Ed McBain - Killer's Choice

The gravediggers began shovelling earth into the hole as the funeral party dispersed.

The cars drove away in the bright June sunshine, and the detectives got back to work. There were still two murders to be solved.

Roger Havilland lay in the ground, no longer a part of it. A stone would be erected over his grave within the next two weeks. Relatives might visit his grave with flowers annually, and then perhaps the relatives might stop their visits, the flowers would stop.

Roger Havilland would never know or care.

Roger Havilland was no longer a part of it.

Roger Havilland was dead and buried.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

If there is anything worse than being interrogated by one cop, it is being interrogated by two cops. There is something unnerving about having to face two men who ask questions with blank faces. It is perhaps this psychological rattling which accounts for detectives working in pairs. The pair facing Patricia Colworthy was composed of Detective Meyer Meyer and Detective Bert Kling. She had never seen a blanker pair of faces in her life. When they first arrived, she'd honestly believed they were undertakers come to announce the death of her long-ailing aunt in Tucson. Instead, they'd turned out to be cops. They didn't look at all like Joe Friday or Frank Smith. They were very disappointing, to tell the truth. The blond one was sort of cute, but his face was as blank as the bald one's. Together, they looked like an advertisement for rivets.

'We got your name from Annie Boone's address book,' the bald one said. 'We assumed she was a friend of yours.'

'Yes,' Patricia Colworthy said.

'How close a friend, Miss Colworthy?' the blond one asked.

'Pretty close.'

'How long have you known her?'

'Two years at least.'

'Did you know she was divorced?' That from the blond one.

'Yes.'

'Did you know her ex-husband?' That from the bald one.

'No.'

'Ted Boone?'

'No.'

'When did you see her last?'

'Two Saturdays ago. We double-dated.'

'With whom?'

'Two fellers.'

'Yes. Who were they?'

'My boy friend. Steve Brasil. And a boy Annie was with.'

'His name?'

'Frank. Frank Abelson.'

'Had you seen Abelson before that Saturday?'

'Yes. She dated with him every once in a while.'

'Anything serious between them?'

'No, I don't think so. Why don't you question her ex-husband? From what Annie told me, he was trying to get the kid back. He had a reason for killing Annie. Abelson had no reason. He's a nice guy.'

'Mr Boone may have had a reason,' the blond one said, 'but not an opportunity. Mr Boone was forty miles away from the city when his ex-wife was killed. A counterman at a diner is ready to identify him. He couldn't have killed Annie.'

'He's out, huh?'

'He's out.'

'Well, Frank Abelson didn't do it, either. I'll bet he has a good alibi, too. You going to question him?'

'Maybe.'

'Why don't you question the right people?'

'Like who?' the blond one asked.

'The right people.'

'Was Annie Boone a drunkard?' the bald one asked.

'A what?'

'A drunkard.'

'Are you kidding?'

'I'm serious.'

'Where'd you hear that ?'

'We heard.'

'Boy, is that all wet. Boy, that takes the cake!'

'She wasn't a drunkard?'

'I think the strongest thing she ever drank was sherry. A drunkard! Boy, that's a lulu, all right.'

'Are you sure?'

'Sure, I'm sure. I went out with her a lot. Maybe a glass or two of sherry. Or maybe a cordial. Never whisky. A drunkard! Wow!'

The bald one looked at the blond one.

'Somebody told you she was a drunkard?' Patricia asked.

'Yes.'

'Well, you gotta be careful. There's people who are out to protect their own interests, you know. They don't care how they malign a dead person.'

'Which people did you have in mind, Miss?' the bald one asked.

'People. People always got their own axes to grind, don't you know that?'

'Did you like Annie?'

'Loved her like a sister. I didn't like everything she was involved in, but that's none of my business. I like a person, I like them. I don't ask questions. I don't stick my nose where it don't belong.'

'What sort of things?'

'Huh?'

'Was she involved in?'

'Oh. That's none of my business.'

'But it is ours,' the bald one said.

He wasn't so bad when you got used to him. He had nice blue eyes, and a very patient manner.

'Yeah, but… I don't like to talk about somebody's dead.'

'Well, it might help us to find her murderer.'

'That's true. Still. I wouldn't like nobody talking about me if I was dead.' Patricia shivered. 'Whooo! That gives me the creeps, you know? I got goose bumps all over me, just talking about it. I can't stand talking about death, do you know? I couldn't even go to my own mother's funeral, that's how bad I am. When you two first got here, I thought you were undertakers, and I got goose bumps all over. I got an aunt out West is ready to die any day now. I get the creeps thinking about it.'

The blond one looked at the bald one.

'No offence meant,' Patricia said. 'About the undertakers, I mean. It's just you were so serious and all.'

The bald one looked at the blond one.

'Well,' Patricia said, and she gave up.

'What was Annie Boone involved in?' the blond one asked.

'Nothing.'

'Something illegal?'

'No.'

'Bootleg hootch?'

'Huh?'

'Tax evasion?'

'Huh?'

'What was it?'

'Nothing.'

' Not something illegal?'

'No. I don't know. How do I know it's legal or not?'

'What?'

'What she was doing.'

'What was she doing?'

'I don't know. She was my friend. Look, I don't like to talk about somebody's dead. Can't we change the subject? Can't we talk about something else?'

'Was she a drunkard?' the bald one asked.

'No.'

'A junkie?' the blond one asked.

'A what?'

'A drug addict?'

'No.'

'What then? What was she doing illegally?'

'Nothing.'

'Then why'd she get killed so violently?'

'I don't know. Why don't you ask…' Patricia stopped.

'Ask who?'

'Ask… other people.'

'Like who?'

'Like the people she knew better than me. Like Frank Abelson. He knew her better. Or this other feller she dated. Artie Cordis. Ask them.'

'Was she serious with them?'

'No.'

'Then why should we ask them anything?'

'I don't know. It's better than asking me. I don't know about her, or about what she was doing.'

'Who'd want to kill her, Miss Colworthy?'

'How should I know? I don't even like to talk about it. I don't even like to think about it!'

'Did she have any enemies?'

'No.'

'Close friends?'

Patricia did not answer.

'Who?'

Patricia did not answer.

'All right,' the bald one said, sighing. 'Who was she sleeping with?'

Patricia sighed, too.

'Mr Phelps,' she said. 'The man who owned the liquor shop where she worked.'

Franklin Phelps did not live in the 87th Precinct.

His liquor store was there, but he lived in a fashionable suburb called Northern Crestion. He lived in a house which had cost him $35,000 ten years ago, and which he could have listed now with any real estate agent for $49,500. The house itself wasn't anything to go shouting about. But it happened that Northern Crestion had sort of grown up around the house, and real estate values had grown with it.

The house was on a half acre of ground, set back some fifty feet from the road. The road itself was called Pala Vista Drive, and Meyer and Kling drove up the winding street looking at the numbers on the stone pillars of each driveway. They stopped at number 35 Pala Vista. They left the car at the kerb, and then walked up the wide slate pathway to the front door. The house was a two-storey frame with hand-split cedar shingles and shutters. The shingles had been painted a teal blue. The shutters were white. The door was white, too, and there was a big brass knocker in the centre of it. Meyer lifted the knocker and let it fall.