“What’s with him?” I asked.
“He’s spouting Nowism.”
“Quiet, cat,” someone whispered behind us. It was the girl without the yellow shirt.
“How long does he flip this way, Helen?”
“Have another drink, Steve. You’re not quite gone enough.”
“I’m gone,” I said, and was gone.
I was gone around the right side of the group, aiming myself at the door. A brief breeze of fresh air slid in from the street, followed by a new group of devotees, two couples and an odd girl.
“Conacher,” smiled the odd girl, holding out her hand and trying to steady herself for me. “We meet again.”
“I didn’t think you were the beat type, Linda.”
“You think right.” She held my arm and leaned into me drunkenly. “But I do come here for laughs, especially on nights like this when I’m really down.”
“How far down must you get?”
“You’re much too serious, Steve. Will you get me a drink?”
“You’ll have to see Fletcher, the man with the pitcher.”
“Of course.” She stepped forward and scanned the gathering through heavy-lidded eyes. The voice of Jeff Masterson held her and she cocked her head and seemed to be listening to him. From where we stood it was possible to see him clearly, still hypnotizing the crowd, still droning on about the blackness of time and space. But something new had been added. Helen Calabrese now sat close to him, her hand on his knee, her dark head against his arm. He held her, his free hand around her waist. He was unashamed of the provocative movement of that hand.
“The master speaks,” whispered Linda. “And he’s got himself a new disciple.”
“You know Helen Calabrese?”
“I’ve seen her around the television rehearsals. She’s a nothing.”
“She’s obviously something to Jeff Masterson.”
“He can have her.” She grabbed at the little man with the pitcher and he poured her a drink and then moved off to the rear to replenish his supply. Linda gulped the liquor thirstily, staring hard at Masterson as though trying to attract him to her by sheer concentration. He was on his last page, slowing to a crawl, his voice heavy with the drama of his double-talk prose. Then he was looking our way, observing Linda, scowling at her.
“The louse,” she said. “The cheap louse.”
There was a flurry of applause and the place broke into fresh waves of hubbub, the crowd melting away from Masterson except for a few eager enthusiasts who shook his hand and gave him personal praise, Linda advanced as soon as the way was cleared. She didn’t wait for the handshakers to move off.
“Hello, escort,” she said, glaring at Helen Calabrese.
“Linda, my love,” Masterson said. He pulled her down suddenly and kissed her violently, unmindful of her struggles, her mad kicking.
“Cool,” somebody said.
“Louse,” said Linda, pulling away from him. “I want you to meet Steve Conacher, louse. Mr. Conacher is a detective.”
“Not for real?” Masterson laughed. He had a tremendous laugh, full-throated and husky, and probably copied from some hero character he chose to imitate. The hilarity shook his big frame and died as suddenly as it began. “Detectives are fantasy characters for me, Conacher.”
“Jeff is really a country boy at heart,” Helen Calabrese said, no longer lingering close to him, “A rustic in search of reality.”
“Tell Mr. Conacher the reality of our date late yesterday afternoon, Jeff darling.” Linda was trying for calm, for theatrical poise, for a way to sell me her sincerity. But she had downed too many drinks before coming here. Her lines were muffled and halting, her gestures too loose, too abandoned.
“You’re drunk, Linda,” he said. “You were drunk when I met you. You’re drunk now.”
“Is she right about your date with her?” I asked.
“Get lost, little man,” he said. “You bother me.”
“Dandy,” I said and stepped in close to him. The small group of acolytes watched open-mouthed. There were whisperings and rumblings, an expectant hush. Masterson put on a big show of manly staring, his heavy brows knitted as he glowered at me. The scene began to build in humor. He was still seated, his manuscript rolled in a big fist. There was a tattoo of a bird of some sort on his wrist—not the conventional eagle favored by sailing men but another type, of Mexican or Inca origin—a crude bird, odd looking in the talons. I had him at a disadvantage for movement. That was why I pressed my luck and waded in, grabbing his grimy lapels high up near his throat. He reddened and struggled to pull my hands loose. But there was nothing but pulp behind his brawny-looking frame. He wilted. “But didn’t you take Linda over to Flato’s?” I asked.
“What if I did?”
“You didn’t wait for her,” I said. “That’s not very gentlemanly, Masterson.”
“She had a date with Jan,” he said angrily.
“And you? Did you have a date?”
“That’s my business.”
There was an overpowering temptation to take this big boy apart, to see how much manhood was in him. I was drunk enough and angry enough, but my effort would have been wasted on him. He seemed obviously a man for the women only. Helen Calabrese watched him quietly, her eyes soft on him. I let him shake me off and get to his feet and adjust his virility for the crowd.
“We’re not getting anywhere, Masterson,” I said. “If you’ll give me five minutes to ask you a few questions I can finish my job with you.”
“I don’t give a damn about your job.”
“Maybe not. But you will. You see, I’m trying to locate Mari Barstow.”
The mention of her name produced no reaction in him other than a lift of his eyebrows. He would be the type to continue bluffing unless shocked into talk. He was aware of his stature in the picture. His disciples were watching him, waiting for his next line.
