“Some economy,” I said.
He gave me a gold-toothed smile. “And champagne and caviar by the truckload. But God help you”—he raised his eyes to heaven—“if one spoon was missing afterward. One lousy towel. Did you happen to notice that there are no pictures in your apartment?”
“I did.”
“The result of that Christmas celebration. There used to be reproductions of art works in every room. Department-store stuff. Then some guest for a joke—after all, what the hell are those things worth?—took one with him when he left. Smuggled it out. Next week, Mr. Quist had every picture in the guest rooms removed and stored away. The most generous of hosts, understand. But he wants it known that he’ll provide the hospitality, you will not help yourself to it.”
“What happened to the guest who took the picture?” I asked. Araujo answered succinctly, “Another candidate for the shit list.”
We went downstairs, and he disappeared into the garage to come out in a gold cart. In it, we headed southward on a quick tour of inspection, our first stop a service building largely given over to maintenance and repair shops and to laundering equipment. Its rear section was sealed off by a wire partition. Behind the partition I made out a fair-sized generator. Generally good power service in these parts, Araujo assured me, but the auxiliary generator was always kept at the ready. A young man sat behind the partition, his uniform jacket draped over the back of his chair. When Araujo glared at him the young man hastily got into the jacket.
We mounted the golf cart again, followed the southern wall of the grounds past an empty pool fringed with cabanas and held course as far as the grassy bluff overlooking the beach where the wall ended. Here we turned northward past the Rountree cottage, past the Hoffman–Holly Lee cottage. On the tennis courts nearby Holly Lee and Calderon were playing a pat-a-ball match against Scott Rountree and Lou Hoffman. Beauty and the Beast against Mutt and Jeff.
Araujo was intrigued by the sight. “Interesting. Over the weekend they were giving each other a lot of room. Highly distrustful, you might say, after the dog was killed. Now here they are, coming together again.”
“Excluding Kightlinger,” I said, and Araujo said, “That’s true. You’ve met him?”
“Not yet.”
“I’d like to know what comes of it when you do. That business of his using Miss Riley’s typewriter. And his violent reaction to being discovered at it. I distrust all four of those men, but I distrust him just a little more than the others.”
“I see you’re still being chivalrous about the ladies.”
Araujo looked speculative. “Well, I’ve considered your idea that one of them might be involved. I think Mrs. Rountree could have that kind of disposition. I’m sure the girl hasn’t.”
“Some natural bias there?”
“Because she’s young and pretty?” Araujo grinned. “Of course. But seriously, she’s so much devoted to Mr. Daskalos it’s hard to imagine her wanting to hurt him in any way.”
“To test him maybe? To see if he really can deliver the goods after he’s dead?”
“You’re joking,” Araujo said warily.
“I don’t know. We’re dealing with some strange people here.”
He slowed the cart passing Daskalos’ cottage and regarded it glumly. “The heart of our little problem.”
“Did Mr. Quist give you my analysis of the problem?”
“Yes. Also word that if you can’t nail the perpetrator in advance, you’re supposed to play nursemaid to Mr. Daskalos tomorrow night. By the way, you do have a gun with you?”
“I’m not much on guns. I’ll settle for the nursemaid part.”
“Oh?” He gave me a wicked look. “And I thought you were all for highly visible security.”
“Touché.”
“Hell.” He dug a friendly elbow into my ribs. “If you change your mind, I’ll fix you up with something suitable. Anyhow, that’s the easy part of it.”
“What’s the hard part?”
“Playing nursemaid in there”—he waggled a thumb at the cottage—“without the gentleman throwing a fit. No problem if he’s the swindler you think he is. A very large problem if he’s the fanatic I think he is.”
“And,” I said, “if I do nail the perpetrator in advance, we never will know which of us is right, will we?”
Back in my pictureless apartment, I lowered the brandy level of the balloon glass another fraction of an inch, then set off down the hallway to check on Kightlinger again. Halfway to his door I was struck by inspiration. I went back to my rooms and put in a call to Maggie. After some confused going-ons by the warm body at the switchboard I was connected with her. I said, “If you’re not in your office, where are you?”
“In Andrew’s. With him. What is it? Did you talk to Sid Kightlinger?”
“Nor yet. Have you used that typewriter since he did?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll be in your office right away. You be there too. If the boss wants to come along, bring him.”
They were both waiting when I got there. I said without preliminary, “If Kightlinger didn’t get too far along with his typing before he was interrupted, there’s a chance we can find out what he wrote without even seeing the paper.”
Quist caught on fast. “The ribbon,” he said, and Maggie looked at him, then at me. “I don’t understand.”
I explained. “A fresh ribbon can show what was typed on it before it starts respooling. After that, you’d be going over what you already wrote and blocking it out. Now, let’s take a look.”
I sat down at the machine, lifted out the ribbon, and unspooled it to arm’s length. I scanned it closely. “Good news and bad news. The good news is that it’s legible. The bad news is that this isn’t any death threat.” I nodded at Maggie. “I’ll read it to you. Get yourself a pencil and pad and take it down.”
Jan. 17th
Dr. Jack Newstone
Medical Arts Group Building
Denver, Col.
