Ed McBain by Learning to Kill: Stories Page A

something? You going to get Joey's killer?"
    "Where is she? Tse's wife."
    "On Mott Street. Here, Matt, I'll give you the address." He reached behind him for a brush, dipped it into a pot of ink, and scrawled an address on a brown piece of paper. "Tell her I sent you, Matt. Tell her Charlie Loo sent you."
    "Is that your name?"
    He nodded.
    "All right, Charlie. I'll see you."
    "Good luck, Matt."
    "Thanks."

    I knocked on the door and waited, and then I knocked again.
    "Who is it?"
    The voice had a singsong lilt, like a mild breeze rustling through a willow tree. It brought pictures of an ancient China, a land of delicate birds and eggshell skies, colorful kimonos and speckled white stallions.
    "I'm a friend of Charlie Loo," I said to the closed door.
    "Moment."
    I waited a few more minutes, and when the door opened, I was glad I had. She was small, with shiny black hair that tumbled to her shoulders, framing an oval face. Her eyes tilted sadly, brown as strong coffee, fringed with soot-black lashes. She had a wide mouth, and she wore a silk blouse and a skirt that hugged her small, curving hips. "Yes, please?"
    "May I come in?"
    "All right." The singsong made it sound like a question. She stepped aside, and I walked into the apartment, through a pair of beaded drapes, into a living room that was cool with the shade of the building that crowded close to the open window.
    "My name is Matt Cordell," I said.
    "You are a friend of Charlie's?"
    "Yes."
    "I see. Sit down, Mr. Cordell."
    "Thank you." I slumped into an easy chair, clasped my hands over my knees. "Your husband, Mrs. Tse. What do you know about his death?"
    Her eyes widened a little, but her face remained expressionless otherwise. "Is that why you are here?"
    "Yes."
    She shrugged her narrow shoulders. "He ... was killed. Is there more to say?"
    "How?"
    "A knife."
    "When?"
    "Tuesday night."
    "Today is Friday," I said, thinking aloud.
    "Is it?" she asked. There was such a desperate note in her voice that I looked up suddenly. She was not watching me. She was staring through the open window at the brick wall of the opposite building.
    "Do you have any idea who did it?"
    "The tong, they say. I don't know."
    "You don't think it was a tong?"
    "No. No, I don't think so. I ... I don't know what to think."
    "What did your husband do?"
    "Export-import. His business was good. He was a good man, my husband. A good man."
    "Any enemies?"
    "No. No, I don't know of any."
    "Did he seem worried about anything?"
    "No. He was happy."
    I took a deep breath. "Well, is there anything you can tell me? Anything that might help in..."
    She shook her head, dangerously close to tears. "You ... you do not understand, Mr. Cordell. Harry was a happy man. There was nothing. No reason. No ... reason to kill him. No reason."
    I waited a moment before asking the next question. "Was he ever away from home? I mean, any outside friends? A club? Bowling team? Band? Anything like that?"
    "Yes."
    "What?"
    "A club. He went on Mondays. He was well liked."
    "What's the name of the club?"
    "Chinese Neighborhood Club, Incorporated, I think. Yes. It's on Mulberry Street. I don't know the address."
    "I'll find it," I said, rising. "Thank you, Mrs. Tse. I appreciate your help."
    "Are you looking for Harry's murderer, Mr. Cordell?"
    "I think so."
    "Find him," she said simply.

    The Chinese Neighborhood Club, Inc., announced itself to the sidewalk by means of a red and black lettered sign swinging on the moist summer breeze. A narrow entranceway huddled beneath the sign, and two Chinese stood alongside the open doorway, talking softly, their panamas tilted back on their heads. They glanced at me as I started up the long narrow stairway.
    The stairwell was dark. I followed the creaking steps, stopping at a landing halfway up. There were more steps leading to another landing, but I decided I'd try the door on this landing first. I didn't bother to knock. I took the knob, twisted it, and the door opened.
    The room was almost