by Henry, Kane,
“And this Adams?”
“All smooth. All too smooth, all of it, too smooth to suit me. Everybody’s nice, and everybody’s helpful, and everybody’s so sweetly innocent. And I haven’t even talked to that little sister yet, that Julia — ”
“And Tommy Huk?”
He winked one eye at me. “I’ve got my lines out for that one.”
I cocked my head, said, “Pick a color.”
“What? What’s with you?”
“I’ll pick a color.”
Testily he said, “Okay. Pick.”
“I pick purple.” And I winked both my eyes at him.
He stared at me and then comprehension spread over his face. “Why you shrewd little scheming son — ”
“Lieutenant, we should both have a bit more confidence in one another. Purple Room. I didn’t think you guys knew. Bad judgment on my part.”
He squinted, smiling. “And bad judgment on mine.”
“I’ve got a line out on Tommy Huk too. Who has better bait, Lieutenant?”
“I wouldn’t know. Now about that little sister — ”
“Bye now, Lieutenant. And watch those expense accounts. Your boys were drinking up all the purple atmosphere of The Purple Room and atmosphere wasn’t all they were drinking up.”
VI
Rockefeller Plaza. Wondrous New York. There it is, symbol of shining New York. Rise of stone like square-cut mountains. Gleaming windows like a thousand eyes. Narrow canyons like cracks in a wilderness of concrete. There it is: stone, steel, statuary — blueprint of the business-age — high pile of man-made hardness, jagged silhouette against a gentle sky. And there they are: the bustling people, the thousands of them, and their thousands of offices, each little office harboring a conspiracy of its own. No love now. No relaxation. No art. No poetry. No compassion. No tenderness. Not now. No wife. No children. No mother. No father. No sister. No brother. No mistress. No city apartment. No country home. No green trees. No rolling hills. No lilac-scented air. There they are: the bustling thousands, everything forgotten but the one present purpose: the making of a buck. There they are, scurrying like ants beneath a lifted rock, there they go, their energies directed to the transference of the elusive buck: your buck to them: their buck to another. Ah, Rockefeller Plaza. Ah, New York. Ah, Publicity. Ah, Keith Associates.
I pushed open the door and the receptionist looked up encouragingly. “Yes, please?”
“Miss Rollins.”
“She’s not in, sir.”
“Expected?”
“I’m sorry, but she won’t be in today. She’s not feeling very well. If you had an appointment, we can — ”
“Is Mr. Adams in?”
“Yes, sir. Who shall I say, please?”
“Peter Chambers.”
“Thank you.” She lifted a phone, whispered into it, hung up, said, “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Chambers?”
I started for a chair but before I reached it Ralph Adams came through a leather swinging door and approached me with hand outstretched. He said, “Hi.” We shook hands and he said, “Look. Let’s get out of here. I’m dying for a drink. Let’s go downstairs.”
“Sure.”
The elevator took us to Ye Old Dutch Tavern, in the bowels of the building, where it was quiet and cool. Adams ordered a whiskey sour and so did I. He finished his quickly, ordered another, sipped, sat back, smiled, said, “All right, where do we go from here?”
“You,” I said, “might go to jail. Or worse.”
“Me? For what?”
“The murder of Max Keith.”
“Me?” He straightened up. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Look, Ralph. I’m nothing. I’m not official. I’m a guy hustling around the fringe. But I hear things. And I can talk.”
“Talk? Talk? About what?”
“You, at the moment.”
“Well, talk.”
“Question first. And right to the point.”
“Shoot.”
“Did you kill Keith?”
“You nuts?” He pulled on his whiskey sour.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Then why the crazy question?”
“Because, you don’t know it, kid, but you’re Number One on the suspect list.”
“Me?”
And now I had him primed to say what I had come to say. “Somebody shoved you on the spot, baby, on the very hottest of spots.”
“Who?”
“Ruth Rollins. This is confidential, Ralph.”
