Ed McBain_Matthew Hope 12 Read Online Free Page B

second teddy bear on Matthew’s
     table, little boy and girl with TOYLAND in a semicircle above their heads, and another TOYLAND in a semicircle below their
     legs, TOYLAND, TOYLAND, for Toland, Toland, here now to defend themselves against Lainie Commins’s charges of copyright and
     trademark infringement.
    Thirty-seven-year-old Etta had hair as black as that on the little grinning girl-doll in the company logo, worn straight and
     sleek and to the shoulders. High sculpted cheekbones, very dark almond-shaped eyes, and a generous mouth glossed with blood-red
     lipstick collaborated with the straight, lustrous, jet-black hair to give her a somewhat Oriental appearance, although her
     maiden name was Henrietta Becherer, and her forebears were German—a fact that didn’t stop competitors and/or detractors from
     labeling her “The Dragon Lady.” Rumor had it that Brett had met her at a toy fair in Frankfurt, where she’d been pitching
     at the Gebrüder Hermann booth. On this hot Tuesday morning in September, she looked cool, self-possessed, businesslike and
     yet utterly feminine in a glen-plaid silk suit the color of twilight, worn with a dusky blue silk shirt open at the throat
     over a medallion print scarf. Above the left hand clutched in her husband’s right, a gold cuff link showed where her jacket
     sleeve ended.
    “Do you remember which toys you were working on during your employment?” Brackett asked.
    “Do you mean at Toyland?”
    “Yes. That was…how long did you say you’d worked there, Miss Commins?”
    “I left them in January. I’d been working there for three years by then.”
    “This past January?”
    “Yes.”
    “Worked for them for three years.”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you remember which toys you designed for them during those three years?”
    “I remember all of them.”
    “Wasn’t the idea for Gladly suggested to you…?”
    “No, it was not.”
    “Your Honor, may I finish my question?”
    “Yes, go ahead. Please listen to the complete question before answering, Miss Commins.”
    “I thought he
was
finished, “Your Honor.”
    “Let’s just get on with it,” Santos said impatiently.
    “Isn’t it true that the
idea
for Gladly was suggested to you by Mr. Toland…?”
    “No, that isn’t true.”
    “Miss Commins, let him
finish,
please.”
    “Suggested to you by Mr. Toland at a meeting one afternoon during the month of September last year?”
    “No.”
    “While you were still in the employ of…?”
    “No.”
    “…Toyland, Toyland, isn’t that true, Miss Commins?”
    “No, it is not true.”
    “Isn’t it true that this
original
idea of yours was, in fact, Mr. Toland’s?”
    “No.”
    “Didn’t Mr. Toland ask you to work up some sketches on the idea?”
    “No.”
    “Aren’t the sketches you showed to the court identical to the sketches you made and delivered to Mr. Toland several weeks
     after that September meeting?”
    “No. I made those sketches this past April. In my studio on North Apple Street.”
    “Oh yes, I’m sure you did.”
    “Objection,” I said.
    “Sustained. We can do without the editorials, Mr. Brackett.”
    “No further questions,” Brackett said.
    Warren debated opening the door again, ramming a toothpick into the keyway, snapping it off close to the lock. Anyone trying
     to unlock the door from the outside would try to shove a key in, meet resistance, make a hell of a clicking racket pushing
     against the broken-off wood. Great little burglar alarm for anybody inside who shouldn’t be in there. Trouble was,
she
knew the toothpick trick as well as he did, she’d know immediately there was somebody in her digs. He’d be lucky she didn’t
     pull a piece, blow off the lock, and then shoot at anything that moved, blowing off his
head
in the bargain.
    He locked the door.
    Looked around.
    The place was dim. White metal blinds drawn against the sun at the far end of the room. Sofa against what was apparently a
     window wall, sunlight seeping