The Bedroom Bolero

by Michael Avallone

  “Have you two met, Mr. Noon? This is Ada, Evvie’s sister. This is Ed Noon, Ada. A famous private detective.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Thrilled to hell, Mr. Noon.”

  I sighed. “Aren’t we all? Fats, let me get this straight. Evelyn told you to pose as Orelob in this little comedy she cooked up for my benefit but you folded as soon as I put some pressure on you. Why?”

  His bulk, a nice, dark suit, fouled up by the red tie with the field of cavorting nudes rampant, made him more pathetic than ever. He wheezed.

  “The idea appealed to me. I like to act, you know. I was a wonderful Falstaff once in my youth but — you frightened me. You looked like you were going to hit me. The idea made me faint just to think of it. I can’t stand blood. It makes me sick.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and balled it between his flabby hands. “Evvie and I — we never thought you would act so vigorously — but then we didn’t know how much of a man you were —” He stopped talking and an almost girlish flush tinted his fat cheeks. I thought of Howie and winced.

  “Want a drink, Noon?” Ada snapped suddenly. “I’ve got a bad taste in my mouth.” She moved off to play with some bottles on a brass-railed tea table situated just beneath a wall full of books.

  “Why did she do it, Fats?”

  His eyes shone. “Publicity. The Bolero tune. These murders. And her act. The press would have been terrific. Shame you had to spoil it by being so masculine. You are a tiger, aren’t you?”

  “Shut up before I chew your arm off. Let me think.” It was a cheap frame. But how could Evelyn Eleven act so fast on a pair of murders that had hardly been dry in the newspapers? It was fishy. Like the smell of all the fish-markets in the world. Not just a cute way to promote business. To have rigged up a fall for me, Evelyn Eleven would have to have known something about the murders. And the murderer. Something that preceded the finding of the first corpse. Dawn Dark.

  Ada was sitting down on the lounge, her slacked legs crossed, her arms folded while she sipped from a tall glass with ice in shining fragments. Her smile was mocking. A healthier duplication of her sister’s.

  “Don’t try to figure out what makes Ev tick, Noon. You’ll be beating yourself for nothing. She’s a weirdo. Always has been. How else could you explain that screwy act of hers? I laugh when I see it and other dopes flip. But she’s smart. She always was smart. Always two jumps ahead of the pack. That’s why no man was ever smart enough for her.”

  “Ada!” Fats sounded shocked. “You should have more respect for Ev. She’s a fine woman. Didn’t she send you the money to come to New York?”

  “Sure, sure.” She waved him off. “Big-hearted Ev. She brought me here for something. She hasn’t told me yet. But I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts it will be something wild. Wild and disgusting.”

  “Now, Ada —”

  They kicked that around for another minute while I tried to make some sensible arithmetic in my head. The night hadn’t been a total loss. But lack of sleep was beginning to get me in the eyes. I’d been up since eight o’clock getting the office in shape, picking Melissa Mercer for the job and getting involved with Monks’ homicides. Now, suddenly, it was all piling up on me. In the back of my brain, the nagging beat of the Bolero was giving me a headache.

  “Time,” I yelled. “Stop jabbering. Nobody’s in any trouble yet so why get worked up?”

  Ada sneered at me. “Big tough detective. You look kind of sleepy to me.”

  “I am. What time does your sister get home from work?”

  Fats quailed. “Don’t talk to her. You’ll make her hate me for being such a coward and running out. Can’t you wait until I tell her myself?”

  “You sweat like that every day and you might lose some weight,” I suggested. “I have to talk to her. She’s lousing up a chain of events in circulation right now and I have to know where she stands before I go off on a tangent.”

  “Four or thereabouts,” Ada said quietly. “She ought to be home any minute. Her show ends about three-thirty but she always takes her time coming home. She likes to pick up stray cats.”

  “Oh? That’s nice of her.”

  Ada laughed disgustedly. “Cats with two legs. When she does, she throws Fats and me into our rooms and we don’t see her till the next day.”

