The Case of the Murdered Madame (Prologue Books)

by Henry, Kane,

  “That’s none of my affair. Sam recommended me to Max. Sam and I were good friends when I was on the Coast. And Sam was one of Max’s big clients. I believe that answers your questions.”

  “Details?”

  “There just aren’t any details. That’s the way it was, period. Now what is it you want to tell me?”

  I didn’t garble it with a prologue. I said, “The will Max Keith made, the one wherein you share in half the estate, that will stinks, it’s a phony. One day later, he made a new will which cut you out entirely.”

  “That’s a lie.” The rose-bud mouth pulled tight and the face blanched.

  “I have no reason to lie to you, lady. I’ve got a vague hunch that the first will was made for one purpose — to impress you. Maxie was a shrewdie and for some reason or other Maxie was giving you the business. You’ll find out about this soon enough, but if you want your doubts quickly resolved, all you’ve got to do is call the lawyer. Frank Conaty. Manhattan phone book.”

  She kept heaving as I talked. Heaving did not detract from her appeal. I stopped talking and I star-gazed, silently, and she was the star. She was trying to pull herself together, the petulant blue eyes full of fury. Then her right hand moved and swung at the left side of my face and gongs began to go in my head.

  “Now what the hell?” I said. “What the hell, lady …?”

  She did it again and my shoulders began to chafe. The lady was more anxious for a thumping than the back end of a ketchup bottle that refused to perform, but I restrained myself. I said, “That’s not nice.”

  “I resent the way you’re looking at me.”

  “Strictly the malarky. You love it.”

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Don’t dress like that.”

  She slapped me again and if she wanted reaction she got it. Reaction was a nosegay of knuckles tapped to her chin. It sat her down, sobbing, but I had a feeling she liked it. I reached down under her armpits and brought her up. She clung to me, her body throbbing against me. But if the lady was on the make, I wasn’t having any. “Second question,” I said. “You identified a picture of a guy downtown. Tommy Huk. Ever see that guy before, or hear of him?”

  She was still close but now she was rigid. I pushed her away but held on to one arm. Her mouth was working and her eyes were wild. She squirmed back to close and her arms went around me and her body began to sway and her voice at my ear said, “You’re clever, you’re capable, help me, please help me …”

  I broke it up again.

  I said, “Tommy Huk …?”

  “I never heard of him. Never heard of him in my life.”

  IX

  My office was hot, the mail scanty, and my secretary as grimly efficient as ever. There was one message. “A Mr. Hartley called about a half hour ago. A Mr. Brad Hartley. He left a number.”

  “Thank you, Miranda.”

  I called Hartley downtown, did the relay of four female voices, all polite, but all insisting on my name, and then Hartley said, “Hello, Mr. Chambers.”

  “You called me, Mr. Hartley?”

  “Yes. I’ve been trying to reach Lieutenant Parker but he’s been out most of the day. Left word, but he hasn’t called back. I thought that, well, perhaps you, who are more familiar than I with police procedure …”

  “What is it, Mr. Hartley?”

  “Two things, really. I received a phone call from Maine. My wife’s somewhat under the weather, and I was planning to go up there this evening. But the Lieutenant had requested that I remain — available. I haven’t been able to reach him and — ”

  “What’s the other thing, Mr. Hartley?”

  “A recollection, sir, that might be of some use.”

  “Recollection?”

  “Yes, sir. Came back to me, the fact — ”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Hartley.” I looked at my watch. I said, “What time do you get through down there?”

  “Oh, about three.”

  “I’ve an errand to run right now, but as long as Parker isn’t around, maybe I’m the one to talk to. Why don’t you drop up to my apartment when you’re through? It’s on Central Park South — I’m in the phone book. We can talk all through this thing, if you want to. I’m interested in your theories, and I may have a couple of my own to offer.”

  “Theories?”

  “I’m in the business and so is Parker and sometimes we’re just too close for perspective. It’s good to chat with somebody from the outside, yet somebody who knew the … the deceased. Little things that come up in conversation, may have a meaning, may be of help. Maybe in the meantime, I’ll have reached Parker, and I’ll get the two of you together. Is that all right, sir?”

