The February Doll Murders

by Michael Avallone

  “Wait a minute. Not all of it. I went for my gun. I heard shots. Arnoff fired, too —”

  Her smile was sad. “I shot Max Arnoff as soon as you pushed me to one side. I knew who he was. That hideous face. I shall never forget that butcher. Kyle was hit in the arm. I managed a diversion with those policemen while you lay unconscious. Kyle thought you were dead. He took the dollar bill from your wallet just in case he should need it in the future to make his story good, should we be hounded down by fellow agents. He got away before the police saw him.”

  “I see. And the dolls —?”

  “We had left them at our hotel. We stayed there while Kyle recuperated. It was from the papers that we learned you were still alive. It was then that Kyle thought of sending the dolls to your office. It would be a safe place to store them until he could get in touch with you and explain things. And if something happened to him, he thought you’d eventually play the message and learn about the plot.”

  “Yeah. Good thinking. The hospital wouldn’t have been good. I probably would have given them to the night nurse for her grandchildren. I know about Amos Glass, Lola. I talked to him just this morning.”

  Her laugh was bitter. “His rich American uncle. I know. Does he — know what has happened?”

  “He does. And he might think about it for the rest of his life. Forget him. So I get out of the hospital, you come to take me to Kyle — or rather, he was to meet us at my place, but when we got there he was sitting in that chair.”

  There was silence from her. She had taken another long look into the past, and memory was forcing the tears to her eyes. She shook them off.

  “Yes. I was shocked. Who had killed him? Arnoff was dead. No one knew of our plans. True, we had been slow in getting the dolls to Samarko, but that could not have justified slaughter. I was in a panic. When those men were questioning you, I decided to destroy Kyle’s body, the room — the dolls if they were there — everything. I was glad I was not successful.”

  I eyed her closely. “Why do you say that?”

  She had the grace to look disconcerted. “I am glad I did not kill you. Also, it occurred to me later that I might be helping Kyle’s murderer. There might be some clue to him in that apartment, or on Kyle’s body. So that night I telephoned Samarko, hoping he had not heard what had happened. I asked him to search your office for the dolls. When he said he would, I knew he had not killed Kyle, that he was still in the dark as to the whole affair. He would not have bluffed Moscow. It was all I could think of doing.”

  Melissa broke in. “They seemed plenty upset when I saw them. And then the fat man began pulling the ring on Chatty Cathy’s back. That message came out then.”

  “Yes.” Lola agreed. “That was how it worked. Kyle was sure you would keep on pulling the ring until the sequence of regular remarks would be broken by the message. I think it repeats after every fifteen tugs on the cord.”

  “Lola,” I said, “I take it you don’t have the dollar bill.”

  “No. It is obvious, isn’t it, that Kyle’s murderer has it and does not have the faintest idea what to do with it.”

  “Or the third doll. Chatty Cathy. You haven’t got her, either?”

  She shook her head, looking at the dolls which I had sat up to either side of me. “No, I expected you to bring her. I didn’t know about Samarko and Rollo and all that happened last night until this secretary of yours told me after she called you. I was puzzled as to why she had mentioned the names of only two dolls to you on the phone.”

  I winked at Mel. “Nice going.” I looked at Lola Langdon. “Then why have you called this meeting? Neither of us have the bill or the missing doll. So what’s the purpose? You didn’t call me here just to ’fess up and get my forgiveness.”

  “No,” she said coolly. “I did not. I called you because we shall stay together, you and I, until Kyle’s killer comes looking for you. Understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “I know you do. Kyle’s killer does not know how to decode the bill. He thinks you do. So he must come. It is ordained. And when he does, I shall kill him. With my own hands.” There was a fierce look in her eyes, the kind you see at revival meetings when someone sees the light. “I must. There is no other reason for my staying alive.”

  I got up from the couch, walked around the coffee table, and reached easily for the gun in her hand. For a moment a look of anger flashed in her eyes. Then she shrugged and extended the weapon, barrel first. I took it.

  “Okay,” I said. “I buy your Brooklyn Bridge. Girder, span, and complete ironworks. Welcome to the club.”

  Me and my big mouth.

