Ed McBain - Eighty Million Eyes

“Tell us about it,” Meyer said calmly.

“There’d been a party at his house, and I was dancing with Melanie. Stan had been drinking heavily, and he…well, he behaved somewhat ridiculously.”

“How did he behave?”

“He accused me of trying to steal his wife, and he…he tried to strike me.”

“What did you do, Dr. Nelson?”

“I defended myself, naturally.”

“How? Did you hit him back?”

“No. I simply held up my hands—to ward off his blows, you understand. He was very drunk, really incapable of inflicting any harm.”

“When was this party, Dr. Nelson?”

“Just after Labor Day. In fact, a week before the show went on the air again. After the summer break, you know. It was a sort of celebration.”

“And Stan Gifford thought you were trying to steal his wife, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Merely because you were dancing with her.”

“Yes.”

“Had you been dancing with her a lot?”

“No. I think that was the second time all evening.”

“Then his attack was really unfounded, wasn’t it?”

“He was drunk.”

“And that’s why you feel he attacked you, because he was drunk?”

“And because David Krantz provoked him.”

“David Krantz? Was he at the party, too?”

“Yes, most of the people involved with the show were there.”

“I see. How did Mr. Krantz provoke him?”

“Oh, you know the stupid jokes some people make.”

“No, what sort of jokes, Dr. Nelson?”

“About our dancing together, you know. David Krantz is a barbarian. It’s my considered opinion that he’s oversexed and attributes evil thoughts to everyone else in the world, as compensation.”

“I see. Then you feel it was Krantz who gave Gifford the idea that you were trying to steal his wife?”

“Yes.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He hated Stan. He hates all actors, for that matter. He calls them cattle , that’s supposed to endear them to him, you know.”

“How did Gifford feel about him ?”

“I think the feelings were mutual.”

“Gifford hated Krantz, too, is that what you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did he take Krantz seriously that night?”

“What do you mean?”

“At the party. When Krantz said you were trying to steal Mrs. Gifford.”

“Oh. I don’t know. He was drunk. I guess a man will listen to anyone when he’s drunk.”

“Um-huh,” Carella said. He was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “But in spite of this incident, you remained his personal physician, is that right?”

“Oh, of course , Stan apologized to me the very next day.”

“And you continued to be friends?”

“Yes, certainly. I don’t even know why Melanie brought this up. I don’t see what bearing—”

“She didn’t,” Meyer said.

“Oh. Well, who told you about it then? Was it Krantz? I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s a goddamn troublemaker.”

“No one told us, actually,” Meyer said. “This is the first we’ve heard of the incident.”

“Oh.” Nelson paused. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’d rather you heard it from me than from someone else who was at the party.”

“That’s very sensible of you, Dr. Nelson. You’re being most cooperative.” Carella paused. “If it’s all right with you, we’ll simply verify with your nurse that you left here with her at about ten minutes past eight last Wednesday night. And we’ll—”

“Yes, you certainly may verify it with her.”

“And we’d also like to call your housekeeper—with your permission, of course—to verify that you arrived home at about eight-thirty, as you say, and remained there until after Krantz’s phone call.”

“Certainly. My nurse will give you my home number.”

“Thank you, Dr. Nelson. You’ve been very cooperative,” Carella said, and they went out to talk to Miss Barnaby, who told them the doctor had arrived at the office at 4:45 last Wednesday afternoon and had not left until office hours were over, at ten minutes past 8:00. She was absolutely certain about this because she and the doctor had left at the same time. She gave them the doctor’s home number so that they could speak to Mrs. Janlewski, the housekeeper, and they thanked her politely and went downstairs and then out of the building.

“He’s very cooperative,” Carella said.

“Yes, he’s very, very cooperative,” Meyer agreed.

“Let’s put a tail on him,” Carella said.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Meyer said. “Let’s put a tail on him and Krantz both .”

“Good idea.”

“You agree?”

“Sure.”

“You think one of them did it?”

“I think you did it,” Carella said, and suddenly slipped his handcuffs from his belt and snapped one of them onto Meyer’s wrist. “Come along now, no tricks,” he said.

“You know what a guy needs like a hole in the head when he’s got a bad cold?” Meyer said.

“What?”

“A partner who plays jokes.”

“I’m not playing jokes, mister,” Carella said, his eyes narrowing. “I happen to know that Stan Gifford took out a seven-million-dollar insurance policy on his life, payable to your wife Sarah as beneficiary in the event that he died on any Wednesday between eight-thirty and nine-thirty P.M. during the month of October. I further happen to know—”

“Oh, boy,” Meyer said, “start up with goyim .”

Back at the squadroom, they made two telephone calls.

The first was to Municipal Life, where they learned that Stanley Gifford’s insurance policy had been written only a year and a half ago, and contained a clause that read, “Death within two years from the date of issue of this policy, from suicide while sane or insane, shall limit the company’s liability hereunder to the amount of the premiums actually paid hereon.”

The second was to Mr. Salvatore Di Palma, Gifford’s lawyer, who promptly confirmed that Melanie Gifford had not been familiar with the terms of her husband’s will.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked.

“We’re investigating his murder,” Carella said.

“There’s nothing in Stan’s will that would have caused Melanie to even consider murder,” Di Palma said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I know what’s in the will.”

“Can you tell us?”

“I would not regard it as appropriate for me to reveal the contents of the will to any person until it has first been read to Mr. Gifford’s widow.”

“We’re investigating a murder,” Carella said.

“Look, take my word for it,” Di Palma said. “There’s nothing here to indicate—”

“You mean he doesn’t leave her anything?”

“Did I say that?”

“No, I said it,” Carella said. “Does he, or doesn’t he?”

“You’re twisting my arm,” Di Palma said, and then chuckled. He liked talking to Italians. They were the only civilized people in the world.

“Come on,” Carella said, “help a working man.”

“Okay, but you didn’t hear it from me,” Di Palma said, still chuckling. “Stan came in early last month, asked me to revise his will.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say. The will now leaves his house and his personal property to Mrs. Adelaide Garfein, that’s his mother, she’s a widow in Poughkeepsie, New York.”

“Go ahead.”

“It leaves one-third of the remainder of his estate to the American Guild of Variety Artists, one-third to the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences, and one-third to the Damon Runyon Cancer Fund.”

“And Melanie?”

“Zero,” Di Palma said. “That’s what the change was all about. He cut her out of it completely.”