“You’re wasting your time,” he said. “I haven’t seen Mari Barstow in months.”
“When did you see her last?”
“I’ve got a bad memory.”
“Do the best you can, Masterson.”
“Not now,” he said. They were standing around us in a tight knot, enjoying the byplay. I might have reached him if the little laugh had not come. Somebody outside the perimeter of the group had chuckled, probably a drunken Nowist at the bar. But the hilarity tightened Masterson. His face reddened and his jaw went hard and stubborn. “This is no time for questions and answers, little man.”
“You name it,” I said. “Where can I reach you?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“You’ll let me know now.”
He was moving away from me when I grabbed him again. I caught hold of his jacket, up high, near the neck. His body offered me no resistance, a confusing sensation because of his girth and weight. He turned to give me the treatment with his angry eyes. It would have been fun if he’d lifted a fist at me. But Gretchen barged into the group.
“No fighting in my house,” she screamed, turning the full weight of her personality on me, her hysterical voice high with abuse. “No fighting in my house. Clear, man? Or do I have you thrown out?”
“There won’t be any fight,” Helen said. “Forget it, Gretchen.”
“Not in my house, cats. Never, do you hear?”
“Never,” I said.
The little man with the pitcher drifted our way again and the tension broke and Masterson retired to the next room, followed by his tribe of supporters. I stayed with Linda and watched the byplay as Helen Calabrese found herself displaced by the girl with the shirtless torso. I gave myself time to relax, to think a bit, to let my eyes study the characters here. There was something unsavory, something rancid and rotten thriving here—a feeling of heightening idiocy that would probably explode in some kind of orgiastic ritua
l later on. Some of the couples were already engaged in public embrace, squatting in corners among the cats, pawing each other, lost in their nightmare madness.
Helen Calabrese no longer remained close to Masterson. Instead, she stood across the room, engaged in an unfriendly conversation with a man I hadn’t seen before. He was a fat and oily type, flat-nosed and animal-eyed. Familiar? Did I know him? I began to hate myself for letting Fletcher feed me so much of his rotgut. Curiosity moved me toward Helen and her friend. He was leaning in close to her, throwing her an animated pitch. She listened to him, but her heart wasn’t in it.
But he saw me before I finished my sidewise stroll through the crowd. He slipped skillfully to the right, made the door to the corridor and was gone.
“Who was the big nuisance?” I asked Helen.
“A Nowist louse,” she laughed. “Trying to sell me the service.”
“He didn’t look the type.”
“Is there a type?”
“What I mean is he lacked the intellectual look.”
“You don’t need brains to join the cult.”
“You didn’t catch his name?” I asked.
“Who needs it?”
“I do. He looked familiar to me.”
“You’ve got friends among these nuts?” she asked.
“Possible.”
“Don’t tell me you buy this Nowist guff, Steve?”
“That man was a Thenist.”
“Another mad cult?”
“A Thenist is somebody from then, Helen. I have a good head for faces and he rang a small bell for me. He looked like an old tabloid face out of the last decade. I knew every thug in town then. Some of them are still my friends. Others, like that slug, are on the prowl. He’s a refugee from a police blotter, Helen. Unless I’m too well loaded with Fletcher’s liquor, your friend’s name is Carmen Grippo, a two-bit gunsel.”
“A funny name,” she said.
“Not to your brother, it isn’t.”
“My brother?” She challenged me with her eyes. “What do you mean, Steve?”
“Luigi knows him well, Helen.”
“He does?”
“Grippo could be working for your brother.”
“He could?”
“Is it possible that Luigi sent Grippo down to this pest-hole to protect his kid sister’s virtue?”
“My brother,” she said, “is not my keeper. Do I look the type?”
I didn’t bother to answer. A cool trickle of air hit my face and I turned toward the end of the room to see the door open and a few men enter. There was a small commotion at that side, the cultists melting away from the men as they converged on Linda Karig. One of the men was Cushing. Two others were squad dicks.
And the fourth was Max Ornstein.
His keen eyes spotted me almost at once and he shuffled his hefty frame against the wall of Nowists blocking his way to me. He was shaking his head sadly as he pulled up.
“It’s a hot night,” said Max wearily. “Better I should be behind the counter at Lynbrook, Steve. You got yourself a crazy megillah if you know that Linda Karig girl. She’s yelling for you up front. Dave Cushing is taking her in because they found a bloody knife in her apartment.”
CHAPTER 6
“Grab yourself another guess,” said Dave Cushing.
“You can make it if you try,” said Harry Gahan.
“I’ll try,” I said.
It was a relaxed meeting, nothing stiff or formal, the four of us sitting around in Police Lieutenant Dave Cushing’s office like the old friends we were. In the corner, Harry Gahan sucked at his dead pipe and blinked his tired eyes at me. He always reminded me of an ancient mastiff, a good-natured old dog with a very keen nose and a great and powerful intelligence—the doglike look due, I suppose, to the perpetual bags under his quiet eyes. He was an old pro, a seasoned city detective, well respected in police circles and Dave Cushing’s right arm for the past seven years. They made a fine team, two police dicks the Commissioner never criticized.
