Little Miss Murder

by Michael Avallone

  Finally, I reached West Forty-sixth Street. Dusk had closed in on the block, and the usual throngs of passersby, coming from work, had dwindled down to a precious few, disappearing into the numberless thousands of homes, hideouts, and roosts until another day. The next day, when the same frightening routine would start all over again.

  I scooped up the white carton with the baseball in it and left the ignition key in the lock. Melissa, who had started to open her door, looked at me. The facade of the building was empty of loiterers.

  "Oh, no," she murmured.

  "Oh, yes. Don't garage the car. Go on home. I'll call you in an hour. Maybe take you to dinner."

  "I'll bet." She wrinkled her nose. "Every time you say that, I don't see you for three whole days. Once it was a week. Oh, Ed. Can't I come up? I could catch up on some letters—"

  "Forget it. Do like I say." I kissed the tip of her nose. "I do have to check this out, and I do have to use that phone. Be a good girl, now and don't make waves."

  "Okay, okay." She shifted her elegant body over and her trim ankles flashed briefly. "But one of these days—pow—right in the eye." The humor was her way out of shock. I could see that. She was still thinking about the nun. Still worried about me. It's a price you have to pay for being involved.

  She waved and drove off, her proud head erect and unforgettable. I cased the front of the building, the block in both directions, and then went on in. The lobby is narrow, long, and winding. The elevator is self-service. The building is a professional one, which caters to loners like agents, architects, artists, and private detectives. We like it that way. It's not exactly a bustling atmosphere and the traffic in people is minimal, in spite of the agent. He's a theatrical one and not all that successful that the building is overrun with hopefuls trying to crash Show Business. The William Morris Agency he's not.

  I kept the white carton tucked under my arm as I waited for the elevator car to come down. It had been on the third floor. I was on the alert, trying to make some sense out of the whole rodeo that had gone on at Shea, but until I talked once more to the Chief, it was anybody's ball game. It was a quagmire, all right. I wondered what the morning papers would do with the murder of the nun, on top of the heroics of Mays and his ninth-inning homer. I had almost forgotten about the old dame with the Robin Hood hat in the Mustang. The world is loaded with eccentrics, especially the New York cosmos, and I wouldn't put it beyond an old lady—a very rich one—simply wanting to race her brand-new Mustang against a '69 Olds. You could never tell. Not in a world as upside-down as this one. Only the constant memory of Red China and its perpetual tinkering with the machine of Peace kept me from throwing the old doll into the discard. Red China and Castroism and fascism and totalitarianism and half a dozen other hard-boiled eggs.

  The car landed, empty. I got in and went up to my sixth-floor Shangri-La. My footfalls beat hollow tattoos on the tiled corridor. No one was around. Everybody had gone home. I fished out the office key, unlocked the pebbled glass front door that bears my name and marched on in. I relocked the front door, flicked on the overheads and walked past Melissa's desk, going on into the inner office. The place looked exactly as we had left it at twelve o'clock that afternoon. Right then and there it seemed like days ago. Time is a curious instrument.

  I parked myself on the swivel chair behind the big desk under the windows facing Forty-sixth and unloosened my tie. I set the white cardboard carton down on the nice green desk blotter and looked at it.

  After five minutes of a very close examination, it still was what it was when I had brought it in. A brand-new, autographed Spalding official major-league baseball. Nothing else.

  I lit a Camel, drew on it, and stared across the room at the end table that carried the red-white-and-blue phone. It was silent. I wondered how many times it had rung since six-thirty. It was now going on eight. And what really had happened to Felicia Carr—if it was Felicia at all?

  They were things to think about, lots of things, but it was getting late in the day—and the case, and it was high time to get on the hot line and see what it was all about. The Chief would have to let me in on a few details, now. He had to. An operative acting in the dark isn't worth the IBM card he is printed on.

  The phone rang.

  The other one.

  The regular black one now close to my left elbow. I jumped at the sound, frowned, and whipped it to my ear. Anybody should know office hours are from nine to five. This had to be a personal call. I took a deep breath, exhaled some cigarette smoke, and grunted into the receiver without saying anything. Just an answering "Uh."

