Killer's Choice

The bald one looked at the blond one.

'Somebody told you she was a drunkard?' Patricia asked.

'Yes.'

'Well, you gotta be careful. There's people who are out to protect their own interests, you know. They don't care how they malign a dead person.'

'Which people did you have in mind, Miss?' the bald one asked.

'People. People always got their own axes to grind, don't you know that?'

'Did you like Annie?'

'Loved her like a sister. I didn't like everything she was involved in, but that's none of my business. I like a person, I like them. I don't ask questions. I don't stick my nose where it don't belong.'

'What sort of things?'

'Huh?'

'Was she involved in?'

'Oh. That's none of my business.'

'But it is ours,' the bald one said.

He wasn't so bad when you got used to him. He had nice blue eyes, and a very patient manner.

'Yeah, but… I don't like to talk about somebody's dead.'

'Well, it might help us to find her murderer.'

'That's true. Still. I wouldn't like nobody talking about me if I was dead.' Patricia shivered. 'Whooo! That gives me the creeps, you know? I got goose bumps all over me, just talking about it. I can't stand talking about death, do you know? I couldn't even go to my own mother's funeral, that's how bad I am. When you two first got here, I thought you were undertakers, and I got goose bumps all over. I got an aunt out West is ready to die any day now. I get the creeps thinking about it.'

The blond one looked at the bald one.

'No offence meant,' Patricia said. 'About the undertakers, I mean. It's just you were so serious and all.'

The bald one looked at the blond one.

'Well,' Patricia said, and she gave up.

'What was Annie Boone involved in?' the blond one asked.

'Nothing.'

'Something illegal?'

'No.'

'Bootleg hootch?'

'Huh?'

'Tax evasion?'

'Huh?'

'What was it?'

'Nothing.'

'Not something illegal?'

'No. I don't know. How do I know it's legal or not?'

'What?'

'What she was doing.'

'What was she doing?'

'I don't know. She was my friend. Look, I don't like to talk about somebody's dead. Can't we change the subject? Can't we talk about something else?'

'Was she a drunkard?' the bald one asked.

'No.'

'A junkie?' the blond one asked.

'A what?'

'A drug addict?'

'No.'

'What then? What was she doing illegally?'

'Nothing.'

'Then why'd she get killed so violently?'

'I don't know. Why don't you ask…' Patricia stopped.

'Ask who?'

'Ask… other people.'

'Like who?'

'Like the people she knew better than me. Like Frank Abelson. He knew her better. Or this other feller she dated. Artie Cordis. Ask them.'

'Was she serious with them?'

'No.'

'Then why should we ask them anything?'

'I don't know. It's better than asking me. I don't know about her, or about what she was doing.'

'Who'd want to kill her, Miss Colworthy?'

'How should I know? I don't even like to talk about it. I don't even like to think about it!'

'Did she have any enemies?'

'No.'

'Close friends?'

Patricia did not answer.

'Who?'

Patricia did not answer.

'All right,' the bald one said, sighing. 'Who was she sleeping with?'

Patricia sighed, too.

'Mr Phelps,' she said. 'The man who owned the liquor shop where she worked.'

Franklin Phelps did not live in the 87th Precinct.

His liquor store was there, but he lived in a fashionable suburb called Northern Crestion. He lived in a house which had cost him $35,000 ten years ago, and which he could have listed now with any real estate agent for $49,500. The house itself wasn't anything to go shouting about. But it happened that Northern Crestion had sort of grown up around the house, and real estate values had grown with it.

The house was on a half acre of ground, set back some fifty feet from the road. The road itself was called Pala Vista Drive, and Meyer and Kling drove up the winding street looking at the numbers on the stone pillars of each driveway. They stopped at number 35 Pala Vista. They left the car at the kerb, and then walked up the wide slate pathway to the front door. The house was a two-storey frame with hand-split cedar shingles and shutters. The shingles had been painted a teal blue. The shutters were white. The door was white, too, and there was a big brass knocker in the centre of it. Meyer lifted the knocker and let it fall.

'Ten-to-one a servant,' he said to Kling.

'No bet,' Kling answered.

The door opened. A coloured girl in a pink uniform peered out at them.

'Yes?' she asked.

'Mr Phelps, please.'

'Who shall I say is calling, please?'

'Police,' Meyer said, and he flashed the tin.

'Just a moment, please,' the girl said, and she closed the door gently.

'Think he'll make a run through the back door?' Meyer asked jokingly.

'Maybe so,' Kling answered. 'Shall I get the riot gun from the car?'

'Some hand grenades, too,' Meyer said. 'It's too bad Mr Cotton isn't with us. I haven't been shot in a long time.'

The door opened again. An attractive woman of forty-two, perhaps closer to forty-four, stood in the doorway. Her hair had once been blond, but it was turning grey, turning with a gentle dignity. She had large brown eyes, and she smiled pleasantly and said, 'Won't you come in? Franklin's in the shower.'

The detectives stepped into the foyer. A smoky grey mirror threw their reflections back at them.

'Won't you come into the living-room?' she said. 'I'm Marna Phelps.'

'I'm Detective Meyer,' Meyer said. 'My partner, Detective Kling.'

'How do you do?' Mrs Phelps said. 'Would you like some coffee or anything? Franklin won't be but a moment.'

They followed her into the living-room. The furniture was straight from the palace at Versailles. A Louis XVI writing cabinet with a fall-down front stood against the wall between two windows, three circular and three rectangular Sèvres porcelain plaques set into its face. A Regency mahogany library table was against the opposite wall, flanked by a pair of Louis XVI giltwood settees, their seats and backs upholstered in Beauvais tapestry. Rare porcelain and china were spotted indiscreetly about the room. Meyer expected Marie Antoinette to come in serving tea and cakes. Uneasily, the detectives sat.

'Did you say you wanted coffee?' Mrs Phelps asked.

'No, thank you,' Kling said.

Meyer cleared his throat and looked at Kling. He would, in fact, have enjoyed a cup of coffee. The opportunity was past. Mrs Phelps was turning to a new topic.

'This is about Annie, isn't it?' she asked.

'Yes,' Kling said.

'You know then?'

'Know what?'

'About Franklin and her?'

'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.'