“What makes you think this Lundeen is any different? Because he was the nicest kid on the block, the way you tell it? No, that’s not the way it goes, because if he was such a nice kid he would never want to be a cop in the first place. The kind of kids who want to be cops, they’re the kind who have an itch to push people around and to collect graft when they’re still in kindergarten!
“And what happens to somebody who gets on the force and isn’t a born grafter? They make him one, that’s what! Where do you think Lundeen would be if he didn’t collect from me, so he could pass on a cut to the captain, the inspector, the politicians right at the top, so that they’ll have enough dough to give your settlement house a few pennies and help keep kids honest? It’s a joke, lady; the whole thing is one big joke on people like you. All any cop or any politician is looking for is the ice, the pay-off. That’s what Lundeen was looking for, and that’s what he got. And if you want my advice, you’ll write him off as a dead loss. Let his lawyer here worry about him. Does that answer your question?”
Mrs. Knapp looked wide-eyed at Murray, who nodded. “Speaking for the lady,” he said, “I imagine it does.”
“All right then,” said Miller. He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his forehead, which was glistening with sweat. “I’m sorry I had to talk like that, but it all goes back to what I was telling you about—well, about people being bleeding hearts. They have no right to put themselves out for somebody who isn’t worth it. It’s not natural. It only makes trouble.”
“There’s one more thing,” said Murray. “If you—”
“Forget it,” said Miller in a hard voice. “I told the lady what she wanted to know, and that’s it. Anything else I have to say I say only in court. And in case you think I’m a little bit dumb about all this, mister, I’ll tell you one thing I worked out all by myself. This lady never got the idea to look you up; nobody goes to such trouble for the fun of it. You were the one who pulled her into this.” He brushed aside Mrs. Knapp’s protest. “I’m not saying everything she told me isn’t true. I’m just saying it’s a shame to drag a nice old lady into this, so you could soften me up for the trial. I hate to tell you what that makes you look like, mister.”
The elevator lurched downward, its chains rattling balefully. “What I want to do now,” Murray said, “is get over to the office and tape what we remember of this while it’s still fresh. How about it?”
“All right,” said Mrs. Knapp, but there was an unusual note in her voice. Murray noted with concern that she looked very old and very tired.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “You seem a little frayed around the edges.”
“Just reaction.”
“That’s natural. It was a sweet session, wasn’t it? Well, when it’s on tape we can write it off. After that, we’ll run over to some good late place, and I’ll stand you coffee and cheese cake. Lindy’s, let’s make it.”
“No,” said Mrs. Knapp abruptly. Too abruptly.
It took him a moment to understand. “You mean because of Mrs. Miller’s sitting there listening to her husband make sad jokes about his show? All right, we’ll go somewhere else. You name it.”
“That wasn’t any accident,” Mrs. Knapp said, unheeding. “That was a suicide cut, wasn’t it?”
“I guess it was.”
“And she’s such a dear. She’s such a pitiful little thing. I sat there listening to her, and I wanted to say something that would—oh, God,” said Mrs. Knapp with intensity, “sometimes I hate all men!”
Murray had the feeling that this was unfair both to Ira Miller and his sex in general, but Mrs. Knapp’s mood hardly invited argument. Then, to his relief, the elevator stopped, and its door slid open invitingly. But Mrs. Knapp did not move. He looked at her, and realized with alarm that she was crying. Head averted, handkerchief in hand, she was silently and helplessly crying.
It was, in its way, a revelation.
9
He slept badly that night, and at five in the morning settled on a brimming glassful of brandy as an emergency measure. He arrived at the office at noon, conscious of a dark brown taste in the mouth and a weariness deep in the bone.
“This,” he told Miss Whiteside as he examined the appointment book on her desk, “is one of those days when, in the immortal words of Joe Jacobs, I should have stood in bed. How many did I miss?”
