I shook my shoulder free. “It’s a point of honor to leave under my own power. I don’t know why it is, but it is. You understand?”
“I get it,” he said.
“However,” I cautioned him, “you walk behind me. And if my head falls off, be sure to pick it up.” We started for the door.
Two and a half hours later I felt better. Weak, but better. After a shave, steam bath, massage, six soft-boiled eggs, a glass of milk laced with bourbon, and clean clothes, I rode in the back seat of Lennie’s cab to my office. The taxi driver’s name was Lennie…
Lennie kept talking, and the mumbling of his voice helped me relax. I felt like a man who had been exorcised of an evil spirit, and no pun intended. I always felt like that, after a bash, and this last soiree of mine had lasted eight days. A respectable average—some have lasted longer, and some shorter. But eight days, balanced by eight nights, of warm moist oblivion is usually enough to block off the cortex of a man’s mind, at least temporarily.
Although—as I’ve found out the hard way—the soft pink exploring tongue of alcohol, the camaraderie of lovelies and louts, the ducal largess of my own coin minted through mutual efforts between myself and clients and compounded of insanity, passion, poverty and cyanide pills do not combine to make a better world in which to live. They do however offer a temporary refuge. Particularly to a person such as myself, possessing only a passport issued by the state of nepenthe. Each time I take off on a visit, I know what I am doing. It requires practically no preparation. To start the journey, I merely hurry to the nearest bar.
Of course, some day, I realize that I may not return.
However, as Lennie stopped his taxi in front of the building where I have my offices, I felt almost human. He opened the door, and helped me out. As I stood on the sidewalk, the late afternoon sun beat down on me, and pedestrians turned to gape at my gray slacks and maroon sport jacket. Several nodded to me as if they knew me, and I nodded back. “Leave your cab in the ‘No Parking’ zone,” I instructed Lennie. “I’ll pay your ticket.”
My office is on the fourteenth floor. On the door is a sign which reads: March and Taylor—Attorneys-at-Law.
Pushing open the door, I walked into the reception room. Lennie trailed behind me. My secretary, Lydia Gorham, glanced up and inquired, “Back so soon, Mr. March?”
“I had to cut it short,” I replied. “Where’s the cash box?”
Defensively, Lydia hunched over her desk as if daring me to violate the sanctity of petty cash. “There’s not much,” she said. “I had to buy some stamps.”
“After this, you have my permission to deliver all correspondence by hand,” I told her. “Let’s see the money!”
She slowly handed me a small metal box. Opening it, I glanced inside—there was probably somewhere between seventy and eighty dollars. I scooped it out, and handed the bills to Lennie.
“You don’t owe me that much,” he protested.
“I don’t know anything about it, but he certainly doesn’t,” Lydia agreed.
“Keep it,” I told the cabbie.
Lennie stuffed the bills into his pocket, tipped his cap and started for the door. “It’s been nice knowing you,” he said. “You ever need a cab… call for me personal.”
“I’ll do that,” I promised.
Lydia arose from behind her desk. “I’ll let Mr. Taylor know you’re back,” she told me.
Albert Taylor is my junior partner. “I’ll stick my head in his office when I go by it,” I said.
“No.” Lydia shook her head. “Someone’s in there with him now.”
“Who?”
“His name is Knox.”
It didn’t mean anything to me then. Not at the time. “All right. Tell Bert I’m here, but I’m not staying. I’m going home.”
“Please wait, Mr. March,” Lydia pleaded. “I know Mr. Taylor is anxious to see you… he’s had me calling everywhere… all day.”
I shrugged, and went into my office. In my desk, I keep a bottle of Vitamin B complex tablets. They’re supposed to be good for hangovers. I ate a handful of them, then Bert Taylor walked in and peered at me nearsightedly from behind the heavy frames of his glasses. “You sure got back in the nick of time,” he said.
“Why?” I asked. “Are we overdrawn again?”
“Your checks have been coming in all week. What were you buying out, National Distilleries?” He shook his head. “It’s not money, Cy.”
“Then why keep me here… from my bed of pain?”
“I’ve got Robert Knox in my office. I’ve been stalling him since this morning.”
