No Cure for Death (A Mallory Mystery)

by Max Allan Collins

  When she didn’t go on, I said, “Just how does that explain your purple passion?”

  “Oh. Well, anyway, I wanted something cheap in an apartment to tide me over till I could find and afford a nice place. So I ran across this place, and it was horrible—all of it peeling paint like the halls out there—but it was cheap for downtown so I took it anyway and got permission from the landlord to have it debugged and repainted and carpeted. At my expense, of course, but, I figured if I made it look nice, in a conventional way, you know, painted it some standard pastel and wall-to-wall carpet, my bastard landlord’d up the rent on me. Ever had that done to you, Mallory? Where you put money into fixing up an apartment and then get your rent hiked on you for your trouble?”

  I nodded. “The way this place is now,” I said, “your landlord’s probably afraid you’ll move out and saddle him with this purple elephant.”

  She laughed gently and started unbuttoning the top part of her pantsuit. She slipped out of the coat and folded it in half and tossed it over on another big pillow. She straightened her sweater, pulling it down, and I did my best not to look at her breasts as she did, and I failed. She didn’t seem to mind. She patted the pillow next to her and motioned for me to sit down and I did.

  “So you’re a mystery writer?”

  “Trying to be. Selling a few short stories.”

  “That’s really exciting. Where do you...” She stopped, smiled. “I was about to ask you where you get your ideas. Listen, are you in a hurry? Got some big Thanksgiving spread to get back to Port City for?”

  “No.”

  “That’s where you’re from, isn’t it? Port City? Or do you just go to Jack Masters’s school down there?”

  “Both.”

  “So your family isn’t having a big deal or anything?”

  “My folks died a while back.”

  “Oh.”

  “And, unlike you, I’m an only child.”

  She ignored my graceless attempt to get back on the subject and stared at me with big unblinking brown eyes and said, “Thanksgiving isn’t Thanksgiving without a turkey dinner.”

  “Let me write that down.”

  She threw a pillow at me.

  “All right,” she said. “So maybe I do sound childish, maybe it is a cliché, but man, that’s how it is with me. If you’d had a big family, you’d know. Now my old man, no matter how tough things were, and they were plenty tough sometimes, he’d make sure there was a bird on the table Thanksgiving. Always.”

  “No family get-together today for you either, Rita?”

  “Well, that much we got in common, Mallory. My folks are dead, too. I was the youngest of seven kids, and, well, we kind of drifted apart and we just never get together.”

  “How about you and your brother?”

  “Listen, if you think I’m not aware of the direction in which you are trying to swing this conversation, you better check out of this hotel now. I’m thinking about talking to you about that, but I’m not sure yet. Let it work itself out, will you?”

  “Rita.”

  “What?”

  “How about I take you out for a turkey dinner? Surely there’s a restaurant around here somewhere serving a Thanksgiving buffet or something. What do you say?”

  “That’s a sweet bribe, Mal, but...”

  She called me Mal instead of Mallory. A good sign. “Hey, come on, Rita, what do you say? Had any better offers?”

  “It’s just that it isn’t necessary, Mal. I can fix us turkey right here.”

  “Here?”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s a lot of trouble, isn’t it? I mean, can you do that?”

  She got up and said, “Stay put,” and walked over to the kitchenette-ette. She bent down and opened up the little refrigerator. She took out two packages and held them up for me to see: Turkey TV dinners.

  I grinned and nodded my approval.

  A few minutes later, after she put the dinners in the oven, she came back and lay down against the pillows, facing me.

  “Why’d you ask me up here, Rita?”

  She shrugged.

  “You still think I’m trying to hustle you out of your clothes?”

  “No,” she said, “but you wouldn’t mind it if it happened.”

  “I wouldn’t. How ’bout you?”

  “Don’t know yet. Too early.”

  “You aren’t hustling me now, are you, Rita? Just a little?”

