said, 'Okay. I'm going to the ballet with Mother.'

'Where?'

'The City Theatre.'

'What time?'

'It starts at eight-thirty.'

'Your mother live here in the city?'

'No. She lives out on Sand's Spit. The East Shore.'

'Is she well-fixed, would you say?'

'I would say so, yes.'

'Would you call her a suburban lady?'

'I would,' Bannister admitted.

'A lady?'

'Yes.'

Hawes hesitated. 'Do you get along with her?'

'With Mother? Of course I do.'

'How does she feel about your writing?'

'She feels I have great talent.'

'Does she like the idea of your living in a slum neighbourhood?'

'She would rather I lived home, but she respects my wishes.'

'The family's supporting you, is that right?'

'That's right.'

'How much?'

'Sixty-five a week.'

'Mother ever oppose this?'

'The money, you mean? No. Why should she? I spent much more than that when I was living at home.'

'Who paid for the ballet tickets tonight?'

'Mother.'

'Where were you this morning at about eight o'clock, Bannister?'

'Right here.'

'Anybody with you?'

'No.'

'Anybody see you here?'

'The typewriter was going,' Bannister said. 'Ask any of my neighbours. Unless they're all dead, they heard it. Why? What am I supposed to have done at eight o'clock this morning?'

'What paper do you read on Sundays?' Hawes asked.

'The Graphic .'

'Any out-of-town papers?'

'Like what?'

'Like the New York Times ?'

'Yes, I buy the Times .'

'Every Sunday?'

'Yes. I like to see what pap is on the best-seller list each week.'

'Do you know where the station house is?'

'The police station, you mean?'

'Yes.'

'It's near the park, isn't it?'

'Is it, or isn't it?' Hawes asked.

'Yes, it is. I still don't understand—'

'What time are you meeting your mother?'

'Eight,' Bannister said.

'Eight tonight. Do you own a gun?'

'No.'

'Any other weapon?'

'No.'

'Have you had any arguments with your mother recently?'

'No.'

'With any other woman?'

'No.'

'What do you call your mother?'

'Mother.'

'Anything else?'

'Mom.'

'Any nicknames?'

'Sometimes I call her Carol. That's her name.'

'Ever call her The Lady?'

'No. Are we back to that again?'

'Ever call anybody The Lady?'

'No.'

'What do you call your landlady, the bitch who said she'd call the cops if you typed at night?'

'I call her Mrs Nelson. I also call her The Bitch.'