“Glad you’re up. You always make me feel guilty about waking you knowing what bum hours you keep. Seen the papers?”
“Not yet. Bad?”
“Couldn’t be worse. They’re climbing all over us now. You’d think Jack The Ripper had come back to life. You going to the office today?”
“Sure. In about an hour.”
“May drop in on you sometime this afternoon. Thought you’d like to know. The autopsies are in on all three girls now and it isn’t pretty. Every one of them, in addition to the bum hearts, had been fed a nice dose of cantharides. I’m sure you know what that is.”
I cursed. Long and loud.
Monks grunted goodbye and hung up.
Even the pleasant sight of Ada sitting in the kitchen with her cup of coffee couldn’t dispel the ugly thoughts racing around in my head. The damned killer hadn’t missed a trick.
Cantharides. Spanish fly.
What they used to fire up a bull so he could take on a herd of cows and impregnate them all.
A deadly drug to inflict on a human being. To make his blood pound, his sexual urges treble and to overexert whatever proper function was left in the three bad hearts of three dead girls.
“The bastard,” I said without thinking. “The lousy bastard.”
“Ed, don’t look like that. You scare me.”
“Sorry, Ada. Let’s finish our coffee and I’ll drive you down as far as my office. Then you do what you want to do. I’ve got a lot of homework to do today.”
I was convinced now if I wasn’t before.
The Bolero killer had to be a maniac.
8 — Dead From Hollywood
Melissa Mercer was typing rapidly as I came in. Her dark, piquant face smiled hello until she came to the end of a line or thought. The typewriter shut down and she waved a hand at the newspaper folded neatly on her desk.
“Seen that yet? They got your picture on page two.”
I said I hadn’t and she waited while I admired a bad pictorial facsimile of myself planted in a stick of column about the new murder wave that had hit town. The photo of The Evil Evelyn was something out of Dracula’s scrap-book. A headline smacked me between the eyes: DEATH GIRL HIRES EYE TO SEE HER THROUGH. The story went on to say in real Subwayese how I had been hired to protect the gloomy actress from the homicidal maniac who had already murdered three lovely girls. The next column over was the lead story about last night’s victim. Monk’s name was prominent in every other paragraph. There were three insets showing the faces of Dawn Dark, Eve Ellingham and Alice Albin. The imaginative writer had inserted an extra black box with a big white question mark in it. I groaned mentally. Monks had been so right about the powers of the press.
“Even for the News, this is a new low, Mel.”
Her eyes shone. She looked as cute as a mustard seed in a tight green dress. Her copper-colored skin was fresh and clean.
“You must have picked up all this business after I left yesterday. You get going when you want to, don’t you?”
“Influence.” I winked. “Any mail?”
“Just some bills for all the new furniture. Shall I make out checks for your signature?”
“I’m just like everybody else. We’ll have to pay them. When they’re ready, bring them in. I’ll be inside trying to think of something brilliant.”
I was halfway to the door when she called out my name.
“Ed. You saw those girls. Was it as bad as they make out?”
“A lot worse I’m sorry to say. The papers couldn’t really print it the way it was.”
She swallowed hastily, a look of pity etched in her eyes.
“I’m not nosey and you could tell me to mind my own garden but I wish you’d tell me how it was.”
“Why?”
She tilted her chin proudly. “I want to really be part of the firm. Is that a good enough reason?”
It was. So I told her. I cut the story down into my own native tongue and she understood every word of it. When I was done, she was shivering with sympathy.
“God,” she whispered huskily. “That’s awful. I’ll never be able to hear that number again without breaking out all over.”
I agreed and went into my office, raised the venetian blinds on the windows, looked down at the ants on West Forty-Fourth Street and blinked at the sunlight. I’d set a fine example for my new secretary. I’d showed up after twelve.
Miss Fenson called at one-thirty. I didn’t remember the name until Melissa cued me over the squawk box. The walking jewelry store. When Melissa connected me, the same old high-handed voice was ready for me. This time she had slid down off the high horse one little notch.