  “Oh sure. I’m hustling you.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I know. I’m hot just lookin’ at you.”

  “Come on. How do I know you aren’t covering for your brother? Maybe he’s in trouble up to his butt, and you want to help him by getting me distracted. Maybe any minute now you’re going to start pumping me for information.”

  “If that’s what you think,” she said, her voice a little cold now, “try laying one of those white paws on me and see what happens.” She ran a long fingernail gently down my cheek.

  “Rita, if we’re neither one of us hustling each other, if we maybe kind of like each other a little, couldn’t we just talk about your brother now and get it out of the way?”

  “You know, I’m beginning to wish those guys back at the Filet O’Soul wouldn’t’ve helped you out.”

  “Look, this isn’t a game with me. A young woman’s dead and nobody cares.”

  “Nobody but you. The white knight.”

  “Damnit, are you going to help me or not, Rita?”

  “Sure, Mallory, sure. I’ll help you out, a total stranger. I’ll dump on my brother for you, ’cause you seem like a nice guy and I like your looks and you tell a mean story.”

  “Rita.”

  “What?”

  “Why’d you ask me up here?”

  “I wish I knew,” she said. And she turned away, the pouty look of her lips growing poutier. Then she slid around and brought her face up to me and pressed her mouth against mine.

  The kiss lasted quite a while for a first kiss, but it was soft and tentative, not hot and bothered. Her lips were full and rich and sweet and the sensation was both gentle and heady.

  When the kiss was over, I leaned forward to kiss her again, but she moved away and smiled. It wasn’t a bitch smile, either, not a tease: she was saying, let’s not rush this, let’s take our time, please.

  She let me take her in my arms and hold her, and we lay like that on the floor, resting against the pillows, Paul Newman and Malcolm X watching us, and we stayed that way, not saying a word, not even kissing again, until somewhere a sharp little bell rang and she bounced up.

  “What the hell was that?” I said.

  She was over by the stove. “Turkey time,” she said.

  A couple minutes later we were sitting like Indians, eating out of the aluminum TV dinner trays and sipping cold beers.

  “You’re a great little cook,” I said.

  “Aw shut up.”

  “No really, it’s good.”

  “It’s hot anyway.”

  “It’s turkey.”

  “It’s Thanksgiving.”

  She smiled. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

  We toasted beer cans.

  We ate in silence for a few moments, then she said, “This, uh, thing ’bout the, uh, dead chick...”

  “Yeah?”

  “You were trying to tie in a guy named Norman?”

  “Several guys named Norman. There’s old man Norman—that’s Simon Harrison Norman—and there’s his son Richard—he’s the dead one who was a senator—and there’s Stefan Norman—he’s the nephew who’s running the Norman Fund, whatever that is. How’s that for confusing?”

  “My brother works for the Normans.”

  “What? What did you say?”

  “My brother Harold works for the Normans. Harold has one eye and he’s very big and for the last ten years or so he’s worked for the Normans. In Port City.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “One of the guys he works for is thi
s Stefan Norman. He lives across the river in Davenport. You want me to take you to see him?”

  FIFTEEN

  I pulled the Rambler into a place between a Lincoln Continental and a Grand Prix, making mine the only car in the whole Nottingham Acres parking lot without a vinyl top. Nottingham Acres was a big fancy U-shaped Tudor building whose grounds probably consisted of a mere acre or less, but why get technical? Besides, with the rent this joint probably charged, how could they get away with calling it Nottingham Acre?

  “I’ll wait here in the car,” Rita said.

  I said, “You’ll what?”

  “I’ll wait here in the car.”

  “You’ll wait here in the car.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “What happened to ‘I’ll take you to see Stefan Norman’?”

  “This is where he lives. Top floor of this wing facing us right here. Number 1207.”

  “You’re something else. What is it, you afraid you’ll get your brother in trouble if Norman sees you helping me?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “What else is there?”

