79 Park Avenue

by Harold Robbins

  She got to her feet.

  Tom was standing in the doorway, his dark face an ashen grey. “I called the doctor, Miz Maryann.”

  “Thank you, Tom,” she said wearily and crossed the room to turn off the television set.

  Chapter Ten

  MIKE CAME INTO the office and took off his hat. He scaled it onto a chair opposite his desk, his forehead glistening with sweat. He went to his desk and sat down heavily.

  Joel looked up from the other desk. “Warm,” he said.

  Mike smiled. “Very warm for May. From the looks of it, it’s goin’ to be a bitch of a summer.”

  Joel leaned back in his chair wearily. “I’m beat. I had a hell of a weekend. I can’t take this heat any more. You’d think the Old Man would okay air-conditioners for the offices.”

  Mike grinned. “He has an idea that good lawyers are distilled from their own sweat.”

  “I don’t think he’s ever sweat in his life, he hasn’t enough blood,” Joel complained. He picked up a paper from his desk and held it towards Mike. “This has been waitin’ for you.”

  Mike took it from him and glanced at it. “Damn!” he swore.

  Joel grinned. “What’s the matter, baby?”

  Mike looked at him and got to his feet slowly. He picked up his hat from the chair. “Don’t crap me. You read it.”

  “What’re you complaining about?” Joel laughed. “You’re goin’ for a nice automobile ride uptown an’ spend a couple of hours in a nice, cool, clean-smelling hospital. You’re lucky not to have to stay in this stuffy old office.”

  Mike was already in the corridor. He pressed the elevator button and looked again at the paper in his hand.

  Suspected abortion.

  The elevator doors opened and he stepped into the car. He continued to read as the car descended.

  Florence Reese. Admitted Roosevelt hospital, 7.10 a.m., May 10, ’54. Internal Hœmorrhages due to abortion. Condition critical.

  The doors opened and he walked out. He crossed the corridor and opened a door. As he entered, a few men looked up from their newspapers and then looked down again. He went through the room to another door whose frosted glass bore the name Captain F. Millersen. He opened the door and went in.

  The dark-haired man at the desk looked up. “Hello, Mike,” he said in a deep voice.

  Mike smiled. “Hi, Frank. I need a man to go up to Roosevelt Hospital with me. Suspected abortion.” He tossed the slip of paper onto the detective’s desk.

  Captain Millersen looked at it briefly. “One of those, eh?”

  Mike nodded.

  The detective got to his feet. “I think I’ll go with yuh on this one, Mike.”

  Mike’s eyes widened. Millersen never went out on a case unless it was a big one. Upstairs they said that he had an uncanny instinct for the big ones, that he smelled them coming. “You’re comin’ with me, Frank?” he asked in tones of disbelief.

  The detective nodded. “Yeah, I’m gettin’ a little tired of sittin’ behind this desk keepin’ my fanny warm.”

  Mike watched him pick up his hat. “You know somethin’ about this that I don’t?” he asked sceptically.

  Millersen put a cigar in his mouth. “I don’t know nothin’. Only that I’m tired of sittin’. Let’s go.”

  The smell of disinfectant was all around them as they strode down the green-walled corridor. They followed the nurse into a ward. At its far end, curtains had been drawn around one of the beds.

  “She’s in here,” the nurse said, holding aside the curtains.

  “Is she in condition to talk?” Mike asked the nurse.

  “She’s very weak,” the nurse answered. “Be careful.”

  He stepped through the curtains, followed by Millersen, and stood beside the bed. For a moment they looked silently down at the young girl lying there.

  She seemed to be sleeping. Her eyes were closed and her face was white, a pallid bluish-white colour, as if there were no blood beneath the skin. Her mouth was open and her lips were slightly darker than her cheeks.

  Mike looked at the detective. Millersen nodded. He spoke softly to the girl: “Miss Reese.”

  The girl didn’t move. He spoke her name again. This time she stirred slightly. Slowly she opened her eyes. They were so filled with agony that Mike couldn’t tell their colour. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

  Mike moved closer to the bed. “Can you hear me, Miss Reese?”

  The girl nodded faintly.

  “I’m Mike Keyes and this is Captain Millersen. We’re from the District Attorney’s office.”

  The beginnings of fear began to fleck the girl’s eyes. Mike spoke quickly to reassure her. “You’re perfectly all right, Miss Reese. You’re in no trouble. We just have some routine questions to ask so that we may be able to help you.”

  Slowly the fear began to vanish. Mike waited for a moment. His words echoed mockingly in his ear. No trouble. Of course she was in no trouble. She was only dying.

  He smiled slowly and reassuringly. “Have you any relatives we can notify for you?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “In the city, or out?”

  “No!” The girl’s voice was a whisper.

  “Where do you live, Miss Reese?”

  “Hotel Allingham,” she answered.

  Mike nodded. It was one of the less expensive women’s hotels on the west side. “You have a job, Miss Reese?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “What do you do?”

  The girl’s voice was faint. “Model.”

  He exchanged a knowing look with the detective. Half the unemployed girls in New York were models, the other half were actresses. “Free lance or agency?” he asked.

