Death is the Last Lover (Prologue Books)

by Henry, Kane,

  “Why am I here, Mr. Phelps?”

  He paced with light steps. He was tall and slender and rather graceful, muscular for his age. He had white wispy hair neatly parted in the middle, a pink face, and a delicate nose.

  “I want to get out of here,” he said, “and I want to get out of here soon. And I want you to get me out of here.” He went to his desk, brought out an oblong metal box, extracted a number of bills, counted them and brought them to me. “Here,” he said. “Money of the realm.”

  I counted the money of the realm. It amounted to five thousand dollars. I pocketed the money of the realm, sighed, squirmed, took up my drink.

  “Whom did you murder?” I said.

  “I didn’t murder anyone,” he said.

  “Five thousand bucks is a lot of money for not murdering anyone, not even Vivian Frayne.”

  “I did not murder Vivian Frayne.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you holed up?”

  “Because, a little bit, I’m mixed up in it.”

  “And you want me to un-mix?”

  “Precisely.”

  I sighed again. “Sit down,” I said, “won’t you? Refill our glasses, please, and sit down. Let’s talk up a little storm, huh? But I’m telling you right now, any way it turns out, I keep the fee.”

  “Any way it turns out,” he said, “you keep the fee.”

  “I mean even if it turns out you.”

  He had blue eyes and they grew narrow as he smiled, sadly. He shrugged, lifted the glasses, brought them to the bar, re-filled them, came back and sat down beside me.

  “Drink hearty,” he said and he handed me my glass.

  “A vôtre santé,” I said.

  “I’m ready for the inquisition,” he said.

  “Good,” I said. “Let’s start with right here. What’s with a hideaway? What’s with no phone?”

  Demurely he said, “Hideaway? Let’s call it … retreat. Doesn’t sound so … er … quite so illicit” He smiled his sad smile again.

  “Okay,” I said. “Retreat. So why a retreat without a phone?”

  “That’s the point of a retreat, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  “I mean,” he said, “somewhere to get away, to be alone without risk of outside interference.”

  “Alone?” I said, subtle as a spanking in the woodshed. “Either alone, or with very special company.”

  “And a phone spoils that?”

  “A phone is a means of communication with the outside world. Here, I prefer to be out of communication.”

  “Suppose you got sick?”

  “I could always crawl out and knock on a neighbor’s door, or go out into the hall and yell. If you’re too sick to do any of that, you’d be too sick to use the phone, wouldn’t you?”

  “The rich,” I said, “can afford to be eccentric.”

  “All right,” he said, “let’s leave it at that.”

  I cast my eyes about the room, let them rest for a moment on the rose-colored nude, brought them back to him. “Who, please,” I said, “knows about this place?”

  He shrugged, delicately. “Not too many.”

  “How many, Mr. Phelps?”

  “I don’t quite know, Mr. Chambers, but those who do, they know me as George Phillips, not Gordon Phelps. I had my attorney — whom I trust implicitly — find this place for me, arrange for the lease and all that. I used a decorator to furnish — as George Phillips, of course — and I paid him in cash.”

  “Does your wife know?”

  “No, and she wouldn’t like it if she did. Matter of fact, I think she’d hate it. There’s a thing called … over-stepping the bounds.”

  “I’ve heard,” I said.

  “It’s a relative term, of course. There’s a good deal of over-stepping bounds that my wife forgives, as long as such activity is discreet. This sort of thing isn’t exactly discreet. If it were found out, my wife’s friends might giggle at her. My wife doesn’t like to be giggled at.”

  “That all you’re worried about — that she might be giggled at?”

  “When she’s giggled at — when she’s made a show of — she can become quite fierce.”

  “And you’re afraid of her when she’s quite fierce?”

  He pinched the point of his nose. “Not afraid, physically. But you see, my wife controls with me, jointly, a good deal of my … er … how shall I say … my fortune. Her becoming fierce could prove embarrassing to me, quite embarrassing. As is, we have rather a harmonious relationship — she understands my quirks, I understand hers. Quite harmonious. But I don’t think she would approve of anything quite so un-circumspect as a … er … a retreat.”

