by Ed McBain
“And Barter?”
“You’ve met him, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not what I’d call a … watch it, there’s something in the road.”
I swerved the car around a branch that had been knocked loose by the storm. The rain had almost ended. The windshield wipers snicked at scattered drops.
“He’s not what I’d call a Hollywood type he-man,” Handy said. “In fact, he’s pretty ugly. Do you agree?”
“I suppose.”
“You’d think a man like Barter … with a woman like Stephanie, well, you’d think he’d be pretty happy, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Last night … something happened.”
“What?”
“The girl Lois was in cabin eleven. That’s not too far from the office. Barter went out for a walk. Stephanie was alone up at the office. She was probably playing her records. She’s got a lot of records, likes to play them. I mean, really a lot. I guess she never had a Victrola when she was a kid, never could afford one. She was probably playing her records when she heard a scream. She called for Barter first, then realized he wasn’t in the office.”
“What time was this?”
“About eight or so, I guess. It was just getting dark, from the way I got it. I wasn’t there, you understand. Stephanie told me all this later. On the phone.”
“Go on.”
“She keeps a gun, Stephanie. A beautiful woman like her … out at the Point there … she keeps a gun. She’s a beautiful woman, you know.”
“I know,” I said. There was something odd in Handy’s voice whenever he spoke of Stephanie.
“And noble,” he said, “and—despite what you may think—pure. You can’t use a dirty word in her presence. You just can’t. She’s that way.”
“Go on, Handy.”
“She took the gun … a .32, I think it is, I’m not sure, and she went outside. There was screaming from cabin eleven. She knew the girl was in there alone. She thought maybe an animal or something had wandered in there, frightening her. She went to the cabin.” Handy paused, and then he sighed.
“Yes?”
“An animal had wandered into the cabin. The animal was Mike Barter.”
“Oh.”
“Stephanie threw open the door and found him struggling with the girl. It’s funny with prostitutes, Colby. This wasn’t business with Barter. This was something else, and Lois didn’t want it, and she fought him like a tigress. And Stephanie stood in the doorway with the gun in her hand and then—the way it can happen—without will, without reason, without logic, she was firing. She fired four times.” Handy sucked in his breath. “She killed the girl.”
“Why?”
Handy nodded. “You’d think she’d have killed Barter. He was the one who’d cheated her. But maybe a woman turns instinctively against the other woman, maybe it’s bred into her. And maybe in the heat of emotion you seek the natural enemy, and the natural enemy here was the other woman. And then she saw the girl fall, and all at once everything was drained out of her. She’d killed someone. She dropped the gun, and she would have bolted from the cabin, but Barter stopped her. He picked up the gun and stuck it in his pocket. Then he dragged the girl into the cabin closet. She was bleeding pretty badly, and he had to get her out of the way while he thought of something.”
“What did he think of?”
“He got Hezekiah, and together they moved the body into the truck. They covered the girl with a burlap sack, and they drove the truck into the woods. They would have buried her right then and there, I guess, but they didn’t want to bury her anywhere on the property, and they had to figure out just where they could. They went back to the office. They were probably talking it over when you pulled up with your girl.”
“I see.”
“Barter never would’ve rented you a cabin, if you hadn’t had the girl with you. He’s a quick thinker. He probably went to look at your girl only because he’s got an eye for the women. But when he saw her, he knew just what he’d do. Lois was a tall brunette. Your girl was about the same height, same general build, pretty. Lois wasn’t too well known in town, just been here a few days, and in the cabin with customers most of the time. He knew sooner or later somebody’d come looking for Lois. Girl can’t just disappear without somebody coming to find out why. He didn’t want snoopers. Snoopers might call in state law. State law would mean the end of the setup.”
“I can take it from there,” I said.
“Can you?”
“While I was in the shower, he explained the plan to Stephanie and Hez. They grabbed Ann out of the cabin, took the truck out of the woods, and then drove her some place for the night.”
“Hez’s place,” Handy said.
“In the morning, Stephanie put on something that would attract attention. Blanche always attracts attention. The three of them went to town together. Blanche is a known prostitute, Stephanie a known madam. People would automatically assume the brunette was one of the girls. People would assume the brunette was Lois. So if anyone asked questions later on, the answer would be that Lois had left town. Hell, everyone saw her go.”
“Yes. But they planned on turning Ann free, I’m sure they did.”
“Maybe that was part of the plan originally, but once they’d found out I was a cop, once they’d thought it over, how could they turn her free? Damnit, Handy, she may be dead already!”
“I … I don’t think so.” He peered through the windshield. “We’re entering Davistown now. It’s just a little way further.”
The rain had stopped. I turned off the windshield wipers. The roads were still slickly wet, and they told their secrets to the tires of the car.
“How long have you loved her, Handy?” I asked.
“What?”
“Stephanie.”
Without hesitation, Handy said, “From the first day Mike Barter brought her to Sullivan’s Point.”
“Why are you leading me to her?”
This time, Handy hesitated. I thought he wasn’t going to answer at all. Then he said, “I used to be a good lawyer. I used to be a good justice of the peace, too. I used to believe in the law.” He paused. “Stephanie killed someone.” He paused again. “I imagine that person was loved, too.”
