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Authors: Edward D. Hoch
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encourage any outsiders to come in. Could I interest you in dinner?”
She glanced at her watch. “Well, I was planning to wash my hair and write a few letters.”
“Hair washing and letter writing are for nights when there’s nothing else swinging. You want to stay a bachelor gal the rest of your life?”
She laughed a bit and gave in easily. “All right, dinner it is. But didn’t you promise to phone me today?”
“I was busy every minute. I’ll tell you about it.”
They left MWA headquarters around eight o’clock and decided to eat nearby. They crossed the street to the Absinthe House and ordered something there. She found herself relaxing and enjoying it, even though she couldn’t quite figure what Barney Hamet had in mind.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “You know—the real you.”
“The real me! What do you want me to tell you? About my old boy-friends? About how I’m a career girl?”
“I suppose. Where do you live, for instance?”
“Opposite Central Park—above the zoo. I can hear the lions every night.”
“And the wolves?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Those too. Sometimes I hear ambulances—and I always hear parades. It’s that sort of an apartment.”
“It’s that sort of a city,” he said.
“Tell me about this murder,” she asked finally, over dessert.
“What’s there to tell? The man is dead and I suppose somebody there killed him. I sure don’t know who, though.”
“No ideas?”
“No ideas.”
“It will be sort of funny if it was one of you mystery writers.”
“It wasn’t one of us mystery writers. I don’t think there was an MWA member in that room who would have committed a crime under those circumstances. I’d be willing to bet on it.”
They took a cab uptown and she was surprised to find that it was already ten-thirty when they reached her apartment.
“Come on up,” she said casually.
He glanced around the apartment, taking in the modern art reproductions and a few originals.
“This is a nice place. How many rooms?”
“This one. The bedroom. The bath. That’s all. It goes for a fancy figure, but I think it’s worth it for entertaining. A nice neighbourhood. Right in the next block is one of the most expensive co-op apartments in New York City.”
He grunted and downed his Scotch. “Come sit by me,” he suggested, and she took him up on the offer. “I haven’t necked with a girl since high school.”
11 Barney Hamet
“T HIS IS YOUR PLACE , mister,” the Taxi driver said.
“Yeah.” Barney gave him a big tip and went up. He switched on the one o’clock news, but there was nothing new on Ross Craigthorn—just the fact that funeral services would be held Monday. Monday seemed a long way off. Then he remembered the radio show the following night. He should sleep late in the morning—have at least a few of his wits about him for the thing.
When he woke, rolled over and looked at the clock, he saw that it was ten minutes to ten. Well, almost eight hours. He couldn’t expect any more than that, not with losing an hour to the start of Daylight Savings Time. He thought about calling Susan, decided against it, but then did it anyway after breakfast.
“Hello,” she said, all sweetness. Maybe she was expecting her boss, or her sister in Chicago.
“Hello.”
“Who is this?”
“A fellow named Barney Hamet. Spent a little time with you last night.”
“Oh, Barney! I really didn’t expect to hear from you—not this soon at least. You’re calling to tell me you’ve cracked the Craigthorn murder case!”
“No.” He had a sudden impulse. “I want you to spend tonight with me.”
“Tonight?” she asked a little uncertainly, not understanding what he meant.
“Yeah, tonight. I’m going to be on an all-night radio show, Skinny Simon’s show, with some of the other writers. Great chance for you to stay up late. Drink black coffee and listen to all us mystery writers kick around the Craigthorn murder case. How about
She glanced at her watch. “Well, I was planning to wash my hair and write a few letters.”
“Hair washing and letter writing are for nights when there’s nothing else swinging. You want to stay a bachelor gal the rest of your life?”
She laughed a bit and gave in easily. “All right, dinner it is. But didn’t you promise to phone me today?”
“I was busy every minute. I’ll tell you about it.”
They left MWA headquarters around eight o’clock and decided to eat nearby. They crossed the street to the Absinthe House and ordered something there. She found herself relaxing and enjoying it, even though she couldn’t quite figure what Barney Hamet had in mind.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “You know—the real you.”
“The real me! What do you want me to tell you? About my old boy-friends? About how I’m a career girl?”
“I suppose. Where do you live, for instance?”
“Opposite Central Park—above the zoo. I can hear the lions every night.”
“And the wolves?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Those too. Sometimes I hear ambulances—and I always hear parades. It’s that sort of an apartment.”
“It’s that sort of a city,” he said.
“Tell me about this murder,” she asked finally, over dessert.
“What’s there to tell? The man is dead and I suppose somebody there killed him. I sure don’t know who, though.”
“No ideas?”
“No ideas.”
“It will be sort of funny if it was one of you mystery writers.”
“It wasn’t one of us mystery writers. I don’t think there was an MWA member in that room who would have committed a crime under those circumstances. I’d be willing to bet on it.”
They took a cab uptown and she was surprised to find that it was already ten-thirty when they reached her apartment.
“Come on up,” she said casually.
He glanced around the apartment, taking in the modern art reproductions and a few originals.
“This is a nice place. How many rooms?”
“This one. The bedroom. The bath. That’s all. It goes for a fancy figure, but I think it’s worth it for entertaining. A nice neighbourhood. Right in the next block is one of the most expensive co-op apartments in New York City.”
He grunted and downed his Scotch. “Come sit by me,” he suggested, and she took him up on the offer. “I haven’t necked with a girl since high school.”
11 Barney Hamet
“T HIS IS YOUR PLACE , mister,” the Taxi driver said.
“Yeah.” Barney gave him a big tip and went up. He switched on the one o’clock news, but there was nothing new on Ross Craigthorn—just the fact that funeral services would be held Monday. Monday seemed a long way off. Then he remembered the radio show the following night. He should sleep late in the morning—have at least a few of his wits about him for the thing.
When he woke, rolled over and looked at the clock, he saw that it was ten minutes to ten. Well, almost eight hours. He couldn’t expect any more than that, not with losing an hour to the start of Daylight Savings Time. He thought about calling Susan, decided against it, but then did it anyway after breakfast.
“Hello,” she said, all sweetness. Maybe she was expecting her boss, or her sister in Chicago.
“Hello.”
“Who is this?”
“A fellow named Barney Hamet. Spent a little time with you last night.”
“Oh, Barney! I really didn’t expect to hear from you—not this soon at least. You’re calling to tell me you’ve cracked the Craigthorn murder case!”
“No.” He had a sudden impulse. “I want you to spend tonight with me.”
“Tonight?” she asked a little uncertainly, not understanding what he meant.
“Yeah, tonight. I’m going to be on an all-night radio show, Skinny Simon’s show, with some of the other writers. Great chance for you to stay up late. Drink black coffee and listen to all us mystery writers kick around the Craigthorn murder case. How about
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