  “Then why do you do it, Mr. Phelps?”

  The blue eyes regarded me steadily but reprovingly. One eyebrow arched and a latticework of fine wrinkles appeared on his forehead. “Why do any of us do any of the things we shouldn’t do, Mr. Chambers?” Now the eyes studied me, despairingly. “We have needs, compulsions, desires — ”

  “Speaking of desires,” I said. “How about Sophia Sierra?”

  “Yes?” he said.

  “She knows that the George Phillips with the hideaway is the Gordon Phelps with the retreat.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think,” he said, “the word is empirical.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She’s known for some time that George Phillips is Gordon Phelps. She’s done nothing about it, made no threat or suggestion of threat. I admit, at the beginning, I was worried. Now — empirically — I’m not worried about Sophia. It was Vivian Frayne I was worried about.”

  “Let’s finish Sophia first. Who told her? You?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “Yes. Steve Pedi.”

  “Who?” I said.

  “Steve Pedi.”

  “And who in hell is Steve Pedi?”

  “Steve Pedi owns the Nirvana Ballroom.”

  “And did you tell Steve Pedi?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Then who, please, told Steve Pedi?”

  He raised both hands at me like a symphony conductor trying to hold down the kettle-drums. “Look, please, Mr. Chambers,” he said, “let’s do it right side up, shall we? Let’s try to do it — one thing at a time.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said. “It began with Sophia Sierra. It’s just that I was interested in Sophia Sierra.”

  The eyebrows came down in narrow crags above the blue eyes that suddenly twinkled. “Were interested — or are interested?”

  “Is that a crack, Mr. Phelps?”

  “It is that, Mr. Chambers. Precisely.”

  A chuckle rumbled out of me — there was something about the man, almost a childish directness, a sort of winning wistfulness, a naive-naughty little-boy attitude which, in its innocent astonishment, makes a knave of an attempted critic. I was reminded of the story of the kid who had urinated in mama’s wash because he had heard that an acid content makes the clothes whiter. Poor Mama. Poor me. I liked the guy. I could not help myself. I would hate it if it turned out that he had murdered Vivian Frayne.

  “Did you?” I said.

  “What?”

  “Kill her?” I said.

  “No. But let me tell you something. In the interests of self-preservation — my self-preservation — I’m going to do my darndest to implicate anybody with the slightest reason to have wanted her dead.”

  “Did you want her dead, Mr. Phelps?”

  He leaned forward. A parched smile came to his face, and went away. For the first time, his eyes avoided mine as he said, slowly, “Yes. Yes, Mr. Chambers. Yes, I think I did.”

  FOUR

  I refilled my own glass. I sipped and set it away. I lit a cigarette and walked around a bit. He remained where he was, seated quietly,
his hands together, palm to palm, between his knees. I smiled at him, tentatively, and he returned the smile. The only show of his nervousness was the pressure of his knees on his hands. They were tight together, like a frightened virgin’s. I sat down near him. I said, “Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?”

  His knees eased up. He rubbed his palms together. “At the beginning,” he said, “there is I.”

  “Very Biblical,” I said, “but I don’t get it.”

  “I must explain myself to you first. I mean, a little bit about myself.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Explain.”

  He grabbed at his drink, gulped, put it aside. He ran the point of a fingernail through his hair.

  “We’re all human,” he said. “Let’s put it that way, we’re all human.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “At the beginning there are always platitudes.”

  “I like girls,” he said. “Hooray for you,” I said.

  “I like girls who are young, strong, beautiful, vital.”

  “You’re not alone,” I said.

