“I knew this was a tough one,” Staples said, with a game smile, “that’s why I called you.”
“Sorry I couldn’t—” Then I stopped, and frowned over at the desk.
Staples was saying, “Oh, come on, Carey, if I can’t do my job there’s no reason you should— What’s up?”
“There’s something wrong,” I said. “Just a minute.”
I went back to the desk, Staples following me, and frowned again at that bit of copywriting. “That isn’t right,” I said.
“What isn’t right?”
“I’ve been to the Caribbean, and Antigua isn’t that close to St. Martin. Not at all. Wait, hold on.”
Sitting at Ailburg’s desk, forgetting for the moment any squeamishness I might have felt, I looked through his reference books for an atlas. Finding one, I turned to a map of the Caribbean and said, “See? Here’s St. Martin, and here’s Antigua way down here.”
Staples touched the map with a blunt finger. “What’s that little island there? The one by St. Martin.”
When he removed his finger, I bent to read the lettering: “Anguilla.”
“Anguilla, Antigua.” Staples shrugged, saying, “He was upset from the argument, that’s all, he just got mixed up.”
“Does that make sense?” I studied Ailburg’s writing again, shaking my head. “No, it doesn’t. This was his job, he knew what island was where. And look how he broke that sentence, starting a new line after the word ‘charming.’ It looks awkward.”
Staples said, “I don’t see what you’re driving at.”
I was sitting now where Ailburg had been, and I rested my forearms on a blood-free part of the desk. “Ailburg is sitting here,” I said. “The boy friend comes around behind him, Ailburg sees him pick up the letter opener. He isn’t sure what’s happening, but he’s afraid. And he quick starts a new line of copy, telling us who the boy friend is.”
Staples leaned over my shoulder to read aloud. “‘Capital city of Antigua.’ You mean that’s supposed to be a message?”
“Let’s see.” Back to the atlas I went. “The capital city of Antigua is St. John. Is there anybody named St. John in that address book?”
Staples, obviously unsure whether I was a genius or a lunatic, leafed through the address book, ran his finger down a column, and gave me a slow smile. “How about Jack St. Pierre?”
“That’s your man,” I said. “It’s up to you to prove it, but he’s the guy to concentrate on.”
Five
The Footprints in the Snow
Staples drove me home, and on the way we discussed the murder that had first brought us together. All of Laura’s male friends and acquaintances had been interviewed by now, several had been eliminated via unassailable alibis, and the active list had been reduced to five; not including, I was happy to see, Laura’s father.
But further reduction from five was proving difficult, if not impossible. No one of the suspects was more or less likely to be the elusive secret boy friend, none would admit to any but the most casual relationship with Laura, and unfortunately this victim had not left behind a clue to the boy friend’s identity. (Using Ailburg as an example, Laura might have been found, for instance, clutching a publicity still of Cary Grant. Or Harry Carey. Or perhaps a tattered paperback copy of Herself Surprised.)
In any event, the investigation was currently at a standstill. “But that doesn’t mean we’ve given up,” Staples assured me. “Whenever you’ve got a good-looking career girl murdered, there’s always a lot of media pressure to keep the case alive. Channel five won’t even mention Bart Ailburg, but they still talk about Laura Penney on the news every night.”
“From my point of view, of course,” I said, “I’m glad to hear that. That’s one killer I really want found.”
“Well, I told you our five suspects,” he said, and reeled off the names again. (There’s no point my giving the list; the killer’s name wasn’t on it.) “If you could come up with another of your brilliant deductions,” Staples told me, “we could really use it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Shortly thereafter he dropped me at my apartment, and went on to pick up Al Bray and go question Jack St. Pierre. It was still daylight, though rapidly growing dark with heavy clouds and the threat of impending snow, and no one was lurking for me in the vestibule. I let myself into the building, climbed the stairs, unlocked my apartment door, and entered to find Edgarson sitting in my leather director’s chair, reading this afternoon’s Post. “Well, there you are,” he said, folded his paper, and got to his feet.
I went down the steps three at a time, out the front door, and directly into a passing cab.
I spent the night at Kit’s place on East 19th Street. We awoke late — it was Saturday, so Kit didn’t have to work — and found that the promised snowstorm had indeed arrived, creating a cold slushy world of difficulty and discomfort. Fat white flakes were still drifting endlessly downward from a dirty gray sky, the radio weather forecast spoke of “gradual clearing” — by April, probably — and Kit had decided she had the flu.
Which created an additional complication. Like most independent people, minor illness made Kit bad-tempered, and I soon realized she wanted me the hell out of there so she could snuffle in peace.
But where would I go? Was Edgarson still in my apartment? I dialed my number, but only heard my own confident voice on the machine. I left me no message.
Then I remembered Big John Brant, the movie director. He was in town, and I was supposed to phone him this morning about our interview. So I called the Sherry-Netherland, and soon had Brant on the line, sounding gruff but friendly. I identified myself, and reminded him of the interview, and he said, “Well, what about right now?”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’m downtown.”
“Then come uptown,” he said, and chuckled, and broke the connection.
I pocketed half a dozen of Kit’s Valiums, my own supply being in captured territory. “Get well soon,” I told Kit, and kissed her irritable cold cheek, and went out into the disgusting world.
Q: “In your film, Don’t Eat The Yellow Snow, what is the symbolism of the repeated appearance of the small black dog in the background of so many of the shots?”
A: “Oh, yeah, that damn dog. Well, I’ll tell you, that’s a funny story. That was Sassi’s dog, you know. Wha’d she call that damn thing? Rudolph, that was it. Anyway, that was her third — no, second — her second feature with American Artists. She was shacked up with Kleinberg then, you know, so he’d give her anything she wanted. She wasn’t even supposed to be in that picture, only Kate said she wouldn’t work for Kleinberg for any amount of money, and Kleinberg left the script around in the bathroom or some damn place, and Sassi read it and said, I wanna do that picture. So we were stuck with her. And she had this shitty little dog, Rudolph, and that dog wasn’t trained at all. Run around, you couldn’t control it, and finally I just said shit, I said, let the damn little thing stay in there, I don’t give a rat’s ass. Just so it doesn’t get in the airplane sequence, that’s all, and you know, it damn near did. Just about the end of the picture, the shitty little thing got itself run over by an Oregon state trooper. Sassi tried to get the fellow fired, but Kleinberg didn’t run Oregon, so that was that.”
The interview was not going at all well. I suppose it was mostly my fault, since I was distracted by the problem of Edgarson, but Big John Brant wasn’t helping very much. No matter what I asked him, from the broadest possible questions about thematic undercurrents to the narrowest points of technique, all I got back were these rambling reminiscences about nothing in particular. Scatology and gossip seemed to be his only subjects.