“Quite right, Bill. It was just some more of the King’s sweet way with his public.”
Dockery said “Huh?” and swiveled his head on his thick hard neck. Then he grinned and looked back at Steve.
Steve said grimly: “He gave me three good punches, one from behind, without a return. You look pretty hard. See can you do it.”
Dockery measured him with his eyes. He said evenly: “You win. I couldn’t . . . Beat it!” he added sharply to the waiters. They went away. Dockery sniffed his carnation, and. said quietly: “We don’t go for brawls in here.” He smiled at the girl again and went away, saying a word here and there at the tables. He went out through the foyer doors.
Steve tapped his lip, put his handkerchief in his pocket and stood searching the floor with his eyes.
The red-haired girl said calmly: “I think I have what you want—in my handkerchief. Won’t you sit down?”
Her voice had a remembered quality, as if he had heard it before.
He sat down opposite her, in the chair where Leopardi had been sitting.
The red-haired girl said: “The drink’s on me. I was with him.”
Steve said, “Coke with a dash of bitters,” to the waiter.
The waiter said: “Madame?”
“Brandy and soda. Light on the brandy, please.” The waiter bowed and drifted away. The girl said amusedly: “Coke with a dash of bitters. That’s what I love about Hollywood. You meet so many neurotics.”
Steve stared into her eyes and said softly: “I’m an occasional drinker, the kind of guy who goes out for a beer and wakes up in Singapore with a full beard.”
“I don’t believe a word of it. Have you known the King long?”
“I met him last night. I didn’t get along with him.”
“I sort of noticed that.” She laughed. She had a rich low laugh, too.
“Give me that paper, lady.”
“Oh, one of these impatient men. Plenty of time.” The handkerchief with the crumpled yellow sheet inside it was clasped tightly in her gloved hand. Her middle right finger played with an eyebrow. “You’re not in pictures, are you?”
“Hell, no.”
“Same here. Me, I’m too tall. The beautiful men have to wear stilts in order to clasp me to their bosoms.”
The waiter set the drinks down in front of them, made a grace note in the air with his napkin and went away.
Steve said quietly, stubbornly: “Give me that paper, lady.”
“I don’t like that ‘lady’ stuff. It sounds like cop to me.”
“I don’t know your name.”
“I don’t know yours. Where did you meet Leopardi?”
Steve sighed. The music from the little Spanish orchestra had a melancholy minor sound now and the muffled clicking of gourds dominated it.
Steve listened to it with his head on one side. He said: “The E string is a half-tone flat. Rather cute effect.”
The girl stared at him with new interest. “I’d never have noticed that,” she said. “And I’m supposed to be a pretty good singer. But you haven’t answered my question.”
He said slowly: “Last night I was house dick at the Carlton Hotel. They called me night clerk, but house dick was what I was. Leopardi stayed there and cut up too rough. I threw him out and got canned.”
The girl said: “Ah. I begin to get the idea. He was being the King and you were being—if I might guess—a pretty tough order of house detective.”
“Something like that. Now will you please—”
“You still haven’t told me your name.”
He reached for his wallet, took one of the brand-new cards out of it and passed it across the table. He sipped his drink while she read it.
“A nice name,” she said slowly. “But not a very good address. And Private investigator is bad. It should have been Investigations, very small, in the lower left-hand corner.”
“They’ll be small enough,” Steve grinned. “Now will you please—”
She reached suddenly across the table and dropped the crumpled ball of paper in his hand.
“Of course I haven’t read it—and of course I’d like to. You do give me that much credit, I hope”—she looked at the card again, and added—“Steve. Yes, and your office should be in a Georgian or very modernistic building in the Sunset Eighties. Suite Something-or-other. And your clothes should be very jazzy. Very jazzy indeed, Steve. To be inconspicuous in this town is to be a busted flush.”
He grinned at her. His deep-set black eyes had lights in them. She put the card away in her bag, gave her fur piece a yank, and drank about half of her drink. “I have to go.” She signaled the waiter and paid the check. The waiter went away and she stood up.
