“No such luck. That’s usually the kind of show I wind up in, the type that fights to last a week. But I missed this one. Anyway, I was tight with a few kids in the cast and I got an invite to the cast party. It was sort of a wake. Everybody in the show knew they were going to get a roasting. But no actor passes up a party with free drinks. We all got quietly loaded.”
“And Sheila Kane was there?”
“With one of the angels,” she said. “She wasn’t an actress. She waltzed in on the arm of a very grim-looking man with a cigar in his mouth. His name was Clay and her name was Alicia and that’s all I found out about either of them. I didn’t particularly want to know more, to tell you the truth. He looked like a Hollywood heavy and she looked like Whore Row Goes To College and I just wasn’t interested.”
“Clay——”
“Clay and Alicia, and don’t ask me her last name or his first name. I don’t know how much money he wasted on the show but he didn’t seem to give a damn. He smoked his cigars and nursed one glass of sour red wine and ignored everybody. She spent her time watching everybody very carefully. Like a rich tourist taking a walk on the Bowery, curious about everything but careful not to get her precious hands dirty. I took an instant dislike to her. I suppose it was bitchy of me but that’s the way I am. I make quick judgments. I didn’t like her at all.”
“Anyone else with either of them?”
“Not that I noticed. And no, I don’t remember who the other backers were. Lee Brougham produced the play—he could tell you who put up the money, I suppose. Unless he thought you were trying to steal his angels for a dog of your own. But he’ll be tough to find. I heard he went to the coast. You can’t blame him after ‘Hungry Wedding.’ A genuinely terrible play. An abortion.”
She didn’t have anything more to tell me. She hadn’t seen the girl again, never heard anything more about her. I tried to fit the new picture with what I knew about Sheila Kane. Now her name was Alicia, and she sounded a little less like Jack Enright’s mistress, a little less like the girl in the snapshot.
And I had another name now. Mr. Clay. Joe Clay? Sam Clay? Tom, Dick or Harry Clay?
To hell with it. It was another scrap and it would fit into place eventually. In the meantime we could switch to another topic of conversation.
But I forgot I was talking to Maddy Parson.
“Now,” she said dramatically, “give.”
I tried to look blank.
“It is now my turn to play detective, Mr. London, sir. If you think you can pump me blind without telling me a damn thing——”
“Pump you dry, you mean.”
“That sounds dirty, sort of. And don’t change the subject. You are now going to tell me all about Sheila or Alicia or whoever the hell she is. Come clean, Mr. London, sir.”
“Maddy——”
“About the girl,” she said heavily. “Talk.”
I said: “She’s dead, Maddy.”
“Oh. I sort of thought so. Now I’m sorry I didn’t like her. I mean——”
“I know.”
“Tell me the whole thing, Ed. I’ll be very quiet and I won’t repeat a thing to a soul. I’ll be good. But tell me.”
I told her. There was no reason to keep secrets from her. She wasn’t involved, didn’t know any of the people involved, and made a good sounding board for the ideas that were rattling around in my head. I gave her the full summary, from the minute Jack Enright walked through my door to the moment I picked her up for dinner. I didn’t leave anything out.
She shivered properly when I told her how I got shot at. She made a face when I described the scene in the blonde girl’s apartment. And she listened intently all the way through.
“So here you are,” she said finally. “Hunting a killer and dodging him at the same time. You think Clay’s the killer?”
I shrugged. “He looks as good as anybody else, but I don’t know who he is.”
“He looked capable of murder. Be careful, Ed.”
“I’m always careful. I’m a coward.”
She grinned at me. I grinned back, and we stood up together, both grinning foolishly. Somewhere along the way the grins gave way to deep long looks. Her eyes were not opaque at all now. I stared into them.
Then all at once she was in my arms and I was stroking silky hair. Her face buried itself against my chest and my arms were filled with the softness of her.
She pulled away from me. Her voice was very small. “I’m going to be forward again,” she said. “Very forward. You’re not going home now, Ed. I don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“I’m glad,” she said, taking my hand. “I’m very glad, Ed. And I don’t think we should stay in here. I think we should go to the bedroom.”