“I can maybe have a guess, too?” Max asked.
“The guesses are on the house,” Dave Cushing said.
“A tip,” said Max. “Offhand, I’d say it smells like you got an anonymous call you should go to the Karig girl’s flat and find the knife.”
“You serious?” Harry Gahan asked.
“Maybe I’m just sleepy,” Max said.
“How about you, Steve? You sleepy too?”
“I’m cold on it, Harry. I can think of several pretty smart answers, but they’re sort of tired ideas, too—like checking Flato’s reference files.”
“Now that’s something we didn’t think about,” Dave Cushing said, amused. “Which files, Steve?”
“I was thinking of the file of actors they have in the theatrical places. You know, photos of the types for various parts, that kind of thing.”
“How does it happen you know so much?” Harry Gahan asked casually. “About show business, I mean?”
“I read a lot, Harry.”
“Sure you do.”
“Listen,” said Max. “That kind of knowledge even I’ve got. Any meshugenah knows a director in television keeps a file of people he might be using in his shows.”
“Little Sir Echo,” laughed Harry Gahan. “Any more guesses, Steve?”
“The obvious.”
“And what would the obvious be?”
“Mrs. Timmerman,” I said. “Linda was seen by Mrs. Timmerman.”
“Ah? The boy is good,” said Harry Gahan. “He even knows the landlady’s name. Now how would you know a thing like that, Steve?”
“The papers, Harry. The late editions carried it.”
“He reads late editions,” said Dave Cushing pleasantly. “Did the papers also state that Linda Karig had been identified by Mrs. Timmerman?”
“I hope not, Dave. The kid will die if she gets any publicity on this thing. You promised to keep her name quiet, remember?”
“I keep my promises, Steve. The fact is Mrs. Timmerman identified Linda Karig’s face from the Flato office files. We had a bundle of wild guesses, men and women from the acting lists. Mrs. Timmerman plucked Linda out without urging. She saw Linda enter the house. But it smells to high heaven. It’s too cut and dried. Hell, I guess you can take her home. She tells the same pat story over and over again. It makes sense. I can’t see her stabbing him and then strolling out into the living room to faint. She would have collapsed when she stabbed him. And you? I could book you for breaking and entering, Steve.”
“The hall door was open,” I equivocated.
“Open, shmopen. And a nice breeze blowing through a broken pane in the terrace door,” Harry remarked.
“And for what?” asked Dave Cushing.
“I saw a girl on the floor. You’d move in yourself under similar circumstances.”
“You don’t go browsing around on terraces, looking for girls on floors,” Harry Gahan said softly. “Does that sound like our Stevie, Max?”
Max shrugged dutifully. “You’re asking me, Steve could be browsing anywhere, Harry. Once I caught him in my office going through the top drawer in my personal desk. You know what he told me? Lox and bagels he was looking for. So I’m the wrong one to ask such a question, understand?”
“How about booking him as an accessory?” Harry asked.
“That’s a better idea,” Dave said pleasantly.
“Dandy,” I said. “But if I’m an accessory, you’ve got to prove Linda Karig the murderer.”
“Listen to my boy talk,” laughed Max Ornstein. “A regular Clarence Darrow he turned out to be, right, Dave? A regular mouthpiece.”
“A mouthpiece without a tongue,” said Cushing. He regarded me with quiet amusement and a certain amount of pique. “You still won’t tell me why you walked in, Steve?”
“I’ll tell you what I told you before. I’m committed to do a quiet locate job for my client. I just can’t tell you about my job, Dave. You know that.”
“Not even a hint?” Harry Gahan grunted, his massive face souring for my benefit. “What the hell is this anyhow, Dave? We’re playing games, maybe? For God’s sake, tell him to take the broad and leave before I get up and kiss him for you.”
“Easy, Harry,” said Dave. “Steve would help us if he could.”
“And maybe I will,” I said. “If I feel there’s any connection between what I want and what you need. A deal?”
“A deal,” sighed Dave Cushing and got out of his chair and flipped the intercom. “Take the Karig girl out into the hall, Charlie,” he said into the intercom. “Steve Conacher will pick her up.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Goodbye, Dave,” said Max. “It’s a big thing for me, all this again. Like old times. So long, Harry.”
“Don’t let Conacher keep you up late nights,” said Harry, and shook his hand. “You look human since you opened that trap in Lynbrook. One of these days I’ll have to ride out with the wife and kids for some hamburgers.”
“On me,” said Max. “Any time, Harry. And you, too, Dave.”
“See that the girl can be reached, Steve,” Dave said. “I may need her.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” I said.
She was going back to her flat with Max and me, of course. Her face was dead with fatigue under the impact of the experience in Cushing’s office. She had little to say until we closed the door behind us in her rooms. Then she wept a little and battled for composure while we stood by and made assuring noises.
“You’re sure he won’t give this to the papers?” she asked. “That’s my biggest worry, Steve.”
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