The McBain Brief Read online

  “The girl had a convulsion,” Godrow put in. “If I’d known she was predisposed toward . . .”

  “Did she pass out?”

  “Yes,” Freddie said.

  “What did you do then?”

  “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Why didn’t you call a doctor?”

  “Well, we did, after the second convulsion.”

  “When was that?”

  “About . . . oh I don’t know . . . ten, fifteen minutes later. I really don’t know.”

  “And when the doctor came, what did he say?”

  “Well, he didn’t come,” Freddie said apologetically.

  “Why not? I thought you called him.”

  “The girl died after the second convulsion,” Godrow said. “Good Lord, man, she turned blue! Why should I pay a doctor for a visit when the girl was dead? I cancelled the call.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s obvious she was predisposed toward convulsions, and whoever spoke to her on the phone frightened her, bringing one on,” Godrow said. “He obviously told her he was going to kill her or something.”

  “This is all very obvious, is it, Mr. Godrow?” I asked.

  “Well, of course. You can see the girl is blue. What else . . .”

  “Lots of things,” I said. “Lots of things could have caused her coloration. But only one thing would put that grin on her face.”

  “What’s that?” Godrow asked.

  “Strychnine poisoning,” I said.

  When we got back to the squadroom, I put a call through to Mike Reilly. The coroner had already confirmed my suspicions, but I wanted the official autopsy report on it. Mike picked up the phone on the third ring and said, “Reilly here.”

  “This is Ralph,” I said. “What’ve you got on the Chinese girl?”

  “Oh. Like you figured, Ralph. It’s strychnine, all right.”

  “No question?”

  “None at all. She sure took enough of the stuff. Any witnesses around when she went under?”

  “Yes, two.”

  “She complain of a stiff neck, twitching, spasms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Convulsions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure, that’s all strychnine. Yeah, Ralph. And her jaws locked the way they were, that grin. And the cyanotic coloring of lips and face. Oh, no question. Hell, I could have diagnosed this without making a test.”

  “What else did you find, Mike?”

  “She didn’t have a very big breakfast, Ralph. Coffee and an English muffin.”

  “Have any idea when she got the strychnine?”

  “Hard to say. Around breakfast, I suppose. You’re gonna have a tough nut with strychnine, Ralph.”

  “How so?”

  “Tracing it, I mean. Hell, Ralph, they sell it by the can. For getting rid of animal pests.”

  “Yeah. Well, thanks, Mike.”

  “No trouble at all. Drop in anytime.”

  He hung up, and I turned to Donny who had already started on a cup of coffee.

  “Strychnine, all right.”

  “What’d you expect?” he said. “Malted milk?”

  “So where now?”

  “Got a check on the contents of the girl’s purse from the lab. Nothing important. Lipstick. Some change. Five-dollar bill, and three singles. Threatre stubs.”

  “For where?”

  “Chinese theatre in Chinatown.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Letter to a sister in Hong Kong.”

  “In Chinese?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “That’s it. Oh yes, a program card. She was a transfer student at Columbia. Went there nights.”

  “So what do you figure, Donny?”

  “I figure some bastard slipped the strychnine to her this morning before she came to work. Maybe a lover, how do I know? She called him later to say hello. She talks Chinese on the phone, so who can tell whether she’s calling a restaurant or her uncle in Singapore? The guy all at once says, ‘You know why you’re feeling so punk, honey?’ So she is feeling punk. She’s got a stiff neck, and her reflexes are hypersensitive, and she’s beginning to shake a little. She forgets she’s supposed to be talking to a Chinese restaurant owner. She drops the pose for a minute and says ‘No, why?’ in English. The boyfriend on the other end says, ‘Here’s why, honey. I gave you a dose of strychnine when I saw you this morning. It’s going to kill you in about zero minutes flat.’ The kid jumps up and screams ‘Kill me? No! No!’ Curtain. The poison’s already hit her.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “Except for one thing?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Would the poisoner take a chance like that? Tipping her off on the phone?”

  “Why not? He probably knew how long it would take for the poison to kill her.”

  “But why would she call him?”

  “Assuming it was him. How do I know? Maybe she didn’t call anybody special. Maybe the joker works at one of the Chinese restaurants she always called. Maybe she met him every morning for chop suey, and then he went his way and she went hers. Or maybe she called . . . Ralph, she could have called anyone.”

  “No. Someone who spoke Chinese. She spoke Chinese to the party in the beginning.”

  “Lots of Chinese in this city, Ralph.”

  “Why don’t we start with the restaurants? This book was open on her desk. Two pages showing. She could have been talking to someone at any one of the restaurants listed on those pages—assuming she opened the book to refer to a number. If she called a sweetheart, we’re up the creek.”

  “Not necessarily,” Donny said. “It’ll just take longer, that’s all.”

