“Sorry you took the job?”
She shook her head. “Not if you’re not.”
“It’s too late in the day to be sorry about anything.” I chucked her under the chin. “Dig up the Manhattan directory for me, will you? I want you to look up two phone numbers for me. If they have phones. The names are Hilda Hale and Thelma Torrance.”
Melissa frowned. “The next victims?”
“Clients,” I said. “And do like I tell you.” She chuckled and moved off to get the information. According to their stories, Miss Torrance would still be working at Ohrbach’s and Miss Hale would be tellering at Chase Manhattan. But they had phones, it turned out, and it might be useful later on in the day. I jotted down the numbers in my memo book. Just for luck I rang them both. I waited for seven rings before I hung up each time. That seemed to check out at least. If they had been home, either one of them, it would have been unusual.
Of course, Monks was having them shadowed for their own protection but you never could be sure of anything on a murder case. Or at least, you shouldn’t be.
“Ed,” Melissa said about four-fifteen. “We have to go home sometime. You going to talk to those reporters now?”
“Might as well. You stay here too. That way it’ll save me the trouble of telling it twice.”
“Is it bad?”
“Bad enough. But you show them in now and hear for yourself.”
“Okay.”
“Just remember one thing.”
“Such as?”
“I didn’t do it.”
She went out without saying anything to that and let the newsmen in. The office went haywire in two seconds flat with clicking cameras and the usual barrage of questions. I sat still for all of it.
Melissa Mercer went home a little after five. A handful of reporters lingered and then gradually drifted off. I was alone in the office when Mike Monks called from Centre Street.
“Any luck, Mike?”
“Pay dirt,” he chortled. “Wait’ll you hear this. Three years ago, a young guy named Ted Crane was released from Bostwick. Been there for almost three years but a new administration came along and got him out even though the staff hadn’t finished with his case. It’s a lulu, Ed. Fits this case down to the eyebrows. Nobody knows Crane’s whereabouts since his release. That is to say, Bostwick lost track of him. But the consensus was that he drifted East because while he was being treated he always talked about New York.”
“Come on, Mike. What was it with Crane?”
There was grim satisfaction in Monk’s voice.
“The report’s on my desk and it’s as long as your arm. This Crane was a Korean vet who got a sound technician job with that film studio — you know, Empire — until one day, he snapped his lid on the lot and was hauled away for observation. Completely nuts. Always talked about red rooms and the Bolero. Get that, will you? Anyway they never did find out what actually caused his mental collapse. He was quiet enough at Bostwick but a doctor out there was particularly interested in him before they let him go. This doctor was bugs for keeping him on, claimed he was dangerous and needed treatment but — I got his name here on the teletype —” I heard him rustling around on the telephone. “Mertz. Dr. Simon Mertz.”
“Great, Mike. Great.”
“Listen a minute. Mertz is flying in from L.A. Be here tomorrow. Seems this Crane was a pet project of his. Coming at his own expense. You want to be here when I talk to him?”
“With bells on. What time?”
“Let’s see — he leaves L.A. on the —” He mumbled some time calculations. “Make it about one o’clock. He’s coming directly from the airport.”
“Fine. I’ll be there. Well, that’s it, Mike. Crane has to be the one. Now if you can pick up his trail here, you’ve got your man.”
“Depends on what Mertz tells us, Ed.”
“Sure it does. But at least we’ll get a picture or a description and five will get you ten, Crane was in Bellevue sometime this year and that’s how he found out about the girls and their bad hearts.”
Monks growled. “But we checked Bellevue. They had nobody like this.”
I laughed. “He’s crazy all right but he was planning murder then. He didn’t have to be a patient. He probably wasn’t.”
Monks cursed. “I never thought of that.”
“You would have if you took the time and weren’t so busy with the details.”
“Says you. By the way, Ed.”
“Still here.”
“Thought you’d like to know. The M.E. says Ada died instantly. Probably never knew what hit her.”
