by Kane, Henry
Counterpoint to my soprano was a deep baritone. “Not in.”
Of course not. A city of many millions has many murders. Parker was not sitting around waiting for me to deposit cases in his lap. “Is Lieutenant Generoso there?” I said.
“Who’s calling?”
“John Maxwell. Please tell him it’s important.”
“Hang on.”
I hung. Detective-lieutenant Anthony Generoso was young and snippy and educated and sarcastic and stuck on himself but he was active, intelligent, thorough and capable, full of beans and ambition.
“Generoso here,” he said.
I talked quickly. “There’s a dead man at Five-fifteen Fifth Avenue, Suite 1602. His name is Charles R. Medford and he’s the guy that walked out with the hundred gees from the New York National. He was killed by Frankie Nigle of the Nigle Realty Company, Five-fifteen Fifth Avenue. Mr. Nigle used to live in the Waldorf Astoria. Checked out Thursday morning. Okay? You got that?”
“Who’s this?”
“Did you get all of that?”
“Not all. Would you please repeat?”
That gag was older than Lieutenant Generoso. He was motioning to an assistant to trace the call while the wire was alive. That was okay by me. Let them trace. It would only lead them to where I was directing them. It wouldn’t lead them to me because I wasn’t going to tarry long enough.
I repeated as requested and hung up. Almost at once the phone rang. Already, they were checking back. I placed Charlie’s appointment book on the floor near him and got out. Outside, as I inspected the door of 1602, I could hear the phone still ringing.
Nigle Realty Company was printed on the centre of the door in neat gold lettering but comparatively fresh. Universal Import Limited could have been recently obliterated and the new name printed over it. I shrugged. Downstairs, I inspected the Big Board. Universal Import Limited was still listed at 1602. I shrugged again. I went out and flagged a cab and went home. I shaved again and finally showered. Then I dressed and went to Alfred Surf’s party.
ELEVEN
IT WAS one of those charming swarming parties where nobody can find anybody. Friday afternoon is the prime time of the freeloader and the cuckoos were enmeshed en masse. Surf’s huge triplex was awash with people, room after room seething with a sea of small talk and large drinks. The purpose of the party was to launch Vickie Wiggleston’s new book, Of Lice and Ladies, but the launching-party must have disembarked early because this was no launching party, this was a wild brawl of beautiful drunks oiling up for a slick weekend. The joint was as rife with chicks as a coop in Jersey which suited me fine: I was ripe for relaxation. I could not find Alfred Surf and I did not know Barry Howard, so I set my sails for a plush blonde with a lush figure and shoved off, but I had hardly got three sheets to the wind before I was intercepted by a remarkable frigate named Topsy Twits.
Topsy Twits was only gorgeous. For one long numb moment I wondered why in all hell I had misspent a month assiduously ducking out on her. Familiarity breeds contempt but why it should breed discontent—let the psychiatrists answer. I was nuts about Topsy Twits but instead of running after, I had been running away. Perhaps the sheer incongruity shot it home to me. Topsy Twits in the guise of an intellectual at a literary party was about as appropriate as marijuana in the guise of pot at a vicar’s tea. Topsy Twits was twenty-four; she was tall, tan and terrific; she was raven-haired, sloe-eyed and faster-hipped than Waytt Earp.
“Well, well,” she said. “Fancy meeting you at this fancy meeting.”
“And a resounding vice versa to you,” I said.
“If you belong, I belong, my dear private cockeye. What are you, a literary light or something?”
“Whatever, I can’t hold a candle to you.”
“Don’t ever try. Candles I can live without. Where were you rushing in such a hurry?”
I pointed. “The blonde in the blue dress.”
She looked. “Oh, that one? Take it easy. I’ll introduce you.” For a gal who had been calling me every day for a month, Miss Twits didn’t seem very anxious to hang on to me—which made me more anxious for her and less anxious for the blonde but the better part of discretion kept me flying although my ego was sinking.
Airily I said. “You know her?”
“I met here here.”
“Quite attractive.”
“I agree.”
