Where There's Smoke полностью

The lamps in question were a pair of magnificent Dresden Rose lamps of the Victorian period, the shades and fonts of hand-blown opalescent glass, and the trim­mings and pedestals of antique brass. While Rhoda and the lady with the lavender hair discussed the suitability of the lamps for the room Rhoda was decorating, and then haggled over the price, and then agreed upon a compromise price, I thought about my further approach to the widow of Anthony Gibson. I’d discovered over the years that if I wanted to know something, all I had to do was say “Tell me” in a sympathetic, undemanding way. The Tell Me Ploy didn’t always work with guilty parties (perpetrators, as they’re known in the trade), in that any­thing an ax murderer said was generally a lie. But I de­cided I’d risk it on Rhoda, even though I’d already asked her why she was glad her husband was dead, and had only been told there were two hundred reasons. So I waited while the lavender-haired woman with the tall body and the long face affixed a pair of red Sold tags to the lamps, and then I politely bid her good day while she again looked at me speculatively, perhaps wondering what the married Mrs. Gibson was doing on a Monday afternoon with a modest, good-looking devil of a man who was not her husband.

Rhoda opened the door of the shop, and the bell tin­kled, and we stepped out onto the sidewalk and walked to the car. On the way crosstown again, I said, “A little while ago you mentioned you were glad your husband’s dead.”

“That’s right,” she said.

“But you didn’t tell me why.”

“That’s right, I didn’t.”

‘Tell me,” I said.

As I’d surmised, there were not two hundred reasons. There were only two:

(1) Rhoda Gibson was sick to death of her husband’s gambling, drinking, and whoring. Yes, the now-deceased Mr. Gibson had fancied himself quite a swordsman, and among other payoffs Rhoda had been required to make in the past was one demanded by an enterprising photographer who’d taken pic­tures of Tony and a black prostitute in a series of somewhat compromising positions.

(2) Tony had left behind a sizable insurance policy, the premiums on which the redoubtable Rhoda had maintained during the twenty-odd years of their stormy marriage. Had Anthony Gibson died a nat­ural death, Rhoda would have collected a hundred thousand bucks in cool American currency. But the policy carried a double-indemnity rider, and since Tony had been foresighted enough to die in an auto­mobile accident, Rhoda could now look forward to two hundred thousand as balm for her all-consuming grief. Once she collected, she planned to move back to her native state, California, where she would open a new business, spend part of the day decorating the homes of nouveaux riches actors, and the rest of the day swimming and playing tennis.

“Tony hated playing tennis,” she said.

“Mm,” I said.

“So now I’ve told you,” she said. “And now, naturally, you’re going to start thinking I arranged for someone to saw his axle almost in half, or force him off the road, or lock his steering wheel, or whatever the hell.”

“That sounds a bit too obvious, doesn’t it?”

“Policemen always look for the obvious,” she said.

“Was his axle almost sawed in half?”

“I have no idea. The car is at a place called Geraldi Body and Fender on Lowell Place. You can check it there, if you like.”

“About someone forcing him off the road...”

“I don’t know how he happened to hit that pillar,” Rhoda said. “For all I know, he was drunk. As usual.”

“Mrs. Gibson,” I said, “on the off chance that your hus­band’s death was something more than accidental...” (and this is where I began to lie again) “people who com­mit crimes of violence will often call the family of the deceased to gloat or to taunt or to—”

“No,” she said. “No one’s called me.”

“Not since the time of the accident last night?”

“That’s right. No one. No one’s even called to offer condolences. Would you like to know why? Because An­thony Gibson was a bum. Period.”

He didn’t look like a bum in the color photograph she gave me. The picture had been taken outside the Matthews Street brownstone. Gibson was standing beside a sidewalk tree in new leaf. He was wearing a pale-blue turtleneck, a blue blazer, gray slacks, and black loafers. His dark hair was windblown, his eyes were crinkled in a smile, his teeth were very white. He looked handsome and serf-assured, a man without a trouble in the universe. I put the photograph in my notebook, and then, hoping Coop was not out to lunch, found a stationery store and called him from a booth near the cigar counter. The desk sergeant told me his phone was busy and asked me to wait. I waited.

When he came on the line, he sounded harried and a trifle breathless. “All hell’s breaking loose around here,” he said. “We have a guy upstairs who blew off his wife’s face with a shotgun.”

“Then I don’t suppose you got a chance to call Auto.”

“I called them, Benny. No red-and-white VW buses. Anyway, your case is already closed.”