The Cutie by Donald E. Westlake Read Free Book Online

tried to burglarize her place and got panicky when she caught him at it. So he knifed her and ran. Left his hat behind, with his name and address in it.”
    “He’s a smart boy,” I said. “How did the cops manage to get to the place so fast?”
    “Phone tip. Anonymous. You know, the solid citizen who’s afraid he’ll have to take a half-day off from work to be a witness.”
    “A phone tip, huh?” That sounded like my not-so-solid citizen, the guy who had left Billy-Billy behind to take his rap for him. Went to a phone booth, called the cops, and expected them to get there before Billy-Billy woke up. If they had, I wouldn’t be awake right now, talking to bought cops.
    “Let me know,” I said, “if they get Cantell.”
    “Sure thing, Clay. And that shouldn’t take long.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Homicide East is on the case,” he told me. “Somebody upstairs is making a squawk about this one. It’s hot.”
    “What the hell for?”
    “Beats me, Clay. They don’t tell me why, they just tell me do.”
    “Keep me posted,” I said, and made another fast phone call, this one to Archie Freihofer, a fellow employee of Ed Ganolese’s, party-girl division. He answered the phone at the sixth ring, and he came on sounding like butter. He always sounds like butter. I told him who I was, and said, “Does the name Mavis St. Paul ring any bells?”
    A few seconds’ silence, and he said, “Sorry. No. Should I know her?”
    “Somebody must,” I told him. “She lived on East 63rd. Occupation, model.”
    He snickered.
    “Can you find out who paid the rent?” I asked him.
    “I’ll ask around. What was the name again?”
    “Mavis St. Paul.”
    “Mavis?” He snickered again. “I’ll look for a broad named Mildred who came from St. Paul.”
    “You can reach me at my place until nine,” I told him. “After that, I’ll be at Clancy Marshall’s office.”
    “Okay, Clay.”
    “Work fast, will you? This is important.”
    “In three hours,” he said, “I’ll know where she has moles.”
    “Had,” I corrected him. “She’s dead. So be discreet.”
    “The essence,” he said.
    “Good boy.” I hung up and pushed myself to my feet. I was getting more and more tired by the minute. I like my eight hours’ sleep a night, and I was now one full night behind schedule.
    I walked through the apartment to the bedroom, and I was surprised to see Ella awake, sitting up in bed and reading a book. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” I asked her.
    She closed the book and dropped it on the floor beside the bed. “I tried to,” she said. “But I couldn’t. So I tried to read, instead. But I couldn’t do that either.”
    “What’s wrong, Ella?” I asked her. But I knew already.
    “I’ve been thinking, Clay,” she said. And the expression on her face and the tone of her voice told me what she’d been thinking about. The “accident” business again.
    “Wait till I get out of the coat and tie,” I said, wanting to stall as long as I could. I hung my suit coat away in the closet, put the tie back in the rack on the closet door, pulled my shirt off and threw it into a corner, kicked my shoes under the dresser, and sat down on the edge of the bed. “It’s hot outside,” I said.
    “Your forehead’s all damp. Lie down here.”
    I lay back, my head in her lap, and she took a corner of the top sheet and rubbed it gently across my forehead, smoothing the perspiration away. “You look tired, Clay,” she said.
    “I am tired. But I can’t go to sleep yet. I’ve got to be at that meeting at nine.”
    “How’s this?” she asked me, and her fingers massaged my head, soft and gentle and soothing.
    “That’s fine,” I said. I started to close my eyes, but I felt sleep coming on, so I pushed them open again.
    We were both silent for a couple of minutes, as Ella massaged away the exhaustion and the tension, and then she said, “I want to talk to you, Clay. Seriously.”
    “All right,” I