Killer's Choice

by Ed McBain

  'What did you mean, Mrs Phelps?' Meyer asked.

  'That they were having an affair?' Mrs Phelps said.

  Kling blinked. Meyer, being a slightly older man, did not blink.

  'Yes, we know,' he said.

  'He didn't kill her,' Mrs Phelps said. 'I can assure you.'

  'How long have you known about this?'

  'The affair? For a long time.'

  'How long?'

  'At least a year.' Mrs Phelps shrugged. 'Franklin isn't exactly a spring chicken. I wasn't worried. These things happen, I understand. If I'd made a fuss about it, I might have lost him. I have too much invested in him to see it all go down the drain. Under ordinary circumstances, the thing would have been over in another six months, anyway. Unfortunately, Miss Boone was killed.'

  'Did you know her, Mrs Phelps?'

  'I met her on one or two occasions, yes. At the store.'

  'What did you think of her?'

  'A very beautiful girl. Franklin's taste is to be admired.'

  'Your attitude is a pretty broad-minded one, isn't it, Mrs Phelps?'

  'Are you married, Detective… Meyer, was it?'

  'Yes.'

  'Ask your wife. Ask her about the time she's put into shaping you into a man. It's an investment, Detective Meyer. A simple investment. A woman's man is her only investment. And her children, of course, if she's lucky enough to have them. I have no children. Do you have children, Detective Meyer?'

  'Yes. Three.'

  'Your wife is luckier than I. I only have Franklin. He is my sole investment, my life work; men have other things, women only have their men. He is my business. And I have thrown assets into this business, Detective Meyer. I have given Franklin every thing I had to give. Everything. I've been a good wife. And as a result, he's a man today. He was not very much of a man when we met. I saw potential. I invested. The only thing I had to invest: myself.'

  'I see,' Meyer said.

  'And so, when my investment is threatened by a beautiful woman, I do what my common sense tells me to do. I sit, and I wait. I'm not going to close shop because of a small fire in the stockroom, am I?' Mrs Phelps smiled pleasantly. 'It would have been over in another six months. Things would have gone on again.'

  'Did Annie Boone know you knew?'

  'No.'

  'Did your husband?'

  'No. He still doesn't. I wish you wouldn't tell him. It's not good for a wife to appear too intelligent.' Again, Mrs Phelps smiled. 'But then, I'm giving you trade secrets, Detective Meyer. I'll be spoiling things for your wife.'

  'She doesn't need hints,' Meyer said, smiling. 'She's got her own investment.'

  'Are you going to confront him with what you know?'

  'Yes.'

  'I wish you wouldn't. I don't think it'll help much. He's not the person who killed her.'

  'Who is?' Meyer asked.

  'I'm sure I don't know,' Mrs Phelps said. She smiled. 'May I sound somewhat cruel for a moment?'

  'Go ahead,' Meyer said.

  Mrs Phelps was still smiling. 'I'm sure I don't give a damn, either,' she said.

  'Don't give a damn about what, dear?' Franklin Phelps asked from the doorway.

  'Don't give a damn about showing our dogs,' she answered, adjusting her mind almost instantly to the new situation.

  'Oh,' Phelps said. He smiled at the detectives. 'We've got a trio of Goldens. I want to show them, Marna doesn't. Handsome animals.' He looked at Meyer. 'Oh, Detective Meyer. I didn't recognize you.'

  'Hello, Mr Phelps,' Meyer said, rising and taking his hand. 'This is my partner, Bert Kling.'

  'Detective Kling,' Phelps said, and he took his hand. He was a tall man with greying hair, and he wore a blue terry cloth robe belted at the waist. He had not impressed Meyer very much the first time Meyer had questioned him, but a man is always looked at somewhat differently when it's learned he was having an affair with a beautiful redhead perhaps ten years younger than he. Phelps had a strong sweeping nose, and piercing grey eyes. His mouth was full and hard. His jaw could have driven railroad spikes.

  'I'm sorry we got you out of the shower, Mr Phelps,' Meyer said, 'but we'd like to ask you a few more questions.'

  'I behaved like a bit of an ass last time we spoke, didn't I?' Phelps said.

  'Well,' Meyer answered non-committally.

  'I really shouldn't have carried on so about my stock. I really shouldn't have.'

