Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

End Harbor was a fairly neat village, a couple of supermarkets and a summer theater surrounded by some very old houses and a number of expensive summer homes. I stopped a big cop in a snappy blue uniform to ask for Mart's house.

“Take the next turn, that's Bay Road. Follow it for about a mile, then you'll see his roadway on the left Can't miss it. You another reporter?”

“No.”

“Had stacks of reporters snooping out here day after it happened. The Harbor don't go for that sort of publicity.”

“Did you know Mr. Anthony?”

He nodded. “A great guy. Tops. Many a time I been on Matt's boat chumming for blues. Real regular.”

“Think he'll beat the rap?”

Caution raced across his big face. “Hey, thought you said you wasn't a reporter? Now, listen, he may have been a great guy but that don't cut no ice when it comes to doing my duty. Sure Matt was a real sport, for a big shot, but let me tell you he had a hell of a temper too. Maybe his wife was a nag. Okay, my wife has a sharp tongue but I don't go killing her.”

It was odd, and expected, the way he was already talking about Matt in the past tense. I asked, “Do you go along with the D.A. on this first degree murder bit?”

“Convictions are the D.A.'s wagon. What I think or don't think isn't important. Bay Road is the turn at the traffic light, Mac.”

Bay Road passed a yacht club that wasn't as big as the rowboat house in Central Park but there must have been a couple of million dollars in cruisers anchored off the dock. The road turned away from the bay and then there was this well-kept, narrow, oiled dirt lane leading into the pines. An oversized hacksaw hung from a post with Anthony in white metal letters welded to the saw part. It took me a moment to get it—all such pure corn—Matt Anthony, the hack.

The papers had mentioned a 'luxurious estate.' I don't know what I expected. The lane took me into a clearing and there was this squat, hideous green house built of rough cinder block. It was a two story affair with a narrow lawn and beyond that some rough piles of dirt, as though they had forgotten to finish the lawn. The whole scene was one of not belonging, including the big yellow umbrella shading some white iron outdoor furniture. There was a garage behind the house—this too looked unfinished—and a path that went into a line of fairly tall pine trees. Although I could smell the salt in the air; there wasn't any sight of the bay. The walk from the driveway to the house was lined with clam shells. I rang the polished brass ship's bell on the door and waited. When I rang again I heard a dog whine. Finally a woman's voice with a faint English accent announced, “I am not seeing any more newspaper men. So you can take your leave.”

She seemed to be pressed against the other side of the door. I asked, “Are you Miss May Fitzgerald?”

“Indeed I be. But I will not see any—”

“My name is Norman Connor. I'm from Mr. Anthony's publishers, Longson's.”

The door opened and I saw a dark skinned young Negro woman in dungarees and a thin white turtle neck sweater. She was stooped over, holding on to something behind the door. Although her jaw was a bit too heavy, she was very pretty; hair piled high in a braid, her figure tall and slim. A large green jade pin was fastened on her sweater, between the sharp outlines of small breasts, and her full lips were painted a faint pink. She had a mild, spicy perfume that didn't distract from the exotic—yet wholesome—picture. I doubted if she was 21. I said, “I'd appreciate it if you can spare me a few minutes, Miss Fitzgerald. I'd like to talk to you.”

“Talk to me? How do I know you're not a blooming reporter?”

Between her and Brown this was identify-yourself-week. I pulled out the office letters, let her see my name on the envelopes. She nodded as she said, “Excuse me. But I have been bothered with so many darn newsmen. Are you afraid of dogs?”

“I don't think so.”

“Clichy will jump at you, but only in play.” She straightened up. She must have been holding the dog behind the door, for suddenly this smartly clipped, large black French poodle came at me.

I suppose I held my hands up before my face. The dog had other aims: he landed on my left leg, got a good grip, and began jumping up and down like a puppet lover. I gave May an embarrassed smile as the damn dog worked away.

Her dark face sad, she said, “Don't blame the poor beast. Mr. Anthony taught him this disgusting habit. Matt thought it was quite a joke. That's enough, Clichy.” She pulled the poodle by his jeweled pink collar off my leg. I glanced down at my pants, expecting to see a spot or something. “Do come in, please, Mr. Connor.”

She showed me into a large living room filled with colorful modern bamboo furniture. It was all rather shockingly gaudy; the rough cinderblock walls painted a terrible red. I sat on a yellow chair with bright red cushions. May let go of the poodle who stretched out on the polished floor, still panting, watching my leg with hot little eyes. As she sat on a couch, curling slim legs under her cut basketball-bottom, I glanced around the room. It was expensive, with a number of oils on the walls like in a gallery. The rear wall was completely glass and looked out on a wide veranda that seemed to circle the back of the house. I told her about Longson reissuing one of Matt's books and the rest of my pitch.

May lit a cigarette. I shook my head, got my pipe working. “Yes, he needs money,” she said, with that odd slight clipped accent. On what wild adventure in the West Indies had Matt found her? “Matter of fact, I don't know what to do here. Whether I should close the house or not. There are daily bills, too, of course.”

“Hasn't his lawyer been in touch with you?”

“No one has been to see me except the bloody newspaper people. Tramped all over the place without as much as a by-your-leave. And I can only stay here a few more weeks. I'm returning to college in September. There's back wages due me, too.”

