The Topless Tulip Caper

that one of them was due to be the expose, and I guess they didn’t quite know how to relate to that. It was fine with me, just so they stayed in their chairs and didn’t make waves.

Jan Remo came next asking if she was late. I told her she was right on time, and as I was leading her to the office the bell rang again. I hurried her in and came back to admit Rita Cubbage. She wasn’t wearing the wig this time and her tight Afro cap was a significant improvement. “Much better,” I told her, taking a long look. “You ought to give that wig to the boss. Your boss, not mine. He’s bald as an egg and it might be an improvement. Did you remember what it was that you couldn’t quite remember last night?”

“I dreamed something,” she said. She opened her purse and took out a slip of paper. “And when I woke up this was on the bedside table, but I don’t recall writing it down.”

I took the slip of paper from her. On it, in a very precise handwriting that no one would be capable of managing in the middle of the night, she had written: “Some white boys can be fun to sleep with.”

“I do wish I recalled that dream,” she said. “It must have been a good one.”

“I wish I’d been there.”

“Just might be that you were,” she said.

I opened my mouth, and then I closed my mouth, and then I seated her and came back in time to open the door for Leonard Danzig. There was a man on either side of him, and they were the very same men who had taken hold of my arms the night before. I was trying to decide how to tell them they couldn’t come in when he turned to them and told them to wait outside, which made things a whole lot simpler for me.

“Well,” he said. “Everything proceeding on schedule?”

“So far.”

“And your boss is going to make it all come together, is that right?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Well, if he makes it work, I’ll pay off on the spot.” He tapped the breast pocket of his suit, indicating that he’d brought the money along. “If I owe somebody something, I see to it that the debt is paid.”

A sort of chill grabbed me when he said that. He was talking about money, about paying money if he owed it, but I had the feeling that I never wanted him to owe me something else. Like a bullet in the head, for example. Because I was sure he’d pay that debt just as promptly, and with the same kind of satisfaction.

I took him into the office and parked him, and there were two seats left, one on either side of the second row. I went into the kitchen, picked up the phone and buzzed the fourth floor.

“All but two,” I said.

“Who hasn’t arrived?”

“The twins. New York’s Finest.”

“They’ll be here within five minutes. Buzz me when they arrive.”

They were on hand within three minutes, and they were not happy to see me. “I don’t like any of this,” Gregorio informed me. “If Haig has something he should tell us. If he’s got nothing he should stop wasting our time. If he wants to put on a performance let him hire a hall.”

“Sure,” I said. That’s his plan, actually. He’s going to play the title role in Tiny Alice. Let’s face it, you’re here because this case has you up a tree and you figure Haig’s going to hold the ladder for you. Either hell get your murderer or he won’t, and either way is fine with you. You wind up with a case solved or you get to see Haig fall on his face.”

“I’d like that,” Seidenwall said.

“You probably would but I don’t think he’s going to oblige you. Now you know the rules. You take your seats and you let Leo Haig run the show. This is his house and you’re here by invitation. Understood?”

I swear the best part of my job is getting to talk to cops that way now and then. It makes it all worthwhile. They didn’t like to put up with it, but they knew they didn’t have any choice. I showed them their chairs, putting Gregorio on the far side of the room and Seidenwall nearest to the door. That way anyone who tried to leave in a hurry would have to go through Seidenwall, and I wouldn’t want to try that myself unless I was driving a tank.

Let me go over the seating for you, in case you care. I don’t, but it’s one of the things Haig insists on.

The desk was where it always was, with Haig’s chair behind it and mine in front of it and an armchair alongside of it, presently empty.

Then two rows of chairs feeing the desk. In the first row, from the far side, were Leonard Danzig, Rita Cubbage, Glenn Flatt, Maeve O’Connor, and Simon Barckover. In the back row we had Detective Vincent Gregorio, Haskell Henderson, Gus Leemy, Buddy Lippa, Jan Remo, and Detective Wallace Seidenwall. I looked at them and decided they were a reasonably attractive group, well-mannered and neatly groomed. Leemy was wearing a business suit instead of a tuxedo so he didn’t look like a penguin today, and Buddy wasn’t wearing a sport jacket at all so he had nothing to clash with his slacks and shirt, but otherwise they looked about the same as always. I wished they would fold their hands on the tops of their desks and wait for the teacher to come and write something adorable on the blackboard.

I buzzed Haig from the kitchen. Then I went back to the office and sat down in my chair, and a minute or so later our client entered the room. Our original client, that is. Tulip. She took the armchair alongside the desk without being told.

Then Haig walked in and sat behind his desk and every eye in the room was drawn to him. Including mine.

Seventeen

FOR A LONG moment he just sat there looking at them. His eyes scanned the room carefully. I thought I saw the hint of a smile for a second, but then it was gone and his round face maintained a properly stern and serious look. He put his hands on top of the desk, selected a pipe, put it back in the rack, and drew a breath.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I want to thank you all for coming. All but one of you are welcome in this house. That one is not welcome, but his presence is essential. One of you is a murderer. One of you is responsible for one hundred twenty-five deaths.”

There was a collective gasp at that figure but he went on without appearing to notice. “All but two of those deaths were the deaths of fish. The penalty which society attaches to ichthyicide is minimal. Malicious mischief, perhaps. Certainly a misdemeanor. The other two victims were human, however. One would be difficult to substantiate as homicide. While I am mortally certain that Andrew Mallard was murdered—”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Gregorio cut in. “If you’ve got any information on that you’ve been holding it out, and —”

“Mr. Gregorio.” Gregorio stopped in midsentence. “I have withheld nothing, sir. I remind you again that you are here by invitation.” He scanned the room again, then went on. “To continue. While I may be certain that Mr. Mallard was murdered, and while I could explain how the murder was committed, no jury would convict anyone for that murder. Indeed, no district attorney in his right mind would presume to bring charges. But the other murder, that of Miss Abramowicz, was unquestionably a case of premeditated homicide. The killer is in this room, and I intend to see him hang for it.”

He’d have a long wait. While Haig longs for a return of capital punishment, and thinks public hanging was a hell of a fine way to run a society, the bulk of contemporary opinion seems to be flowing in the other direction.

“The day before yesterday,” he said, “Miss Thelma Wolinski sought my assistance. An entire tank of young Scatophagies tetracanthus plus her breeder fish had died suddenly and of no apparent cause. Miss Wolinski is possessed of a scientific temperament. She had a chemical analysis of the aquarium water performed, and the laboratory certified that the water had been poisoned with strychnine. Miss Wolinski could not imagine why anyone would want to kill her generally inoffensive fish. She concluded that the crime was the work of a madman, that an attack upon her fish represented hostility toward her own person, and that she herself might consequently be in danger.”

“She should have called the police,” Seidenwall said.

Haig glared at him. “Indeed,” he said. “No doubt you would have rushed to investigate the poisoning of a tankful of fish. Miss Wolinski is no witling.” Seidenwall winced at the word. “She came to me. She could scarcely