by Kane, Henry
I was in a square room with a stone floor and no furniture except a narrow desk with a swivel chair behind it and a wooden armchair in front of it. There was a covey of five telephones on the desk, an ashtry, and a long pad of yellow foolscap with a pencil on it. That was it.
A tall young man was pacing the floor when I entered. He was broad-shouldered and lithe with black hair parted on the side, black eyes, a firm jaw, a jutting chin, and a pale face. He wore an Oxford grey suit, a white button-down shirt, and a yellow and black striped tie. The suit had a vest. There was a chain going from pocket to pocket of the vest and a gold boxing glove hung from the middle of the chain.
He threw me a quick look, lifted a smooth black eyebrow, went to the swivel chair, slid down, injected a thin cigar into a corner of his mouth and cocked it like a field gun.
I said, “Jonathan Nolan?”
“That’s right.” He angled the chair, lifted his legs, banged his heels on the desktop and left them there.
My cue was to work out a connection, if any, between Jonathan Nolan and Anabel Jolly, and my tactic was quickjob chatter and see what happens. I said: “Anabel sent me.”
Color came up in his face and stayed there like a stuck elevator. His heels scraped off the desk. The chair straightened and he leaned forward. “Come again?”
“Anabel Jolly.”
“Who the hell is Anabel Jolly?”
“A twist—with a twist. Who happens to be cutting me in. Which is why I come to see you. You and me, we’re supposed to talk.”
The elevator came unstuck. Color receded from his face.
“Talk? Talk about what?”
“Quiet money.”
“What kind of money?”
“There’s people call it blackmail. There’s all kinds of operators—amateurs. I’m a professional. Quiet money is my business. Ask Anabel. You move up to the kind of money that counts, you need the professional touch. Me, that’s what I got, the professional touch. Anabel says I’m to see you. So I’m seeing you.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bellows. Gus Bellows.”
The black eyes stayed on mine, then dropped. The right hand went to the jacket pocket and for a moment I thought I was going to have gun trouble. But the hand came up with a packet of matches, and I relaxed. He lit the point of the cigar and flung the packet onto the desk. He puffed, hard, until there was a good deal of smoke between us and the point of the cigar flattened to a red blaze. Then he flung it, burning end forward, right at my face, and as I jumped to duck, he came after it, one spring over the desk. A thick right jolted me to the floor. Two hands grabbed the hair of my head, raised it and smashed the back of it against the stone floor. His face bulged out in front of me, and whirled … then blackness.
CHAPTER 5
One leg moved first, then the other leg, then I heard a groan. I lay flat on my back and listened. I heard another groan and then another before I realized it was I who was groaning, so I stopped. My legs moved again and I tried to get up but I couldn’t make it. I rolled over, prone. There was a numbness in back of my head. I pulled my knees up under me and pushed the cold floor with my knees and my hands and my forehead and I began to come up, the middle of me first, lumped up like a camel; but then I got tired and I dropped. I rested on my face, a throbbing replacing the numbness in the back of my head. Then I did it again, the same way, knees and hands and forehead pushing, back end coming up first. Then I got my forehead off the floor, got a foot under me, grabbed at a ledge with my hand, and pulled myself up. I heard the slap of something dropping but I didn’t care. I was facing a wall, and I leaned on it, panting. Then I began to breathe more deeply. I was able to shake my head against oncoming nausea. I fought it down, shaking my head all the time like a dog out of water. The area stopped swaying and levelled off.
I was on the landing on the other side of the door marked STAIRWAY. The ledge that my hand was holding was the bannister. I let go, touched the back of my head, and looked at my hand. It was dry. I looked down to see what had dropped. There were two things. There was my wallet and my credentials as an investigator. The good Mr. Nolan must have thrown those into my lap, like you throw a sneer at a wise guy when the wise guy turns out to be stupid, and I had turned out to be just that. I had had action from Mr. Nolan before I had expected action. Faintly, I promised myself that the action between Mr. Nolan and myself had only begun.
