Ed McBain - Eighty Million Eyes

Carella nodded and then looked at Meyer and then looked at Cooper, and then very slowly and calmly said, “What is it you want to tell us, Mr. Cooper?”

Cooper shrugged. “Anything you want to know.”

“Yes, but specifically.”

“I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”

“What is it, Mr. Cooper?”

“Well…well, Stan had a fight with Art Wetherley yesterday. Just before the show. Not a fight, an argument. Words. And…I said something about I wished Stan would calm down before we went on the air, and Art…Look, I don’t want to get him in trouble. He's a nice guy, and I wouldn’t even mention this, but the papers said Stan was poisoned and…well, I don’t know.”

“What did he say, Mr. Cooper?”

“He said he wished Stan would drop dead.”

Carella was silent for a moment. He rose then and said, “Can you tell us where Mr. Wetherley lives, please?”

Cooper told them where Wetherley lived, but it didn’t matter very much because Wetherley was out when they got there. They checked downstairs with his landlady, who said she had seen him leaving the building early that morning, no he didn’t have any luggage with him, why in the world would he be carrying luggage at 10:00 in the morning? Carella and Meyer told the landlady that perhaps he would be carrying luggage if he planned to leave the city, and the landlady told them he never left the city on Thursday because that was when MBA ran the tape of the show from the night before so the writers could see which jokes had got the laughs and which hadn’t, and that was very important in Mr. Wetherley's line of work. Carella and Meyer explained that perhaps, after what had happened last night, the tape might not be run today. But the landlady said it didn’t matter what had happened last night, they’d probably get a replacement for the show, and then Mr. Wetherley would have to write for it, anyway, so it was very important that he see the tape today and know where the audience laughed and where it didn’t. They thanked her, and then called MBA, who told them the tape was not being shown today and no, Wetherley was not there.

They had coffee and crullers in a diner near Wetherley's apartment, debated putting out a Pickup-and-Hold on him, and decided that would be a little drastic on the basis of hearsay, assuming Cooper was telling the truth to begin with—which he might not have been. They were knowledgeable and hip cops and they knew all about this television rat race where people slit each other's throats and stabbed each other in the back. It was, after all, quite possible that Cooper was lying. It was, in fact, quite possible that everybody was lying. So they called the squadroom and asked Bob O’Brien to put what amounted to a telephone surveillance on Wetherley's apartment, calling him every half hour, and warning him to stay right in that apartment where he was, in case he happened to answer the phone. O’Brien had nothing else to do but call Wetherley's apartment every half hour, being involved in trying to solve three seemingly related Grover Park muggings, so he was naturally very happy to comply with Carella's wishes. The two detectives discussed how large a tip they should leave the waitress, settled on a trifle more than fifteen percent because she was fast and had good legs, and then went out into the street again.

The late afternoon air was crisp and sharp, the city vibrated with a shimmering clarity that caused buildings to leap out from the sky. The streets seemed longer, stretching endlessly to a distant horizon that was almost visible. The landmarks both men had grown up with, the familiar sights that gave the city perspective and reality, seemed to surround them intimately now, seemed closer and more intricately detailed. You could reach out to touch them, you could see the sculptured stone eye of a gargoyle twelve stories above the street. The people, too, the citizens who gave a city its tempo and its pace, walked with their topcoats open, no longer faceless, contagiously enjoying the rare autumn day, filling their lungs with air that seemed so suddenly sweet. Carella and Meyer crossed the avenue idly, both men smiling. They walked together with the city between them like a beautiful young girl, sharing her silently, somewhat awed in her radiant presence.

For a little while at least, they forgot they were investigating what looked like a murder.

As Kling had anticipated, Cindy Forrest was not overwhelmed by the prospect of having to spend even an infinitesimal amount of time with him. She reluctantly admitted, however, that such a course might be less repulsive than the possibility of spending an equal amount of time in a hospital. It was decided that Kling would pick her up at the office at noon Friday, take her to lunch, and then walk her back again. He reminded her that he was a city employee and that there was no such thing as an expense account for taking citizens to lunch while trying to protect them, a subtlety Cindy looked upon as simply another index to Kling's personality. Not only was he obnoxious, but he was apparently cheap as well.

Thursday's beautiful weather had turned foreboding and blustery by Friday noon. The sky above was a solemn gray, the streets seemed dimmer, the people less animated. He picked her up at the office, and they walked in silence to a restaurant some six blocks distant. She was wearing high heels, but the top of her head still came only level with his chin. They were both blond, both hatless. Kling walked with his hands in his coat pockets. Cindy kept her arms crossed over her middle, her hands tucked under them. When they reached the restaurant, Kling forgot to hold open the door for her, but only the faintest flick of Cindy's blue eyes showed that this was exactly what she expected from a man like him. Too late, he allowed her to precede him into the restaurant.

“I hope you like Italian food,” he said.

“Yes, I do,” she answered, “but you might have asked first .”

“I’m sorry, but I have a few other things on my mind besides worrying about which restaurant you might like.”

“I’m sure you’re a very busy man,” Cindy said.

“I am.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

The owner of the restaurant, a short Neapolitan woman with masses of thick black hair framing her round and pretty face, mistook them for lovers and showed them to a secluded table at the rear of the place. Kling remembered to help Cindy off with her coat (she mumbled a polite thank you) and then further remembered to hold out her chair for her (she acknowledged this with a brief nod). The waiter took their order and they sat facing each other without a word to say.

The silence lengthened.

“Well, I can see this is going to be perfectly charming,” Cindy said. “Lunch with you for the next God knows how long.”

“There are things I’d prefer doing myself, Miss Forrest,” Kling said. “But, as you pointed out yesterday, I am only a civil servant. I do what I’m told to do.”

“Does Carella still work up there?” Cindy asked.

“Yes.”

“I’d much rather be having lunch with him.”

“Well, those are the breaks,” Kling said. “Besides, he's married.”

“I know he is.”

“In fact, he's got two kids.”

“I know.”

“Mmm. Well, I’m sure he’d have loved this choice assignment, but unfortunately he's involved with a poisoning at the moment.”

“Who got poisoned?”

“Stan Gifford.”

“Oh? Is he working on that? I was reading about it in the paper just yesterday.”

“Yes, it's his case.”

“He must be a good detective. I mean, to get such an important case.”

“Yes, he's very good,” Kling said.

The table went silent again. Kling glanced over his shoulder toward the door, where a thickset man in a black overcoat was just entering.