Snowball in Hell

by Josh Lanyon

  “I think Carl felt bitter about the way Phil treated Claire,” Bob said.

  “And how was that?” Matt asked.

  Bob shrugged uncomfortably.

  Veronica said, “Phil was not ideal husband material.” She smiled at Bob, and there was no doubt she thought her own husband was a prize worth hanging on to.

  “And how did Claire feel about Phil?”

  There was a pause, and Veronica answered. “I guess you’d have to ask her, Lieutenant.”

  “I guess I will,” Matt said.

  Tara Renee stood frowning beneath the striped awning of the Las Palmas Club. She brightened when she spotted Matt and Jonesy. “What’d you do with Nathan?” she asked, trotting to keep up with Matt as he strode toward mahogany doors with stained-glass windows of green palm trees and azure oceans.

  “Unhooked him and threw him back.” Matt eyed her curiously. “What did you want me to do with him?”

  “Artie Cohen said he saw you haul him off in a police car.”

  “We didn’t haul him anywhere,” Matt retorted. “We invited him to accompany us to Bob Arlen’s since he knows the family. I thought he might be useful to have along.”

  “Was he?”

  “Yep.”

  “Nice break for Nathan.”

  Matt stopped and subjected Tara to a narrow-eyed inspection. “Okay, what’s on your mind, Miss Renee?”

  “Miss Renee? You’re so formal!” She dimpled at him, but Matt knew her too well to be swayed. “Nothing’s on my mind. I’m glad Nathan’s getting a few breaks. He deserves them. What’d you think of him?”

  “What am I supposed to think of him?” Matt shrugged. “How well do you know him?”

  “Are you jealous?”

  He sighed.

  Tara made a face. “Alright, already! Not a lot. I didn’t know Nathan before the war. One thing I do know. He writes beee-ooou-ti-fully. I keep telling him he should write a novel. The kind of thing that gets slapped between embossed leather and sent to the Saturday Evening Review boys to chew over. He’s too good for this racket.”

  Matt shook his head and rapped on the doors. “You seem very interested in Nathan Doyle.”

  “I am interested. He’s an interesting fellow, unlike the louts I usually meet in my trade.” She batted her eyelashes at Matt. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant, you’ll always come first with me.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Matt said, and she laughed. He liked her laugh. That was when she reminded him most of Rachel.

  “Jonesy still loves me,” she said, with a backward glance for Jonesy.

  “You remind me of my granddaughter,” Jonesy said. “She needs a good spanking too.”

  Tara raised her eyebrows.

  Matt said, “Anyway, what the hell was he doing with the Eighth Army for how many years?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. He doesn’t talk much. He did say he was in Greece in forty-one.” She gave Matt a funny grin. “He said he always wanted to see the birthplace of democracy.”

  “Greece, huh?” He turned as the mahogany doors were unlocked and dragged open. A bald-headed man with a mouthful of gold teeth glowered at him, and Matt showed his badge. The glower didn’t go away, but the man stepped back, and Matt and Jonesy stepped inside. A beefy arm barred Tara’s passage.

  “I’m with them,” she protested.

  The doorman said, “Pull the other one, sister. You’re no cop. Your legs aren’t bad enough.”

  “Nice try, Torchy Blane,” Matt said. The heavy doors closed on Tara’s protests.

  The bruiser led them through a lounge, which opened onto an inside garden with a small waterfall, and then through to another larger lounge with a stage, where a platinum-haired girl was running through some swing versions of Christmas standards while a man at the piano tinkled along.

  A man and woman sat amidst the sea of empty tables. They had the easy rapport of an old married couple, but in fact Sid Szabo and Nora Noonan were longtime business partners. The rumor was that they were lovers as well, but observing them together, Matt wasn’t sure.

  Nora Noonan was not beautiful, but she had a self-contained, intelligent face—like one of those portraits of the Madonna. Her hair was reddish blond. She wore a well-cut tweed suit. Sid Szabo was one of the handsomest men Matt had ever seen—like a Sunday matinee idol. Dark hair and eyes so blue you could tell it from across the room. He was watching the girl on the stage, but Matt knew he hadn’t missed their entrance.

  Nora Noonan was smiling her slight, enigmatic smile as Matt and Jonesy approached the table. “Well, Detectives, we heard the news on the radio. I had a feeling you’d be showing up.”