We started for the bedroom.
“It’s right through that door,” she said, pointing. “But you know that. After all, you’ve been there before.”
FIVE
SHE was soft and warm and sweet. She moved beside me and her lips nuzzled my ear. “Don’t go,” she whispered. “Stay all night. I’ll make breakfast in the morning. I make good coffee, Ed.”
I drew her close and buried my face in the fragrance of her hair. Her body pressed against mine. Sleep was drowning me, dragging me under. The bed was warm, too warm to get out of. Sheila Kane and Jack Enright and a man called Clay were dull and trivial, a batch of mute ciphers swimming in charcoal gray water. I wanted to let them drown, to wink the world away with Maddy’s fine female body beside me.
Something stopped me. “I’ve got to go,” I said.
“Don’t, Ed. See how shameless I am? Every sentence ends with a proposition. But stay here. It gets so lonely in this bed. It’s a big bed. I rattle around in it all by myself. Don’t go.”
She didn’t say anything while I slipped out of bed and fumbled around for my clothes. I leaned over to kiss her cheek and she didn’t move a muscle or speak a word. Then, while I was tying my shoelaces, she sat upright in the bed and talked to me. A half-light from the living room bathed her in yellow warmth. The sheet had fallen away from her small breasts and she looked like a primitive goddess with wild hair and sleepy eyes.
“Be careful, Ed. I’m not kidding; I like you; I like having you around, be careful, please. I don’t like the way everything sounds. These people are dangerous. My God, one of them tried to kill you——”
“It was just a warning.”
“He shot at you. He could have killed you.”
“Please don’t worry.”
“Of course I’ll worry. It’s a woman’s prerogative to worry—you ought to know that. Worrying makes me feel all female and motherly and everything. If I only knew how to knit I’d make you a nice warm sweater. A warm wool sweater with a bullet-proof lining. Would you like that?”
I grinned. “Sounds good.”
Her tone turned serious. “You better call me tomorrow, you bastard. Otherwise I’ll get mad. When I get mad I’m hell on wheels, Ed. There’s no telling what I might do. I could sic the Mafia on you or something.” She frowned. “So call me.”
“I will.”
“But not before noon.” A low sigh. “I like to sleep late. I wish you could stay with me, Ed. We’d both sleep late and then I’d cook breakfast and feel as domestic as a pair of bedroom slippers. Maybe I’ll knit you a pair of bedroom slippers.”
I laughed.
“Now kiss me good-bye. That’s right. Now get the hell out of here before I start bawling, because this whole scene is so touching I can’t take it. Did you know I can cry on cue? It’s a valuable talent. Good-bye, Ed. And be careful. And call me. And . . .”
I kissed her again. Her lips were very soft, and when I kissed her she closed her eyes. Then I left her there and went out into the night.
On the way home the streets were almost empty. I took Eighth Avenue uptown to Columbus Circle where it turned into Central Park West, then angled the Chevy through the park and came out at Fifth and 67th. The ride t
hrough the park got to me—I remembered another trip the night before when I had a passenger in the car. A dead one.
I drove straight to the garage and got set for a session of playing straight man to the kid with the acne. It turned out to be his night off, which was wonderful. The guy taking over for him was a nautical type with a lantern jaw and tattooed forearms. One of the tattoos was a naked girl with impossible breasts; another I noticed was an anchor with ‘Mother’ etched across it. He was long and stringy and short of speech and I couldn’t have been happier. I gave him the Chevy and walked home.
It was maybe two-thirty. The air was clear and it had a chill to it. My footsteps were hollow against the backdrop of a silent night. A taxi took a corner and its tires squealed. I looked around and made sure nobody was following me. It was a good thing. My building was solidly built, but too many holes in the wall could weaken it.
The brownstone waited for me. I unlocked the outer door and took the stairs two at a time. I stopped in front of my door, stuffed tobacco into a pipe and lit it. Then I stuck my key in the lock and opened the door.
