tell me he was a moneygrubbing blackmailer.”
“That doesn’t affect his work,” said Heinz. “Myself, I admire a guy who got something out of the system. He had Destry by the short hairs, and they both knew it.”
Old Myers had been drumming one freckled hand on the table top. “Maybe I ought to keep my mouth shut,” he said.
Banner frowned. “You know some details I left out?”
“A few,” the old cartoonist replied with an odd smile.
“Let’s hear ’em,” said Zarley. “Maybe they’ll untamish his image.”
Myers said, “I wouldn’t think so.” He sighed, tapping his fingers a bit more. “Since, as you said, Ty, just about everybody involved is dead and gone, I don’t suppose it matters now.”
“Go ahead,” advised Mert. “Nothing told at these lunches ever goes any further.”
The old man sighed again. “Well, in the first place,” he said, “Carol Cinders never wrote a suicide note.”
“I saw it,” said Banner. “Segal showed me a photostat once, and it was in her handwriting.”
Myers shook his head. “Nope, that note was in a very good imitation of Carol Cinders’ handwriting.”
“You mean Segal forged it?”
“He was a gifted artist. Faking her handwriting was no problem for him,” said Myers. “It was good enough to fool Lon Destry, and he sure wasn’t going to have the darn thing checked out by a handwriting expert.”
Zarley murmured, “This gets worse and worse.”
Banner asked, “You’re absolutely certain she didn’t leave a suicide note?”
“The reason being,” said the old man, “she didn’t kill herself.”
“Huh?” Banner had been reaching for his drink and he stopped. “What do you mean?”
“She was murdered,” replied Myers. “Let me explain something. I was that gent in the Panama hat. Ben Segal wasn’t the only one anxious to improve his standing at Destry Productions. I was, too. Only I was doing it by getting in good with Mrs. Destry and, well, I was watching Carol’s house for her. Thing is, I hadn’t yet told her that her husband was actually visiting there. That I was keeping to myself, figuring maybe I—”
“Could blackmail Destry yourself?” asked Banner.
“The notion had occurred to me, yes,” admitted the old cartoonist as he folded his hands on the table top. “But she got killed before I’d made up my mind just what I was going to do.”
Zarley hunched in his chair, breathing through his mouth. “Who killed her? And why?”
“What you knew about the situation, Ty,” said Myers, “was only what Ben wanted you to know. It suited him to plant a fake version of the facts, in case it might come in handy later. Actually, while Carol really was seeing Lon Destry, she was also keeping company with Ben Segal. That was the real reason he was going up to her place, most nights anyway.”
Banner asked, “You mean he wasn’t staked out in that field?”
“Oh, maybe once or twice, when Destry was visiting her,” Myers said. “But not often. Most of what he knew about the affair he got right straight from Carol. I’m pretty sure the two of them worked out the whole thing, a variation on the badger game. Another reason I know Ben wasn’t there is that I’d station myself up there quite a bit, once I was sure she was home for the night.”
“The night she died,” said Banner, “where was Ben Segal?”
“In her bedroom with her,” the old man said. “I think she was getting tired of Ben, maybe threatening to tell Destry what was going on. Anyway, they had quite an argument, and while she was out of the room, Ben doctored her drink. It took her about an hour to die.”
Zarley said, “You watched that?”
“Yes,” said Myers. “Ben stuck around until he was certain she was dead. Then he wiped his fingerprints off things, arranged all the props the way they were when the cops found her.”
“And the suicide note?” asked Banner.
“Like I said, Ben must’ve forged that,” said Myers. “I was never sure until today, but I always knew he got his promotion by pulling some sort of deal on Destry. He convinced Destry that Carol had died because of him, and for keeping quiet about the note he got to be a vice president. And died rich.”
“And you blackmailed Segal?” asked Zarley.
“Yes, I told him what I’d seen.” He rubbed one hand over the other. “Never much talked about this before, but since Ty brought it up…”
“How could you sit up there,” asked Banner, “and watch her die without even trying to help save her?”
The old man rubbed at his hand. “Because I didn’t have anywhere near the talent Ben Segal had,” he said slowly. “But I knew he was going to rise in that studio and, if I was lucky, he’d see to it I did, too.” He turned to gaze out at the afternoon. “And I was lucky.”
PIT ON THE ROAD TO HELL, by John Gregory Betancourt
When the telephone rang, I rolled over and squinted blearily in its general direction, my head swimming from too much whisky the night before. What was this, Grand Central Station? I’d gotten more phone calls in the last week than I had in the entire previous year.
Cursing would-be friends and telemarketers under my breath, I fumbled for the handset. Though booze helped blunt the pain from my ruined legs, the side effects left a lot to be desired. My coordination was off, and I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking.
Somehow, I got the receiver up to my ear.
“Who is this?” I rasped.
“Hello, Pit,” said a too-smooth voice.
I felt the blood drain from my face. Gulping hard, I sat up, nearly dropping the phone.
That voice belonged to Cal Tortelli—or Mr. Smith, as he now called himself. He ran an illegal gambling club outside Philadelphia. When an old college friend of mine fell victim to a blackmail scheme, I had manipulated Smith into handling the problem for us. I didn’t know all the details, but I knew the resolution had been neither legal nor pretty for the blackmailers.
Unfortunately, Smith seemed to have taken a particular interest in me. He had researched my life, even going so far as to have my phone bugged. I seemed to intrigue him…probably due to my trick memory. I could recall every name, date, face, and fact that I had ever encountered.
“Hello, Mr. Smith,” I said warily. “What do you want?”
“Don’t you ever leave your apartment?” he asked with a low chuckle.
“I try not to. Walking hurts.”
“Come outside. I need to see you.”
“You’re…here?”
“Yes.” He paused. “And bring your toothbrush, ‘Pit-bull’ Peter Geller. You’re going on a trip.” He hung up.
With an uneasy feeling, I fumbled my phone back into its cradle. I really needed to get an answering machine and start screening calls. Mr. Smith was the last person I wanted to meet again…in my book, he ranked somewhere south of doctors and lawyers.
Bring a toothbrush? Why a toothbrush, but not a change of clothes?
No sense guessing. Throwing off my blanket, I hauled the hideously scarred pieces of flesh that now passed for my legs over the edge of the bed and, with a groan and several grunts, levered myself to a standing position. From the arches of my feet to the joints of my hips, I ached with a dull constant pain. Getting up was the worst part of any