Wetherley seemed slightly mollified. “Well, all right,” he said. “But there was no need, really, to warn me not to leave the apartment.”
“I apologize for that, Mr. Wetherley.”
“Well, all right,” Wetherley said.
“I wonder if you could tell me what happened in Stan Gifford's dressing room Wednesday night. Just before he left it.”
“I don’t remember in detail.”
“Well, tell me what you do remember.”
Wetherley thought for a moment, crushed out his cigarette, lighted a new one, and then said, “Maria was there when I came in. She was arguing with Stan about something. At least…”
“Arguing?”
“Yes. I could hear them shouting at each other before I knocked on the door.”
“Go ahead.”
“The atmosphere was a little strained after I went in, and Maria didn’t say very much all the while I was there. But Stan and I were joking, mostly about the folk singers. He hated folk singers, but this particular group is hot right now, and he was talked into hiring them.”
“So you were making jokes about them?”
“Yes. While we watched the act on the monitor.”
“I see. In a friendly manner, would you say?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well…Then George came in. George Cooper, the show's AD.”
“He came into the room?”
“Yes.”
“How long did he stay?”
“Oh, three or four minutes, I guess.”
“I see. But he didn’t argue with Gifford, did he?”
“No.”
“Just Maria?”
“Yes. Before I got there, you understand.”
“Yes, I understand. And what about you?” Carella asked.
“Me?”
“Yes. What about your argument with Gifford before the show went on the air?”
“Argument? Who said there was an argument?”
“Wasn’t there one?”
“Certainly not.”
Carella took a deep breath. “Mr. Wetherley, didn’t you say you wished Stan Gifford would drop dead?”
“No, sir.”
“You did not say that?”
“No, sir, I did not. Stan and I got along very well.” Wetherley paused. “A lot of people on the show didn’t get along with him, you understand. But I never had any trouble.”
“Who didn’t get along with him, Mr. Wetherley?”
“Well, Maria, for one. I just told you that. And David Krantz didn’t particularly like him. He was always saying, within earshot of Stan, that all actors are cattle, and that comedians are only funny actors. And George Cooper didn’t exactly enjoy his role of…well, handyman, almost. Keeping everyone quiet on the set, and running for coffee, and bringing Stan his pills, and making sure everybody—”
“Bringing Stan his what?”
“His pills,” Wetherley said. “Stan was a nervous guy, you know. I guess he was on tranquilizers. Anyway, George was the chief errand boy and bottle washer, hopping whenever Stan snapped his fingers.”
“Did George bring him a pill Wednesday night?”
“When?” Wetherley asked.
“Wednesday night. When he came to the dressing room.”
“Wetherley concentrated for a moment, and then said, “Now that you mention it, I think he did.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes, sir. I’m positive.”
“And did Stan take the pill from him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did he swallow it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Carella rose suddenly. “Would you mind coming along with me, Mr. Wetherley?” he asked.
“Come along? Where?”
“Uptown. There are a few things we’d like to get straight.”
The few things Carella wanted to get straight were the conflicting stories of the last three people to have been with Gifford before he went on camera. He figured that the best way to do this was in the squadroom, where the police would have the psychological advantage in the question-and-answer game. There was nothing terribly sinister about the green globes hanging outside the station house, or about the high desk in the muster room or the sign advising all visitors to stop at the desk, or even the white sign announcing DETECTIVE DIVISION in bold black letters, and pointing toward the iron-runged steps leading upstairs. There was certainly nothing menacing about the steps themselves or the narrow corridor they opened onto, or the various rooms in that corridor with their neatly lettered signs, INTERROGATION, LAVATORY, CLERICAL. The slatted-wood railing that divided the corridor from the squadroom was innocuous-looking, and the squadroom itself—in spite of the wire-mesh grids over the windows—looked like any business office in the city, with desks, and filing cabinets, and ringing telephones, and a water cooler, and bulletin boards, and men working in shirtsleeves. But Art Wetherley, Maria Vallejo, and George Cooper were visibly rattled by their surroundings, and they became more rattled when they were taken into separate rooms for their interrogations. Bob O’Brien, a big cop with a sweet and innocently boyish look, questioned Cooper in the lieutenant's office. Steve Carella questioned Maria in the Clerical Office, kicking out Alf Miscolo, who was busy typing up his records and complained bitterly. Meyer Meyer, suffering from a cold, and not ready to take any nonsense, questioned Art Wetherley at the table in the barely furnished Interrogation Room. The three detectives had decided beforehand what questions they would ask, and what their approach would be. In separate rooms, with different suspects, they went through a familiar routine.
“You said you weren’t drinking coffee, Miss Vallejo,” Carella said. “Mr. Cooper tells us there were coffee containers in that room. Were there or weren’t there?”
“No. I don’t remember. I know I didn’t have any coffee.”
“Did Art Wetherley?”
“No. I didn’t see him drink anything.”
“Did George Cooper hand Gifford a pill?”
“No.”
“Were you arguing with Gifford before Art Wetherley came in?”
“No.”
“Let's go over this one more time, Mr. Cooper,” O’Brien said. “You say you only knocked on the door and poked your head into the room, is that right?”
“That's right.”
“You were there only a few seconds.”
“Yes. Look, I—”
“Did you give Stan Gifford a pill?”
“A pill? No! No, I didn’t!”
“But there were coffee containers in the room, huh?”
“Yes. Look, I didn’t give him anything! What are you trying…?”
“Did you hear Art Wetherley say he wished Gifford would drop dead?”
“Yes!”
“All right, Wetherley,” Meyer said, “when did Cooper give him that pill?”
“As soon as he came into the room.”
“And Gifford washed it down with what?”
“With the coffee we were drinking.”
“You were all drinking coffee, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Who was?”
“Maria, and Stan, and I was, too.”
“Then why’d you go to that room, Maria, if not to argue?”
“I went to…to talk to him. I thought we could—”
“But you were arguing, weren’t you?”
“No. I swear to God, I wasn’t—”
“Then why are you lying about the coffee? Were you drinking coffee, or weren’t you?”
“No. No coffee. Please, I…”
“Now hold it, hold it, Mr. Cooper. You were either in that room or not in it. You either gave him a pill or you—”