Write Murder Down Read online

  “The manuscript—I suppose the manuscript of this new book of hers—wasn’t in the apartment she’d rented on Gay Street. Or in her hotel room,” Tony said.

  “Probably already turned it in to Karn,” Pierce said. “He’d seen part of it. Hundred pages or so. Anyway, that’s what he told us. Said he was damned sure she’d hit it again. Maybe even hit it harder. Of course, he was talking it up big, under the circumstances. On the other hand, he’s quite an editor. He dug her up to start with. Played along with her.”

  “Under what circumstances, Mr. Pierce? Some special circumstances?”

  Pierce looked across the table at Alvin Carson. The look was pointed; it was a look which sought an answer.

  “It’s not especially secret,” Carson said. “Nothing much is in the trade. Mr. Karn and Jefferson Press have been considering a merger. We’ve—er—been in consultation with Mr. Karn’s legal advisers. What Tommy means—I assume what he means-is that if Mr. Karn can bring along a new book, a new successful book, by Jo-An Lacey, his—” He paused and sipped from his drink.

  “His position would be considerably strengthened,” he said. “That’s what you were getting at, Tommy?”

  “Up to Ronald Anderson,” Pierce said. “He’s the president. I just work there. But, yes. I suppose that was what was more or less in my mind. Strengthen his position puts it about right.”

  “Does his position need strengthening?” Tony asked, and again Pierce looked across the room at Carson. Carson drank from his glass. Then he looked at Tony Cook.

  “Mr. Cook,” he said, “are you here in an official capacity? Because you’re one of those who are investigating Miss Lacey’s death?”

  “I’m here,” Tony said, “because I had a date with Miss Farmer, Counselor. And because she felt it would be all right if we dropped in for a drink.”

  “Not because you knew Mr. Pierce is a senior editor of the Jefferson Press. And that the Press and Oscar Karn, Incorporated, are considering a merger? And that Miss Lacey was one of Karn’s authors?”

  “I didn’t know Mr. Pierce was with the Jefferson Press,” Tony said. “Rachel said something about his being an editor. She didn’t say for whom. Did you, Rachel?”

  Rachel’s glass of almost-certainly sweet sherry was barely touched. She looked at Tony for a moment and shook her head. Then she said, “No, Tony. I just said Tommy was an editor. No. I said he worked for one of the book publishers. I didn’t say which one. And you did make a reservation at the restaurant, didn’t you?”

  Tony looked at his watch. It still wasn’t seven o’clock. She isn’t happy about any of this, Tony thought. She’s wishing I’d left my badge at home, along with my gun. But after he had looked at his watch he shook his head at Rachel. He said, “Time to finish our drinks.” She looked at her almost-full wineglass. Then she tilted her head up and looked at the ceiling. That way, she’s got a lovely profile, Tony thought. Damn Nate anyway.

  “We had heard rumors about this merger,” Tony said to Carson and to Pierce. “No details. I take it that Karn needs a potentially successful book to take with him?”

  Carson appeared to think that over. Then he said, “A potential best seller is always an asset, Mr. Cook.” He said it in a tone which implied no likelihood of amplification.

  “All right,” Pierce said. “If she’d finished it.”

  “Of course,” Tony said. “And if she hadn’t, it’s no asset. That’s clear enough.”

  Pierce said, “Sure.” Then he said, “Of course it depends on how far she’d got with it. And how much of an outline she had ahead. If it was almost done and the outline was clear enough, Karn might have got somebody to finish it. Explaining in a foreword, probably. Not a usual thing to do, but it’s happened.”

  “Another writer who could—make it sound as if Miss Lacey had written it?”

  “Well,” Pierce said, “not too much as if she hadn’t. And as I said, there’d probably be a foreword. ‘Miss Lacey had not quite finished this book at the time of her tragic death. The concluding pages were written, following her outline, by—oh, by So and So.’”

  “Have you any idea who this So and So might be, Mr. Pierce?”

  “No. Another of Karn’s authors, at a guess. But it’s all guesswork, isn’t it? Probably she’d finished the book. Probably Oss has got it tucked away in a safe. Anyway, I don’t see what it would have to do with Jo-An Lacey’s death.”

  “Neither do I,” Tony said. “We just grope around, Mr. Pierce.”