  “Agency,” the girl replied.

  “Which agency?”

  “Park Avenue Models,” the girl answered. For the first time since Mike had spoken to her, her expression changed. “Let—let Maryann know—”

  It seemed to Mike that the girl had an expression of hope on her face. “We will,” he said. “Maryann who—where?”

  The girl seemed to be gathering her strength for an effort to speak. “Maryann at—at the agency. She knows what to do. She is—” Her voice trailed away and her head slipped to one side.

  The nurse stepped quickly to the head of the bed. She felt for the girl’s pulse. “She’s sleeping,” she announced. “You’ll have to finish your questions later.”

  Mike turned to Millersen. The detective’s face was white, almost as white as the girl’s had been. Mike instantly changed his opinion about the man. He had heard that Millersen was as hard as nails.

  Millersen nodded and stepped outside the curtain. Mike followed him. “What d’yuh think, Frank?”

  “We’re not going to find anything,” Millersen said.

  Mike was surprised. “What makes you say that?”

  Millersen smiled mirthlessly. “I seen too many of these. They lead to nowheres.”

  “But the girl is dying!” Mike said. “We got to do something to find out who did it. The butcher is liable to go to work on another—”

  The detective reached out a quieting hand. “Take it easy, Mike. We’ll look. But we won’t find. Unless the girl tells us.”

  “I’m gettin’ on the ’phone to that agency. Maybe they’ll have some dope for us.” Mike started down the aisle between the beds.

  Millersen’s hand caught his arm. “I’ll get on the ’phone, Mike,” he said quickly. “You wait here an’ talk to her when she comes to. She’s used to you already.”

  Mike nodded. “Good idea.” He watched Millersen walk out of the ward, then turned back to the curtains.

  The nurse was just coming out. She raised an eyebrow when she saw him.

  “I’ll wait until she can talk to me again,” Mike explained.

  The nurse looked up at him. “You can wait at my desk out in the corridor,” she said. “It’ll be a little while before she can speak again—if ever.”

 
; Chapter Eleven

  TOM OPENED THE door gently, balancing the tray with his free hand. “You up, Miz Maryann?” he asked softly.

  There was no answer from the large double bed.

  He stepped quietly into the room and put the tray down on a small table. Without looking at the bed, he went to the window and drew back the drapes. Bright sunlight spilled into the room. He stood there for a moment looking out the window.

  Far below he could see the East River as it wound its way toward the Hudson. The flashing green of Gracie Square Park contrasted with the grey of the buildings surrounding it. He watched a long black automobile turn up the driveway to Gracie Mansion. He looked down at his watch. Eight o’clock. The mayor of this town went to work early. He turned back into the room.

  She was already awake, her large brown eyes watching him lazily from the pillow. Slowly she stretched, her arms and shoulders brown and strong.

  “Good mornin’, Miz Maryann,” he said, walking back toward the bed.

  She smiled. “Good morning, Tom. What time is it?”

  “Eight o’clock,” he answered, placing the tray across the bed in front of her. “Time to get up.”

  She grimaced and sat up. He picked up a silk bed-jacket from a chair near the bed and held it while she slipped it over her shoulders. “What’s for breakfast, Tom?”

  “This diet day, Miz Maryann. Juice an’ coffee,” he answered.

  “But I’m hungry,” she protested.

  “You very pretty today, Miz Maryann,” he said. “You want to stay that way?”

  She grinned. “Tom, you’re an old butter-spreader.”

  He grinned back at her. “Go on and eat. Mr Martin say he goin’ come by at ten to take you down to the office.”

  She picked up the glass of orange juice and sipped it slowly. “Before long you’re goin’ to be running my whole life, Tom.”

  “Not me,” he said, shaking his grey-flecked kinky black hair. “But I should sho’ like to see the man who could.”

  She laughed and finished her juice. “Any mail?”

  “I’ll go down and see, Miz Maryann.” He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Idly she picked up the paper on the tray and glanced at it. The usual news: rape, arson, murder, and war. She turned to the comic strips as she sipped her coffee. She looked up as Tom came back into the room, carrying a letter.

  She took it from him and ripped it open quickly. “It’s from Michelle,” she said happily.

  “Yes’m,” he said, even though he had already known. He loved to see her happy. To him, she seemed the saddest and most beautiful woman in the world.

  “She passed her mid-term exams with the second-highest marks in the class,” she said excitedly. “And she can’t wait until June and we get out there for her vacation.”

  A strange look crossed Tom’s face. “Kin we go for sure?” he asked.

  “I’d like to see anyone try to stop us.”

  “But Mr. Martin say you might be very busy this summer,” he said.

  “Mr. Martin can go to hell,” she said strongly. “He kept me from going last summer, but he won’t this time.”

  He was waiting in the living-room as she came down the steps of the duplex apartment. He smiled at her. “Good morning, Maryann.”

  “Morning, Joker. Hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

  His smile turned into a grin. “I’ve been waiting a long time now, Maryann. A few minutes won’t bother me.”

  Her eyes met his gaze levelly. “We made a deal.”

  He nodded.

  “A deal’s a deal,” she said.