“Quite a few,” said Miss Whiteside unkindly. “I made other appointments for most of them, but this one here—this Mr. Scott—said he would wait until you showed up. He went out for lunch, but he said he’d be right back. He was very anxious to see you.”
“This would be a better world if people weren’t so persistent, but if that’s the way he is—What in God’s name are you reading there, Miss Whiteside?” Murray studied the cover of the magazine with interest. It was adorned with a photograph of a reigning Hollywood queen, her low-cut gown gaping wide open as she leaned forward into the camera. Underneath the picture a caption in bold type asked, “Why Were Her Panties Found in the Wrong Bedroom?” “You shouldn’t show this kind of stuff around here, Miss Whiteside. You’ll scare away the better class of client.”
Miss Whiteside’s sense of humor was not her strong point. Her face went bright red, and she abruptly thrust the magazine into Murray’s hand. “It does not happen to be mine, Mr. Kirk. It was left here by that Mr. Scott. He works for it or something.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sorry I misjudged you, Miss Whiteside. It’s just that nowadays you never know—”
“Let me tell you, Mr. Kirk, I wouldn’t be caught dead reading something like this.”
“I’m sure. What’s this Scott like, Miss Whiteside?”
“Oh, very nice,” said Miss Whiteside. “A very classy type.”
He was all of that, Murray saw at a glance when Scott was ushered in. A trim man with iron-gray hair and a face as hard and smooth as polished flint, he would have made a flawless model for a whiskey advertisement, posing, glass in hand, before a fireplace. Put him behind the wheel of a yacht off Sand’s Point, Murray speculated, or behind an expensive shotgun on the Eastern Shore, and he’d be right at home. He had the look. He had the sound, too, when he spoke. The voice was a cool and positive reflection of Harlingen’s.
“You’re late, Mr. Kirk, but there’s no need to apologize. Personally, I detest people who ask one to explain away a lateness like a tardy schoolboy. You’ll notice I haven’t given you my card. There’s no need to. My credentials are right on the masthead of this copy of Peephole. I’m its publisher. As for my excursion here—the mountain coming to Mahomet, so to speak—don’t give it a thought. There are aspects of my business which I prefer to handle this way. The reason is obvious.”
“Of course,” said Murray. It suddenly struck him that the worst possible prescription for a hangover was time spent with a monumental egoist.
“Peephole,” said Scott, “is the biggest thing in publishing today. Our circulation is five million a month. Our newsstand sales are skyrocketing. Peephole means money, it talks money. If you have any doubts about that, Kirk, take a look at this.”
Murray leaned forward to read the slip of paper Scott held up before him, and saw that it was a check for five thousand dollars payable to Conmy-Kirk. “Very inspiring,” he said. “But if you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Scott, what’s it supposed to inspire me to?”
“You know my magazine, Kirk? You’ve often read and enjoyed it, haven’t you?”
“Not too often, I’m afraid. It always seems to be about the same old things happening to people who should know better. It loses some of its flavor after a while.”
“Not for our mass of readers, it doesn’t. Maybe you have other interests, Kirk, but our readers want to read about the same old things happening to people who should know better. Just as long as those people are glamorous public figures. Figures in the entertainment world, especially. I don’t care whether they’re singers, dancers, actors, directors, or writers—they all have a skeleton
in the closet. And Peephole’s readers want to see that skeleton. They want the names, the dates, the places, the words spoken, and pictures, if there are pictures. They want, in brief, just what you’ve got stocked away in those filing cabinets behind you. Do I make myself clear?”
“I’m not sure. My impression is that you’re offering me five thousand dollars to go out and dig up scandal about various celebrities. Is that it?”
“No, it isn’t. I have agencies working on that angle for a great deal less, Kirk. What I want from you is material you’ve already got in your case files. It so happens that my man in California used to work for Frank Conmy, and he told me that your files here are loaded with red-hot material on some of the biggest people in show business. Those tapes and photos are the lifeblood of Peephole. Give me first pick of them, and I’ll top the price of any competing magazine in the business.
