Free The Shattered Raven by Edward D. Hoch

it?”
    “Well … would I be on the show?”
    “I’ll get you a seat in the control booth. Nice padded chair next to the engineer.”
    She was silent a moment Then, “All right, I’ll come. What time?”
    “You know where Skinny’s station is?”
    “I’ll find it.”
    “Okay. Meet me there at eleven-thirty. I’ve got to round up some other people and make sure they know. Max Winters is probably off on a bender and heaven knows where the rest are. One of them is a friend of Craigthorn’s, and I haven’t even talked to him about it yet.”
    He hung up and stared at the phone for a minute. He called the MWA number, but of course Betty was not there on Sunday. He finally reached her at her apartment and suggested she come to the studio that night for a while. “You can serve coffee and make notes and things, Betty, and if somebody doesn’t show up, maybe you can fill in.”
    She was a bit hesitant. “I’m no good on the radio—not with my voice. And I’m sure not going to stay up all night listening to you guys talk.”
    “Any idea where Max Winters is?”
    “Probably at his hotel. Have you tried there?”
    “Not yet. Look—how about these other people that are supposed to be on the show? Frank Jesset? Do you know how to reach him? And Dick McMullen?”
    “Jesset?”
    “That friend of Craigthorn’s. Max seemed to think he was going to be on.”
    “I’ll try to reach him,” she said. “I gather Harry is all set. He seemed to know the details.”
    He hung up and headed for Max’s hotel. He was in his room all right, but he wasn’t alone. Detective George, the big man in the rumpled suit from Friday night, was there with him.
    “Well, well,” George said, getting to his feet. “It’s Mr. Hamet again. Nice to see you. Mr. Winters here was just telling me you’re going to be doing some investigating on the case.”
    “Strictly off the record,” Barney hastened to inform him. “I used to be a private detective. They think I might be useful, more as a public relations expert than as a sleuth, though.”
    George nodded. “I’ve been talking to Mr. Winters about his recollections of what happened.”
    Max sat in his chair, smoking a cigarette and looking just a bit bored. “What’s there to say? I’ve gone over the story five times already. I didn’t know Craigthorn. I never even watched his television show. He was there and he got shot and now he’s dead, but my plane leaves for California tomorrow.”
    George frowned at him. “They don’t have murders in California, Mr. Winters?”
    “Sure, they have murders. And they have cops, too. I write about them all the time. But New York is still a different thing. You’re all in a hurry here. I think you’re in a hurry to die.”
    “Not on the freeways, at least,” the detective said. “I think I’m about finished with you though. Do you have a few moments, Mr. Hamet? I wonder if I could take you downstairs and buy you a cup of coffee in the lobby.”
    Barney saw no way out of it “Max, you’re all set for the radio show tonight?”
    “Sure am.”
    “Right. We’re supposed to be at the studio around eleven-thirty. I’ll see you there.”
    He rode down on the elevator with Detective George, exchanging casual pleasantries about the weather, which was warm, but clouding over.
    “Last Sunday in April. I always hope for good weather this time of the year,” George said.
    “You live in the city?”
    “Yeah. Got a wife and family. I generally have Sundays off, except when there’s a case like this. With Craigthorn getting killed, we’ve got an extra ten men working on the thing.”
    In the coffee shop, Barney stirred some sugar into his coffee and waited for the detective’s questions.
    “So you were a private eye, huh? I don’t think that I ever really met one. It’s a heck of an admission for a detective to make, but I never really got to know any of you fellas.”
    “I like to think of myself as a writer now,” Barney