Velma had died when the knife struck.
I stepped away from the bed, wiping the sweat from my face. In the reflex reaction to this horror, my brain bounced with the formalities, the routine movements for reporting murder. Yet the room fascinated me. The crime was written clearly and boldly. The clues were obvious. Beyond the bed, a window was half open. Beyond the window, a corner of the garden where a man could hide easily. It would be an easy climb through that window, waist high for an average man. She had seen him, of course. She had been talking to me when she saw him out there. I looked for the phone.
The place was furnished simply. Against the wall, a chest of drawers, on which sat a night lamp and some odds and ends of Bowker’s belongings—a pipe, an ashtray and some books.
Where was the phone?
I started back and away from the room. Was the phone in the kitchen? I backtracked and searched.
It hit me suddenly that my nerves were bouncing me into wasted motion. There would be only one place for the phone, back in the bedroom, probably on the floor. I forced myself to circle the bed, groping on the far side until I found it.
I sat there, the blood pounding in my ears. The silence sang around me. The tension had built me into a dummy, too stiff to move, too tight to do anything but squat and meditate. The quiet clawed at me. Was somebody breathing in the place? I checked my own tempo of inhalations. Sometimes the mind can play tricky stunts with a lonely listener. Sometimes your own lungs hammer and pound and set off strange internal echoes.
But the feeble noise came again.
Snoring?
I got up fast, no longer theorizing. My legs stiffened for the first steps, moving me slowly back through the kitchen, where I froze for another bearing.
The snoring again?
In the studio a vague light filtered through the long window. Bowker’s sculpture sat in odd places, vague forms that added confusion to the gloom. I pulled the drapes over the window and switched on the lights. The room was empty. Bowker worked neatly. He had placed his sculptures in a gallery display, each of them nicely labeled, each in a sea of space. The barren boards creaked under my feet. I stood for a long time, listening.
And then the snore again.
There was a door beyond the model stand, behind the screen. I ran across to push it open. Here was a tiny bedroom, a dressing place for his models. In the far corner, a cot. And on the cot, his body half turned so that his face was exposed, a man slept and snored. In the dull light his features didn’t come alive for me. Until I stepped forward and leaned over him.
“Jastro!” I yelled.
But Jastro only snored in his deep sleep.
He was out cold.
I reached down and dragged him off the cot. He didn’t fight me. His body slipped to the floor, a bundle of bones and whiskey smell. I sat him up against the wall, slapping at his face. Anger burned in me.
“Wake up, you louse,” I shouted. “Or I’m going to slap you awake.”
Jastro snored. I lashed out at his face, a hard smack across his cheek. His head bobbled and he slumped again, leaning crazily. It would take a bucket of water to stir him. I started through the studio at a half trot.
Until Bowker came at me.
This time he had the advantage. His face was lost to me as he waded in. He must have been standing in the doorway, listening to the sounds of my battle with Jastro. He must have been waiting for me, making up his mind about me. His cane caught my shoulder, a flat clap of searing pain that leveled me to a slow crawl. And there was no time for dialogue. Bowker was in no mood for reason. With that cane in his fist, he would hammer me to death. On my knees, he was a towering hulk, all legs and movement. He was coming on again and the only chance for stopping him was by way of a tackle, low and hard. In the skittering second of decision, I managed to lift myself for the big dive. The cane rapped hard. He missed me by inches, the hard handle clacking a flat smack of sound. He cursed me and came on again, measuring me for the kiss-off shot.
He bellowed as he swung, a French curse. The cane clipped my back so hard that I yelled in pain. He laughed at me, coming on again. The noise of his booming joy filled the room, setting up a red fog in my eyes, moving me toward him at a crawl, content to take the cane again, so king as I could get at his gut, even if he knocked my head off on the way.
