CELIA HAD BEEN AWAKENED early by a call from a man who said he was Peter Greco. He sounded sleepy and disinterested but had just gotten a call from Hilary Sampson, who told him it was important that he call Celia. Well, yawn, here he was, and she could buy him breakfast if she wanted because it would definitely take a bribe to get him abroad so early. She was underwhelmed by the offer and said so, and Greco told her that that was certainly all right with him. She could tell he was about to hang up. He couldn’t have cared less. The problem was, she did. She couldn’t stand this guy already, but the morning wasn’t making the letter any easier to take.
So now she was sitting in the window at Homer’s, on Tenth where it turned between Sixth and Greenwich. He was already fifteen minutes late, and she was on her second cup of burned coffee, when she saw this guy about her height but built like a ticket booth come in. He was wearing a Yankees warm-up jacket. She should have guessed. It was just perfect: she’d always been a Mets fan.
He was the type who passed a witticism from the corner of his mouth to the girl at the cashier counter, making her laugh. Probably very big with waitresses and meter maids. Cool. He made straight for her, dropped the Daily News and his sunglasses on the table, shrugged out of the jacket and sat down. “Hi, toots,” he said. “What’s new?” He signaled to the swarthy, mustachioed Greek waiter for a cup of what Celia just knew he’d call java.
“How did you know me?” she asked. “Or is there some hope you’re just a masher and not the man I’ve been patiently waiting for for half an hour—”
“Hey, hey, take it easy on a man with only one eye. Hey, Demetrios, is this the fresh pot or the crud you’ve been giving her?”
“Fresh made, Mr. Greco, just for you.”
“Way to go, my man. Write this down, cheese and onion omelette, toasted bagel, and a big smile. How about you, honey?”
“Two poached eggs—”
Greco interrupted with a moan. “And dry whole wheat toast, don’t tell me. Diet doesn’t make any difference, you know. When your number’s up, your number’s up—”
“And dry whole wheat toast,” she said through gritted teeth.
He shook his head. She found herself staring at the eye patch and the tracery of scars across his forehead and nose. It wasn’t disfiguring, just interesting, like seeing a vintage car that had been used hard. He had thick black eyebrows, and the lone eye glittered like a chip of hard shiny coal.
“Some kind of face, right? Been around.” He poured sugar into milky coffee.
“Looks a little the worse for wear,” she said.
“You should see the guy who was standing next to me. You’d have to dig him up, of course. They buried what they could find in a shoe box. It was the cough candy.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I had this cough last winter so I tried the stuff I saw on TV. The pretty cough-candy fairy. Hilary said it was you. That’s how I knew you, the cough-candy fairy.”
“Did the stuff work?”
“You gotta be kidding. So, what’s the story on this murder thing?” He enjoyed his coffee. She could tell by the amount of noise he was making.
She told him the whole story, and by the time she had finished, his omelette and bagel were gone and Demetrios had refilled his cup three times. Her eggs were cold and untouched. She took a deep breath and broke off a corner of toast, popped it into her mouth, and prodded an egg. “So what do you think?”
“Hilary was right. The cops would say you were wasting their time.”
“What do you say?”
“I think you’re an actress with a flair for dramatizing things. Chances are there’s no murder being plotted. Somebody’s making notes on a book. For a review maybe. I don’t know. Forget it, that’s what I say.” The eye kept raking her face like a searchlight. He lit a cigarette.”
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Smoke. At least wait until I’m through eating.”
“Wonderful.” He ground out the butt.
“Hilary was wrong.”
“About what?”
“You. She said you were smart.”
He laughed. “For that, lady, I smoke.” He lit another Lucky. “And cut out the sweet talk. You’re not my type. Cute little blondes for me—”
“How disgusting!”
“Don’t be absurd. Most of them turn out to be perfect ladies. But once in a while, just often enough to keep me interested, I find a disgusting one. Whatsa matter, you don’t like Homer’s eggs?”
“What I don’t like is too involved to go into—”
“Your ears are getting pink. Can you do that whenever you want?”
“No, I need help—”
“Look, your ears are cute. Cutest thing about you so far.” He grinned and winked his good eye.
“This is all so funny, why don’t you just go away? I don’t need this schoolboy aggravation—”
“Okay. But I’m telling you, you’ve just seen me at my best. You still want me to hold your hand on this murder thing?”
