The weather was pleasant enough for me to have breakfast on the roof deck, where I finished reading the Iceman manuscript. I have wondered why so many people seem to find their first meal of the day boring, and why they so often eat the same thing day after day. Traveling abroad, I have had some quite exotic breakfasts, everything from pâté de campagne and toast points in Paris to gluten bread and elderberries with clotted cream in Frankfurt. This morning I feasted on kippered herring and Pepita’s French toast—made with day-old sourdough bread, slathered with maple syrup and garnished with fresh blueberries.
As I sat drinking my second cup of Juan Valdez’s coffee, Oscar appeared with the portable phone in his hand. “Miz Reechmon,” he announced.
“So nice to hear from you,” I murmured before Margo had the chance to drop her bombshell.
“Nick,” she said, “I wanted to say I’m sorry about last night. I know you were disappointed…”
“Disappointment is never fatal, my dear,” I said. “And not even final.”
“Go ahead.”
“I don’t think we ought to see each other for a while.”
I felt a sharp stab in the vicinity of my chest which I knew was certainly disappointment. “But why?”
“Let’s just say I think we need some distance between us, and perhaps some time to decide where we stand—and also where we’re going.”
“That’s quite rational of you, Margo. I wish I felt the same way.”
“That’s the problem, Nick. You seem to be emotionally involved, and I am not—not in the same way. Oh, I like you well enough…”
“Thanks for small favors.”
“And anyway you know your business always comes ahead of everything else.”
When I’m not involved in the murder of one of my editors, that is.
There didn’t appear to be much more for me to say; clearly Margo’s mind was made up, and she was not to be persuaded otherwise—not by my oratory, at any rate. I muttered something about being sorry, and she said something about getting in touch with me at some later date, and then we both hung up. It occurred to me that I was probably far less satisfied with this conversation than Margo was. Margo, Margo… why? The author of the only book on astrology I have ever published (and that with tongue firmly in cheek) would say that she was simply being a true Gemini—and perhaps in this case astrology did have the correct answer.
By this time, my second helping of French toast had cooled off, and so had my ardor. If I didn’t have another woman in my life for some time to come, it would not be a hardship at all.
I would miss Margo’s companionship, of course. And what about the second ticket I had for the Philharmonic’s Mostly Mozart? It was our custom, Margo and I, to have an early dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, Pierre au Tunnel, perhaps, Le Quercy, or Sfuzzi, and then stroll in a leisurely fashion up to what Margo, to my delight, insists on calling Eddie Fisher Hall.
Now I would just have to find another music lover.
Once back at the office, I sent for Sidney and gave him my considered editorial report on his new discovery.
“It needs work, Sidney.”
“Duh-don’t they all, though?”
I have long dreamt of the day when a manuscript would cross my desk in such perfect array that I could not imagine changing a word of it, not even adding or eliminating a comma—a masterpiece, like some rare diamond fresh from the cutter’s bench. I am still waiting, and I strongly suspect my dream will never come true.
“However, Sidney—Iceman is, even in its imperfect state, well worth a contract and a modest advance—say, ten thousand dollars. The usual split.”
“Fuh-five on signing and the rest on acceptance?”
I nodded. “And I’d like to meet the author as soon as you can arrange it,” I said.
“That muh-may be hard. She lives in Muh-muh…” He clenched his right fist tightly and grimaced.
“Minneapolis?”
“Right.”
“Well, then, whenever.”
Sidney returned to his office, and I turned to the day’s mail, which consisted largely of magazines and flyers, assorted press clippings, and a couple of invitations to press parties. The invitations come from fellow publishers and are issued not so much in the spirit of bonhomie as of curiosity, to find out what I’m up to. I go to them in the same spirit and to pick up any gossip I can.
I withdrew the current issue of Publishers Weekly from the pile and was about to open it when my eye was caught by a distinctively feminine light green envelope—addressed to me and marked “Personal.” I slit it open with a sudden sense of anticipation and read:
Dear Nick Barlow:
I have just learned about the terrible thing that has happened to Parker Foxcroft. I am shocked beyond measure by his murder, and I know you must be too. How could such a thing have happened?
If there is any way I can help, I hope you will call on me.
Sincerely,
It was signed “Susan Markham,” and included both a home address and a phone number.
Sitting back in my chair, I put the note away in my inside coat pocket, not without first rereading it and giving it some thought. Susan Markham… I had not expected to hear from her after the ABA, not after the cavalier way I had rebuffed her overtures, if “overtures” wasn’t too strong a word to describe her conversation with me. It occurred to me that it might be useful—informative, perhaps—to follow up on her offer to help.
Just then Hannah buzzed me.
“Lieutenant Hatcher is on the phone,” she said.
I picked up. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Mr. Barlow,” he said in the clipped, uninflected way he had of speaking, “we’d like you to come over to headquarters for further questioning. If you don’t mind.”
“Well…”
“You’re free to bring your attorney, of course.” I got the distinct impression that he thought bringing a lawyer would be a good idea.
“I thought I’d told you all I know,” I said in a futile appeal to Hatcher’s better nature.
He waited a couple of beats before replying. “There are still some… loose ends? You know… to tie up.”
I looked at my watch. “When would you like me to stop in?”
“How about eleven o’clock?”
“I’ll see if my attorney can meet me there, and let you know.”
“That’ll be fine.”
