Vidaury stared at her with hate in his eyes. Slowly he smiled. The hate went away. He reached out and touched her lips with two fingers.
“Of course we’ll go riding, baby,” he said softly.
He got the ball, locked it up in the cabinet, went through an inner door. The girl in the red hat opened a bag and touched her lips with rouge, pursed them, made a face at herself in the mirror of her compact, found a rough wool coat in beige braided with red, and shrugged into it carefully, tossed a scarflike collar end over her shoulder.
Vidaury came back with a hat and coat on, a fringed muffler hanging down his coat.
They went down the room.
“Let’s sneak out the back way,” he said at the door. “In case any more newshawks are hanging around.”
“Why, Johnny!” the girl in the red hat raised mocking eye-brows. “People saw me come in, saw me here. Surely you wouldn’t want them to think your girl friend stayed the night?”
“Hell!” Vidaury said violently and wrenched the door open.
The telephone bell jangled back in the room. Vidaury swore again, took his hand from the door and stood waiting while the little Jap in the white jacket came in and answered the phone.
The boy put the phone down, smiled depracatingly and gestured with his hands.
“You take, prease? I not understand.”
Vidaury walked back and lifted the instrument. He said, “Yes? This is John Vidaury.” He listened.
Slowly his fingers tightened on the phone. His whole face tightened, got white. He said slowly, thickly: “Hold the line a minute.”
He put the phone down on its side, put his hand down on the table and leaned on it. The girl in the red hat came up behind him.
“Bad news, handsome? You look like a washed egg.”
Vidaury turned his head slowly and stared at her. “Get the hell out of here,” he said tonelessly.
She laughed. He straightened, took a single long step and slapped her across the mouth, hard.
“I said, get the hell out of here,” he repeated in an utterly dead voice.
She stopped laughing and touched her lips with fingers in the gauntleted glove. Her eyes were round, but not shocked.
“Why, Johnny. You sweep me right off my feet,” she said wonderingly. “You’re simply terrific. Of course I’ll go.
She turned quickly, with a light toss of her head, went back along the room to the door, waved her hand, and went out.
Vidaury was not looking at her when she waved. He lifted the phone as soon as the door clicked shut after her, said into it grimly: “Get over here, Waltz—and get over here quick!”
He dropped the phone on its cradle, stood a moment blank-eyed. He went back through the inner door, reappeared in a moment without his hat and overcoat. He held a thick, short automatic in his hand. He slipped it nose-down into the inside breast pocket of his dinner jacket, lifted the phone again slowly, said into it coldly and firmly: “If a Mr. Anglich calls to see me, send him up. Anglich.” He spelled the name out, put the phone down carefully, and sat down in the easy chair beside it.
He folded his arms and waited.
NINE
The white-jacketed Japanese boy opened the door, bobbed his head, smiled, hissed politely: “Ah, you come inside, prease. Quite so, prease.”
Pete Anglich patted Token Ware’s shoulder, pushed her through the door into the long, vivid room. She looked shabby and forlorn against the background of handsome furnishings. Her eyes were reddened from crying, her mouth was smeared.
The door shut behind them and the little Japanese stole away.
They went down the stretch of thick, noiseless carpet, past quiet brooding lamps, bookcases sunk into the wall, shelves of alabaster and ivory, and porcelain and jade knickknacks, a huge mirror framed in blue glass, and surrounded by a frieze of lovingly autographed photos, low tables with lounging chairs, high tables with flowers, more books, more chairs, more rugs—and Vidaury sitting remotely with a glass in his hand, staring at them coldly.
He moved his hand carelessly, looked the girl up and down.
“Ah, yes, the man the police had here. Of course. Something I can do for you? I heard they made a mistake.”
Pete Anglich turned a chair a little, pushed Token Ware into it. She sat down slowly, stiffly, licked her lips and stared at Vidaury with a frozen fascination.
A touch of polite distaste curled Vidaury’s lips. His eyes were watchful.
Pete Anglich sat down. He drew a stick of gum out of his pocket, unwrapped it, slid it between his teeth. He looked worn, battered, tired. There were dark bruises on the side of his face and on his neck. He still needed a shave.