He tightened his upper lip against his teeth. “Ruth Rollins?”
I laid it on thicker than make-up on a new chorus girl. “She put you right in the middle. As I mentioned a moment ago, I’m not cops. I don’t have to be discreet. I don’t have to hold out on you.” It was happening. I kept my fingers crossed. I was getting reaction. His color was up and he was rubbing nervously at his bristle-cut hair. “She said you and Keith had a big bust-up, that you threatened him, that there was real bad blood between you.”
“Did, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Why, that miserable two-bit chiseler. And me holding out information to cover for her.”
“Information?” Now I perked. “Like what?”
He was talking swiftly. “Like she knew the guy we pointed out at the Rogue’s Gallery, actually knew him.”
“Tommy Huk?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know she knew him?”
“Call came in once, from the Coast. Wires got tangled or something, but when I lifted my phone, I heard them talking. Huk. That was his name. I thought it was a nickname.”
“What were they talking about?”
“Nothing that I can actually remember, except the guy sounded sweet on her.”
“Why’d you hold this out on the cops?”
He finished his drink. He was talking more slowly. He said, “I’d rather not answer that And I wish you wouldn’t mention any of this to the cops either.” Then he looked at me quizzically. “Why the hell am I talking to you?“
“Because if you didn’t put the bee on old Max, I’m on your side. And if I’m on your side, I can help you. This is my racket, remember? I’ve given you some confidential information, and I expect some in return. That’s why you’re talking to me.”
He grinned. “Check, pal. I didn’t kill him, and you’re on my side. That’s a contract.”
“Let’s get back to Ruth Rollins. She came to work here about five months ago. That right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who recommended her?”
“Sure. A client from Hollywood. Sam Murray. One of the big ones. One of the nine big ones that Max handled.”
“What about these clients, these big ones …?”
“One hundred thousand bucks each. That’s the fee, the yearly retainer for the big ones. Nine big ones at a hundred thousand bananas a throw. Nice foundation for a business, isn’t it?”
“It is. Was a guy like Max Keith worth it?”
“Frankly, no. Max was a good press agent, no question. But just a good press agent, period. He could get your name in the papers, he was well-connected, he could get you a friendly press, but nothing big, nothing sensational, nothing really worth a hundred thousand bucks a crack …”
“Then why’d they pay it?”
He shifted his shoulders. “Because he was a charm-boy, I suppose. The guy was the greatest crap-artist in the world, that I’ll grant him. He probably conned them into it. He certainly had a god’s gift of gab.”
I motioned to the waiter and ordered again for both of us. Then I said, “Let’s get back to Rollins. Five months ago she came with the firm recommended by a Sam Murray …”
“Even that was queer.”
“What was queer?”
“That Max hired her. Max was a guy who, at least in business, never trusted any female in any important spot.”
“But he hired her.”
“He did.”
&
nbsp; “And two months later — they were engaged.”
“For me, that stinks too, pal.”
“But why, Ralph? She’s a beautiful woman.”
“He’s had them more beautiful. No. What I mean is … that at the time … I happen to know he had a little dame that he was absolutely nuts about. Right through, right up to the time of this engagement. When this thing to Ruth Rollins was announced, this little gal blew, went to Europe. Class kid, society stuff.” The waiter brought our drinks and Ralph promptly went to work on his. He lowered his glass, said, “Tell you something, Mr. Chambers. Tell you what I think. Just between you and me, I think she had something on him.”
“Who?”
“Ruth Rollins. Had something on him.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.”
“You may be right, Ralphie.”
“Now how the hell would you know whether I’m right or wrong?”
“Because Max Keith wrote a will.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“He wrote it two months ago, that’s when it was dated. Which is perhaps a month after they became engaged. And it provided for her to the tune of half of his estate.”
