Worst Fears Realized

by Judson Palmer. He cut it out and put it in his money clip. He checked out of the hotel at nine and ordered his car from the garage, checking the glove compartment to be sure the pistol was there, before relocking it. He consulted the theatrical ad; Palmer’s theater was on West Forty-fourth Street, west of Sixth Avenue. He parked in the Hippodrome Garage at Forty-fourth and Sixth and walked to the theater. A janitor was sweeping out the lobby.
    “Good morning,” Stone said.” Can you tell mewhere to find Judson Palmer? Where his offices are?”
    “They’re right up there,” the janitor said, pointing upward. He indicated a door. “Through there and up the stairs one flight.”
    Stone walked upstairs and emerged into a shabby waiting room, where a young woman was sitting at a desk, eating a Danish and drinking coffee. “Good morning,” he said.
    She had to swallow before she could speak. “Hi. What can I do for you?”
    “I’d like to see Mr. Palmer.”
    “Are you an actor? We’re already cast; we open this weekend.”
    “No, it’s a matter of personal business.”
    “Does he owe you money?”
    “No, nothing like that.”
    Stone heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and he turned to see a man in his fifties wearing a bush jacket walk into the room, carrying a brown bag. He was overweight and looked hungover. “Mr. Palmer?” he said.
    “We’re already cast,” Palmer said, opening the door to his office. “Leave your picture and r/ésumé with the girl; I’ll consider you for the next show.”
    “I’m not an actor,” Stone said. “My name is Stone Barrington.”
    “Sounds like an actor,” Palmer said, pausing in the doorway. “What do you want?”
    “It’s in connection with a man named Mitteldorfer.”
    Palmer winced. “Are you a reporter?”
    “No, and I think you should hear what I have to tell you.”

    “All right, come on in,” Palmer said.
    Stone followed him into the room, which was decorated with posters from Palmer’s previous shows. The place had a temporary look; Stone thought that Palmer must move his office from theater to theater, with his shows.
    Palmer indicated a chair, then he took coffee and a bagel from his brown bag. “That’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time,” he said. “What’s that guy got to do with me?”
    Stone sat down. “I’m aware that you had an affair with his wife some years back, and that, as a result, Mitteldorfer murdered her.”
    “I won’t confirm or deny that,” Palmer said. “Are you a lawyer?”
    “Yes, but I’m not here in a legal capacity. I used to be a police officer; I arrested Herbert Mitteldorfer for his wife’s murder. At the time, we didn’t know with whom she’d been having an affair, so we didn’t talk to you.”
    “Why now? Mitteldorfer’s in prison, isn’t he?”
    “No.”
    Palmer stopped chewing the bagel. “Then he must be dead.”
    “No. He was released from prison recently.”
    “Jesus Christ,” Palmer said. “I thought he went away for fife.”
    “At the time, life didn’t necessarily mean life; there was no life sentence without the possibility of parole.”
    Palmer put down the bagel and sipped his coffee; he looked worried.

    “Tell me, Mr. Palmer, did Herbert Mitteldorfer know with whom his wife was having the affair?”
    Palmer swallowed hard. “I don’t know, for sure,” he said. “Arlene thought he was onto us, though. She didn’t know if he knew who I was. I was a client of the firm where he worked; I met her when she came into the office one day. It was the only time he saw us together, that I know of, and that was very casual. In fact, Herbie introduced us. Something passed between Arlene and me, though, and I waited outside for her. When she came down, I asked her out for a drink.”
    “How long did it go on?”
    “Four or five months, I guess; right up until she…died.”
    “Did you ever write her any letters?”
    “No.”
    “Might she have had your business card?”
    “No. If you’re screwing somebody else’s wife, you don’t give her things like that; you’re more careful.”
    “Just how careful were you?”
    “Very. I never went to her place, and she never came to mine. I had an office in the Schubert Building at the time, and she used to come up there. I had a little bedroom and a shower; I was living in Scarsdale, married, and I’d stay in town two or three nights a week.”
    “Were you in love with her?”
    “Not really. I liked her a lot,