Ed McBain - Eighty Million Eyes

“I see.”

“I can have it added to the list, if you like.”

“Yes, we’d like that,” Carella said.

“What time did you go up to the sponsor's booth?” Meyer asked suddenly.

“Fifteen minutes before the show started,” Krantz said.

“At seven-forty-five?”

“That's right. And I stayed there right until the moment Stan got sick.”

“Who was there when you arrived?”

“Everyone but Crabb and the girl.”

“What time did they get there?”

“About five minutes later. Ten to eight—around then.”

The door to Krantz's office opened suddenly. Gladine smiled and said, “We’ve reached Mr. Cooper, sir. He's on 03.”

“Thank you, Gladine.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and went out.

Krantz picked up the phone. “Hello,” he said, “Krantz here. Hello, George, I have some policemen in my office, they’re investigating Stan's death. They wanted to ask you some questions about his exact whereabouts during the show last night. Well, hold on, I’ll let you talk to one of them. His name's Capella.”

“Carella.”

“Carella, I’m sorry. Here he is, George.”

Krantz handed the phone to Carella. “Hello, Mr. Cooper,” Carella said. “Are you at home now? Do you expect to be there for a while? Well, I was wondering if my partner and I might stop by. As soon as we leave here. Fine. Would you let me have the address, please?” He took a ballpoint pen from his inside jacket pocket, and began writing the address on an MBA memo slip. “Fine,” he said again. “Thank you, Mr. Cooper, we’ll see you in a half hour or so. Good-bye.” He handed the phone back to Krantz, who replaced it on the cradle.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Krantz asked.

“Yes,” Meyer said. “You can ask your secretary to get us the addresses and phone numbers of everyone who was in the sponsor's booth when you went up there last night.”

“Why? Are you going to check to see that I really went up there fifteen minutes before the show?”

“And remained there until Gifford collapsed, right?”

“Right,” Krantz said. He shrugged. “Go ahead, check it. I’m telling the exact truth. I have nothing to hide.”

“We’re sure you haven’t,” Carella said pleasantly. “Have her call us with the information, will you?” He extended his hand, thanked Krantz for his time, and then walked out past Gladine's desk, Meyer following him. When they got to the elevator, Meyer said, “Re mark able!”

The Quarter was all the way downtown, jammed into a minuscule portion of the city, its streets as crowded as a bazaar. Jewelry shops, galleries, bookstores, sidewalk cafes, espresso joints, pizzerias, paintings on the curb, bars, basement theaters, art movie houses, all combined to give The Quarter the flavor, if not the productivity, of a real avant-garde community. George Cooper lived on the second floor of a small apartment building on a tiny, twisting street. The fire escapes were hung with flowerpots and brightly colored serapes, the doorways were painted pastel oranges and greens, the brass was polished, the whole street had been conceived and executed by the people who dwelt in it, as quaintly phony as a blind con man.

They knocked on Cooper's door and waited. He answered it with the same scowling expression Meyer had come to love the night before.

“Mr. Cooper?” Meyer said. “You remember me, don’t you?”

“Yes, come in,” Cooper said. He scowled at Meyer, whom he knew, and then impartially scowled at Carella, who was a stranger.

“This is Detective Carella.”

Cooper nodded and led them into the apartment. The living room was sparsely furnished, a narrow black couch against one wall, two black Bertoia chairs against another, the decorating scheme obviously planned to minimize the furnishings and emphasize the modern paintings that hung facing each other on the remaining two walls. The detectives sat on the couch. Cooper sat in one of the chairs opposite them.

“What we’d like to know, Mr. Cooper, is where Stan Gifford went last night while those folk singers were on,” Carella said.

“He went to his dressing room,” Cooper answered without hesitation.

“How do you know that?”

“Because that's where I went to cue him later on.”

“I see. Was he alone in the dressing room?”

“No,” Cooper said.

“Who was with him?”

“Art Wetherley. And Maria Vallejo.”

“Wetherley's a writer,” Meyer explained to Carella. “Who's Maria—what's her name?”

“Vallejo. She's our wardrobe mistress.”

“And they were both with Mr. Gifford when you went to call him?”

“Yes.”

“Would you know how long they were with him?”

“No.”

“How long did you stay in the dressing room, Mr. Cooper?”

“I knocked on the door, and Stan said, ‘Come in,’ and I opened the door, poked my head inside and said, ‘Two minutes, Stan,’ and he said, ‘Okay,’ and I waited until he came out.”

“Did he come out immediately?”

“Well, almost immediately. A few seconds. You can’t kid around on television. Everything's timed to the second, you know. Stan knew that. Whenever he was cued, he came.”

“Then you really didn’t spend any time at all in the dressing room, did you, Mr. Cooper?”

“No. I didn’t even go inside. As I told you, I just poked my head in.”

“Were they talking when you looked in?”

“I think so, yes.”

“They weren’t arguing or anything, were they?”

“No, but…” Cooper shook his head.

“What is it, Mr. Cooper?”

“Nothing. Would you fellows like a drink?”

“Thanks, no,” Meyer said. “You’re sure you didn’t hear anyone arguing?”

“No.”

“No raised voices?”

“No.” Cooper rose. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have one. It's not too early to have one, is it?”

“No, go ahead,” Carella said.

Cooper walked into the other room. They heard him pouring his drink, and then he came back into the living room with a short glass containing ice cubes and a healthy triple shot of whiskey. “I hate to drink so damn early in the afternoon,” he said. “I was on the wagon for a year, you know. How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know,” Carella said.

“Twenty-eight. I look older than that, don’t I?”

“No, I wouldn’t say so,” Carella said.

“I used to drink a lot,” Cooper explained, and then took a swallow from the glass. The scowl seemed to vanish from his face at once. “I’ve cut down.”

“When Mr. Gifford left the dressing room,” Meyer said, “you were with him, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you meet anyone between the dressing room and the stage?”

“Not that I remember. Why?”

“Would you remember if you’d met anyone?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Then the last people who were with Gifford were Art Wetherley, Maria Vallejo, and you. In fact, Mr. Cooper, if we want to be absolutely accurate, the very last person was you. ”

“I suppose so. No, wait a minute. I think he said a word to one of the cameramen, just before he went on. Something about coming in for the close shot. Yes, I’m sure he did.”

“Did Mr. Gifford eat anything in your presence?”

“No.”

“Drink anything?”

“No.”

“Put anything into his mouth at all?”

“No.”

“Was he eating or drinking anything when you went into the dressing room?”

“I didn’t go in, I only looked in. I think maybe there were some coffee containers around. I’m not sure.”

“They were drinking coffee?”

“I told you, I’m not sure.”