So Nude, So Dead

by Ed McBain

  “I know. I can tell.”

  They’d walked through the park, the moon sifting its pale light down through the interlaced branches of the trees, and he’d joked about how nice it was to be a piano player, no instrument to carry, and she said it would have been simply awful if he played the double bass.

  And then they had passed a dark spot beneath the trees, and his hand had tightened on hers, and he felt the responding warmth. She was against him then, her young body trembling, the smell of her hair in his nostrils, fresh with the fragrance of soap. His lips touched her cheek, and it was incredibly smooth and soft. And all at once her lips were on his.

  It had been a tender kiss. Their lips clung for a moment, moist against each other. She let out her breath swiftly, and her fingers tightened on his arm. Wildly she lifted her head, tossing her hair back. Her lips parted, and he drew her to him.

  Somehow, in a city of ten million, quite by accident, they’d found each other.

  He would always remember that first kiss. He’d kissed many girls since, but it would never be the same.

  He gulped hard, shaking his head again. Maybe he should go back to her. Now, tonight. Maybe he should get his shot, and then…

  No. No, that was just it. The shot. No, it was better this way. Forget Jeannie. Forget her.

  He kept walking, a strange excitement pulsing through his body. Part of it, he knew, was anticipation. He always felt this way when a shot was coming. But another part was something else, something that had been stirred by his thoughts of Jeannie. It burned in the pit of his stomach, and he began to couple it with the shot, began thinking of it in terms of the shot, and how he’d feel after the shot. He wanted Jeannie. Christ, he wanted her. He’d always want her. Well, pal, you can’t have her, his mind reminded him, so just forget it.

  Quite automatically, his thoughts flew to Babs. If not Jeannie, why not Babs? Not the same, but why not? He looked for a clock somewhere. What the hell time was it anyway?

  He was surprised to discover that it was only seven-forty-five. God, forty-five minutes to go. But after that… He smiled. He’d call Babs, tell her he’d see her later tonight. Later, after he’d been fixed. I’m taking you up on that raincheck, he would say. I’ll be over a little later.

  He started looking for a drugstore, pleased that he had pushed Jeannie out of his mind, yet still feeling a little guilty about the ease with which he’d accomplished it. Well, what the hell, he told himself, she’s not right for me. But she was right for him, that was the trouble. She was the only right thing for him, the only thing that…

  Oh stop it, Stone, he commanded himself. You’re turning my stomach.

  He dialed Babs’s apartment, waiting, rehearsing what he’d say as the phone rang persistently. He let it ring a while, then gave up, feeling disappointed but a little relieved, too. He hadn’t really let Jeannie down, after all. Perhaps it was all for the best. Besides, why the hell would he need a woman once he’d had a shot? What time was it?

  He stepped out of the booth, looked at the big clock over the drug counter. Seven-fifty. God, but time could creep when you were waiting for something!

  Well, what now? Where to now? Forty minutes to kill. How to kill them?

  He thought of the dead Eileen with alarming suddenness. He hadn’t forgotten her, surely? Hadn’t forgotten the police? Hadn’t forgotten that he’d been tagged? Forty minutes to a shot. Could he see someone in forty minutes, perhaps get a little more information?

  Who? The second guy Babs had mentioned. Tony Sanders. Sure, why not? A few quick questions, then back to Charlie Massine and the waiting needle.

  The telephone directory said Sanders had an apartment in a brownstone house on East 69th Street, opposite Hunter College. Ray tapped gently on the door and waited. He was ready to leave when it opened suddenly.

  “Yes?” The voice was cultured, and Ray remembered that this was the Tony Sanders who’d been born with the silver spoon in his mouth. Except that it had been platinum in Sanders’s case. This was the Sanders whose picture was plastered all over the newspapers every three months or so, leaving in his plane, or leaving on the Queen Mary, or taking his yacht south.

  Ray decided to play it straight. “I’m a friend of Eileen Chalmers. I’d like to ask a few questions.”