  'Well, there was a lot of money involved,' Meyer said.

  'Certainly, but after checking with my broker, I found out my insurance covered the loss.'

  'Oh,' Meyer said flatly. 'I see.'

  'I'm glad to clear the air on that,' Phelps said. 'I didn't want you to have the impression I was an ass.'

  'Well, I never got that impression,' Meyer lied. 'Could we talk to you, Mr Phelps?'

  'Certainly, go right ahead,' Phelps said smiling. He went to a small Louis XVI table, removed the cover from a porcelain box, and picked up a cigarette. He was lighting it when Meyer said, 'Alone.'

  The match faltered for just an instant. Phelps brought it to the cigarette again and said, 'Certainly. Marna?'

  'I've got a million things to do, anyway,' Mrs Phelps said. 'It was nice meeting you gentlemen.' She smiled again and left the room.

  'What is it?' Phelps asked.

  'We'd like to run over the information you already gave us, Mr Phelps,' Meyer said.

  'Certainly.' He puffed on his cigarette, one hand in the pocket of his robe.

  'How long did you say you'd known Annie Boone?'

  'She'd been working for me about a year,' Phelps said.

  'Yes. How long before that had you known her?'

  'I met her for the first time when she answered an ad I placed in the newspaper.'

  'What was your relationship with Annie Boone?'

  'I was her employer.'

  'How much did you pay her?'

  'A hundred and twenty-five dollars a week.'

  'Do you remember sending her roses once when she was ill?' Kling asked.

  'I don't recall.'

  'You did,' Kling said.

  'Perhaps.'

  'Isn't that a little unusual?'

  'If I did send them, I don't see anything unusual about it. Annie was a trusted employee. Without her, I could not have run that shop.'

  'When did you first meet, Mr Phelps?'

  'When she answered my ad.'

  'Where did you run the ad?'

  'In most of the local dailies.'

  'Why did you hire her?'

  'She'd had selling experience.'

  'Selling whisky?'

  'No. Furniture.'

  'Where had she sold furniture?'

  'Herman Dodson, Inc.,' Phelps said.

  'She told you that?'

  'Yes.'

  'You remember it?'

  'Yes, certainly.'

  'Was Annie a drunkard?'

  'A what?'

  'A drunkard.'

  'That's preposterous! Of course not!'

  'How do you know?'

  'Well, I never saw her drink more than a glass of…' Phelps paused.

  'A glass of what, Mr Phelps?'

  'Wine,' he completed.

  'Where was this, Mr Phelps?'

  'I don't remember.'

  'You knew her socially, did you, Mr Phelps?'

  'Socially? No, no, of course not. I don't remember where I saw her drink. Perhaps at the store.'

  'Your stock?'

  'Yes. Yes, my stock.'

  'What was the occasion?'

  'No occasion. We… we opened a bottle of wine.'

  'Was that the only time you saw her drink?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then how do you know she wasn't a drunkard?'

  'Well, a man can tell, can't he? She worked for me, you know. I saw her in the shop, and she was never drunk.'

  'How much did you pay her, Mr Phelps?'

  'I told you. A hundred and twenty-five dollars a week. What is this? A third degree of som
e kind? Am I going to have to call my lawyer?'

  'You can if you wish, Mr Phelps. You can very easily do that. I suggest, however, that you sit tight and start answering some of these questions straight.'

  'I'm answering as honestly as I know how. I don't have to answer a damn thing if I don't want to.'

  'You will if we book you.'

  'On what charge?'

  'Suspicion of murder,' Kling said flatly.

  Phelps was silent for a moment.

  'I think I'd better call my lawyer,' he said at last.

  'If that's what you plan, Mr Phelps,' Meyer said, 'you'll have to call him after we get to the squad room.'

  Phelps blinked.

  'Here or there,' Meyer said. 'You can answer the questions anywhere you like. If you didn't kill her, you've got nothing to fear.'

  'I didn't kill her.'

  'Okay. Why'd you lie to us then?'

  'I haven't lied to you.'

  'Were you having an affair with Annie Boone?'

  Phelps was silent.

  'Were you?'

  'Yes,' he said.

  'Why didn't you tell us that in the beginning?'

  'For several reasons.'

