Ed McBain - Killer's Choice

Stewart City had been named after British royalty. It was a compact little area of Isola, running for perhaps three square blocks midtown, three square blocks that hugged the curve of the River Dix. Stewart City had been named after British royalty, and the apartment buildings which faced the river in terraced luxury were indeed royal. There was a time when the North Side of Isola had claimed the fashionable addresses, but those addresses had slowly become dowdy so that a River Harb apartment was no longer considered haut monde . Many River Harb apartments, in fact, were part of the 87th Precinct, and the 87th Precinct could hardly be called a fashionable part of the city.

Stewart City was fashionable. The entire South Side was not fashionable, but Stewart City was. You could not get very much more fashionable than Stewart City was fashionable.

Bert Kling felt somewhat like the country mouse visiting the city mouse. His clothes felt suddenly out of style. His walk seemed loutish. He wondered if the hayseed of the slums was showing in his blond hair.

The doorman at Stewart Terrace looked at him as if he were a grocery boy who'd come to the front door when he should have been making deliveries in the rear. Nonetheless, he held the door open for Kling and Kling entered a foyer done in the coolest modern he had ever seen. He felt as if he had stepped into a Picasso painting by accident. He felt he would be dripped on by a Dali watch at any moment. He felt trapped in the prison of a Mondrian. Hastily, he walked to the directory, found Boone's name, and then walked to the elevator bank. He buzzed and waited.

When the elevator arrived, the operator asked, 'Whom did you wish to see, sir?'

'Ted Boone,' he answered.

'Sixth floor,' the operator said.

'I know,' Kling said.

'I see.' The doors slid shut. The elevator moved into action. The operator studied Kling disdainfully. 'Are you a model?' he asked.

'No.'

'I didn't think so,' the operator said, as if this was one point for his side.

'Does Mr Boone have many models coming to his apartment?'

'Not male models,' the operator said disdainfully. 'You're a cop, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'I can always tell a cop,' the operator said. 'They have a distinct aroma about them.'

'I'm demolished,' Kling said. 'You pierced my disguise.'

'Ha,' the operator said.

'I'm really an old old man with a beard. I didn't think you'd tip so easily. It must be that distinct aroma.'

'You here about Boone's ex-wife?' the operator asked, smugly knowledgeable.

'Are you a detective?' Kling said.

'Come on,' the operator said, slightly insulted.

'I thought you might be. You interrogate excellently. Come over to the precinct. We may have a spot for you.'

'Ha, ha,' the operator said.

'I'm serious.' Kling paused. 'But you're not five eight, are you?'

The operator stood erect. 'I'm five eleven .'

'Oh, good. Over twenty-one?'

'I'm twenty-four !'

'Excellent, excellent! twenty-twenty vision without glasses?'

'Perfect eyesight.'

'Have you a criminal record?'

'Certainly not!' the operator said indignantly.

'Then you've got a career ahead of you with the police department,' Kling said. 'And you can start at the fabulous salary of close to $3,800 a year, which is probably half what you make in this place. But think of the advantages. You can stand around and take all kinds of snide remarks from the public if you're a cop. It's wonderful. Nothing like it. Makes a man out of you.'

'I'm not interested.'

'What's the matter?' Kling asked. 'Don't you want to be a man?'

'Six,' the operator said, and he looked at Kling disdainfully when he let him out of the car, and then slammed the door behind him.

Kling walked down the corridor, found Boone's door, and pushed the buzzer set in the jamb. From within the house, Kling heard a series of chimes playing a tune. He didn't recognize the tune at first because it was more intricate than anything he had ever heard on a set of chimes before. He pushed the buzzer again.

' The photographers will snap us ,' the chimes chimed, ' and you'll find that you're in the rotogravure .'

Irving Berlin, Kling thought. Easter Parade . Photographers must be making good money these days if they can afford chimes that play parts of Easter Parade . I wonder if Boone would like to be a cop. Good starting salary, opportunity for advancement, excellent working con…

The door opened.

Boone was standing in it. He wore a Chinese robe which was seven sizes too large for him. 'Come in,' he said. 'I was dressing. I've got a sitting in a half hour.'

Kling stepped into the apartment and then understood the Chinese robe. Apparently, Boone was fascinated with things Oriental. The room was furnished in what seemed to be authentic Chinese. There were rare old pieces of teak furniture, and heavy pieces of jade sculpture. The drapes on the window were a Chinese print. A rice-paper screen was opened behind an old Chinese writing desk. Chinese pictures were on the wall. Kling fully expected the smell of chow mein from the kitchen.

Noticing his scrutiny, Boone said, 'I was stationed in China during the war. Ever there?'

'No,' Kling said.

'Fell in love with the place. The most wonderful people in the world. You ought to go sometime.'

'It's a little different now, I imagine,' Kling said.

'The Reds, you mean? Terrible. But that'll pass. Everything changes sooner or later. Do you want to see that letter?'

'That's why I came.'

'I'll get it. You don't mind if I dress while you read it, do you? I've got to get to the studio.'

'Not at all,' Kling said.

'Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Like a drink?'

'No, thank you.'

'Cigarettes there on the coffee table. That brass cigarette box is from Hong Kong,' Boone said as he left the room.

'Thanks,' Kling said. He sat, lifted the lid from the box, took out a cigarette and lighted it. The cigarette tasted peculiar. Either it was very stale, or it too had come from Hong Kong. He squashed it out and lighted one of his own. In a few moments, Boone came back. He had taken off the robe and was wearing trousers and a white shirt, the white shirt hanging out of the trousers, unbuttoned.

'Here's the letter,' he said. 'You read it. I'll be back in a few minutes.' Buttoning the shirt, he left the room again.

The envelope was a pale blue rectangle. Annie Boone had addressed it in deep blue ink. She had addressed it to 'Mr Ted Boone' at 585 Tarlton Place. The middle digit in the address was wrong. If Annie had ever known the correct address, she had apparently forgotten it. The Post Office Department had pencilled its scrawls across the face of the envelope. The last scrawl advised 'Try 565 Tarlton'. Apparently, 565 had been tried and the letter had finally been delivered.

Kling lifted the flap and pulled out the letter.

Annie Boone wrote in a small clear hand. The letter was neat and unstained and showed no signs of having been written hurriedly. It was dated Friday, 7 June, three days before she'd been murdered. Today was 14 June. Annie Boone had been dead four days. Roger Havilland had been killed last night. The letter read:

Ted dear:

I know how you feel about Monica, and I know what you're trying to do, and I suppose I should harbour ill will, but something has come up and I would like very much to talk to you about it. You are, after all, perhaps the one person I could always talk to.

I received a letter yesterday, Ted, and it's frightened me, and I want to know whether or not I should go to the police. I tried to reach you by telephone both at home and at the studio, but they told me you were away in Connecticut and would not be back until Monday. This will be waiting for you when you return, and I hope you'll call me at once, either at home or at the liquor store. The number at the store is CAmbridge 7-6200. Please call.