“Not bloody likely—”
“You’re gonna have to cut out the begging. I’ll do it, I’ll do it. You’re drooling egg down your chin, honey.”
She wiped her chin. “A little of you goes an incredibly long way.”
“About as far as Twelfth and Broadway, how’s that?” He was amused by her in all the wrong ways. She hated that.
You never knew what you might find at the Strand.
The man standing behind the counter where you brought books to sell looked like he’d been kidnapped from the real world. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, had sandy hair cut short and neat, and wore a tie. He listened while Celia described the books she’d bought, rattling off a few titles and suddenly the man nodded. Peter Greco was browsing nearby, half watching, half listening.
“That must have been Charlie Cunningham, he’s a regular around here. Nice fella, Charlie. Been coming in for years.” The memory of what a prince Charlie was caused a smile to spread across the buyer’s bland face. “Y’know, I think he brought those books you found the same day, just around lunchtime. I put ’em right out on the tables.”
“So who is this Cunningham character?” Greco didn’t look up from the lavish book about luxury ocean liners of long ago.
The buyer shrugged. “Charlie Cunningham. Just a guy who gets lots of mysteries in his mail, I guess. I never asked him, he never told me. What can I say? Why do you want him, anyway?”
“It’s not all that important,” Celia said. “He left some papers in one book and I’d like to return them. You don’t know where I could reach him?”
He shook his head. “He’ll be in again one of these days, he’s a regular. I’d be glad to hold them for him, if you like. Best I can do.” He stroked his chin. “Maybe he’s in the book. You could try.”
“Thanks. We will. You’ve been very helpful. And strangely normal,” she added with a grin.
“I know,” he said, not grinning. “I’ve heard that before.”
Peter Greco went to the corner, patted his pockets, and came back to Celia. “You got a quarter? I’m out of change.” She gave him the quarter and he called Information, but there was no listing for Charlie Cunningham. “Who the hell does he think he is, anyway?”
“Charlie Cunningham,” Celia said as they walked along in the morning sunshine. “C.C. is not M.M. But for some reason C.C. had M.M.’s book. Why?”
Greco shoved his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans. “So M.M. in your view is a murder conspirator. This Miles Warriner—”
“If Miles Warriner is his real name.”
Greco looked at her in exasperation. “Look, all we know at the moment is the name on the book, so let me call him Miles Warriner without correcting me each time, okay? Jeez, really. This Warriner autographs M.M.’s copy of the book. But somehow this book, this whatchamacallit—”
“Review copy.”
“Is sold to the Strand by Cunningham. Now how the hell did Cunningham get M.M.’s autographed copy? Or, other way ’round, why would Warriner sign Cunningham’s review copy for MM.? Doesn’t make sense.” He scowled at her as if it might be her fault.
“Well, it looks to me like Cunningham probably knows both Warriner and M.M. And Z is still a blank.”
“I don’t like it,” Greco said.
“Don’t be petulant. Are you quitting on me?”
“I’ll give it until lunch, okay? Lunch which will be on you.”
“What a guy.”
“This isn’t a date, Blandings—”
“You’re telling me.”
“Are we walking this direction on purpose?”
“I still think we should find Cunningham, the guy who had the book immediately before I did. Technically the letter is his. Maybe we can find him and tell him what’s going on—”
“He knows what’s going on. He must have read the letter.”
“Look, I want to find him. You can take a hike. I’m still going to find this man.” She threw him her best defiant glare, dredged up from a bad production of Agnes of God.
“Sure, sure,” he said. “Where are we going?”
The logo looked amazingly like the flying red horse that had once been the symbol of a huge oil company with gasoline stations everywhere. Now the flying horse was white against a black background. It decorated the spines of all the books in the reception foyer. It hung on the wall behind the receptionist’s desk. It was woven into the carpet. Peter Greco said: “Get a load of all the horses. Looks like Mr. Ed and his whole family.”
The young, very pretty receptionist looked up from her empty desk. “This is Pegasus Books,” she said, past a tight imitation smile. “The horse is not Mr. Ed—”
“Yeah, Mr. Ed.” Greco looked pleased. “He talked. Had his own TV show. Right, Blandings?”
“This horse is Pegasus, the mythological winged horse. You might try reading rather than watching television.” The receptionist’s smile never wavered. “How may I help you?”