Double vision hit me again. I didn’t stoop for my stuff and wallet. Instead, I slid down to the top step, sat, stuck my head deep down between my knees, and drew big sops of breath. I sat like that for ten minutes and I began to feel better. I reached for the wallet, shoved the stuff into it, put the wallet into a pocket and pulled myself up to standing. I opened the door and I was out in the corridor. I fell against 1401, turned the knob and pushed, but it was locked. I stumbled to the elevator, fluttering like a loose pair of drawers hung out in a stiff breeze. I leaned against the button and then the elevator came and the door slung open, and the operator’s face got long with worry.
“What happened?” he said. “What happened, bub?”
“Slipped in the hall. Banged my head.”
“Get in, bub. We’ll go down express. Talk to the starter.”
Downstairs, the starter said, “Was there anything wrong up there, anything slippery? I’ll send the boy up for a look. Anything wrong, you put in a claim. We run this building de luxe. I’ll make a report on it right way.”
“No. Nothing wrong. No report. Just got my two left feet mixed up. My own fault. If you’d help me to a cab, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure, Jack.”
I gave the cabbie my doctor’s address and fifteen minutes later I was sprawled under an X-ray machine. I was feeling much better. He had given me a shot in the arm, a pill to swallow, and water to drink that had tasted as lousy as all water tastes from a paper container. Then he had touched my head, murmured about “Hematoma,” and led me to the X-ray machine. I rested on a cot while the plates were being developed. Then the doctor came to me, smilingly.
“Nothing harder than a hard head,” he informed me. “You had me concerned for a while but there’s no fracture. Nevertheless I want you off your feet for a couple of hours. Will you do that for me?”
“Not here. I’m allergic to cots since the Army.”
“No. I’ll take you upstairs, put you up in a nice comfy bedroom, give you a nice comfy pill, and you’ll sleep for a nice comfy couple of hours.”
I looked at my watch. It was a nice comfy six o’clock,
“Okay,” I said
Upstairs, with my clothes off, in bed with a pillow under my head, I staved off the pill with upraised hand. “Can I make a couple of phone calls first?”
“Sure.”
“Phone book?”
“Sure.”
He brought me a phone book and took his pill away with him. I looked up Jonathan Nolan on West 35th Street. I dialed the number. There was no answer. Then I called Warren Dodge at home. He answered quickly. I said, “Mr. Dodge, one question.”
“Who is this?”
“Peter Chambers.”
“What’s your question, son?”
“Jonathan Nolan. He married?”
“Bachelor.”
“He still live at 10 West 35th Street?”
“That’s right.”
“Thanks, Mr. Dodge.”
“That all?”
“That’s all.”
“Real mysterious.”
“Got to go to sleep now. Thanks, Mr. Dodge.”
“Sleep? I beg your pardon? What? What was that?”
“Bye, now. Thanks.”
I hung up. I called Nolan’s number again. I let it ring a long time. There was no answer. Then I checked the phone book for M. Russell, Locks and Keys, 850 Sixth Avenue. I called the number and it was answered on one ring. I said, “Mel?”
“Just a minute.”
Another voice came on. “Hello?”
“Mel?�
�
“Yeah.”
“Pete.”
“Pete who?”
“Pete Chambers.”
The voice brightened. “Hi, shamus.”
“You free right now?”
“Always free for you, shamus. You’re my boy.”
“I need a job, quick and clean. But you’ve got to go out on it right away. Name’s Jonathan Nolan. Address 10 West 35th Street. I want a key to get in. You’re gonna have to slip up there fast for an impression job. He’s not home now, so now is fine. I just called him. You call, just for a double check, before you start working your magic. He’s in the phone book. Got it, pal?”
“Got it, pal.”
“Go to it.”
“When do you want delivery?”
“Tonight. Will your wife let you out tonight?”
I could feel his grin. “Not if she knows it’s with you. I’ll tell her it’s poker.”