  For some reason that had nothing to do with men and everything to do with women, she suddenly buried her face in her slender hands and turned on the waterworks. Her shoulders shook with grief. Melissa sprang from the couch. I held her off.

  “Mel, how about making a pot of coffee? This may be a long, long wait.” She nodded, and hurried into her kitchenette.

  I sniffed at the muzzle of Lola Langdon’s .32. She hadn’t lied about that. The gun had been fired sometime in the last two weeks. A stale odor of cordite clung to the cylinders, even though there was a full payload in the chambers. Yes, she had scratched Max Arnoff. And now she wanted to scratch Kyle Crosby’s murderer.

  So did I, Kyle. So did I.

  15

  Enter the Third Man

  Lola Langdon had composed herself by the time the coffee was ready. I watched her as she sat next to Melissa Mercer on the couch. I spent a brief moment comparing the two rather extraordinary women. Melissa was a lovely, slim, medium-sized Negro girl of outstandingly delicate facial structure. She was cheerful and intelligent, earned her living as my secretary, and had only just recently made the jump from Harlem to an apartment on West End. She had the whole world ahead of her.

  Take Lola Langdon, whose age I had underestimated by about ten years. I could see the gleaming fine lines about the corners of her eyes now. A tall, strong female of superb physical stature. A classic, high-cheeked face, a mobile mouth. Woman idealized.

  Yet she had been with the Soviets more than half her life, according to her own testimony. Had lied, cheated, and killed for them. And now she wanted to kill again. Not in the name of belated patriotism. But for love. Lola Langdon’s face was ashes and resignation, as if her whole life were behind her and the future offered her nothing.

  I sipped my coffee, getting back to being a working detective again.

  “Listen, you two. Captain Monks and that F.B.I. man, Lynch, will probably be showing up here.” I explained to Lola about the lunch dates and the note I had left on the office desk. “I don’t want you running off again, Lola. As it stands I suppose you could be arrested for nine million things, but you have to tell me how you feel about that. I don’t want any lead flying around in here. My secretary might get hurt. She’s a good worker and I don’t want to break in a new one. Also, there will be no more homemade bombs. I want your promise.”

  She stirred at that. “The authorities? No, they must not see me. I won’t be arrested. Not yet. Not while Kyle’s killer is still free.”

  “Stop it,” I rasped. “Don’t go off on a vendetta kick. That will only cloud your thinking and get you killed. I’m just as interested as you in locating our man. Remember that. Okay. Promise you’ll let me do all the talking when they get here?”

  “But I don’t —”

  “Promise me.”

  She sighed. “Very well. But you are asking a great deal.”

  “I always do. But remember also what you said — the killer wants to see me to have me explain about the dollar bill. He also has that doll, which he took from Samarko and Rollo last night. All of which leads me to one conclusion. There was only one reason for killing the fat man and his little rat. Friend killer wants to go into business for himself. He, too has obviously defected from the party. Okay? Sit still and let me do all the thinking and talking. I have a few jolly notions. With Mike’s help and Ly
nch’s F.B.I. organization, we ought to land this bird in no time at all.”

  Melissa chuckled, cocking her head at me. “My, you’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning.”

  “Shut up,” I growled. She laughed and poured me another cup of coffee. I looked at the windows. The sunlight had widened its deep swath into the living room. Motes swirled around in the beams.

  And then the doorbell rang.

  “That will be them. Sit tight now, and do as I said.”

  Monks and Lynch shouldered in, as mismatched as any two men can be, as much of a study in contrasts as Melissa and Lola. Monks was a battering ram of wide shoulders and barrel-chested physique, obvious even in his gray tweed coat and downturned Borsalino hat. Lynch was taller and leaner, trimmer and younger. The cut of his coat was Ivy League. His hat was a snappy porkpie. Monks was sourly skeptical of face, as usual. Lynch was smoothly poker-faced. Only his eyes betrayed his surprise at the sight of Lola Langdon. She was staring off at the far wall as though she were thinking of redecorating Melissa’s apartment.

  I fanned out my hands, offering them chairs. “Gentlemen, be seated. Just in time for coffee. Sorry about lunch, but we’ll be finished here soon and we can get something more substantial.”

  “Good morning, Captain.” Melissa waved cheerily. Monks smiled at her and grimaced at me.