“Thanks, Mike.” He hung up and then I did. Why do we always feel better when we think that somebody we knew and liked felt no agony beyond a second when they cash in? I thought about that a long time before I got up from the desk, locked the office door and left for the day. Monks’ news was strictly from heaven. The beginning of the answer to it all. Crane’s red rooms and Bolero talk couldn’t be a coincidence. They don’t make them that way anymore. I’d be more than a little interested in what a doctor named Simon Mertz had to say.
I thought about Fats and Evelyn Eleven and The Green Cellar. Hale and Torrance would keep now. So would the three girls on those sliding drawers in the police morgue. And Ada would make Evelyn Eleven act like a sister whether she wanted to or not. She’d get a decent burial. I’d make sure about that. And Melissa Mercer was safe in Harlem, far from the people who hated her boss.
Somewhere in Manhattan, Ted Crane was waiting. But I couldn’t think about him now. There was work to do. And he couldn’t spin a record if Hilda Hale and Thelma Torrance were his intended victims. Ravel was probably spinning in his grave if he knew that his lovely music was a dirge for murder by love.
I walked over to the Brass Rail on Broadway for a leisurely dinner and several glasses of Scotch to warm up my cold thoughts. It was time to sit in once more on a nightclub act at The Green Cellar.
You never can be sure about anything but I still felt that the answer to it all was somewhere in that wacky, way-out place.
A sudden thought made me grin. No matter how I affected everybody else, I was sure Howie would be glad to see me again.
After all, I was Tiger, wasn’t I?
14 — The Green Cellar
“Tiger,” Howie blushed over his tray of drinks in the smoky, candle-created illumination, “you came back.”
He was still pink and boy-sized, his blond hair looking green in the halation of green candles, green barrel chairs and tables. All around us, the Cellar bulged with clientele. A muted roar of talking voices, punctuated by giggles and shrill laughter, filled the place. I winked at Howie.
“Got a table for me near the stage? I want to catch Evelyn’s act again.”
He made a face. “Anything for you, Tiger. But really. I thought you were looking for a real woman. Not a rag, a bone and a hank of hair.”
“Howie,” I laughed. “I’m still a detective, remember. Now go see what can you do, huh?”
“Well —” He shrugged but moved off, balancing the tray of drinks like a tightrope walker. I scanned the room. Nobody was paying any attention to me. The small talk and smoking was murderous. The dimly-lighted area of stage between the jammed barrels was hushed and empty. The bulk of the piano and the bandstand was dark and silent. Everybody was taking ten. The lull before The Evil Evelyn went into her act. I’d killed a lot of time having supper and boozing it up but it was only ten o’clock. Still, the advertising outside proclaimed in dripping red letters that the star of the club had added an extra performance to her bill of fare. I was counting on that.
Howie came back wih an empty tray and an annoyed face.
“You’ll have to share a table.”
“Man or woman?”
“You!” He sniffed. “A woman. Very attractive too.”
“Howard, you have unappreciated skills. Lead the way.”
He was making small feminine noises of disapproval as he led me through the clutter of barrels to
a small table just to the left of the stage area. In the haze of green light, I saw a small, shapely figure in a strapless gown turning to look at me inquisitively. A tall drink was propped before her. I started to sit down across from her when our eyes met and collided.
“You —” Thelma Torrance exploded. “What are you doing here?”
She was as curvily piquant as ever. The light of the candles made you see how white her teeth were, how dark her eyes and hair.
“Thelma, I’m asking the same thing. Does Monks know you’re here?”
She laughed. She sounded a little tipsy.
“Don’t look now. But there are two policemen sitting over there.” She held her left hand up lengthwise and made a pointing motion behind it with her right. I looked. Over a cluster of close heads, I saw two very sober, very steady-eyed Homicide men looking at us.
“That’s a help,” I admitted. “How did you get here?”
She sipped her drink. “Do you buy drinks for ladies?”
“Only when they answer my questions.”
“Deal.” She giggled. “I was tired of being scared. Cooped up. And those cops five feet away every time I turned. Even at the job today.” She shook her naked shoulder as if she was going to do the Twist. “So I decided a night out would do me good. Besides, I was invited.”
