“On the outside?”
“Now what in hell can that mean?” he laughed. “I’ve been out with her a couple of times, sure. Drinks. Dinner, that sort of thing. Mari’s pretty easy to know.”
“Often?”
“Please,” he sighed airily, bored with me. “A television director mixes with all sorts of people. It’s part of my job. But it doesn’t mean much, believe me. It’s as casual as shaking hands most of the time. Mari and I were acquaintances, that’s all.”
“Know her for a long time?”
“I met her last year, over on Fire Island. Party at Oliver Silverton’s.” One of his staff boys ran over and interrupted with a running monologue on something connected with a comedian. “If you’ll excuse me, Conacher,” Flato said. “This is rather important—”
“I’d like to talk to you again—and soon.”
“Try me on Wednesday afternoon, will you?’
But Flato had been tied up on Wednesday and there was no way to break through the iron curtain set up to bar visitors from the inner cubicles of the television moguls.
I had next visited Mari Barstow’s apartment, and showed the superintendent Oliver Silverton’s impressive letter identifying me as a “staff investigator” working for him in Public Relations. It was an important piece of equipment, a useful tool on a case of this sort where certain doors might have to be opened without fuss or delay.
The Ridge Apartments was a mammoth building, only recently erected in the upper Seventies and as modern as tomorrow’s headlines. The superintendent had led me into a spacious layout, four rooms, furnished in the rather stiff and formal style I always associate with department store furniture windows and tasteless customers. The rooms seemed barren and lifeless, the walls holding no pictures, the tables still slick and shining and unused for anything but show. Her bedroom was as sterile as the rest of the place an oversized bed, two low chests and a rug thick enough to sleep on. Had she ever used this place? Had anybody used it?
Downstairs, the doorman had said: “Miss Barstow looked okay when she left. What I mean is, she wasn’t running or anything—just taking off, natural like.”
“Any luggage?” I asked.
“A small bag.”
“Overnight?”
“I guess you’d call it that. Brown leather, it was.”
“Yet she didn’t talk about staying away?”
“Not to me, mister.”
“Ever see this man with her?” I showed him the press photo of Jan Flato given to me by Helen Calabrese, Silverton’s secretary. It was a casual shot, out of the studio files, a close-up that featured his thoughtful smile, his heavy brows and the fantastic moustache.
He studied the picture for a long moment, coming to a conclusion with Irish decisiveness. “He’s been around. Couple of times. Saw him when I was on night shift, mister. You know how I happen to be so positive? The crazy moustache. My boy grew one just like it when he was in England during the war. You know, the British aviation type, real crazy at the ends. This man reminded me of my boy a little; that’s why I remember him.”
“He took her upstairs?”
“He did that.”
“Drunk?”
“Not so I could notice it.”
“He stay with her for a while?”
“I didn’t time them,” said the doorman with a smile.
“He came down before breakfast?”
“He came down in a couple of hours. Long enough to see her etchings, if that’s what you mean, mister.”
“That’s what I mean.”
And that was why I was visiting Jan Flato now, uninvited.
His flat was on the ground floor of a redesigned brown stone in that new section of the East Side so popular since they tore down the old Third Avenue Elevated tracks.
I had let myself into Flato’s place by way of the small terrace outside his living room windows. All the remodeled houses in this neighborhood featured gardens, fancied up for outdoor living should the rustic mood strike the sophisticates and drive them out for fresh air. The flagstone terrace was prettied up with wrought iron furniture that had seen much use. There was a door to the living room on the right side, close to the cherry sapling fence that screened the alley. The door was no problem. I cracked one of the small panes of glass and opened it easily.
