Ed McBain’s Mystery Book, No. 1, 1960

Maybe he wasn’t. I started to get it when I saw the hole. In the wall of the rest room was a jagged hole about two feet in diameter. The wall of this rest room was also the outer wall of the Chasen Theater. But I didn’t know what was on the other side of the wall.

Spade told me, bragging a little. “Next door’s a shoe store, Scott. I had a friend get me the architect’s plans of this dump, plus the joints on both sides. The shoe store was perfect.” He gestured at the hole. “Through there’s a storeroom, back end of the shoe store. The old duck that runs it’s in there now, tied up and gagged.” He grinned. “Took me most of the night to get through. Just about like the Western-Federal job.”

That rang a bell. Six months or so back the Western-Federal Savings and Loan had been burglarized. The thieves had broken through the wall between it and the adjoining clothing store, blown the safe, and left before dawn with $80,000. Leaving, they’d been spotted by a police car and chased, but they’d gotten away after several shots had been fired. A police officer in the car had been bit, and died the next day.

This guy just might make it, I thought. Through the hole, out the shoe store, and home free.

“Okay, Scott, let’s get the films. In case anything goes wrong, you get a pill in the head.” He paused. “And don’t try to get close to me. I’ve been awake all night. I’m tired. I’m sleepy and damned hungry. What I mean, I’m on edge.”

I didn’t say anything. We went out, down the short hallway into the empty theater. If I told Spade there weren’t any films, he wouldn’t believe me; and no matter what I said, he’d check for himself after coming this far. We started up the aisle. The music still throbbed around us; it was an incongruous note now. I felt a little as if this were a funeral march, but the record was “When the Saints Come Marching In”! Which isn’t exactly a funeral march these days.

I said, “Why’d you kill the guy, Spade?”

“Personal thing. He was the only guy knew I shot that cop after the Western-Federal job. He was cracking up, first the booze, then H. Sooner or later the cops would sweat him, keep him off the dope — and my tail would be in the sling. Just one of those things that had to be done. Like this.”

We were twenty or thirty feet up the aisle when a weird sense of unreality started creeping over me. I thought I had heard a squeal — one of those high-pitched feminine squeals you sometimes hear...

I shook it off, took another step. Couldn’t be. Just something wrong with my ears. Then I heard it again. Either my ears were getting very musical, or... I knew. All of a horrible sudden, I knew.

Before I stopped, before I turned my head and looked, before the sight actually walloped me in the eyes, I knew what was happening. As I stopped stock still and started craning my head around, and Spade mumbled something I didn’t catch, I heard it again: “Yee-yi!” it sounded like. High and full and fruity.

“No...” I said to myself, aloud, my voice hollow. “No... It can’t be...”

It was.

Robbie. There she was, on the stage, gliding about, wiggling, gyrating. She wore a pink brassiere and pink pants and was twirling her skirt around her head. “Eee-yi-ooh!” she went.

Spade shook all over, yanked his head around, and gawked at me, his face twitching. “What in the—” he said.

My mind was racing — every which way. He might decide just to shoot me. He might decide to shoot Robbie. He might decide anything. He backed over against the seats at the edge of the aisle, moved up a couple of feet to where he could watch me and the stage at the same time.

“What in the—” he said again.

I didn’t say anything. My mind refused to function. I opened my mouth, in there trying, but nothing came out.

On the stage: “Eeee-ooo-eee!”

The skirt had gone flying through the air, and her brassiere was sliding off. While she swayed and gyrated and snapped her head, brush of auburn hair flying wickedly.

When the Saints... come marching in... POM — POM!

When the Saints — POM — Come marching — POM — in... POM-POM!

Oh, she was glorious, stupendous, unbelievable. Only I couldn’t enjoy a bit of it. Not a glide. Not a POM! I broke out in a cold sweat, then hot flashes, then got gooey all over. My brain seemed to unravel, crumble, get soupy.

I couldn’t think straight. What in the hell did she think she was doing up there? Why here? Why now? Why?

Spade’s head snapped back and forth, from me to the stage, his jaw sagging about half an inch. He was bewildered — even more bewildered than I. And a small surge of hope fluttered in me. His snaps were getting less snappy. He was looking more at the stage, just rolling his eyeballs back toward me.

And slowly hope turned to certainty. My confusion disappeared, my thoughts steadied, focused. In a moment of peculiar clarity it seemed that this had a kind of inevitability about it, and all I had to do now was let it happen, merely watch history unroll while I played my small part in it.