  Sanders lifted a black eyebrow, eyed Ray critically. He was tall, exceptionally good-looking, with penetrating gray eyes fringed with black lashes. His mouth was narrow above a cleft chin, set with a slight sneer that came from years of being spoiled. He had an Indian’s cheekbones, high and pronounced, and it was apparent from the smell of lotion that he’d just finished shaving. His shirt hung out of his trousers, and Ray noticed that only the top three buttons were fastened, the cuffs hanging loose too.

  “You caught me dressing, friend,” Sanders said. His voice didn’t sound annoyed, only disinterested. “You can come in if you don’t mind following me around the apartment.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Sanders stepped back into the room, leaving Ray to close the door. He finished buttoning his shirt, his broad back to Ray, then tucked it into the trousers.

  “Well, what can I do for you?” He picked a pair of cuff links off the long buffet, deftly fastened them at his wrists.

  “How well did you know Eileen?”

  “Oh, pretty well.” Sanders seemed engrossed in the cuff link at his left wrist.

  “How well was that?”

  Sanders looked up, his eyes wide, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I knew her long before she even met Dale Kramer. In fact, we were going steady—to use the vernacular.”

  “Umm?”

  Sanders smiled. “As you put it, ‘umm.’ I suppose you’re wondering why a girl like Eileen would marry a crumb like Kramer, and leave a rich guy like me, eh?”

  Ray found himself liking Sanders. He grinned and said, “Well, now that you mention it—”

  Sanders turned his back to Ray, took a black tie off the buffet, walked to the long mirror over the sectional. “I always dress in the living room,” he explained. “Bedrooms aren’t for dressing; they’re for undressing.”

  Ray grinned again, watching Sanders’s hands move in the mirror.

  “About Eileen,” Sanders went on. “Crazy kid. Wanted to sing, can you imagine? I told her that with my money, we could hire every singer who ever showed his tonsils. Nope, wouldn’t do. She had to sing.” Sanders shrugged. “Artistic temperament. Never could understand it.

  “So, Kramer came along with his music box and waved it in her face. She jumped at the chance. Exit Tony Sanders.”

  “Just like that?”

  Sanders tugged at the tie. “Well, not exactly like that. There was all the preliminary horse manure, you understand. I’m trying to cut it short so I won’t be late for my date.” He looked up suddenly. “What time is it, anyway?”

  Ray glanced unconsciously at his wrist, forgetting that he’d hocked his watch long ago. In embarrassment, he looked up and stuttered, “I—I—”

  “Well, I’ll make it. You a close friend of Eileen?”

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “That’s elucidating.” He turned to face Ray, indicated the tie. “This damn thing straight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hate bow ties. Silliest damned things a man—”

  “Was Eileen an addict when you knew her?”

  “Eh? Oh no, that came much later.”

  “Then you knew she was an addict?”

  “Of course.” He grinned again. “Perhaps I forgot to mention that I saw Eileen every now and then—friendly basis, of course—right up until her death.”

  “Did her husband know this?”

  Sanders shrugged, whipped a white dinner jacket off the back of a chair. “Never asked him.”

  “Just how friendly were you and Eileen?” Ray asked.

  Sanders slipped into the jacket. “Here’s another silly thing, these jackets. White.”

  “Just how friendly were you and—
”

  “I heard you the first time. Shall we talk about dinner jackets?” Sanders’s tone still wasn’t harsh. It was rather pleasant, Ray thought. But it left no doubt that he did not wish to discuss the extent of his relationship with the dead girl.

  “Sorry,” Ray said.

  “That’s quite all right.” He took a gold watch from the buffet, slipped it over his wrist, glancing at it quickly. “I’m going to be awfully late, old man. If there’s anything else, perhaps you’d better—”

  “When was the last time you saw Eileen?”

  Sanders made a clicking sound with his mouth. “Let me see.” He thought for a moment, then flashed his disarming white smile again. “This will sound terribly melodramatic, but I’m afraid it was on the afternoon of her death.”

  “Oh?”