Once inside, I stood quiet for a while. Breaking and entering is not my business. The police frown on investigators who flout the law, but this research couldn’t have been done any other way. Still, unlawful procedures always upset me. I am no television type. All the fictional devices frighten me. Guns do not make me feel heroic. I had a fairly happy childhood and did not hate my father which leaves me on the good side of the psychiatric couch, only a normal neurotic with natural fears and quirks. Working at my business of skip-tracing requires patience, logic and a certain amount of good luck. In many ways a good investigator can be compared to a good business man. Both take pride in servicing the customer. The business man supplies merchandise. The investigator supplies facts.
And I was entering Jan Flato’s flat to collect facts.
So I stood there, just looking around the narrow living room and letting it speak to me. Alone in a strange place, my ears were sensitive to sounds. There was movement around and about me. In the hall? Upstairs? A radio sang from somewhere through a few thick walls, the tune dead and nothing but the thumping rhythm coming through to me. From far outside, beyond the garden wall, the muffled buzz of traffic. Closer, in the alley, a tinny clank, probably a cat browsing in the garbage. And up close, deep inside my ears, the hammering of my heart, the personal bop that always comes when excitement hits me. Caution held me. Caution and my memory of Mrs. Timmerman.
Mrs. Timmerman owned the brownstone and lived in the front rooms on the ground floor. She was a pleasantly curved matron, on her way into middle-age but still retaining enough of her girlish bloom to trap a masculine eye. She had a round face, not fat, not lean, a face that could have been startlingly beautiful fifteen years ago. She was the talkative type, quick to tell me of her admiration for Jan Flato. She considered him more than a tenant. She personally took care of his flat. She cooked occasional meals for him.
All this information Mrs. Timmerman had volunteered a couple of days ago when I’d explained that I was out on an assignment for Life.
“We’re doing a big picture story on old brownstones, Mrs. Timmerman,” I’d told her. “What we want to show is how great they are when they’re redesigned with good taste. Yours is an outstanding example.”
Mrs. Timmerman had taken the bait and shown me through her place. I’d waxed enthusiastic from the moment we entered Flato’s flat, making much of the decor and discussing the many changes wrought by her architects. She’d responded to my questions affably, allowing me plenty of time to memorize Flato’s layout. She was particularly proud of her star tenant, almost motherly in her affection for him.
“Mr. Flato is a famous television director,” she’d informed me. “He does that big Saturday night variety show and he has the highest ratings. Have you seen it? You must have seen it. Jan works too hard, poor boy. I keep telling him to take a rest, ease up a bit. But you know show business people—work, work, work, all the time.”
She’d rattled on while I made my mental notes.
“Jan’s more like a son than a tenant He’s been with me for over ten years now, came to me after Korea when he was just getting started in television. Wonderful person and I can’t do enough for him. Honestly, it’s a pleasure to do things for him. Here’s the kitchenette. Isn’t it darling? I cook for him, too, whenever he lets me. Take a look at this closet. You don’t find them that big in the new apartments, do you?”
Evidently Mrs. Timmerman would not be cooking for Flato tonight. It was already almost 8:00 and his schedule would keep him at work until his first run-through, which ended at
a little after 8:30. It was his habit to walk home from the nearby television studio immediately after the rehearsal. He would arrive at about 8:37, as he always did on the many occasions I had followed him here from the studio.
Yet, you never can make book on human behavior, and that was why my nerves bothered me now. I fought down the feeling of urgency. It was important to go over his apartment with great care. The mind is out of focus when pressure takes over, when fear shakes it. It was with some effort that I forced myself to slow down, to stand flat-footed in the center of his living room and just soak up the surroundings.
Jan Flato was a man of good taste. The typically long and narrow living room had been designed with great care, the walls stark white, the carpet a cool blue. The glaring whiteness gave the place a feeling of airiness, an outdoor quality that sang of space and cleanliness and masculinity. Outside, dusk was shadowing the houses beyond the small yard, but there would be some light for a while, enough to do what I had to do. Yet, I held back from all action, still trying for the calm that would help me on my search. On the walls, several large paintings a man could live with and enjoy from day to day. On the right, a long couch, tastefully covered in a tweedy material. The tweed motif was picked up in the occasional lamps and promoted further by a large screen at the far end of the room, partially obscuring the doorway into the small kitchen and dining-room arrangement.
