The Principal Cause of Death

by Mark Richard Zubro

I went to call Scott to see if he’d had any luck with the Paradise Agency for Young Actors and Actresses, the talent agency whose name I’d found in Jones’s files.

  He told me he’d visited them just after they opened up at nine. They had an office on south Michigan Avenue just a half-block north of the old Lexington Hotel, where Geraldo Rivera hadn’t found anything in Al Capone’s vault.

  “You wouldn’t believe the building,” Scott said. “It was a two-story brick affair built maybe around 1910. I walked in and saw rats glare at me as if I were the one who needed to be exterminated. They didn’t seem to be worried about my harming them. These were industrial-strength critters.”

  “Did you get to the agency?” I asked. Sometimes his stories unravel slowly enough to drive me nuts.

  He took me up the befouled stairs, through a door with cracked glass, to a cubicle too filthy even for the rats to live in. In the middle of a mound of dirt and grime that might once have been a desk with papers on it, sat a handsome man in an impeccable suit.

  “The guy was gorgeous,” my lover said. “The suit was cut perfectly.”

  “How nice for him and the suit,” I said.

  Scott ignored my sarcasm. “His name was Blane Farnsworth. He recognized me right away. He told me not to be put off by the office. They’d lost their lease on the last place, and the new one wasn’t ready. He tried to sign me up as a client. I declined.”

  Scott’d asked the guy about Max Younger. Farnsworth claimed he never heard of a Max Younger. Checked some files and said the name wasn’t listed. “I think he was lying,” Scott finished.

  “Any way you can check him and his agency out?”

  “Way ahead of you. I called my agent.”

  Scott’s agent, Beauregard Vincent Strong, was headquartered in Los Angeles. I’d never met him. Scott generally described him as an acceptable weasel.

  “I woke him up at home. He promised to check and get back to me later this afternoon.”

  I told him about the Bluefield visit and promised to meet him in the city as soon as I was done talking to people at school.

  I didn’t have time to find out what Meg had learned from her talk with Dalrymple, because the bell rang for afternoon classes. I spent two impatient periods waiting. When the bell rang for my planning hour, I hurried to the library and asked what had happened. Meg said we needed to talk to Donna together.

  Just before we entered the room, Meg said, “Donna and I used to be good friends, but we drifted apart. We talked this noon about many things.”

  We found Donna expecting us in her office. She looked puffy-eyed.

  I leaned my shoulder against the door. Meg propped herself against the wall on my right. Dalrymple sat on my left.

  While Meg talked Donna stared at her hands, which were clutched together in front of her on the desktop. Meg spoke briefly about the need for solving the murder, about not wanting to threaten Donna, and about how I was a person who could be trusted. When she finished, Donna gave a tremendous sigh and looked up at me.

  She explained how her relationship with Dan grew over time. The heart of her remembrance came when she said, “Dan has a lot of hate in him. It’s directed toward his father. A lot of Dan’s acting out is trying to compensate, to work out his feelings. At any rate, the father is the root cause of a lot of Dan’s problems. We finally had a significant breakthrough the first week of school this year.” She’d started working with Dan all of last term. They’d talked three or four times a week. He’d started out hostile and uncommunicative. “That started to change after he had to spend two months at a work-release program instead of going to jail for two months this summer for stealing some kid’s motorcycle. It was a big misunderstanding. The kid told him he could borrow it, but Dan has an awful reputation around the courthouse and he got a nasty judge.”

  While he was on a work detail on a remote country road, the three crew members with him had almost succeeded in raping him. He’d managed to run away dressed in only his socks and T-shirt. “The experience hit him hard. I was a little surprised when he opened up about it.”

  “He’s not gay?” Meg asked.

  “No, but I think the attempted rape contributed a lot to his hatred for you, Mr. Mason. I didn’t make the connection until I talked to Meg today. I suppose I should have earlier, especially after our talk last week.” Donna shrugged. “I was more concerned about him opening up to me, and he did. He certainly couldn’t open up to anyone at home about the incident, and I doubt he could trust any of his friends. He could lose status if that kind of thing got out. He cried for nearly half an hour, and what he kept saying was ‘I hate him.’ At first I thought he meant one of his attackers, but it was his dad.”