  “Ada,” Fats blubbered, “I wish you wouldn’t tell him all of Ev’s secrets. That’s not fair. Her life is her own business.”

  Ada was beginning to tongue-lash him in earnest when there was a click of the door behind my back. I turned easily. Evelyn Eleven stood in the doorway, her fantastic figure hidden in a sloppy trench coat. But the coat couldn’t hide the weird face, the dead eyes and her ghostly pallor.

  Her mouth was hooked in a grotesque smile.

  “Ada, darling, you do talk too much. It may kill you someday.” Her eyes weren’t surprised to see me. Nor were they angry with the accusing look I had pinned on the stack of morning newspapers she had folded over one arm. “Yes, Mr. Noon. Another corpse heard the Bolero tonight. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  7 — You Can’t Murder Ten Pretty Girls

  “Sister dear,” Ada mocked from the lounge. “Your ghoulishness is showing.”

  “Ada, go into your room. You too, Fats. I want to talk to Mr. Noon alone.” Her voice was quiet, not raised one octave above the graveyard but there was no arguing with her voice. It reeked of command as well as clamminess. Ada reddened but she got to her feet, hooked an arm around Fats’ corpulent waist and tried to laugh it off.

  “C’mon, man. The Queen has issued her edict. To disobey means death.” She had one last word for me. “If she gets to be too much for you, holler and I’ll come running.”

  I nodded but Evelyn Eleven said, “Ada,” quietly again and her sister left the room dragging the bewildered Fats with her.

  In the brief silence that followed, Evelyn set down her stack of papers, took off her trench coat and slung it over an unused chair. She sat down in another one across from me and smiled again. Her smile was something a person about to be hanged might never care to see.

  “So,” she said. “You’re smart.”

  “Sometimes,” I admitted.

  “You made a big hit with Howie. He told me what you did to Fats after you left the dressing room. You fooled me. I didn’t think you’d act so fast.”

  “I might have stayed put for awhile except for the Orelob name. It was too pat. The set-up bothered me. I’m funny that way. You use the melody in your act and then you shove a name at me that spells the same thing when spelled backwards. On top of what’s been keeping me busy all day, it was too much. And you are a showman first class if you are anything.”

  She laughed. “That is a coincidence. I was married to a man named Orelob once. It was the first name I could think of. I hated that man but it was his name I thought of when I needed an alias for Fats.”

  “Think again,” I said. “It’s still too pat.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “Let’s skip that for now. There are a lot more important things on my mind. Like why the Bolero? Like how come you pick me when you don’t have the foggiest notion that I was involved with that Bolero murder all day? It’s all too fast and impossible. Believe me, I know a Captain of Homicide who would say the same thing. From where I sit you’re involved up to your bony kneecaps.”

  “Am I?”

  “You are.”

  She was wearing a long, loose black dress which hugged her thin body like a sleeve on an arm. Not a touch of color or jewelry heightened her lifelessness or detracted from her Death’s Head image. She probably preferred it that way.

  “What would you like to know, Mr. Noon?”

  “Why you hired me first and then how come you know all about these murders when they’ve hardly been a day or two old?”

  “Simple. I hired you to see my act, know me and surround me with your fame. The case will be headlines for days. I will become notorious. More so than I ever was. The Lady Of Death. The Dark Lad
y of the Bolero or some such captivating nonsense. Once I told the reporters my life was threatened and they knew I had hired such a famous detective and they all heard my Bolero music, it would have all been beautifully breath-taking and mystifying.”

  “That’s silly but I’ll buy it for now. The murders bother me more. It was known by no one until this morning. The papers might have it now but that still doesn’t give you enough time to set me up the way you did if your motive is what you say it is. The cops would say only the killer could have known.”

  Her bald look was penetrating.

  “I wonder if it is wise to tell you.”

  “Tell me. It will get rid of all the curiosity I have. If it’s the right answer.”

  “I have a friend at Headquarters. A very good friend. He tells me of all the murder cases that come into the Department long before the general public.”

  “Again,” I said. “Slower this time.”