  “Surely. But this thing about Adams. What I remember is that Max Keith told me that Mr. Adams was no longer in his employ, that Max had given him his notice …”

  “I see. Perhaps Adams told this to Parker, perhaps he didn’t Either way, it’s a good piece of information, and perhaps, who knows, it may have some bearing. We’ll bat it around. I’ll see you a little after three, then …”

  “Very good, Mr. Chambers. Good bye.”

  I hung up, then lifted the receiver, dialed Headquarters, asked for Captain Weaver, and learned that Parker was due back at two o’clock. Then I buzzed Miranda for my shoulder holster. I strapped it on, examined a pistol and fixed that into the leather holster.

  Miranda said, “I don’t like it when you wear that.”

  “I’m in a business that requires it, unfortunately.”

  “Well, don’t get too brave.”

  “Try not to, Miranda.”

  “Where you going, just in case?”

  “150 Riverside Drive. Alvin Kruger.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “I don’t know. He should be a name on a bell.”

  And he was — a name on a bell in the small lobby of 150 Riverside Drive. It was an old house and a sprawling one, ten stories high, and it must have been broken up into tiny apartments because there were about two hundred names against two hundred push-bells on the worn wall of the small lobby. A. KRUGER was printed in ink, and faded. I pushed, waited for a tick, kept pushing, but got no tick. I tried one of the two keys Parker had given me and the first one worked. It opened the door into an inner lobby with a much-used dirty brown rug, old damp walls, a long mirror that needed silvering, and three small self-service elevators. A. KRUGER had been 9 G, so I tapped 9 in one of the elevators and had a joggling but uninterrupted ride.

  Upstairs, it took time to find 9 G. There were many doors and a labyrinth of corridors but I finally discovered G. There was no name in the small metal bracket but there was a cracked mother-of-pearl push-button which I pushed. The hollow rasp inside came back at me like the whir of broken wings. I kept pegging at the button but Mr. Kruger didn’t answer so I stopped pegging at the button. I unhooked the pistol, kept it in my right hand and used Parker’s second key with my left. That one worked too.

  It was hot inside, airless and stove-hot in a square box of a tiny vestibule.

  “Hello?” I called. “Hello? Anybody?”

  Nobody answered. I locked the door and I moved forward slowly, gun first. The vestibule opened into one large room, windows tightly locked. The room contained a green couch, two rust-colored easy chairs, an oak desk and an oak desk-chair. There was no carpet on the rough wooden floor and no pictures on the walls. There was no telephone. There was a large glass ashtray on the desk which held the stubs of three dryly ancient cigarettes. There were three doors. I opened each of them. The first was a toilet with a medicine cabinet that was empty of anything except dust. The second was a small kitchen but nobody had done any cooking there: the refrigerator was unconnected and the bins were empty. There was one window in the kitchen and this window had bars across it, inner bars like a swinging gate, hinged on a steel shaft to the left, and padlocked on the right. There was a key on top of the refrigerator which, quick-try, fit the padlock. That held me for a moment, but
only a moment. A look out of the window showed me a fire-escape. Thus you could not get in by way of the fire-escape, but in case of fire, you could get out — or in case of anything else that might be a barrier at the front door. Mr. A. Kruger was a careful guy, if there was a Mr. A. Kruger which, somehow, I was beginning to doubt.

  I went back to the entrance door and looked at the lock. It was a beauty, a really fine hunk of deadlock.

  Then I went to the third door. This was a closet but there were no clothes in it. Nothing was hung in it but there was an object on the floor, a steel chest almost the size of a small trunk: a steel fire-proof chest.

  I shoved the gun back into its holster and went to the desk and opened drawers. I opened the wide drawer in the middle and four drawers on each side. All I got out of that were two empty envelopes addressed to Max Keith at his office and postmarked a couple of years ago.

  That was it. I was beginning to sweat.