He said slowly, “This is Miss Ware. The girl that was supposed to get your dough.”
Vidaury stiffened. A hand holding a cigarette began to tap restlessly on the arm of his chair. He stared at the girl, but didn’t say anything. She half smiled at him, then flushed.
Pete Anglich said: “I hang around Noon Street. I know the sharpshooters, know what kind of folks belong there and what kind don’t. I saw this little girl in a lunchwagon on Noon Street this evening. She looked uneasy and she was watching the clock. She didn’t belong. When she left I followed her.”
Vidaury nodded slightly. A gray tip of ash fell off the end of his cigarette. He looked down at it vaguely, nodded again.
“She went up Noon Street,” Pete Anglich said. “A bad street for a white girl. I found her hiding in a doorway. Then a big Duesenberg slid around the corner and doused lights, and your money was thrown out on the sidewalk. She was scared. She asked me to get it. I got it.”
Vidaury said smoothly, not looking at the girl: “She doesn’t look like a crook. Have you told the police about her? I suppose not, or you wouldn’t be here.”
Pete Anglich shook his head, ground the gum around in his jaws. “Tell the law? A couple of times nix. This is velvet for us. We want our cut.”
Vidaury started violently, then he was very still. His hand stopped beating the chair arm. His face got cold and white and grim. Then he reached up inside his dinner jacket and quietly took the short automatic out, held it on his knees. He leaned forward a little and smiled.
“Blackmailers,” he said gravely, “are always rather interesting. How much would your cut be—and what have you got to sell?”
Pete Anglich looked thoughtfully at the gun. His jaws moved easily, crunching the gum. His eyes were unworried.
“Silence,” he said gravely. “Just silence.”
Vidaury made a sharp sudden gesture with the gun. “Talk,” he said. “And talk fast. I don’t like silence.”
Pete Anglich nodded, said: “The acid-throwing threats were just a dream. You didn’t get any. The extortion attempt was a phony. A publicity stunt. That’s all.” He leaned back in his chair.
Vidaury looked down the room past Pete Anglich’s shoulder. He started to smile, then his face got wooden.
Trimmer Waltz had slid into the room through an open side door. He had his big Savage in his hand. He came slowly along the carpet without sound. Pete Anglich and the girl didn’t see him.
Pete Anglich said, “Phony all the way through. Just a build-up. Guessing? Sure I am, but look a minute, see how soft it was played first—and how tough it was played afterward, after I showed in it. The girl works for Trimmer Waltz at the Juggernaut. She’s down and out, and she scares easily. So Waltz sends her on a caper like that. Why? Because she’s supposed to be nabbed. The stake-out’s all arranged. If she squawks about Waltz, he laughs it off, points to the fact that the plant was almost in his alley, that it was a small stake at best, and his joint’s doing all right. He points to the fact that a dumb girl goes to get it, and would he, a smart guy, pull anything like that? Certainly not.
“The cops will half believe him, and you’ll make a big gesture and refuse to prosecute the girl. If she doesn’t spill, you’ll refuse to prosecute anyway, and you’ll get your publicity just the same, either way. You nee
d it bad, because you’re slipping, and you’ll get it, and all it will cost you is what you pay Waltz—or that’s what you think. Is that crazy? Is that too far for a Hollywood heel to stretch? Then tell me why no Feds were on the case. Because those lads would keep on digging until they found the mouse, and then you’d be up for obstructing justice. That’s why. The local law don’t give a damn. They’re so used to movie build-ups they just yawn and turn over and go to sleep again.”
Waltz was halfway down the room now. Vidaury didn’t look at him. He looked at the girl, smiled at her faintly.
“Now, see how tough it was played after I got into it,” Pete Anglich said. “I went to the Juggernaut and talked to the girl. Waltz got us into his office and a big ape that works for him damn near strangled me. When I came to I was in an apartment and a dead girl was there, and she was shot, and a bullet was gone from my gun. The gun was on the floor beside me, and I stank of gin, and a prowl car was booming around the corner. And Miss Ware here was locked up in a whore house on Noon Street.
