A Private Party

by William Ard

  "I want to do whatever you want me to do, Timothy," she said. "Can I make it any plainer than that?"

  "No," he admitted. "But I don't know why—"

  Her arms circled his neck, drawing his head down until her lips covered his own passionately.

  "I don't know why, either," she told him then. "Except that I need you very much."

  "Need me how?" Dane asked, neither holding her as she pressed herself tight against him nor pushing her away. "As a man, or as a detective?"

  "Don't," she said. "Try to forget I was Al Stanzyck's girl." Her breathing was short and Dane was aware of her sudden warmth, as though her body were melting beside his own. "Make me forget it," she asked him.

  Why she offered herself, Dane had no clear idea. But he did know that the moment had passed when he could resist accepting. There wasn't even a reason not to make love to this girl—and if there ever had been one it was gone forever as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her on his own impulse.

  She broke from him with a gasp, took his hand feverishly in her own and led him toward the softly glowing doorway of the bedroom. There were no words spoken and the only sound was the luxurious swish of taffeta. Then darkness swallowed the light.

  Dane neither knew nor cared how much later it was when his fingers found the bedside lamp again and he switched it on. Roxanne lay beside him on her back, her head pillowed in her interlocked fingers and her eyes gazing tranquilly at the ceiling.

  “I thought you were asleep," he said.

  A smile played at the corner of her mouth.

  "I'm not tired," she said. "Are you?"

  "No," he said and laughed. "But I should be."

  She raised her hands, put them behind his head and pulled him abruptly to her. "When it's good," she murmured close to his ear, "you never get tired."

  "Then it must have been good."

  "Aren't you sure?"

  He lifted his head and leaned over her, studying her face as though he had never seen it before.

  "That's the trouble," he told her seriously. "I'm not sure of anything."

  "You're still thinking of Stanzyck."

  "No. Stanzyck never meant anything to me before and he doesn't mean anything to me now. But I've got to think about who killed him?"

  "You don't think that I did?"

  "I think you know a lot about what happened."

  "Because of last night? Because of that briefcase?"

  "I found it," he told her. "And I know why it was so important.''

  "Well, I don't! Can't you believe me when I say I want to break away from men like Stanzyck—that I want to change my life—and be in love with someone I can be proud of?"

  "Sure," he said, "I can believe that." He laid his palm against her warm cheek. "But I can also believe you wrote that note and slipped it into his pocket. And I can believe that you're scared . . ."

  "All right, all right!" she cried. "I did write the note! But I didn't write it to Al!"

  "What?"

  "It was to somebody else—somebody I was trying to use . . ."

  She had raised herself to a sitting position on the bed and now Dane held her arms with his hands in an effort to relax her shaking, emotion-swept body.

  "Tell it calmly," he said. "Take it easy."

  Her breasts rose and fell as she fought for a deep breath.

  "All right," she said. "When Al was arrested I said a prayer of thanks. From that first time I met him, a year ago, I was afraid of him. So afraid I didn't dare break it off. Then he went to jail and it was broken off for me. That's what I thought until I read in the papers about those witnesses . . ."

  "Here," Dane said, putting a cigarette between her lips and lighting it. "You cold?"

  She shook her head. "Just put your arm around me." He did and she let herself lean against his chest. "They were killing the witnesses against him," she went on. "And I knew he was going to get free. That's when I decided to use somebody else to help me get away from Stanzyck."

  "Who?"

  "No, don't ask me that because I'll never tell you."

  "What happened then?"

  "He—this other one—wasn't afraid of Al. That's what he said and that's what I thought. He told me he was going to tell Al that we were through the night he got out of the city prison. That was the night of the party, but the time was passing and he hadn't told him anything. I knew Al was going to be at this meeting, so I wrote that note and handed it to this other person—"

  "What are you waiting for?" Dane said quietly. "That's what it meant—what was this other guy waiting for? Why didn't he tell Stanzyck?"

  Roxanne nodded.

