Brett Halliday - Too Friendly, Too Dead

The ringing of her bedside telephone awakened Linda Fitzgilpin as daylight was breaking on Saturday morning. She awoke confused and startled from some sort of bad dream, and was immediately conscious of a splitting headache and a foul taste in her mouth. The window was closed and heavy drapes drawn tightly over the west window of her bedroom, so the room was very dark and she had no idea what time of night it was.

She shook her head dismally as she reached for the telephone, propping herself on one elbow to put it to her ear. She said, Hello, and a mans voice answered:

Mrs. Fitzgilpin?

She said, Yes, and he asked, Is Mr. Fitzgilpin there?

Still confused and half asleep, Linda replied, Why yes. Just a second, and lowered the telephone to call, Jerome.

There was no reply from the twin bed across the room, and she wondered how long she had been asleep and if Jerome hadnt come in yet. She let go of the telephone and fumbled for the light switch and turned on a shaded light. Her husbands bed was empty and neatly made up. Fear struck at her sharply and she lifted the instrument and said, No. No he isnt here. Who is this and why are you calling? What time is it?

Its a little after six, Mrs. Fitzgilpin. The voice became soothing and essayed a cheery note. It probably isnt important, but does your husband drive a Fifty-seven Chevrolet sedan? Dark blue?

Yes. Who is this? Fear was giving way to panic, and Linda sat bolt upright, staring wide-eyed across at Jeromes unused bed. Six oclock in the morning! He had never in his life stayed out

This is Sergeant Main speaking. Miami Beach Police Department. Please describe your husband, Mrs. Fitzgilpin.

Jerome is forty-five. Five feet seven and he weighs about a hundred and fifty pounds. Brown hair thats getting thin in front; brown eyes and a small mustache. What has happened?

Brace yourself for a shock, Mrs. Fitzgilpin. All of the attempted cheeriness had vanished from the sergeants voice. Im afraid I have very bad news for you. When did you last see your husband?

Why he he wasnt in when I went to bed. I took a sleeping pill and he isnt here now. Tell me! Whats happened?

Im terribly sorry to break it to you this way, Mrs. Fitzgilpin, but Im afraid your husband is dead. A man answering your description of him was found early this morning close to his parked automobile. His wallet was missing and there was no identification on the body so we had to check out the license number. The voice went on talking, but Linda Fitzgilpin dropped the instrument on the bed and put both hands over her face and the tears came and racking sobs shook her body.

Not Jerome! It couldnt be Jerome. It couldnt happen. It had happened. Because he wasnt here in bed. He hadnt come home. And a body answering her husbands description had been found close to his parked car.

Gradually the racking sobs ceased. She sank back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling, and slowly became aware of noises coming from the telephone lying beside her. Listlessly she picked it up and heard the police sergeant saying sharply and anxiously, Mrs. Fitzgilpin, are you there? Are you there, Mrs. Fitzgilpin?

Im here, she told him. Where else would I be?

Are you all right?

Im fine, she responded viciously. Just fine and dandy. Why shouldnt I be? She began laughing hysterically while the tears continued to stream down her cheeks.

Try to get hold of yourself, the sergeant admonished her. Were not certain yet, you know. It may not be your husband at all. Until we have a positive identification we cant be sure.

Its Jerome all right, she said sadly. Dont you understand? He didnt come home to bed. Hes never done that before in his life. He wouldnt stay out all night if if Her voice broke again and the sergeant broke in hastily, Would you like a doctor or a nurse? I can call the Miami police and arrange

No, she said sadly. What could a doctor or a nurse do for me?

Well have you someone? The sergeant paused awkwardly. It will be necessary for you to come to the morgue to make a formal identification. Well be glad to send a police car over to pick you up.

No! she said sharply. Not a police car. Ill get someone. Ill be fine. How soon?

You dont need to hurry, Mrs. Fitzgilpin. Any time in the next hour or so will be fine. If youre sure youre all right now?

She said flatly and harshly, Im as all right as Ill ever be, and replaced the telephone on its cradle. Then she sank back and closed her eyes tightly and lay on her back, fighting for self-control.

Lets see now. The children. Oh, God! the children. How could she tell them? How do you tell your children that they no longer have a father? A loving, kind father whom they both adored.

A long, shuddering sigh escaped her lips, and slowly she forced herself to sit up. Forced herself to look across again at the unused bed which Jerome had occupied all during the fifteen years of their married life.

It was still as empty as it had been when she first looked. She lowered her gaze to the empty highball glass on the bedside table and the uncorked whiskey bottle on the floor beside it. She knew better than to take whiskey with sleeping pills at night. Why had she done it last night? If she hadnt knocked herself out and slept so soundly she would have realized that Jerome hadnt come home that something terrible must have happened. But what good would that have done?

She got up and walked across the carpeted bedroom barefooted, wearing a white nylon nightgown. She went past the empty bed without looking at it again, and out into the sitting room where the new light of morning streamed in through the east window. The door to the childrens bedroom was tightly closed.

She crossed to it and opened it silently. They were both sound asleep. Nine-year-old Ralph characteristically curled up with his knees under his chin, the covers twisted about his thin body; and Sara, sleeping peacefully and blissfully, her angelic, pouting face framed by brown ringlets of fine hair just the color of her fathers hair.

Linda closed and latched the door softly and turned back. Lets see now. She must think. Today was Saturday. No school for the children. She had to go over to Miami Beach. The policeman had said there was no need to hurry. But it was something she had to do.

If she could get away before the children woke up make certain that it was Jerome lying on a cold slab in the morgue

She shuddered and forced herself to think coherently. That nice Lucy Hamilton in the apartment one floor below. She worked for a private detective. She would know about these things.

Linda went back into the bedroom and found Lucys number written in the front of the telephone book and dialed it.

Michael Shaynes telephone wakened him ten minutes later on that same Saturday morning. He came suddenly out of the depths of sound sleep, blinked at the early morning light streaming in his window, and let the instrument ring five times before stretching out a long arm to bring it to his ear.

He said, Shayne, in a gruff and non-committal voice, but came fully awake when his secretarys voice came incisively over the wire:

Michael. Please come over here right away.

Sure, Angel. Wheres here? Whats up?

My place, Michael. That is, the apartment above me. Three-B. The Fitzgilpins. Its terrible. Her husband. He didnt come home last night and the Beach police just called. She has to go to the morgue to identify him. I thought if youd go with her Lucy Hamiltons voice trailed off, and Shayne said swiftly:

Right away. Hold the fort.

He threw back the covers and stood up, unbuttoning his pajama top with one hand while he rumpled his bristly red hair with the other. He dressed in a hurry, splashed water in his face and on his hair so he could comb it into some semblance of order, then strode into the living room and glanced longingly into the kitchen and the dripolator standing on the drainboard. But he had told Lucy right away, so he compromised by hastily downing a couple of ounces of cognac to fortify him, then hurried out to get his car from the hotel garage.