  Over the next few weeks, as Dalrymple and Bluefield talked, they became closer. “I don’t know how it happened. I know it was my fault because I’m the adult.”

  “The kid was eighteen,” Meg said.

  “That’s why Jones didn’t fire me outright,” Donna said. “But it was unprofessional of me. I shouldn’t have, and I shouldn’t have done anything at school. It was stupid.”

  The details of how the affair got started weren’t terribly important, so I didn’t ask.

  “I didn’t kill Jones,” she said. “I met with him that day and agreed to a plan for me to leave honorably. I told Dan that day that I wouldn’t be able to see him anymore. Dan was furious. I’m sure that’s why he attacked the student teacher and you. I was stupid to cut off the relationship, but I didn’t see any other way out. When he came back from the doctor after your fight, he came to see me. I felt such guilt. I held him and comforted him.”

  “You didn’t … ?” Meg asked.

  “No.” Dalrymple sounded totally miserable. “My husband doesn’t know about any of this. I want to protect him and the children. I’m leaving the state. I’m going to practice somewhere else. It’ll probably mean I have to tell my husband the truth. He’ll demand a divorce. Not that that would be a shock. Dan was more satisfying in this room than my husband was in the ten years we were married.”

  She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder. “I wrote to this place the first time I got caught with Dan. I got the answer the day before the murder.”

  She showed us an acceptance of her application at a clinic in Denver. “They took me quickly because the professor I did my residency with at Northern Illinois University is the head of the program. He’s often asked me to come out to join his staff. I had no reason to kill Jones. I was out of it.”

  We left her minutes later. In the hallway Meg said, “Poor thing. I feel sorry for her.”

  After school I found Max Younger ordering kids about the auditorium. I jumped onto the stage to talk to him. He told me he had a show to do, and he could give me five minutes between rehearsals of acts two and three about four o’clock. I grabbed his arm and whispered in his ear, “Paradise Agency for Young Actors and Actresses.”

  He turned red, barked a few orders to the assembled kids, and beckoned me off the stage. We sat in the last row of the auditorium.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  “I know the name of the agency, and that you were connected with it. I know Jones was investigating. I know there was something shady about the operation.” This last was a bit of a lie. “I want to know what was so shady, exactly, and how Jones found out about it.”

  He chose to call my bluff. “Jones didn’t know shit and neither do you.”

  I said, “I think there’s something to know. Something that you could get in big trouble for. Something big enough for you to want to kill Jones.”

  He jumped to his feet and leaned toward me, shaking a finger in my face. “I have done nothing wrong, nothing anybody can prove is wrong, so butt out of my life.” He stomped back to the stage. Seeing it was useless to pursue the topic, I left.

  I returned to the city. Scott met me in the entranceway of his apartment. “I just got a call from my agent. The Paradise Agency has a
nasty reputation.” Beauregard had told him about rumors that Paradise hired young actors and actresses to perform overseas, mostly in Italy and Japan, but other places as well. “Some people talk about kids never coming back.”

  “I thought white slavery was a thing of the past,” I said.

  “Beauregard couldn’t give me any confirmation of the rumors. He didn’t remember where he heard them. Paradise has branches in New York, L.A., and Atlanta. I described the place here to him. Beauregard seemed to think they were all probably like that.”

  “Let’s pay them another visit,” I said.

  If anything, Scott had understated the filth and degradation of the building and the surroundings. We paused in the alley next door to reconnoiter. I never wanted to explore the alley’s depths. This was Urban Nightmare Number One, first-class and done right. Scott was right about the enormous rats.

  Blane Farnsworth had a nameplate on his desk. He saw Scott, stood up, and held out his hand. “You changed your mind. You came back to sign up.” Scott was right. The suit fit him beautifully. The guy was a hunk.