  “I don’t like the people in my own sphere. I don’t like the thinking ones, the cerebral ones, the mush-mouthed ones with their stiff fathers and mothers. I — how shall I put it — I seek out, sort of, the lower depths, the physical, passionate people of a world other than my own. Perhaps I have a need to feel superior, perhaps my emotions need the whip of — ”

  “Okay,” I said, “with the abnormal psychology. I dig. Let’s move it from there.”

  “I am a frequenter of dance halls — low, cheap, masturbation types of dance hall. In such environment, I am most superior.”

  “Like how, Mr. Phelps?”

  “There are few millionaires in cheap dime-a-dance places.”

  “How about the girls, Mr. Phelps?”

  “Surprisingly beautiful, sir. Kids earning a living — kids without any special talent, except youth and beauty. An old bird like myself, I’m a character in dance halls. I get acquainted with charming young girls, I move slowly, I don’t frighten them. But most of all in my favor, I have a good deal of money to throw around — and basically these kids have one prime need: money.” His smile was momentary. “Like that, and in that element, I can compete with my younger brethren.”

  “What’s wrong,” I said, “with call-girls?”

  “Nothing, except they’re not for me. My needs involve an emotional entanglement — I can’t just be buying a body. If it is a purchase, purely a purchase, I have no reaction, no feeling, no desire — quite the contrary, I’m repelled.”

  “I dig,” I said. “Get off the couch, Mr. Phelps. I’m not here as a psychoanalyst.”

  “The hell with you,” he said.

  “Mutual,” I said. “I take it you hit the Nirvana Ballroom in your quest for non-call-girl call-girls.”

  “It was about six months ago. I went there as George Phillips, of course.”

  “But of course.”

  “Originally, I was attracted to Sophia Sierra.”

  “I cannot blame you in the least,” I said.

  “But that one was too coldly mercenary for me. She was right on top of the ball all the time.”

  “What did you expect? That she’d fall in love with you? Why, you can be her father, for Chrissake.”

  “I smell maleness,” he said, “and I smell youth, and male ego, and a definite interest in Sophia Sierra. I smell Peter Chambers on the hunt, and I warn Peter Chambers right now. Take it from an old friend, Peter — not your youth, nor your maleness, nor your definite interest will carry you one whit with Sophia Sierra. That one, at this moment in her life, is whore, all whore, period.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said. “I got you off the couch, now come off the lecture platform. What happened with Sophia Sierra?”

  “I took her out, showed her the good side of town. I bought her a few frocks, a few dinners, lent her a little money on long-term loans, if you know what I mean. I let her know that papa was well-heeled and charitably inclined.”

  “Did you make it?”

  “No.”

  “Could you have?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure. I got close, but I didn’t get where I wanted to get. A peculiar girl, straightforward on one hand, conniving on another.”

  “Let’s start with straightforward,” I said.

  “She told me, quite quickly, that she knew I was Gordon Phelps.”

  “And she told you how she knew?”

  “She told me that Steve Pedi had informed her.”

  “And she told you how Steve Pedi knew. I mean, did she know that?”

  “Steve Pedi, it appears, is a rather bright young man.”

  “Did he name that place Nirvana?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Then he’s a rather imaginative young man too, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, I would say.”

  “All right. How did he know George Phillips was Gordon Phelps?”

  “Simple enough. Seems he has a little staff there at the Nirvana, some of whom serve as investigators. Any … er … unusual patron — he finds out who he is. He found out who I was, and he informed Sophia.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Why not? He likes Sophia. Why shouldn’t he … er … steer her to a good thing?”

  “Meaning — you’re the good thing.”

  “For Sophia — I was a good thing.”

  “Did he also inform Vivian Frayne?”

  “He did not inform Vivian Frayne.”

  “Why? Didn’t he like Vivian Frayne?”

  “No, it appears he did not like Vivian Frayne.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Are we finished with Sophia?”

  “I am finished with the straightforward.” I tried to keep the edge out of my voice. “Proceed then, please, with the conniving.”

  “The conniving involved a lalapaloosa.”

  “Lalapaloosa?” I inquired.

