Cut Me In (Hard Case Crime)

by Ed McBain

  He lifted his head when I came in, but he didn’t say anything.

  I closed the door gently behind me. “I didn’t expect to find you here,” I said.

  Di Luca smiled wanly. “Nice and quiet here. Good for thinking.”

  I stifled a crack about the thinking ability of sub-species, and said instead, “I just remembered something. Mind if I look into the safe?”

  “Not at all. The boys just left. Got a lot of nice fingerprints. Mostly your partner’s. The rest are yours, I imagine, and your staff’s.”

  “Staff all gone home?”

  “Yes. You’d better keep the shop closed today. Better that way. What is it?”

  “Huh?”

  “The thing you remembered? In the safe.”

  “Oh. An agreement. I wondered if it was still…well, this may sound silly, but it was an important agreement, and…”

  “And you think your partner was killed for it?”

  “Well…”

  “Well, the thought crossed your mind. Probably not a valid one, either. Most murder motives are fairly simple. The only complicated, carefully planned murders appear in detective fiction. I know. I read it.”

  “I read a little of it myself,” I said sarcastically.

  “I know. I’ve been looking through the bookcases in your office. Did you sell all of those books?”

  “Yes.”

  Di Luca nodded appreciatively. I went to the wall safe to the left of the door leading to my office, quickly twirled the dial.

  “You think someone forced him to open the safe, took what they wanted, and then shot him, is that it?”

  “Something like that.” I missed a number listening to him, and had to start all over again.

  “Possible,” Di Luca said. “That wouldn’t explain all the wild shooting, though, would it?”

  “Wild shooting?”

  “Two shots in the fish tank. Doesn’t necessarily depict a cool customer, does it?”

  “Cool customers can have bad eyes,” I said.

  “Yes, yes.” Di Luca pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Your partner was shot from the door, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Yes. Very scientific these days. We can figure exactly where a bullet came from, just what its trajectory was, all sorts of fancy things like that. Oh, we’re busy little bees.” He chuckled, and I twirled the dial to the right. “Do you own a Colt .45, Mr. Blake?”

  “No,” I said quickly.

  “That’s what killed your partner. Just asking.”

  I opened the safe and reached into the back for a pile of folders, neatly stacked beside a leather briefcase. I thumbed through the folders and selected one marked “Important Papers.”

  “Shot from the door,” Di Luca said. “Implies that whoever did it simply popped in, blasted off, and then beat it.”

  “Whoever did it could also have been waiting by the door while Del went through the safe. Maybe the murderer stood by the door so that he could hear anyone who approached.”

  “You know a lot about it,” Di Luca said.

  I looked up wearily. “You’re a crafty guy,” I said. My voice was dull.

  Di Luca shrugged. “Your important agreement there?”

  I thumbed through the papers rapidly. “No,” I said. Somehow, the discovery didn’t excite me as much as I thought it would, and I attributed that to Di Luca’s presence.

  “Doesn’t mean anything, of course,” he said. “If it was that important, your partner may have taken it with him.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Di Luca shrugged again. “You see, it would have been impossible for Gilbert to be standing near the safe when he got it. If he had been, he’d have just fallen against the wall and slid down to the floor that way. We’d have found him on his knees. But your partner was stretched out in front of that couch. My guess is that he was sitting there when the killer came in. He got up when he saw the killer, was shot, and dropped in his tracks. Flat on his face.”

  “You didn’t look very carefully,” I said.

  “Whuh?” Di Luca glanced at me casually.

  “Your tricks are getting about as subtle as rivets, Di Luca, Del Gilbert was lying on his back when I found him.”

  “Oh? Is that right?”

  “It’s right, and you know damn well it’s right.”

  Di Luca nodded. “Yes, I guess it is. Then he could have been at the safe, couldn’t he? The bullets could have hit him and knocked him backward. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “You’re the cop,” I said. “What about this missing paper?”

  “I don’t know,” he said seriously. “What was it about?”

  “An exclusive agreement giving us TV and radio rights to the Cam Stewart books.”

  “Do people in this business usually commit murder for signed papers?” he asked.

  “How the hell should I know?”

  He spread his hands wide. “And how the hell should I know? I’ll have to think about it. The damned thing’s probably misplaced, anyway. Why don’t you go home, Blake?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  “See? Our minds run along the same channels. Go on. I’ll take care of your office for you.”

  “Well thanks. Thanks a million.”

  “I get paid for this,” Di Luca said. “I never had it so good.”

  I rammed the folder back into the safe after taking another careful look through it. The agreement was gone, definitely. I closed the safe, twirled the dial, and turned to Di Luca.

  “Don’t forget to lock up,” I said. He nodded.

  When I left the room, he was staring at the rug again, and the sun made a torch of his blond hair.

  I said goodbye to the cop in the hall. He grunted and wiped his perspiring brow. I walked to the elevators, got into the first car that stopped, and headed for Lydia Rafney’s place.

  * * *

  Lydia lived in a swank apartment on the East River, an apartment that wasn’t paid for by her salary. I know, because I made out the payroll every two weeks.