Steve said sharply: “Sit down.”
She stared at him wonderingly. Then she sat down again and leaned against the wall, still staring at him. Steve leaned across the table, asked “How well do you know Leopardi?”
“Off and on for years. If it’s any of your business. Don’t go masterful on me, for God’s sake. I loathe masterful men. I once sang for him, but not for long. You can’t just sing for Leopardi—if you get what I mean.”
“You were having a drink with him.”
She nodded slightly and shrugged. “He opens here tomorrow night. He was trying to talk me into singing for him again. I said no, but I may have to, for a week or two anyway. The man who owns the Club Shalotte also owns my contract—and the radio station where I work a good deal.”
“Jumbo Walters,” Steve said. “They say he’s tough but square. I never met him, but I’d like to. After all I’ve got a living to get. Here.”
He reached back across the table and dropped the crumpled paper. “The name was—”
“Dolores Chiozza.”
Steve repeated it lingeringly. “I like it. I like your singing too. I’ve heard a lot of it. You don’t oversell a song, like most of these high-money torchers.” His eyes glistened.
The girl spread the paper on the table and read it slowly, without expression. Then she said quietly: “Who tore it up?”
“Leopardi, I guess. The pieces were in his wastebasket last night. I put them together, after he was gone. The guy has guts—or else he gets these things so often they don’t register any more.”
“Or else he thought it was a gag.” She looked across the table levelly, then folded the paper and handed it back.
“Maybe. But if he’s the kind of guy I hear he is—one of them is going to be on the level and the guy behind it is going to do more than just shake him down.”
Dolores Chiozza said: “He’s the kind of guy you hear he is.”
“It wouldn’t be hard for a woman to get to him then—would it—a woman with a gun?”
She went on staring at him. “No. And everybody would give her a big hand, if you ask me. If I were you, I’d just forget the whole thing. If he wants protection—Walters can throw more around him than the police. If he doesn’t—who cares? I don’t. I’m damn sure I don’t.”
“You’re kind of tough yourself, Miss Chiozza—over some things.”
She said nothing. Her face was a little white and more than a little hard.
Steve finished his drink, pushed his chair back and reached for his hat. He stood up. “Thank you very much for the drink, Miss Chiozza. Now that I’ve met you I’ll look forward all the more to hearing you sing again.”
“You’re damn formal all of a sudden,” she said.
He grinned. “So long, Dolores.”
“So long, Steve. Good luck—in the sleuth racket. If I hear of anything—”
He turned and walked among the tables out of the bar lounge.
FIVE
In the crisp fall evening the lights of Hollywood and Los Angeles winked at him. Searchlight beams probed the cloudless sky as if searching for bombing-planes.
Steve got his convertible out of the parking lot and drove it east along Sunset. At Sunset and Fairfax he bought an evening paper and pulled over to the curb to l
ook through it. There was nothing in the paper about 118 Court Street.
He drove on and ate dinner at the little coffee shop beside his hotel and went to a movie. When he came out he bought a Home Edition of the Tribune, a morning sheet. They were in that—both of them.
Police thought Jake Stoyanoff might have strangled the girl, but she had not been attacked. She was described as a stenographer, unemployed at the moment. There was no picture of her. There was a picture of Stoyanoff that looked like a touched-up police photo. Police were looking for a man who had been talking to Stoyanoff just before he was shot. Several people said he was a tall man in a dark suit. That was all the description the police got—or gave out.
Steve grinned sourly, stopped at the coffee shop for a good-night cup of coffee and then went up to his room. It was a few minutes to eleven o’clock. As he unlocked his door the telephone started to ring.
He shut the door and stood in the darkness remembering where the phone was. Then he walked straight to it, catlike in the dark room, sat in an easy chair and reached the phone up from the lower shelf of a small table. He held the one-piece to his ear and said: “Hello.”
“Is this Steve?” It was a rich, husky voice, low, vibrant. It held a note of strain.
“Yeah, this is Steve. I can hear you. I know who you are.”
