Deadly Joke

by Hugh Pentecost

  I came to the building. I looked up and down the street. At that moment there wasn’t a soul in sight, not a single vehicle moving on the Avenue. I went into the dark vestibule and started up the trash-strewn stairway. As the street door closed behind me, the musical score came to an end. From up above I heard a muffled outbreak of laughter. I got to the second floor and knocked hard on the door of Diana’s apartment. I was sure I could hear voices inside, probably coming from the far end of the apartment’s long hallway.

  Then the door opened and I found myself facing a very tall black man with a wide bright smile. He was wearing the uniform: striped bell bottoms, a scarlet shirt covered by a leather vest, a string of beads hung around his neck, and a leather headband worn around his forehead, and his Afro hair-do. He seemed amiable enough.

  “Help you, Dad?” he asked.

  I told him I was looking for Diana or Barry.

  “Say, man, this is cool!” he said. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?” He snapped his fingers. “You were with the fuzz outside Maxwell’s rooms at the Beaumont! You were standing on a radiator.”

  “A spectator, not an actor,” I said, smiling back at him.

  “Yeah, sure, man,” he said. “You friends with Diana and Barry?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “So, come on in, the water’s fine,” he said.

  I walked in and he closed the door behind me. Then he had hold of my arm and he twisted it around behind me so sharply that I thought it would break.

  “What’s the idea?” I said, to keep from crying out.

  “Just to make sure, man,” he said. He had shoved me against the wall and was frisking me. “So you’re clean, which is lucky for you. So march down the hall.”

  He pushed me ahead of him. I almost stumbled and fell.

  “What’s up, Joe?” a voice called from the kitchen.

  “I think I got me a fuzzy man,” Joe said. I was projected forward into the kitchen.

  The small room was crowded with kids—the kind of kids who had been at the hotel earlier. A girl was at the stove, stirring something in a big iron pot. It smelled like chili.

  “This gent, disguised as a member of the establishment, claims to be a friend of Diana’s and Barry’s,” Joe said. “I say it’s a likely story. He was at the Beaumont earlier tonight. He was one of the fuzz.”

  “Do I get a chance to tell you who I am?” I asked. I want to tell you I was scared. I could feel a cold river of sweat running down my back. They were about fifty-fifty boys and girls. There were six or seven blacks in addition to Joe. There wasn’t a friendly look in the whole place. Then I saw a face I recognized. It was one of the two boys who’d tailed me earlier that evening when I’d first come here. I pointed at him.

  “You remember me?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, I remember you,” he said.

  “Diana gave you the all-clear on me, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah, she did,” the boy said. “That was before the fuzz started shooting at us in the hotel; before they slugged a couple of dozen of our friends and carted them off to jail, man. Before that she gave you the all-clear. After that you were there, man. You were one of them. I saw you there.”

  “So how shall we serve him up?” Joe asked. “Fried, or broiled, or shall we eat him raw?”

  There was laughter.

  “Tell us, little man, what the hell are you doing here?” Joe asked.

  “I’m not a cop,” I said. “I’m the public relations man at the Beaumont. I came here earlier tonight to get Diana because her mother needed her. She went with me of her own accord. No pressure. Ask him!” I pointed to my ex-tail.

  He stayed stone-faced.

  “I don’t know how much you all know about what’s happened at the hotel tonight. I guess you all know that Charlie Sewall was shot. But do you know that Maxwell’s bodyguard was beaten to death in the hallway where some of you tried to get into Maxwell’s suite? So that’s two strikes against your friends in jail unless you come up with the right answers.”

  “So they’re going to try to pin that on us, too!” an angry voice said. There was a general murmur of outrage.

  “Listen to me,” I said. “I’ve been close to the police tonight. They don’t think you are responsible for either of those killings. But you haven’t heard it all. Some of you may know Melody Marsh.”

  I saw that they knew who she was, at least.

  “She came to the hotel tonight because she thinks Charlie Sewall wasn’t shot by mistake. I can’t tell you any more than that. But we were worried about her. When her phone didn’t answer, my boss sent me down to Irving Place to check on her. I’ve just come from there. Somebody has beaten her up and taken her away from her apartment.”