  “Terrible, isn’t it?” Quickly, he walked into the kitchen and snapped out the light. He came into the living room again, stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and said, “I hate to rush you out, old man—”

  “That’s quite all right. Thanks a lot for the information.”

  “Not at all.” Sanders paused. “You never did tell me how well you knew Eileen.”

  “Shall we talk about dinner jackets?” Ray said. Sanders chuckled and pulled the door shut. The latch clicked and they started down the stairs together.

  * * *

  Two minutes.

  Just up the steps, knock on the door.

  Massine would open it. He’d go in, and Massine would give him the eighth. He wondered if he should pay for it. Maybe not. Maybe he could scare Massine again, and keep his money for another fix when he needed it.

  He climbed the steps quickly, his heart thudding against his rib case. Heroin, his mind sang. Heroin.

  He stopped outside Massine’s door and knocked quickly.

  He waited for an answer, the sweat beginning to ooze out all over his body. He knocked again, then tried the door knob. The door swung open slowly. Massine was sitting in an armchair, facing the window.

  Ray closed the door quickly. “Did you get it?” he asked, his eyes bright, his tongue wetting his lips.

  Massine didn’t answer.

  Ray banged a fist into his open hand. “Did you get it?” He walked in front of Massine and looked down at him.

  Massine looked right back, but he wasn’t seeing anything. There was a neat little hole right between his eyes, and it dribbled blood down along the side of his nose and over his mouth.

  Ray stared at the drummer.

  “Massine? Mass—”

  He was dead.

  The heroin. What about the heroin? Ray glanced quickly toward the door. He should stay and look for it. A cold sweat broke out over his body.

  Suppose the police—

  He shook his head, and a sob wrenched through his chest. He wanted to weep, and he bit his lip to hold back the tears. So close. He’d been so close, so close, so close.

  And then the fear raked his spine and he ran for the door, not looking back at the dead man staring out the window.

  Chapter Eight

  He let the phone ring. Please be home, he thought.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Babs?” His voice came out in a rush.

  “Yes?”

  “I tried to get you before. You weren’t—”

  “Who is this?”

  “Ray. Ray…” He stopped short, trying to remember what last name he’d given her. “Ray,” he repeated weakly.

  “Oh, hello!” Her voice became smooth, syrupy.

  “I’ve got to see you, Babs. You’re the only one who can—”

  She laughed a rising laugh, and somehow the sound irritated him. “Slow down, honey,” she said. “You sound like a machine gun.”

  “I’ve got to see you,” he repeated slowly.

  “Well, I’ve got a dinner engagement, Ray.” Her voice was apologetic now.

  “So late?”

  “It’s only eight-thirty, honey.”

  “Well, Jesus, can’t you break it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  He clamped his jaws together, ready to hang up.

  Her voice came to him again. “I can see you later, Ray.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll try to beg off early. Ten, ten-thirty.”

  “Can’t you make it sooner?”

  “I’m cutting it awfully close as it is.”

  A new thought came to him. “What about the Trade Winds? Aren’t you singing tonight?”

  “No,” she said. “Kramer didn’t think it would look good for the band to appear the same night Eileen’s murder was announced. He’s arranged for a substitute band.”

  “Oh. All right, I’ll see you at ten, then.”

  “Fine.”

  “Babs?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where shall I meet you?”

  “My place,” she said. There was a long pause. “That all right with you?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s fine.”

  “We’ll dance.”

  “I wanted to talk to you, Babs. I’m—”

  “We’ll talk, too.”

  “All right.”

  “I’ll see you later then. Bye.”

  “So long, Babs.”

  He held the receiver to his ear long after he heard the click on the other end. Then he hung it back on the hook and sat in the booth.

  A man walked by the glass door, and Ray glanced over his shoulder quickly. He was getting the jitters, all right. It was beginning to get him, the hunted feeling. He’d feel better when he could talk to someone. Ten o’clock, she’d said. That would be fine.

  He thought of Charlie Massine sitting in the armchair, the crimson trail of blood oozing down his face. He wondered if they’d hang that one on him, too. But how could they? Unless Massine had heroin on him. Still, the connection was a remote one.