I tensed. “Who invited you?”
“None other than the star of the show.”
“Evelyn?” I was incredulous.
“Evelyn.” She drained her glass. “I’m drinking gimlets.”
I looked around for Howie. “Where do you know Evelyn from?”
Thelma Torrance giggled. “I don’t know her. She called me after I got off from work. Explained about her act and how she knew I was under police protection. So I came. ’Sides. What could happen to me here? I always wanted to see her show anyway. Ought to be something. Where’s my drink?”
“Keep your shirt on.” I spotted Howie and held up two fingers. He nodded sadly and I turned back to Thelma Torrance. She was looking at me impishly.
“You’re kinda cute,” she decided. Then she frowned. “How come you’re here?”
“I was invited too.” I shook my head. “Aren’t you worried? This Evelyn is just trying to build her show up with publicity. That’s why she invited you. She probably would turn cartwheels if you were killed ringside.”
“Shut up,” she said dully. “I wanta enjoy myself. Stop talking about killing all the time.”
“Sorry. Too bad I can’t play a rock ’n’ roll record for you. Or some nice calypso.” Confused, I dug out my cigarettes and handed her one. I lit them both by using the candle on the table. Up close, I could see Torrance’s eyes were a little glassy. The gimlets had gotten to her and Howie was just reaching the table with another load.
He fooled me. I thought he’d bring two gimlets. But one of the drinks was a Scotch-on-the-rocks.
“Howie,” I said admiringly. “You remembered.”
“Oh, shut up,” he sighed helplessly. “I don’t know why I put up with you. You’re mean and like to hurt me.” He glided away again without waiting for my answer.
“Poor bastard,” Thelma giggled. “He’s in love with you.” Around us, the sea of humanity was getting noisier and untidier. A fight broke out two tables away and the Headquarters men half-rose from their seats but peace was restored almost immediately. I was still thinking about the oddity of the killer’s next victim, Thelma Torrance, sitting ringside in the place where the fantastic Evelyn performed. Her headquarters contact was as reliable as IBM.
“Got a girl, Ed?” Thelma was sizing me up over her raised glass.
“Sometimes.”
“You play your cards right, you can take me home tonight. I’m in the mood.”
“You might not be later.”
“Wanta bet?”
We were rubbing knees under the table and I was keeping a weather eye peeled for the daily candle-blowing routine. I didn’t want any sudden lights-out baffling me like the last time. Not with Torrance as my companion. I’d had my fill of getting involved that way. But suddenly as if by an arranged signal, every voice in the place hushed. A piano tinkled softly in the background somewhere. But the twinkle was all bass.
And The Evil Evelyn materialized in the same, gauzey, diaphanous way she had that other night. First, she wasn’t there. And then she was. A ripple of tension gripped the club. All eyes riveted on the creature from inner space. The graveyard was taking over again. And all of The Green Cellar dug it. Thelma Torrance had forgotten about me. She was rapt as a child, her small, shapely breasts trying to climb out of the strapless gown.
“Last night I dreamed —”
The haunting business began all over again. The so-dead voice in mourning for the House of the Fourteen Griffins and Eric, the lost lover. The Garbo of the Graveyard was in top form. You could have heard a mouse rubbing his hands in the heart-stopping silence of the room. The green candles flickered as if they were about to go out. Almost on cue, a female shrieked low and then went quiet again.
Evelyn raised her arms and rippled, wavered and undulated. The length and transparency of her trappings shimmered in all shades of green. I couldn’t take my eyes off her either.
“Eric! Eric —”
The Bolero climbed steadily in intensity until its ecstatic message throbbed off the wall of the Cellar. You had to hand it to her. She was Black Magic and a Greek chorus of Tragedy with all its nuances and fine exhortations of everyone’s subconscious. I would have taken my hat off in admiration but I wasn’t wearing one. Thelma Torrance’s hand was vised into my wrist cutting off the circulation. I could hear the whisper of her fierce, ragged breathing. Evelyn had her by the short hairs, all right.