  I went back to the closet and pulled out the steel chest. It wasn’t locked and I lifted the lid. Inside was a small flat suitcase, also of metal, the type that repair men sometimes carry, men working with electricity or television tubes or wire installations. It had a clasp-lock which I unclasped and I pushed up the top. The suitcase contained seventeen round metal cans, all snugly secure. I pried one out, unscrewed the top and shook out its contents which was a roll of sixteen millimeter film. I put it back into the can, screwed back the top, placed the can back into the suitcase, repeated the operation with another of the cans, and that one also contained a roll of sixteen millimeter film. I replaced the film, replaced the can, pulled the suitcase-cover down and clasped it. I swung the suitcase onto the couch, shoved the steel chest back into the closet, closed the closet door, and the toilet door, and the kitchen door. Then I sat down beside the suitcase and drummed fingertips on it.

  This was not A. Kruger’s joint. This was probably a hide-out for dear old Max, paid for ten years in advance. But why in all hell did dear old Max need a hide-out? Not for dalliance. For dalliance dear old Max had a lush Park Avenue apartment and he was a bachelor (divorced) with nobody to answer to. So this wasn’t a hide-out. What then? A hide-in. A hide-in would be a place in which you hide things. He was only faintly connected with it: it belonged to Alvin Kruger, c/o Max Keith, one rent bill paid every ten years. Why a hide-in? Easy enough. There are things people do not want to be connected with, things they do not want to keep in their own apartments, things they do not want to keep in their own offices. Bank vaults? Bank vaults can sometimes be examined without your consent — by virtue of a court order properly obtained. So what was hidden in this hide-in? A suitcase full of film, seventeen cans of sixteen millimeter. They ought to make interesting viewing, and I knew just the guy who could show me.

  I wiped a handkerchief across my face and took up the suitcase and started for the door. So the bell rang.

  It wasn’t the hollow-wing-whir. It was a shriller sound. It came again — the downstairs buzzer. I looked for the reply-button, found it, and pushed. Then I set the suitcase behind the door, set myself beside that, took out the trusty roscoe, remembered Miranda’s admonition about bravery, sighed, and waited.

  Two minutes later, there was a shuffling outside, and the wing-whir sounded in the room. I pulled open the door but I stayed behind it.

  Ralph Adams had come visiting. I moved up behind him and administered the gun-muzzle to his ribs, but Ralph wasn’t having any. Ralph had seen too many TV shows, or too many movies, or too many brave-boy plays. Ralph Adams wanted to be a hero, but whatever Ralph Adams wanted, I simply wasn’t going to shoot him, not unless he absolutely insisted. He whirled, full of fight, but he caught the side of the pistol high on a cheekbone, with force, and now he whirled again but wound up sprawled on the floor, grotesque and unbalanced, but the fight was still in him. I kicked the door shut with my heel, pointed the gun, said, “Sit there.”

  He seemed to debate that, but he sat.

  “Smart,” I said.

  “Why, Daddy-o?”

  “Because if you try to get up, you get holes, and holes aren’t healthy. Clear?”

  He seemed to be debating again. He said, “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Don’t test me, pal. Try getting up, before you’re told to get up, and you’ll see what I mean, although, actually, you won’t have much time for seeing. I’m here with official backing. You? You’re a trespasser. When a trespasser catches holes the explanation is easy, although the trespasser doesn’t have the hearing to listen. Like to chat, Ralphie?”

  “Depends, Daddy-o.”

  “On what?”

  “On how official you are.”

  “I said ‘official backing.’ Lucky for you.”

  “What do you mean lucky, Daddy-o?”

  “I know what cops don’t know. I know, for instance, that Max Keith fired you. Cops don’t know about that. Yet. Last call. Wanna chat?”

  He arranged himself on the floor. He grinned. He said, “What do you want to know?” He crossed his legs under him and rocked. He looked like a blond Arab.

  “Why’d you get fired?”

  “Because Max was a little nuts, that’s why I got fired.”

  “Like how?”

  “Remember Jack Schiff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, he was passing through town the other day. He dropped into the office. Max was up in Connecticut. I took Schiff out to dinner, like I’d do for any client. When Max learns of this, he blows his cork. He fires me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was nuts. Nobody was allowed to touch any of his Big Nine — nobody but he.”

