Triple Slay

by Lawrence Lariar

“And then you might have figured you’d buy Masterson off. So you called him out to Fire Island and gave him some money, threatening to kill him if he continued to pursue Mari.”

  “Rot,” said Silverton. “Pure rot.”

  “And then you could have knifed him when he went to see Helen Calabrese. It fits, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?”

  ‘Listen, Conacher,” he said. “Mari Barstow didn’t mean quite that much to me. Your theories sound quite logical. But I’m not the jealous lover type. No woman on earth could affect me that way.”

  His voice was shaded with worry. He was tight in my hands, his face pale. Up close, I could see the sweat break out on his forehead, measure the liplicking fear that ate at him. But the fear meant only that he was afraid of my temper and the possibility of bodily harm. He was coming alive for me in depth, a willow snob and nothing more, a man of air and shadows, an aging man of no substance, no character but the artificial façade he presented to the world. He was all veneer and indifference and good manners. He was nothing.

  ‘Tell me about the Machin portrait,” I said.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Why you had it done.”

  “Machin is the best in New York for head shots.”

  “Machin is also over the budget,” I said. “Or do you load your publicity department with expensive photography?”

  “It was a whim of hers,” he admitted. “It was something Mari wanted—I let her have Machin to keep her happy. Hell, that’s my job, Conacher. Mari is a stubborn woman and she insisted on special pictures. Actually, we’ve used none of his portraits of her. They’re much too atmospheric for press use. She simply gave them away to her friends.”

  “And was Masterson a particular friend of hers?”

  “I hardly knew him.”

  “You’ve had him at your Fire Island parties.”

  “Only by accident. I didn’t invite him.”

  “He came with Mari, was that it?”

  “Don’t ask me, Conacher. A party on Fire Island often becomes an open affair. Masterson may have come with any one of several women. He didn’t belong particularly to Mari Barstow. He’s not that type.”

  He proceeded to describe the type of wolf Masterson was, regaining his coolness as he went into detail. There was nothing at all wrong with his logic. Masterson had proved himself unsteady, fickle and conniving. But Silverton wandered far afield. I brought him back home. To Fire Island.

  “You didn’t go to Fire Island yesterday?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you check?” he said. “I dock my boat at Gruber’s, in Bay Shore. Would you like to call Gruber and ask him whether I went out yesterday? I tell you I was in town all day and all night. Do you want proof positive? My man will testify.”

  “Is anybody out at your Fire Island place?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Tell me about it, Silverton. Does it have a sapling fence?”

  “It does not,” he smiled, his poise restored completely now. “What ever gave you that idea?”

  “Who owns the house with the sapling fence?”

  “I don’t know of such a house. My place is isolated, on the eastern extremity of the village. Would you like to see a photo of my house, Conacher?”

  “Forget it,” I said.

  The visit was over and Silverton led me politely to the door, making casual conversation about the great problem Mari Barstow had created in the network publicity department.

  “A mad character,” he said. “But one of the best voices ever. She knows that we’ve got to go along with her because we want her. She’s a prize property. Any of the other networks would grab her. It’s my job to keep her happy even though we may have to hire a staff psychiatrist to help me.”

  “Better hire a group,” I suggested. “Mari Barstow will never be happy with just one man.”

  CHAPTER 16

  I drove down the broad Southern State Parkway. The road was a wide, empty ribbon over the flat terrain, skirting the sleeping towns and villages. At this time of day there was no traffic. The automotive commuters would be crowding this route in a few hours, bumper to bumper on the way back to the city from the Long Island suburbs.

  In a little over an hour I turned off the main highway and headed south to Bay Shore and the waterfront. Gruber’s Dock was a landmark, a great yard full of boats, afloat in space against the moon-gray sky. At the far end, Gruber’s Cottage, set apart on a grassy plot.

  I leaned on the bell and after a while Gruber himself responded. He eyed me with uninhibited surliness until I mouthed the magic name.

  “Oliver Silverton told me about you,” I said.

  “Oh? Silverton did? Well, come in.”

  “Thanks. What I wanted was a ride to Fire Island.”

  “Now, for God’s sake? At this hour?”

  “Right now.”

  “It’ll cost you, mister.”

  “How soon can you leave?”

  “It’ll cost you twenty bucks.”

  “Let’s move,” I said.

  “In advance,” said Gruber.

  The feel of my money brought him to life. He was out in a few minutes, pulling on a windbreaker and guiding me to a slip. A slick motorboat lay at her moorings and he made the motor bark and eased her out into the channel and roared off over the dark bay. Ahead, a thin line of small dotted lights marked our goal. Gruber piloted the boat with the natural ease of a native skipper, aided by the misted moon riding to starboard. I looked astern. Back there the mainland was a halftone blob on the horizon, a vague shadow soon to be sharpened by the dawn. The water showed no sign of movement. It was much too early, even for the party boat fishermen.

  “A hell of a time to be going out,” said Gruber. “None of my business, of course.”

  “Looking for a friend,” I said, “Kind of an emergency.”

  “That figures. Trouble?”

  “My trouble will be finding him. I don’t know the Island.”