  Again there was an angry, throaty sound from them.

  “That isn’t all,” I said. “I saw Barry uptown. He asked me to get a message to Diana. I did. Later she called me and asked me to buy her a drink. I suspected she wanted me to get some word back to Barry. But she never showed up. She left her parent’s suite, but she didn’t show. I was worried about her. When I left the cops at Melody’s apartment trying to figure out what really happened there, I decided to come down here to make sure Diana is all right. I hoped she might have decided to come direct to Barry instead of getting me to carry a message for her.”

  “The cops have probably got her,” a girl said.

  “The cops aren’t interested in her,” I said.

  “Oh, man, the cops are interested in anybody under twenty-five,” Joe said.

  “I don’t want to argue politics or sociology with you,” I said. “Tell me if Diana is okay. That’s all I want.”

  There was a window at the back of the kitchen with a drape pulled over it. I suspected it opened out onto a fire escape. The curtain was pushed aside and Barry Tennant stepped into the room.

  “I think this guy is on the up-and-up,” he said. He looked strained and tired. “Diana hasn’t come here, Haskell; or sent a message. You talked to her after you saw me?”

  “On the phone,” I said. “The line to the Maxwells’ suite is monitored by the police, but I got your message across without mentioning names. She said then, would I buy her a drink later. Then about one o’clock she called me where I told her I would be. She said she’d meet me in ten minutes for a drink. When she was ten minutes or more late, I checked. The guards outside her parents’ suite said she left it. They weren’t supposed to watch her. Nobody saw her in the lobby. Nobody saw her, period. There’s a garage under the hotel. She might have gone down and out that way without being seen. But that’s two hours ago, Barry.”

  “So we hang on to Mr. Fuzz, here, till they give us back Diana,” Joe said. He had my arm again and was starting to twist it back.

  “Let him alone, Joe,” Barry said. He looked at me and I smiled at him, mostly because the pressure had been taken off my arm. “Why does Melody think the gunning was meant for Charlie?” he asked me.

  “It’s her story,” I said. “Maybe you people will have better luck finding her than we’ve had. Any of you know a lawyer named Hyland—Richard Hyland?”

  There was a hoot of laughter from the group. “Man, do we know Dicky Hyland!” Joe said.

  “Hyland was my alleged legal counsel when Maxwell’s frame-up sent me to jail,” Barry said. “Charlie—good old Charlie—recommended him. I’ve come to think he was less than expert.”

  “What we really come to think, man,” Joe said, “is that Maxwell paid him to fumble the ball.”

  “Do you know where Hyland lives?” I asked Barry.

  “Sure, I know where he lives.”

  Joe edged forward into my line of vision. “Now you ease up, man,” he said to Barry. “Me. Fuzz, here, came to get, not to give. He wants something, let him pay for it.”

  “I’m trying to find two gals who are presumably your friends. What do I have to pay to get your help?”

  Joe towered over me. He was a pretty scary young man. “They
’ve got twenty-six of us, beat up, locked up,” he said. “That’s not counting Diana. You can bet some club-happy cop picked her up and she hasn’t had a chance to say she’s the great Maxwell’s daughter—or maybe she wouldn’t say because she’s not proud of it. So that’s what you pay, Mr. Fuzz. You get our friends loose, maybe we help you some.”

  There was a murmur of approval. The little kitchen seemed to be suddenly oppressively hot. I took my handkerchief out of my hip pocket and blotted at my face with it. It was a ploy of the times, all over the world; hostages taken by one side to command the release of hostages held by the other. It was happening in jails, on hijacked airliners. People were being kidnaped in Canada, in South America, in the Middle East, and held with threats of murder if friends of the kidnapers weren’t instantly released by the opposition. It could happen here on Second Avenue in New York City, I thought.

  “I wish anybody cared enough to make me valuable to you, Joe,” I said. “I have no drag with the police. It would take hours, maybe days, for the higher-ups to decide to meet your demands—if they would ever make that decision. Meanwhile you’ll hang around here while Diana and Melody Marsh may be in the worst kind of danger. If they don’t matter to you, then God help us all.”