I flicked on the light and saw him. He was sitting in my chair smoking a cigarette. He was neither smiling nor frowning. He looked nervous.
“Please close the door,” he said. “And please sit down, Mr. London. I have to talk with you.”
He was holding a small pistol in his left hand. It was not aimed at me. He held it almost apologetically, as if to say that he was sorry he had to hold a gun on me and he’d at least be enough of a gentleman to point it I somewhere else.
I closed the door and moved into the center of the living room. He gestured with the gun, indicating a chair, and I sat in it.
“I’m very sorry about this,” he said. “I really wanted to find the briefcase in your apartment and be gone before you returned. Wishful thinking, I fear. A very thorough search revealed only that your taste in music and in literature is not coincident with mine. You prefer chamber music while I tend to favor crashing orchestral pieces. But the furnishings here are marvelous, simply marvelous. This rug is a Bokhara, isn’t it?”
I nodded at him. He was a very small and very neat man. He wore black Italian loafers of pebble-grain leather with pointed toes. His suit was lamp-black, continental cut. His tie was a very proper foulard and his shirt was crisply white. There was something indefinably foreign about him. His eyes had a vaguely oriental cast and his complexion was dark, close to olive. I couldn’t pin down his accent but he had one. His head and face were round, his hair jet black and he was going bald in front. This made his face even rounder.
“We’re both reasonable men,” he said. “Rational individuals. I’m sure you realize I wouldn’t have broken in if I could have avoided it. I did use a device which opened your lock without damaging it.”
“Thanks.”
He almost smiled. “You resent me, don’t you? It’s easy to understand. But I hope to conquer your resentment. Since we’ll be doing business together, Mr. London . . .”
He let the sentence trail off. “You’re way ahead of me,” I said. “You know my name.”
“You may call me Peter Armin. It will be meaningless to you, but it’s as good a name as any.”
I didn’t say anything.
“To return to the subject,” he said. “The briefcase. It’s really no good to you and I’m prepared to pay very well for it. A simple business transaction. I have a use for it and you do not. That’s a natural foundation for economic cooperation, don’t you think?”
Then the missing item was a briefcase. I wondered what was in it.
I said: “You’re not the only one who wants it.”
“Of course not. If I were, you’d sell it to me for next to nothing. But I’ll pay handsomely for it. Five thousand dollars.”
“No sale.”
He shrugged. I caught a whiff of his cigarette. It smelled like Turkish or Egyptian tobacco. “I don’t blame you,” he said. “I was being cheap and that’s indecent. The briefcase is worth ten thousand dollars to me. I cannot afford to pay more and wouldn’t if I could. That’s my offer. Is it a good one?”
“Probably. What if I say I don’t have the briefcase?”
“I don’t think I would believe you.”
“Why not?”
His smile spread. “It’s hardly logical. After all, Mr.
Bannister doesn’t have the briefcase. I’m certain of that. And I’m very glad of it as well. He’s an unpleasant man, Mr. Bannister is. Uncouth and uncultured. Boorish. You wouldn’t like him at all, Mr. London. You may dislike me, but you’d detest Mr. Bannister.”
I looked at the gun in his left hand. It was a Beretta. A .22-calibre gun. I wondered if he killed Sheila with it.
“Bannister doesn’t have it,” Armin went on. “He wants it but he doesn’t have it. And I doubt that he’d be willing to pay as much for it as I am. He’d probably try to take it away from you by force. A crude man. So you should sell it to me, you see.”
“Suppose I don’t have it?”
“But you must. You were at the girl’s apartment. So was the briefcase. It’s not there now because you have it. It follows.”
“Like night follows day. Suppose someone else was at her place?”
He shrugged again. His face was very sad now. “I was there,” he said. “Really, I’m in a position to know that I don’t have the thing. If I had it I wouldn’t be here, much as I enjoy your company. And Mr. Bannister was at the girl’s apartment. But he doesn’t have it either. That leaves you.”