  Scott shook Farnsworth’s hand and introduced me. I got a puzzled look and a handshake. I glanced around the room. It was the kind of office that Miss Havisham would have felt at home in.

  Scott and I had decided on a strategy on the way over. We’d start nice. Scott said, “I thought about your offer and decided I wanted to know what you could do for me.”

  Farnsworth gave us a glowing picture of what he could do, then said, “With you as a client we’d be able to move right up.”

  We sat in unmatched kitchen chairs that had been patched with duct tape. Scott asked about the agency’s current list of clients.

  Farnsworth reeled off a list of unfamiliar names and bookings in places I’d never heard of.

  I told him that.

  Farnsworth said, “I don’t quite understand your presence here.” He sounded puzzled and suave, but I thought I detected irritation and suspicion just below the surface.

  Scott said, “He’s my lover and we want to know how you would handle our relationship as a coming-out thing in the papers. We’re thinking of getting married on Johnny Carson.”

  “Like Tiny Tim did?” Farnsworth asked.

  Tiny Tim was a star briefly in the late sixties. He played ukulele and sang songs in a grating falsetto. He got married to a Miss Vicky on the Carson show, which that night drew one of the highest ratings in its history.

  Scott said, “I’m sure it would draw a lot of viewers. Could really put this agency on the map.”

  I could almost see little dollar signs rolling in Farnsworth’s eyes. They’d stop and hit the jackpot in a second. He said, “You’re really gay? You guys look so masculine. Are you putting me on?”

  Scott leaned over and kissed me on the lips.

  The guy said, “Wow. Scott Carpenter in my office, kissing a guy. Wow.” He shook his head.

  “Can you handle the bookings and publicity?” Scott asked.

  “I guess, sure. Definitely.” He gained momentum with each utterance. He began to outline plans for press conferences, speaking engagements, national and international tours.

  “One thing,” Scott said.

  “Anything,” Farnsworth said.

  “We need some information,” Scott said.

  Farnsworth looked wary. “I told you this morning that I didn’t know the guy you asked about.”

  Scott said, “You don’t tell us, you don’t get the contract.”

  Farnsworth’s look turned from wary to definitely suspicious. His handsome face bent into frown lines. “This is a put-on to get information. You don’t need a dinky little operation like this. You’ve got big-time agencies behind you. What the hell is this? And don’t give me any of this ‘I’m sorry for a small agency and want to give it a chance.’”

  I couldn’t think of any arguments to allay his suspicions. Judging from Scott’s silence, neither could he.

  Farnsworth rummaged in his desk and pulled out a gleaming gun. He said, “I want answers from you two, before I throw you out.”

  I checked the distance to the door, and wondered whether it would be possible to create a diversion or whether a frontal attack was feasible.

  Farnsworth caught my eye. “Don’t even think about it. No matter what noise you make, help won’t come. Nobody in this neighborhood cares, and if they do, they know enough not to ask questions.”

  “You wouldn’t murder Scott Carpenter,” I said.

  He gave me a nasty grin. “Wouldn’t I? I want some answers.” He demanded to know what we really wanted. Scott repeated what he’d said this morning.

  Farnsworth said, “You keep mentioning this Younger guy. I told you I never heard of him. I want you to leave.” He waved the gun at us. We got up and edged toward the exit. “Don’t come back,” he warned. We slipped out the door.

  In the street Scott said, “Cute can cover a multitude of sins, but I’d never trust him.”

  “Let’s wait for him to come out,” I said.

  “For what? If we follow him, he’ll probably just go home like most of the other commuters in the city.”

  “I’d like to look around his office without the benefit of his assistance,” I said.

  “Now look—” Scott began.

  Quickly I pulled him into the alley. Farnsworth was at the door to his building. His tie was loosened and he carried a paperback book with him.

  In the filth-infested alley we debated. Scott didn’t want to go in and had several excellent reasons why we shouldn’t. “It’s illegal. We have no proof he’s done anything wrong. We could get caught.”