  “You might do better without me. The other time I saw Norman I didn’t get along too well with him.”

  “What was that about? He make a pass?”

  “Hardly. It was about my brother’s job.”

  “Well. I know better than to ask you anything about that.”

  “You’re learning.”

  “Okay. You’ll wait here in the car.”

  She nodded.

  The outside of the building was made up of rough, varicolored blocks of stone, but inside everything was lush wood, like a table. There was a single elevator, self-service. It surprised me a little that there was no elevator attendant (nor for that matter, doorman or parking lot attendant), but that could be put down to Thanksgiving or technology or cutting corners. Like the acres Nottingham didn’t have.

  As the elevator opened on the twelfth floor, Norman’s apartment was directly across. The door had 1207 on it in gold numbers, and was a big solid chunk of wood.

  I knocked.

  It took a while, but finally the door opened halfway and the opening was filled by a short, small-boned man in a long-sleeved light blue shirt with floppy pointed collars; the shirt was untucked and hanging down almost to thigh level on darker blue, also floppy bell-bottom trousers. His hair was black and curly and oily and long, his cheeks pockmarked and prominently boned, his nose hooked, and his eyes a light gray blue under thick brows. The eyes were intense, the kind of intense that holds you and can make you forget the rest of a slightly repulsive countenance.

  He gave me a hesitant smile; his teeth were very good: too good.

  “Have we met?” he asked. Hopefully, I thought.

  “No, we haven’t, and I hope you’ll excuse this intrusion, Mister... Norman?”

  “I’m Stefan Norman. Who are you?”

  “My name’s Mallory. I’ve got some urgent business I’d like to talk to you about. Could I possibly have a few minutes of your time?”

  “Is this some sort of prank? Did somebody on ten send you up for some sort of prank?”

  “No, no I assure you. Could I speak with you, please?”

  An eyebrow arched. “That’s exactly what you’re doing now.”

  “Look, I know this is an imposition....”

  “Intrusion would be the word, Mr. Mallory, was it?”

  “Yes, Mallory. It’s very important. I drove up from Port City just to see you about it.”

  “Well, I see, Mr. Mallory. If you’re willing to spend your Thanksgiving day afternoon on this project of yours, whatever it is, it must be important enough for me to spare you, I think you said, ‘a few minutes of my time’?”

  “I’d appreciate it, Mr. Norman.”

  “It does seem rather foolish, as I’ll be available tomorrow morning, at nine, in my office in Port City. But, come in, come in.”

  He opened the door up the rest of the way, let me by, closed the door behind me, then moved in front of me and led me down a long narrow hall, long enough for the several doors on each side to open into good-sized rooms. The hall finally emptied out into a big, beam-ceilinged living room, bathed in coppery semilight from unseen fixtures up in the nonfunctional rafters. The two side walls of the room were paneled in rosewood with a conservative smattering of original abstract oils, but the room was dominated by the end wall, which was completely engulfed by a great stoneface of a fireplace, a moderate blaze befitting the time of year in its down-turned mouth. Right of the mouth was a combination color television and stereo console in a heavy rosewood cabinet; on the tube was playing the final quarter of the football game the boys at the Filet O’Soul had been getting ready to watch not so long ago. The floor was rough slate, but three-quarters of it was covered by a rust-color shag carpet, and most of that was covered by a curving, overstuffed couch of plush brown leather facing the fireplace, with room enough in between for a mammoth black marble coffee table, which served as an auxiliary bar to its well-stocked, brown-leather-padded papa that covered most of the back wall. Between the bar/table and the couch were two rustic wooden stands that were, I supposed, the Nottingham version of TV trays; on them were plates of sumptuous if standard Thanksgiving fare of turkey-cranberries-mashed potatoes-etc. Somehow, though, I got the impression these boys felt they were roughing it.