“Why all that hard stuff? Because Waltz had a perfectly swell blackmail racket lined up for you, and he’d have bled you whiter than an angel’s wing. As long as you had a dollar, half of it would have been his. And you’d have paid it and liked it, Vidaury. You’d have had publicity, and you’d have had protection, but how you’d have paid for it!”
Waltz was close now, almost too close. Vidaury stood up suddenly. The short gun jerked at Pete Anglich’s chest. Vidaury’s voice was thin, an old man’s voice. He said dreamily: “Take him, Waltz. I’m too jittery for this sort of thing.”
Pete Anglich didn’t even turn. His face became the face of a wooden Indian.
Waltz put his gun into Pete Anglich’s back. He stood there half smiling, with the gun against Pete Anglich’s back, looking across his shoulder at Vidaury.
“Dumb, Pete,” he said dryly. “You had enough evening already. You ought to have stayed away from here—but I figured you couldn’t pass it up.”
Vidaury moved a little to one side, spread his legs, flattened his feet to the floor. There was a queer, greenish tint to his handsome face, a sick glitter in his deep eyes.
Token Ware stared at Waltz. Her eyes glittered with panic, the lids straining away from the eyeballs, showing the whites all around the iris.
Waltz said, “I can’t do anything here, Vidaury. I’d rather not walk him out alone, either. Get your hat and coat.”
Vidaury nodded very slightly. His head just barely moved. His eyes were still sick.
“What about the girl?” he asked whisperingly.
Waltz grinned, shook his head, pressed the gun hard into Pete Anglich’s back.
Vidaury moved a little more to the side, spread his feet again. The thick gun was very steady in his hand, but not pointed at anything in particular.
He closed his eyes, held them shut a brief instant, then opened them wide. He said slowly, carefully: “It looked all right as it was planned. Things just as far-fetched, just as unscrupulous, have been done before in Hollywood, often. I just didn’t expect it to lead to hurting people, to killing. I’m—I’m just not enough of a heel to go on with it, Waltz. Not any further. You’d better put your gun up and leave.”
Waltz shook his head; smiled a peculiar strained smile. He stepped back from Pete Anglich and held the Savage a little to one side.
“The cards are dealt,” he said coldly. “You’ll play’em. Get going.”
Vidaury sighed, sagged a little. Suddenly he was a lonely, forlorn man, no longer young.
“No,” he said softly. “I’m through. The last flicker of a not-so-good reputation. It’s my show, after all. Always the ham, but still my show. Put the gun up, Waltz. Take the air.
Waltz’s face got cold and hard and expressionless. His eyes became the expressionless eyes of the killer. He moved the Savage a little more.
“Get—your—hat, Vidaury,” he said very clearly.
“Sorry,” Vidaury said, and fired.
Waltz’s gun flamed at the same instant, the two explosions blended. Vidaury staggered to his left and half turned, then straightened his body again.
He looked steadily at Waltz. “Beginner’s luck,” he said, and waited.
Pete Anglich had his Colt out now, but he didn’t need it. Waltz fell slowly on his side. His cheek and the side of his big-veined nose pressed the nap of the rug. He moved his left arm a little, tried to throw it over his back. He gurgled, then was still.
Pete Anglich kicked the Savage away from Waltz’s sprawled body.
Vidaury asked draggingly: “Is he dead?”
Pete Anglich grunted, didn’t answer. He looked at the girl. She was standing up with her back against the telephone table, the back of her hand to her mouth in the conventional attitude of startled horror. So conventional it looked silly.
Pete Anglich looked at Vidaury. He said sourly: “Beginner’s luck—yeah. But suppose you’d missed him? He was bluffing. Just wanted you in a little deeper, so you wouldn’t squawk. As a matter of fact, I’m his alibi on a kill.”
Vidaury said: “Sorry . . . I’m sorry.” He sat down suddenly, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
“God, but he’s handsome!” Token Ware said reverently. “And brave.”
Vidaury put his hand to his left shoulder, pressed it hard against his body. Blood oozed slowly between his fingers. Token Ware let out a stifled screech.