  “Just like your boss here you keep the damnedest hours, Melissa. It’s more like twelve thirty.” He left his hat on and pulled out a soft chair to accommodate his bulk. Lynch had doffed his porkpie. He started to say something to me, then gave up and found another chair, which he drew alongside Monks’s. My worthy cop friend was giving Lola Langdon a professional sizing-up.

  “Oh,” I said. “You haven’t met Miss Langdon, Mike. Lola, allow me to introduce Captain Michael Monks of Homicide.”

  “Miss Langdon.” Monks nodded toward her, his eyes sticking daggers in me.

  “How are you, Captain?” Lola said, without looking at him.

  “Now, see here, Ed —” Monks began. He never was able to sit on his hands for too long.

  “No coffee, Mike? Tsk, tsk. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “None for me, either,” Lynch said thinly. “I’m more interested in what you have to say.”

  “Amen to that,” Monks muttered with feeling.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Always rushing into things. Always plunging. You official investigators never do learn how to savor a moment, do you?” I said it so lightly, so easily, and perhaps so foolishly that both Monks and Lynch exchanged glances. Then Mike scowled at me with all the enthusiasm of old times.

  “Cut the comedy, Ed. You know what you’re doing, but we don’t. If I heard you right this is Lola Langdon, the Lola that was on deck when you got shot into a hospital and the Lola that left a homemade bomb in your rooms yesterday. Now we find you sitting around having a tea party with her and we’re supposed not to notice? Come on, Ed. Act your age.”

  “Amen to that,” Lynch said with feeling.

  Lola Langdon stirred, her eyes finished with a study of the wallpaper. “Quick justice, gentlemen?” She eyed me sadly. “You see, Ed? I told you this wouldn’t do —”

  I cut in fast. “You sit still and leave this to me. My angry friends here will sit still soon enough when I tell them that I will unlock this whole business for them in a couple of minutes.” Monks snorted, and I stared at him. “That’s right, Mike. In a little while, you and Lynch will both know who killed Kyle Crosby yesterday in my apartment.”

  Lynch’s eyes narrowed. “You can do that?”

  “I can.”

  “My hat’s off to you, then. The Bureau will be grateful, Noon.”

  Monks jeered. “A mysterious Mr. X, huh? Ed, you’re crazy. No one but that lovely woman there killed Kyle Crosby. She sell you a bill of goods? Listen, she bumped your pal, called you to make it look good, and then bombed the hell out of your place to cover the whole thing up. I agree with Lynch here on the whole thing. Get wise, Ed.”

  “I am wise, Mike. But I have to be humored.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll make a deal with you. Miss Langdon is unarmed. No guns, no bombs. I have all the hardware that the three of us own. Lola, me, and Melissa. So give me a few minutes more. If I can’t prove to you what this is all about, I’ll hand over Miss Langdon. Is that a deal?”

  That defeated Monks. He tugged at his hat brim. “Of all the crazy grandstand tricks, this one takes the cake.”

  Lynch shrugged. “Go ahead. Give him the time. What’s to lose?”

  “Thanks, Lynch. Well, Mike?”

  He spread his hands. “Sure. Go ahead.”

  I looked at Lynch. “Where are Brad and Clyde today? I miss them.”

  He looked curious at that. “Downstairs in the car. Why? You don’t need them, do you?”

  “Not as long as you’re sure where they are. I don’t want any interference on this.”

  “They’ll stay put until I call them,” he said. I moved away from the couch, stepping between the coffee table and the chairs Monks and Lynch were, sitting on. As I did so I caught my toe on the rug and sprawled forward. Monks blasted an oath, and Lynch threw up his hands to catch me. I went into him headlong. My hands raced across his hip pockets. His eyes widened in surprise and he pulled back from me angrily, his face reddening.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he barked. “You pulled that fake fall on purpose!”

  “I need a drink,” I said nervously, pushing away from him. “You got any liquor in this place, Mel?”

  They were all staring at me now as if I’d lost the last of the few marbles I had. “Why — no — Ed.” Melissa was astonished. “You know I don’t touch the stuff.”

  “That’s right. You don’t. And Mike doesn’t — good sober cop that he is. I sure could use one —”

  Lynch laughed and dug into the folds of his coat. “This what you were looking for, Noon? A hip flask?”