What had happened to Topsy Twits? Once upon a time she used to be jealous. My ego continued its descent. Lamely getting off the blonde I said, “What are you doing here, Tops?”
“I’m going to write a book.”
“You’re going to write a what?”
“The story of my life.”
“Tops, are you kidding?”
“I’m not, but maybe I’m being kidded. That’s why I’ve been calling you, but you’ve been out of town. When’d you get back?”
“Today,” I said. “But, Topsy, I don’t get it. You’ve been calling me to find out whether you’re being kidded.” Sadly I added, “That the only reason you’ve been calling?”
“Should there be another reason?”
“I … er … Well … I thought you liked me.”
“Look, private cockeye. Topsy knows when she’s been given the air. I never chased a guy in my life and I’m not starting with you.”
My ego was now flat down to my arches. “What air? Who gave you the air? I’ve been out of town.”
“So? You can always call. You can drop a line. You didn’t call, you didn’t drop a line. Topsy can take a hint.”
“Tops, you’ve got it all wrong. I … I was in Chicago on a top-secret-type deal. I was … er … being watched.. tailed all the time. I couldn’t call, I couldn’t write, I was … er … incognito.”
“You’re getting mixed up, sweet private cockeye.”
“Mixed up?”
“First you said Chicago.”
“I—”
“Now you’re saying Cognito.”
“Saying what?”
She drew a deep breath. When Topsy draws a deep breath, strong men lose theirs. “First you said you were in Chicago, and now you’re saying you were in Cognito. A good fibber sticks to one lie.”
“Oh. No no. Cognito’s a suburb of Chicago. But that’s water under the bridge, sweet. I’m back in town now and I’ll be at the club to see you—tonight.” She was doing her terping in a downtown club called Egyptian Gardens.
“I’m off tonight.”
“Well then we can have like a date, you know?”
She pouted ruby-red lips. When Topsy pouts ruby-red lips, strong men turn emerald-green. “Don’t you even want to know why I’ve been calling you all month?”
“You told me. To find out whether you were being kidded.”
“About what?”
“The book.”
“What book.”
“The story of your life.”
“Kidded by whom?”
She had me. I preferred to reverse that. “Honey,” I said, “We’ll talk about it tonight on our date.”
“I want to talk about it now.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Alfred Surf,” she said.
“Beg pardon?” I said.
“Alfred Surf. He says that he wants me to do this book. I know that you know him. So? Is it a pitch or is it on the level? You know him. What kind of a guy is he?”
Ah, world. Everybody pitches his own kind of spitball. A theatre producer promises a lassie he may work out a lead for her. A motion-picture producer promises the broad a wide angle. A television guy zooms in on a chick with a low promise of high jinks in a situation comedy. What can a publisher promise a tomato? A patch of fame in the way of a tome. What else?
“How did you meet Alfred Surf?” I said.
“I didn’t meet him. He met me.”
“How?”
“He came down to the club one night. He admired my work. He’s a belly-dancer fan.”
“Or a fan-dancer’s be
lly.”
“Now look. Don’t get sore. He’s been very proper.”
“Properly improper?”
“All he wants out of me is a book.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. Is that the bait for better acquaintance? Or is old Al on the square?”
Staunchly I said, “Alfred Surf, to the best of my knowledge, is a very sincere man.”
What the hell else could I say? All men are brothers and only a Cain would mark off a guy who was ready to make a girl willing while he was able. Any book that Surf could get out of Topsy would blunt the needle of his po rnograph. Topsy had had, so far, an exciting life but the intersting portions were decidedly unprintable.
Topsy Twits, an American of Turkish descent, was one of four children, all girls, whose father had died when she was an infant. The mother, a famous nautch-dancer, had reared her girls in the best of hoochy-coochy tradition, and when they were grown all five had shaken down to a sensational act known as The Twitching Twits which had had a gelatinous run for a solid year at the Lido in Paris. Thereafter they were in high-priced demand in the best of clubs throughout the continent. When the mother died, The Twitching Twits broke up into individual acts, but a Twits was always twitching as a stellar performer in a top club in some capital of the world. Topsy Twits had been married four times: once to an Argentinian millionaire, once to the Shah de Rebbigate of Istanbul, once to novelist Elvis Priestley, and once to a British pimp of the peerage in Hong Kong who had run up a string of cheap brothels to a laveliere of vast fortune. Hardly the material for an autobiography unless it was planned to be sold under the counter.
