Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

Breathe No More My Lady

Ed Lacy

This page formatted 2005 Blackmask Online.

http://www.blackmask.com

PART I

PART II

PART III

3 women can make a mess out of a man's life.

The Right One—Michele, the dark-eyed French beauty who looked like she had just stepped out of a European movie.

The Wrong One—Wilma, the red-headed temptress who came along at the wrong time with the right invitation.

The Dead One—Francine, whose lifeless body was found in a rowboat in the middle of the bay.

Ed Lacy's latest suspense novel is a hard-hitting story of fast-living men and women caught in a web of passion and violence, with a stunning surprise ending.

Copyright, ©, 1958, by Ed Lacy. Published by arrangement with the author. Printed in the U.S.A.

“Writing is like prostitution... first you do it for the love of it, then you do it for a few friends, and finally you do it for money.” —Moliere

PART I

Norm Connor

I RUSHED into my office at Longson Publishing at five to eleven. I was twenty-five minutes late and sweating a little, but it was neither my being late or the humid morning that made me sweat. As I nodded at Miss Park, she told me, “Mr. Long wants to see you at once. And Frank Kuha asked you to phone him before noon. I was able to pick up some Turkish coffee last sight and can't wait to try it iced. Mr. Long called twice.”

“Oh, hell, what day is this? Sales conference on?”

Miss Park screwed up her face—as she always did when anything was out of whack. “Why Mr. Connor, the conference was on Monday, as usual. You know, if we try the Turkish iced, I think we should get some heavy cream, or even a can of whipped cream.”

I nodded and walked into my office. I tossed the folded morning paper I'd been carrying under my arm on the desk, lit my pipe, and sat down and drummed on an ash tray with my fingers. I called the apartment. There wasn't any answer as I half expected. Drying my face with a tissue, I finally phoned the air terminal and had them check the Paris flights. The crisp, impersonal voice at the other end of the wire told me Michele had actually taken off at 6:15 a.m. I asked, “Are you positive? Mrs. Michele Connor? C-O-N-N-O-R. Are you positive?”

“Quite. A Mrs. Michele Connor, French passport, left on the 6:15 a.m. flight to Paris.”

“Are you absolutely positive? At the last second she didn't cancel?” I realized my voice was a harsh shout, and I hung up.

I sat there, puffing hard on my pipe, feeling embarrassed and knowing I'd sounded like a fool. Michele had really taken the plane. Now what the devil was I to do? Run after her or...?

My phone rang. William Long asked, “Norm?”

“Yes, Bill.”

“I'm waiting to see you.”

“On my way up.” As I stood up I stared at my sloppy desk, trying to remember if I had anything to discuss with Bill. In a dizzy sort of way I was angry at the 'big boss' tone to his voice. I stood there, completely confused for a second, staring around my own office like a stranger. Suddenly the hollow ache I'd felt all night reached its peak. I felt terribly wrung-out and bushed.

Stopping at Miss Park's desk I asked, “Any aspirin?” She stared at my big hands and of course my eyes bounced over her remarkable breasts. Although I never asked, I had a hunch Miss Park wouldn't object if my hands and her superstructure got together.

“Ill go to the little gals' room. Should be some there.”

“Never mind. I'm on my way up to see Mr. Long. Please order me a sandwich. I didn't have a chance to eat this morning. I overslept.”

“Cheese, ham, egg, lettuce or...?

“Anything.”

“It was an awful night, so muggy. And wasn't the news this morning amazing?”

As I walked out I mumbled, “It floored me.” Riding the tiny self-service elevator to the 7th floor, I tried to think how a man gets his wife back. Or should I try? Would Michele ever come back? Maybe after a few weeks apart, she'll come around and realize how silly the whole thing has been. Or is she fed up with me? That's....

I couldn't think straight, my head hurt. Even smoking made me suddenly nauseous. When I stepped out of the private elevator I emptied my pipe into a huge, sand-filled, hideous elephant's foot. A highly polished brass plate 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.”

“How

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 Matt deliberately tried to cover up the killing, pass it off as an accident. He had some kind of alibi set-up... until a county detective got a confession from him hours later. I don't know, as of now, exactly what he's confessed to, but all of this doesn't put Matt in a good light.”

“I suppose the papers will get this?”

“Of course. I didn't make any attempt to hush it up. Be impossible anyway—we don't advertise in the tabloids and this is a juicy item. And it could ruin us if such an attempt ever became known. There's another bad angle: earlier in the afternoon Matt and his wife had a drag-'em-down fight over a guest—a Prof. Henry Brown. He was recently dismissed from his college chair for taking the Fifth Amendment in one of these investigations. True, Matt was—is—one of our writers, but in no way can Longson be considered responsible for the antics of a wild joker like Anthony. My advice is for us to say nothing, keep hands off.”