  My eyes registered surprise. “F.B.I. man? What would J. Edgar say?”

  He straightened his shoulders, passing me the flask. It was a snug hip-fitter, flattened silver and very light. Lynch’s smile was not forced. “He wouldn’t say a word. Moderation is the keynote. As long as you know how to handle it.”

  “That’s true, I guess.” I took the flask and uncapped the top. I sniffed. Strong, pungent alcohol tingled my nose. It smelled like rye whiskey. “Cheers,” I said.

  “Ed —” Monks rumbled. “Will you kindly have your damn drink and get on with this rodeo act? I’ve had enough.”

  “Right, Mike. I’m finished now.”

  So saying, I flicked my right hand, aiming the flask at Lynch’s eyes. He saw it coming too late to duck. The contents sloshed at him like a sudden Niagara and hit home. He yelled something and tried to bring up his hands. I didn’t give him the time.

  I stepped into him, hammering a left to his breadbasket and a ruthless right uppercut to his square chin. His jaws jarred shut. Before he went down, I hit him once more. Up from the floor, roundhousing my locked hands, flask and all, into his unprotected chin. He went down hard, falling like a tall tree, over and backward, till he met the floor and stretched out supine. I stared down at him, finding the surge of blood in my body unbearably sweet. I had loved every-second of it, every swift, revengeful blow.

  Melissa shrieked, and Monks cursed savagely. But Lola quickened with awareness at her end of the couch and unfurled her lovely legs. She stood up, staring at me and then down at Lynch.

  “That does it,” Monks snapped with real anger in his voice. “You hit an F.B.I. man, and that fixes you for keeps. How the hell do you explain this one, Ed?”

  I twirled the flask in my bruised right hand. The knuckles were split and sore.

  “You can’t do anything to me for wrapping up a cold-blooded murderer for you. There he is. In the flesh. Sweet-looking pie face, isn’t he? I hadn’t pegged him wrong from the start. He never did act the part. Not li
ke Lloyd Nolan, anyway.”

  “Stop that damn movie nonsense!” Monks roared. “You telling me Lynch here killed Kyle Crosby?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m telling you Lynch here killed Kyle Crosby, and if you’ll stop shouting and sit down and count all the way to ten, oh, Captain, my Captain, I’ll tell you why.”

  I was keeping a wary eye on Lola Langdon. The look on her face as she stared down at the recumbent Lynch was not altogether sane.

  “First,” I said to Melissa, “look through his billfold and pockets and find my dollar bill for me, will you, Mel? He has to have it on him. He wouldn’t have left that little tidbit lying around. He’s had it ever since he took it from Kyle’s corpse yesterday.”

  16

  Bombs Away!

  Melissa found the bill.

  It was in Lynch’s billfold, a black cowhide beauty. The buck was neatly folded behind his F.B.I. card and photo. She held it up, her eyes shining, and handed it to me.

  Monks squinted across the room at me. “That it sure enough, Ed?” he asked quietly.

  It was. I could see old George and all the familiar names scrawled from long ago. Noon, Stroud, Farley, Donnell, Crosby —

  “Yes, Mike. Cross my heart, hope to die.”

  He grunted and said no more. But he moved. He crossed over to Lynch’s body, tugged a shiny set of manacles out of his hip somewhere, and snapped them shut on Lynch’s wrists.

  He straightened. “Okay. Just a precaution. You’ll have to convince me about the rest of this.” He looked toward the windows. “What about his two Johnnies downstairs? They in on this party too?”

  “No, I don’t think so. That’s why he left them downstairs. He didn’t know what was going to happen up here, and he still wanted to protect his pose as an F.B.I. man.”

  Monks frowned. “You mean he really is an F.B.I. agent?”

  “He sure as hell is. What better cover is there? Could he have chanced running all around town with me and you if he wasn’t what he said he was? That phone number he gave me is their New York office. Oh, Lynch is of the Bureau, all right. Probably has been for years. That’s why he was such a damn valuable plant for them. Not even Lola here knew about him, and wasn’t he the perfect man to protect this whole end of the project that Lola and Kyle were going to be a part of? Lola — please stay where you are. And hold it back. Lynch can’t do anything now.”