  “I don’t understand — Daddy-o.”

  “They were his special pets. Standing orders — only he handled those guys. Business-wise, I could understand that. But when a guy blows in, and Max is out of town, well …”

  “Real strict, huh?”

  “Only about those nine bastards. And like I said, I could understand that. He’d worked them up to a point where he didn’t want anybody spoiling them. I don’t blame him, but I wouldn’t have spoiled anything for Max, and he should have known that.”

  “What does it mean — worked them up?”

  “They all started at the usual fee — usual for big boys — maybe fifteen, twenty thousand for a year’s contract. But he worked them up to a hundred thousand each, one hundred grand apiece. It kept his drawers brown worrying that nobody shakes them up, that nobody spoils the set-up. Make sense?”

  “A little. And a little it doesn’t.”

  He shifted, spreading his hands behind him and leaning on them. “May as well break it all down now. That’s why I held out the information on the cops. It had to do with Max’s business. And mine.”

  “What information?”

  “What you so cutely shook out of me this morning. That Ruth Rollins was acquainted with Tommy Huk.”

  “Where’s the connection?”

  “Max fired me. But Max is suddenly dead. Is there any reason why we can’t keep his business rolling — me and Rollins? Rollins has brains and I’ve got know-how. I figured to proposition her, figured to work it that she and I take over and keep it rolling — Max Keith Associates — no more Max, but we’d be the associates. I figured that in case she balked — I’d tell her what I’d held out on the cops — and I’d use that sort of, as pressure.”

  “Smart enough,” I said. “Last question before I blow.”

  “I’m answering everything, Daddy-o.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Same general plan. This morning I went through all of Max’s private papers. Anything I could learn would be to my benefit in my purpose of perpetuating his business — for me. I remembered a crazy rent bill I once saw — ”

  “I know all about that.”

  “Get around, don’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “So that’s why I’m here. Anything of Max’s business that I can put together, that makes sense — it’s for m
y benefit.”

  “Okay, Ralphie.” I waved my hand. “Have a good time. It’s all yours.” I moved back and lifted the suitcase.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “A suitcase.”

  “Yeah. I know. Whose?”

  “Mine.” I opened the door, said, “Enjoy,” backed out and slammed the door shut. I put the gun in my jacket pocket and kept my hand clasped about it as I waited for the elevator, but it was an unnecessary precaution. Ralph Adams remained in A. Kruger’s apartment.

  Outside, I walked to the nearest drug store, checked Revere Motion Pictures in the phone book, got into a booth, called, asked for Harry Gleason, and when I got him I said, “Harry, there’s a fast fifty for you if you get over to my apartment pronto. Got time?”

  “Always got time for a fast fifty. What am I supposed to do?”

  “You’re supposed to bring a projector for sixteen millimeter and a portable screen and you’re supposed to do it like lightning. What are you waiting for?”

  “Who’s waiting. I’m practically there.”

  X

  Harry Gleason was a skinny guy with a small mustache and vague myopic eyes behind thick-lensed bi-focals but the sights he was showing me on the screen in my bedroom were hot enough to put fog on his glasses and sweat on his forehead. He kept saying, “Whew,” and using a handkerchief both on his forehead and on his glasses. I did a couple of whews myself as I watched pornography run around on the screen like I was crouched behind the curtain of a peep-show on a back street in Paris. The dolls changed up and sometimes reappeared but the male lead of each film was always one guy, and an important guy, and the important guy was entirely unconscious of the fact that he had grown up to be a small-time picture actor. The setting was always the same — somehow familiar to me — but it wasn’t until the third film that it came to me: Max Keith’s Park Avenue apartment. There was Jack Schiff, and there was Sam Murray … and once I broke away to make a phone call.

  I called down to Parker, and Parker was in. I looked at my watch while they were putting me through: it was ten after three. Then I got him and I said, “Lieutenant, have a couple of your boys go up to Keith’s apartment. Let them go with ladders. Let them look the walls over. I think they’re going to find small apertures, daintily masked, and behind each aperture, a large space with a sort of ledge — ”