“Hey,” I said. “You should play pro football.”
We made four trips down to the street with boxes and cartons of broken junk.
By the time we were through I was puffing and sweating. Her T-shirt was plastered to her back.
We looked around.
The place looked pretty good. The upholstery would all have to be redone. And I needed new lamps. But everything was back in place, at least.
“Now I’m ready for the showers,” Janis said. “A shower and then a drink.”
“Help yourself. Right in there.”
“You want to go first?”
“Ladies first.”
She went into the bathroom. She did not bother to close the door.
“I’ve got to scrape this shirt off,” Janis said. “I really lathered it up.”
In a moment or two I heard the water running. She was in the shower for quite a while. I heard her squeal when she turned on the cold. Then, the water stopped.
“Hey, do I have to bring my own towel?”
I went into the bedroom and got a towel out of the closet. I stood in the bathroom door. She was peering out of the shower holding the curtain in front of her.
I handed her the towel. “You still look like a drowned puppy.”
This time she laughed.
The first time I’d told her that she’d gotten mad. But that had been a long time ago.
I started to leave but I didn’t. Instead I reached in, put my arms around her and kissed her.
“Dick, please!”
It seemed perfectly natural. The ten years disappeared.
“Darling, I love you. Nothing’s changed.”
“Oh, darling.”
I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.
I put the towel over her head and rubbed her hair dry. Then I reached up and turned out the light.
I touched her gently, running my hand over her body. She caught my hand at the wrist and sat up.
“Darling.”
“Yes?”
“We can’t…”
“I love you, darling.”
“Dick. There’s somebody else.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so awfully sorry.”
I got up and found cigarettes. I lit one. Then I handed her one and lit it for her.
“I’m going to marry him, darling, when his divorce is final. He’s a wonderful guy.”
“O.K.,” I said tonelessly. “Congratulations.”
“I’m sorry, Dick.”
“I know.”
I went out to the living room and mixed a drink.
When she came out of the bedroom she was dressed again.
“You’ve still got a drink coming.”
“No, thanks, Dick. I don’t feel like one.”
“I do,” I said. “Come on, I’ll get you a cab.”
“That’s all right.”
“No, I’ll get a cab for you. It’s late.”
“I’d rather walk a little while.”
“All right. Who is it, darling?”
“He’s in love with me. And I love him. He’s done everything for me.”
“Who is he?”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know the damnedest people.”
“My agent. A man named Max Shriber. I’m sorry, Dick.”
“Forget it. Thanks for the house cleaning.”
“Goodbye, Dick.”
“So long, darling.”
After she was gone I thought of taking a shower but I didn’t. Instead I lay down on the couch with the whisky bottle on the floor beside me.
The lights were still on and I didn’t bother to take off my shoes.
I kept pulling at the bottle until I didn’t remember anything any more.
Chapter Six
It felt late.
I was sick and shaky. I was thirsty and needed a shave. My head ached. My hands were dirty. My mouth felt furry. I lit a cigarette and coughed so hard that I threw it away after the first puff.
My watch said it was a quarter of ten.
The room was dust-laden and airless. I pulled up the blind and opened the window and stood in front of it breathing the fresh cold air.
I couldn’t decide whether to have coffee or another drink. To study the situation more thoroughly, I went to the kitchenette. We’d put everything back in place. So coffee was easy enough. Just a matter of filling a pan with water, putting pan of water on stove, finding match, lighting gas, finding cup, finding powdered coffee, finding spoon, getting lid off powdered coffee, getting spoonful of powdered coffee into cup, pouring hot water over coffee, stirring, and drinking. Nothing to it.
So I went back to the couch, found the bottle of bourbon on the floor. It was about one-third full. I unscrewed the cap, tilted it and drank. I did this several times.
Then I shaved. Brushed my teeth. Showered. Tilted the bourbon bottle. Got dressed. Then I was ready to make coffee. By that time the coffee tasted wonderful and I had stopped shaking.
So far I had been moving in a kind of daze. I was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom combing my hair when the comb hit the lump above my temple.
It hurt so much that it brought tears to my eyes. Then the haze began to clear. I went over to my pants. There was a gun in one back pocket. The towel Janis had used was lying on the bed. It was still damp and there were lipstick stains on it. The hell with you, Janis Whitney. The hell with you.
I had two more drinks. I was feeling considerably better. I was actually jaunty. I finished dressing.
I put the gun into my jacket pocket. It made a bulge. But I was getting used to that by now. I read somewhere that detectives, gangsters and other gun-toting types have their suits tailored so that the gun in the shoulder holster won’t show.
I grinned and wondered what the fitter at Brooks Brothers would say if I asked him to fix my next suit so that the rod wouldn’t show.
I blinked at the bright sunlight on the street. I stopped at the newsstand across the street. From the front page of the Daily News a familiar face stared up at me.
Jean Dahl.
I picked up the paper.
“Falls to Death” was the headline on the front page. The story was continued on page three.