  “Let him speak his piece, Joe,” somebody said.

  “Your friends are in jail for breaking into the hotel,” I said. “They aren’t charged with killing Charlie Sewall or Shaw. If you’ve got any kind of decent lawyer, he’ll get them out when they’re arraigned tomorrow. You make threats and demands and maybe someone will get stubborn. In my opinion you were used tonight.”

  “How used, man?” Joe asked.

  “Your picketing and your public threats against Maxwell,” I said. “They were a perfect backdrop for someone who planned a murder. You made the climate, Joe. Somebody gets killed and a million people instantly say, ‘It was those bomb-throwing vandals.’”

  “You watch your mouth, man!” Joe warned.

  “I’m not calling you names, Joe,” I said. “I’m telling you what other people are saying. The man who shot Charlie Sewall—whether he meant to get Charlie or Maxwell—knew exactly what the first thoughts would be. The cops would start chasing you kids and the murder had an easy thing of walking away in the confusion. Same thing with Shaw. He was murdered in the hallway where a couple of dozen of you were crowded in, yelling threats, waving clubs. It’s no secret that Barry thinks Shaw framed him a year ago. So what happens? The cops are looking for Barry; they arrest all his friends they can lay hands on. And once again the murderer walks away without anyone paying the slightest attention to him. You were used, Joe. You are Patsys for a killer. And he’s still loose, and Diana and Melody are missing.

  “What does he want with them?” Joe asked. I thought he looked a little uncertain for the first time.

  “If we knew that,” I said, “we could walk in and grab him. If you choose to fritter away time making threats and speeches of outrage against the establishment, we may lose whatever chance we have. I don’t know what anyone wants with Diana. Maybe you have that answer, and maybe it ties in to Melody in some fashion. I do know that Melody has information that might get in the killer’s way.” I hesitated. “Hyland, the lawyer, was close to Charlie Sewall, too. If the killer really meant to get Charlie, then Hyland could be the one with answers.”

  “What are you advising us?” Barry Tennant asked.

  “You all know Diana,” I said. “She knew, from the message you sent her, Barry, that you might not be available. Find her if you can. So far the police aren’t concerned about her. They won’t cross trails with you. Then you can tell me where to find Hyland. We can’t afford to wait until his office opens in the morning. Finally, if you’re clean in the Shaw killing, Barry, I suggest you go to the police and tell them so.”

  “That’s a laugh, man,” Joe said.

  “If you’re clean,” I said, “it will take a couple of detectives off your back and put them to doing something useful.”

  There was an uneasy silence.

  “Your threats, and screamings, and riotings have everybody looking the wrong way. Maybe you don’t care about murder. But you can get the cops off your backs if you’ll help turn up the real killer.”

  Barry drew a deep breath. “Hyland lives on Beekman Place,” he said. “He’s got an unlisted phone. I’ll give it to you.”

  2

  IT WAS DAYLIGHT WHEN Chambrun and Sergeant Nelson met me on Beekman Place in the Fifties. Melody was Nelson’s case.

  “We may have a hatful of nothing,” Nelson told Chambrun. “Miss Davis, where Melody Marsh lives, says that kind of roughhousing was standard practice in the Sewalls’ apartment.”

  “Not last night,” Chambrun said.

  The apartment building where Hyland lived didn’t suggest a hand-to-mouth existence. There was a night man on duty in the rather plush lobby. He was not for letting us up to Hyland’s floor without announcing us in advance. He was finally convinced by Nelson’s shield and some reasonably tough talk.

  “And you’ll give us a guided tour,” Nelson said. “I don’t want you warning him the minute the elevator door closes on us.”

  The man had no choice. He muttered something about what a nice gent Hyland was; never any trouble. He suggested he would probably lose his job. Nelson appeared to be totally deaf.

  Tenth floor, apartment C. Nelson rang the bell. There was only a brief delay before the door opened and Hyland looked out. He was wearing a gray silk dressing gown, and there was a deep scratch on his cheek which he was touching, gently, with a handkerchief. He recognized me and said: “Well!”