  "I wasn't afraid of him, you see. And I thought that he could take care of Al—"

  "He took care of him all right. Then you think he must have put that note in Al's pocket?" Dane asked her.

  "Yes. And Al thought it was meant for him, that I'd written it?"

  "Let's take a shower and get dressed," Dane said abruptly. "I'm hungry."

  "Promise me, Timothy, that you won't try to make me tell who it was. I just couldn't do it . . ."

  He gave her bottom an affectionate slap.

  "You don't have to tell me," Dane said. "I know who it was."

  "You do?"

  He climbed lithely from the bed and then reached down to lift her in his arms. "And I don't mind telling you," he said, carrying her toward the shower, "that I'm glad you aren't in on it." Dane stood her in the stall, whirled the tingle control handle around, and with her protesting shriek echoing in his ears, strode from the room and closed the door.

  He made directly for the living room and the phone he had noticed, oblivious to the partially drawn blinds and his own nakedness. Dialing rapidly, he said to the voice that answered: "Let's give that idea a try. We'll be leaving here within an hour. We haven't had dinner yet." He listened to something that made him smile, said goodbye and hung up.

  Dane returned to the shower, moved the curtain aside and stepped in. "You'll be at this all night," he told her. "Give me half of that water."

  "You can have all of it," she told him innocently a few minutes later. She left the stall and when he turned his back shot the lever to Cold and ran out of reach.

  CHAPTER 16

  If Timothy Dane had anything on his mind but the electrifying, vivaciously happy redhead who sat opposite him in the restaurant, he was concealing it perfectly.

  They had come to Jack's, a small intimately lighted place on the West Side that was owned not by Jack but by Anthony. It was a favorite with the investigator on any night, but this night it had especially appealed to him because of its compactness. From their round table in the rear he commanded a full view of the entrance, the tiny bar and every other table.

  "Where did you ever find Jack's?" asked Roxanne, her fingers playing affectionately with the hand that he rested on the tablecloth.

  "Don't you like it?"

  "I love it. Only tonight I would have picked El Morocco, or the grand ballroom of the Waldorf—any place that would be crowded with my phony friends. They'd all choke on their Martinis trying to guess who my handsome escort was. And I wouldn't tell them."

  "The reaction here is just the opposite," he told her. Roxanne had impulsively decided against putting on the black-and-white gown again and now wore a sheath-like dark green dress that seemed to make her a major distraction to the dozen other patrons in the place. "Do you always get stared at like this?" he asked.

  "Only when I feel like this, darling. Don't you know that all the women here can tell I've just been made love to like they wish it would happen to them?"

  "No, I didn't," he said, her infectious happiness putting laughter in his own voice. "What's your theory about the gaping men?"

  "They're being just like men," she said brightly. "They think I'm going to be made love to."

  "Either way, then, I win," said Dane.

  She looked at him slyly, her head tilted. "I have an idea," she said, "that you rarely lose."
>
  "What gives you an idea like that?" he asked, playing along.

  "I think it's mostly your eyes," she said, her voice almost clinical. "You look at a person and your eyes say, 'I can take your or leave you.' Most women can't resist that. And it's the way you smile. You seem to be always on the verge of a smile, no matter how serious a thing might be. About one man in a hundred has a sense of humor like that, and it's probably the first thing a woman looks for . . ."

  A waiter appeared, removed their empty cocktail glasses and set down fresh ones.

  "As for your other winning ways . . ." As she spoke. Roxanne's glance had idly followed the waiter on his way to the bar. Abruptly her voice broke off.

  "What's the matter?" Dane asked.

  Her face was suddenly pale, as though someone had turned out a light inside it.

  “There's going to be trouble," she said tonelessly, her eyes intent on the bar.

  Dane looked up carelessly. "From Nick Mayer?" he asked.

  "Do you know him?"

  "I met him yesterday. Why is there going to be trouble?"

  "Because he thinks he inherited me, or something."

  "Inherited you from Stanzyck?"

  "Here he comes, Timothy . . ."