  “Lieutenant Spain,” Matt said, and flashed the tin.

  Nora Noonan raised her eyebrows, pretending to be impressed. “May I offer you a drink, Lieutenant Spain?”

  “No thanks. What can you tell me about the Arlen kid?”

  “Do sit down!” She smiled at Jonesy. “Sergeant? You look like a drinking man.”

  Jonesy made some uncomfortable assurances to the contrary, and she smiled that smile again. Szabo watched them, unspeaking, his eyes not missing a move—and yet his attention remained with the girl now warbling “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

  After they were seated, Nora said, “The truth? I wouldn’t shed any tears over Phil Arlen—except for the fact that he owed me forty grand.”

  Matt whistled. “Is that right? Forty thousand dollars in gambling debts?”

  “Gambling is illegal in this state, Lieutenant,” Nora said mildly. “This was a personal loan.”

  “For?”

  Nora smiled. “I didn’t like to ask. After all, Arlen was a good customer—and he came from a good family. I felt sure he’d make good on his debt.”

  “He was a weasel,” Szabo said.

  Nora looked exasperated. “Sid—”

  “He was a weasel,” Sid repeated. “Why pretend anything else?” His stone-cold eyes studied Matt boldly. “You talk to the wife? She was here Friday night threatening to kill him.”

  “Sid!” Nora sounded truly put out now.

  Szabo turned his profile and stared at the stage and the singer. “Talk to the wife,” he said.

  “Cherchez la femme,” Nora remarked. “Maybe.” She shrugged her tweed-clad shoulders. “I guess it makes as much sense as anything these days.”

  “The fact is, we’re investigating Arlen’s death as a kidnapping gone wrong,” Matt said—and now he had the attention of both.

  “A…kidnapping? The radio didn’t mention that,” Nora said carefully. Sid said nothing.

  “That’s right. Arlen didn’t come home Saturday night. His family received a ransom demand on Sunday. The money was delivered, but Arlen was bumped off anyway.”

  “My goodness,” Nora said faintly. “They paid the ransom?”

  “Right.”

  Nora looked at Sid. Sid looked at Nora.

  Nora said finally, “That doesn’t make much sense. Killing the victim, I mean, if the ransom was paid on time. Not a sound business practice.”

  “That’s what I say,” Matt said. “Anyway, the last time anyone saw the Arlen kid was here on Saturday night.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Nora said. “I wasn’t here. I had one of my sick headaches.”

  She looked at Sid, who said flatly, “He was here. He was always here. We should have charged him rent.”

  Nora made one of those pained faces—the Madonna putting up with a lousy suggestion from Joseph—and said, “Philip was somewhat enamored of Pearl.” She nodded to the girl on the stage. “Pearl Jarvis. She sings here Tuesdays through Thursdays.”

  On Mondays the club was closed, and on weekends the big names appeared. The Las Palmas Club attracted a lot of big names: Tommy Dorsey, Crosby, Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman. It was one of the city’s hot spots, though Matt would have to take the word of others for that. He was not much for nightclubs.

  It was Szabo’s turn to look irritated. “Pearl p
ut up with the puppy, that’s all. She was just being nice to a customer. They’re all good girls here.”

  “Sure,” Matt said. “Convent-reared, every one of them. So Philip hung around Pearl, and Philip’s wife was jealous?”

  Nora laughed a cool little laugh. “Well, I expect she wasn’t pleased about it, but I don’t think Claire Arlen is the type to go around murdering husbands.”

  “You might be surprised what wives will do,” Matt said, holding her gaze.

  Nora’s dark gaze sharpened. She looked down at her drink. “True,” she murmured.

  Matt said to Sid, “Do you remember what time Arlen left here on Saturday?”

  “I wasn’t keeping track of him. He was pretty drunk, that much I do remember.”

  “When was the last time you remember seeing him?”

  “Sometime after midnight.”

  “Who was he with? Pearl?” Matt glanced at the canary. She looked like a million other girls to him. Nice figure, nice face—nice voice too—but clothes too tight, hair too blond and skin too painted.

  Sid smiled sourly. “Nope. They weren’t talking that night. He was with a reporter. What’s his name from the Tribune-Herald. Doyle, that’s it. He was with Doyle the last time I saw him.”