“Come to me, Eric. When the Bolero plays again. Come to me …”
She was gone from the stage in the time it takes to wink your eye. A flutter of green and filmlike transparency. The music stopped and The Green Cellar rocked like a barrelhouse. Applause Niagara-ed around the room. Thelma Torrance was blistering her palms off. They sounded like firecrackers in my nearby ears.
The place returned to its normal level of sound. Howie reappeared like a genie. His smile was happy.
“Refill, Tiger? The lady’s glass is empty.”
Thelma handed him her glass. “You’re cute too.”
Howie looked at me, his grin fading. I smiled. “The lady or the tiger, huh? Well, fill them up.”
He left and Thelma sighed. Her knee went back to mine again.
“I like this place, Ed. It’s fun. Screwy but fun. That Evelyn. Wow.”
“Give you the creeps?”
“Yes and no. But she sure is exciting. Wonder what she’s like? Really like?”
“Like death warmed over.” I spotted Fats trying to squeeze his hefty way toward us. He looked worried as usual but he was trying to smile as always. Thelma blinked at him.
“Fats, this is Miss Torrance.”
“Hello,” he wheezed. “Well, Mr. Noon, glad you could come.”
“I’m glad too. Thelma’s glad. You’re glad. Evelyn’s glad. Howie’s glad. Let’s all be glad together.”
He was puzzled. “Are you drunk, Mr. Noon?”
“Yes,” I laughed. “And you should be too. Because this is the damnedest, insanest, screwiest case I’ve ever worked on. And if Evelyn isn’t nuts herself, she should be.”
He tried to laugh. “You’re pulling my leg.”
“No,” I said gravely. “I’m pulling Thelma’s.”
He blushed, laughed nervously and moved off. “I’ll tell Evelyn you’re here. She may want to see you —” He faded into the green confusion of the club.
Thelma Torrance giggled again. “Do that again.”
“Do what again?”
“Get mad. You’re real cute when you get mad.”
I showed her my teeth and dipped my nose into the Scotch. The atmosphere was beginning to get me.
“Thelma, I’m serious now. Would you recognize
your mysterious painter if you saw him again?”
She sobered up for a second. “Do you have to talk about that again?”
“Well, would you?”
“I think so. Though I just saw him once.”
“A blond with a mustache you said. About my size?”
“No. Shorter. Inches shorter. Not as big looking as you, either.”
“Then keep your eyes peeled. If he ever goes out for laughs, this must be the place.” She shivered at that and looked around the room. She didn’t stop shivering until she saw Monks’ boys again.
“Boy. Am I glad they’re here.”
“They are a comfort,” I admitted. “And chances are you are safe in public. But they have a cute tradition around here of blowing out all the candles. Don’t get scared. I’ll be here. It only lasts a minute. I don’t know when they do it but they do it. Just letting you know in advance.”
“You’re kidding. Blow out the candles —?”
“So help me. Usually some time after Evelyn’s first show, I imagine. Didn’t you get a slip of paper with zero hour on it?”
“No, oh —” she moaned, grinding her kneecap into mine. “I don’t like that. Don’t like that at all. I like the lights, the fun.”
“Don’t we all.”
Howie popped up at my elbow again. The same old smile was back in place. “Tiger. Madame will see you now. Both of you.”
I looked at Thelma Torrance. “You game? It might be fun.”
She clapped her hands. “Backstage. Oh. That’d be darling.” She fumbled erect. Howie caught her glass before it spilled. I slipped him a bill which he tucked in his green cummerbund without looking at it.
“I know the way,” I said, taking Thelma Torrance’s elbow. “Come on.” I smiled at the Headquarters boys who were watching us. Howie moved to one side and touched my arm.
“Watch yourself,” he whispered. “Don’t get hurt on account of this bitch.”
“Howie,” I tsk-tsked. He grimaced and moved away again in a huff.
Thelma Torrance was giggling and lurching as I led her through the packed barrels toward the wall that led to the dressing rooms behind the green curtain. At least, she was small and curvy. It was easy to propel her forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Monks’ protection get to their feet almost casually.
The Bedroom Bolero Page 10