  Mayer came toward them slowly, a swaggering walk, holding a drink loosely in his hand. But his face was clouded and his eyes were anything but casual.

  "Hello, Roxy." Somehow, the two brief words were insinuating.

  "Hello," she answered evenly.

  "You hard at work, detective? Does this go on the expense account in the morning?"

  "Yes," said Dane. "And don't bother to sit down."

  "No?"

  "No. This is a private party."

  "Private parties can be dangerous . . ."

  "That's why I'm telling you not to join this one. If you want to see me, come around in the morning."

  "It's her I want to see."

  "Then make an appointment. Right now the lady's with me and I'm telling you to beat it." His voice was sharp, with a toughness that was like a slap in the blond man's face.

  "Get your coat on, Roxy," Mayer ordered. When she didn't move he put his hand on the stole draped behind her chair. "I'm telling you to come on!" he said harshly, jerking at the mink and setting it roughly on her shoulders.

  "Having trouble here, Mr. Dane?"

  "No," Timothy said to Anthony, sliding easily from his chair. Mayer turned to meet him, but guessed wrong about what Dane was going to do. Instead of the expected right-handed swing, Mayer found his own right arm grabbed and twisted painfully behind his back. Then higher on his back, forcing him to bend forward or have it broken. He was whirled then, helpless to resist, and marched humiliatingly along the full length of the restaurant.

  "Somebody open that door," Dane said. "I'm going to throw this bum out in the gutter." A waiter quickly held the door wide and Mayer was shoved through it so violently that he lay sprawled face down on the sidewalk.

  "If you want to see me, Mayer," Dane told him a second time, "come around in the morning." He stepped back into the restaurant and returned to his table with the air of a man who has done nothing more noteworthy than visit the washroom.

  Roxanne, her eyes wide, waited until he was seated beside her before she spoke.

  "I hope you know what you've just done."

  "Sure. I've just lost a client, the Loaders' Union, Local One."

  "It's not funny . . . There you go smiling again. Timothy, listen to me. I know Nick Mayer. I know what he's capable of. This is really serious."

  "I hope so, honey," Dane told her. Then, catching the waiter's eye, "I think you can bring on those steaks now, Oscar. And some beer." He swung to the girl. "Do you like beer?"

  "I never have any," she answered, still anxious about Mayer.

  "Well you'd better," he told her. "Because you're going off that Absinthe kick."

  Dane paid his check an hour later, watched Roxanne disappear into the powder room and made for the pay phone. This time he dialed a different number.

  "We're leaving here now," he said. "You have any luck with the shoes?" He listened, nodding his head slowly. "Well," he said then, "we’ll just have to wait. Did you pick up the bandleader?" The answer he got seemed satisfy him, but then Dane frowned. "Bannerman did what?" What he heard next only troubled him more. "Okay," he said finally. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Just keep yourself set for what happens next. So long."

  "Who were you phoning?" Roxanne asked him as he stepped from the booth.

  "My office," he told her, engaging her arm and guiding her toward the door.

  "At this hour?"

  "My office never closes," he explained. He waved night to Anthony, declined a drink for the road, and escorted the girl to the street.

  "Let's go back to the apartment," Roxanne suggested.

  “I thought you were one of these dirty stay-ups," he laid lightly. "Never in bed before dawn."

  "I'm breaking in a brand-new schedule," she told him, leaning close. "And breaking in a new man."

  His arms pulled her. into a half-embrace, but his eyes and his thoughts were busy elsewhere as his glance swept both sides of the darkened block until it found what he was looking for. He turned her around easily and began strolling with her toward Eighth Avenue.

  "About your apartment," he said. "That may not be such a good idea tonight."

  "Because of Nick Mayer?"

  "Yes," he answered, his voice clear in the quiet air. "I’ve been thinking about Mayer. Maybe the smart thing to do is to go back to my place. That might be safer."

  For all her own fear of Mayer, Roxanne's face showed the disappointment she felt in what Dane had just said.'

  "All right," she said. "If that's what you think we should do."