  “What’s to know? You’re talking to an expert. Born and brought up on Fire Island. Before the queers moved in. Know every inch of it.”

  “A house with a sapling fence,” I said. “You know the type? Skinny sticks made into a fence.”

  “I know sapling fences,” he said with a show of righteousness. “Got one around my place in Amityville. Cost like blazes.”

  “Are there many of them out on the Island?”

  “Can’t recall but three.”

  “You know the people who own them?”

  “Big houses,” he said. “Biggest one is the Carter place, on the east end of the village. Old Mrs. Carter uses it. Sort of a hermit. She’s been coming out there summers for years. All alone.”

  “And the other two?”

  “Two on the west side. Both new places. One belongs to a man named Larry Bartell, big meat merchant in Jamaica. Made his money in frankfurters. Started with a—”

  “And the other one?”

  “Other one was built by Sheldon Strater. Writer fellow. Big man in television. Sort of hit the skids last year. That’s why he rented his place this summer.”

  “Who rented it?”

  “Now that’s not an easy one,” Gruber said, and went into a deep reverie. We were skimming out beyond the marshes now, entering the foggy bay. He was working his way cautiously, watching for the channel markers. “Name’s on the tip of my tongue. Nice kind of a man. Brings his boat into my place for service. Has a real big Chris-Craft, maybe forty feet. Fine engines—”

  “Flato?”

  “Not Flato.”

  “Masterson?”

  “No.”

  “Haddon? Arthur Haddon?”

  “Nothing like that. Sort of foreign.”

  “Calabrese?”

  “On the nose,” said Gruber. “A free and easy man with the dol
lar. I like that type. Good sport. Pays his bills and asks no questions. Not many like him …”

  His high regard for Luigi Calabrese was wasted on me. We were arriving at the Island.

  I ran up the dock before Gruber had made fast to the piling.

  “How long will you be?” he shouted.

  “Hang on,” I said. “I should be back soon.”

  Then I started through the fogged streets at a slow trot.

  Fire Island is a splinter of land off the shores of Long Island, a long, thin and sandy stretch of valuable real estate. In past decades only a handful of summer hermits knew this place. They came here for complete solitude, enjoying the true island life, the absence of paved streets and automobiles and other civilized conveniences. They came here by ferry from the towns of Babylon or Bay Shore, or by private boats to the few sheltered coves on the westerly side. In those days the Island boasted a community of dedicated souls made up of solid citizens who enjoyed its perpetual peace and quiet; businessmen and actors and artists and writers and celebrities from the legitimate theater and radio.

  Today, Fire Island means many things to many people. For the most part its tiny villages are still quaint and interesting, its narrow, boarded lanes lined with a variety of small beach cottages. But the aura of privileged isolation is long gone. In the big centers, too many strange people dwell; too many feminine males and offbeat females and abnormal Johns in search of abnormal Janes.

  Years ago I had come here often, to surf cast into the breakers off Ocean Beach. The quiet lanes reminded me of those weekends, the good hours spent with friends in these simple cottages, close to the center of the tiny community. But as I walked deeper into the western section the pattern seemed to change. Here the dwellings were newer, more elegant and set apart from each other on larger plots. I slowed and squinted, alert for the sapling fence I must find. The light had gone dead in the sky a little while ago, the moon buried under a blanket of clouds, the air heavy with fog. And with the fog came a greater sensitivity to the quiet, the impossible quiet. For somewhere far off a bell sounded, muted, a buoy probably, out in the bay. On the other side, the waves hissed and whispered on the beach.

  And then, suddenly ahead of me, a house with a sapling fence.

  The fog had hidden this house from me. A few dozen feet from the fence, my eyes were caught by the misted yellow glow of a light deep inside, far behind the picture window facing the lane. Was somebody up in there?

  Somebody was certainly up out here.

  Behind me, as I stepped closer to the fence.

  “Walk,” he said. “In there.”

  First, the quick gun in my back. Next, the flat slap of a hard hand across my ear. He did it twice and pushed at me and I went careening through the open gate.

  He was Grippo.

  His voice gave him away and I was thankful for his three words of identification. I found myself landing in sand, rolling off to the right toward the protection of the fence. He came after me at once, stumbling and groping as I slid away.

  I blessed the fog and the soundlessness of sand. On my I knees, I braced myself for his lunge and tackled him low, punching with one hand, aiming at his stomach and feeling the crazy impact of his belt buckle as I made contact with him. He grunted and sucked air, doubled up. I hit him again and slapped at his gun and sent it clacking against the sapling fence and falling soundlessly in the sand. He flailed at me blindly, but he was too far gone in the stomach; there was nothing left in him. When I hit him again, his head came down to meet his knees and he was eating dirt.

  He continued to eat dirt as he slept.

  I buried his gun in the sand and rolled him behind a dune and advanced to the house.

  The light was coming from a broad patio, facing the bay on the other end of the ranch house. I circled the place and approached it from that side. From here a view of the terrace came clear to me. And so did the voices.

  “He’ll be out, all right,” a man’s voice said.