  There were a lot of Chinese restaurants listed on those two pages. They were not listed in any geographical order. Apparently, Mary Chang knew the best times to call each of the owners, and she’d listed the restaurant numbers in a system all her own. So where the first number on the list was in Chinatown, the second was up on Fordham Road in the Bronx. We had a typist rearrange the list according to location, and then we asked the skipper for two extra men to help with the legwork. He gave us Belloni and Hicks, yanking them off a case that was ready for the D.A. anyway. Since they were our guests, so to speak, we gave them the easy half of the list, the portion in Chinatown where all the restaurants were clustered together and there wouldn’t be as much hoofing to do. Donny and I took the half that covered Upper Manhattan and the Bronx.

  A Chinese restaurant in the early afternoon is something like a bar at that time. There are few diners. Everyone looks bleary-eyed. The dim lights somehow clash with the bright sunshine outside. It’s like stepping out of reality into something unreal and vague. Besides, a lot of the doors were locked solid, and when a man can’t speak English it’s a little difficult to make him understand what a police shield means.

  It took a lot of time. We pounded on the door first, and then we talked to whoever’s face appeared behind the plate glass. We showed shields, we gestured, we waited for someone who spoke English. When the doors opened, we told them who we were and what we wanted. There was distrust, a natural distrust of cops, and another natural distrust of Westerners.

  “Did Gotham Lobster call you this morning?”

  “No.”

  “When did Gotham call you?”

  “Yes’day. We take one ba’l. One ba’l small.”

  “Who did you speak to at Gotham?”

  “Ma’y Chang.”

  And on to the next place, and the same round of questions, and always no luck, always no call from Gotham or Mary Chang. And then we hit a place on the Grand Concourse where the waiter opened the door promptly. We told him what we wanted, and he hurried off to the back of the restaurant while we waited by the cash register. A young Chinese in an immaculate blue suit came out to us in about five minutes. He smiled and shook hands and then said, “I’m David Loo. My father owns the restaurant. May I help you?”

  He was a good-lo
oking boy of about twenty, I would say. He spoke English without a trace of singsong. He was wearing a white button-down shirt with a blue-and-silver striped silk tie. A small Drama Masks tie-clasp held the tie to the shirt.

  “I’m Detective Parker, and this is my partner, Detective Katz. Do you know Mary Chang?”

  “Chang? Mary Chang? Why, no, I . . . oh, do you mean the girl who calls from Gotham Lobster?”

  “Yes, that’s her. Do you know her?”

  “Oh yes, certainly.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “See her?” David Loo smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve never seen her. I spoke to her on the phone occasionally, but that was the extent of our relationship.”

  “I see. When did you speak to her last?”

  “This morning.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Early this morning.”

  “Can you try to pinpoint the time?”

  David Loo shrugged. “Nine, nine-fifteen, nine-thirty. I really don’t know.” He paused. “Has Miss Chang done something?”

  “Can you give us a closer time than that, Mr. Loo? Mary Chang was poisoned this morning, and it might be . . .”

  “Poisoned? My God!”

  “Yes. So you see, any help you can give us would be appreciated.”

  “Yes, yes, I can understand that. Well, let me see. I came to the restaurant at about . . . nine-ten it was, I suppose. So she couldn’t have called at nine, could she?” David Loo smiled graciously, as if he were immensely enjoying this game of murder. “I had some coffee, and I listened to the radio back in the kitchen, and . . .” Loo snapped his fingers. “Of course,” he said. “She called right after that.”

  “Right after what?”

  “Well, I listen to music a lot, and WNEW is a good station for music.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, they have a newsbreak every hour on the half-hour. I remember the news coming on at nine-thirty, and then as the newscaster signed off, the phone rang. That must have been at nine-thirty-five. The news takes five minutes, you see. As a matter of fact, I always resent that intrusion on the music. If a person likes music, it seems unfair . . .”

  “And the phone rang at nine-thirty-five, is that right?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m positive.”

  “Who answered the phone?”

  “I did. I’d finished my coffee.”

  “Was it Mary Chang calling?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said, ‘Gotham Lobster, good morning.’ I said good morning back to her—she’s always very pleasant on the phone—and . . .”

  “Wasn’t she pleasant off the phone?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know. I only spoke to her on the phone.”

  “Go on.”

  “She gave me a quotation then and asked if I’d like some nice lobster.”

  “Was this in Chinese?”

  “Yes. I don’t know why she spoke Chinese. Perhaps she thought I was the chef.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I asked her to hold on, and then I went to find the chef. I asked the chef if he needed any lobster, and he said we should take a half-barrel. So I went back to the phone. But Miss Chang was gone by that time.” Loo shrugged. “We had to order our lobsters from another outfit. Shame, too, because Gotham has some good stuff.”

  “Did you speak to her in English at all?”

  “No. All Chinese.”

  “I see. Is that customary? I mean, do you usually check with the chef after she gives her quotation?”

  “Yes, of course. The chef is the only one who’d know. Sometimes, of course, the chef himself answers the phone. But if he doesn’t, we always leave the phone to check with him.”

  “And you didn’t speak to her in English at all?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you didn’t know her, other than through these phone conversations?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Ever have breakfast with her?” Donny asked.

  “Sir?”

  “Did you ever . . .”

  “No, of course not. I told you I didn’t know her personally.”

  “All right, Mr. Loo, thank you very much. We may be back.”