“We’ve had conferences,” said Topsy Twits.
“I thought you said so far it’s been proper.”
“Proper conferences, you haughty bastard. Geez, you have an evil mind, haven’t you?”
“Me? Tut-tut,” I tutted. “But you are a beautiful gal and Surf is a man and a bachelor and normally vulnerable.”
“Proper conferences. We’ve already worked out a title. Topsy Of The Twitching Twits. Get it? Topsy, me. The Twitching Twits, the original act that made us famous.” She smiled weakly. When Topsy smiles weakly, strong men grow stronger. “I am a little worried, if you understand what I mean. Mr. Surf, he’s a nice square type, if you know what I mean, but me, I’m a little worried if the stuff that I got to tell sort of fits for like a book. You know?”
“It’s food for talk.”
“I’m not doing a cook book, sweetie.”
“But it sure will simmer, won’t it? No. I mean that whether or not you should do this book is a hell of a good subject for a long and serious discussion.”
“Okay. So let’s discuss.”
“Here? Now? You sound as wacky as an author, already.”
“Then when?”
“Tonight. Let’s make out date tonight at my place. We’ll discuss Topsy Of The Twitching Twits and we’ll decide whether you go ahead with it or whether you chuck the whole idea back into the Surf. Okay?”
“Fine. What time?”
“Any time that suits you.”
“Nine o’clock?”
“Swell.”
“But remember I’m coming to discuss. Strictly. Discuss.”
“Well, naturally. What else?”
The blonde in the blue dress suddenly rose up over yon horizon. Topsy grabbed my wrist and pulled. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.” Dear devious Topsy. She was either taking revenge by using the needle, or she really was cured of me; whatever, the blonde was a worthy prize; that is, she was worthy, I was the booby, and the prize was making the introduction.
“Frances Elgin meet Peter Chambers.”
“Miss Elgin,” I said.
“Mr. Chambers,” said the blonde.
“Have fun,” said Topsy and got lost.
“A beautiful girl,” said Miss Elgin.
Miss Elgin was no slob herself. If not for her eyes, Miss Elgin would be ravishing. Tall and haughty, she was built for speed, her blue gown protruding just enough in just the right places. The blonde hair was worn in an upsweep revealing tiny ears from which hung small pendant earrings; the face was oval; the nose short, tilted, and somehow patrician; and there was no makeup, except the glint of magenta upon the lips. She had more class than a colony of colleges, but she flunked out because of the eyes.
There was nothing wrong with the eyes from the point of pulchritude. They were big, blue and beautiful, but they were cold, withdrawn, remote and calculating, with all the shrewd appraisal of a lapidary glued to his loop. She was contained, restrained, and in full control; an interesting gal; a chick whose feathers wouldn’t fluster; not a babe whom you could waltz to the hay to the rhythm of a good spiel. If you unbuttoned her, you would first get to the outer shell. A problem, but I was not averse to it. I like a contest, when I’m interested. I was interested. I was more interested in Topsy Twits but the possibility existed that I had already struck out with Topsy Twits. The possibility existed that Topsy Twits wouldn’t even show up for our date at nine. Considering those possibilities, I concentrated on Miss Elgin. An ace in the hole is worth two in the pack.
“Are you here alone?” I said.
“I have an escort … somewhere.”
It was a monkey wrench, but it didn’t destroy the works. I persisted at the screw; that is, persisted in trying to turn it. “A real nice party, isn’t it?”
“Too crowded for my taste.”
“Are you peeved because you lost your boy-friend?”
“I have no boy-friend.”
Score one for me. “Oh,” I said, “I thought …”
She said nothing. She let me hang like that. Quite a bitch.
I started poking her in a new alley. “Are you an author?” I said.
“No. Are you?” She had a deep voice. She had excellent diction. And she had a hell of an uninterested look on her face.
