breathlessly informed the world the beast had been shot by the first Mr. Long while on a safari in Africa. It was part of the air-conditioned mishmash of heavy wood-paneled walls, horrible old etchings and brightly colored modern furniture that made up the Longson offices. The carved wood panels, the etchings and elephant's foot to remind you that Longson had been publishing books for over 75 years.
Looking down into the ugly, sand-filled foot, I felt violently sick. If I'd had anything in my stomach I certainly would have made a mess. After a rough moment I was okay because I knew what it was, what had hit me the second I'd known Michele had actually taken the plane: I was already tasting the loneliness.
I put my hand to my mouth and smelled my breath, then opened the door. Bill Long merely glanced up from his desk. He was the great-grandson of the founder. William Long was a lean, stiff man in his fifties. He looked as if he had stepped out of a British whiskey ad, everything from his brushed moustache to polished shoes in its proper, immaculate place.
I sat down beside his desk and waited. After a few seconds Long asked, “What do you think about it, Norm?”
“About what?” I tried to get my brains to stop racing in circles.
Long touched the ends of his tiny waxed moustache, as if testing the sharp points. “Damn it, man, don't you read the papers, listen to the radio or TV?”
“No, sir.” Our relationship was such I could 'sir' him or call him Bill. At the moment I said 'sir' to let him know I wasn't in the mood for any buddy-boss act. “I... eh... had a very bad night.”
“Sorry. Have you seen a doctor?”
“Nothing for a doctor. What's up?” And that was another thing starting now—explaining where Michele was. How does a man say his wife has left him?
“Matt Anthony killed his wife.” Long handed me the newspaper on his neat desk. “Read it through and we'll talk in ten minutes.”
“Right, Bill.”
I went back to my office, where I found a sandwich, coffee, and orange juice waiting. I almost forgot my own troubles as I read the headline:
MYSTERY WRITER KILLS WIFE
END HARBOR, L.I. Mrs. Francine Anthony, 44, wife of the well-known author, Matt Anthony, 51, died here while fishing today in her rowboat Medical reports state death was due to a blow on the forehead. At first it was thought Mrs. Anthony's death was the result of an accidental fan, but late tonight Mr. Anthony is said to have confessed he struck her, causing his wife to hit her head against the gunwale of the boat.
At about 1 p.m. Mrs. Anthony had gone fishing on the bay in front of the Anthony house. Several hours later a maid, Miss May Fitzgerald, went to the dock to call out to the sportswoman that her guests were awaiting her return to go swimming. Miss Fitzgerald saw the body hanging over the side of the small boat. Mr. Anthony immediately phoned the police. At first it was thought Mrs. Anthony had fallen while casting, striking her head on the side of the rowboat. However, towards evening, while being questioned by Det. Walter Kolcicki, Mr. Anthony is said to have admitted he had been skin-diving and climbed aboard the boat when his air valve ceased functioning. In the course of an argument he is said to have punched his wife, knocking her face down against the gunwale. In an argument earlier in the afternoon, over a guest, Mr. Anthony allegedly threatened his wife's life.
Mr. Anthony is said to have signed a confession and is now being held in the Riverside County jail.
Written by a “special correspondent,” the piece had the ring of an amateur reporter. They used a picture of Anthony taken when he had sailed a 30 foot sloop single-handedly across the Atlantic. It was a good shot: showing the dashing grin on his handsome face and the swimming trunks revealing the heavyweight body in all its muscular glory. I had used the same shot on the dust jacket of an Anthony book and in several ads.
The news item went on to list a few of Matt's novels, stated that several of them had been made into movies.
As I finished eating and reading I became wide awake. My headache vanished. I dialed Martin Kelly, my former boss. He headed the ad agency that handled all of Longson's books. When I had him on the phone I asked, “Marty? Norm Connor here. Listen, have you any fresh dope on this Anthony mess? I need some information in a big rush.” He asked what we were going to do about it. Should he attempt to hush things up? “Stop it, Marty, how could we possibly put the lid on this? Look, do you know, or can you find me a reporter who's been out to the Anthony house? Swell, swell. That's a break. Have him phone me, fast. I need to be filled in on the facts within the next ten minutes. Now stop wasting time, Marty, and call that reporter. And thanks. Big thanks.”
Eight minutes later, after a reporter had phoned me direct from Riverside, I went back up to Long's cool office. Dropping the newspaper on his desk, I lit my pipe and sat in a plywood bucket chair. I had a practiced way of casual sitting, as if slowly falling into the chair. I said, “Seems I skipped quite a mess in the papers.”
messy is the first subject on the agenda,” Long told me, pulling a thin dark cigar from a fancy tan teak humidor. He carefully nipped the end with an ancient, silver cigar-cutter, then ran his tongue around the cut end. Lighting the cigar, he puffed slowly and evenly for a few seconds, gazing at the ceiling. His cigar rituals fascinated me. I always had a feeling the anxious expression on Bill's thin face meant be expected the stinking rope to blow up at any moment.
The second his cigar was drawing smoothly, Bill placed it on an ash tray and said, “Norm, we must consider how that affects us: business-wise. Anthony has been on our lists for a number of years. I believe we have issued over a dozen of his novels. While we most certainly are not the type of house to capitalize on notoriety, the fact remains that Anthony is in the headlines and will continue to remain there for some time. And all during the trial. Much as we may dislike them, one still can't ignore facts.”
“I've just talked with a reporter out in Riverside,” I said cautiously, not getting the drift Matt Anthony wasn't that important a writer to the house—he was merely a mystery writer. “Notoriety may be an understatement. For one thing the D.A. is seeking a first degree murder indictment which—”
“Murder? That's bloody bull.”
I nodded, combing my hair with my left hand. “Perhaps, but the D.A. is calling it murder. Secondly, it seems our
