Ed McBain - Eighty Million Eyes

“Nope,” Kling answered.

“Suppose our man checks?”

“Let him check. I’ve alerted Buena Vista.”

Byrnes nodded and looked at the article again. He put it aside then, and said, “You made me sound like a jerk.”

Meyer and Carella were in the squadroom when Kling came out of the lieutenant’s office.

“How you doing?” Carella asked him.

“So-so. We were just looking over the cheese.”

“What cheese?”

“Ah-ha,” Kling said mysteriously, and left.

“When did the lab say they’d call back on those vitamin capsules?” Carella asked.

“Sometime today,” Meyer answered.

“ When today? It’s past five already.”

“Don’t jump on me,” Meyer said, and rose from his desk to walk to the water cooler. The telephone rang. Carella lifted it from the cradle.

“87th Squad, Carella,” he said.

“Steve, this is Bob O’Brien.”

“Yeah, what’s up, Bob?”

“How long do you want me to stick with this Nelson guy?”

“Where are you?”

“Outside his house. I tailed him from his office to the hospital and then here.”

“What hospital?”

“General Presbyterian.”

“What was he doing there?”

“Search me. Most doctors are connected with hospitals, aren’t they?”

“I guess so. When did he leave his office?”

“This afternoon, after visiting hours.”

“What time was that?”

“A little after two.”

“And he went directly to the hospital?” “Yeah. He drives a little red MG.”

“What time did he leave the hospital?” “About a half hour ago.”

“And went straight home?”

“Right. You think he’s bedded down for the night?”

“I don’t know. Call me in an hour or so, will you?”

“Right. Where’ll you be? Home?”

“No, we’ll be here awhile yet.”

“Okay,” O’Brien said, and hung up. Meyer came back to his desk with a paper cup full of water. He propped it against his telephone, and then opened his desk drawer and took out a long cardboard strip of brightly colored capsules.

“What’s that?” Carella asked.

“For my cold,” Meyer said, and popped one of the capsules out of its cellophane wrapping. He put it into his mouth and washed it down with water. The phone rang again. Meyer picked it up.

“87th Squad, Meyer.”

“Meyer, this is Andy Parker. I’m still with Krantz, just checking in. He’s in a cocktail lounge with a girl has boobs like watermelons.”

“What size, would you say?” Meyer asked.

“Huh? How the hell do I know?”

“Okay, just stick with him. Call in again later, will you?”

“I’m tired,” Parker said.

“So am I.”

“Yeah, but I’m really tired,” Parker said, and hung up.

Meyer replaced the phone on its cradle. “Parker,” he said. “Krantz is out drinking.”

“That’s nice,” Carella said. “You want to send out for some food?”

“With this case, I’m not very hungry,” Carella said.

“There should be mathematics.”

“What do you mean?”

“To a case. There should be the laws of mathematics. I don’t like cases that defy addition and subtraction.”

“What the hell was Bert grinning about when he left?”

“I don’t know. He grins a lot,” Meyer said, and shrugged. “I like two and two to make four. I like suicide to be suicide.”

“You think this is suicide?”

“No. That’s what I mean. I don’t like suicide to be murder. I like mathematics.”

“I failed geometry in high school,” Carella said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Our facts are right,” Meyer said, “and the facts add up to suicide. But I don’t like the feel.”

“The feel is wrong,” Carella agreed.

“That’s right, the feel is wrong. The feel is murder.”

The telephone rang. Meyer picked it up. “87th Squad, Meyer,” he said. “You again? What now?” He listened. “Yeah? Yeah? Well, I don’t know, we’ll check it. Okay, stick with it. Right.” He hung up.

“Who?” Carella said.

“Bob O’Brien. He says a blue Thunderbird just pulled up to Nelson’s house, and a blonde woman got out. He wanted to know if Melanie Gifford drives a blue Thunderbird.”

“I don’t know what the hell she drives, do you?”

“No.”

“Motor Vehicle Bureau’s closed, isn’t it?”

“We can get them on the night line.”

“I think we’d better.”

Meyer shrugged. “Nelson is a friend of the family. It’s perfectly reasonable for her to be visiting him.”

“Yeah, I know,” Carella said. “What’s the number there?”

“Here you go,” Meyer said, and flipped open his telephone pad. “Of course, there was that business at Gifford’s party.”

“The argument, you mean?” Carella said, dialing.

“Yeah, when Gifford took a sock at the doctor.”

“Yeah.” Carella nodded. “It’s ringing.”

“But Gifford was drunk.”

“Yeah. Hello,” Carella said into the phone. “Steve Carella, Detective/Second, 87th Squad. Checking automobile registration for Mrs. Melanie Gifford, Larksview. Right, I’ll wait. What? No, that’s Gifford, with a G. Right.” He covered the mouthpiece. “Doesn’t Bob know what she looks like?” he asked.

“How would he?”

“That’s right. This goddamn case is making me dizzy.” He glanced down at the cardboard strip of capsules on Meyer’s desk. “What’s that stuff you’re taking, anyway?”

“It’s supposed to be good,” Meyer said. “Better than all that other crap I’ve been using.”

Carella looked up at the wall clock.

“Anyway, I only have to take them twice a day,” Meyer said.

“Hello,” Carella said into the phone. “Yep, go ahead. Blue Thunderbird convertible, 1964. Right, thank you.” He hung up. “You heard?”

“I heard.”

“That’s pretty interesting, huh?”

“That’s very interesting.”

“What do you suppose old Melanie Wistful wants with our doctor friend?”

“Maybe she’s got a cold, too,” Meyer said.

“Maybe so.” Carella sighed. “Why only twice?”

“Huh?”

“Why do you only have to take them twice a day?”

Five minutes later, Carella was placing a call to Detective-Lieutenant Sam Grossman at his home in Majesta.

Bob O’Brien was standing across the street from Nelson’s brownstone on South Fourteenth when Meyer and Carella arrived. The red MG was parked in front of the doorway, and behind that was Melanie Gifford’s blue Thunderbird. Meyer and Carella walked up to where he stood with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets. He recognized them immediately, but only nodded in greeting.

“Getting pretty chilly,” he said.

“Mmm. She still in there?”

“Yep. The way I figure it, he’s got the whole building. Ground floor is the entry, first floor must be the kitchen, dining and living room area, and the top floor’s the bedrooms.”

“How the hell’d you figure that?” Meyer asked.

“Ground-floor light went on when the woman arrived—is she Mrs. Gifford?”

“She is.”

“Mmm-huh,” O’Brien said, “and out again immediately afterward. The lights on the first floor were on until just a little while ago. An older woman came out at about seven. I figure she’s either the cook or the housekeeper or both.”

“So they’re alone in there, huh?”

“Yeah. Light went on upstairs just about ten minutes after the old lady left. See that small window? I figure that’s the John, don’t you?”

“Yeah, must be.”

“That went on first, and then off, and then the light in the big window went on. That’s a bedroom, sure as hell.”