  “Please feel free to return,” he said a little coldly.

  We left the restaurant, and outside Donny said, “So?”

  “So now we know who she was speaking to. What do you think of him?”

  “Educated guy. Could conceivably run in the same circles as a Columbia student. And if he did poison her this morning and then tell her about it on the phone, it’s a cinch he’d lie his goddamn head off.”

  “Sure. Let’s check Miss Chang’s residence. Someone there might know whether or not Loo knew her better than he says he did.”

  Mary Chang, when she was alive, lived at International House near the Columbia campus, on Riverside Drive. Her roommate was a girl named Frieda who was a transfer student from Vienna. The girl was shocked to learn of Miss Chang’s death. She actually wept for several moments, and then she pulled herself together when we started questioning her.

  “Did she have any boyfriends?”

  “Yes. A few.”

  “Do you know any of their names?”

  “I know all of their names. She always talked about them.”

  “Would you let us have them, please?”

  Frieda reeled off a list of names, and Donny and I listened. Then Donny asked, “A David Loo? Did he ever come around?”

  “No, I don’t think so. She never mentioned a David Loo.”

  “Never talked about him at all?”

  “No.”

  “That list you gave us—all Chinese names. Did she ever date any American boys?”

  “No. Mary was funny that way. She didn’t like to go out with Americans. I mean, she liked the country and all, but I guess she figured there was no future in dating Occidentals.” Frieda paused. “She was a pretty girl, Mary, and a very happy one, always laughing, always full of life. A lot of American boys figured her for . . . an easy mark, I suppose. She . . . sensed this. She wouldn’t date any of them.”

  “Did they ask her?”

  “Oh, yes, all the time. She was always very angry when an American asked her for a date. It was sort of an insult to her. She . . . she knew what they wanted.”

  “Where’d she eat breakfast?”

  “Breakfast?”

  “Yes. Where’d she eat? Who’d she eat with?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember ever seeing her eat breakfast.”

  “She didn’t eat breakfast?”

  “I don’t think so. We always left here together in the morning. I have a job, too, you see. I work at Lord and Taylor’s. I’m . . .”

  “Yes, you left here together?”

  “To take the subway. She never stopped to eat.”

  “Coffee?” I asked. “An English muffin? Something?”

  “No, not when I was with her.”

  “I see. What subway did you take?”

  “The Broadway line.”

  “Where did she get off?”

  “At 72nd Street.”

  “What time did she get off the subway usually?”

  “At about nine, or maybe a few minutes before. Yes, just about nine.”

  “But she didn’t stop for breakfast.”

  “No. Mary was very slim, very well-built. I don’t think she ate breakfast in the morning.”

  “She ate breakfast this morning,” I said. “Thank you, Miss. Come on, Donny.”

  There was an Automat on West 72nd Street, a few doors from Broadway. Mary Chang wouldn’t have gone to the Automat because Mary Chang had to be at work at nine, and she got off the train at nine. We walked down the street, all the way up to the building that housed the offices of Gotham Lobster, close to Columbus Avenue. There was a luncheonette on the ground floor of that building. Donny and I went inside and took seats at the counter, and th
en we ordered coffee.

  When our coffee came, we showed the counter man our buzzers. He got scared all at once.

  “Just a few questions,” we told him.

  “Sure, sure,” he said. He gulped. “I don’t know why . . .”

  “You know any of the people who work in this building?”

  “Sure, most of ’em. But . . .”

  “Did you know Mary Chang?”

  He seemed immensely relieved. “Oh, her. There’s some trouble with her, ain’t there? She got shot, or stabbed, or something, didn’t she?”

  “Did you know her?”

  “I seen her around, yeah. Quite a piece, you know? With them tight silk dresses, slit up there on the side.” He smiled. “You ever seen her? Man, I go for them Chinese broads.”

  “Did she ever eat here?”

  “No.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “No.”

  “She never stopped here in the morning for coffee?”

  “No, why should she do that?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “Well, what I mean, he always comes down for the coffee, you know.”

  I felt Donny tense beside me.

  “Who?” I asked. “Who came down for the coffee?”

  “Why, Freddie. From the lobster joint. Every morning like clockwork, before he went upstairs. Two coffees, one heavy on the sugar. That Chinese broad liked it sweet. Also a jelly doughnut and a toasted English. Sure, every morning.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “Oh yes, sure. The boss didn’t know nothing about it, you know. Mr. Godrow. He don’t go for that junk. They always had their coffee before he come in in the morning.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Did Freddie come down for the coffee this morning?”

  “Sure, every morning.”

  We left the luncheonette and went upstairs. Freddie was working the addressing machine when we came in. The machine made a hell of a clatter as the metal address plates fed through it. We said hello to Mr. Godrow and then walked right to the machine. Freddie fed postcards and the address plates banged onto the cards and then dropped into the tray below.

  “We’ve got an idea, Freddie,” I said.

  He didn’t look up. He kept feeding postcards into the machine. The cards read MAINE LIVE LOBSTERS AT FANTASTIC PRICES!

  “We figure a guy who kept asking Mary Chang out, Freddie. A guy who constantly got refused.”