Flesh wrinkled about his cheekbones in a wide grin as he nodded. “You betcha. That dame had something on him. Oh, I’d bet on that.” His glance hit a wall-clock and he bridled. “Look, I’d better get back to the office.” He gulped the remains of his drink.
I paid the check and we headed for the elevators. On the way, I said, “Anything else, Ralphie?”
“Nothing else. But I knew Max Keith. If old Ruthie was putting the pressure on him, then old Maxie was marking time, playing possum, playing the nice engaged swain, but all the time, I’ll bet you — he was waiting for his chance to put the axe to her.“
VII
I called Mary Hoover and went to visit Julia Keith. She was all dressed up when she answered my knock, strutting about with more sparkle than a movie-actor’s new dentures. She wore a white gabardine suit, spike-heeled black pumps and a black lacey blouse all the way up to the neck.
Severely I said, “You haven’t been out, have you?”
Severely she said, “You bet I have been.”
“You’re begging for trouble, my out-spoken one.”
“Okay, so I’m begging. But I can’t stay cooped up in here. It … it runs against my nature.” She came to me, very close, and she smiled. “But I tried to be most inconspicuous. I really tried.”
“Yeah, in a white gabardine suit.” I didn’t try to move away from her. “You. Inconspicuous. Any way you try to look at it, it’s an anomaly.”
“Anomaly? What’s that?”
“Look it up sometime. You’ll get educated.”
“I’m an actress. I use other people’s words. Let them look it up. Let them get educated.” She put her arms under my arms and pulled me to her, her hands on my back. “It’s good to see somebody, good to talk to somebody. Oooo … it’s good.”
Fifteen minutes later, I said, “Listen to me, will you? Will you, please?”
“Sure. Love to listen to you.”
“I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Sure. Get out of here.”
“Julia. Listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“What do you think of Ruth Rollins?”
“A pig.”
“What did your brother think of her?”
“Thought enough of her to get engaged.”
“Think he loved her?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“Too busy loving himself. Look, don’t ask me about other people’s love affairs. I’ve got enough trouble trying to understand my own.”
“Okay. How about keys?”
“What? What keys? What’s with you today? The heat got you?”
“Listen, little Miss Muff, and listen hard. I’m working. I’ve got a thing on my mind. A dead guy. Happens to have been your brother. I haven’t even been to the office yet. I’ve been working, and for free. Now give me a little co-operation. Please.”
“What do you think I’ve been giving you?”
I produced Parker’s two keys. “These are off your brother’s key packet. Duplicates. All his keys are explained, except these two. Now think. Put that gorgeous head to work — ”
“Again?”
“Will you please be serious?”
She took the keys, looked at them, fingered them, gave them back to me. She said, “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“His apartment is covered, his office is covered, every other little keyhole is covered — but these two are open. They figure for an apartment, they’re the type …”
She concentrated, closing her black eyes, biting the red lower lip.
“Anything,” I said. “Whatever comes to you …”
Her eyes were still closed when she said, slowly: “A long time ago, I didn’t quite understand it, maybe there’s some kind of crazy connection …”
“Yes, Honey. Yes, a long time ago. How long?”
“About six, seven years ago.”
“Yes, yes …”
“He was away, on one of his vacations. I wasn’t working. I’d taken over his office, sort of big fancy front-lady. He’d given me a power of attorney, and I was paying the bills. A funny one came in. It was a bill for an apartment, sort of rent bill. But it was funny because it was for a ten year period, ten years in advance for an apartment. Not expensive either, I mean, in the monthly rate. But it was for a ten year period.”
“For Max? For the Park Avenue place?”
“No. It wasn’t for Max, and it wasn’t for the Park Avenue place.” Her eyes opened, black and blazing and aware. “I remember now. It was made out to Alvin Kruger, c/o Max Keith, and it was for an apartment at 150 Riverside Drive. That’s it.”
“Did you pay it, a bill for the apartment of a stranger, care of your brother, for ten years in advance? Don’t tell me you paid it, power of attorney or no.”