  Tony finished his drink. He said, “Maybe we had better be getting along, Rachel. We told Shepley we’d meet him around seven-thirty.”

  He looked at Rachel. There was no flicker of astonishment in her face. Good girl, Tony thought. Sweet sherry and now this thrown at her out of, certainly, the blue. She drank from her glass. She didn’t even make a face. She said, “Maybe we’d better, Tony,” and put her glass down. She had almost emptied it.

  The man with longish hair—a very slight man with a good deal of hair—put his highball glass down on the table. He said, “Larry Shepley? Man with a red beard?”

  “Yes,” Tony said. “You know Shepley, Mr.—?”

  “Parks,” the long-haired man said. “Francis Parks.” He spoke his name as if Tony should recognize it; as if he should say, “Not the Francis Parks.” Tony did know a man named Parks—“Bulldog” Parks. He’d arrested Bulldog a few years back on a charge of assault with a deadly weapon. Bulldog was in jail; also he did look a little like a bulldog. One with a bad temper.

  “Yes, I know Larry,” Parks said. “We had him a couple of times as a visiting lecturer. Magazine article writing. That was a year or so back.”

  Tony, who had leaned forward as if to stand up, raised his eyebrows.

  “N.Y.U.,” Parks said. “I teach there.”

  “Frank’s an associate professor,” Angela Pierce said. “He’s also a poet. A very fine poet.”

  “So I teach for a living,” Parks said. “‘The Art of Poetry.’ Damned pretentious name for the course, but it’s what they held out for.”

  “About Shepley?” Tony said.

  “Known him for several years is all,” Parks said. “Used to write short stories, sometimes for the slicks. Then the slicks more or less gave up fiction so he started to write articles. Lives down here somewhere. I run into him now and then. No mistaking that beard of his.”

  “When you’ve run into him,” Tony said, “was it ever with Miss Lacey? I mean, was he ever with Miss Lacey?”

  “I never saw Miss Lacey,” Parks said. “Oh—seen pictures of her. But you can’t go by pictures. Yes, he was with a girl a couple of times, as I remember it. Little thing. Brown hair, I think. Wore it long. Down to her shoulders, anyway. You see a lot like her, actually.”

  “Did she have a Southern accent?”

  “Didn’t speak to her,” Parks said. “Just said ‘Hi’ to Larry and went along.”

  “You said a couple of times with this girl,” Tony said. “The same girl both times?”

  “I’d guess so. Look, Mr. Cook, it’s not me who’s the detective. The kind that never forgets a face.”

  “I’m not that kind either,” Tony said. “Handicap in my line of work. Miss Lacey weighed a hundred and four pounds. She had brown hair to her shoulders. She had a good figure. We’ve been told she dressed well. Answer the description of this girl you saw with Shepley?”

  “Well enough. And of hundreds—thousands—of young women.”

  Tony had a copy of the photograph, the head-and-shoulders photograph, of Jo-An Lacey in his pocket. So did hundreds of other policemen. Tony showed the photograph to Francis Parks.

  Parks said, “Jo-An Lacey?” and Tony said, “Yes, Mr. Parks.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no,” Parks said. “Look, I didn’t stop and stare at her and Shepley. Not either time I saw them together, assuming it was the same girl both times.”

  Did Parks happen to remember where he had seen Shepley, possibly with Jo-An Lacey? Did
he happen to remember when?

  “Two-three weeks ago,” Parks said. “I think it was in the Square. I had a late class and was walking through the Square and passed them. Way I remember it, anyway. The other time—maybe a couple of days later—they were walking up Sixth Avenue. Somewhere around Ninth Street, as I remember it. I was with a friend of mine and we didn’t stop. I just said ‘Hi’ and we went along.”

  Tony stood up and Rachel also stood up. “No reason to rush,” Pierce said. Rachel said, “We do have this date, don’t we, Tony?” Tony nodded his head and said they did. He also said, again, that it was good of the Pierces to let him barge in, and Pierce said, “Any time,” and went with them to the door, after Rachel had said, “Good night, all of you.”

  They were on the sidewalk and had begun to walk toward Washington Square when Alvin Carson caught up with them.