  I had no answer to his arguments, so I marched out of the alley and back to the building entrance. I walked up the stairs. Scott was behind me, muttering and cursing. His most frequent comment was “This is the dumbest thing we’ve ever done together.” I heard occasional noises from a few of the other cubicles in the building. On the second floor no light shone from inside the Paradise Agency. Breaking in was simple: I gave the door an angry shove and it burst open. I managed to catch it before it slammed into the wall. We rummaged around the grime and filth for half an hour. It wasn’t five yet, and the window faced west across Michigan Avenue, so we didn’t have to turn the light on.

  Scott whispered, “Let’s get the hell out of here,” an exasperatingly high number of times.

  Just after I said, “Would you shut up?” we heard footsteps coming toward the door.

  He growled and I murmured, “Hush.”

  The footsteps stopped outside the door. I’d closed and tried to relock it. Whoever it was used the same method I did to enter: a sharp shove on the door, and a grab before it banged into the wall behind it. Max Younger stood in the doorway with a McDonald’s bag in one hand and an astonished look on his face.

  We gazed at each other for a moment. He glanced at Scott. “You’re somebody,” Max said to him.

  I said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Max trudged into the room, flipped on the desk lamp, dropped his bag of burgers onto the desk, and flopped into the chair.

  I said, “I want answers now, Max. What the hell is this operation?”

  Max decided on exasperation as a major part of his response. He said, “It’s a second job. What the hell does it look like? If I ever want to pay back what I owe the district, I have to get it somewhere. I moonlight here. Farnsworth called me early today and told me you’d been around. I didn’t know you’d try to break in. I should call the cops.”

  “I bet they’d love to look at your files,” Scott said.

  “They wouldn’t find anything,” Max said. “We haven’t made a dime in six months. We had to move from our last place. We can barely pay the rent on this fleabag office.”

  “If it doesn’t make any money, how will that help you pay what you owe?” I asked.

  “We’re expecting a couple of things to break for us real soon.”

  He ignored the skeptical look on my fac
e. “Then what did Jones find?” I asked.

  Max sighed. “He found rumors. He’d read some article in some tabloid talking about phony agencies. He believed them. I suppose I didn’t help much by telling him it was none of his business. I guess he got suspicious, but there wasn’t anything for him to find, because there’s nothing here. Sure, we get kids bookings overseas, but they’re all legit, and all the kids come back.”

  “Mind if we check?” I asked.

  Max hesitated, then said, “Oh, hell. I don’t care. Do what you want. You won’t find anything.”

  I didn’t think we would. They probably wouldn’t keep records like “Teenager sold into slavery, $100, see Omar the Tentmaker in Ashtrakan.”

  “Where else do you keep files?” I asked.

  “Hidden around the city in locked luggage containers at the train stations and bus depots,” Max said. “We move them every twenty-four hours. Good luck finding them all.”

  I didn’t appreciate his sarcasm, but I guess we didn’t have much choice. We weren’t prepared to search the city. Certainly he wasn’t prepared to give us any more information.

  “Didn’t work,” I murmured as I started the truck.

  “What we need to do is have one of those murder-mystery scenes,” Scott said. “You know, where they gather all the suspects together? We explain how it logically has to be one of them, and then one of the others dramatically stands up and confesses to having been the murderer.”

  I swung east onto Balbo Drive to get to Lake Shore Drive.

  Scott continued, “We could find some way to trick them into confessing.”

  “Maybe you’ve hit on the right approach,” I said.

  “I was making a joke,” Scott said. He glared at me. “I can already tell I’m not going to like this.”

  “Yes, you will.” I outlined my plan as we cruised up Lake Shore Drive. It was simplicity itself. We would tell all the suspects that we knew that Jones had had more files hidden somewhere in the office and that we were assembling a detail to take the place apart to find them the next evening after school. I said, “Jones had to have something on the murderer that we haven’t uncovered. The murderer will have to come to find and destroy it sometime tomorrow after school.”