Davistown was an ugly city, ugly with smokestacks and gaudy neon and pool parlors and second-rate bars. We drove into it, and Handy directed me to a three-story apartment building on the fringe of the downtown area.
A light was burning in a third-floor apartment. The rest of the building was in bed.
“What’s the apartment number?” I asked.
“I don’t know. His name is Joe Carlisle.”
“You wait here, Handy.”
“Be careful,” he said, and he sounded as if he meant it.
I got out of the convertible. The street was very quiet. In the lobby of the building, I checked the mailboxes. There was a Joseph Carlisle in apartment 33. I brought my foot up and kicked the snap lock on the inner door. The door sprang open, and I found the stairs and took them up to the third floor. Apartment 33 was at the end of the hall. I pulled out the .38, released the safety, and knocked.
“Who is it?” Stephanie asked.
“Hezekiah,” I whispered.
“Hold on.”
I heard her approaching the door. The door opened a crack then, and I saw surprise and shock come into her eyes. She tried to slam the door shut, and she yelled something to somebody in the apartment, but I’d already flung my shoulder at the door. I shoved it open, and Stephanie reeled backwards, lost her footing, and fell to the floor. Barter and Carlisle came rushing from the other room. They stopped dead when they saw me, and then the trapped look came into their eyes, and their feet stood undecided, and their hands fluttered somewhat aimlessly, and then their shoulders slumped because they were facing a .38 and a murder rap, and there was no place to go.
“Who told you where we were?” Stephanie said from the floor. He
r eyes were puzzled. She was watching her dream collapse around her, watching the thick carpets and the hi-fi unit and the liquor cabinet crumble into the dust.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Get up.”
And then the girl who didn’t like to hear profanity looked up at me, and her eyes filled with tears, and she said, “You bastard, you dirty rotten bastard.”
And that was all.
It was quiet in the squad room of the 23rd Precinct. There was July sunlight filtering through the meshed windows that opened on the street. Tony Mitchell and Sam Thompson sat at one of the desks. There were two coffee cups before them. Mitchell drank steadily. Thompson did not drink as often because he was talking. He did not like to occupy his mouth with too many tasks at the same time.
“You can always tell a hero cop from a plain ordinary bull,” he said.
“Can you?” Mitchell asked, smiling.
“Certainly. You’re a cop with heroic dimensions. I can tell.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s very simple. In all the years I’ve been on the force, I have never met a single cop who got bit by a snake. You are unique.”
“I never met one, either.”
“Which only proves my point. You’re a white hunter! Tony, you are a hero!”
“Phil’s the hero. He’s the one who cracked it.”
“Tony, the one who cracks it is not the hero. The one who gets cracked is the hero. Look at yourself! God, how can you stand looking so pathetically wounded? A Band-Aid on your leg, your head in a bandage. Your wife must be dissolving in sympathy.”
“She gives me breakfast in bed every morning. Bite size.”
“Predigested, she should give you.”
“It won’t last long,” Mitchell said sorrowfully. “The bandage comes off my head tomorrow.”
“The white hunter!” Thompson said, carried away with himself. “Look at him! Fearless! Indomitable! Honest! Jesus, I can hardly stand it.”
Phil Colby pushed his way through the railing which divided the squad room from the corridor outside. He walked directly to a chair near the desk, plopped into it, stretched his legs, and said, “Any more coffee?”
“What are you doing back here?” Thompson asked. “Is the trial over?”
“It’s over,” Colby said. “Isn’t there any more coffee?”
“O’Hare has a pot brewing next door. You want some?”
“I’d like some.”
“O’Hare!” Thompson yelled. “A cup of coffee for the returning hero.”
“What happened?” Mitchell asked.
“The D.A. got a conviction.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.” Colby sighed. “That courtroom was hot, you know?”
“That’s why I let you solve the thing,” Mitchell said.
“Why?”
“I don’t like testifying before district attorneys. Especially in the summertime.”
“You’re noble,” Colby said. He turned to look toward the corridor. “Hey, O’Hare,” he yelled. “You coming with that coffee?”
O’Hare came into the squad room, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He was carrying a pot of coffee in one hand and two cups in the other.
“I wanted to finish a report I was on,” he said, grinning. “This way I can join you.” He put the cups down on the desk. He poured coffee into both of them. “Pass that container of milk, Tony,” he said.
Mitchell passed the milk. Thompson passed the sugar. O’Hare administered both to his coffee. Then he sipped it, made a satisfied “Ahhh” with his mouth, smiled and said, “So what’s new with the star witness?”
And Phil Colby picked up his coffee cup and said, “So what could be new?”
About the Author
Ed McBain is one of the many pen names of legendary author Evan Hunter (1926–2005). Named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, Hunter is best known for creating the long-running 87th Precinct series, which followed an ensemble cast of police officers in the fictional city of Isola. A pioneer of the police procedural, he remains one of the best-loved mystery novelists of the twentieth century. Hunter also wrote under the pseudonyms Richard Marsten, Hunt Collins, John Abbott, Ezra Hannon, Curt Cannon, and others.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1957 by Ed McBain
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3919-2
This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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