Matt said softly but clearly, “You've been snoring for the last three quarters of an hour. I could hardly finish this article for the racket.”
“Now, Matt, I really don't snore.”
“Yes, you do.” Matt reached over and stuck his wrist in Joel's red face. “Remember when you asked me the time before and I showed you the watch and you saw it was only 2:45? Well, now it's 3:30 and man, you should have the appetite of a lumber jack because you've been sawing logs and making a hell of a racket all that time.”
“Prof. Anthony and his corny lectures on the fine art of snoring,” Wilma said. “Frankly, if Joel does snore he does it artistically, like he does everything else.”
“Thank you, my good wifey,” Joel said. “Fran have any hick?”
“Why, I didn't hear her return,” Matt said. “Surprising, too, she usually doesn't have patience for more than an hour's fishing.” Matt rubbed his eyes. “I read a lot, listening to Joel snoring. Rather interesting article on Africa. Read it, Joel, you might try a serious kids book—plight of two half-colored kids in Capetown.” Matt shadow-boxed his way over to the house, called for May. When she appeared— an apron over her shorts—he asked, “Has Fran come back yet?”
“No. I haven't seen her.”
“Would you mind going down to the beach and if she's within shouting distance, tell her we're ready to go swimming,” Matt said, thinking: It should take her about three minutes to reach the dock.
He glanced at his watch as he returned to the Hunters. Exactly three minutes and eight seconds later they all heard May scream.
Matt was dictating in his den when the village cop knocked on the door. He'd had several good hookers and while Matt wasn't high, his nerves were relaxed. To his surprise— and admiration—he had been able to get into the story he was working on and had actually done a dozen pages.
Matt stood in the doorway and nodded at the local cop, said, “Hello, Ted,” and glanced at the thickset man standing behind the young policeman. The dumpy-looking man was wearing a cheap and badly fitting summer suit. The coconut straw hat—still on his head—was stained with sweat and other things. The plain sports shirt struggled to circle the bull neck. The man looked like a barrel of lard to most people, but Matt, who had gone in for weight lifting and had studied muscles, knew the man was tremendously strong.
With a mild note of apology in his voice, Ted said, “Sorry to disturb you again, Mr. Anthony. Ah... this here is Detective Walter Kolcicki, from the D.A.'s office in the county seat.”
“Not disturbing me at all. How do you do, Detective Kolcicki,” Matt held out his hand. Kolcicki's hand weighed a ton.
“Let's sit down. I got some routine questions.” The detective's voice was low, almost bored.
“Of course,” Matt said, amused by the round stupid face. He walked to his desk and pulled up two chairs. “I was in the midst of some work. I not only have a deadline to meet, but I find work helps take my mind off the tragedy.”
Kolcicki sat down beside the desk, nodded at Ted who had remained in the doorway. As Ted started to close the door, from the outside, Matt called out, “Ask May to give you some imported beer I have.”
Matt sat down and tried to smile. Kolcicki stared at Matt, his eyes large and emotionless. Matt asked, “Have you ever read any of my books?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I'm anxious to cooperate in every way.”
Kolcicki pushed his hat back on his head, said nothing.
“You may be interested in knowing I have worked with the New York City Police Department, and with the D.A's office in Los Angeles. In my work I...”
“Did you threaten to kill your wife this afternoon?” Kolcicki's voice was hard and blunt.
Mart's heart began to race as he held out his hands, shrugged. “No. Not really.”
“These other people, the Hunters, they say you did.”
“Oh I said it, you know, we had a little fuss. Words that have no real... hell, man, you call somebody a bastard without meaning it.”
“I never say it unless I mean it. You bastard, why did you kill her?”
Matt nearly jumped out of his chair. He fought to control his voice as he asked, “Do you realize what you're saying?”
“Yeah.”
“Now see here, while I understand you have a job to do, I've been through a great deal today and... Look, there's nothing to be gained by bluffing. I talked to the police and the medical examiner, and both their reports clearly state my wife's death was an accident. Obviously while fishing she—”
Detective Kolcicki said a common four letter word, one that Matt had used hundreds of times in his books, yet it never sounded as harsh and brutal as when it came from the detective's fat mouth.
Matt began to sweat and the pounding of his heart shook his whole body. He had read and written a great deal about the third degree methods of the police, undoubtedly exaggerating it in his mind, and had a deadly fear of such torture. There was a case where the police drilled a suspect's teeth until... Matt ran a hand over his face, forced himself to say calmly and slowly, “Hadn't we better get a few things straight, officer? I'm not some migratory farmhand who doesn't know his rights. I'm a well-known writer, and not without influence. You're a small town cop and view this as a chance to make a name. Be careful you don't make a fool of yourself.”
“Yeah, I'm a hick cop. But before this I worked Homicide in Chicago for 14 years. Cut the bull, Anthony. You threaten to kill your wife and two hours later she's dead. For me, that adds. I ain't here asking if you did it—I want to know why you killed her.”
“Don't be an ass! My wife obviously tripped while standing in a boat, struck her head on the—”
Almost in slow motion Detective Kolcicki reached over and punched Matt in the stomach. It was a terrible blow, bent Matt double, paralyzing him with pain and fear. Matt had done a lot of careful boxing, once or twice even sparred with pros, but he had never been hit like this. His heart seemed to be galloping out of his open mouth.
“Bastard! Tell me why, then how you did it!” The voice was still low and horribly impersonal, except for the word 'bastard' which had the chill of death about it.
A hundred story twists for outwitting the stupid cop, a dozen Judo holds he had so well described in his books, ran through Matt's brain like a runaway film. He gasped, “You... you... don't you realize I glorify... guys... like you?” He took a deep and painful breath. “I... I... make you heroic... Yes... I make you guys famous...!”
Kolcicki didn't seem to hear, his eyes watching Matt with a cold calm as if he was studying him under a glass. More air returned to Matt's tortured lungs and scenes of swinging rubber hoses, gouged eyes, blackjacks and their metal cores, broken faces, joined the racing movie in his mind. He said, “See here... I... I demand a lawyer!”
“Yeah, when you've signed a confession. Louse, why did you do it?”
Matt frantically thought of yelling into the phone, of screaming for help, even of turning on the recorder switch, getting it all down on tape. Would the swish of a sap make enough sound? He said, “Listen to me; I have proof that I was with Joel Hunter at the time the medical examiner fixed Fran's death. The police know this...”
As his own hand crept toward the recording switch he saw the detective's wide fist coming at him again. Matt tried to scream, yell, but only a weak hiss came from his open mouth as the fist seemed to ram his jumping heart through his back. The blow knocked Matt over the back of the chair. He hit the floor hard, both hands pressing his agonized belly. Without showing any strain, Kolcicki straightened up the chair, then picked up Matt's big body, actually tossed him into the chair. He hadn't even disturbed his straw hat as he sat down and asked, “Come on, why?”