  “It’s true,” she persisted. “The day before yesterday, before the captain you know visited you I was told of Dawn Dark and the curious way in which she died. When the second call came in, I could see the possibilities. Knowing you, a private detective, were involved it was too good an opportunity to pass up.”

  “You’re lying. There are no finks on Monks’ payroll.”

  “Suit yourself.” Her eyes glowed. “You know I was at the club tonight. Yet what would you say if I told you I know where you went after you left Fats? To Alice Albin’s home on MacDougal Street where you found another dead girl and another Bolero playing.”

  I gawked at her. Sanderson, James T., couldn’t be her informant. Not Jimmy. He was Monks’ faithful dog Tray. But Headquarters was a vast network of phones, messages and information. Evelyn Eleven’s boy friend could be any one of a dozen people.

  It was too stupid to be a made-up alibi. She was laughing at me when she saw the conclusion on my face.

  “You’re right,” I said. “How else could you know unless you were the killer?”

  “I am not capable of violent murder, Mr. Noon. I am a woman.” Her eyes veiled in mock embarrassment. “And according to my informant, all of these poor women died because they were strangled viciously.”

  “But mostly because they had bad hearts,” I reminded her.

  “Death In Ecstasy,” she continued. “How glorious. The beloved dead. This may bring necrophilia back to its proper state of grace.”

  My eyelids were getting heavier and she was beginning to bore me. I felt like giving her a good stiff kick in the teeth.

  “Don’t count on it, Eleven. I’m not giving you the hundred bucks back either. I worked too hard to earn it.”

  “Keep it, Mr. Noon. You’ve served your purpose.”

  “Thanks. I suppose you have a friend on the papers too? One who is certain to give me a plug tomorrow. And you, of course.”

  “Of course. The afternoon editions. Be sure to read them.”

  “I will. If your married name was Orelob, what might I ask is your real name?”

  She showed me her teeth.

  “I was born Evelyn Grabowski. I do not like the name. I never liked it. I believe in numerology. Eleven was chosen for me. It suits me don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. I would have picked thirteen for you myself. Well, I’ll let myself out. It’s been.” I moved wearily toward the door, resettling my fedora on my fevered brow. I was getting dizzy.

  “I have an idea this isn’t our last meeting, Mr. Noon.”

  “I wouldn’t take any bets on it.”

  “I don’t have to. There may be more deaths in ecstasy. You may need a student of necrology before your curious feet lead you much further in life.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said.

  “My sister Ada likes you. I can tell. She’s always had a weakness for physical men. You’re very physical, Mr. Noon.”

  “So’s a muscle-bound weight lifter. Goodbye, Eleven. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

  “Au revoir, detectiv prive.”

  I got out to the sidewalk, shook the black cats off my shoulders, watched out for ladders and tried not to break any mirrors before I found a night owl taxicab crawling by. I was dozing by the time he parked me in front of the little grey home on Central Park West.

  The elevator operator seemed glad to see me when I sleep-walked into his car. His round face full-mooned into a smile.

  “Wondered when you’d show up.”

  “Pete, I never thought I’d get here. I’m beat.”

  His grin faded. “Maybe I had no business but there’s a dame in your apartment.”

  “A what?”

  “A dame.” He looked sheepish. “She came in about ten minutes ago. Said you wanted to see her here and was expected home pretty soon. I let her in with my pass key. She is a great looking girl so I figured she was giving me the straight goods.”

  I woke up in a hurry.

  “What goods?”

  He looked puzzled at my reactions.

  “Said she was your secretary and something had come up that wouldn’t wait until morning. It’s okay isn’t it that I let her in? You do have a secretary, don’t you?”

  “Sure, Pete. It’s okay. And I do have a secretary.”

  Pete was grinning wryly as I left his car and approached my door. I tested it gingerly. It was unlocked. I pushed in, the warmth of the familiar paintings and sofas greeting me like an old friend. The light from the bedroom guided me. I wasn’t frightened. Only confused.

  It could have been Melissa Mercer but Pete wasn’t so angelic that he wouldn’t have made some reference to her color. It’s that kind of a world too.