“Now get this straight, Kirk. I don’t want entry to your files; I don’t want anything to do with them. All you have to do is go through your master index, write down the name of anyone who might be of interest to Peephole’s audience, and give me that list. I’ll pick fifty names from it, and take the files on just those fifty people, sight unseen. That’s one hundred dollars apiece, Kirk. Five thousand dollars for an hour of your time. It’s a gamble for me, but I’m a willing gambler. And there are no other demands put on you. I’ll have truckmen come here and pick up the load at my own expense.”
“I see,” said Murray. He pressed his hand to his forehead to ease the pounding there, but it didn’t help.
Scott frowned at him. “What’s the matter? Headache?”
“Yes, but it’s really—”
“A headache is nonsense,” Scott declared. “Here, let me show you why,” and the next instant, to Murray’s surprise, the man was coming at him from around the desk, hands extended like the hands of a strangler seeking a victim. There was no fending them off, either. They bore down on Murray’s neck, digging in, twisting, and grinding with bone-cracking force. Surprisingly cold, hard hands, too. They are the hands, Murray thought wildly, with an almost macabre relish, of a Thing sent to haunt me because I have been a sot. His nose an inch from the desk, he struggled against the uncontrollable laughter that rose in him, and managed, in the crisis, to turn it into a sputter.
“Relax, man,” said Scott. “Relax, and get the full effect.” He twisted his victim’s jaw, there was a climactic pop of vertebrae, and the hands were removed. When Murray warily raised his head Scott was standing there patting his brow with a handkerchief and breathing hard.
“That’s better,” said Scott. “Damn it, Kirk, you’ve got fine bone structure, but look at the way you’re fouling it up. You’re a man, not an animal, for God’s sake. Sit straight. Walk straight. Be a man all the way down that spine. And take my advice—see a good chiropractor. A chiropractor made a new man of me.”
Murray managed to restrain the comment which rose to his lips. “I’ll think about it,” he said.
“Don’t think about it. Do it. And that reminds me that I’d like to settle our business and be on my way.” He held out the check. “I’m sure the terms are satisfactory.”
Murray looked with brief longing upon temptation, and then closed his eyes to it. “Sorry, Mr. Scott, but I don’t think they are.”
“That’s your privilege, Kirk. What price are you asking?”
“That depends. All I know so far is that I seem to be in the middle of a seller’s market. Before I make any decisions I’d like to look around and see what confidential files are being quoted at.”
A small crack showed in Scott’s composure. “Now you’re talking like a sharper, Kirk. I’m surprised at that.”
“That’s your privilege,” said Murray. His headache, he discovered, was as bad as ever.
“All right, we’re both businessmen. I’ll raise the ante another thousand. But for that figure I want your word that I’ll be getting the real goods. Sex, dope, prison records—those are the circulation builders. And whichever it is, it’s got to involve a celebrity the man on the street knows and wants to read about. If I can’t get good stories out of fifty percent of your list, I’m taking a loss.”
“That’s a nice sales talk, Mr. Scott. However, no sale.”
The crack in Scott’s composure was very wide now. “Look, Kirk, let me enlighten you about something you aren’t taking into account. I approached you directly, because I feel it’s good business to deal with the man in charge when you can. But you know and I know that loyalty doesn’t mean a damn to the kind of people who work in your line. You’ve got a big organization here, and there isn’t anyone in it who wouldn’t sell you out to the highest bidder. In view of that, why do you force me to go behind your back and deal with some double-crossing employee? Isn’t it better for you to make the sale yourself and draw a profit from it?”
Murray stared at the man with unblinking fascination. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said softly.
“But you do get my point?”
“Oh, I do,” said Murray. “I do.” He buzzed for Mrs. Knapp, and when she appeared he swung his chair around to face her. “This is important, Mrs. Knapp. I want you to draw up a list of our clients, past and present, who might be regarded as celebrities. That means anyone the man on the street knows and wants to read about.” He nodded at Scott. “You don’t mind my borrowing your definition, I hope?”