  I was greeted at the door by a doorman who looked like a general in the German Army. He clicked his heels, completing the simile for me beautifully, opened the big glass doors, and waved one braided and scarlet uniform sleeve toward the switchboard in the lobby. I didn’t know whether to tip him or salute him, so I simply walked in. I told the switchboard operator who I wanted to see, and he buzzed Lydia’s apartment, cleared me, and ushered me toward the elevator banks.

  A subordinate, something like a colonel, ran the elevator up to the tenth floor. He clicked his heels when he let me out, and I began to wonder if the janitor was in the basement peeling spuds. I found Lydia’s door, pushed an ivory panel set in the jamb, and listened to four chimes sound within the apartment. While I waited, I thought about how cool it was here in the hallway, and I suddenly realized the place was probably air-conditioned. I jammed an impatient thumb at the panel again, listened to the same four bored, indifferent chimes.

  There was a click in the center of the door, and I knew the lid of a peephole was being drawn back. I couldn’t see any eye because it was one of those mirrored jobs, one-way glass that could be seen through only from the inside. There was another click as the lid fell home again, and then I heard the bolt snap and the door opened wide.

  “Hello, Josh,” Lydia said. Her voice was toneless, as if the heat had succeeded in wilting it. It was the only wilted thing about her, though. Her auburn hair was pulled back over her ears, piled onto the top of her head like strawberries on a white layer cake. Her face looked fresh-scrubbed, with her eyes a deep green above the sharp angles of her cheekbones. Lydia owned a face that belonged in the women’s magazines, modeling expensive earrings or saucy hats. In the beginning, I used to wonder why she wasted her time in a stuffy literary agency. That was before I tipped to the little romance she and Del were sharing.

  “May I come in?” I asked.

  �
��Certainly,” she said.

  She stepped back a few paces, and I followed her inside. She looked set for an afternoon at the beach. She wore a strapless halter that valiantly failed to cover the swell of her breasts, hugging her like a boa constrictor. The halter was green, accenting the color of her eyes, highlighting the dull flame of her hair. She wore cuffed, white cotton shorts, just short enough to emphasize the splendid curve of her slim legs. She turned and walked into a drop living room, her leather sandals padding over the thick rug on the floor.

  “Drink, Josh?” she asked, not turning. She walked directly to a marble-topped coffee table that screamed “Made in Italy,” reached for the bottle there without waiting for my answer.

  “A nice place you have,” I said.

  She kept her back to me, leaning over to pour, and my eyes unconsciously followed the curve from thigh to neck. “That’s right,” she said, “this is the first time you’ve been here.”

  She took ice from a bucket on the table, dropped it into the glass, and then turned, extending the drink to me.

  “Thanks,” I said. I took a swallow of the whiskey. It was as expensive as the rest of the apartment. She took her time pouring herself a drink and then walked over to the grand piano in the far corner of the room, leaning against it like a nightclub chanteuse ready to go into her routine.

  “So?” she asked.

  “So, it’s one hell of a thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess I was a little callous at the office.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I mean, Del and I…”

  “I said it was all right. Leave it at that.” She reached behind her, slid the lid from a cigarette box, and removed an ivory-tipped cigarette which she placed between her lips. I moved toward the lighter on the coffee table, but she grabbed the one on the piano first and lit the cigarette herself. “Did you come to offer condolences, Josh?”

  “No.”

  “Good thing. I’ll survive, you know.”

  “I figured as much, Lydia.”

  “Funny how a thing like this pulls people together, isn’t it? In the office, you hardly ever said two words to me. Now it’s old home week, and everyone has gotten together for the big game. Think we’ll win, Josh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, think you’ll get away with it?”

  I didn’t answer for a few seconds. Then, all I could manage was, “What!”

  “Killing Del.”

  I shook my head. “I know what you meant, Lydia. I’d like to know what you meant by it, though.”

  “That’s the logical reaction, I suppose. I didn’t expect you to give a confession.”

  “You’re being a little bit ridiculous. Maybe it’s the heat.”

  “Sure, it’s the heat. Tell me, Josh, what happens when one member of a partnership dies?”

  “The partnership usually dissolves. Why?”

  “And then what?”

  “If there’s a will, the estate usually gets…”

  “And after that?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “The surviving partner. What does he do?”

  “Me, you mean?”

  “In this case, yes. You.”

  “You tell me, Lydia. You’re driving at something, aren’t you?”

  “The surviving partner might start his own agency. No partner this time. The surviving partner may figure that his share of a big movie deal will give him the extra lift he’d need. Mightn’t he?”

  “He might. But he didn’t.”

  “There’s only the surviving partner’s word for that.”

  “And the murderer’s.”

  “And they might be one and the same, mightn’t they?”

  “But they aren’t.”

  “Again, we have only the…”

  “Let’s can it, Lydia,” I said. “I didn’t come here for this sort of crap.”

  “Why did you come?”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. I took out the folded stat and handed it to Lydia.

  “You remember this, don’t you?”

  She put her cigarette in an ashtray, blew out a stream of smoke, and then took the stat from my hand. She unfolded it, looked at it briefly, and nodded her head. “Yes. What about it?”

  “Do you recall seeing the original?”