  "Mr. Noon?"

  The voice was female, ancient, and about as resonant as a bullfrog's in a summer swamp at mating time. I thought fast.

  "This is he," I said.

  "Ah. There you are. Good. Paul here. Mrs. Louise Warrington Paul. The Mustang, my Johnny."

  I might have known. The voice went well with withered hands, Robin Hood hats, and prune faces. For all its bombast and hearty, infectious chuckle, the voice had English tweed written all over it.

  "I'm an Edward. What do you want?"

  The voice kept its jolly sound, despite the obvious importance of what it was saying. A Gallows Humor sort of quality.

  "Number Nine Spiffin Court. Know where that is, do you?"

  "Thirty-sixth Street. Between Lexington and Fourth."

  "That's the ticket. Do come round. Soonest the better. We have to talk. Say forty-five minutes?"

  I stared at the phone. She sounded dotty, but I've been down the road too many times. I knew that she knew I would come. I wanted to know what high cards she was holding. She hadn't called to play games.

  "All right, Dame Paul. What's the gag? Why do you want to see me?"

  Her bull laugh blasted my ear, then she spoke very, very soberly. With the kiss of death written all over it.

  "Why? Why, indeed? If you would like to see a Miss Felicia Carr alive again, you'll jolly well dash over here. And please—do not, I beg of you, include any local bobbies in the party. Understood?"

  "Loud and clear. And how do I know you really—ah—have Miss Carr? And why do you think it means anything to me—?"

  "Pish and tosh," she snapped, no longer merry. "You come, that's all. I'm too old for parlor talk with you. And one thing more, my dear Johnny—do bring that cunning little baseball with you?"

  She hung up with a click that could have been heard in Central Park and left me with egg all over my face. And worry.

  What could I say in the face of that? Or think. Somebody from left field, an old English dame by the sound of her, was now calling all the shots, and I didn't know what the score was. But there was one thing I could still do before rushing out into the night, delivering major-league baseballs autographed by the New York Mets.

  Call The Chief.

  The Man.

  My President and yours.

  The one who once more had called upon the services of the secretest secret agent in the business. A private eye who was a private spy all the way down the line.

  Quite a guy The Chief.

  He had an uncanny knack for visiting upon me all the dilemmas, puzzles, and predicaments in the universe.

  I tried not to think about Miss Felicia Carr in the unknown hands of some kind of opposition who had ordered the murder of a nun at a ball park.

  4

  Kill the Umpire!

  He was in.

  The phone was picked up from the White House end of the line, on the third ring. I could well imagine the anxiety he must have been undergoing, thanks to the three-ring circus that had gone on at Shea Stadium. Something had definitely snafued.

  "Ed?"

  "Chief."

  His sigh of relief seemed to explode the electrical molecules that fill a telephone wire.

  "I take it you were delayed at the ball park?"

  "Well taken. In fact, I don't quite know how to tell you all about it without starting from the very beginning."

  "
You've got ten minutes," he said with almost weary resignation. "Fact is, I've held off my departure to hear from you. Air Force Two is waiting on me now. Something's come up. Very official, very urgent. I'm leaving for Teheran as soon as we conclude this call. Garnu Sin suffered a stroke and my advisers tell me an appearance by me at this time would be most salutary. But—never mind that. Tell me what happened." Sin was the U.S. Ambassador to Iran. A great man, but——

  I told him. Making it short, sweet, and uneditorialized. Just the facts. I omitted nothing. A complete rundown including the encounter with the nun, her murder, the baseball won at the Diamond Club table, Felicia's message, and the subsequent chase of an old English dame all the way to my Forty-sixth Street lair. The name Gotlieb meant nothing to him.

  He swore. Even Presidents swear, off the record.

  I waited for him to speak. He was still running the show.

  "Dammit," he murmured with fierce intensity. "All this cloak-and-dagger rot. I keep telling them how much it costs in lives, that every person isn't so expendable—" He broke off, almost apologetically. His laugh was rueful. "Sorry, Ed. Never mind that. You have the baseball?"

  "Yes. And I don't know what it is."

  "Neither do I. But it seems to be part of their game—"

  "Whose game, Chief?"