“Mr. Noon, I wish you’d consider my offer again. About my husband. He was hanging around my doorstep again last night and I must get rid of him.”
“Why don’t you invite the poor slob in for a cup of coffee and be nice to him? That might solve everything.”
“Can’t you be serious? I’m willing to give you five hundred dollars if you’ll come to my home tonight and collar him for me. I’m sure once he sees you’re in my corner, he’ll give up.”
“Why did you call me back, Miss Fenson? Can’t you take one no in your lifetime?”
Her voice rose again. “I see by the papers you’re involved in this murder case. If Fred sees you, he’ll be properly impressed. Now I know you’re busy but —”
I hung up on her. She didn’t call back.
The afternoon was alive with phone calls. Suddenly, everybody and his brother desired to have words with me.
Monks buzzed me two minutes after Miss Fenson fumed over a dead phone somewhere in Manhattan.
“Want to come to my office at six? Couple of folks I want you to see.”
“Sorry, no autographs.”
“Quit clowning. The M.E. and some of the lab men have a few ideas I’d like you to hear.”
“Deal. See you at six. Anything new on this mess?”
He grunted. “I hope to God he doesn’t pull another one today. It’s headache from the word go. The D.A.’s office has been all over me like the measles.”
I pondered. “Mike, I’ll give you something. It’s wild but it’s logical. The next girl will have the initials T.T. Get me?”
“What’s that? How can you know a thing like that and how do you know there’s going to be a next girl —?”
“You think about it, Mike. And I’ll see you later.”
I hung up again.
Evelyn Grabowski now Evelyn Eleven phoned a little later.
“You wouldn’t come to the Green Cellar again tonight, would you, Mr. Noon?”
I chuckled. “And face a battery of your press relations people? Sorry. I’ve got more important things to do. You made your point. You got what you wanted. This week, Jack Paar. Next week, Open End.”
Her chuckle was a cackle. “Howie wants to see you again, Tiger.”
I told her what I thought of that and she pulled a switch on me. She hung up, still laughing.
Next on the Telephone Hour was Ada. Her soft voice filtered through the receiver like honey from an overturned beehive.
“Hi, Noon.”
“Hi, yourself.”
There was a delightful pause.
“Can I be your secretary again tonight? You give lovely dictation. It’s so easy to follow you.”
“I’ll be home by ten. Try me then. If I’m not in, tell Pete the same routine you gave him last night. Wonderful soul, Pete. He understands everything.”
“Oh, Ed.” The banter broke under memory. “You don’t think I’m a bad —”
“If you start acting like a schoolgirl, I’ll treat you like one,” I warned her for her own good.
“All right. I’ll behave. I’ll be there.”
“Good girl. Tell me. Anything go on between Fats and Evelyn today that I ought to know about?”
“They had a big argument about him blowing the gag the way he did. And he took it like he always does. Cried like a baby. Why?”
<
br /> “Just want to keep several pictures of people in their proper focus.”
Her sigh flooded my ear. “The pictures I’ve got are beautiful.”
“Thanks for that. See you at ten, Ada.”
Melissa came in with a handful of checks. I signed them with a painful slowness that made her smile. She stood at my elbow while I made my X’s. Her aroma was sweet and heavy like syrup and molasses tinged with mint flavoring.
“That girl Temple that called you yesterday. Was that the movie actress?”
“Uh huh. I wanted to marry her once but she said a man was not a career.”
“Dumb blonde. Like all the rest of them. So she bypassed you and she’s a star. So what?”
“She eats more regularly than I do,” I pointed out.
Melissa smiled at me. “You wouldn’t be such a hard guy to starve with.”
A client came in about four who wanted a detective to shadow his wife. He worked all day as a salesman for a shoe outfit and his shoelaces were all undone over the idea that his little wife might be cuckolding him. I shuddered over the details, explained my busy schedule, and asked him to come back in a week and give his wife a chance to dissolve his doubts. He was upset enough to look tearful and embarrassed. My heart bled for him but I knew a divorce lawyer I’d much rather pass on the case to if I had to turn the guy down. Love misery had lost all its savor for me that week. Thanks to Temple, Miss Fenson and an incredible killer.