Celia spoke up quickly, anticipating just what Greco might have to say. “We’d like to see Susan Carling, please. Charlie Cunningham’s office sent us.”
The receptionist rang through, and a few moments later a short, round black woman with huge glasses perched at the very tip of a pointy nose appeared. She couldn’t stop smiling, as if she were on the verge of real hilarity.
“Charlie’s office sent you? Come on in, can’t keep Charlie’s office waiting.”
Her office was a kind of Rube Goldberg diagram of confusion. Everywhere, including the seats of the visitors’ chairs, there were books, file folders, stacks of author bios and photos, newsletters, press releases, dust jacket mock-ups, empty coffee cups. The window on the thirtieth floor looked up toward Columbus Circle and downtown to Times Square, Chelsea, the World Trade Center, and the Statue of Liberty. The sign on her door, which she closed, said she was Senior Publicist.
“Now come on, you guys,” she said, picking a glowing cigarette from the ashtray where she’d left it, “what’s this gig all about? Charlie Cunningham has an office? Who are you guys anyway?”
“Humane Society,” Greco said, getting in ahead of Celia. “We’re taking the horse away, lady—”
“No horse jokes allowed,” Susan Carling said. “We know all the old ones, and there are no new ones. “Did you really come from Charlie?”
“Not exactly,” Celia said. “We’re looking for him—”
“And you come to me? Me? What do I know from Charlie? Why me?”
“Because Charlie gets Pegasus review copies. Miles Warriner’s books, for instance. We thought you might know how we could get in touch with Charlie or Warriner, or both.”
“Lotta nuts running around out there,” she said with a wave of her hand at the outstretched city. “Are you two of them?”
“My name’s Celia Blandings—”
“The cough-candy fairy,” Greco said.
“—and I’ve got something of Charlie’s. I’d like to return it to him.”
“Warriner is a pseudonym,” Susan Carling said, “and I don’t know who the writer is. And Charlie? I’m not allowed to give you his address. But I can send whatever it is to him. Is it smaller than a breadbox?”
“Much,” Celia said. “But I’ve got to deliver this by hand.”
“Sorry then.” She cocked her head and shrugged helplessly. “I’m out of suggestions.”
Greco nodded. “Understood. Perfectly sound security. But maybe you could just tell us who Charlie Cunningham is? Why does he get review copies?”
“Oh, that Charlie!” Her laughter was rich and warm and sexy. “Charlie Cunningham is the last of the independents. He’s written a couple of books, I guess, but who is he really? Charlie Cunningham is none other than Mr. Mystery himself.” She waited for the nods of recognition. “You don’t know about Mr. Mystery?”
“In a word,” Celia said, “no.”
“Last of the independent what?” Greco asked.
“Oh, Charlie’s always got an angle, any way he can keep from working—I’m quoting Charlie there, by the way. He came up with the idea for a syndicated column devoted to mysteries—books, TV, movies, any kind of mysteries. He writes about all of it, sells his column to little newspapers, shopping guides, Sunday supplements—they all need filler. He calls himself, the column I mean, Mr. Mystery. I call him the last of the independents.”
“Cute,” Greco said, “but a guy named Charlie Varrick was the last of the independents, Miss Carling. Don’t ever forget it.”
Susan Carling looked momentarily alarmed. “Right,” she said, giving the word about four syllables.
Waiting for the elevator, standing in the shadow of a life-size statue of Pegasus, Peter Greco grinned wickedly at Celia, then waved to the receptionist as the elevator opened in front of them.
“Walter Matthau played Charlie Varrick. Love that Matthau. Man’s a gambler. Life is a risk, Blandings. Matthau knows it, I know it, but do you know it?”
Back on Sixth Avenue Celia led the way to a Sabrett’s hot-dog stand. “Be my guest,” she said. “Lunch is on me.”
“This is a very cheap move,” he said.
“Precisely my point.”
He was halfway through his second dog when he said: “Well, now we know that Charlie Cunningham is a man who’s in the middle of the murder of the Director.” He finished the dog in two bites and polished off his orange drink.
“Now that’s what I call a three-rail shot. What do you mean?”
“Hey, you play pool?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty fair actually—”
“Sounds like we got a game, then. A one-eyed guy and a … a—”
“Woman is the word you’re groping for, and what do you mean Charlie Cunningham’s in on the murder?”
“Elementary, my dear Blandings. Mr. Mystery. M.M.”