  Quiver of muscles at the hinge of the jaw betrayed emotion but his tone remained as level as anchovies in a tin. “Have you ever heard of Elia Strassan?”

  “Why should I be an exception?” I said. “Elia Strassan. Probably the greatest dramatic coach produced in America. Guy was in his prime about ten years ago, then he got sick and retired.” I had displayed knowledge of my client, now I displayed bewilderment. “What earthly connection between Strassan and Sierra?”

  “This was Sophia’s lalapaloosa,” Gordon Phelps said. “She propositioned me.” Mockery clouded his eyes. “Seems she wants to be a great dramatic actress. Seems she wants to study with Strassan.”

  “But he’s not having any,” I said. “Or is he?”

  “Private tutorship, Sophia told me. Told me that Strassan wanted ten thousand dollars — in advance — for a year’s private tutorship. Asked to borrow the money from me. You know what I mean — borrow.”

  “Did you give it to her?”

  “I checked.”

  “Whom?”

  “Strassan.”

  “How?”

  “I hired a peeper.”

  “I don’t remember the assignment.”

  He grinned embarrassedly. “I wouldn’t have the nerve to bother you with that kind of assignment. That’s chicken feed for you.”

  “Whom did you use?”

  “Guy my wife uses on occasion.”

  “Who?”

  “Si Murray.”

  “Si Murray’s a crook.”

  “This was nothing. A little matter. Nothing fiduciary.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So?”

  “First, Strassan wasn’t teaching any more. He’d had a stroke and was confined to a chair. But, it seems, little Sophia had gotten to him, made him happy right there in his chair. Because Strassan verified for her, said he’d be willing to take her on, privately, for a year, for ten thousand. He needs ten thousand like he needs ten thousand holes in his head — the guy is independently wealthy. Si Murray checked some more for me. Dear Sophia had pulled this thing before. Grab
bed a few suckers on this deal — seems there are others like me who look for kicks in dance halls. Each time Strassan covered for her. Oh, I’m certain that kid can make an old man happy right there in his wheel chair.” Gordon Phelps stood up, paced, kicked at the carpet, came back, flung himself down. “That baby doesn’t want to be an actress. All she wants is to garner a great big bankroll while she’s young enough and beautiful enough to garner same. That’s all that’s on her mind — money, important money. And she uses that dance hall as a base of operations. Men come, and she sifts through them. She discards the little fish and tries to hook the big ones. Strange little whore, that kid, but all whore.”

  “Did you give her the money?”

  “No, sir. I passed.”

  “To Vivian Frayne?” I said.

  “Yes. She had been making overtures, and I was interested. Quite another type, Vivian Frayne. A blonde, older and softer than the sprightly Sophia. About thirty, I’d say, but quite lovely. Kind of a schizo. All soft on one side, all hard on the other. Queer dame, but we made out well.”

  I said: “So Sophia got the air.”

  “She did,” he said.

  I said: “How did she take it?”

  “Like unto burst with anger,” he said. “Somehow, she didn’t blame me. She blamed Vivian. Hated her guts, at having lost her prize fish to Vivian. But she stayed along with me, she did, as kind of a lost friend.”

  “And you and Vivian?”

  “Went along for months, and most satisfactorily.”

  “Now hold it,” I said. “Yes, please?” he said.

  “Did Vivian know you were Gordon Phelps?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pedi tell her?”

  “No, Pedi did not tell her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She and Pedi were not on the best of terms. Pedi was not going to steer a sucker to Vivian Frayne.”

  “Well, then, who the hell did tell her?”

  I tapped out my cigarette and Gordon Phelps lit one. “That was a great big secret,” he said. “She knew who I was, but she insisted she was honor-bound not to tell me how she knew.”

  “Queer characters, these chicks,” I said. “What do you expect?” said Gordon Phelps. “Okay,” I said. “How did it go — you and Vivian Frayne?”

  “Excellently, for a while,” he said. “But suddenly she began to swing the big bat too, looking for a home run.”