  "You're the one who was worried about him."

  "You don't have to shout it, Timothy."

  "Well, you are the one."

  "Yes, I'm the one. Come on, then, let's go there." She began to walk quickly, and Dane had to lengthen his stride to keep pace.

  Dane's apartment, the street-level floor of a converted brownstone on Fifty-third Street, was dark as he threw open the door and he advised the girl to wait in the hallway until he turned on some lights.

  "Oh, this is nice," she said then.

  He laughed. "A little unorthodox, though."

  It was. The front door opened into his bedroom, a large, square-shaped room whose fireplace identified it as a sitting room when the four-story house had been one family's private residence. There were two exits from the bedroom, twin halls that detoured around the kitchen and bathroom. Roxanne chose the right-hand one that led past the curious, doorless kitchen and walked on into the living room.

  "My God!" she exclaimed.

  "What's wrong?"

  "The size of this room," she said.

  "From another era," he said. "They liked to spread their legs."

  The long, wide room had windows on two sides that, by daylight, looked out on a big yard. The solid wall held two closets and the space between was lined with bookshelves. Arrayed casually throughout were couches and chairs all of blue leather.

  "What do you call this decorating style," she asked. "Stark masculine?"

  "What would you suggest, velvet drapes and doilies?"

  "I'd suggest you begin attacking me," she told him, slipping into his arms. "This room was made for it."

  "I never attack on a full stomach," he said quickly.

  "Why, Timothy? You sound embarrassed!"

  "How would you like a little brandy?"

  She laughed happily. "What did I do, darling? Hit a soft spot? Did you actually attack some girl on this rug?"

  "Not yet," he answered, pulling a decanter and two ponies from the bar and setting them on a low table before one of the couches. "Sit down and have a drink. You're making me nervous standing there."

  She sat, but across his lap.

  He took the hem of her skirt in his fingers and pull
ed it back over her knees. She took it in her ringers, mimicking his prim motion, and raised it again.

  "I demand to be attacked," she announced.

  He handed her a half-filled brandy.

  "Getting me drunk won't do you any good," she said. "Besides, I can out-drink you and out . . ." His fingers, covered her lips, blotting out the sound. "Why?" she asked. "Can somebody hear us?"

  "Neighbors," he said, pointing to the ceiling. "An old couple. Minister and his wife."

  "If they're old they've been to bed hours ago," Roxanne pointed out. "Or is that what you're thinking about—something old-fashioned like a bed?"

  There was a sharp sound, a hissing intake of breath, an instant before the voice cracked out at them.

  "You two-timing bitch!"

  Their heads whirled to see Nick Mayer standing in the entrance. In his fist, glinting menacingly, was a gun.

  "Oh, no!" Roxanne cried, slipping to her feet. Dane stood up, saying nothing, and stepped directly in front of the girl.

  "What's the matter, detective? Let's hear some of that big talk now."

  Dane reached his hands behind them, put them on Roxanne's waist and began edging her to the rear of the long room. Mayer stepped forward, closing the distance.

  His laughter jangled at them. "Gutless now, aren't you?"

  “Is that the same one you used on your pal Stanzyck?" Dane asked him.

  “Wouldn't you like to know."

  “I know you did it, Mayer.

  “You don't know anything about me except that I'm going to blow your head open.”

  "No, Nick!"

  That was Roxanne's strangled voice and Mayer leered at her.

  "Watch!" he snarled. The gun jerked up, leveling at Dane's eyes and in the next instant there was a twin explosion. Dane stood as he had been, his body frozen in an attitude of terrible waiting. Mayer, his eyes wide with infinite surprise, gazed stupidly down at the gun which had been blasted from his hand and then Bill Weir stepped swiftly from the closet.

  "You all right, Dane?" he asked, scooping up Mayer's revolver by the barrel, training his own on the wounded gunman.

  "I don't know. What the hell were you waiting for?"

  "I didn't know he was so mad at you."

  Timothy turned to Roxanne.