“While she's getting that list,” Carella said, “why don’t you fill us in, Mr. Krantz?”
“Sure. Gladine was in the booth with me, she's usually there to take any notes I might—”
“Gladine?”
“My secretary. The tits,” Krantz said. He gestured with his hands.
“Oh. Sure.”
“My associate producer was up there, too. Dan Hollis is his name, he's been with MBA for close to fifteen years.”
“Who was minding the store?” Meyer asked.
“What do you mean?”
“If you and your associate were in the sponsor's booth—”
“Oh. Well, our unit manager was down on the floor, and our director was in the control booth, of course, and our assistant director was making sure everyone—”
“I see, okay,” Meyer said. “Who else was in the sponsor's booth with you?”
“The others were guests. Two of them were sponsors’ representatives; one was a Hollywood director who's shooting a feature for the studio and who thought Gifford might be right for a part; and the other two were—”
The door opened.
“Here's that list, sir,” Gladine said. “We’re trying Mr. Cooper now.”
“Thank you, Gladine.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and walked out. Krantz handed the typewritten list to Carella. Carella looked at the list, and then passed it to Meyer.
“Mr. and Mrs. Feldensehr, who are they?” Meyer asked.
“Friends of Carter Bentley, our unit manager. He invited them in to watch the show.”
“That's all then, huh? You and your secretary, your associate Dan Hollis…Who's this Nathan Crabb?”
“The Hollywood director. I told you, he—”
“Yes, fine, and Mr. and Mrs. Feldensehr, and are these last two the sponsor's men?”
“That's right.”
“Eight people in all,” Carella said, “And five of them were guests.”
“That's right.”
“You told us there were six guests, Mr. Krantz.”
“No, I said five.”
“Mr. Krantz,” Meyer said, “last night you told me there were six.”
“I must have meant Gladine.”
“Your secretary?” Carella said.
“Yes. I must have included her as one of the guests.”
“That's a little unusual, isn’t it, Mr. Krantz? Including an employee of the company as a guest?”
“Well…”
There was a long silence.
“Yes?” Carella said.
“Well…”
There was another silence.
“We may be investigating a homicide here, Mr. Krantz,” Meyer said softly. “I don’t think it's advisable to hide anything from us at this point, do you?”
“Well, I…I suppose I can trust you gentlemen to be discreet.”
“Certainly,” Carella said.
“Nathan Crabb? The director? The one who was here to look at Stan, see if he was right for—”
“Yes?”
“He had a girl with him, the girl he's grooming for his next picture. I deliberately left her name off the list.”
“Why?”
“Well, Crabb is a married man with two children. I didn’t think it wise to include the girl's name.”
“I see.”
“I can have it added to the list, if you like.”
“Yes, we’d like that,” Carella said.
“What time did you go up to the sponsor's booth?” Meyer asked suddenly.
“Fifteen minutes before the show started,” Krantz said.
“At seven-forty-five?”
“That's right. And I stayed there right until the moment Stan got sick.”
“Who was there when you arrived?”
“Everyone but Crabb and the girl.”
“What time did they get there?”
“About five minutes later. Ten to eight—around then.”
The door to Krantz's office opened suddenly. Gladine smiled and said, “We’ve reached Mr. Cooper, sir. He's on 03.”
“Thank you, Gladine.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and went out.
Krantz picked up the phone. “Hello,” he said, “Krantz here. Hello, George, I have some policemen in my office, they’re investigating Stan's death. They wanted to ask you some questions about his exact whereabouts during the show last night. Well, hold on, I’ll let you talk to one of them. His name's Capella.”
“Carella.”
“Carella, I’m sorry. Here he is, George.”
Krantz handed the phone to Carella. “Hello, Mr. Cooper,” Carella said. “Are you at home now? Do you expect to be there for a while? Well, I was wondering if my partner and I might stop by. As soon as we leave here. Fine. Would you let me have the address, please?” He took a ballpoint pen from his inside jacket pocket, and began writing the address on an MBA memo slip. “Fine,” he said again. “Thank you, Mr. Cooper, we’ll see you in a half hour or so. Good-bye.” He handed the phone back to Krantz, who replaced it on the cradle.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Krantz asked.
“Yes,” Meyer said. “You can ask your secretary to get us the addresses and phone numbers of everyone who was in the sponsor's booth when you went up there last night.”
“Why? Are you going to check to see that I really went up there fifteen minutes before the show?”
“And remained there until Gifford collapsed, right?”
“Right,” Krantz said. He shrugged. “Go ahead, check it. I’m telling the exact truth. I have nothing to hide.”
“We’re sure you haven’t,” Carella said pleasantly. “Have her call us with the information, will you?” He extended his hand, thanked Krantz for his time, and then walked out past Gladine's desk, Meyer following him. When they got to the elevator, Meyer said, “Remarkable!”
The Quarter was all the way downtown, jammed into a minuscule portion of the city, its streets as crowded as a bazaar. Jewelry shops, galleries, bookstores, sidewalk cafes, espresso joints, pizzerias, paintings on the curb, bars, basement theaters, art movie houses, all combined to give The Quarter the flavor, if not the productivity, of a real avant-garde community. George Cooper lived on the second floor of a small apartment building on a tiny, twisting street. The fire escapes were hung with flowerpots and brightly colored serapes, the doorways were painted pastel oranges and greens, the brass was polished, the whole street had been conceived and executed by the people who dwelt in it, as quaintly phony as a blind con man.
They knocked on Cooper's door and waited. He answered it with the same scowling expression Meyer had come to love the night before.
“Mr. Cooper?” Meyer said. “You remember me, don’t you?”
“Yes, come in,” Cooper said. He scowled at Meyer, whom he knew, and then impartially scowled at Carella, who was a stranger.
“This is Detective Carella.”
Cooper nodded and led them into the apartment. The living room was sparsely furnished, a narrow black couch against one wall, two black Bertoia chairs against another, the decorating scheme obviously planned to minimize the furnishings and emphasize the modern paintings that hung facing each other on the remaining two walls. The detectives sat on the couch. Cooper sat in one of the chairs opposite them.
“What we’d like to know, Mr. Cooper, is where Stan Gifford went last night while those folk singers were on,” Carella said.
“He went to his dressing room,” Cooper answered without hesitation.
“How do you know that?”
“Because that's where I went to cue him later on.”
“I see. Was he alone in the dressing room?”
“No,” Cooper said.
“Who was with him?”
“Art Wetherley. And Maria Vallejo.”
“Wetherley's a writer,” Meyer explained to Carella. “Who's Maria—what's her name?”