“But you don't look more than thirty-four.”
“I'm thirty-seven, Mrs. Turner. I was thirty-two when I married my wife and she was forty-one. I was her second husband, and I was infatuated with her beauty. You see she never tried to look younger than she was, rather she was always a beautiful forty-one-year-old woman. Maybe that's a beauty secret. Now let's get back to Ed.”
Betsy nodded. “I'm crazy about children. Ed was too, till he became a cop... then he always wanted to wait.”
“How long have you been married?”
“About four years,” she said, pouring herself a taste of vermouth, sipping it as though it was hard stuff. “I'm from a small town way out on Long Island. I had always looked forward to New York City, but I found it such a lonely place. I met Ed on the job, my first real beau, and after a month we were married. It was like a dream, we were so happy, so much in love. Ed was tender and considerate, full of laughs. But he changed from the moment he entered the Police Academy. He became ambitious.”
“Most wives like that. My wife tried to inject some ambition into me, but it didn't take,” I said, wondering why her words sounded false although she said them straight, as if she meant them.
“Ambition made Ed tough and cruel. A few days after he was appointed to the force, we were in the subway, going to a movie downtown. Ed kept staring at a man across the aisle, told me, 'He looks like a guy I saw on a Fed-wanted flier. Dope case. Except his hair is black and this fellow was a blond.'
“I told him to forget it but Ed was always talking about making a 'good' pinch, jumping to a detective. All he did at night was to read those wanted circulars. Well, he kept studying this man, going over his face feature by feature, the way he'd been trained. Finally he said, 'That's him!' and went over and showed his badge—made a scene. The man denied he was the criminal but Ed yanked out a fistful of his hair, waved the bloody hair at me and shouted, 'The roots are blond!' Then he punched the man in the face and he was all blood.”
“Was the man the one wanted?”
She nodded. “But how I hated that badge, the gun, the handcuffs, the blackjack!”
“Mrs. Turner, a rough world makes for rough people. The worst cop hater squeals the loudest for the police when he's in a jam. True, there are incompetent cops, nightstick happy. Also, in this corrupt world, if crime doesn't pay—being a cop doesn't pay much either. Now that I've finished my sermon for the day, let's get down to cases—this case. You have any boy friends, past or present?”
She jumped to her feet with cat speed. “How dare you say that?” Her big soft eyes were big and mad now.
“Take it slow, Mrs. Turner,” I said calmly. “I'm working for you, remember? I have to sift through everything. A jealous boy friend could cause murder, or suicide.”
“How dare you... I never looked at another man! I never... what sort of a mind have you?”
“A detective's mind—maybe. Look, stop the how-dare-you line. Mrs. Turner, you asked me up here. I don't mind a lot of social chatter, but at the moment I feel ill at ease, a bit like the rear end of a horse. I don't mean to be crude, or maybe I do, but the point is, I have to ask questions and I'd like some answers—without frills, if possible.”
“You're crude, rude, and... and...!”
“Let's start over again,” I cut in. “How about Ed, any other woman on his mind?”
“No! No!” Her face got so red I thought she was going to scream.
“Mrs. Turner, being a busybody is my job. You said in my office that you and Ed were very happy, yet all you've done tonight is carp about his job, his...”
“We were very much in love and happy! Get that through your thick head, you lummox!” she shouted in my face. Then she caught herself, sat down on the couch again, said in a normal voice, “I didn't like what his job was doing to him, but that doesn't make us unhappy.”
“Have a job, Mrs. Turner?”
“No.”
“This apartment, the furniture, your clothes—a detective's salary wouldn't make it. You knew your husband was keeping his hand out, but...”
“Ed wasn't dishonest!” she snapped.
“What did he do, win a lot of prize money like the Andersun kid? This case is tough enough, has the cops on the ropes—if you really want results, don't hold out on me.”
“I told you, I never knew much about his job—never wanted to hear about it. He gave me money for the house. I never asked questions. Ed didn't like to be questioned about money matters. My God, you must think I'm some cheap, little ugly tramp that...”
“Don't know enough about you to say if you're cheap or not, or a tramp. But you're not little, or ugly. Now let's put the gloves away and get down to...”
Her eyes became soft again—that kid look—as she said, “Thanks. I do want to find out if... Ed was a suicide. It's so terribly important to me. I'm sorry I blew up, but you are a bit abrupt... and crude.”
I wondered what the “thanks” meant. “One more crude question, Mrs. Turner. Why do you keep harping on this suicide kick? You say Ed was happy, and ambitious, hard—that's not the picture of a suicide.”
“But if he was shot in the back without...?”
“Suicides are upset, depressed. You keep raising the suicide angle.... What was Ed upset about?”
She stared at the floor, finally whispered, “We had a fight that night. Something very personal.”
“Like what?”
She raised her head and glared at me, said, “None of your business! I said it was personal!”
“But you hired me to find out the most personal thing a person can do—kill himself. What did you fight about?”
She sighed, leaned back against the couch, said in her small voice, “We were... incompatible. For months Ed hadn't slept with me.”
I didn't say a word, didn't know what to say. “I think he... he got some sort of... thrill... out of beating men. He once told me that. Maybe that was why he stopped... having relations with... me. On the night he was killed we... had a scene and I accused him of n-not being a man. He got so angry I thought he was going to hit me. He ran out of here. Less than two hours later he was dead.” The words were forced out, dull little sounds. She added, “This has to be confidential. Don't even tell the police, please.” I stood up.
“Now you see why I must know—for my own peace of mind. I feel as though I killed him.”
“If that's all you have to go on, Mrs. Turner, I still think you ought to save your money. Let the police handle this.”
“I'll be the judge of that,” she said, and her kid's voice was cold and snooty. “What do you plan to do tomorrow?”
“If you're going to tell me how to operate, then you don't need me.”
“I'm not telling you your business, but I am interested, of course.”
For a moment I wanted to walk out on the case—but only for a moment. Then I said calmly, “This Brown lead might be something, although it's a long shot and doesn't make much sense. Takes me months to check on all the Browns in the city, but the police will do it quicker, so I'll leave it alone. I expect to talk to members of the Andersun family. I'm sure his slaying will explain everything. Sound like a good day's work?”
I walked to the door and she followed, without speaking. At the door I turned to see her looking at herself in a wall mirror, moistening her lips, straightening her bangs. “You'll be here tomorrow at eight?” she asked.