“Ice pick?” Hubert Stander repeated. He licked his lips. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ll spell it out for you, Mr. Stander. Your wife says you watched King’s last show Friday — at least the start of it. She says King’s announcement that he was going to make an important statement at the end of the show disturbed you enough for her to notice it — and I don’t get the feeling that Mrs. Stander usually notices very much. She heard you opening drawers in the kitchen, looking for something. When she asked you what you were looking for you told her you’d found it, and you then left — in a hurry — for the TV station. According to your housekeeper, the tool drawer in the kitchen contained an ice pick which fits the description of the one that killed King. The ice pick is gone. Produce that ice pick, Mr. Stander, and we’ll leave you to enjoy that delicious dinner I smell cooking.”
Stander’s pallor by now was alarming. He was making an undisguisable effort to control himself. “I don’t know anything about an ice pick, Sergeant. I didn’t even know we had one. And I haven’t looked into the tool drawer in the kitchen for months. Small repair jobs around the house have always been done by our houseman or other servants.”
“Give me their names,” Sergeant Winterman said, pulling out a notebook.
“Right now we have no one but Helga.” A slight beading of sweat became visible on Stander’s forehead. “Mrs. Stander has trouble keeping help. You see—”
Winterman put his notebook away, and Stander stopped.
Trimble was getting colder and grimmer by the second. “You say you haven’t looked into the tool drawer in the kitchen for months. Yet your wife told us she heard you opening drawers like mad in there. How is it you missed the tool drawer?”
“I... don’t remember opening it. Maybe I did. If I did, I didn’t see an ice pick—”
“Just what were you looking for in those drawers Friday afternoon, Mr. Stander?”
Stander said quickly, “My car keys. I thought I’d dropped them on the kitchen table on my way through before lunch. When I couldn’t find them on the table I assumed Helga had put them away in a drawer. I opened most of the drawers looking for the keys until I suddenly remembered I hadn’t put them on the table at all, I’d slipped them into my trousers pocket. And that’s where I found them.” There was a silence. The beads were now fat drops, one by one coursing down Stander’s nose. “Don’t you believe me, Sergeant? It’s the truth!”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Stander,” Trimble said, “I’m going to have to ask you to come downtown with us.”
The man of distinction was beginning to take on a wild look. “You can’t mean that. My wife... King committed suicide... You have no authority to arrest me in Beverly Hills—”
Who said anything about arrest, Mr. Stander?” the one-eyed sergeant said. “I’m just asking you to accompany us downtown for further questioning.”
“I won’t go!”
“Ed,” Trimble said to Winterman, “you’d better phone the Beverly Hills station and ask for a couple of their boys, pronto.”
“Wait,” And now Hubert Stander, chairman of the board of KZZX, was nakedly trembling. “I don’t want a police car to be seen here... and don’t tell my wife... I’ll go with you.”
“I think that’s the sensible thing to do, Mr. Stander,” Trimble said pleasantly.
Stander rose. “There’s just one thing,” he said in a very thick voice.
“What’s that?”
“I want to phone my lawyer.”
Sergeant Trimble made a gracious gesture toward the telephone on Stander’s desk.
“Be my guest.”
15
Layton anticipated the next few hours. They were bound to end in anticlimax, and they did.
He had no illusions about being allowed to sit in on the proceedings. The lawyer Stander had called said he would be waiting at the Police Building for them. No lawyer in his right mind would sanction the presence of a reporter under the circumstances, and Stander’s lawyer came from the élite of Los Angeles’ formidable array of legal talent. So Layton merely paused to watch Hubert Stander stoop over fat Mrs. Stander on the lawn and improvise a plausible fiction to explain his dinnerless departure with Trimble and Winterman; and when the tall gray man got into the rear of the shiny Ford with Trimble at his side and Winterman at the wheel, and was driven off — affectionately waving to his bewildered wife — Layton drove home.
He called the Bulletin and dictated his story. The city desk promised to send a man down to the Police Building for the follow-up, and Layton hung up to face what was left of his Sunday.
It was still early, and there were any number of things he could do. He could drive out to the beach; he enjoyed swimming, and he rarely got a chance to lie in the sun with nothing but trunks on. He could take in a movie; he liked movies. He could get on the phone and start working on the names in his little black book — names like Penny and Love and Alys and Marylouann (who insisted on having it spelled that way, and possessed other unusual ideas). He could — this never failed — call some of the boys and make up a poker game.
Instead, Layton stretched out on his couch with Tropic of Cancer and in the middle of a dirty word fell asleep.
His first thought when he woke up was: I’ll call Nancy. He was actually reaching for the phone when he realized that he had intended to call her all along, and that he didn’t know her number.
He was almost relieved at his ignorance. Lay off, Layton, lay off, he said to himself sternly; and he flung the paperback across the room, got off the couch, and went into the bathroom and plunged his head into a bowlful of cold water.
All through his solitary dinner he knew what he was going to do. He was going to drive out into San Fernando Valley. He was going to find an excuse for doing so. He found the excuse, brushed the napkin across his mouth, grabbed his check, half ran to the cashier’s desk, and then dived for the directory beside the phone booth.
Unlisted.
A colorful curse at the still-unburied corpse of Tutter King exploded in his head. Layton went into the booth and dialed the Homicide Division and asked for Lieutenant Jackson.
“Do me a favor, Lieutenant. I have to phone Tutter King’s widow, and she’s unlisted. I didn’t think to note her number when I was out there. It’s in the file.”
“Seeing as how you’re a privileged character around here,” Jackson said, “hang on.”
“Thanks,” Layton said after noting the number. “By the way, what happened with Stander?”
“A big nothing,” the lieutenant said.
“Figured,” Layton said, grinning into the mouthpiece. “D.A. doesn’t want a habeas slapped on Stander. A writ would force him to bring charges now. Tomorrow the coroner’s jury sits — and who knows what their verdict will be? So the D.A. and Stander’s lawyer make a deal—”
“Yeah, the lawyer promised to take personal responsibility and Stander was released in his custody without even having to put up bond.” Jackson grunted. “What did you ask me for if you knew?”
“I didn’t,” Layton chuckled. “But Sunday is the D.A.’s day for golf.” And he hung up.
He stared at his notation of Nancy King’s telephone number for some time. Once he started to leave the booth. Finally, he dialed the number. When her voice sounded in his ear it went through him like the touch of a live wire. He almost hung up without responding.
But he did not. “Jim Layton,” he said. “Hello again.”
“Hello, Jim.” She sounded pleased.
“You sound pleased,” Layton said.
“I am.”
“At what?”
“At your calling, silly.”
“I’m pleased you’re pleased.”