Close to five, Melissa Mercer came back into my office to say good night. She looked great in a three-quarter coat with fur-trimmed collar and cuffs. Suddenly, I wanted to know her better.
“Mel, I’ve got an idea.”
She looked surprised. “Like what?”
“Like dinner. Just the two of us. And if you don’t have to run right home, you could stop at Headquarters with me. After all, you work for me. You ought to know my business.”
“Gee, maybe I’d better not —”
“Forget it. I’m asking you because I want you to go.”
“You know I’d love to.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll wash my hands and be with you in two shakes.”
She laughed. A light, happy laugh.
“Man, you are a live one. You just do what you want to do when you want to do it.”
“Right. And the sooner you realize that the happier we’re both going to be.”
Her eyes were suspicious again. “You’re sure you’re not just trying to be nice or prove something to yourself?”
“You keep that up and I may fire you.”
We both laughed and I went to wash my hands in the lavatory on our floor.
To hell with Flo Cooper, to hell with alibis, a pox on my weak-kneed fellow Americans.
Melissa Mercer was my secretary. And a beautiful girl. And more importantly, a beautiful human being, and if I wanted to enjoy her company for a few social hours, that was my business.
We rode down in the elevator and the uniformed starter ignored us both. If he had any opinions, he kept them to himself. It’s funny I should feel so defensive. A sure sign I was making like a reformer who spoils things by making it hot for everybody. I relaxed.
Which was the biggest mistake I made that day.
We stepped out onto the sidewalk and things happened. Happened fast. Too fast for me to get ready.
The street is a cross-stream of humanity thronging through the main artery of Times Square. There are all types of people ranging from actors to dancers to truck-drivers and delivery boys and just plain old pedestrians.
Melissa’s hand stiffened on my arm and I sensed the trouble before it started. A hoarse voice rumbled in my ear.
“So? Taking the little spade out, huh? S’matter, buddy? You want to change your luck? Isn’t a white one good enough?”
The words fell like hammer blows on my already supercharged love of humanity. I revolved like a door, staring into a beefy, red face that was ugly with contempt. Melissa moaned in a low voice and tried to get behind me. There were two men staring at me. Mean faces, overcoats and suburban caps. A third one was leaning indolently against a glass store window behind me.
I should have known better but I didn’t. I saw red, blue, green and yellow. Which is quite a trick seeing that the sun had already gone down.
“What did you say, buddy?” I growled.
They flanked me like bookends, their arms hanging ready for a fight.
The other one spoke this time. His face was just as meaty and his words were just as ugly.
“You heard him, wise guy. He wanted to know if you were taking this spade hooker to a hotel.” He laughed in my face and some spittle flew, stinging my cheek. “Wasn’t a white girl good enough for you, big shot?”
I lost my head in a pinwheeling haze of rage, spurred on by Melissa’s trembling body behind me. I jackknifed a right cross toward the leering face before me.
But they were way ahead of me.
The other man kicked me in the left ankle and the guy lounging by the glass window jumped forward, pulling Melissa Mercer away from me. Then all three of them closed around me, arms flailing like windmills, with all their attention and strength focussed on kicking hell out of me.
It was going to be three against one all the way.
9 — The Iron Checkerboard
There is one rule of fist that always applies when three guys try to outnumber you in a street fight. Use your feet, Since nobody was nice enough to observe the rules of Marquis of Queensbury, I was in no position to play the gentle warrior with the clean, brave smile. I was scared. The mean look and purposeful faces of the three little boys in suburban caps was all the justification I needed for what I did next.
Melissa Mercer’s helpless freeze of fright behind me only made me more frightened and twice as desperate.
My ankle crumpled under me from the vicious kick, thrusting me back against the wall of the building. From that position, I had all three opponents facing me which was exactly where I wanted them. They closed in on me from three sides with all the intention of kicking hell out of me.