  Nelson showed his shield. “This is Mr. Chambrun, the resident manager of the Beaumont Hotel.”

  “Don’t tell me I stole an ash tray from the Blue Lagoon room,” Hyland said. His bland smile seemed to be pasted on his face.

  “Where is Melody?” Chambrun said—Chambrun the hanging judge.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hyland,” the night man whimpered. “The cop didn’t give me any choice.”

  “Not your fault, Dave,” Hyland said. He looked at Chambrun, still smiling. “I guess there’s no use denying that I have a lady guest, Chambrun. You’ll insist on looking whether I like it or not.”

  “We will,” Chambrun said.

  “Of course I know my legal rights,” Hyland said. “After all, I am a lawyer. But why make a fuss, gentlemen?” He turned and called out. “We have guests, baby, who seem to be looking for you.” He stood aside for us to go in.

  It wasn’t quite believable. Melody was sitting on an overstuffed couch. On a coffee table in front of her was a drink. She was wearing the same blouse and peasant skirt I’d seen earlier. She didn’t look roughed-up or hurt in any way. Her face, though, was a curious white mask.

  “Hello, Pierre,” she said in a dead voice.

  Hyland made for a drink that was resting on the mantel. The smile was still there, but there was something nasty about it. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me, Sergeant, what the hell business it is of yours that I have a lady guest.”

  Chambrun answered. He spoke to Melody, not Hyland. “I was concerned about you, Melody,” he said. “Your phone didn’t answer so I sent Mark to check out on you. He found your apartment ripped apart and you gone. A Miss Davis, who lives above you, told Mark there’d been some kind of a riot a few minutes before. Mark called the police—and me.”

  “And what brought you here?” Hyland asked.

  Chambrun looked at him. “Guess,” he said.

  Hyland’s smile faded. “I don’t have to guess,” he said. “You have to tell me.”

  “Are you all right, Melody?” Chambrun asked, ignoring him.

  “I’m fine, Pierre,” she said in that dead voice.

  “Will you tell us what happened in your apartment?”

  She just sat there, frozen.

  “Are you here against your will, Miss Marsh?” Nelson asked.

  “No.”

  “Your apartme
nt is wrecked,” Nelson said. “What happened?”

  “Look here, Sergeant,” Hyland said. “I went to call on Melody because I thought she might need help—sympathy. I persuaded her to come back here with me. After all, her apartment is full of memories of Charlie. Not a good idea for her to stay there alone, I thought.”

  “So you broke up the furniture, smashed glasses and lamps, and then brought her here,” Nelson said.

  Hyland’s smile returned, twisted a little. “Why don’t you ask Melody if she has any complaint to make against me?”

  “I do ask you, Miss Marsh,” Nelson said.

  She shook her head slowly. I thought she was like a Zombie. She wouldn’t look at Chambrun for help or to respond to him.

  He tried. “Melody, we need some rational explanation of what happened. There was some kind of a struggle. You obviously clawed Hyland’s face. Now you sit here and let us think there was nothing unusual about it.”

  “Unusual for you may not be unusual for someone else,” Hyland said. “Some people’s amorous techniques are different from others.”

  “You sonofabitch,” Chambrun said without emotion.

  Hyland giggled. It was an unpleasant sound.

  “If Miss Marsh has no complaint to make, there’s nothing I can do, Mr. Chambrun,” Nelson said.

  “Will you come back to the hotel with me, Melody?” Chambrun asked.

  “I—I’m tired, Pierre. Exhausted,” she said.

  “Perhaps, then, you can get some rest while Mr. Hyland goes back to the hotel with us,” Chambrun said.

  “I don’t think I’m going anywhere with you, Chambrun,” Hyland said.

  Chambrun shrugged. “Voluntarily or not,” he said. “You can do that, Nelson. Lieutenant Hardy wants this man for questioning in connection with the murder of his client.”

  Hyland’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. He was a man playing his cards very close to the vest. “That being the case,” he said, “shall we, for the record, say ‘voluntarily’? Excuse me, gentlemen, while I get on a tie and a jacket.”