He slammed down at me. He would have butchered me. But a new noise entered the battle. The door to the foyer was open and I saw Larry Frick tearing through, his body low in a flying tackle. He caught Bowker off guard. The cane fell away, smacking a small plaster statue into dust. Bowker tried to swing around, but he was out of his league now, up against the toughest free-for-all mauler in our old platoon.
Larry dug in, leveling him with a stiff fist to the navel. It was a sneak blow, low and mean and illegal. But Larry was never a man to respect the formal rules. Fighting was a matter of systematic moves to him. Fighting meant knocking an opponent off balance and pressing the lead.
“Pick on somebody your size,” he said amiably, rubbing Bowker’s face on the floor boards.
Bowker struggled to kick. He made a big mistake. He found himself rolling again, this time toward the wall. Larry braced him against the wallpaper. He began a quick massage, a rapid-fire series of slaps that would have felled an ox.
“Sucker,” he laughed.
Bowker’s face was being slapped into a pulp. There would be blood soon, and broken bones.
I pulled at Larry.
“Enough,” I said. “You’ll break his nose.”
“My pleasure.”
“He’s had enough.”
“I’ll lacerate him,” Larry roared.
I grabbed him, jerking him back and away from his fallen target. Bowker’s head rolled on a weak hinge. A few more slaps and his neck might have snapped. He was out, as cold and limp as a side of beef. I pulled Larry back and away from him, his big fists still working for more mayhem.
“Silly boy,” he puffed down at Bowker. “He needs more massage.”
“Relax,” I said. “One murder at a time, Larry.”
The line brought him down to earth.
“Better get the flics,” I added. “There’s a dead broad in Bowker’s bedroom.”
CHAPTER 14
Chez Bowker—Rue des Trois Frères
Inspector Malencourt supervised the clean-up. In the emergency he looked more like a director of a movie. He gave his orders in a sharp but unhurried key. He moved his men with great efficiency. The staff boys worked smoothly, making the official records, dusting for prints and finally fanning out over the house to snoop and pry in every odd corner. The medical examiner came and went, bowing to Malencourt on the way out. Throughout the preliminaries, all the way down to the wire, Malencourt hammered at me with questions, content to let me take my time with him. I gave him as much as I thought he needed. He was satisfied with me on a temporary basis. Nothing could shake this frog’s calm and self-assurance. He would play the Adolphe Menjou role in the middle of a massacre. He was slow and sincere.
“You cannot be sure, then, that Jastro was in that room when you arrived?” he asked.
“He might have come in after me.”
“And Bowker?” he chewed an old cigar. The French rarely waste anything, even impossible tobacco. “You saw him for the first time when he assaulted you?”
“For the first time today,” I reminded him.
“Also the girl?”
“I told you about the girl, remember?”
Larry said: “The one with Folger.” He added a few thousand words of quick French. Malencourt listened, nodding his head and remembering. One of his assistants came in and joined the conference. He was wearing a black suit, the national French costume for all professions and pastimes. He kept gesturing to punch home his statements. Malencourt listened, nodded and said nothing.
I tapped Larry’s arm. “What gives with the double talk?”
“Jastro,” he said. “They’re talking about the punk. The medical examiner took him away to the jug. But Jastro was too far gone for jail. He’s completely stinko, so full of alky that they’ve stored him in the medical ward. The last word from the medical examiner was bad. He says it’ll take at least a day to sober him up so he can talk. He’s really crocked this time.”
“And Bowker?”
“He’ll live. I fractured his jaw.” Larry laughed. “With that beard, I feel like a strong man. It was like hitting a mattress.”
“He talked to the boys?”
“Bowker’s loaded with alibis, Malencourt says. But they’ll hold him until they check him thoroughly.”
“What else does Malencourt say?”
“It looks bad for Jastro.”
“What did you do with Folger’s stuff?”
He patted his hip to show me where the wallet was. He touched his hat. He was smart. Larry never wore a hat. Even in the army, headgear annoyed him.
“Clever,” I said.