“A gay party in a Fifth Avenue mansion ended in tragedy here tonight when a guest, model Jean Dahl, 25, fell to her death down a long flight of stairs. The lights had been extinguished for a party game of hide and seek…”
There was quite a long story. It described Walter’s parties in some detail. It suggested that this particular party had been more of an orgy than the previous ones.
It said two things that interested me.
It said that Jean Dahl had been killed instantly, her skull fractured by the fall.
And it said that her body had been found at the foot of the stairs by Walter Heinemann and a guest, literary agent Max Shriber.
Max Shriber.
The hell with you, Maxie. The hell with you. And Walter, my good friend Walter. A great little fixer, Walter. With nice friends.
It isn’t everyone who can give a party where there are two attempted murders and one completed one and still have the whole thing called an unfortunate accident.
The News story implied that the names of all sorts of celebrated guests were being withheld. It hinted at all sorts of immoral goings-on. But in the end all it could do was call it an accident.
The Tribune story was even shorter and less sensational. It was printed on an inside page and there were no pictures. It simply noted that a girl had been killed falling down a flight of stairs at a party.
I reached into the pocket of my jacket for a dime for the papers.
My hand came upon an unfamiliar object. I pulled it out. It was a lipstick. It was the lipstick that Jean Dahl had dropped into my pocket the night before.
I held the lipstick in my hand.
After a minute or so I realized I was shaking again.
I was
shaking because it was all over and settled. It had all been fixed. Jean Dahl had fallen down a flight of stairs in a tragic accident.
I was shaking because the body hadn’t been at the foot of the stairs at all. I had seen it lying by the front door.
Not “it.” She. Jean Dahl. Twenty-five years old. Alive. Pretty. Mixed up in some kind of racket. In over her head. I didn’t exactly know how. But when you said it, it didn’t sound personal. And it was personal.
A human being with memories and hopes, troubles and fears, a person with a life. A person, not an it.
And someone had struck her down, fracturing her skull. Someone had killed her, deliberately.
That’s not the kind of thing you should be able to fix.
Standing there in the blazing sunlight I suddenly realized a basic fact. I’m against killing people.
I suddenly realized that a human being who consciously and deliberately takes the life of another human being is my enemy.
I was not exactly sure what I wanted to do.
But if I was going to do anything at all, there was only one logical place to start.
I went into the phone booth in the newspaper store and dialed Walter Heinemann’s number.
The butler answered. I told him I wanted to talk to Mr. Heinemann. He asked who was calling. I told him. He said Mr. Heinemann was not at home.
I said thanks, hung up and got into a cab. I gave the driver Walter’s address.
“I want to see Mr. Heinemann,” I said.
The butler’s face was completely expressionless.
“Mr. Heinemann is not at home.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“I’ll just come in and wait, if you don’t mind.”
But he minded.
He was very polite. But very firm. The household was very upset. Mr. Heinemann had left orders that no one was to be admitted. And so on. And so forth. And all the time he stood there, very effectively blocking the door.
“O.K.,” I said. “I’ll try him again later.”
I turned and went back down the marble steps.
I could feel his eyes on my back all the way down. He didn’t close the door until I had turned the corner and headed for Madison.
I walked about twenty yards toward Madison Avenue and without hesitating, turned in at the delivery entrance through which Janis Whitney and I had left last night.
I pushed the button for the elevator and stood there, humming nervously to myself.
The elevator seemed to take hours.
When it finally came, I got in quickly and pushed the button for the top floor.
I had no idea where to find Walter. It was a big house. He could be anywhere. It was even possible that he had gone out.
I didn’t think so, though.
I decided to start at the top and work my way down.
I got off at the fourth floor and began to walk quietly down the corridor. I was not sure now where to start or even why I was there. I didn’t know what I was going to say to Walter when I did find him.
I stopped, and was about to turn back to the elevator when I heard Walter’s silly, high-pitched giggle. A door, a little way up the corridor, was ajar. I moved toward it, listening.
Walter was talking and laughing. There was someone with him in the room.
Then I heard the voice.
The nasty, derisive, unmistakable voice that I had heard twice before.
I swung the door open and stepped dramatically into the room.
Walter was sitting in an armchair balancing a cup of coffee on his knee. He was wearing pajamas and a white silk robe with black and gold Chinese figures. Across from him, on the small sofa, sat a thin, slightly built young man with blond crew-cut hair and hornrimmed glasses.
I stepped into the room, slamming the door loudly behind me. Walter looked up, startled. An expression of surprise and alarm crossed his face, but he had superb control and it was gone almost before it had appeared. In its place came a bland, friendly, half-amused smile.
“Why, Richard!” Walter said. “This is a genuine surprise! Have you had breakfast yet? Jimmie, get Richard a cup of coffee.”
“Listen, Walter, I want to talk to you,” I said.
“To be sure,” Walter said. “Sugar and cream, or would you prefer it black? Sit down, Richard. You know Jimmie, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “The voice is familiar but I can’t recall the face.”
