“What harm has been done?” I was still yelling. “Two people have been murdered. Somebody, I’ll be goddamned if I can figure out who, has been swindled out of one hundred thousand dollars, and you don’t want to do anything because it might interfere with the biggest literary hoax in history.”
“Richard, I must ask you to lower your voice and try to consider this whole problem with calmness and logic. You say two people have been killed. Well, this is certainly true. But can you imagine two less valuable people? Speaking from a broad social point of view, I mean. A blackmailing call girl, and a once great author who would clearly have killed himself one way or another in the near future. The police are perfectly satisfied. They believe both Anstruther and Miss Dahl were victims of unfortunate accidents. Why should we create any further unpleasantness? I have thought it all over and have decided to take the broad view. Supposing my partner did kill Anstruther. If he were alive he would certainly make strenuous objections to the publication of his new book on the fairly reasonable grounds that it was a fraud. But he is not alive. So we can go ahead with the project.
“As for the balance of the hundred thousand dollars-after all, the money did in a sense belong to my two partners. They were only claiming what was rightly theirs. We are all back where we started from. With a million dollar property ready to be launched. Except we are five partners now. You and Jimmie have joined us.”
I still couldn’t grasp the situation.
“You mean you think Max Shriber killed Anstruther. And that Janis was a witness?”
“There is evidence to that effect.”
“And you plan to go on doing business with them?”
“Certainly.”
I sat down on the chair.
It couldn’t be. I couldn’t believe it.
“Let’s talk to Janis. Let’s talk to Max. The least you could do is hear what they’ve got to say. Where was Janis going this afternoon? After she had lunch with me?”
“I have no idea where she is. She might be almost anywhere.”
“Walter, we’ve got to talk to those two.”
Walter sighed. “Now I do believe you’re going to get yourself all worked up again. If I had realized that you were such an excitable person, I’m not at all sure, in spite of our long friendship, that I wouldn’t have taken The Winding Road to the Hills to another publisher.”
At this point something snapped.
I didn’t think. I didn’t say anything. I walked close to the chair where Walter was sitting and with a short, ferocious jerk, I threw my drink into his face.
One of the ice cubes cut his lip.
I turned rapidly and walked out, slamming the door behind me.
Jimmie was racing up the corridor toward me. As he reached me I hit him hard, knocking him to the floor.
Evidently Walter had pushed one of his bells. The heavy, sinister-looking butler followed Jimmie up the hall. He was breathing heavily. I got into the elevator and pushed a button as the butler started to follow me in. I shoved him out of the elevator and the door closed. I rode to the ground floor.
I did not run across the hall. I walked. I walked to the front door, opened it, walked down the marble steps. Then, on the curb, I turned back to look at the house. The front door was still ajar.
I hailed a cab and stepped into it.
“The Carlyle Hotel,” I said.
It seemed like the time had finally come to pay a call on Max Shriber.
Chapter Ten
Max Shriber’s apartment was in the tower.
I didn’t use the house phone. I thought it might be better if I went up unannounced.
I got in the elevator and said, “Max Shriber.”
Up on Max’s floor there were only two apartments, A and B. Max was A.
I rang the bell and fiddled with the gun in my pocket. I wanted it to come out easily.
I rang the bell and nothing happened. I could hear it buzzing faintly inside the apartment. But nobody answered the door.
I felt a wave of relief sweep over me. The hell with it. Nobody home. O.K., too bad. I’ll call some other time. I had been brave enough when I started out. But now that it looked like I would not have to meet the man with the nasty voice I could feel my knees shaking with relief.
I turned the doorknob and pushed. It was just a casual gesture to show I wasn’t really afraid. I almost fainted when the door opened easily.
Well, a man’s got to live with himself. I opened the door wider, stepped inside and very quietly closed the door behind me again.
I was in a small, beautifully furnished foyer. The foyer opened into a living room that obviously was used as an office. There was a big desk. Some wood-covered filing cabinets. And the walls were decorated with big, framed autographed pictures of some of the big people that Max Shriber, big agent, handled.
Holding the gun in front of me as I had seen them do in the movies, I advanced into the room.
“Anybody home?” I said. I was surprised. My voice was a hoarse, rather dismal croak. I tried it again. “Anybody home?”
Still no answer.
“Hey, Maxie,” I called in a loud, courageous voice. “Where are you? Hey, big agent. What’s the matter? Where are you?”
I walked over to the desk. There was nothing very special on it.
I thought about the two men who had wrecked my apartment. Max Shriber’s chauffeur and the smaller one. I wondered who the smaller one was. His valet, probably.
I pulled out the top drawer of the desk and dumped the contents onto the floor. I opened the files and began throwing handfuls of papers on the floor. It was a wonderful feeling.
I started to pull the books out of the bookcase. But I couldn’t do it. I’m a book publisher. I hate to see anybody mishandle books. Break their bindings or even turn down corners of a page.
I suddenly felt very foolish. I bent down and started to put the stuff back into the desk drawer. But I felt even more foolish doing that. I straightened up.
“Hey, Maxie,” I said once again. “Where the hell are you, Maxie?”
I walked across the living room to the bedroom. And then I saw Maxie.
He was lying very still on the unmade bed. The blood had stained the pillowcase and the blankets and sheets.
A gun was lying on the floor at the foot of the bed.
Sick with shock, I reached down and picked up the gun. I sniffed it. It smelled as if it had been fired.
I held the gun gingerly, dazed for a moment or two. But I came out of it with a shudder. I threw the gun back down on the floor where it had been and started out of the room.
Fingerprints, I thought belatedly, and came back and picked up the gun with my handkerchief. I was wiping off my fingerprints when I suddenly remembered my prints must be all over the desk and the filing cabinet. I was still wiping the gun and had started walking into the living room, when the front door opened. “Maid?” a woman’s voice said.
I was too startled to speak. I thought of telling her to come back later but I was too frightened to force the words out.
The maid came into the room. A round, smiling, cheerful woman. “Good afternoon,” she said.
Then she saw the gun in my hand.
“My God!” she gasped. “Is that a gun?”
I laughed nervously. “A gun?” I said and laughed again. I put a cigarette in my mouth and held the gun up to it and pretended to click the trigger.
“Darn it,” I said. “These fancy cigarette lighters never work. Must be out of fluid. Ha, ha,” I added. “Guess I’d better use a match.”
The maid was eying me with suspicion.
I laughed foolishly. “Did you think that was a real gun?” I said.
“Who are you?” the maid said. “What are you doing here?” Then she saw the overturned file drawer. “What are you doing in here? Where’s Mr. Shriber?”