  'Like?'

  'First, I didn't want to get involved in a possible murder charge.'

  'That possibility still exists, Mr Phelps.'

  'Secondly, I thought this might make the newspapers. I didn't want Marna to… well, you understand.'

  'Sure,' Meyer said. 'Now how about giving us the straight story?'

  'Where do you want me to start?'

  'Where'd you meet Annie?'

  Phelps sighed heavily. 'At Herman Dodson, Inc. In the modern furniture department. I wandered on to the wrong floor by mistake. Marna and I prefer period stuff.'

  'Go ahead.'

  'I asked her out. She accepted. Oh, not quite that suddenly. We chatted awhile, you know how it works.'

  'No, I don't know how it works,' Meyer said. 'I'm married. You tell me how it works, Mr Phelps.'

  'I didn't know policemen were invested with moral indignation,' Phelps said. 'I didn't know love was a crime in this state.'

  'It isn't,' Meyer said. 'But adultery is.'

  'Annie wasn't married!' Phelps said.

  'You were, and are. The law makes it adultery if either or both partners are married. Let's not get off the track, Mr Phelps. The crime we're discussing is homicide!'

  'I didn't kill her.'

  'We're still listening.'

  'I loved her. Why should I kill her?'

  'You didn't seem to be worrying too damn much about her the first time I spoke to you. You seemed more concerned with your stock.'

  'I was concerned with the stock. But I was concerned about Annie, too. Of course I was concerned. I'd known her for more than a year.'

  'Why'd you give her a job at the liquor store? So you could be closer to her?'

  'Well… not exactly. I very rarely went to the shop. Annie handled it mostly singlehanded. I dropped by at the end of the day, usually, to make my collection.'

  'Had you dropped by on the night she was killed?'

  'Yes. I told you that before. I'd left her just enough money to keep things going until closing time. That was the usual procedure. I made out my bank deposit slips every night and made my deposit each morning.'

  'Which bank?'

  'Here. In town. First National of Crestion.'

  'Why'd you give her the job?'

  'To help her.'

  'How?'

  'She was divorced, you know. She wasn't earning a hell of a lot at Dodson. I found that out after I'd… after I'd known her awhile. I thought I could help her by taking her on. I paid her more than a hundred and a quarter.'

  'How much more?'

  'I paid her two hundred dollars a week,' Phelps said.

  'Did Mrs Phelps know this?'

  'No, of course not. The highest I'd ever paid any employee was a hundred and a quarter.'

  'In other words, Mr Phelps,' Meyer said, 'you charged Annie Boone to the business, is that right?'

  'That's a particularly callous way to put it, Detective Meyer.'

  'Is it? How would you put it, Mr Phelps?'

  'I was trying to help the girl. She was supporting her mother and her daughter. It was the least I could do.'

  'Sure. Why'd you pretend you didn't know about the daughter when I first talked to you, Mr Phelps?'

  'I pretended no such thing.'

  'You said you thought she had a son.'

  'Well, perhaps I did. I lied because I didn't want the police to know how involved I was with Annie. I didn't want her murder to… to reflect upon me.'

  'What time did you make your collection on the night she was killed, Mr Phelps?'

  'At about eight. I always make my collection at about that time.'

  'She was killed at about ten-thirty, near as we can figure it. Where were you between eight and ten-thirty?'

  'I don't remember,' Phelps said quickly.

  Meyer looked at him with something close to vast astonishment on his face. 'Mr Phelps,' he said, 'perhaps you didn't understand my question. Where were you on the night Annie Boone was killed between the hours of eight and ten-thirty?'

  'I don't remember,' Phelps said.

  Meyer continued to look astonished. 'Well, maybe you better start remembering, Mr Phelps. Maybe you better start remembering damn fast.'

  'If I don't remember, I don't remember.'

  'Were you here?' Kling asked.

  'No, I wasn't.'

  'Where then?'

  'I don't remember.'

  'But you do remember that you weren't here?'

  'Yes, I remember that.'

  'Were you maybe in your own liquor store shooting Annie Boone and destroying your own stock maybe?' Meyer asked.

  'Don't be ridiculous!'

  'Well then, where the hell were you, Mr Phelps? Start remembering. I suggest that you start remembering!'