Dear Jack:
Your check for the $2000 just arrived. As per our phone talk this letter serves as a binding agreement that your 2000 gives you 5% of my producer’s share of Two Plus One. I will send the formal papers as soon as I am back at the office. I am very grateful to you, Jack. As to why I could not just go to Quist and ask him for some ready money there are
Maggie waited with pencil poised. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” I said.
Quist’s face was a study. “The double-talking bastard. He’s working on nickels and dimes.” He didn’t seem displeased about it.
I said to him, “Now we’ve both got leverage.” I spooled the ribbon tight and put it in my pocket. “But it must be understood that for the time being neither you nor Miss Riley knows anything about this. Only I do.”
Quist gave me a nod and a wink. “Naturally, it’s your own little secret. For the time being.”
Maggie said, “I still don’t understand. What leverage? If this isn’t a note to Kalos—”
I cut in: “Take a deep breath and listen. From Mr. Quist’s angle, when someone wants to sell you an interest in a million-dollar deal and you suddenly find he’s working on all nerve and no cash, you have him, in the fine old expression, by the balls. From my angle, if I show Kightlinger evidence that he’s working on all nerve and no cash—and let him know I’ll keep it quiet only if he opens up to me—well, you can see where I have him.”
She could. And from the look of her she relished the thought. She said, “You have a real mean streak, don’t you?” and I said, “Same as your friend Sid. Now I’ll go demonstrate it to him.”
“I’d wish you luck,” Quist said, “except that I never knew anyone holding a royal flush who needed it.”
In the hallway Maggie said to me, “But that letter does make it look more than ever like Sid, doesn’t it? If he’s so broke, and Kalos stands in the way of making the movie, he has one hell of a motive to get rid of him. And you seem to be very strong on moti
ve.”
“I am. Except where the suspect is certifiably loony. But there are still some other motives around here to be explored before we clap the cuffs on Sid. Remember, a wrong guess gives the real troublemaker a clear track.”
“I suppose.” She touched her fingers to the injured cheek. “And even if Sid isn’t the one,” she said pleasurably, “I can see what’ll happen now when he sits down to talk contract with Andrew.”
“And with you standing there, whip in hand. Tell me something. Does Quist really operate his billion-dollar conglomerate out of his office here? My picture of how conglomerates are run—”
“Your picture’s probably right. Andrew still rates chairman of the board, but he hasn’t had much to do with Quistco for a few years now. Not since the pain set in bad. He felt that vital decisions made under pain or even mild sedation could easily be the wrong decisions. He’s that kind of man.”
“So this movie deal would be sort of a hobby for him.”
Maggie shook her head. “Not if Sharon gives him the go-ahead on it. Then it becomes very serious business. Sharon’s his hobby. And whatever else you want to call it. Twenty-four hours a day.”
“Where is she now, come to think of it? I haven’t seen her around since this morning.”
Maggie said, “I was wondering when you’d ask. She’s probably wondering too. She’s in her bedroom allegedly having a headache. Actually having the weeps.”
“Much of that lately?”
“Yes,” said Maggie. She was looking at me steadily.
“Is Quist aware of it?”
“No.”
The silence between us started to ring in my ears.
“Well,” I said, “we all have our troubles, don’t we? Now I’ll go see how much I can add to Sid Kightlinger’s.”
This time Kightlinger was in, all Gucci and Pucci and monogrammed shirt. In the middle forties, to give him the best of it, tall, running to fat, and with a TV newscaster’s super-hairstyling. When I introduced myself he said, “The house dick. I know,” and stood in the doorway barring my entrance.
I suggested we’d do better in the privacy of the apartment, and he said, “We can take care of our business right here. You ask me if I’m the crackpot out to get Daskalos and I say no. That settles it. Goodby.”
He started to close the door against me. I said, “Fact is, what I wanted to ask about was a Jack Newstone. Dr. Jack Newstone. Of Denver, Colorado.”
Kightlinger said explosively, “That bitch!” Then, as if alarmed by his own vehemence, he peered furtively up and down the empty hallway. He motioned me in and closed the door behind us. His red-faced anger, as I watched, became red-faced confusion. “But she never saw the letter. How did she—?”
“She didn’t. I’m the one.” I took out the ribbon and unspooled a length of it. I held it up in demonstration. “A brand-new tattletale ribbon. Want me to read it to you?”
“Don’t strain yourself.” He was cautiously appraising me. “Does she know about this? Or Quist?”
I said, “Not yet,” and he looked a little relieved but still on guard. I asked, “What made you change the ribbon anyhow?”
“Because why the hell shouldn’t I? The other one was all used up when I tried it. It was no big deal except for that broad coming on like a storm trooper. I was going to tell her I used the machine next time I ran into her.”
“You belted her pretty hard considering it was no big deal.”
“Because she came at me like a goddam wildcat. What was I supposed to do, run around the room with her chasing me? And she belted me pretty fucking hard too.” He ran his fintertips along his jaw in pained reminiscence. “I think she cracked a couple of caps.”