“Are you bored, Miss Elgin?” I said.
“Yes, somewhat.”
“I mean if I’m boring you …”
“Oh no no, Mr. Chambers. That wasn’t directed at you. I merely meant that this sort of an affair …” She shrugged. “Aren’t you bored?”
“Not while I’m talking to you.”
That finally brought a smile. She had fine white shining teeth. “Frankly,” she said, “I’d love to leave.”
“Frankly,” I said, “why don’t we?”
She ignored the personal pronoun plural. “My friend, my escort, has some business with Mr. Surf. So, although I’d love to leave, I can’t until he’s ready.”
“Oh.”
“Did you say you were an author, Mr. Chambers?”
“Actually, I didn’t say.”
“Actually, I’m not really interested.”
Some gals are born temptresses. I was tempted to haul off and bust her right in the mouth. Naturally, I resisted. I had more succulent plans laid for her.
“If you’re not interested, Miss Elgin, why do you ask?”
“Just as a matter of conversation, no more. I couldn’t possibly be interested in what you do—why should I be? I don’t know you. I’ll probably never see you again in my life.” The cold eyes examined me. “Why is it that men are so unrealistic?”
“Maybe because they’re so romantic.”
“Are you romantic, Mr. Chambers?”
“Are you interested in that, Miss Elgin?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then let’s try a new subject, Miss Elgin.”
“Take your choice, Mr. Chambers.”
“How about you? You’re not an author …”
“I’m a … model. I free-lance. I don’t work often because I don’t like to work. That closes that subject. Now back to you. Are you an author?”
“I’m a painter. How would you like to model for me sometime?”
“I’d love to.”
That set me back on my round heels. “Well, fine, let’s set a date.”
“How about—five years from now?”
“You booked that far in advance?”
“I’m going off for a trip to … er … Australia. I don’t expect to be back until then.”
“When are you going?”
“Are you being romantic again now, Mr. Chambers? Or unrealistic?”
“Why either?”
“Because what business is it of yours?”
“Miss Elgin, did anybody ever haul off and—”
One of Surf’s butlers saved the day, or lost it. He slithered by bearing a high tray of drinks and in desperation I reached up and took pot-luck and came down with two martinis and bowed to my lady and offered one to her, olive jiggling mischievously.
“No thanks,” she said.
“Don’t you drink?”
“I do, but I don’t particularly care for martinis.”
“Neither do I, but as you saw, I had little choice.”
“Yes, I saw, you didn’t,” she commiserated politely but her white little paws remained firmly at her sides. Some bastard, no?
So there I stood, two-fisted me, both fists filled with martinis slightly slopping over. It was enough to drive you to drink. It was also damned embarrassing.
“Don’t you want yours either?” she said, sadistically courteous.
“Which one would you say was mine?”
“Take your choice.”
She wasn’t going to help and I was no juggler. You can’t drink a martini with one hand while balancing a martini with the other, not unless you’re putting on a performance for a beautiful cold-eyed sadistic bastard, and that wasn’t the kind of performance I intended to put on for her. “Excuse me,” I said.
“You’re not forsaking me, Mr. Chambers?”
“Never. I’m just going to change up our drinks. What’s your pleasure, Miss Elgin?”
“Drambuie, if you can find some.”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll find some.” Yeah. If a dram of Drambuie would have turned those cold eyes hot, I would still have come back empty-handed. Two can play at the same game and my game was not lackey for the likes of Elgin.
It was tough threading through the throng of book-lovers balancing two martinis and some of the leaves of grass got sprinkled before I arrived at a table at the edge of the room and it was tough, even unbalanced, shoving through to get back to her, but she was no longer alone. She was flanked by two sprites in tight pants, beatnik beards, and marcelled hair, one of whom was saying: “… and Mr. Surf has published three slender books of my poetry but personally I simply can’t stand him myself. He’s such a bore, you know, such a bore. My friend here calls him the cliche-ridden monster. I wish he would do an autobiography one day because I have the perfect title, just the perfect title. The Cornball Cannonball. Good, hey? Precise? He’s a cube with drive …”