“A genius,” he winked. “You didn’t expect me to tip my lid, chum?”
“You’re wasting your time in Paris. You could clean up in New York. You’re talented.”
“I’ll frame those words,” he said proudly. “Coming from you they may be money in the bank. Maybe I can start a thing here in Paris. An agency, maybe. The Larry Frick Detective Bureau. In France, it would have to be a bureau—”
“Dandy,” I cut him off. “But right now, my tail is pinching. How much longer do we have to squat here?”
“Until the big chief stirs.”
“Stir him,” I said. “I need a gross of aspirin for my aching back. Bowker did more than fracture my dignity. Get me out of here. But fast.”
“Patience. Remember, this isn’t the Midtown Precinct in New York. You’re in France, where the formalities must be honored before relaxing. Play it Malencourt’s way, Steve. He’ll go along with you if you bow to his official position. It’s a glandular habit with the French.”
“You should know.”
So we sat and gassed some more until Malencourt’s men were completely finished with their chores and Velma’s body was hauled away. The clock stood at 1:14 P.M. Malencourt ended the conference. He was getting hungry.
“We are powerless,” he said on the street. “We can do nothing until Jastro regains consciousness and begins to tell his story. I am afraid, however, that his excuses, his inventions, will avail him nothing. He is guilty, of course. Of that we are almost certain now.”
“Sounds pretty pat,” I said.
“Pat?”
Larry explained. “Conacher means how did you come to your conclusion so fast?”
“Conclusion?” Malencourt stared at the cigar stub with great hate. But he didn’t throw it away. “We are in possession of the knife, Monsieur. The murderer dropped it in the garden, just beyond the window. It is rather an important piece of evidence you will agree.”
“The knife was Jastro’s?”
“But positively,” said Malencourt. “I dispatched one of my men to Jastro’s apartment immediately. The murder weapon belongs in a set of steak knives that Jastro owns.”
“And the motive?”
“A crime of passion, naturellement. You two gentlemen have already given me the motive.”
Malencourt made sense. We had already built up enough purpose in Jastro. We had told Malencourt the complete truth about Jastro’s wild claims at Garr’s party. He had bragged and boasted about Velma. But was it Velma he was talking about? Could we swear it was she? His vivid description of the dancing girl might fit any number of fancy broads.
“How can you be sure the slob meant Velma?” I asked. “He mentioned a girl who posed for sculptors.”
“But he also mentioned Bowker,” Larry reminded me.
“Bowker could know other wrigglers of the same type.”
“It is an interesting idea,” Malencourt admitted. “And we will most certainly obtain Monsieur Bowker’s complete list of models. But the crime must be considered when weighing evidence. You must understand the intricate workings of a drunkard’s mind. Jastro must have come here from the party, perhaps to inquire of Bowker where he could locate this mysterious girl. What then? Let us assume that he saw the girl with Bowker. He would do nothing while Bowker was with the girl. But today—in a fit of drunken rage, he returned to kill her.”
“Sounds logical enough,” Larry agreed. “But I agree with Steve that it’s a bit pat.” He faced Malencourt’s sniff of disapproval unafraid. He bounced off into a rapid chatter in French, using his fingers and hands to sell the chief. But Malencourt wasn’t buying the deal, in any language.
“We shall see,” he said stubbornly, “after some research with Monsieur Bowker’s model listings. And now, I go to lunch. I must advise you, Monsieur Conacher, not to depart from the city, if you please. I will be needing you momentarily. One cannot tell when Jastro will revive.”
I watched him stroll off, flanked by his two assistants. Malencourt strode with a regal bearing, staring straight ahead, saying nothing while his two henchmen theorized across the ridge of his chin. He would be a rough man to change.
The Folger belongings stalled us at a small bar down the street. The wallet was typically American, not cheap, not expensive. It held his auto license, a few business cards, a ticket stub of ancient vintage, a small blue ribbon and a membership document to the AAA. The big pocket was empty.