Robert Knox. The name chimed vaguely… but not much. “I’ve heard it,” I said.
Taylor took off his glasses, breathed on the lenses, and polished them on his sleeve. “You should’ve,” he told me. “He’s the grandson of old Maxwell Knox.”
Then I got it. The Knox family were fourth-generation Californians—nearly ancient by the state’s standards. Originally land, then real estate, then oil, and finally industry. The children of the family, instead of being born with pupils in their eyes, inherited dollar signs. “Why’s he here?” I asked.
“It’s regarding the Ivy Lorents killing.” Again, Taylor waited for me to react.
This time nothing happened. “What’re you talking about?” I asked.
Bert was silent for a moment. Several times he opened his mouth to speak, then kept quiet. He put his glasses back on. Finally, he said, “I take it you haven’t been reading the newspapers this last week.”
“That’s right,” I agreed. “Are they still publishing them?” I started for the door. “I’ll read all the old copies tonight… and tomorrow you and I will try again.”
Bert stopped me. He motioned with his head in the direction of his own office. “Knox is in there… he’s willing to pay you fifty thousand dollars, plus costs, to defend Ivy Lorents.”
“Tell him, I’ll defend him… and any two friends he cares to select at random for that.”
“Wait a minute, Cy. Stop kidding. He’s serious…” Taylor paused, and stared at me intently. “But he has several conditions attached.”
“What?”
“I’d prefer he told you himself. Then it’s up to you to decide.”
“How can I decide, when I don’t know anything about the case?”
Taylor, bless his pedantic, methodical heart, nodded in agreement. “I’ve had Lydia gather all the newspaper clippings. I’ve also dictated a memo regarding the information given to me by Robert Knox, and what little I’ve been able to find out by talking to the police authorities direct. While you read over this material and brief in the background, I’ll keep Knox busy in my office.” He opened the door. “Anything else you need?”
“Yes. Have Lydia make me a pot of black coffee, and send down to the drug store for a refill on my dexedrine tablets.”
Taylor left my office, closing the door behind him. Opening a drawer of my desk, I removed a small metal cylinder with a nose piece attached. Adjusting it, I turned the valve and inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with oxygen. My head began to clear almost instantly, and I felt suddenly lightheaded. Enough. As I turned off the valve, Lydia came in carrying a number of newspaper clippings and several dictated pages of notes. She placed them on my desk.
“Skin diving again?” she inquired. “Aren’t you afraid some day you’ll get the bends?”
“Not if I’m careful. It’s not the descent that’s dangerous. It’s coming back up.”
“I’ll bring the coffee right in. The drug store is rushing over your prescription.”
“Thanks.” I tried to smile my appreciation, but my face suddenly felt as if it were flaking off in bits of enamel.
I started to read about what happened to Ivy Lorents.
CHAPTER FOUR
Pauline Morrisey’s call, reporting the shots, was received at 2:07 A.M., Thursday morning, the 19th, at the Central Station in downtown Los Angeles. A radio car was instantly dispatched to th
e Silver Sands, and arrived at the building at 2:13 A.M. Pauline Morrisey was waiting before the building when the patrol car arrived.
Officer Richard Apfel, after a few brief words with Mrs. Morrisey, rushed inside the building and up the stairs to the third floor where he knocked authoritatively at the door of apartment 3-A.
The door was opened by Ivy Lorents who was crying and distraught. She was wearing only a thin silk dressing robe, and she kept tugging the garment around her as if she were cold. A quick look inside the darkened living room jolted Officer Apfel into further action. Abruptly ordering the openly curious Pauline Morrisey to return to her own downstairs apartment, Apfel dialed the Hollywood Division to report the apparent homicide. At approximately 2:27 A.M., Apfel was joined by Detective Howard Ringow.
Ringow—a short, stocky, powerful man—had a deeply tanned face which blended into a pair of brown eyes and short-cropped brown hair. He stood in the center of Ivy Lorents’ living room and calmly looked around. Then walking toward the window, Ringow stared at the motionless figure lying face down on the floor. Although this part of the room was very dark, the detective was able to see that the white shirt and black slacks were stained with blood. Ringow touched a speculative finger to a small pool of blood which had drained off the corpse beneath the body. The blood was still sticky, so he wiped his finger on the carpet.