  “Yes. It was in the safe.”

  “Did Del take it with him when he went to see Stewart?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know.”

  “How should I know?”

  “Come on, Lydia. Del told you a lot of things. You probably know more about the business than I do.”

  Lydia smiled briefly, and then the smile faded. “I don’t think he did,” she said. “At least, he didn’t mention it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, of course not. He didn’t say he was taking it with him, so I imagine he left it behind. Why? What’s so important…”

  “If he didn’t take it with him, it’s missing.”

  “Oh?”

  I nodded, and Lydia dropped the stat on the piano, as if it had suddenly grown hot in her hand.

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “It’s not in the safe.”

  She fell silent, and the only sound in the room was the intake of her breath as she drew in on her cigarette. At last, she said, “This is all very good, Josh. A nice play. Trouble is, I don’t believe a goddamned word of it.”

  “You still think…”

  “I still think. I think, but I’m known as Charlie the Clam in some circles. I think, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m a smart girl, Josh.” She walked to the coffee table, leaned over to put out the cigarette. The halter sprang out from her breasts, showing smooth whiteness where her tan ended. I wondered why she’d come all the way to the coffee table when there was an ashtray right behind her on the piano.

  “You’ve got it all wrong, honey. I may not have loved Del, but he was my partner, and our business was doing fine.”

  “We agree then,” she said.

  “We agree about what?”

  “I didn’t love Del, either.”

  I felt my eyebrows go up.

  “That really amazes you, doesn’t it, Josh?”

  “Well, I…”

  “It shouldn’t,” she said coldly. “I told you I’m a smart girl. I know which side my toast is buttered on, Josh. I like this apartment; I’d like to keep it.”

  “You’re a little too fast for me, Lydia.”

  “Am I?” She took a step closer to me, and there was a small smile on her mouth. She wore no lipstick, and her lips looked raw and swollen. “Del provided this,” she said. She swept her arm backward, and the halter bobbed with the sudden motion. “Del’s gone now.”

  I was beginning to sweat, and I knew damned well the place was air-conditioned. “So?”

  “The partnership dissolves. And the surviving partner is free to start another business.”

  “Me?” I asked again.

  “No, Josh. Me.”

  She was very close now, close enough so that I could smell the faint scent on her body. I looked into her eyes, and they were hard and calculating, like the eyes of a whore I’d met in Panama when I was in the Army. Just like that, and I half expected her to ask for the two bucks first. I hadn’t enjoyed the Panamanian wench—I’d reeled out of her cubby-hole feeling dirty. And I wasn’t enjoying Lydia now. She gave me that same unclean feeling.

  “I appreciate the offer,” I started, “but…”

  I didn’t get a chance to say more. She stopped my mouth. She stopped it efficiently with a kiss that was as calculated as the glint in her eyes. I returned the kiss because I’ve never been one to look at a gift mouth. There was more than the kiss. Lydia owned a body, and she knew she owned one, and she did her damnedest to make sure I knew it, too. She pulled away from me suddenly, then, as if I’d tried to steal a kiss from her behind the barn, fluttered her eyelashes girli
shly, swallowed a breathless little gasp, and backed away, her hand moving to her hair.

  “Well!” she said. Her voice caught in her throat, and she successfully conveyed the impression of having gotten more than she bargained for. She was a shrewd, talented bitch, all right—but “Panama” was stamped on her shoulder.

  “Well what?” I asked.

  “Well, stay awhile, Josh.” Her voice lowered on this, holding all the invitation of a black widow spider curling a leg at its mate.

  I smiled.

  “It must be the heat,” I said. “More damn propositions in one day…” I shook my head sadly. “No dice, Lydia. Not now.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “No dice, Josh?” Her voice was smiling but her mouth was not.

  “Sorry. A nice pitch—one of the nicest. I’m just not in the market.”

  “Maybe later. I’m Charlie the Clam, remember?”

  “That would be effective blackmail, Lydia. If I’d killed Del. I didn’t.”

  Lydia’s mouth smiled now. “Maybe later, Josh,” she repeated.

  “Sure.” I nodded. “Maybe.”

  I started for the door, and she called, “Don’t forget this stat, Josh.”

  “Oh, Jesus!” I walked back to the center of the room, and she swept the stat from the piano and handed it to me.

  “ ’Bye, Josh.” Her voice rose on my name.

  “So long, Lydia.”

  I walked out into the corridor and reached into my back pocket for my wallet. Lydia’s door closed gently behind me, and I felt a sudden pang of regret for not having stayed with her. I shrugged that aside, folded the stat carefully, and was putting it into my wallet when the building fell on my head.

  I dropped the stat and the wallet both, started to pitch forward when the second blow caught me on the side of my face. I felt my eardrum pop, saw the carpeted floor come up at me too damned fast, and then my nose ploughed up three inches of rug and somebody’s heavy foot did its best to push my cheekbone out through my mouth.

  My cheek exploded in a yellow burst of pain, and then little yellow bubbles drifted across the top of my skull, turned to purple, brown, black. They all flooded together, like black pebbles being sucked down a drain, and the blackness swirled faster and faster until my consciousness went down the drain with the pebbles.