“Eeny meeny miny moe?”
“More or less. Really, there’s no reason for you to deny that you have the case. It’s no use whatsoever to you, whereas no man lives who can’t find a use for ten thousand dollars. And I need the case very badly. Desperately, you might say. Can’t we do business?”
I relit my pipe and looked at Armin. I wondered who and what the hell he was. French or Greek or Italian or Spanish or Cuban. I couldn’t place the accent.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ve got the briefcase. So what’s in it?”
He stroked his chin. “If you have the case and know what’s inside,” he said, “it would be a waste of time to tell you. If you have the case and do not understand the significance of the contents, it would be foolish to tell you. And there must be a chance in a thousand that you are telling the truth, that you do not have the case. Why in the world should I tell you?”
“Who’s Bannister? Who are you?”
He smiled.
“Who killed the girl? Why was she killed?”
He didn’t answer.
“Who shot at me?”
He shrugged.
I let out a sigh. “You’re wasting your time,” I told him. “And mine. I don’t have the case.”
“Then it’s not for sale?”
“Take it any way you want it. I don’t have the briefcase and it’s not for sale.”
His sigh was very unhappy. He got to his feet, still holding the gun loosely in his hand. “If you want more money, I really can’t help you. Ten thousand is my top price. I erred in offering five thousand first. I’m not generally that type of businessman. I quote one price and it is a firm price.” He managed a shrug. “Perhaps you’ll reconsider while there’s still time. You may call me any hour, day or night. Let me give you my card.”
His right hand dipped into his inside jacket-pocket. We were both on our feet and the gun was pointed at the floor.
I picked that moment to hit him.
My right hand sank into his gut and my left hand closed around the gun. I hit him hard, harder than I planned, and he collapsed like a blown-out tire and folded up into the chair. The gun stayed in my hand, a light and cool piece of metal. I switched it to my right hand and pointed it at him.
His shoulders sagged and his eyes were pools of misery. He was massaging himself where I hit him. His face was a mask of infinite disappointment.
“You hit me,” he said thoughtfully. “Now why did you do that
?”
I didn’t have an answer handy. “The briefcase,” I snapped. “Tell me about it. Tell me about yourself and about Bannister. Tell me who killed the girl.”
He sighed again. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said sadly. “We’re at a stalemate. We should be cooperating and we’re at odds. I didn’t threaten you with the gun, Mr. London, for the simple reason that it would have accomplished nothing. Now you have the gun and you can’t do a thing with it. Ask me all the questions you wish. I won’t answer them. What can you do? Shoot me? Beat me? Call the police? You won’t do any of those things. It’s a stalemate, Mr. London.”
The annoying thing was that he as right all the way: I stood there with the gun in my hand and felt like a clown. I was sorry I hit him. It was a waste of time, for one thing. For another, I was beginning to like the little weasel. I tried to picture myself beating him up or shooting him or calling the cops. The picture didn’t look too sensible.
“You see what I mean, Mr. London. We’re similar men, you and I. Neither of us is unnecessarily violent. In that respect Mr. Bannister has the advantage on us. He would beat us or have us beaten purely as a matter of course if we stood in his way. That’s why you and I should be allies. But perhaps you’ll come to your senses.”
He stood up stiffly, still holding himself where I slugged him. Once again his right hand dipped into his pocket. This time he came up with a pigskin pocket secretary. He flipped it open and took out a card which he handed to me. I read: Peter Armin . . . Hotel Ruskin . . . Room 1104 . . . Oxford 2-1560.
“The Ruskin,” he said. “On West Forty-fourth Street. I’ll be there for the next several days.”
I put the card in my pocket. He stood still and I realized I was still pointing the gun at him. I lowered it.
“Mr. London,” he said. He lowered his eyes. “May I have my gun back?”
“So you can shoot me with it?”
“Hardly. I just want my gun.”
“You don’t need it,” I told him. “You’re not a violent man.”
“I might have to defend myself.”
“You’re not the only one. Somebody shot at me today.”
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