Scott was the image of pleased urbanity. “Not at all.”
“Good. After that, Mrs. Knapp, when any one of our men asks to see a file included in that list he’s to write out his reason and sign it. If you think the reason is the least bit fishy, report to me at once. Then I can—”
“Good heavens!” cried Mrs. Knapp as the door slammed behind Scott with the impact of a bomb bursting. “What was that about? The man must be out of his mind.”
“No, he’s just terribly, terribly hurt. Anyhow, get to work on that list, Mrs. Knapp. Or better yet, put one of the girls from the stenographers’ pool on it. Pick the stupidest one we have. That kind has an uncanny eye for celebrities.”
This day, Murray decided after a lunch that had been delivered to his desk lukewarm and totally unpalatable, was destined for small troubles and many of them. He was convinced of that when Bruno called at two o’clock to announce that their bird had flown. Eddie Schrade had disappeared from his Coney Island address, seemingly into thin air.
“What do you mean, disappeared?” Murray said. “Did you ask around? Did you cover the whole neighborhood?”
“All day, so far. The only character who looks like he might know something is the guy who owns the trap where Schrade was living, and he’s not talking. Jesus, nobody wants to talk around here. You should see this place in the winter, Murray. It’s like the end of the world.”
“What about it? You’re not there on a sightseeing tour, are you? Do you think LoScalzo’s behind this?”
“He could be. He needs Schrade to back up Miller, or he’s got no case. Maybe Schrade is the one he’s worried about.”
Murray pondered this until Bruno wailed, “Talk to me, boy, talk to me. It’s cold and lonely out here.”
“You miserable coward. Listen, are you near a post office?”
“There used to be one around here. What’ve you got in mind, Murray, the Brother Frank play?”
“We’ll try it,” Murray said. “Two postal cards and two letters, and make sure you don’t address them so light that they wind up in the dead-letter office.”
“Roger and over. Say, who’ll be Brother Frank?”
“I will,” said Murray, “so write those things to Brother Murray.”
“Okay. See you in the morning then.”
“No, hold on a second.” Murray drew a pad toward him and carefully started to doodle a Palmer Method exercise in circles. “You remember when Jack Collins was in town last year he said something about a new angle he had out on the Coast, but he wouldn’t say what it was?”
“Yeah.”
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br /> “And you remember I told you afterward that if his angle was to sell off tapes and pictures to the dirt magazines we’d have to get a different agency to handle assignments out there?”
There was a silence. “I get it,” said Bruno at last.
“What the hell,” Murray said, “I know how you feel about him, Bruno—you were always buddies, he’s got that job in L.A. waiting for you any time you want it—but I can’t let that make any difference. If our big clients hear we’re tied in with his kind of deal we can write them off tomorrow. You understand, don’t you?”
“Sure, I understand. But, Murray, you could still be making a mistake. Every agency on the Coast is doing the same as Jack’s. The whole goddam state of California is bugged from top to bottom. You take one of those Hollywood babes, if she don’t think there’s a microphone under her mattress she can’t sleep nights. With a gold mine like that around, you can’t blame Jack for wanting to cut in, can you?”
“I’m not blaming him,” Murray said; “I’m ditching him until he cuts loose from those magazines. He’s a nice guy, but he’s no use to me right now, Bruno. I’m telling it to you straight so you’ll know there’s nothing personal in this.”
“Screw that,” said Bruno, “you don’t owe me anything,” and then the operator’s voice cut in, remote and melodious. “Deposit five cents for the next five minutes, please,” it said.
“Chisel from somebody else, sister,” said Bruno, and hung up.
Murray slowly replaced the phone, and then out of the dark complexity of his thoughts realized that Miss Whiteside was regarding him from the doorway with a peculiar expression. Now what? he wondered.
The Eighth Circle Page 10