“Fine. I’ll meet you at eleven o’clock. Club Jolly. Okay?”
“You twisted my arm.”
“Okay. Go to work.” I hung up. I called: “Doc.” He came into the room. I said, “All right, put me to sleep. But I’ve got to be up at ten-thirty.”
“Depend on me. Now stick your tongue out.”
He put a pill on it and I gulped water.
CHAPTER 6
Club Jolly was jumping. The band was beating it up like the bennies were being overworked. Cigarette smoke put a ceiling under the ceiling. The customers were buzzing, the waiters were scampering for drinks, the tiny dance floor was getting a workout (as were the dancers), and an aura of expectation quivered over the joint; it was eleven o’clock. Anabel Jolly went on at eleven-thirty; then it was each hour on the half-hour, four times after that.
I waited at a wall table. Then the maître d’ brought Mel Russell down to me, Mel in a blue serge suit and a wide grin. He sat down beside me and ordered a drink. I said, “How’d it go?”
“Wrap-up. It’s apartment 2E. Happy hunting.” He produced a key and handed it to me.
“That all?” I said.
“One key. Period.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five bucks. For you. And I split the tab here.”
“Never mind that. The tab here’s on me. Enjoy.” I paid him, and put the key in my pocket.
“Anabel Jolly,” he said. “Wow.”
“Have you seen her?”
“Nope—but I’ve heard.”
The music ceased. The dancers straggled back to their tables. The curtains closed, the dim lights grew dimmer, there was a roll on the drums, and a blue spot played on the shimmering curtains. Then the curtains parted again, the music grew torchy and Anabel Jolly’s warm-up appeared: a slender girl with a bosom as flat as old beer and a throaty voice. She sang six sick love songs, and went away. Once more the curtains closed, this time the dimness turned to black, and then the curtains parted to a blue spotlight on Anabel Jolly.
When it was over, Mel Russell wiped sweat from his brow and said, “Murder.”
“Would you like to meet her?”
“Brother, would I?”
I sent the waiter back with a message, and the waiter came back with a message for me. “Miss Jolly,” he said, “says no.”
Mel said, “You’re slipping.”
“Must be,” I said. “You want to sit around and see it over?”
“How long?”
“An hour.”
“Do you?”
“I’m going. I’ve got a headache. In back of my head.”
“You’re really slipping, Pete. Time was you couldn’t be pried out of a joint like this till closing.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You want to substitute for me?”
“Substitute? What kind of substitute?”
“Female substitute.”
“Sure.” A grin wrinkled his face. “As long as I’m playing poker …”
I paid the check, tipped the waiter, shook hands with Mel, and on the way out I tipped the maître d’ and whispered to him, pointing toward Mel.
“Leave it to me,” said the maître d’.
Outside, I used a phone booth in an all-night drug store. I called Jonathan Nolan. There was no answer. I rubbed at a sharp pain in the back of my head, had an argument with myself and lost. I decided to go home and go to bed.
CHAPTER 7
At two o’clock in the afternoon, Roger Aldridge presented himself at my office. There was a criss-cross of bags beneath his eyes and his doleful expression had an aspect of failure like a husband about to commence an argument with his wife. “I believe,” he said, “my initial error was bringing those contracts to Jonathan. The more I think about it, the more I believe that move precipitated this series of events. But it’s easy to be wise—after the fact.”
“Second guessers never win.”
“Be that as it may, I am very near a decision.”
“You’re the client.”
“I’m going to pay, Mr. Chambers.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m going to pay up and shut up. What do you say to that?”
“I say you’re nuts.”
“Why?”
“Because blackmail never ends.”
“But I’d get back those letters. That’s all she has—that’s irrefutable.”
“She can make photostats. It can go on and on.”
“No,” he said. “I’d pay, and effect the return of six letters.” Then, coldly, he added: “If she monkeyed with me after that—I’d kill her.”
“Simple as that?”
