Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

So that was Matt Anthony. I put the file down. He must have been married to Francine the time I saw him, just before he sailed the ocean.

I glanced at the two afternoon editions of the newspapers Miss Park had left on my desk. The killing was front page with a picture of a grinning Matt being escorted out of a bar by two cops (taken in 1948) and a studio photo of him in his correspondent's uniform which seemed to be strained by the broad shoulders and heavy neck. On the inside pages there was a snap of a gray, bushy-haired little man shielding his face from the cameras: Prof. Brown leaving a subversive investigation. There was another picture of a rowboat with a new outboard and a large arrow bluntly pointing to a slight dent next to an oar lock.

Keeping an eye on the time, I raced through the stories. There wasn't anything I didn't already know, except that Joel Hunter and his wife Wilma, the other house guests, were quoted as saying that Matt had threatened to kill Francine in a 'family fight' over whether Prof. Brown should remain in the house or not.

At 12:30 I took the galley proofs and left for the gym, first telling Miss Park, “Phone Marty Kelly and ask him to get me the home addresses of the Hunters, this Prof. Brown, the maid, the detective who secured Anthony's confession, and the D.A. And I want to know who Anthony's lawyer is, if he has one yet. And ask Mag for the name and phone number of Matt's agent.”

“After lunch be all right Mr. Connor?”

“Of course. I'll be back at about three,” I said, my eyes making their usual run below her neck.

I bought a later edition of a paper as I hailed a cab. The only new item was a picture of Mrs. Joel Hunter in a bathing suit. She not only had a good figure, but there was a certain boldness to her face, the way she posed, that impressed me.

Lighting my pipe, I relaxed in the taxi seat and wondered if I should let Frank win today. Being older and a little flabby but a much better player, Frank could usually loaf in the center of the court and count upon his wicked hop serve, or his accurate ceiling and wall shots to win. But if I made him move around, which meant I had to run around twice as fast myself, I could tire Frank out and win—when I wanted to.

(Up until last night I'd really been Norman Connor, the lad who always came up with a rose in each hand. To get a little exercise I'd started playing handball at a midtown gym twice weekly. My game was energetic if not skillful, and by chance I lucked up on a steady partner—Frank Kuhn. Frank is a former football star and a $25,000-a-year account executive in one of Madison Avenue's—even if his offices are located on Park—more aggressive agencies. We made a good team, usually winning when we played for a few bucks a man. Frank and I were interested in each other outside of handball, too. For some unknown reason he had a passion for reading galley-proofs of forthcoming books. The more pencilled-in changes, the more he enjoyed the book. I was interested in Frank because he kept telling me he could double my salary if I wanted to change jobs. The truth is, he gave me a mild case of ambition.

(Frank and his high-powered blonde Texan wife lived in a penthouse, were members of several swank clubs, and entertained lavishly. They both thought Michele's accent was 'too cute,' and we could have easily become their closest friends. But Michele found them boring and I was careful not to wear out my welcome. I knew Frank was big league and I wasn't ready for that yet Up until now I had been vaguely waiting for a 'break.' Now Matt Anthony was going to be my stepping stone to a lush Madison Avenue salary.)

The locker room attendant told me Frank was waiting on the court. I undressed and dressed quickly, spraying my arm pits with a deodorant. Up in the gym I found Frank already in a sweat hitting the little black ball against the four walls. (The silly black handball had given me a taste of ambition— had it also been the wedge between Michele and me?)

Putting on my gloves I told him, “No need for you to warm up, I'll be a pushover. Michele had a cable from her folks last night. They aren't feeling up to par, high blood pressure. So she put her vacation ahead a few weeks. I was up all night helping her pack, seeing her off at Idlewild at daybreak. I'm bushed, Frank.” Mouthing the lies gave me a sudden queasy feeling, but I had to get it over with.

“Have to have you over for supper more often, Norm, when Liz learns you're a summer bachelor. We didn't get much sleep either last night. It got so damn muggy we drove up to City Island and spent the night on the boat Here, I have a new ball—try it.”

“Never mind. I've been on the go all morning. Play for serve.”

We had our usual tight game and I made a few lucky killers to win 21-17. I didn't say a word about Matt Anthony although I sensed Frank was waiting for me to talk about the mess.

Over lunch at the Ad Club, when I gave him the galleys, he finally asked, “What about this Anthony thing you mentioned on the phone?”

In an off-hand manner I told him about Bill Long's pitch, what the deal was. I ended with, “So there it is, a minor matter blown all out of proportion by this biddy stockholder, and dumped square in my lap.”

Frank toyed with a cigarette and shook his silver-white crewcut head. “I'd forget it. Difficult to gauge the public reaction to such an ad campaign. The biddy will find something else to make a stink about anyway, so no sense in hanging yourself.”

“No, I'm going ahead with the campaign,” I said softly. “What the hell, Bill Long practically ordered me to. He hinted at some big plans he wants to carry at the next stock-holders meeting, so if we can lick this... well, it is important. And I want to do it. Keep my mind off Michele. (I put in the proper, light chuckle.) Seriously, Frank, I have about a week's leeway and I'm going to interview everybody connected with the killing. I have to determine in my own mind if Matt is guilty.”

“I'm not reading you, son. The man has admitted it.”

“What I mean is, was it one of those things or real murder?” I said, taking a small breath and plunging in. “I know I hardly have to tell you of all people, Frank, that advertising has a creative, intrinsic quality. A fellow has to believe in what he's selling to do a job. Sure, one can peddle anything, and it will be a routine campaign. Well, this can't be routine. I can't afford a mistake or I ruin Longson. So I have to first believe in my product. Even though the D.A. is calling this murder, I have to make up my own mind, be damn certain—without any reservations—that it was... well, an accident. In a moment of rage any of us might punch somebody, even a — a... wife. And if she bangs her head in falling, to me and the public that's not murder but a tough break. No matter what any D.A. claims. After all, even though you and I may know differently, part of the pitch has to be that we're helping Matt raise money for his defense. Therefore, I have to make the public feel that by buying his book they are also helping a worthy cause, so to speak. To do that, and I'm certainly not judging the man, I first have to be certain he has a defense. In short, if it really was murder, I wouldn't blow my nose to help him.”

I was stirring and playing with my coffee as I talked, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Frank nodding in agreement. Frank said, “I like your feeling of loyalty to Longson, Norm, and your slant about advertising integrity. Certainly a man has to sell himself first. I once saw Anthony in action at some yacht club dance. A hell of a big bruiser, and what's more, he looked like a mean customer. I wouldn't want to tangle with him.”

“What sort of 'action' was he in?”

“Nothing much actually happened. He drank a few too many and pushed somebody around. Now that I think of it, Francine Anthony was there too. I'd give odds he's taken a fist to her before.”