I played their game.
My size nine black shoe shot out from the launching pad of the wall like a guided missile and buried itself in the outer space of the groin of the man in the middle. I wanted him first so my frontal side would give me room to see and operate. The sudden, long howl that exploded out of his throat was like a rocket of triumph bursting radiantly in my ears. Melissa Mercer screamed as the man doubled in agony. An accordion of torment on the Manhattan sidewalk. His two cronies made low, animal sounds in their throats and the battle was on. The bad one. Two against one. They fell against me with the combined weight of their bodies and I was in trouble. Bad trouble.
One of them kept bombarding my exposed face with a series of rights and lefts which made my head ring. I lost sight of the street and the lights in a mushrooming darkness of small explosions of pain and fear. The other man, the one on my left, was trying to pull my arm off and once he found the proper joint in my elbow he twisted it in the other direction. None of us were talking now. Just grunting, squirming, twisting and trying to win. I was coming in a bad second.
I kept cranking my head like a maniac avoiding those punishing punches to my head. I had to give with the guy hanging onto my arm or the next sound I would hear was the arm bone connected to the shoulder bone going pop like the weasel.
We waltzed, tangoed and rhumbaed around the area of the wall. I was a mass of awakened muscle and reflex from head to toe. All I could do was kick, thresh and swing and hope for the best.
They were getting to me. It was inevitable. Two was one too many. I felt one of my punches make solid contact that drew a roar of pain but my body was being steadily forced down to the sidewalk. The bulk of their combined weight was like a stone wall of flesh. I hung on like a desperate rat. But in my head was the terrifying conclusion, “Too bad, Noon. This one you lose.” The raw hamburger of my face was livid testimony. I could feel the puff of my eyes
, taste the blood on my lips. And all the time Melissa Mercer was screaming and crying for somebody, anybody to help.
By the time I was dumbly wondering how the mad genius of the screwy murders had set me up for this fall, she had stopped screaming and done something sensible.
Through a red haze, I saw her suddenly merge with me and the two men. Something flashed high over her head. The gleam of street light caught the patent leather shine of one of her pumps.
The high-heeled weapon came down on somebody’s head with a crack of noise that for sheer musical ecstasy matched the opening bars of Sabre Dance. The shoe cracked again and again and the tempo soared. And the man trying to put another elbow in my left arm abruptly let go and staggered around in circles, moaning and clutching his skull, his fingers ripping the suburban cap from a shock of black, curly hair.
It was all I needed. The guy thumping me with meaty fists was finally squared off evenly. I saw his bewildered face close to mine, his eyes trying to find Melissa somewhere behind his unprotected back. Between trying to keep an eye on her and finishing me off, his powers of annihilation were cut in half. I was off my nut with rage and exaltation. I rallied off the wall that my back had been trying to imprint with the curvature of my spine. When I hit him, I hit him with all the hunger and desire that Maris put behind that sixty-first homer swing that memorable day in Yankee Stadium.
I was still hitting him when Melissa Mercer’s piteous voice was going on and on behind me like an overplayed phonograph record, begging me to stop.
“Ed — stop it — oh, please, Ed — you’re killing him —”
The street turned over, I looked into a dark sky of night and then the traffic lights and the windows were all in their proper place again. A dull, curious ring of faces stared down at me. I was sitting on the cold pavement, Melissa Mercer kneeling over me, staring into my face with concern making violent shadows in her eyes. The murmur of a sea of voices and a background surge of traffic banging filled my head. All of that and a steady, grinding pain that wouldn’t go away.
Voices flowed all around me, asking questions, making comments, riveting sensations in my brain. Through it all, I remember finding my feet beneath me again and Melissa’s honeyed voice assuaging my ear with pleas and sympathy. And then the foghorn authority of a cop beat like a tom-tom through the chaos. A blue uniform fronted me. I saw only the shield with the official seal of the City of New York. The crowd thinned and the curious and the unfeeling mob that could watch and not help, stand by and not assist moved on.
The Bedroom Bolero Page 6