  I say “these boys” because Norman wasn’t alone: he had a friend who was sitting on the couch, transfixed before the dancing images on the television screen. Norman cleared his throat and his friend rose from behind his tray and turned to greet us. He stood an inch or so over six foot and seemed sturdily built; his hands were big and roped with veins and hung loose on the ends of long arms. His hair was blond and very thin on top, with heavy, over-compensating brown sideburns; his forehead was broad over small, wide-set dark eyes and a tiny nose and tiny mouth. The weakness of some of his features was offset by a jutting, Steve Canyon-like jaw. He was wearing a yellow cashmere sweater and mustard bell-bottoms. He said, “Who’s he?” His voice was equal parts sandpaper and sinus trouble.

  Stefan Norman said, “His name is Mallory, he says. He came up from Port City to talk to me about something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Something, I said.” He looked at me. “This is Mr. Davis.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  Davis nodded. “Funny time to drop in on people.”

  Norman said, “Go back and watch the game.”

  The big man shrugged, in a pouty way, and sat back down to his tray of turkey and reglued his eyes to the football game.

  Norman said, “Would you like a drink, Mr. Mallory?”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”

  “That’s all right, I’d eaten all I cared to anyway. When you spend a lot of time preparing a meal, you become bored with the food even before you serve it.”

  I followed him over to the bar and sat down. Even the damn stools were covered with brown leather and stuffed like Chesterfield sofas. Norman said, “What would you like?”

  “Anything.”

  “In the spirit of the great American sports fanatic, we’ve been drinking beer today. Well, malt liquor, really. How would that be?”

  “Sure.”

  He got behind the bar and fiddled for a while, as though he had to brew the stuff himself, then handed me a filled glass. I drank half of it in two gulps, watching him as he stayed back of the bar, looking me over, trying to figure what to make of me, I guess. He sipped his glass of malt liquor.

  I said, finally, “Did you know a girl named Janet Taber?”

  He shook his head no. “No. No, I’m sorry.”

  “You might have known her as Janet Ferris.”

  “Ferris?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ferris. No, but let me think. No, I don’t think so.”

  “Think some more. She worked as a secretary for your cousin during his Senate campaign.”

&nbs
p; “She worked for Richard?”

  “Janet Ferris.”

  “Janet Ferris. Hmmm. Now, wait, that wouldn’t be that little girl from Drake? She was Richard’s secretary, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I do remember her, now. Attractive girl. Brunette, isn’t she?”

  “Well, she was a blonde when I saw her, but that’s possible.”

  “You did say was, didn’t you? And you did say did I know a girl named Janet Ferris? What does all this use of past tense mean?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. She was such a nice, enthusiastic girl. A real help to Richard, if memory serves.”

  “She was killed in an automobile accident. Tuesday night. It was in the paper yesterday.”

  “I so seldom read the Port City Journal, living up here as I do.”

  “It was in the Davenport paper, too.”

  “At any rate, I didn’t notice it. But I am sorry to hear it.”

  “The crash was on Colorado Hill.”

  “Really. I don’t see yet, Mr. Mallory, how this concerns me.”

  “Richard Norman was killed in a crash on Colorado Hill.”

  “So have any number of people been, which is unfortunate, but what exactly has that to do with me?”

  “Janet at one time worked for your cousin, agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “She died in a crash on Colorado Hill. So did your cousin.”

  “And you see that as some kind of, what? Connective tissue? Linking thread?”

  “You might say that.”

  “You’re reading a lot into a simple coincidence.”

  “Coincidence, maybe. Not so simple.”

  He studied me for a moment. Then he said, “What exactly is your interest in all this, Mr. Mallory? Are you a detective, public or private?”

  “I just knew Janet Taber, that’s all.”

  “Then this is not a... an official investigation.”

  “If the cops were asking the right questions, I wouldn’t have to.”

  He frowned; it was a thought-out frown. His facial expressions seemed calculated for the benefit of whoever he was talking to, rather than out of any real feeling or emotion.