  Chapter Two

  Carl Winters Bookseller read the black-and-gold script on the sign above the long bow window. And beneath, in smaller letters: The Fine, the Rare, the Antiquarian.

  Bombastic, in Nathan’s opinion. The man sold words, he didn’t write them. Or at least not that Nathan knew of. But then he didn’t know a lot about Carl Winters. What he did know wasn’t heartwarming.

  He pushed through the door and found himself in one of those hushed and rarefied establishments where tomes were sold by the size and matched leather bindings—and cracking a book’s spine was a hanging offense. Plush maroon carpet deadened his footsteps as he made his way through Ming vases, Chippendale chairs and a few strategically placed bookshelves to the front desk. This long black wood construction could never be called a counter, and nothing so plebian as a cash register sat there. A cool and elegant blonde wearing a pair of horn-rim spectacles that had to be for show observed his approach.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Winters.”

  She didn’t quite allow herself a smirk, but her “Did you have an appointment?” was clearly rhetorical.

  “No. I’m Nathan Doyle.” He showed her his press pass.

  Her pointy little nose twitched. “Mr. Winters is not speaking to the press.”

  There was an answer to that, but Nathan bit the inside of his cheek. She didn’t look like she had much sense of humor. “Okay. Well, could you remind him we met Saturday night at the Las Palmas Club?”

  She tipped her head, studying him over the top of her glasses, then, reluctantly, she abandoned her front desk post and sashayed through a pair of oversized carved doors, vanishing into a discreet back room.

  Nathan leaned back against the front desk and studied the very nice watercolors on the wall. England probably. A very different England than the last time he’d been there. He supposed you could still find places like that, rural pockets mostly untouched by the war. He hadn’t seen any. Not in England. Not in North Africa.

  Outside the shop windows, holiday shoppers in raincoats, umbrellas tilted against the rain, bustled along the wet street, laden with parcels and shopping bags. Funny, that. Come wind or rain or sleet or world wars, people still celebrated the holidays. Maybe it said something about the human spirit. Or maybe it said something about the strength of habit.

  “Mr. Doyle?”

  He turned as Carl Winters approached. He was alone. There was no sign of the Dresden-figurine salesgirl. That alone assured Nathan he was on the right track.

  Winters was a trim and dapper mid-forties. He wore a pale yellow carnation in his lapel and Nathan could just about see his reflection in the gleam off Winters’ hand-stained antique copper brogues. His lustrous hair was prematurely white, but the face beneath was tanned and youthful. Though he was smiling, his eyes were wary, and Nathan understood why.

  They shook hands briefly, and Winters said—heading Nathan off, it seemed—“Is this a sympathy call or a request for an interview?”

  Nathan studied his face. “I can’t say I’m particularly sorry about Phil,” he said. “Are you supposed to be?”

  “He was a lowlife. A creep. That’s off the record and on.”

  Nathan smiled.

  “But I didn’t kill him,” Winters added.

  “Sure. Any ideas about who might have?”

  “Anyone who had the displeasure of his acquaintance.”

  “Including your sister?”

  “Leave Claire out of this.”

  “She brought herself into it by showing up at the Las Palmas Club on Saturday night.”

  “That was…nothing,” Winters said curtly.

  “It was something.” Nathan was gentle but definite. “The police are liable to think so, anyway.”

  Winters’ face changed, grew ugly. “I see. This is a—a shakedown, is that it?”

  Nathan shook his head. “I couldn’t keep it quiet if I wanted to. Too many people saw your sister threaten Phil. Too many people saw all three of us at the club on Saturday.”

  “That’s right,” Winters said. “But Phil was still alive and kicking when Claire and I pulled out. We left him to your tender mercies.”

  Nathan shrugged. “Phil was alive when I left him.” He considered Winters levelly. “The story is he was grabbed by kidnappers. But I guess you would have heard that from your sister.”

  Winters didn’t so much as blink.

  Nathan nodded thoughtfully. “You don’t buy the kidnapping story either.”

  “I buy it. I’m just waiting for you to accuse me of kidnapping and murder.”

  “Times are tough,” Nathan said. “Not many people have leisure or luxury to read these days.” He glanced at a copy of William Blake’s Songs of Innocence under glass on the ebony counter. “Not at these prices.”