I got Alex Margolies on the line as quickly as Hannah could find him. Alex is both my lawyer and a friend; he has also been trained as a CPA, which makes him useful on many fronts. Much as I rely on the good Mortimer Mandelbaum, I would not dream of filing taxes without having the forms vetted by Alex.
“You’re lucky, Nick,” he said. “I was supposed to be in court this morning, but we got a postponement.”
“So you’ll meet me at the Thirteenth Precinct.”
“Sure thing.”
I gave him the address, hung up, and sat there, swearing under my breath. The last thing I needed was another of what Hatcher called “interviews” and I was beginning to think of as inquisitions.
I asked Hannah to confirm my appointment with Lieutenant Hatcher and picked up the Publishers Weekly again. The first thing I turned to was the best-seller list, and I was gratified to see that Herbert Poole’s Pan at Twilight, like Abou Ben Adam, still headed the list.
I met Alex Margolies in the anteroom of the Thirteenth Precinct house shortly before eleven. We looked around, taking in the general shabbiness and congestion of the place. There were three sergeants at the reception counter—two male, one female—and half a dozen assorted citizens either at the counter or seated on benches nearby.
I didn’t need to fill Alex in on why were there; he is as avid a reader of the crime reports as I am.
“Other than your finding the corpus delicti,” he said to me, pitching his voice lower than usual, “what reason have the cops to suspect you?”
I told him about the quarrel and about my decision to get rid of Parker.
“But I didn’t mean to get rid of him that way.”
“Well,” he said, “we’ll see what this Lieutenant Hatcher has to say for himself.”
Suddenly, as though summoned by the mere mention of his name, Hatcher appeared, virtually at my elbow.
“Mr. Barlow,” he said, “I appreciate your coming.” He turned to Alex. “And you’re…”
“Alexander Margolies, attorney-at-law.”
Hatcher nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Counselor. Won’t you both come in my office?”
We followed meekly after him, through a hallway with a water fountain and a pay phone, both in use at the moment by uniformed patrolpeople. There were also posters on a bulletin board—the ten most wanted, perhaps? The walls were painted in what we call “men’s-room green,” a shade both bilious and antiseptic.
Hatcher’s office was private if not what I would call inviting. His desk and chair; a couple of well-worn visitors’ chairs; several file cabinets; a computer terminal and printer; and nothing hanging on the walls but a Sierra Club calendar. I don’t know what I expected Hatcher’s desk to look like; it was actually rather neat: an in-box, an out-box, a blotter, and a phone—nothing else except a file folder, which he now opened. Alex and I took our seats and waited. After a long few moments of leafing through the file, he finally arrived at what appeared to be my dossier; at least, I assumed that’s what it was.
“A few routine questions, Mr. Barlow,” was his opening line. I braced myself. Is there anything routine about a murder investigation? Yes, I suppose so. And yet every murder is different, and every murderer. There are an infinite number of changes to be rung on the original crime, which started, after all, with Cain and Abel.
“For starters,” said Hatcher, “I’d like to know more about your relationship with the victim.”
“I’ve already told you what our business arrangement was.”
Hatcher sighed with evident weariness. “I mean how did you get along?”
“Well enough to work together,” I said.
“Yet I’ve learned from interviewing your staff that you have had a number of run-ins with Foxcroft. That doesn’t sound to me like you were able to work with him all that well, does it?”
He apparently expected an answer to his question; I merely shrugged.
“You were thinking about getting rid of him, weren’t you?”
“That would give Foxcroft more reason to kill me than the other way around, Lieutenant.”
“Just what kind of financial troubles is your company having, Mr. Barlow?”
I looked at Alex Margolies, who shook his head. “That’s privileged information, Lieutenant, and I’m advising my client not to answer your question.”
“Okay,” said Hatcher, visibly shifting gears. “Do you own a gun, Mr. Barlow?”
“No, I do not.” I was going to add that I despise guns and the havoc they wreak in our society, that if I could wipe them all off the face of the earth by a wave of my hand, I would do it in an instant, and while I was being godlike, I would also dissolve the National Rifle Association, like this: Bang! You’re dead. However, looking at the police special in Hatcher’s shoulder holster, I thought it better to keep my opinions to myself.
“But you are familiar with firearms.”
“Only what I read in mysteries and crime novels, Lieutenant. And as I’ve already told you, I was in Air Force Intelligence, so of course I had to know how to handle a forty-five.”
Hatcher pressed on, looking occasionally at his file. What did I know of Foxcroft’s relationships with other members of the firm? With this Harry Bunter, for example? With Lester Crispin? With Sidney Leopold? I was noncommittal in every instance.
Finally Alex rose to his feet and said: “Lieutenant, I’m going to advise my client not to answer any further questions, especially those concerning other members of his firm. Those questions are not relevant. I assume,” he added, “that my client is not being charged with any offense?”
“Not at this time,” said Hatcher, also rising from his chair.
Not at this time? I thought. Why, you son of a bitch!
“Anyway,” Hatcher added, “have a nice day.”
I might have known his tag line would be that dreary cliché.
Once Alex and I were free of the cozy atmosphere of the station house, I turned to him and said: “He’s not going to let up on me, is he?”
Alex nodded. “It would appear that at the moment, you’re the only suspect he has.”
I knew what I was going to do when I got back to the office. Call Joe Scanlon with an SOS.