  "Ed, Ed. This is a price we have to pay for double-dealing. I just don't know. The CIA is running the show. Commander Thorpe needed an unknown operative in New York to receive a package. I suggested you. Whatever it is you're holding, the CIA will get in touch with you and you'll hand it over. Some of the other branches of Intelligence are mixed up in this too. The name Felicia indicates Miss Carr, your old friend of last year. Wish I could tell you more. But I just don't know. As it is, I've gambled your cover by suggesting you for the job. But Thorpe thinks only that you are a patriotic American. I'm surprised they haven't contacted you yet. As for the nun and the woman who has called you suggesting you go to Sniffin Court——" He let that hang. "I'm afraid I have to leave you holding the bag."

  "You mean baseball, don't you?"

  He appreciated the mild joke. He laughed again. Then his voice took on that no-fooling grimness that always meant the interview was about over. I almost fancied I could hear the Air Force Two jet engines thundering in the background. Democracy on the wing.

  "Just remember, Ed, what a sick mess this whole business of Security is. NASA, ABM programs, the Space Race—ten to one the CIA has gotten onto something vital. If they passed you a baseball, don't examine it, take it apart, or disturb its nature in any way. Deliver it to the CIA when the time comes. Understood?"

  "Yes and no. This Sniffin Court angle is going to be tough. The old English dame wants this baseball."

  He sighed again. "Maybe she's your CIA contact Have you considered that?"

  I hadn't. I had fresh respect for him as a thinker. But why for the silly love of mud would a threat to Felicia Carr's well-being accompany such a phone call?

  "Could be. Anyway, I'll handle it. Don't worry. Bon Voyage to Teheran."

  "Thank you. We'll contact each other when I return. Say Monday. This is Friday. Good luck, Ed."

  When he hung up, I replaced the receiver softly on its psychedelic cradle. Then I carefully placed the baseball minus its white carton and tissue in my side coat pocket. I put the wrappings and box in the center drawer of my desk, just in case. You never know when they use invisible ink or fluorescent jazz on materials. Either way, Louise Warrington Paul said she wanted the baseball itself. She hadn't specified the box it came in.

  I locked the office door on my way out, rode down in an empty elevator again, and found a cab cruising by almost with perfect timing. I got in and gave the sagging-cheeked cabbie the address of Number 9 Sniffin Court. His car radio was blaring the nine o'clock news.

  Pennant fever was gripping New York. The cabbie wanted to talk about the Mets and the day's loss to San Francisco. He didn't mention anything about a brutal murder of a beautiful nun at all. Which he should have known, all things considered. The radio played dumb, too.

  Which gave me pause.

  The President might have been in the dark about exactly what was going on but he had nothing on his pet agent.

  I didn't know what crime it was.

  And I didn't know what to think of the CIA.

  Number 9 Sniffin Court was a throwback. You came in off the street and found yourself in a cobbled courtyard with Charles Dickens' door fronts on all four sides and an atmosphere quaintly eighteenth centuryish. You expected innkeepers, a town crier, and the sight of horses and carriages tethered to hitching posts. It is a very small enclosure of low-storied buildings, no more than three stories high, and you had to step no more than six feet in from the East Thirty-sixth sidewalk to feel as if you had bridged the generation gaps without benefit of a time machine. I remembered Sniffin Court very well. In '54, when the dream was still young, I had shacked up in that storied neighborhood with a tall, classic blonde who had been a combination of Garbo, Hepburn, Margaret Sullivan, and most of the women I like. But it hadn't worked, and she had cried all over my .45, wanting me to quit a rotten business, and as much as we had loved, it ended in Splitsville without a look back. But that is another story. And has nothing to do with baseballs and sudden death. Nina never knew.

  Generally, professional-type persons live in Sniffin Court, but I had no time to count noses. I ambled up to Number 9, mounted a short flight of stone steps, and poked the white enamel buzzer dimpling an ebony-black door front, which was studded with brass brads. I waited, conscious of silence in the courtyard, a full moon overhead, and an almost ghostly gloom pervading the enclosed area of real estate. My blood had begun to race around a little. If I was to see Felicia Carr again, my libido was ready. Memory of her warmed my blood. That sort of sensation can be an antidote for danger, the unknown and a very hot baseball burning a hole in your side pocket.