  I wasn’t surprised as I thought I would be when I saw who was lying on my big bed with all her clothes on.

  “Hi, Noon,” Ada Grabowski said cheerily from the pile of pillows she had propped behind her bouffant head. “Surprised to see me?”

  “I have only one word for you, Ada. Why?”

  Her face softened. “Normalcy. Sanity. Boy meets girl instead of boy meets boy and girl meets girl. I’m tired of mismatching pairs. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Sort of.” I sailed my hat onto a chair and kicked my shoes off. The soft rug beneath my tired feet felt good. “But you got here in an awful hurry. You didn’t come by broomstick, did you?”

  She shook her head, her warm eyes surveying me from head to foot. She’d shorn herself of the gold lamé lounging clothes in favor of a very feminine, maroon sheath dress.

  “I am not my sister, Ed. I can prove it to you.”

  “Did you come here just to prove that? I was convinced an hour ago.”

  “I had to and I do. Another night under that weird roof and I’d be ready for the men in the white jackets.” She extended her long legs out of the sheath dress and let me see the full, flesh-tones of her calves. A curious new tenderness welled in her eyes. “Do I need a better reason?” She was practically begging me.

  “You don’t, Ada. But I’m liable to fall asleep on you. I’m tired.”

  “There’s always tomorrow morning if you do.” She got off the bed and moved toward the closet, her fingers busy with a zipper somewhere on the sheath. My eyes were blurring as I fumbled with my necktie.

  “Ed,” she was crying from the closet. “You’re a nice guy, you know that? You could throw me out. You could ask me what’s my game. You could pump me about my sister and this screwy thing she tried to do —”

  “You could shut up,” I suggested, climbing between the sheets and gazing dumbly at the array of my clothes and underwear on the chair by the bed. I was asleep long before Ada came out of the closet with nothing on. She must have had nothing on because when she planted herself against me some time later, the naked warmth of her long, smooth curves broke down any sales resistance my weary body had.

  She didn’t know the first thing about sex. Whatever she had found out, came out of a book or a movie. But she was willing and game which is all the mental equipment ever needed. The sophisticated façade of be
ing Evelyn Eleven’s sister melted off and left a frightened child.

  “Give me time,” she begged. “I’m all right, it’s just that it’s all so new to me —”

  I shut her mouth with a gentle kiss.

  She made me breakfast in the morning. The kitchen looked good with her in it. When I heard her humming synchronized with the sizzling bacon and the bubbling eggs, I damned my bachelorhood and the inescapable lure of my profession. You couldn’t have kids when you were a walking target. And I feel sorrier for orphans more than any other class of people in the universe.

  We ate in our pajamas. Or rather, my pajamas. She wore my tops and I settled for the bottoms. It was a fine arrangement. She had a fine, healthy face that went well with the Scotch plaid design.

  “Ed, you mustn’t mind Evelyn. She’s a little flipped on this death business but basically, she’s okay.”

  “She sent for you?”

  “Yeah. I was in Hartford with an insurance outfit and bored to tears. Ev sent me some money and I came. I thought I’d like New York. I didn’t until now.”

  I saluted that with a cup of coffee. “How long have you been with her in the apartment?”

  “Since her Carnegie engagement. But she’s queer. I hate her for that. Some nights in my room when I could hear her in her bedroom with other women, I wanted to throw up. But then I felt she was sick and needed help. She is my sister but —”

  “What about the marriage to Orelob?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Burt? No help there. A mamma’s boy with no guts. Ev married him just to get out of Connecticut. He brought her to New York and then she worked on this act. When it was fully developed and ready to go, she ditched him. He’s nothing. Forget him.”

  “I’d like to. But I can’t. Some nut’s been busy in this town and having a madman’s fun.”

  Ada shook her head. “Burt’s too stupid for anything. He wouldn’t have had the brains or the imagination for something like this Bolero thing.”

  “You make good coffee.”

  “Thanks.”

  The phone rang. I didn’t want Ada answering it so I ran into the living room. It was Monks with a fresh new-day sound to him.