“Yes. Essentially I’m a meek man. I’m willing to compromise—”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That’s a hell of a lot of compromise.”
“But even the meekest of us, jockeyed into a corner, and then pushed … we’ll jump. I’ll make a business deal with her but if after that, she tries any funny stuff—I’ll kill her. I’m going to make that perfectly clear to her.”
I lit a cigarette. I said, “How’s it figure, Mr. Aldridge?”
“A partnership in Winston Parnell would mean approximately three hundred thousand dollars a year to me. The kind of notoriety she plans would of course, wreck it. I consider it good business therefore, in these circumstances, to pay the equivalent of one year’s earnings to protect such earnings for the remainder of my working life. Do you see my point, sir?”
“Yes, I suppose I do. Have you got that kind of dough? To spare?”
“Frankly, I don’t. I earn a good deal of money, but what with taxes and my necessary mode of living—my savings are meager.”
“Then how do you propose to pay it?”
“I’ve decided to discuss it with my uncle. You know about his will.”
“Yes.”
“It’s common knowledge … well, family knowledge … that’s he’s worth at least a million dollars, in cash. It is also no secret that half of that goes to me upon his death, the other half to charity. I’m going to ask him to advance two hundred and fifty thousand dollars from my half right now … as a loan … to be returned by me in three yearly installments.”
“You going to tell him what it’s about?”
“I’m going to tell him the entire story. Which brings me to another point. I should like a favor of you.”
“Me? At the prices you’re paying—a pleasure.”
“My uncle has a great deal of confidence in you. I have an appointment with him for three o’clock. I should like you to come there, say … at five … five o’clock. You’ll corroborate my facts. And today’s the best day to talk with him.”
“Why today?”
“It’s Emerson Beach’s day off.”
“Beach?”
“His valet.”
“Oh yes.”
“Beach leaves in the morning and doesn’t return until five o’clock. That gives me two hours alone with my uncle, just the two of us, all alone. Then you’ll come and I’ve also asked Warren Dodge to drop by. Like that, my uncle will kn
ow the whole story, and he’ll be able to have a rounded view, the opinion of each of us. Will you come, Mr. Chambers?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
He rose and we shook hands and he went away. I killed my cigarette and went to the window. I saw him come out of the building and hail a cab. Another cab, parked at the curb, shot out after his. I had a hunch that Roger Aldridge had grown a tail.
CHAPTER 8
Donald Root lived on Park Avenue near 69th Street. It was a white edifice, a midget between giants, a narrow building of five stories between two skyscrapers, a symbol of the individuality of the stubborn owner who refused to dispose of his property (at fabulous offers) at the constant behest of the builders for the cliffdwellers. Donald Root owned the property but he occupied but one apartment.
The structure had none of the Park Avenue trappings. There was no doorman, no inside man, no starched dickeys, no canopy, no downstairs switchboard. You opened a brassbound, glass-brick door to a small, immaculate lobby. There was a marble floor, a mahogany side table, a lamp, a mirror, a self-service elevator, and a cool silence. Each floor had one apartment of five rooms, and each tenant was a carefully selected individual of means and culture.
It was exactly five o’clock when the elevator slid open for me. I pushed the button for 4, rose silently and emerged to a carpeted foyer. There was one door, the door to Donald Root’s apartment, and the door was ajar. I pushed a button which produced a two-tone tinkle, but produced nothing else. I repeated the two-tone tinkle, waited, then shoved in. I went through a small vestibule into a vast drawing room. Donald Root was in his wheel chair behind his desk. There was a small hole in his forehead and his lifeless chin drooped on his chest.
Roger Aldridge was sprawled face down on the thick red carpet. There was a gun in his hand.
I moved fast. The gun was Roger’s gun; his holster was empty. He had a blue welt on his forehead over his right eye. His position was such that he seemed to have been going away; his head was toward the door. The point of one shoe was wedged in a slit of the red carpet where the carpet appeared to be torn. I looked up. There was a bullet hole in the ceiling.