“I plan to see Mr. Anthony's lawyer in a day or so. I'll have him contact you. I'd like some general background information. Did you meet Mr. Anthony in the West Indies?”

Her face registered astonishment. “Oh no. An agency sent me out here from New York. You can save money on a sleep-in job. Oh, I see—my accent.” She smiled. “I was born in Atlantic City but did most of my growing up with my grandmother down in Trinidad.”

“Miss Fitzgerald, I want you to talk freely, and in strict confidence, so I'll be able to get the background material I need.”

“I'm one for talking. What is it you wish to know?”

“I don't know myself, exactly. Let's take the day of Mrs. Anthony's death. What happened—from the start of the day?”

“Well, the Hunters had been down for about a week. Always a lot of guests here and a lot of work for me. Mrs. Anthony was a penny-pincher, really should have at least two in help here. Let me see, that day. After breakfast they all went swimming. Of course breakfast wasn't until ten. The Hunters and Francine stayed around the house, reading and drinking. They were hung-over from the night before. Mr. Anthony drove off without saying where he was going. Francine was worried he'd gone to get a drink. His heart isn't strong, and the doctor had ordered him off liquor and exercise. I had finished the dishes and was—”

“Was Matt drinking the night before? You said they were all hung-over?”

“They had been doing a tot of talking and nibbling but Matt had stayed with a mild concoction he liked, cider and a dash of vermouth; simply vile. I had finished the breakfast dishes and was cleaning up downstairs. As I said, Francine was certain Matt had dashed off for a toot and she was upset Around noon Mr. Anthony returned with this friend he'd met in Hampton, a little old man with a strange face, Prof. Brown. Nobody wanted lunch so I went upstairs to make the beds. In a little while I saw Mr. Anthony drive off with this Professor, then return in about half an hour. I suppose he took him to the railroad station. I went on with my work. About three-thirty I was in the kitchen starting supper—you can never rest around here but to give Fran her due, the pay is very good. Well, Matt rang and they were out on the lawn, getting the sun. He told me to tell Mrs. Anthony to come in, that they were waiting to go swimming. Soon as I reached the dock, and saw her out there hanging over the side of the boat, I screamed. It was an awful sight. They all came on the run. Matt swam out and started to pull up anchor, but he left the boat and her oat there, told me to phone the police. He said she'd been in an accident, not to touch things.”

“Did he say Mrs.... Francine was dead?”

The maid stared at me over a perfect smoke ring. “You ask questions like a detective, Mr. Connor.”

“An amateur one. How could he be positive she was dead?”

“My goodness, we all were. A person only had to glance at her to know she was dead. Seemed like I had hardly put the phone down when the End Harbor police were here. Then a doctor drove up. They had us stay off the beach while they pulled the boat in. They said Fran had stood up to cast when her shoe lace caught on the duckboards, causing her to fall. She had hit her temple on the side of the boat. The doctor tested to see if there was water in her lungs: did some other things. After they asked us many questions, they took Fran's body into the Harbor with them. The Hunters started to get drunk. They were very upset.”

“Wasn't Matt?”

She nodded. “He cried a little—that was being upset for him.”

“Miss Fitzgerald, were the Anthonys happy?”

“I think yes, but I never understood their relationship. It was like... they were always testing each other, proving something. Francine was one of these very efficient women, she reminded me of an air line hostess. Matt, he—”

“She reminded you of what?”

I got a smile through another smoke ring. She was proud of those rings. “Hostess on an airplane. You know, nothing upsets them, they're always able to manage. That was Mrs. Anthony. Now, Matt, he was the opposite, always seemed to be playing, showing off. He'd think nothing of bringing five or six strangers he'd met fishing back for dinner, or going to the store for a newspaper and coming back with a new boat or an outboard. I know he makes big money but, believe you me, he can spend it faster than he makes it. Much faster. Sometimes our liquor bill was five or six hundred dollars a month. Well, let me finish with that dreadful day. About six, after the police had left, and the Hunters were watching TV and drinking steadily, Matt went to his den to work. I'll have to say this for him, no matter how many guests we had or what was going on, he'd take off for his room every day, including Sundays, and dictate for a few hours. Once or twice I've seen him go to work pretty drunk, but he never missed a day. Once a week he would mail the recording tape to a secretary in New York. She'd type it up and when he got it back, he'd go over the pages again, mail it back for a final typing.”

“And Mr. Anthony worked the same day his wife died?”

“I told you, he worked every day, even Sundays. I think it relaxed him. I've seen him come in from tuna fishing, dirty and tired, all smelly. While everybody else was washing up or having cocktails, he'd be locked in his room, working. Still, it's only an hour or two a day, which is a sweet work day, and think of the money he was making.”

“Have you read his books?”

“One—in manuscript form. He wanted my opinion—you know, as an average person. The book was... entertaining. It's amazing how many odd little things he knows about. Of course, he's constantly reading up on crimes to get ideas. But he also has an entire row of books devoted to locks, technical books on various aspects of the body, poisons, guns, and a slew of—” She coughed and crushed her cigarette. “I've been smoking too much. And talking too much is giving me a frog. I'm going for beer—can you use one?”