From out in the hall, a woman’s voice filtered through to me. Mrs. Timmerman? The voice faded and died somewhere out there toward the front of the house. A remote door clicked shut. Somebody had gone out into the street.
The little noise moved me to action, not frightened, not rushing, but anxious to get the first leg of my job finished. Jan Flato had a modem desk near the big window. I began there, fingering the leather book lying neatly upon the green blotter: a new book for his phone numbers, probably bought since the search for Mari Barstow began. I reached this conclusion by a simple route. An old telephone list carries the marks of age, the certain signposts that tell of use; the personal doodles, erasures, changes and notations. But these phone numbers were written in a librarian hand, neatly lettered, precise and orderly. It interested me that some attempt had been made to make it appear as if the entries had been put in the book at various times: Flato had used more than one pen for the copying job. It was an index to his mind and temperament. He would be a thorough man, a clear thinker, a man of logic and precision. I thumbed the book to the letter B. Why wasn’t Mari Barstow there? Was he trying to set up the fact that she was only a casual date?
I went through the desk quickly. I looked for the little things, the bits of evidence a man might forget when building a lie. I hoped to find some important crumb, something to throw at him when I saw him next, something to crack his wall of composure, to force him to level with me. The Mari Barstow case couldn’t be kept under wraps much longer. Silverton was hoping to bring her back before the newsmen smelled the story. It would shape up as a wonderful publicity break, of course, if I could guarantee that Mari was alive somewhere. It would have a happy ending, a climax that could be used to boost her television career. But always, always, the fear of her death must govern Silverton’s actions. “You’ve got to work faster, Conacher,” he’d told me the last time I saw him. “We can’t keep the reporters off this one for much longer. Somebody’s going to notice she’s gone.”
A clock chimed the hour from the bedroom.
Eight-fifteen!
The past half-hour had gone too quickly. There were three more rooms to explore; his bedroom, his den, and the kitchenette if I had the time. In the bedroom, stark simplicity was featured in the furnishings. Here again, an off-white wall gave some light to the room despite the gathering gloom outside. There was little to examine. Two modern chests yielded nothing but an insight to his taste in haberdashery, good silks and the usual Madison Avenue shirtings. The big closet held only his suits, coats and shoes.
His den offered even less for me. He had a wall of books, mostly fiction and technical tomes, all of which had the feeling of use; his desk was piled high with them, and more were on the floor near the window. I looked in vain for a framed photograph, but found nothing better than an ancient group picture of some boyish team or other, the youths dressed in shorts and sweatshirts. I gave the bookshelves a quick once-over-lightly. In a cabinet under the main set of shelves, I found a photograph album full of an assortment of shots, many of girls, occasional groups and family pictures. On the last few pages gaps appeared. Flato had removed several of the snapshots here. Mari Barstow? I hung over this album, probing for a clue to her.
A slight subtle noise jolted me. The outer hall? The bedroom? I moved out of the den quickly and stood flat-footed in the small hall between the bedroom and the kitchenette, feeling like a damned fool, trying to make up my mind which way to jump.
The bedroom was nearest but that would have been a mad plan. Out here I knew my way around, I knew that the big kitchenette closet would shelter me if anybody entered. Yet the bedroom pulled hard at me because I remembered another closet in there, just as big as the one in the kitchenette.
There was little time for planning my tactics. I skipped quickly into the kitchenette, aware that somebody was turning a key in the hall door at the same moment.
