Ed McBain - Eighty Million Eyes

“Oh? Who told you that, Mr. Krantz?”

“I used to produce a half-hour mystery show. I’m familiar with the routine.”

“And what's the routine?”

“Look, Detective Meyer, what do you want from me?”

“I want you to cut it out, first of all. I’m trying to ask some pretty simple questions about what seems to be an accidental—”

“Seems? See what I mean?” he said to the crowd.

“Yeah, seems , Mr. Krantz. And you’re making it pretty difficult. Now if you’d like me to get a subpoena for your arrest, we can talk it over at the station house. It's up to you.”

“Now you’re kidding, Detective Meyer. You’ve got no grounds for arresting me.”

“Try Section 1851 of the Penal Law,” Meyer said flatly. “ Resisting public officer in the discharge of his duty : A person who, in any case or under any circumstances not otherwise specially provided for, willfully resists, delays, or obstructs a public officer in dis—”

“All right, all right,” Krantz said. “You’ve made your point.”

“Then get rid of your yes-men, and let's talk.”

The crowd disappeared without a word. In the distance, Meyer could see the tall man arguing violently with the intern in white. He turned his full attention to Krantz and said, “I thought the show had a studio audience.”

“It does.”

“Well, where are they?”

“We put them all upstairs. Your patrolman said to hold them.”

“I want one of your people to take all their names and tell them to go home.”

“Can’t the police take—”

“I’ve got a madhouse in the street outside, and only five men to take care of it. Would you mind helping me, Mr. Krantz? I didn’t want him dead any more than you did.”

“All right, I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks. Now, what happened?”

“He died of a heart attack.”

“How do you know? Had he ever had one before this?”

“Not that I know of, but—”

“Then let's leave that open for the time begin, okay? What time was it when he collapsed?”

“I can get that for you. Somebody was probably keeping a timetable. Hold it a second. George! Hey, George!”

A man wearing a cardigan sweater and talking to one of the dancers turned abruptly at the sound of his name. He peered around owlishly for a moment, obviously annoyed, trying to locate the person who’d called him. Krantz raised his hand in signal, and the man picked up a battery-powered megaphone from the seat of the chair beside him and, still annoyed, walked toward the two men.

“This is George Cooper, our assistant director,” Krantz said. “Detective Meyer.”

Cooper extended his hand cautiously. Meyer realized all at once that the scowl on Cooper's face was a perpetual one, a mixed look of terrible inconvenience and unspeakable injury, as if he were a man trying to think in the midst of a revolution.

“How do you do?” he said.

“Mr. Meyer wants to know what time Stan collapsed.”

“What do you mean?” Cooper said, making the sentence sound like a challenge to a duel. “It was after the folk singers went off.”

“Yes, but what time? Did anybody keep a record?”

“I can run the tape,” Cooper said grudgingly. “Do you want me to do that?”

“Please,” Meyer said.

“What happened?” Cooper asked. “Is it a heart attack?”

“We don’t—”

“What else could it be?” Krantz interrupted.

“Well, I’ll run the tape,” Cooper said. “You going to be around?”

“I’ll be here,” Meyer assured him.

Cooper nodded once, briefly, and walked away scowling.

“Who's that arguing with the intern over there?” Meyer asked.

“Carl Nelson,” Krantz replied. “Stan's doctor.”

“Was he here all night?”

“No. I reached him at home and told him to come over here in a hurry. That was after I’d called the ambulance.”

“Get him over here, will you?”

“Sure,” Krantz said. He raised his arm and shouted, “Carl? Have you got a minute?”

Nelson broke away from the intern, turned back to hurl a last word at him, and then walked briskly to where Meyer and Krantz were waiting. He was broad as well as tall, with thick black hair graying at the temples. There was a serious expression on his face as he approached, and a high color in his cheeks. His lips were pressed firmly together, as if he had made a secret decision and was now ready to defend it against all comers.

“That idiot wants to move the body,” he said immediately. “I told him I’d report him to the AMA if he did. What do you want, Dave?”

“This is Detective Meyer. Dr. Nelson.”

Nelson shook hands briefly and firmly. “Are you getting the medical examiner to perform an autopsy?” he asked.

“Do you think I should, Dr. Nelson?”

“Didn’t you see the way Stan died?”

“No. How did he die?”

“It was a heart attack, wasn’t it?” Krantz said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Stan's heart was in excellent condition. When I arrived here at about nine o’clock, he was experiencing a wide range of symptoms. Labored respiration, rapid pulse, nausea, vomiting. We tried a stomach pump, but that didn’t help at all. He went into convulsion at about nine-fifteen. The third convulsion killed him at nine-thirty.”

“What are you suggesting, Dr. Nelson?”

“I’m suggesting he was poisoned,” Nelson said flatly.

In the phone booth on the third-floor landing, Meyer deposited his dime and then dialed the home number of Lieutenant Peter Byrnes. The booth was hot and smelly. He waited while the phone rang on the other end. Byrnes himself answered, his voice sounding fuzzy with sleep.

“Pete, this is Meyer.”

“What time is it?” Byrnes asked.

“I don’t know. Ten-thirty, eleven o’clock.”

“I must have dozed off. Harriet went to a movie. What's the matter?”

“Pete, I’m investigating this Stan Gifford thing, and I thought I ought to—”

“What Stan Gifford thing?”

“The television guy. He dropped dead tonight, and—”

“What television guy?”

“He's a big comic.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Anyway, his doctor thinks we ought to have an autopsy done right away. Because he had a convulsion, and—”

“Strychnine?” Byrnes asked immediately.

“I doubt it. He was vomiting before he went into convulsion.”

“Arsenic?”

“Could be. Anyway, I think the autopsy's a good idea.”

“Go ahead, ask the ME to do it.”

“Also, I’m going to need some help on this. I’ve got some more questions to ask here, and I thought we might get somebody over to the hospital right way. To be there when the body arrives, you see? Get a little action from them.”

“That's a good idea.”

“Yeah, well, Cotton's out on a plant, and Bert was just answering a squeal when I left the office. Could you call Steve for me?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, that's all. I’ll ring you later if it's not too late.”

“What time did you say it was?”

Meyer looked at his watch. “Ten-forty-five.”

“I must have dozed off,” Byrnes said wonderingly, and then hung up.

George Cooper was waiting for Meyer when he came out of the booth. The same look was on his face, as if he had swallowed something thoroughly distasteful and was allowing his anger to feed his nausea.

“I ran that tape,” he said.

“Okay.”

“I timed the second half with a stop watch. What do you want to know?”

“When he collapsed.”

Cooper looked sourly at the pad in his hand and said, “The folk singers went off at eight-thirty-seven. Stan came on immediately afterwards. He was on camera with that Hollywood ham for two minutes and twelve seconds. When the guest went off to change, Stan did the coffee commercial. He ran a little over the paid-for minute, actually a minute and forty seconds. He started his pantomime at eight-forty-one prime fifty-two. He was two minutes and fifty-five seconds into it when he collapsed. That means he was on camera for a total time of seven minutes and seventeen seconds. He collapsed at eight-forty-four prime seventeen.”