same way our victim got killed. Same position, same set-up, same everything. It’s a goddamn grisly joke and the goddamn joke’s on us.”
Johnny didn’t say anything.
“God knows where we are now,” Haig said. “I don’t need a lab man to tell me we aren’t going to get a print we can use out of this place. We’ve got two murders to solve instead of one and we don’t have a reason for either of them anymore. A virgin turns up nude in bed with her throat cut and we look for a killer. Then a satyr turns up in bed with his throat cut and we still look. A goddamn joke.”
Johnny didn’t say anything.
“For a minute,” Haig said, “it didn’t look possible. You know what I was thinking? I got this bright idea, this brainstorm. Tracy figured his goose was cooked, he might as well go out in style. So he took off his clothes, stretched out on the rack and drew a line across his neck. You know it took me a few minutes before I got to wondering what he did with the razor. This case is getting to me, Johnny.”
Johnny didn’t say anything.
“Go home,” Haig said. “Call everybody and tell them the show isn’t going to happen. Call the papers and tell ’em to print it in the morning. Tell ’em the show is off permanently. Somebody doesn’t want your play to go on, Johnny. He’s holding all the cards. We can’t figure out what his angle is, not to speak of who in hell he is. We’d better let him have his way for the time being. In time he’ll slip and we’ll hit him. Or her, or them, whatever the hell it is. Go home and make your phone calls and take some aspirin. Or some bourbon. Suit yourself.”
Johnny still didn’t say anything. He gave Haig a half-nod and left the apartment. He took the elevator downstairs, walked out of the building and over to Eighth Avenue where he caught a taxi headed uptown. His head ached horribly and his ribs were sore—somehow he hadn’t really noticed the soreness until now. He closed his eyes and let the cabby fight the traffic.
Johnny was sitting in a soft chair with a glass of bourbon in his hand. The calls—to everybody vaguely connected with the show, to four morning dailies plus the trade papers—had been made by Ito. But Johnny had saved Jan for himself. In a way she’d been on the inside with him from the beginning and he wanted to give her the story instead of passing it on through an interpreter. But he didn’t feel up to making the call yet.
“One thing still seem Chinese puzzle,” Ito said. “Not see—”
Johnny sighed. “Ito, cut the comedy.”
“Sorry,” Ito said. “It was that damn Charlie Chan movie. It was funny enough but those things can soak into your system.”
Johnny said, “The Chinese puzzle, Ito?”
“Yes. You told me the doorman said Tracy didn’t have any visitors. How did he get killed?”
“By a visitor.” Johnny finished the bourbon, put the glass down. “One who got past the doorman. That’s all.”
“Without a key to the penthouse?”
Johnny nodded. “The building has an open staircase,” he said. “Every building has. Fire regulations. The stairs reach the penthouse. Tracy’s visitor walked right past the doorman, took the elevator to the floor below Tracy’s, say, and walked up a flight of stairs. Simple enough?”
“Sure. Same thing going down?”
“Maybe, maybe not. It doesn’t really matter. To get down from the penthouse you don’t need a key. You ring and the elevator comes up. Then you press the one button and down you go. Puzzle all cleared up now?”
“All clear.” Ito turned away slightly. “Uh…do you want me to stick around tonight?”
“Oh. You got that date with Miss Tokyo?”
“She’s not from Tokyo. But her home town is a filthy word in English. She isn’t aware of this. Which can be embarrassing. Yes, I have a date with her.”
“Then keep it.”
“You don’t need me?”
“Hell, no,” Johnny told him. “If the phone rings I’ll answer it myself. If you can fake
Johnny didn’t say anything.
“God knows where we are now,” Haig said. “I don’t need a lab man to tell me we aren’t going to get a print we can use out of this place. We’ve got two murders to solve instead of one and we don’t have a reason for either of them anymore. A virgin turns up nude in bed with her throat cut and we look for a killer. Then a satyr turns up in bed with his throat cut and we still look. A goddamn joke.”
Johnny didn’t say anything.
“For a minute,” Haig said, “it didn’t look possible. You know what I was thinking? I got this bright idea, this brainstorm. Tracy figured his goose was cooked, he might as well go out in style. So he took off his clothes, stretched out on the rack and drew a line across his neck. You know it took me a few minutes before I got to wondering what he did with the razor. This case is getting to me, Johnny.”
Johnny didn’t say anything.
“Go home,” Haig said. “Call everybody and tell them the show isn’t going to happen. Call the papers and tell ’em to print it in the morning. Tell ’em the show is off permanently. Somebody doesn’t want your play to go on, Johnny. He’s holding all the cards. We can’t figure out what his angle is, not to speak of who in hell he is. We’d better let him have his way for the time being. In time he’ll slip and we’ll hit him. Or her, or them, whatever the hell it is. Go home and make your phone calls and take some aspirin. Or some bourbon. Suit yourself.”
Johnny still didn’t say anything. He gave Haig a half-nod and left the apartment. He took the elevator downstairs, walked out of the building and over to Eighth Avenue where he caught a taxi headed uptown. His head ached horribly and his ribs were sore—somehow he hadn’t really noticed the soreness until now. He closed his eyes and let the cabby fight the traffic.
Johnny was sitting in a soft chair with a glass of bourbon in his hand. The calls—to everybody vaguely connected with the show, to four morning dailies plus the trade papers—had been made by Ito. But Johnny had saved Jan for himself. In a way she’d been on the inside with him from the beginning and he wanted to give her the story instead of passing it on through an interpreter. But he didn’t feel up to making the call yet.
“One thing still seem Chinese puzzle,” Ito said. “Not see—”
Johnny sighed. “Ito, cut the comedy.”
“Sorry,” Ito said. “It was that damn Charlie Chan movie. It was funny enough but those things can soak into your system.”
Johnny said, “The Chinese puzzle, Ito?”
“Yes. You told me the doorman said Tracy didn’t have any visitors. How did he get killed?”
“By a visitor.” Johnny finished the bourbon, put the glass down. “One who got past the doorman. That’s all.”
“Without a key to the penthouse?”
Johnny nodded. “The building has an open staircase,” he said. “Every building has. Fire regulations. The stairs reach the penthouse. Tracy’s visitor walked right past the doorman, took the elevator to the floor below Tracy’s, say, and walked up a flight of stairs. Simple enough?”
“Sure. Same thing going down?”
“Maybe, maybe not. It doesn’t really matter. To get down from the penthouse you don’t need a key. You ring and the elevator comes up. Then you press the one button and down you go. Puzzle all cleared up now?”
“All clear.” Ito turned away slightly. “Uh…do you want me to stick around tonight?”
“Oh. You got that date with Miss Tokyo?”
“She’s not from Tokyo. But her home town is a filthy word in English. She isn’t aware of this. Which can be embarrassing. Yes, I have a date with her.”
“Then keep it.”
“You don’t need me?”
“Hell, no,” Johnny told him. “If the phone rings I’ll answer it myself. If you can fake
Similar Books