Walter giggled foolishly.
Jimmie turned from the serving table where he was pouring coffee and looked at me inquiringly.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jimmie said. His voice was soft and somewhat high-pitched. By no stretch of the imagination could it be confused with the heavy, guttural voice I had heard through the door a moment before.
I looked around.
“Who else is in here?” I said. “I heard someone else through the door.”
“Richard,” Walter said, “what is the matter with you this morning?”
“I was coming down the hall,” I said, “and I heard a voice. A real ugly, nasty voice. I heard that same voice last night. I’d recognize it anywhere. It belongs to the man who murdered Jean Dahl.”
Walter did not seem to hear me.
“Jimmie,” he said, “I won’t be needing you for anything else at this moment.”
Jimmie rose noiselessly, gathered up some papers on the serving table, nodded, and disappeared.
“Isn’t he charming?” Walter said. “And such a talented boy. He writes, you know, and I try to help him every way I can. Staying here with me as my secretary is such a fabulous experience for him…”
I interrupted with a short, obscene reference to Jimmie.
“Listen, Walter,” I said. “Who else was in here? Where is he? I want to talk to him.”
Walter looked at me. His face was serious but his wide, watery-blue eyes were twinkling.
“Wise guy,” he said. “You know so much. Sherlock Holmes. What makes you think someone else is here?”
It was the voice, all right. Every intonation.
Abruptly, Walter stopped and began to giggle.
“Is that what you mean?” he said. “Is that the voice you heard?”
I nodded. I was too bewildered to speak.
“That,” Walter said, “is one of my more famous imitations. I have an incredible ear. I can reproduce any sound the human throat can make. With a little practice.”
“Who is it supposed to be?” I said. “Who are you imitating?”
“Max Shriber!” Walter said. “Max is really too easy. It’s simply a matter of gargling and grunting at the same time.”
“Max Shriber?” I said. “That’s his voice?”
Walter nodded. “Of course,” he said.
“Then he’s the one,” I said. “He killed her.”
“What are you talking about?” Walter said.
“Jean Dahl,” I said. “I’m talking about Jean Dahl, the girl who fell down the flight of stairs in the dark. Only she was jet-propelled. Because she landed on the far side of the hall. Over by the door. Look, Walter, I happen to know that Jean Dahl was murdered.”
“Oh, no,” Walter said. “You must be mistaken. It was a tragic thing. A terrible thing. But it was an accident. As I told the police, last night, I feel that it was my fault. I was supposed to have been guarding the stairs. To prevent just such a thing.”
“Look, Walter,” I said. “I saw her as the lights went on. She was lying across the hall by the door.”
“Impossible,” Walter said. “Utterly impossible. I found her myself a moment or two after the lights went on. She was lying at the foot of the stairs.” Then Walter turned sternly toward me. “If you had any information you should have given it to the police last night. Where were you last night?”
“I did a very foolish thing,” I said. “I saw the body. I got panicky and I left without saying anything to anyone
.”
“That was a foolish thing to do. But I assure you that in your panic you were entirely mistaken. The body was at the foot of the stairs.”
I got up and walked over to Walter’s chair.
“You’re lying,” I said. “I wasn’t the only one who saw the body. Someone was with me. She saw the body too. She’ll tell you it was by the door.”
“Who was with you?”
“Janis Whitney.”
Walter sighed. “Now, really, Richard,” he said. “This is very awkward. You see, in a manner of speaking I did exaggerate just a teeny bit to the police. I told them that Max Shriber and I had discovered the body jointly, as it were. With the two of us together it sounded so much more convincing.”
“What?”
“Actually,” Walter said, “Max Shriber found the poor child’s body. Then he called to me. I came as quickly as I could. When I got downstairs the body was lying exactly where I said it was. At the foot of the stairs. I assure you, Richard, I never dreamed that it could have been moved there.”
“But it could have been. This character Shriber could have dragged her to the foot of the stairs and then called you, couldn’t he?”
“He could have, I suppose,” Walter said, “but I never dreamed that…” His voice petered out in a nervous giggle.
“Who is he, anyway?” I asked.
“An agent,” Walter said. “He handles some very top people.”
“How well do you know him?”
“I know him only slightly,” Walter said. “At the moment we are associated in a business way. He is more or less a partner of mine in a small transaction.”
Walter stood up and lit a cigarette. “Richard, there is something I want to talk to you about very seriously. But first I simply must shower and dress.”
I started to protest, but Walter interrupted me.
“I won’t be ten minutes,” he said. “And I promise you that what I have to say to you will be well worth your time. I had intended to talk to you about this in any case. Your coming here this morning of your own accord was practically telepathy.”
“What did you want to talk to me about, Walter? What’s on your mind?”
Walter stood up. “I wanted to talk to you about a book.”
“You’ve written a book?” I said.
“No, I have a book. I thought perhaps you might be interested in publishing it.”
Blackmailer Page 5