  “I take it,” Carson said, “that that was a fishing expedition, Mr. Cook? Catch anything?”

  Tony said, “Fishing expedition, Mr. Carson?”

  “I take it,” Carson said, falling into step with them, “that you’re assigned to the investigation of Miss Lacey’s death. That you came along with Miss Farmer to fish.”

  Tony said, “Do you, Mr. Carson?”

  “To fish without much bait,” Carson said. “That’s the way it seemed to me. I’ve heard you work with Nathan Shapiro, who’s probably in charge of the investigation. Anyway, his name was mentioned in the story in the News this evening. The early edition. I happen to have run into Lieutenant Shapiro a few times.”

  Tony didn’t say anything. They just walked along.

  “I’m an officer of the court,” Carson said. “Don’t do much criminal work any more. My firm is counsel for the Jefferson Press. The publishers Karn wants to merge with.”

  “I gathered that,” Tony said. “And that you were being cagy about it.”

  “Oscar Karn,” Carson said, “has published a couple of books of poetry by Parks. And as counsel for the Jefferson Press I’m—er—required to keep things confidential. But I’m also an officer of the court, as I said. I’m obligated to help the authorities in any way I can. You seemed interested in the projected merger. And also in Mr. Shepley.”

  “I’m interested in anything which relates to Miss Lacey’s murder,” Tony said.

  Carson did not answer immediately. They reached Washington Square and walked into it. It was still light; the Square still, relatively, was safe to walk through.

  “As you say,” Tony said, “you’re an officer of the court, Mr. Carson. I’d appreciate anything you can tell me that might relate to Miss Lacey’s murder.”

  “You made that clear enough,” Carson said. “That you were on a fishing expedition back there. I can, without violating the confidential relationship of lawyer and client, tell you one thing you seemed to be interested in.”

  Lawyers are inclined to cover any point with verbiage, Tony thought. He said he would be glad to hear anything Mr. Carson felt free to tell him.

  “Karn needs this merger,” Carson said. “It’s common gossip in the trade. He hasn’t been doing as well lately as he used to do. A good many of his books have—well, fizzled out. And his backlist is weak. It was he who suggested the merger. For the terms he wants he—well, he needs a lot more.”

  “Like?”

  “Like a potential best seller,” Carson said. “A smash hit like—well, say, like Miss Lacey’s Snake Country.”

  “Or this new one of hers?”

  “If it’s as good as Snake Country. If he owns the rights and can bring the book with him. If it’s as good as he seems to think it is.”

  “And if she finished it,” Tony said. “Or—or almost finished it? As Mr. Pierce suggested?”

  “Of course,” Carson said. “You understand I’m not an editor, Mr. Cook. I’m a lawyer, subject to instructions. Any decision as to the potential value of Miss Lacey’s new book would be made by Ronald Anderson. He’s president of the Jefferson Press. And Tommy Pierce would have a say, naturally. If they like it enough, after they’ve read the manuscript, Karn’s bargaining position would be—well, considerably improved, let’s say. Have you turned up the manuscript, Mr. Cook?”

  “I haven’t seen it,” Tony said. Detectives can be cagy too.

  They had crossed the Square and had come to Washington Square North, which beyond the Square continues as Waverly Place. A cab with its top light on was going west. Carson held up a hand and the cab swerved to the curb.

  “I’m going uptown,” Carson said, reaching for the cab’s door handle. “Drop you two anywhere?”

  Tony said he guessed not.

  Holding the door handle, Carson turned to them.

  “By the way,” he said, “this man Shepley you seemed interested in. He’s one of Karn’s authors, I believe. Or was for a couple of books, anyway. Nonfiction as I understand it. Not too successful, either of them, from what I hear.”

  He opened the door and got into the taxi. The cab driver slapped his flag down.

  “Pleasant to have met you, Miss Farmer,” Carson said through the open window as the cab pulled away from the curb. “And you too, Cook.”

  “All right, mister,” Rachel said. She nowadays called him “mister” only when she was a little annoyed at him. “Was it worth the trouble? And that awful sherry? And what’s all this about our meeting Shepley?”

  “We’re not,” Cook said. “We never were. I’m sorry about the sherry. Whether it was worth the trouble I don’t know. Did you ever hear of somebody finishing somebody else’s book?”