There was a faint dry laugh. “You’ll make a detective after all. And it seems I’m to give you your first case. Will you come over to my place at once? It’s Twenty-four-twelve Renfrew—North, there isn’t any South—just half a block below Fountain. It’s a sort of bungalow court. My house is the last in line, at the back.”
Steve said: “Yes. Sure. What’s the matter?”
There was a pause. A horn blared in the street outside the hotel. A wave of white light went across the ceiling from some car rounding the corner uphill. The low voice said very slowly: “Leopardi. I can’t get rid of him. He’s—he’s passed out in my bedroom.” Then a tinny laugh that didn’t go with the voice at all.
Steve held the phone so tight his hand ached. His teeth clicked in the darkness. He said flatly, in a dull, brittle voice: “Yeah. It’ll cost you twenty bucks.”
“Of course. Hurry, please.”
He hung up, sat there in the dark room breathing hard. He pushed his hat back on his head, then yanked it forward again with a vicious jerk and laughed out loud. “Hell,” he said, “That kind of a dame.”
Twenty-four-twelve Renfrew was not strictly a bungalow court. It was a staggered row of six bungalows, all facing the same way, but so-arranged that no two of their front entrances overlooked each other. There was a brick wall at the back and beyond the brick wall a church. There was a long smooth lawn, moon-silvered.
The door was up two steps, with lanterns on each side and an iron-work grill over the peep hole. This opened to his knock and a girl’s face looked out, a small oval face with a Cupid’s-bow mouth, arched and plucked eyebrows, wavy brown hair. The eyes were like two fresh and shiny chestnuts.
Steve dropped a cigarette and put his foot on it. “Miss Chiozza. She’s expecting me. Steve Grayce.”
“Miss Chiozza has retired, sir,” the girl said with a half insolent twist to her lips.
“Break it up, kid. You heard me, I’m expected.”
The wicket slammed shut. He waited, scowling back along the narrow moonlit lawn towards the street. O.K. So it was like that—well, twenty bucks was worth a ride in the moonlight anyway.
The lock clicked and the door opened wide. Steve went past the maid into a warm cheerful room, old-fashioned with chintz. The lamps were neither old nor new and there were enough of them—in the right places. There was a hearth behind a paneled copper screen, a davenport close to it, a bar-top radio in the corner.
The maid said stiffly: “I’m sorry, sir. Miss Chiozza forgot to tell me. Please have a chair.” The voice was soft, and it might be cagey. The girl went off down the room—short skirts, sheer silk stockings, and four-inch spike heels.
Steve sat down and held his hat on his knee and scowled at the wall. A swing door creaked shut. He got a cigarette out and rolled it between his fingers and then deliberately squeezed it to a shapeless flatness of white paper and ragged tobacco. He threw it away from him, at the fire screen.
Dolores Chiozza came towards him. She wore green velvet lounging pajamas with a long gold-fringed sash. She spun the end of the sash as if she might be going to throw a loop with it. She smiled a slight artificial smile. Her face had a clean scrubbed look and her eyelids were bluish and they twitched.
Steve stood up and watched the green morocco slippers peep out under the pajamas as she walked. When she was close to him he lifted his eyes to her face and said dully: “Hello.”
She looked at him very steadily, then spoke in a high, carrying voice. “I know it’s late, but I knew you were used to being up all night. So I thought what we had to talk over—Won’t you sit down?”
She turned her head very slightly, seemed to be listening for something.
Steve said: “I never go to bed before two. Quite all right.”
She went over and pushed a bell beside the hearth. After a moment the maid came through the arch.
“Bring some ice cubes, Agatha. Then go along home. It’s getting pretty late.”
“Yes’m.” The girl disappeared.
There was a silence then that almost howled till the tall girl took a cigarette absently out of a box, put it between her lips and Steve struck a match clumsily on his shoe. She pushed the end of the cigarette into the flame and her smoke-blue eyes were very steady on his black ones. She shook her head very slightly.
