Lawrence Block - The Topless Tulip Caper

“But that’s quite true,” Haig said. “Miss Wolinski lost a valuable batch of fish. She wanted me to determine how the fish had perished.”

“Yeah, fish.” Gregorio looked disgusted. “She even gave me their goddamned names. Scatophagus tetracanthus . For the hell of it I looked it up. You know what Scatophagus means?”

“Certainly.”

“It means eater of excrement. In other words they eat shit, and so does your story.”

“It’s a misappellation,” Haig said dreamily. “The species lives in foul water and subsists on detritus, but I don’t believe they actually consume excrement.”

“Well, your story does. The fish didn’t just die. They were poisoned.”

“So it would appear.”

“Strychnine,” Seidenwall said.

“Strychnine,” Gregorio said. “Now who in the hell would dump strychnine into a tankful of fish?”

“An excellent question, Mr. Gregorio. And it was precisely Miss Wolinski’s question, which prompted her to consult me. I have as yet been unable to hit on the answer.”

Gregorio stared at him. Staring at Leo Haig does you no good whatsoever, but I didn’t point this out to Gregorio. There’s no point in volunteering information to the police. They never really know what to do with it, anyway.

“Awright,” Seidenwall said. “Where does your little pal Harrison get off keeping this all to himself last night?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Haig said. “Chip? Did the police ask you if Miss Wolinski’s fish were poisoned?”

“The subject never came up,” I said.

“Now wait a minute—”

“Did they mention strychnine? Did they inquire as to whether any professional relationship existed between ourselves and Miss Wolinski?”

“Nope.”

“Well then,” Haig said. “Gentlemen, I don’t understand. You accuse my associate of failing to cooperate. Of prevaricating. Yet he has neither lied nor withheld information. Why should he assume that the death of a group of fish bore any relationship to the death of a topless dancer? Had he even suggested this line of inquiry, no doubt you would have accused him of wasting your time.”

They both started calling Haig names. Seidenwall called him a lump of shit while Gregorio called him a fat dwarf. Haig did not seemed ruffled. He took a pipe apart and put it back together again. This time he didn’t break it.

Seidenwall said, “The hell, Vinnie. Let’s get to the point.”

“Right.” Gregorio walked over to the desk. He planted himself next to me so that he could glower down at Haig. I was tempted to check out the material of his suit but I restrained myself. “All right,” he said. “We could go round and round with this but it’s a waste of time. You’re too damn cute. You sit on your fat ass and play with your pipes and your fish and talk your way out of everything. But you’re covering for a client, dammit, and you’re withholding evidence and I want it.”

Haig looked at him.

“You know what I’m talking about. Or didn’t your little chum tell you? He was sitting right next to the Wolinski broad when she put the dart in her roommate. I’d make it twenty-to-one he saw her do it, but I don’t suppose we could ever prove it.”

“Indeed.”

“Then he was on the stage before the body stopped twitching. That’s when he picked up the murder weapon.” Haig didn’t tell him he meant projectile. “And you can’t deny he was on the stage, damn it. A dozen people saw him hop over the bar and onto the stage.”

“Why deny it?” I put in. “I told you all that last night. I might have looked around for a murder weapon if I knew she’d been murdered, but how was I supposed to know that? I didn’t even know she was dead. That’s what I went up onto the stage to find out, and she was. What does that prove?”

“It proves you’re a fucking liar,” Seidenwall said.

“Harrison has the murder weapon,” Gregorio went on. “He’s got it and I know he’s got it and, damn it, you know he’s got it. Some dumb broad raises tropical fish and that makes her okay in your book and you’re covering for her. Well, I’ve got her locked up and I’m going to nail her on Murder One, and if you don’t come up with the dart or whatever it was I’ll have you and Harrison in the dock on an accessory charge.”

“Indeed,” Haig said. He heaved a sigh. “Your thesis seems to be that Miss Wolinski murdered Miss Abramowicz.”

“You know damned well she did.”

“It’s curious. First Miss Wolinski poisoned her own fish with strychnine for reasons we cannot begin to explain. Then, no doubt wracked by guilt over what she had done, she hired me to find her out And, unbalanced at the thought of discovery, she pumped more I strychnine into her roommate while my associate sat beside her. Ingenious reasoning, Mr. Gregorio. I applaud you.”

“It wasn’t strychnine.”

“Pardon me?”

“It was curare. The stuff South American Indians put on their arrows.”

“I know what curare is,” Haig said. “So she didn’t poison her own fish. The two girls hated each other. One of them took a boyfriend away from the other one, so the Abramowicz one got hold of some strychnine—”

“How?” Haig demanded. “Where?”

Gregorio ignored the demands. “—and poisoned Wolinski’s fish. Wolinski hired you and you found out Abramowicz did the job. So Wolinski got ahold of some curare and gave Abramowicz the needle, and now you’re trying to cover for her.”

Haig stood up. This didn’t increase his height all that much, but he has a way of getting to his feet that is pretty theatrical. Maybe it’s because he stands as infrequently as possible, so that when he finally gets around to it you’re really ready for something spectacular.

“Mr. Gregorio. Mr. Seidenwall. I have intimated in the past that I regard you as witlings. I cannot imagine that you are sufficiently mindless to believe the story you have just propounded. It is enough of a mark of your lack of intellect to recognize that you expect me to believe you believe it.”

(I don’t think they got the gist of that. If you have to read it over a few times yourself, don’t feel like an idiot. It’s a complicated paragraph. Haig might think you’re a witling if you don’t get it first time out of the box, but I won’t hold it against you.)

“I will not dignify your conjecture with rebuttal,” he went on. “Why refute something you already know to be absurd? We have already wasted enough time. Have you taken my client into custody?”

“You’re damn right.”

“Have you indeed. Mr. Gregorio, there is a blind man who operates a newsstand at the corner of Sixth Avenue and 42nd Street. Perhaps you know him.”

“So?”

“Simply this. Were that blind man my client of the moment instead of Miss Wolinski, and had Mr. Harrison been present last night when Miss Abramowicz was murdered, you would have arrested the newsdealer and let Miss Wolinski go. You are trying to put pressure upon me, sir. You are trying to coax me to solve a case which baffles you, and you are trying to force me to do so on your own terms instead of my own. Have you formally charged my client?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet and not ever, as you well know. You have put her through a profound indignity in order to obtain from me information which I do not have and would not be obliged to give you if I did. You do not know by whom Miss Abramowicz was killed. You do not know the motive. Do you at least know what weapon was employed?”

“Something small and sharp with curare on the tip.”

“So you do not know that either. You do not know anything except, I am sorry to say, my address. My inclination is to close up like a clam. First I will volunteer certain information to you. Negative information. Neither I nor Mr. Harrison knows who poisoned Miss Wolinski’s fish. Neither of us knows who murdered Miss Abramowicz. Neither of us possesses any factual knowledge not in your own possession. And, finally, neither of us intends to respond further to accusations, charges, questions, or such other irritation as you might be inclined to visit upon us. I have previously merely intimated that you are witlings. I now state it categorically. You are witlings, gentlemen. Your behavior defines the term to perfection. I would urge you to leave my house.”