  “I’ve heard of it happening,” Rachel said. “Do we get some dinner now?”

  “We might stop by and pick up my gun first,” Tony said. “Where would you like to go, dear?”

  “I,” Rachel said, “would like to go to the Algonquin. If it isn’t too late. Do you have to have a gun to have dinner at the Algonquin?”

  “I,” Tony Cook said, “am supposed to have a gun to go any place.”

  So they went across Sixth Avenue and into Gay Street and her apartment, and Tony put his gun on. And Rachel had a La Ina to take the taste of the sweet sherry out of her mouth, and Tony had a short bourbon. And they decided it was perhaps a little late to go uptown for dinner and walked the few blocks to André’s and had dinner in the garden.

  Tony half expected Laurence Shepley would be there, but he wasn’t.

  10

  The Shapiros breakfast late on Sunday morning when Sunday happens to be Nathan’s day off. They were breakfasting at a little after nine-thirty, and sunlight was coming through the windows of their Brooklyn apartment. Nathan was on his third cup of coffee and his second cigarette.

  “It looks like being another nice day,” Rose said, and lighted her first cigarette. Then she said, “You know it won’t do you any good, dog,” to Cleo, who was sitting and looking up, watching each bite her people took. She had been looking hopeful. When cigarettes were lighted she made a low, disappointed sound.

  “You know you’re never fed at table,” Rose told Cleo. “Go eat your own breakfast.”

  Cleo, who declines to know that she is not fed at table, gave a low, disconsolate woof.

  “It would be a nice day to do something,” Rose said. “After we read the Times. Go for a walk or something.”

  Nathan said, “Mmmm.” He added that after one had read the Sunday New York Times there is no day left to walk in. He stubbed out his cigarette and reached out toward the pack on the table in front of him. “No,” Rose said. “You’re supposed to count.”

  Nathan pulled back the hand which was hovering over the pack of cigarettes.

  “And,” Rose said, “I’m here, Nathan. If you haven’t noticed it, I’m here.”

  “I know,” Nathan Shapiro said. “I was just—just going over things.”

  “You always are,” Rose said. “Always going over who killed somebody.”

  She got up and began to put dishes on a tray. She had lifted the tray when the telephone
rang. She put the tray back down again. She said, “Damn! It’s Sunday. You’re off this Sunday.” She crossed the room to the telephone and said, “Hullo?” to it. She said, “All right, Tony. He is,” and Nathan Shapiro crossed the room and took the telephone from his wife. Rose said, “Damn!” again, and with somewhat more emphasis than before, and went back and picked up the tray.

  “On Sunday morning?” Nathan said, with sad incredulity in his voice. He listened. He said, “All right. I’ll meet you there. Did you—no, skip it. Tell me at the office.”

  He put the receiver in its cradle. Rose had come out of the kitchen and stood looking up at him. Then, slowly, she shook her head.

  “I gather,” Rose Shapiro said, “that I’ll be the one to walk Cleo. By myself.”

  “I’m afraid so, darling,” Nathan said. “A man walked into his office about eight o’clock this morning and got slugged by somebody who was already there.”

  “The precinct,” Rose said, who had been married to a policeman for some years, “or Safe and Loft? Or was he killed?”

  “Just knocked out,” Shapiro told her, from the bedroom where he was dressing. “Only, he’s a man Tony and I talked to yesterday. An authors’ agent, he’s called.”

  He came out of the bedroom, strapping on his shoulder holster.

  “And again damn,” Rose said. “And I thought it was going to be such a nice day.”

  “Maybe this afternoon,” Nathan said and leaned down to kiss her. “Meanwhile, there’s always the Times.”

  Rose pulled herself away. Then, gently, she slapped her husband’s sad face.

  “I should have married a certified public accountant,” Rose Shapiro said. “A nine-to-fiver.”

  “Did you have one in mind?”

  Shapiro put on a jacket to cover his gun. He tightened his necktie.

  “No, dear,” Rose said. “I never had one in mind. All I ever had in mind was a tall, thin policeman who came around to ask if the car parked in front of a fire hydrant was mine. And whom I told that I didn’t have a car and never parked it in front of fire hydrants. Go on, dear, and find out why a man would be going into his office at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning.”