“I wouldn’t bill Quist for them if I were you. Better to sell five percent of yourself to your dentist.” I sat down on the couch and stretched out my legs to indicate I was in a mood for friendly chitchat. “How much of that producer’s share have you sold already?”
“What the hell is that your business?”
“Well now, suppose I took it into my head that because you’re up against the wall financially, and Daskalos is nailing you to it even tighter, you’d do anything to get rid of him?”
“Crap.”
“In that case, I’ll do you the favor of telling Quist you didn’t kill his pet hound. That the note you were caught typing was simply thanks to a buddy for some pocket money you needed to keep up the big front. Quist would like that. After all, what wheeler-dealer doesn’t like to see the party of the second part get down on his knees when it comes time to talk contract?”
Kightlinger seated himself heavily. He ran his hands up and down his thighs while he did some hard thinking. Then he said, “And what would you like? A little piece of my action just to keep your mouth shut?”
“I’m tempted, but no thanks. Is that what’s going on between you and Daskalos? You offered him a little piece of your action if he okayed the movie deal, and he’s holding out for more?”
Kightlinger said wearily, “He’s not holding out for anything. He just turned me down cold.”
“Playing hard to get?”
“I don’t think so. He just turned me down, that’s all. I think he’s as crazy as he looks.” Kightlinger held up a warning hand. “Which does not mean I’m stupid enough to try knocking him off.”
“Well, someone around here seems to be. Any idea who?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no.” He gnawed a hangnail. “Look, I know about you. When Bauer said you were coming down here she also let it out that you were the guy who took care of Frankie Kurtz for her. You know. After she cut loose from him but he wouldn’t let go. So I got on the blower with Ted Freitag at Corinthian and asked about it. He said it was true, you were the one. And that you were very tough, but, far as he knew, strictly on the level.”
I said, “A contented client is our best advertisement.”
“We can skip the comedy. Freitag also told me something strictly between us. That it was Daskalos who pressured Bauer to dump Frankie Kurtz. Did you know that?”
“No. But what’s it got to do with these threats against Daskalos?”
“Because Frankie Kurtz does know it. And he is only twenty minutes away from here right now. Right up there in Miami Beach.”
“Visiting?”
Kightlinger said with satisfaction, “Settled in there for over a year now. Loan-sharking, they tell me.”
“Who’s they?”
“Some local movie union guys I’m dealing with. But here he is, only twenty minutes away. Think that over.”
I thought it over. “Nope, it doesn’t fit.”
“Why not? Who’d have better reason than Frankie for wanting to slice Daskalos into little pieces? Do you know what it cost him when Bauer gave him the goodby?”
“Even so, it has to be an inside job.”
Kightlinger said impatiently, “So he lined up one of these shmucks who works around the place here. He’s loan-sharking, remember? There’s other ways of paying off your loan shark than with cash. Like doing him a very large favor, for instance.”
“Talking out of experience?” I said, and Kightlinger glowered. “What is this? You just won’t be happy unless you make me your fall guy?”
“Well, let’s put it this way. Maggie Riley would be very happy if I made you my fall guy.”
“Oho. You mean you’ve got a hard-on for Miss Freckles. And just because I handed her what’s coming to her—”
I stood up. “It’s been nice meeting you,” I said as I moved toward the door, and Kightlinger came to his feet almost passionately conciliatory. “For chrissake, Milano, how about you cool it off and be reasonable? You want me to say it, all right I’ll say it. I’m sorry I walloped her. But I’m right on the edge of the cliff now. If you understood my position—”
I took my time sitting down again. “All you have to do is tell me about it.”
“If I can believe that’s as far as it goes.”
I said, “Cross
my heart. You can start by telling me how come you picked Sharon Bauer for a part in your movie. I mean, knowing she was supposed to be retired from the business. Was that your brainstorm, or did she send up signals?”
“Neither. Not exactly. Look. Let me lay it out in one piece so you’ll get the whole picture.”
“Without embroidery.”
Kightlinger held up both hands placatingly. “The straight goods. What happened was I came across this book Two Plus One a couple of years ago, and I could see it had possibilities. You know anything about screen production?”
“I did jobs for some of Freitag’s problem people. Mostly the ones marked self-destruct. That’s as far as it goes.”
“Then I have to explain that when it comes to a small independent like me you can’t compete with the big boys for hot properties. You settle for what’s available, and it turned out this book was. So I settled with Rountree for rights to the book and a screenplay. He did a good job on the screenplay for the first time out. Not perfect, but very good. So I’m in business. Now what’s needed is financing and a release—a guarantee of distribution, y’understand—but when I go to the major studios they all turn me down.”
“The incest problem?”
“Nah, incest is in right now. It’s just that what I offered was a people picture, and today it’s all spectaculars. Go to a major with a solid story about just people—live human beings, y’understand—hand them a budget for two million, they die laughing. Tell them you’ve got a story about how the Empire State Building falls down on Central Park and lets loose all the lions in the zoo and they run around town killing people, and they ask if you’ll be happy with twenty million. Thirty million. You name it.”
I said, “It wouldn’t land on Central Park.”
“What?”
“The Empire State’s on Thirty-fourth Street. If it fell down, it wouldn’t reach Central Park. The park’s on Sixtieth.”
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