The smell of foodstuffs bit at my nose. Grocery storage cabinets in here? I snaked my hand up toward the shelves, feeling the cold of tins, and up higher the papered cartons. Right behind me, the soft buzz of some kind of machine sounded. An electric refrigerator? I began to sweat. Mrs. Timmerman would have to enter this closet if she intended to cook Flato some dinner. Out near the sink, her humming seemed strangely muffled and remote. But that could be because she was several feet away, and my door was only opened a crack, a small sliver of light that allowed me a view of a narrow vertical section of the living room, just to the side of the large screen.
And then the phone rang and Mrs. Timmerman walked toward the living room.
“Hello?” Her voice was high pitched and friendly. “No, Mr. Flato hasn’t come back from the studio yet. Who is calling?”
She clicked the receiver frantically.
“Hello?” she said again. “Hung up, the fool.”
I saw her staring at the phone for a moment. Then she shrugged and started my way, walking briskly and full of purpose. In another second she would have had her hand on the knob of the closet door. In another second she would have opened that door and seen me. I braced myself for her scream.
But the little noise at the hall door held her where she stood, blocking the narrow sliver of light with her bulk.
“Jan,” she was saying. “How are you, darling?”
“A little tired, as usual,” he said. I couldn’t see him. She moved away from the closet door to greet him in the hall. “You weren’t going to cook me anything, Gussie?”
“I promised you the French pancakes, Jan.” Her voice was full of motherly petulance. “You don’t want them?”
“You’re a sweetheart, Gussie. But I’m going out for dinner tonight.”
“I’m glad to hear it, dear. Do you good to get out for a while. You’ve been working too hard, much too hard.”
They continued to exchange pleasantries. Then the light went on and he crossed the edge of my crack of visibility. I felt like a kid at a peep show. Flato sat on the near end of the long studio couch idly reading his mail as he talked to Mrs. Timmerman. If either of them turned toward the terrace they would see the broken window pane in the door. I debated making a slow sneak for the hall. I debated, but I didn’t move.
“You had a phone call a few minutes ago, Jan.”
“Oh? Any message?”
“The idiot hung up.”
“Wrong number?”
“No, she asked for you, Jan.”
“She? Who?”
“Didn’t give me her name.”
“Are you sure i
t was a woman?”
“Well, she had kind of a husky voice.”
“Pituitary problem, no doubt.”
“What was that, dear?”
“Or a frog in her lovely throat,” he laughed quietly.
“You have so many girls,” Mrs. Timmerman commented. “How can you ever tell which is which?”
“I’m talented, Gussie. But she’ll call again. They always do. My fatal charm.”
There was a silence and then they were walking toward the hall door.
“Maybe I’ll make you those French pancakes tomorrow night, Jan?”
“Gussie, you’re an angel.”
He moved back to the living room after Gussie departed. He dialed a number at once, finger-tapping his impatience as he waited. Then he reached over to the hi-fi and turned it on; a soft progressive jazz number, piano and base and guitar and drums, quiet thumping.
“Hello?” he said. “Helen?”
There was a conversational pause. And then—
“Just rolled in, doll. Did you phone a little while ago? You didn’t? Then it must have been my eager beaver date. I’ll brush her off and then pick you up. Won’t take me long. ’Bye, now.”
He hung up and stood there staring at the phone for a moment. He turned his body my way and lit a cigarette and seemed to be meditating a weighty problem. His usually pleasant face wore a deep scowl. He was still frowning when he started past my hiding place, aimed for his bedroom. I heard him in there, whistling the hi-fi tune.
Then I moved out of my hiding place. Fast.
I eased through the living room, thankful for the steady whacking noise from the hi-fi combine. I let myself out the way I had arrived, through the door to the terrace and across the dark garden and into the black alley to the street beyond.
CHAPTER 2
Sometimes I do damned fool things.
A good investigator is supposed to operate with all his wits. He takes great pride in his carefully planned chores. He considers prudence, foresight, and concentration all-important in his day-to-day movements. There is never any room for blundering or bumbling. And that was why I got off my stool in the bar at the corner of Flato’s street and mumbled an obscenity and cursed my absent-mindedness.
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