  'Look…'

  'Look, I don't want you to think…' Phelps shook his head. 'Look, I…'

  'Go ahead, Mr Phelps. Drag out the skeletons.'

  'Did you question Ted Boone? Did you question her ex-husband?'

  'He was out of the city at the time of the shooting. His alibi has been corroborated. He's clear, Mr Phelps.'

  'So am I.'

  'We haven't heard your alibi yet.'

  'I don't remember where I was. I was nowhere near the store.'

  Meyer sighed heavily. 'Mr Phelps,' he said. 'Get your clothes on.'

  'Why?'

  'Because it looks as if you haven't got a story, Mr Phelps. It also looks as if you were pretty involved with this Boone girl, and it looks as if we've got to ask you a few more questions at the squad. A lot more questions, Mr Phelps.'

  'I…' Phelps swallowed hard. 'I… I was in Isola that night.'

  'Where in Isola?'

  'On… Endicott Avenue.'

  'Doing what?'

  'I… I was with someone.'

  'Who?' Phelps did not answer. 'Who?' Meyer repeated.

  'Someone.'

  'Who?' Kling said.

  'A woman?' Meyer asked.

  'Yes,' Phelps said.

  Both detectives were silent. At last Meyer said, 'You're a real nice chap, Mr Phelps. You're a real fine investment.'

  'Investment?'

  'The ones who own stock in you ought to liquidate it. What's the broad's name?'

  'She's not a broad!'

  'What's her name?'

  'Lydia. Lydia Forrester.'

  'Address?'

  '730 Endicott Avenue. You're not going to drag her into this, are you?'

  'Can you think of a better way of checking your alibi?'

  'I suppose not.'

  'Any doormen at her place? Elevator operators?'

  'Yes, why?'

  'Mr Phelps, the way this thing looks to be shaping up, you've now got a pretty damn good reason for wanting Annie Boone out of the way. And I don't know if we're going
to be happy with just the Reason's word that you were with her that night. You better keep your fingers crossed.'

  'About what?'

  'You better keep your fingers crossed that somebody else in that building saw you around the time Annie was murdered.' Meyer nodded emphatically. 'We'll see you, Mr Phelps. We'll let you know. You can be sure we'll let you know.'

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It's very discouraging to learn that a man suspected of murder has an airtight alibi. It was discouraging to learn it about Ted Boone and even more discouraging to learn it about Franklin Phelps. But the sad facts remained. Franklin Phelps had been with a girl named Lydia Forrester from 9 p.m. until 11 p.m. on the night Annie Boone got it. The elevator operator remembered taking him up at 9 and down at 11. This did not mean, of course, that he could not have taken the service steps down at any time between those two times, gone out to kill Annie, and then come back up again by the same steps. The service steps, however, terminated in one of two places: the lobby, or the basement. A doorman was on duty in the lobby all night long. Franklin Phelps had not crossed it until 11 p.m. And the superintendent and the janitor had been playing cards in the basement all night long, right alongside the only exit door. Phelps had not come down to the basement. Phelps had been otherwise occupied. He had not killed Annie Boone, and it was most discouraging. It meant that the bulls of the 87th had to do more legwork, and it's the legwork that kills a cop.

  For reasons which weren't even clear to themselves, it seemed as if every cop on the squad was taking turns at the legwork involved in finding the murderer of Annie Boone. Every cop but Cotton Hawes. Cotton Hawes had his own private little crusade going against the man who'd murdered Roger Havilland. It made things cosy, though, everyone being involved. It gave them all a sort of personal stake. It also gave them something to talk about when they didn't have any dirty jokes to tell. It was nice. It was brotherly.

  'This legwork is a son of a bitch,' Carella said to Kling. 'When you get to be my age, anyway. Of course, with a kid like you, it doesn't matter. How old are you, anyway, Bert? Seventeen?'

  'Sixteen,' Kling said.

  'Sure. These steps don't matter to you.'

  'I eat steps,' Kling said.

  'Sure.'

  'I eat sidewalks.'

  'Sure.'

  They were climbing the steps to a pool parlour known euphemistically as 'Heaven's Hall'. The steps leading upstairs did not at all smell like heaven. Kling didn't know what they smelled like, but they certainly didn't smell like heaven.