Turning, the detective crossed the room and squatted down to look at an ornate .32 caliber revolver on the floor at the foot of the two steps leading from the hallway to the living room. Impassively, Ringow asked Apfel, “Has anything been touched?”
“Not since I’ve been here,” Apfel replied, “except I used the phone to report.”
Ringow nodded, then again stared at the revolver. “We could stand some more light,” he observed, “but I guess we better wait until the lab men arrive.” Rising, he walked to a lustrous brown velvet couch on which Ivy Lorents was seated. Her head was lowered and she was sobbing very quietly. “Who is it?” he asked, motioning with his head toward the body, but the gesture was lost on the woman. “Come on, lady,” Ringow said impatiently, “you’ve got to get hold of yourself. Who’d you shoot?”
Ivy shook her head. Her voice was muffled. “I don’t know.”
“Surely…” Ringow started to protest, but he was interrupted by the sound of heavy feet in the outside corridor. He nodded to Apfel to open the door. Three men entered.
The first, a tall, thin man with a heavily lined face and thick bushy eyebrows announced, “I’m Doctor Edwards… Deputy Coroner.” Behind him, the other two men began unpacking supplies from a number of folding leather cases and setting up photographic equipment. “Crime lab,” Dr. Edwards added to no one in particular, then glanced sharply at Ivy Lorents whose sobbing had attracted his attention. “Is she the one?” he asked Ringow.
“Yes,” the detective replied, “but we haven’t questioned her yet.”
The doctor placed exploring fingers on the woman’s wrist. After a minute, he dropped her hand and lifted her head, with his palm beneath her chin, and examined her staring eyes and tear-stained face. “You’d better take her to Emergency first, before you start asking her questions,” Edwards advised.
Ringow agreed. “You’re going to need a warm coat,” he told Ivy. After a pause, when the girl made no reply, Ringow shrugged. Looking around, he noticed a mink stole folded on an occasional chair just inside the doorway. About to pick it up, he changed his mind and turned back to the woman. “Where do you keep your coats?” he asked. Apparently, she did not hear him. The detective shrugged and walked to a closet. From it, he removed a light woolen coat and handed it to Edwards. The doctor helped Ivy Lorents put on the coat.
At Edwards’ request, Apfel now switched on the lights and the room was suddenly illuminated. While Ringow started for the door, escorting Ivy Lorents, the doctor approached the body and knelt beside it. Ringow called across the room to Edwards, “We don’t know who he is and she doesn’t know him. Probably a prowler…”
“Uh!” Edwards exclaimed abruptly. Stiffly he rose to his feet and turned to face Ringow. “He? This isn’t a he… it’s a she!”
CHAPTER FIVE
So that’s the way it had been—that morning of the nineteenth. After asking questions, and Ivy Lorents steadfastly denying any knowledge of the slain woman, the police had released her. On the 20th, Ivy Lorents had gone to Palm Springs, stayed over the weekend, and returned to Los Angeles on Monday, the 22nd. During her absence, the dead woman had been identified as Arthea Simpson.
Arthea Simpson.
I could suddenly sense undercurrents!
On her return to Los Angeles, Ivy Lorents had been arrested and charged with the murder of Arthea Simpson.
It was now late in the afternoon of the 22nd, and Robert Knox was waiting to see me. Swallowing a final cup of coffee, I gulped down an extra dexedrine for good luck, and told Lydia to let Bert know that I was ready.
I took a good look at Robert Knox while Albert Taylor introduced us. Knox was over six feet tall with finely drawn features. He was in his early thirties, about ten years younger than myself. But it was his face that held my attention. He wore a glowing—an aesthetic—expression! And the effect was heightened by thinly spun, bright golden hair. His slightly pudgy figure was clothed in an excellently tailored dark suit. A black four-in-hand tie lay against a spotless white shirt. His shoes and socks were also black.