“No dough,” I said. “American or otherwise. A zany crumb.”
“You’re talking to yourself again.”
“It doesn’t make much sense. Folger must have carried traveler’s cheques. A typical tourist item.”
“Maybe so. But I’ve known loads of tourist boobs who carry coin of the realm.”
I rolled Folger’s hat in my hands. The inner band had his initials stamped in the usual gold letters. Pasted in the crown was a small sticker advertising The Perkins Hat Shop, in Craryville, New York. The hat was obviously old, well sweated in the band, well mauled in the felt.
“Folger was no dude,” I said. “This hat’s been used for years.”
“Meaning what?”
“A small tip-off to his personality. He was just getting along. And he was frugal and cautious about spending his loot.”
The contents of his wallet fascinated Larry. He lifted the junk and studied it.
“Tell me more, Sherlock. This theatre stub. These ribbons.”
“Sentiment,” I said. “Gives us a larger canvas of Folger, in a way. What kind of a character saves small slices of blue ribbon? What sort of nut would keep an old ticket stub? He’s beginning to come alive a little now. It could be that the stub meant big things to him. A keepsake? A memory of some girl, maybe? The same goes for the ribbon, the way I figure it. Folger could have been pining away for one certain doll, somebody who meant so much to him that he saved these small mementos of her. It could also mean that he never gave up on her, don’t you see?”
“You make it sound sensible.”
“And suppose the girl was Judy Martin?’
“You think he was that far gone on her?” Larry asked. “Sounds off the beam to me.”
“That’s because you have no heart, you ape. A kid with sentiment would cherish little keepsakes until he found another dream girl. Or didn’t you ever have a boyhood?”
“Touché,” said Larry.
I had promised to meet Peggy for lunch at the Restaurant de Chartres. Larry laughed at the choice in the cab.
“Pardon my boyish glee,” he said. “But I’m always amazed at the way tourists go for the traps. That dump’s notorious for petty larceny.”
“Peggy’s choice. I could do with a hamburger.”
“You can drop me at the Rotonde, chu
m.”
“You’re staying with me,” I told him. “I need you for comedy relief. This doll’s ready for a lace-lined straitjacket. I thought she’d flip last night.”
“She flipped?”
“Watch your innuendoes.”
“What is it you little guys have that makes the broads roll over?”
“We appeal to the maternal instincts,” I said. “Just remember to keep your lip zippered about Jastro and the murder. She’s liable to go into a tailspin.”
“I’m your boy.”
The Restaurant de Chartres was worth the robbery, a small but open place facing the big square called Les Invalides. We sat under red umbrellas, in a group of fellow travelers, most of them Americans and all of them living it up in fine style. Peggy sat beside me, fresh and pretty today. The sadness still stayed with her, but there was a new look in her eyes for me. She managed some merriment for Larry’s gags and quips, a small laugh here and there. His humor, however, never built real yaks. She soon tired of his loud laughter. By the time we were sipping our demitasse, the big comedy session was dead. She made it obvious that he could take off whenever the spirit moved him.
Larry sensed her disapproval. He spotted a friend at the other side of the restaurant. He waved and got up.
“Important business,” he said. “Got to see a man about a story I’ll leave you two characters alone for a while.”
“Don’t leave the restaurant,” I said. “I’ll be needing you.”
Peggy brightened after he left us.
“You’re nasty,” she said with a cute pout. “I had a date with you, remember? Why the extra comedian?”
“Coincidence. I’ll be using Larry’s talents this afternoon.”
She shivered daintily. “He gives me the shudders. Ever since last night at Garr’s.”
“Larry’s the best. But he goes nuts when he sees a pretty girl.” I squeezed her hand. “I can’t blame him. Maybe he was just trying to make you forget. You can’t hate him for that. You were pretty upset last night.”
“I knew what I was doing.”
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