The McBain Brief by Ed McBain Page B

slit on either side in the Oriental fashion, buttoned to the throat. The dress had pulled back over a portion of her right thigh, revealing a roll-gartered stocking. The tight line of her panties was clearly visible through the thin silk of her dress. The dead girl was Chinese, but her lips and face were blue.
    â€œSuppose you tell us what happened, Mr. Godrow,” I said.
    â€œFreddie can tell you,” Godrow answered. “Freddie was sitting closer to her.”
    â€œWho’s Freddie?”
    â€œMy boy,” Godrow said.
    â€œYour son?”
    â€œNo, I haven’t any children. My boy. He works for me.”
    â€œWhere is he now, sir?”
    â€œI sent him down for some coffee. After I called you.” Godrow paused, and then reluctantly said, “I didn’t think you’d get here so quickly.”
    â€œScore one for the Police Department,” Donny murmured.
    â€œWell, you fill us in until he gets back, will you?” I said.
    â€œAll right,” Godrow answered. He said everything grudgingly, as if he resented our presence in his office, as if this whole business of dead bodies lying around should never have been allowed to happen in his office. “What do you want to know?”
    â€œWhat did the girl do here?” Donny asked.
    â€œShe made telephone calls.”
    â€œIs that all?”
    â€œYes. Freddie does that, too, but he also runs the addressing machine. Freddie . . .”
    â€œMaybe you’d better explain your operation a little,” I said.
    â€œI sell lobsters,” Godrow said.
    â€œFrom this office?” Donny asked skeptically.
    â€œWe take the orders from this office.” Godrow explained, warming up a little. It was amazing the way they always warmed up when they began discussing their work. “My plant is in Boothbay Harbor, Maine.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œWe take the orders here, and then the lobsters are shipped down from Maine, alive of course.”
    â€œI like lobsters,” Donny said. “Especially lobster tails.”
    â€œThose are not lobsters,” Godrow said indignantly. “Those are crawfish. African rock lobster. There’s a big difference.”
    â€œWho do you sell to, Mr. Godrow?” I asked.
    â€œRestaurants. That’s why Mary worked for me.”
    â€œIs that the girl’s name? Mary?”
    â€œYes, Mary Chang. You see, we do a lot of business with Chinese restaurants. Lobster Cantonese, you know, like that. They buy the Jumbos usually, in half-barrel quantities for the most part. They’re good steady customers.”
    â€œAnd Miss Chang called these Chinese restaurants, is that right?”
    â€œYes. I found it more effective that way. She spoke several Chinese dialects, and she inspired confidence, I suppose. At any rate, she got me more orders than any Occidental who ever held the job.”
    â€œAnd Freddie? What does he do?”
    â€œHe calls the American restaurants. We call them every morning. Not all of them each morning, of course, but those we feel are ready to reorder. We give them quotations, and we hope they’ll place orders. We try to keep our quotes low. For example, our Jumbos today were going for . . .”
    â€œHow much did Miss Chang receive for her duties, Mr. Godrow?”
    â€œShe got a good salary.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œWhy? What difference does it make?”
    â€œIt might be important, Mr. Godrow. How much?”
    â€œA hundred and twenty-five a week, plus a dollar commission on each barrel order from a new customer.” Godrow paused. “Those are good wages, Mr. . . .”
    â€œParker, Detective Ralph Parker.”
    â€œThose are good wages, Mr. Parker.” He paused again. “Much more than my competitors are paying.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know about that, Mr. Godrow, but I’ll take your word for it. Now . . .”
    A shadow fell across the floor, and Godrow looked up and said,