  Heroin. Maybe he should have searched the place. Suppose Massine had gotten the eighth? A beautiful eighth of H in a dead man’s pocket, going to waste.

  The thought irritated him, and he dug into his pocket for another dime. He put it into the slot quickly and dialed the number from habit.

  He heard a click as the receiver was lifted on the other end, heard mingled voices and laughter, the sound of glasses clinking, party noises. There was a laugh right near the phone, and then a fuzzy female voice said, “City Morgue.”

  It startled him for a moment. “What?” he asked.

  “City Morgue, coroner speaking.” There was another giggle, and he heard a girl shriek in the background.

  “Is this Trafalgar seven—”

  “Who’d you want, dearie?” the girl asked.

  “Louie. Is Louie there?”

  “Just a sec.” He heard the party noises again, and then the girl yelled, “Louie!” The noises swarmed into the phone again. “Louie, telephone!”

  Her voice came back to his ear again, louder. “Be with you in a minute, dearie.”

  He waited, and the sounds of revelry irritated him more. He fidgeted uncomfortably. That son of a bitch was having a good time, probably with some babe in the next room, drinking liquor he’d bought with the fivers Ray had handed over to him.

  “Hello.” Louie’s voice was brusque. It was obvious that he hadn’t wanted to he interrupted, whatever he was doing.

  “Louie?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “Ray Stone.”

  “Who?”

  “Ray—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard you. Listen, Stone, you must be crazy or something. What the hell’s the idea calling me?”

  “Louie, I need a shot right away. I’ve got the money this time.”

  “Mister, I wouldn’t come near you if you had Fort Knox on your back.”

  “Louie, can’t we—”

  “For God’s sake, pipe down in there!” Louie shouted, his voice away from the phone. Then, louder, “Make it snappy, Stone.”

  “I’ll come up there, Louie. I’ll—”

>   “You come up here and you’ll find the cops waiting for you, chum. I don’t want no part of you.”

  “Then meet me. I’ve got fifty bucks,” he lied. “It’s all yours, Louie. Just get me some stuff!”

  Louie chuckled. “You really got it bad, eh, Stone?” He clucked his tongue.

  “Louie, I’m going out of my skull. Louie, you know what it is, you’ve seen enough of it. I have to—”

  “Tough, Stone.”

  “Look, can’t you just—”

  “Big party here, Stone. You better hang up.”

  “Louie—”

  “Look, it’s no sale. Understand? No sale. Goodbye, Stone.”

  “You’re a bastard, Louie. A ten-carat bastard. When this is all over you can whistle if you think you’re going to get any dough out of me.”

  “You’re breaking my heart, Stone. When this is all over, you’ll be either chopping rocks or frying.”

  “Don’t be too damn sure,” Ray shouted.

  “Read the papers, Stone. The cops got you all sewed up. They got a Reserved sign on the chair, just for you.”

  “Go back to your party, you bastard,” Ray said heatedly.

  Louie’s voice changed suddenly. “Come on, chum, have a heart. I can’t stick my neck out for you.”

  “You think I killed her, Louie?”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “Deposit five cents for the next five minutes,” the operator interrupted.

  “You think I killed her?” Ray asked again.

  “You better hang up. Your dime’s up.”

  “Just, think this over, Louie. If I killed her, I can kill again. And you might be next, you lousy bastard.”

  “I beg your pardon, deposit five cents for the next—”

  Ray slammed the phone onto the hook, immensely satisfied. Let the bastard chew on that for a while. Let him wonder if a slug was going to sing out from some alley on the way home from a meet. Let him mull over it.

  The first moment of elation wore off quickly. Cut off your nose to spite your face. He still didn’t have any heroin.

  What the hell was the use of trying to fight the whole damned city? They’d get him in the end anyway.

  He fished into his pocket, came up with two nickels. He dropped them into the box, waited for a dial tone, then twirled the dial once, his finger in the hole marked Operator.