Pete Anglich looked down the room. The little Jap in the white coat had crept into the end of it, stood silently, a small huddled figure against the wall. Pete Anglich looked at Vidaury again. Very slowly, as though unwillingly, he said: “Miss Ware has folks in ’Frisco. You can send her home, with a little present. That’s natural—and open. She turned Waltz up to me. That’s how I came into it. I told him you were wise and he came here to shut you up. Tough-guy stuff. The coppers will laugh at it, but they’ll laugh in their cuffs. After all, they’re getting publicity too. The phony angle is out. Check?”
Vidaury opened his eyes, said faintly, “You’re—you’re very decent about it. I won’t forget.” His head lolled.
“He’s fainted,” the girl cried.
“So he has,” Pete Anglich said. “Give him a nice big kiss and he’ll snap out of it . . . And you’ll have something to remember all your life.”
He ground his teeth, went to the phone, and lifted it.
* * *
SMART-ALECK KILL
* * *
ONE
The doorman of the Kilmarnock was six foot two. He wore a pale blue uniform, and white gloves made his hands look enormous. He opened the door of the Yellow taxi as gently as an old maid stroking a cat.
Johnny Dalmas got out and turned to the red-haired driver. He said: “Better wait for me around the corner, Joey.”
The driver nodded, tucked a toothpick a little farther back in the corner of his mouth, and swung his cab expertly away from the white-marked loading zone. Dalmas crossed the sunny sidewalk and went into the enormous cool lobby of the Kilmarnock. The carpets were thick, soundless. Bellboys stood with folded arms and the two clerks behind the marble desk looked austere.
Dalmas went across to the elevator lobby. He got into a paneled car and said: “End of the line, please.”
The penthouse floor had a small quiet lobby with three doors opening off it, one to each wall. Dalmas crossed to one of them and rang the bell.
Derek Walden opened the door. He was about forty-five, possibly a little more, and had a lot of powdery gray hair and a handsome, dissipated face that was beginning to go pouchy. He had on a monogrammed lounging robe and a glass full of whiskey in his hand. He was a little drunk.
He said thickly, morosely: “Oh, it’s you. C’mon in, Dalmas.”
He went back into the apartment, leaving the door open. Dalmas shut it and followed him into a long, high-ceilinged room with a balcony at one end and a line of french windows along the left side. There was a terrace outside.
Derek Walde
n sat down in a brown and gold chair against the wall and stretched his legs across a foot stool. He swirled the whiskey around in his glass, looking down at it.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked.
Dalmas stared at him a little grimly. After a moment he said: “I dropped in to tell you I’m giving you back your job.”
Walden drank the whiskey out of his glass and put it down on the corner of a table. He fumbled around for a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth and forgot to light it.
“Tha’ so?” His voice was blurred but indifferent.
Dalmas turned away from him and walked over to one of the windows. It was open and an awning flapped outside. The traffic noise from the boulevard was faint.
He spoke over his shoulder:
“The investigation isn’t getting anywhere—because you don’t want it to get anywhere. You know why you’re being blackmailed. I don’t. Eclipse Films is interested because they have a lot of sugar tied up in film you have made.”
“To hell with Eclipse Films,” Walden said, almost quitely.
Dalmas shook his head and turned around. “Not from my angle. They stand to lose if you get in a jam the publicity hounds can’t handle. You took me on because you were asked to. It was a waste of time. You haven’t cooperated worth a cent.”
Walden said in an unpleasant tone: “I’m handling this my own way and I’m not gettin’ into any jam. I’ll make my own deal—when I can buy something that’ll stay bought . . . And all you have to do is make the Eclipse people think the situation’s bein’ taken care of. That clear?”
Dalmas came partway back across the room. He stood with one hand on top of a table, beside an ash tray littered with cigarette stubs that had very dark lip rouge on them. He looked down at these absently.
“That wasn’t explained to me, Walden,” he said coldly.
“I thought you were smart enough to figure it out,” Walden sneered. He leaned sidewise and slopped some more whiskey into his glass. “Have a drink?”
The Simple Art of Murder Page 24