“I showed it to Ralph Adams, and he said of course not, not to pay it, to hold it for Max. When Max got back, we gave it to him.”
“He say anything? What did he say?”
“Said nothing. Just looked at both of us, sniffed, and put the thing in his pocket. That’s it, Pete. I’m probably all wet, but that’s the best I can think of in the line of apartments.”
“I’ll check it, I’ll tell you that. I’m not leaving out a thing.”
“Think I helped?”
“I doubt it, but let me out of here now. And please remember. No more inconspicuous strolls. Stay put, will you?”
“I wish you’d stay put with me.”
“Can’t. Got work.” I slapped at her thigh. “Stick with it, sister. Back at your place, it’s all cops and no fun. Stay put. Be Mary Hoover. As soon as it breaks, I’ll be in touch.”
VIII
82 East 73rd was flat, narrow, white and high. And up at the highest was the apartment of Miss Ruth Rollins. The elevator man said, “Yes, sir, she figure to be in, ain’t gone out. It’s the penthouse deal, to your right, number is 22 A.”
The finger on the buzzer brought no response for a long time, but I kept it there, and then it brought response, and response opened my mouth like a dentist had a drill in it, and it stayed open for at least thirty seconds. The door was opened by Ruth Rollins undressed in toeless high-heeled beach shoes, the tiniest of tight white panties, and a band about her bosom that might have been wide enough to bandage somebody’s finger, provided the finger was a pinky and the somebody was a midget. So much for apparel. For the rest, it was smooth, hairless, long-legged and curvy: a tall cream-skinned blonde, pratically naked, but holding to the haughty eyes nonetheless.
My mouth closed. I said, “May I come in?”
“What for?” It wasn’t exactly a red-carpet reception.
“Chatter,” I said. “About our friend.”
I pushed through into a small foyer and then into a fine
living room with a gold rug, turquoise hangings, and rose effects. “Nice,” I said. “You took a long time answering the door.”
“I was on the terrace. The sun is a comfort.”
I pulled in my eyes. I said, “A couple of questions, please.” I pulled in my eyes but they wouldn’t stay pulled in. I was beginning to see what Max Keith had seen in Ruth Rollins (and the other guy, Huk), I was practically seeing all of it, and I approved, if by approval is meant a dry mouth, a prickly spine and magnetized eyes. “Just a couple of questions, Miss Rollins.”
“And who are you — to be asking questions?”
“I’m nobody, Miss Rollins. But let’s put it this way. You answer two questions, and I hand over a hunk of information. Like that it’s a trade. Deal?”
She turned and walked away. Rear view, it was worse. She had a way of walking. Then she walked back. When my eyes moved up, her eyes were on mine. She said, “Don’t look at me like that.” But the way she said it, it was an invitation. Intricate dame, this Rollins.
“Deal?” I said.
“Look, you …” She started rough but perhaps she was inquisitive because it eased off. “What kind of information?”
“The kind that will interest you. Take my word for it.”
“Two questions?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Suppose you split them. You ask your first question. Then you give your information. Then you ask your second question.” She smiled slightly. “Like that it won’t be a total loss.”
“Okay, you got me. Question. It’s really a series of questions but they’re all connected. You told Lieutenant Parker that one of Keith’s friends recommended you for the job here. Who was this friend, how well did you know this friend, and what was his relationship to Max Keith?”
She sighed and bent to a table for a cigarette. My hands were not steady as I lit it for her and my eyes were not on the cigarette. So she blew smoke in my face, which I deserved. “Sam Murray,” she said. “A producer in Hollywood. Comes east often.” She inhaled, blew smoke upward. “A married man with four kids. Have you ever met Sam?”
“I’ve seen him around. And don’t give me that married-man-with-four-kids stuff. Every time I lamped friend Sam, he was weighed down by at least two dolls, and lookers, always.”