The maid came back with a copper ice bucket. She pulled a low Indian-brass tray-table between them before the davenport, put the ice bucket on it, then a siphon, glasses and spoons, and a triangular bottle that looked like good Scotch had come in it except that it was covered with silver filigree work and fitted with a stopper.
Dolores Chiozza said, “Will you mix a drink?” in a formal voice.
He mixed two drinks, stirred them, handed her one. She sipped it, shook her head. “Too light,” she said. He put more whiskey in it and handed it back. She said, “Better,” and leaned back against the corner of the davenport.
The maid came into the room again. She had a small rakish red hat on her wavy brown hair and was wearing a gray coat trimmed with nice fur. She carried a black brocade bag that could have cleaned out a fair-sized icebox. She said: “Good night, Miss Dolores.”
“Good night, Agatha.”
The girl went out the front door, closed it softly. Her heels clicked down the walk. A car door opened and shut distantly and a motor started. Its sound soon dwindled away. It was a very quiet neighborhood.
Steve put his drink down on the brass tray and looked levelly at the tall girl, said harshly: “That means she’s out of the way?”
“Yes. She goes home in her own car. She drives me home from the studio in mine—when I go to the studio, which I did tonight. I don’t like to drive a car myself.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?”
The red-haired girl looked steadily at the paneled fire screen and the unlit log fire behind it. A muscle twitched in her cheek.
After a moment she said: “Funny that I called you instead of Walters. He’d have protected me better than you can. Only he wouldn’t have believed me. I thought perhaps you would. I didn’t invite Leopardi here. So far as I know—we two are the only people in the world who know he’s here.”
Something in her voice jerked Steve upright.
She took a small crisp handkerchief from the breast pocket of the green velvet pajama-suit, dropped it on the floor, picked it up swiftly and pressed it against her mouth. Suddenly, without making a sound, she began to shake like a leaf.
Steve said swiftly: “What the hell—I can handle that heel in my hip pocket. I did last night—and last night he had a gun and took a shot at me.”
Her head turned. Her eyes were very wide an
d staring. “But it couldn’t have been my gun,” she said in a dead voice.
“Huh? Of course not—what—?”
“It’s my gun tonight,” she said and stared at him. “You said a woman could get to him with a gun very easily.”
He just stared at her. His face was white now and he made a vague sound in his throat.
“He’s not drunk, Steve,” she said gently. “He’s dead. In yellow pajamas—in my bed. With my gun in his hand. You didn’t think he was just drunk—did you, Steve?”
He stood up in a swift lunge, then became absolutely motionless, staring down at her. He moved his tongue on his lips and after a long time he formed words with it. “Let’s go look at him,” he said in a hushed voice.
SIX
The room was at the back of the house to the left. The girl took a key out of her pocket and unlocked the door. There was a low light on a table, and the venetian blinds were drawn. Steve went in past her silently, on cat feet.
Leopardi lay squarely in the middle of the bed, a large smooth silent man, waxy and artificial in death. Even his mustache looked phony. His half-open eyes, sightless as marbles, looked as if they had never seen. He lay on his back, on the sheet, and the bedclothes were thrown over the foot of the bed.
The King wore yellow silk pajamas, the slip-on kind, with a turned collar. They were loose and thin. Over his breast they were dark with blood that had seeped into the silk as if into blotting-paper. There was a little blood on his bare brown neck.
Steve stared at him and said tonelessly: “The King in Yellow. I read a book with that title once. He liked yellow, I guess. I packed some of his stuff last night. And he wasn’t yellow either. Guys like him usually are—or are they?”
The girl went over to the corner and sat down in a slipper chair and looked at the floor. It was a nice room, as modernistic as the living room was casual. It had a chenille rug, café-au-lait color, severely angled furniture in inlaid wood, and a trick dresser with a mirror for a top, a kneehole and drawers like a desk. It had a box mirror above and a semi-cylindrical frosted wall light set above the mirror. In the corner there was a glass table with a crystal greyhound on top of it, and a lamp with the deepest drum shade Steve had ever seen.
The Simple Art of Murder Page 12