  “Sometimes I think you’re cold as ice.”

  “Not cold, Joker,” she said. “Just bored with it. Enough not to bother any more.”

  “Even for me?” he asked.

  “Even for you,” she said. “Remember what we agreed?” He nodded again. He remembered. Too well.

  He had come to the house and Tom had shown him into the living-room. The big picture window had new glass, and through it he could see the edge of the pool. Only this time no child was splashing in its water. He turned when he heard her footsteps.

  She stood in the entrance, wearing a simple black dress. Her blonde hair shimmered in the fading daylight as she walked toward him. Her face was impassive. “Hello, Joker,” she said. She did not extend her hand.

  “Maryann,” he said

  She didn’t take her eyes from his face. “Thanks for the telephone call.”

  “What call?” he asked.

  “Don’t pretend, Joker,” she said calmly. “I recognise your voice even when you whisper.”

  He walked over to the couch. “What are you goin’ to do now?” he asked.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Go to work, if I can find a job.”

  A look of surprise crossed his face. “I thought Ross left you pretty well fixed.”

  “He left me nothing,” she said without bitterness.

  “But you’re his widow,” he said. “You’re even wearing black for him.”

  “I may be his widow, but I was never his wife,” she said. “And that’s what they pay off on.” A faint smile came to her lips. “Besides, I’m not wearing black for him. It happens to be a good colour for me.”

  He smiled. “It certainly is.”

  As usual, but still to his surprise, she came directly to the point “You didn’t come here just to tell me how good I look. What did you come for?”

  “The boys are worried about you,” he said.

  Her eyes went blank. “What have they got to worry about? I went through the whole inquest and didn’t tell anything.”

  “They’re still worried,” he said. “They’re afraid someday you might be in trouble and just decide to talk a little bit.”

  “I know better than that,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said, “but they’re not convinced.”

  “What do I have to do to convince them?” she asked.

  “Come back east with me. They’ve got a job for you,” he answered.

  “What kind of job?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Running a model agency,” he said. “They’ll feel better if you’re where they can keep an eye on you.”

  “A model agency?” she asked. “What do I know about that business?”

  A smile crossed his lips. “Don’t be naïve, Marja.”

  She stared at him. “And what if I don’t come back?”

  He took a package of cigarettes from his pocket and held them toward her. She shook her head. He lit one, put the package back in his pocket, and brought out a small photograph. He flicked it over to her.

  She looked at it. It was a photograph of a small blond girl playing on a lawn with her nurse. “It’s Michelle,” she said, a hollow note of fear in her voice.

  He nodded. “Don’t worry. She’s all right. We just thought you might like to have this picture of her. It was taken up at Arrowhead last week.”

  She stood there quietly for a moment, then turned and walked to the window. Her voice as it came back to him over her shoulder was empty and resigned. “Nothing else would satisfy them?”

  “Nothing else.”

  “If I do that, there’ll be no other ties?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  She turned and looked at him with knowing eyes. “Now you’re being naïve,” she said.

  He could feel his face flush. “There’ll be no other ties,” he said. “But you can’t keep a guy from hoping.”

  She drew in her breath. “Okay,” she said.

  “Then it’s a deal?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I’m glad, Maryann,” he said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be stubborn.”

  “Don’t call me Maryann,” she said. “Call me madame.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “YOU CAN DROP me at the corner of Park and 38th,” she said “I’ll walk from there.”

  “Okay,” he
answered, pulling the car over to the kerb. He leaned across the seat and opened the door for her. “Dinner tonight?”

  She nodded.

  “Pick you up at eight at your place,” he said.

  “Okay,” she answered, closing the door.

  He watched her walk into the crowd at the corner and cross in front of him. He liked the way she walked. It was the same young stride she had always had. He smiled to himself as he noticed the involuntary second glances that men threw after her. He didn’t blame them. A horn honked behind him and he looked up to see that the light had changed. He put the car into gear.

  The house was set back in a row of old-fashioned brownstones that had long since become uneconomical to use as dwellings in New York, and had been converted for use as offices. They were filled with small advertising-agencies and con men who labelled themselves Enterprises, and anyone else who wanted to pay a little more for a little less space but still have a Park Avenue address.

  The polished brass plate at the side of the door gleamed at her. 79 Park Avenue. Below it on smaller brass plates were the names of the tenants. The plate cost five dollars a month extra. She opened the large outside door and stepped into a long, old-fashioned corridor. A door on her right was labelled Park Avenue Models, Inc., and along the wall beyond it a flight of stairs led up to the other offices

  She walked past the staircase to another door behind it. There was no name on this one. She unlocked it and stepped directly into a comfortable office. She shrugged off her light coat and sat down behind the desk. The shades had been drawn. She switched on a lamp, and the room sprang suddenly into life. On the walls were two very good paintings, and several colour photographs of girls. A basket on the desk contained more pictures, and beside it lay a copy of the models’ directory.

  She pressed a buzzer. A moment later a middle-aged woman came in, obviously excited. “Miss Flood,” she said, “I’m so glad you’re here. A man called from the police department!”

  Maryann looked up sharply. “What?”