Ed McBain - Eighty Million Eyes

“Well, to begin with, he had to use a lot of different capsules. They come in different thicknesses, you know. Like all the manufacturers don’t make them the same.”

“Pick up the extension, will you, Meyer?” Carella said, and then into the phone, “Go ahead, Di Tore.”

“And also, there’re a lot of things that can affect the dissolving speed. Like if a man just ate, his stomach is full and the capsule won’t dissolve as fast. If the stomach's empty, you get a speedier dissolving rate.”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“It's even possible for one of these capsules to pass right through the system without dissolving at all. That happens with older people sometimes.”

“But Mercer ran the tests,” Carella said.

“Yeah, sure. He mixed a batch of five-percent-solution hydrochloric acid, with a little pepsin. To simulate the gastric juices, you know? He poured that into a lot of separate containers and then dropped the capsules in.”

“What’d he come up with?”

“Well, let me tell you what he did. He used different brands, you see, and also different sizes. They come in different sizes, you know, the higher the number, the smaller the size. Like a four is smaller than a three, don’t ask me.”

“And what’d he find out?”

“They dissolve at different rates of speed, ten minutes, four minutes, eight minutes, twelve minutes. The highest was fifteen minutes, the lowest three minutes. That's a lot of help, huh?”

“Well, it's not exactly what I—”

“But most of them took an average of about six minutes to dissolve. That gives you something to fool around with.”

“Six minutes, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Thanks a lot, Di Tore. And thank Mercer, will you?”

“Don’t mention it. It kept him awake.”

Carella replaced the phone on its cradle and turned to Meyer.

“So what do you think?”

“What am I, a straight man? What else can I think? Whether Gifford drank it, or swallowed it, it had to be just before he went on.”

“Had to be. The poison works within minutes, and the capsule takes approximately six minutes to dissolve. He was on for seven.”

“Seven minutes and seventeen seconds,” Meyer corrected.

“You think he took it knowingly?”

“Suicide?”

“Could be.”

“In front of forty million people?”

“Why not? There's nothing an actor likes better than a spectacular exit.”

“Well, maybe,” Meyer said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

“We’d better find out who was with him just before he went on.”

“That should be very simple,” Meyer said. “Only two hundred twelve people were there last night.”

“Let's call your Mr. Krantz. Maybe he’ll be able to help us.”

Carella dialed Krantz's office and asked to talk to him. The switchboard connected him with a receptionist, who in turn connected him with Krantz's secretary, who told him that Krantz was out, would he care to leave a message? Carella asked her to wait a moment, and then covered the mouthpiece.

“Are we going out to see Gifford's wife?” he asked Meyer.

“I think we’d better,” Meyer said.

“Please tell Mr. Krantz that he can reach me at Mr. Gifford's home, will you?” Carella said, and then he thanked her and hung up.

Larksview was perhaps a half hour outside the city, an exclusive suburb that miraculously managed to provide its homeowners with something more than the conventional sixty-by-a-hundred plots. In a time of encroaching land development, it was pleasant and reassuring to enter a community of wide rolling lawns, of majestic houses set far back from quiet winding roads. Detective Meyer Meyer had made the trip to Larksview the night before, when he felt it necessary to explain to Melanie Gifford why the police wanted to do an autopsy, even though her permission was not needed. But now, patiently and uncomplainingly, he made the drive again, seeing the community in daylight for the first time, somehow soothed by its well-ordered, gentle terrain. Carella had been speculating wildly from the moment they left the city, but he was silent now as they pulled up in front of a pair of stone pillars set on either side of a white gravel driveway. A half-dozen men with cameras and another half-dozen with pads and pencils were shouting at the two Larksview patrolmen who stood blocking the drive. Meyer rolled down the window on his side of the car and shouted, “Break it up there! We want to get through.”

One of the patrolmen moved away from the knot of newspapermen and walked over to the car. “Who are you , Mac?” he said to Meyer, and Meyer showed him his shield.

“87th Precinct, huh?” the patrolman said. “You handling this case?”

“That's right,” Meyer said.

“Then why don’t you send some of your own boys out on this driveway detail?”

“What's the matter?” Carella said, leaning over. “Can’t you handle a couple of reporters?”

“A couple? You shoulda seen this ten minutes ago. The crowd's beginning to thin out a little now.”

“Can we get through?” Meyer asked.

“Yeah, sure, go ahead. Just run right over them. We’ll sweep up later.”

Meyer honked the horn, and then stepped on the gas pedal. The newspapermen pulled aside hastily, cursing at the sedan as its tires crunched over the gravel.

“Nice fellas,” Meyer said. “You’d think they’d leave the poor woman alone.”

“The way we’re doing, huh?” Carella said.

“This is different.”

The house was a huge Georgian Colonial, with white clapboard siding and pale-green shutters. Either side of the door was heavily planted with big old shrubs that stretched beyond the boundaries of the house to form a screen of privacy for the back acres. The gravel driveway swung past the front door and then turned upon itself to head for the road again, detouring into a small parking area to the left of the house before completing its full cycle. Meyer drove the car into the parking space, pulled up the emergency brake, and got out. Carella came around from the other side of the car, and together they walked over the noisy gravel to the front door. A shining brass bell pull was set in the jamb. Carella took the knob and yanked it. The detectives waited. Carella pulled the knob again. Again, they waited.

“The Giffords have help, don’t they?” Carella said, puzzled.

“If you were making half a million dollars a year, wouldn’t you have help?”

“I don’t know,” Carella said. “ You’re making fifty-five hundred a year, and Sarah doesn’t have help.”

“We don’t want to seem ostentatious,” Meyer said. “If we hired a housekeeper, the commissioner might begin asking me about all that graft I’ve been taking.”

“You too, huh?”

“Sure. Cleared a cool hundred thousand in slot machines alone last year.”

“My game's white slavery,” Carella said. “I figure to make—”

The door opened.

The woman who stood there was small and Irish and frightened. She peered out into the sunshine and then said, in a very small voice, with a faint brogue, “Yes, what is it, please?”

“Police department,” Carella said. “We’d like to talk to Mrs. Gifford.”

“Oh.” The woman looked more distressed than ever. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, come in. She's out back with the dogs. I’ll see if I can find her. Police, did you say?”

“That's right, ma’am,” Carella said. “If she's out back, couldn’t we just go around and look for her?”

“Oh,” the woman said. “I don’t know.”

“You are the housekeeper?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Well, may we walk around back?”

“All right, but—”