Free So Long As You Both Shall Live (87th Precinct) by Ed McBain Page B

guest list. It had been silent up to that time, and it had been silent since. O’Brien, sitting on the bed with a pair of pillows propped up behind him, his long legs stretched out, had both earphones on his ears and was reading a paperback book.
    The other five men sat on folding chairs the hotel manager had generously provided, around a card table he had also provided. The containers of coffee and the doughnuts on the table had been paid for by the cops. The photographs had been taken, developed, and printed by Alexander Pike. The guest list had been typed four weeks ago by Alf Miscolo in the Clerical Office of the 87th Precinct, as a favor to Kling. The magnifying glass was the property of the 87th Squad, and had been brought to the hotel room by Detective Steve Carella. Art Cutler’s clothes were by Cardin, and his hair styling was by Monsieur Henri. That took care of the credits.
    As for the photographs, Cutler praised Pike extravagantly for his artistry and sensitivity, and Pike thanked him profusely, and then one or another of the men called off the names of anyone whose picture Carella or Kling did not recognize. Ollie Weeks kept the tally, crossing a name off the guest list whenever someone was identified. By the time they’d looked at all the pictures, they had also crossed off all the names on the list—but they still had pictures of sixteen people who could not be identified by any of them. Ollie insisted that they look at those photographs again. Again, they could not identify them. Ten of the people were men, six were women. It was assumed that some of the unidentified women were wives or girlfriends of art directors or photographers who’d been invited by Augusta, and it was similarly assumed that some of the unidentified men were escorts brought along by some of the girls. “Ah, yes,” Ollie said, using his W. C. Fields voice for the first time and surprising everyone in the room, with the exception of Bob O’Brien, who couldn’t hear because of the earphones on his head, and Carella, who’d heard the priceless imitation before.
    “What we must do then, m’friends,” he said, continuing with the imitation, “is go over the list, matching couples this time, man and wife, sweethearts and lovers, and so on. Then, whoever’s left without a mate, I’ll go see them personally and ask them if they know any of these unidentified people. Ah, yes.”
    “Ollie, that’ll take forever,” Carella said.
    “Have we got anything better to do with our time?” Ollie asked in his natural voice, and Kling looked at the silent phone, and then they began going over the list and the photographs yet another time.
     
    The call from Fats Donner was clocked in at the precinct switchboard at precisely ten minutes past 4:00. Hal Willis took the call in the squadroom upstairs.
    “Yeah,” he said, “what’ve you got?”
    “On this Al Brice.”
    “Yeah.”
    “I know where he is.”
    “Where?” Willis asked, and picked up a pencil.
    “How much is this worth?”
    “How much do you want?” Willis asked.
    “I could use a C-note.”
    “You’ve got it,” Willis said.
    “I should’ve asked for more, I got the century so easy,” Donner said.
    “Don’t press your luck, Fats,” Willis said. “Where is he?”
    “In a fleabag on Fifty-sixth and Hopkins. You want to die laughing? The name of the place is the Royal Arms, how about that?”
    “The Royal Arms on Fifty-sixth and Hopkins,” Willis said. “Is he registered under his own name?”
    “Arthur Bradley.”
    “You sure it’s him?”
    “The night clerk knows him. It’s Brice, all right. Incidentally, about the night clerk…”
    “Yeah?”
    “He don’t want trouble later, dig? He done me a favor passing this on.”
    “Nobody’ll know about it, don’t worry.”
    “What I’m saying, I don’t want Brice to know it was the night clerk fingered him, dig?”
    “I’ve got it. When did he check in?”
    “Late last night.”
    “What