  “I do very well,” Winters said. “It’s not a crime. Even in wartime.”

  Nathan just studied him, and Winters said edgily, “I don’t know what you think you’ve heard…”

  “We both know what Arlen was,” Nathan said coolly. “I heard enough on Saturday to figure out that he was putting the screws on you. I can make an educated case as to what he had on you.”

  “What he thought he had on me,” Winters corrected.

  “If you were paying him to keep his mouth shut—and apparently you were—”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. I paid him because scandal can ruin a man in my position. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, just the hint of it’s all it takes. That’s the way the world turns.”

  “Maybe so.” Nathan was thinking that if Winters had nothing to fear he would have told his brother-in-law to go to hell. He hadn’t because he didn’t want Arlen planting that seed of doubt in anyone’s minds. It was liable to start people looking, and Winters couldn’t afford that. Nathan understood that line of reasoning because he couldn’t afford people to start looking either. He added, “I guess you weren’t happy about the way he was treating your little sister.”

  “No, I wasn’t happy,” Winters said. “But, believe it or not, Claire loved that little rat. She wouldn’t have thanked me for removing him from this mortal coil.” He swallowed hard. “This is liable to kill her.”

  “She seemed healthy enough to me on Saturday,” Nathan replied. “Healthy pair of lungs on her.”

  Winters’ face darkened again. “She didn’t kill him. And I didn’t kill him. And as far as paying Phil hush money, what were you paying him for?”

  Nathan’s smile was wry. “I didn’t pay him. I couldn’t afford to.”

  Winters stared at him. “Then it seems to me,” he said, “you’ve got as good a motive for murder as anyone.”

  “It does seem that way,” Nat
han agreed.

  Philip and Claire Arlen lived up the road a bit from the Robert Arlens in a fashionable five-story Spanish-Italian apartment hotel called the Los Altos. The hand-tinted postcards sold in the lobby said the Los Altos “Catered to a Particular Clientele,” which always amused the hell out of Nathan.

  He ran through the stone courtyard, fountains gurgling with rain and water, and ducked under the ornate stone entrance. The lobby was carpeted in red, the walls creamy, and the light muted. A large flocked Christmas tree stood at one end, a spill of gaily wrapped, for-display-only “presents” beneath its feathery limbs. Nathan went up a couple of flights of stairs, down a hall with intricately carved wooden panels, and rang the buzzer of Philip Arlen’s apartment. Veronica Thompson-Arlen opened the door.

  “Oh,” she said, surprised. She did not seem like a woman frequently caught off guard. She had been a navy nurse, Nathan remembered, Bob’s nurse after he cracked up his B-25 Mitchell during a failed bombing run over Japan. Love among the bedpans. Bob hadn’t come out of it too badly. A game leg, a scarred face, a beautiful young wife and a nice cushy job waiting for him. A lot of guys had it a lot worse.

  It made sense that Veronica would be there to comfort her sister-in-law. Nathan said, “Hi, Ronnie. Is Claire home?”

  “She’s resting. Why?” She glanced over her shoulder into the silent interior of the apartment. The drapes were drawn, blinds closed. “Nathan, she’s not well enough to speak to anyone. Phil’s death has devastated her.”

  “I’ll be careful with her.”

  “But why can’t it wait?”

  Good question. He said, “You’ll have to take my word that it can’t.”

  Veronica studied him. “I don’t know you that well.” Then she shrugged. “Bob says you’re a straight shooter. I’ll ask Claire if she feels up to talking to you.” She hesitated as though there were something more she needed to say then seemed to change her mind. She turned and walked into the other room.

  Nathan looked around himself. The word was that old man Arlen had cut the purse strings to young Philip in an effort to bring him into line. The way Nathan heard it, the old man wanted Philip to enter the family business—take his birthright corner office at Arlen Petroleum—and to spend a few more nights at home. It was no secret that Phil had declined. But it didn’t look like he and the missus were suffering unduly. The apartment was very nice—they were all very nice apartments at the Los Altos—although it didn’t come with the finger bowls and champagne glasses doled out to occupants of the Bryson. Still, it didn’t look like baby brother was exactly strapped for cash. Claire’s bloodline was impeccable, but the Winters had been at financial low tide for decades, ever since the big crash in ’29, so the funding wasn’t coming from her side of the family.