«Yes,» I said again.
Marsogliani looked at me from either side of that big nose of his. «The dead man is a writer, I understand. You a writer, too?»
«Yes,» I said a third time.
«You write murder stories?» (He pronounced it «moider» but I’m not going to try to reproduce linguistic peculiarities.) I was relieved to be able to say, «No,» and I said it forcefully.
«But you read them, don’t you?»
«Sometimes.»
«Well, then, look here. Life is not like a murder mystery. In mysteries people always do the same thing. Then when some little thing is out of line, some wise-guy amateur detective makes big deductions. In real life, people don’t do the same things all the time. They do different things at different times. In real life, people are crazy.»
He moved toward the phone again. «I’m calling the police now. As far as I’m concerned that’s an accident in there, but whether it’s an accident or a murder is not really my business. I just call the police and they’ll decide. You want to tell them it’s murder, you go ahead, but if you do, mister, just remember that you discovered the body, you had the key, Strong says, and you maybe had a motive. Think it over.»
His hand was on the phone and I put my hand over his.
Mine was half the size and I don’t think he was the least worried about me, but he said, «Well?»
«You don’t want it to be a murder, do you?» I said. «Bad publicity?»
«If it’s a murder, it’s a murder,» he said. «But I don’t want anyone yelling murder if it isn’t a murder. That has nothing to do with publicity. The police don’t like it either.»
And he lifted the phone as though my hand weren’t weighing his down, waited a moment, and said, «Dial 911, Myrtle.»
I waited till he was finished and said, «There’s heroin in this room.»
I meant it to have impact because I was sore at the guy and, for a minute, I thought I had scored because his eyelids lifted and his eyes seemed to quiver. But when he spoke, it was with heavy indifference. «Where?»
«On the bureau. Right next to where I put the key. It looks like talcum powder, but one of my books involved itself with the drug culture and I know something about heroin. What I thought was talcum powder has a bitter, gritty taste and I’m betting eight to five it’s heroin.»
«Eight to five, hey?» He walked to the bureau and said, «I don’t even see talcum powder. Come here and point it out.»
I ran to the bureau. It was clear.
Marsogliani said, «Are you telling me the dead man was an addict?»
«Not as far as I know,» I muttered.
«He has no needle marks on him; at least not on any exposed part of his body. The police may be able to tell better when they run an autopsy. Still, mister, if you tell them you saw heroin and there isn’t any, there’s no way of describing how much trouble you could find yourself in. I’m not going to tell them anything about heroin because I don’t see any; and I’m not going to tell them you said anything about heroin because I don’t take anything you say seriously. But you’ll be here and if you want to tell them anything, that’s your business. It’s up to you.»
10 HERMAN BROWN 2:05 P.M.
The police arrived in about ten minutes, which gave me time to think.
I had made a mistake. I had shot off my mouth with nothing to back up my statements but trivia. I should have pointed to the powder before I said anything about it.
Marsogliani was right. If I yelled murder and couldn’t prove it, they’d turn on me and rip me apart. I did have the key, I was first man on the scene. There might even be people who would be willing to suggest I was jealous of Giles—that I was the tooth-gnashing teacher who hated the smart-ass pupil who had outdistanced him. It didn’t seem likely on the face of it that a man my size would lug a two-hundred-pound-plus dead weight into the bathroom and tip him into the tub, but it was no secret that I was stronger than I looked.
So by the time the police came, I was a different guy. If Marsogliani and Strong volunteered nothing, neither would I.
Not until I had learned something of value. (Would I? Would I ever? I didn’t ask myself that question at this time.) The police came by way of the basement and the service elevator, I guess, avoiding and bypassing the convention.
There were two of them. The young man in uniform had longish hair and a mustache, items almost required for the new generation of police. The older man, round-faced and snub-nosed, was in plainclothes.
They identified themselves. The policeman was Joseph Olsen and the plainclothesman was Lieutenant Herman Brown. The lieutenant looked bored. I suppose dead bodies were an old story to him.
He walked about the room silently, looked in the closet, knelt to look under the beds, walked into the bathroom, then came out just as though it had been empty. He asked Marsogliani and Strong how they came to be there and they laid it upon me very nicely, told their stories briefly, and left.
Strong gave me a furtive glance out of the corner of his eye as though wondering what I was going to say and hoping I would make no trouble. Marsogliani left with no sign of concern at all. No skin off his nose.
If Strong had stayed behind, he would have heard me deliver the minimum and make no trouble at all.
Brown took my name, address, occupation, then said, «When did you find the body?»
«One thirty-three. I looked at my watch a minute or so after.»
«How did you get in?»
«I had a key. Giles Devore, the dead man, gave it to me last night so that I could deliver a package. I delivered it a little over half an hour ago. There it is on the bureau and there’s the key.»
«What’s in the package?»
«I don’t know.»
«Why did he ask you to deliver it and not someone else?»
«We were good friends,» I said.
He didn’t give me the oh-are-you-a-queer? look. Just scribbled in his notebook. He said, «Did you touch anything, move anything, when you came in?»
«Yes,» I said. «I didn’t know he was dead in the bathroom. I came in, wondered where he was, picked up that pen on the bureau, sat in the chair—like that. Then I looked in the bathroom and found him.»
«Why did you look in the bathroom?»
«I wanted to piss.»
«Did you?»
«Not yet.»
«Go ahead.»
That was nice of him. I felt a little less tense when I came out.
He said, «Did you draw that question mark on the pad there, or was it on the pad when you came?»
«I drew it.»
«What for?»
«I was wondering where Giles was. I had expected him to be up here but he wasn’t. It put a question mark in my mind, I suppose.»
He didn’t delve very deeply. I suppose with a clear case of accidental death, who needs more? He said, «Do you know if the dead man had a family?»
«He has a wife, Eunice.»
«Know her address?»
I gave it to him and he said, «All right. Are you planning any out-of-town trips?»
«No.»
«Okay. Hang around just in case there are more questions. I doubt that there will be, but hang around. You can go.»
«What’s going to happen to my—friend?» I pointed to the bathroom.
Brown said, «We’ll call the Medical Examiner, who will send the body to the morgue for an autopsy. After that it will be released to his widow.»
I said, «What do I do if people ask—»
For a minute, I thought he was going to smile, but he wasn’t in a smiling business. «You mean, is all this a state secret? No. Talk all you want. Is the dead man part of the convention that’s going on here?»
«Yes, the American Booksellers Association.»