  There was a tiny eternity of silent time, then clacking footfalls behind the door, and quite suddenly, the black portal swung back and I was looking at Louise Warrington Paul.

  Her impact, at close sight, hit me with all the familiarity of a thousand British suspense films. The Dame May Whitty-Margaret Rutherford image was supremely intact. Even without the Robin Hood hat.

  "Dame Paul?" I asked.

  "Ah," she boomed with a cordiality that I knew would sound less theatrical if I ever got to know her better. "There you are. Johnny-on-the-dot. Do come in. You made excellent time. I make it forty-eight minutes since our talk." She gestured a claw-like hand, waving me in, and I moved past her slowly, letting her close the door behind us. She was a woman of about five feet eight, towering out of low, dull clodhopper-type shoes, and the tweed outfit she wore was a combination of jacket and skirt suitably baggy to accommodate a figure of pear-shaped proportions. Her face was a puckered prune framed in Brillo-like gray hair dangling down about her homely puss. I noticed a round gold watch pinned to her left lapel like a medal, and the heaviness of her vocal tones seemed to echo in the narrow foyer.

  Then she was bustling past me, swaying from side to side like an ancient seaman, mounting a carpeted flight of four steps leading up to a living room of sorts. The interior was a duplex, and only a few random lamps—Tiffanys no less—offered any kind of light. There was a thick, comfortable plushness about the rooms and the furnishings. Number 9 was subdued, very quiet and lush in the old-fashioned style. The rooms were far-too crowded with divans, chairs, end tables, and the clutter of mismatching objets d'art were reasonably less prominent because of the dim lighting. I saw a Chagall reproduction, a Pop Art poster, and a tall grandfather clock side-by-side along the back wall of the room. I kept my hat on, waited for Louise Warrington Paul to stop moving, and quickly cased the interior. If Felicia Carr was in this house, she was not immediately apparent to the naked eye.

  "Where is she?" I asked, staring the old beldame in the eye.

  Louise Warrington Paul had paused, in the center of the li
ving room, a tall lamp behind her, taking some of the years off her outstandingly homely face. She rubbed her claws together briskly, her eyes darting all over me, pausing happily when she saw the round bulge of a baseball in my side pocket. Then she clucked like a hen.

  "Where is who, my dear boy?"

  I shook my head.

  "No Felicia Carr, no baseball, Dame Paul."

  She frowned, her face contorting, then she spanked her left thigh as if that had jogged her memory.

  "Ah!"

  "Yeah," I agreed, "ah."

  She suddenly seemed worried about my mental state. She shook her head at me, almost clucking again.

  "Really, Johnny," she rumbled the way a nanny would with a very small boy. "Do use your noggin for something else besides that hat. Miss Carr is not here, of course. I wish she were, Lord knows. I do hope nothing has happened to her. Smasher, that girl. A genuine smasher."

  "Then she isn't here?"

  Mrs. Paul shook her head again and spread her hands.

  "And you used that gimmick on me because you knew it would bring me here on the dead run?"

  She snorted. "My boy, don't talk rot. Would you have come if I had asked you to pop over? You don't know me from a French poodle. Now—enough talk. The baseball, if you please, Johnny."

  It was my turn to shake a head.

  "Just like that? You're off your noodle, Duchess, and my name is Edward, not Johnny."

  "Very well then, Edward. Nice name that. Regal, if you know what I mean. And you do drive a car well. I didn't think you could lose me so easily. Did I ever tell you that I won the Five Hundred at Surrey? In a Bugati, no less——"

  "Later. First thing you are going to do is tell me why you followed me, who you are and who you work for and why you knew you could use Felicia Carr's name to get me down here. You don't tell me any of those things, and I'll tie you up and tickle you to death until you tell me. Understood? I don't like pushing old ladies around, but I saw a lovely young nun get killed today, and I've about had it with all this mystery. So start someplace. Anyplace. But talk. Otherwise the next baseball you'll ever see is the one in the prison ball park when your all-girl team gets to play Elmira for the state championship."