Knox gave a charming yet diffident smile to Lydia Gorham who trailed them in and now closed the door. His manner was made up of an odd combination of both hesitancy and authority. When he spoke, his voice was deep and resonant. “Mr. March,” he said, “I’ve been waiting all day to see you.”
“I just got back,” I explained. “I’ve been all tangled up in something else.”
Taylor suppressed a smile. “Won’t you sit down,” he said to Knox, indicating a chair.
I politely offered Knox a cigarette. “I don’t smoke,” he told me. I didn’t let it stop me.
Resting my forearms on the edge of the desk to keep my hands from shaking, I asked, “Are you here as a client, Mr. Knox?”
Knox shifted in his chair before replying. Glancing at Bert, he said, “As I explained to Mr. Taylor… not really for myself. For a friend of mine. Miss Ivy Lorents. She’s charged with the murder of Arthea Simpson.”
“How about Miss Lorents?” I asked. “Does she wish to retain me?”
The diffident air still clung to Knox. “Well, it’s this way, sir…” His rich voice hesitated as he searched for words. “I promised to help her. She wanted me to retain… Sammy Manheim…” He looked at me apologetically. When I stared back, his eyes dropped in embarrassment.
I’d heard this before. Manheim had a reputation for being one of the best defense attorneys on the West Coast. This was strictly a matter of opinion. He was, however, among the highest paid criminal attorneys in the country. This didn’t bother me. I’d sometimes take cases for practically nothing, just to pay up bills—cases which Manheim wouldn’t touch with a library of law books.
“Mr. Knox has already talked with Manheim,” Taylor said, breaking the silence.
“Yes,” Knox agreed. “He said he couldn’t take Ivy’s case.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He’s still tied up with that… car bombing affair… at Malibu Beach.” Knox’s hand gestured, “You know the one.”
“I know the one,” I told him. The murder referred to had made headlines for weeks. “So then you came to me?”
“At Mr. Manheim’s suggestion. He said you were very good.”
“What else did he say?”
Knox remained motionless for a minute. Then he seemed to inhale deeply, and when he looked at me I was surprised by the coldness in his eyes. “Mr. Manheim also said that if you remained sober, you were the best lawyer he could recommend.”
Good old Manheim! Compliment me… spell my name right… D-R-U-N-K. I picked up a letter opener and turned it over in my f
ingers to keep my hands busy. “I don’t drink when I’m representing a client,” I told Knox, forcing my tone to remain civil. “What I do on my own time is my own business. Now, if you want me to refer you to another attorney, I’ll be glad to do so.” I ignored Taylor’s signals of distress.
Knox thought about it. Then very slowly he said, “That won’t be necessary…” I could see Albert Taylor’s relief.
“Who’s going to be responsible for fees and costs?” I asked. “Does Miss Lorents have money?”
“No.” Knox again sounded apologetic when he added, “But I do.” I didn’t say anything. His golden head was lowered and he regarded the tips of his highly polished black oxfords. Then he smiled, as if to himself, and said, “You see, Ivy and I… were very fond of each other…”
“Were?” The change of tense had caught my ear.
“Yes. We were planning to be married.” His smile vanished, and his voice became matter-of-fact. “Right after I was graduated… in another month.”
“Were, Mr. Knox? You keep saying were. I gather that you have changed your plans. Why?”
Knox crossed a leg and leaned back in his chair. His air of diffidence was gone, and his voice hardened. “After what has just happened, Mr. March, I don’t think it would be advisable. Under the best of circumstances, my family’s acceptance of Ivy… would’ve been… say, reserved? This was a problem, I felt, which we could’ve worked out. Now, it’s impossible.”
“I’m told nothing is entirely impossible.”
“This time it is. I’m studying for the ministry… something I’ve wanted all my life.” Knox paused, then continued. “The notoriety… the publicity from Ivy’s… ah, predicament… would always follow us. Without doubt it would adversely influence my career.” His old apologetic manner returned. “It would hamper my own effectiveness…” he added lamely.
“I recall the words of Plutarch.”
Knox flushed slightly. “So do I…”
“I quote: ‘When asked why he parted from his wife, Caesar replied: I wished my wife to be not so much as suspected.’”
Not I, Said the Vixen Page 2