  “We won’t be here to greet him,” said a woman’s voice.

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “I’ve made them before, darling. Let’s do it my way.”

  “You shouldn’t be moving around so much.”

  “I’ll feel better out of here,” she laughed. “This place gives me the screaming meemies, darling. I’ve told you that. I’m not the type for sand dunes and sea gulls.”

  His back was turned to me, but his voice came clear and I knew him, of course. He was Luigi. She got up from her chaise and crossed the patio to him. For a moment they clung to each other and he kissed her. They were both facing me when the kiss was finished. They were looking directly at me. They would have seen me if there had been any light at all. But they were only looking into a pocket of fog. For me, however, both of them seemed to be on a kind of stage up there, the terrace lights bringing them to life. She was wearing a loose-fitting outfit of Oriental origin, but something about her posture made her seem awkward and foolish. It was when she turned her figure in profile that I understood.

  She was pregnant.

  And she was Mari Barstow.

  Mari! The door was beginning to open for me at last, the door to the madness beyond, the secret black room. She was talking to him again and the sound of her voice chilled me. She was raising her voice in petulance and anger.

  “Why don’t we wait a while, Mari?”

  “I detest waiting. Especially in this stupid place.”

  “We can make trips from time to time, on the boat. Nobody would see you—”

  “We’re making our trip now, Luigi dear. Before your friend arrives.”

  “I’ve told you he’s easy. Forget him, will you? I can handle him—he’s an old buddy of mine.”

  “God save me from old buddies.”

  “You’re making a big mistake, Mari. He may not even come out. Helen was simply playing a hunch when she called.”

  “Helen is a clever girl. I’ll buy it her way.”

  “Even if he doesn’t see you? I’ll simply tell him I came out with Grippo for a short stay.”

  “That’s a laugh. You and the ape away on vacation. Your detective friend can’t be that stupid.”

  “You’re wrong, don’t you see? You’re convinced he’s coming out here to track you down. Actually, he only wants to talk to me about Grippo.”

  “Why Grippo, for God’s sake?”

  “He thinks Grippo leveled an old friend of his—a detective friend. He’ll ask his silly questions and then go home.”

  “Great. And did Grippo manhandle a friend of his?”

  “Grippo did nothing. The man was knifed in the Village. Conacher’s smart enough to realize that Grippo never used a knife, even in his heyday. Besides, if Grippo had done the knifing, he would tell me all about it. He’s an ape, but he’s a truthful ape.”

  “How naïve you are, darling. You think Grippo would confess a murder to you?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “You’re sure of everything, including detective friends. God save me from your bumbling faith. Certainly your buddy Conacher can’t be as big a fool as you paint him.”

  “I can reason with Steve.”

  “Without me. Will you take me off this island, or shall I make my own arrangements?”

  “Whatever you say, Mari.”

  “I’ve said it.”

  “Get dressed. I’ll find Grippo and have him warm up the boat.”

  She went inside. For a moment he stood there, smoking quietly. Then he flipped his cigarette away into the wind and slowly turned to follow her.

  He was crossing the living room when I came in from the terrace. It was a very large room, designed to promote the feeling of outdoor airiness. The picture window on the north side framed the vast panorama of the bay. The fog had lifted a bit out there and the moon flecked the
water. Nothing stirred, no boat moved against the misted horizon. Then, from the deep beyond the shoreline, a little light flickered and died and flickered again. A boat? A fisherman out this early?

  Luigi went to the window and stood there listening. The rest of the house lay off to the left, the other side of a generous el. He contemplated the door through which Mari had vanished. Then he started for the front of the place, the big square vestibule.

  “Grippo isn’t out there, Luigi,” I said.

  His hand was on the doorknob when he heard my voice. He turned slowly, the old smile alive on his face, as natural as breathing for him in any emergency. He hesitated before mouthing a greeting, his eyes concerned with the other end of the house.

  “Steve,” he said, extending his hand. “You get around, friend.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me you’re surprised to see me?”

  “Why tell you? I don’t expect visitors at this hour.”

  “You expected me, Luigi. Helen phoned to tell you I’d be out, didn’t she?”

  “Who am I to fool with a detective?” he smiled. “I expected you, certainly. But later in the day. Would you like a drink?”

  “Not right now, thanks. And you expected me at this time of day.”

  “You read minds, too?” he said with a slight show of irritation. He mixed himself a drink, leaning heavily on the bourbon. “How did you know I expected you?”

  “Your watchdog, Grippo. I left him out on the sand. Does he always patrol your gate at this hour of the morning?”

  “Carmen is often unpredictable, Steve.”

  “Not to me, he isn’t. He moves when you call the shots. What was he supposed to do with me, Luigi? Bury me under a dune? Or simply put me away?”

  “Hard words.” He tried for lightness, but it didn’t quite come off. He was affected by my lack of humor, impressed by my obvious purpose. He would have given me a better performance if the area behind me held less fascination for him. His eyes continued to worry about the rooms at the other end of the house. “You don’t think I’d order Grippo to go to work on you, Steve? Not really. I’ll admit I put him there. But only to bring you inside.”

  “With a gun?”