by Henry, Kane,
“Why should Adam Frick call you?” he said.
“He can’t, really,” I said. “He’s dead.”
Poor Gordon Phelps. His pallor took on a hue of green. “What? What? What the devil?”
“Murdered in his apartment. You weren’t out of here tonight, were you?”
“Go to hell,” he said.
“Tell you all about it when I see you later,” I said. “Now please run along, Mr. Phelps. You look like you need a rest. Pick out some long-hair records and listen to them on my hi fi. Relax and rest. Either I or Sophia, or both of us, will be back at my apartment pretty soon. We’ll use the same system.”
“What system?” he said weakly.
“The same as we used here. Five short rings, a pause, then one long one. You get that, you open up. Otherwise, you don’t open up, you just stay put.”
Once more, he started for the door.
“There’s a taxi waiting downstairs,” I said.
And once more, he turned to me. “You think of everything, don’t you?” Mildly, but slightly sardonically.
“I’ve been paid to try to think of everything, and you’re the fella who paid me, remember? Just tell the taxi guy that Larson sent you.”
That laid another egg.
I was watching his face. Nothing happened to his face. “Ever hear of Larson?” I said. “Manny Larson?”
“No,” he said.
“Okay, just tell him Larson sent you anyway. Good-bye, Mr. Phelps. Good luck.”
He either had an iron control, which was possible, or he used fright as a disguise, which was possible; or he knew nothing of the deaths of Mousie Lawrence and Adam Frick, which was just as possible.
What did he know of the death of Vivian Frayne?
TWENTY-TWO
Gordon Phelps departed with a mild click of the door-lock and immediately I routed Sophia out of the bedroom, a procedure precisely the reverse of my inclinations toward Sophia, but business is business and bedrooms can wait, and all damned night long it had been business.
“Take off the coat, kid,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable.”
She took off the coat and made herself comfortable. At once, of course, I became uncomfortable. “Now please,” I said, “according to you, Vivian Frayne did not have a bank vault, and according to me she couldn’t have had your letters in her apartment.”
Demurely Sophia Sierra said, “We covered that territory, remember?”
“On the other hand,” I said, “she did have a key to this place, and she was free to come here — even while Phelps was away on trips, vacations, that sort of thing.”
“How do you know?”
“Phelps told me. So, what do you think about here, right here, for the spot to look for buried treasure?”
“I think you’re a very bright guy, Mr. Chambers.”
I bowed, modestly, like an actor taking a curtain call, but I went after more applause because applause from Sophia was salve to my psyche. “I don’t think she even trusted Phelps on that deal.”
“Now how do you come to that conclusion, Mr. Sherlock?”
“I don’t think she’d want anything in his hands — that you wanted very much. Like that he might have talked a little trade with you, so’s he could get his hands on you, even if it would be a one-shot deal.” I rubbed at my chin. “I’m certain Phelps knows nothing.”
“Oh, now you’re certain.”
“If he’d have known about those letters, he would have produced them for me. Phelps was trying to get out from under, and he frankly didn’t care whom he implicated. He told me about the hate you had going for Vivian. If he knew about those letters, he’d have produced them for verification.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said breathlessly.
“So if they’re here, they’re somewhere where Phelps wouldn’t be likely to fall over them. That excludes all the usual places. All right. What does it include? I’m in the business of looking for things, and I’ve found that people just don’t have imagination along that line. They’re influenced by movies and television, they do the usual ordinary thing, and somehow they think they’re doing the unusual.”
“Like what? I mean, what’s usual, what unusual?”
“What would you do,” I said, “if you were seeking an unusual site for the hiding of an object, I mean something flat like three letters? Of course, you’d exclude desk drawers and places like that. You might think of under the mattress and then you’d dismiss that because people turn their mattresses. Then you’d come up with a bright idea — one of two bright ideas. You’d either Scotch-tape them tightly beneath a piece of furniture, preferably a low, heavy piece; or you’d slit the brown paper back of a picture on a wall, stick them in there, Scotch-tape it intact, and put the picture back on the wall. Am I wrong?”
“You’re too damned right, you louse,” she said admiringly.
“People go by rote, my sweet. We learn that in my business and we use it, it saves us a lot of time.” I looked about. “There’s plenty of furniture in this joint, and just one picture, that rose-colored nude up there over the fireplace. Okay,” I said. “Let’s work as a team. You take the bedroom, I’ll do here.”
“Always the bedroom,” she said, just a mite mockingly.
“But where else, my beloved?” I said.
I marched her to the bedroom and put her to work. In the living room I had myself a drink and then I sneaked to the bedroom door and peeked. That gorgeous figure stretched on the floor wriggling about was something to see. I had to tear myself away but tear I did. I went for the rose-colored nude before I went for the furniture perhaps because I’m more attracted to rose-colored nudes than to furniture, and sure enough, first crack, there was Scotch-tape on the brown paper back. I worked fast, ripped open the back, and pried out three letters complete with envelopes. They were all addressed to Vivian Frayne, all postmarked Cuba, all in one handwriting, feminine and flowery. But I pried out an additional envelope, a legal-sized envelope, unaddressed, blank, but sealed and somewhat bulky. I opened that quickly. It contained a marriage certificate from Montreal, Canada, expressing connubial sanction for Vivian Jane Frainovitski and Stephan Burton Pedi. It was dated four years ago. The envelope contained one other document: a certificate of divorce from a court in Montreal, Canada, dissolving this selfsame marriage between Vivian Jane Frainovitski and Stephan Burton Pedi. It was dated four months ago. I replaced the documents in the envelope and stuck that into my pocket. Then I restored the rose-colored nude to the wall and, with three envelopes in my hand, went to the bedroom and lounged against the door jamb, watching the undulations of a long-curved body crawling about a carpeted floor seeking beneath furniture. I enjoyed for a while and then I said: “These the letters?”
She did not hear me. Her head was beneath the bed at that moment: only legs, rump and torso were exposed. I enjoyed some more.
“These the letters?” I said after a while, more loudly.
She came out from beneath the bed. (Near the bed, beneath the bed, but never in the bed.) She stood up, dusting herself. She was very beautiful, flushed, eyes ablaze, a smudge on one cheek.
“What?” she said.
“These the letters?” I waved them.
She came in a hurry. She looked at the envelopes in my hand. “Yes,” she said. “All three?”
“All three,” I said. “Gimme.”
I moved away. “Easy,” I said.
She moved after me. “Gimme,” she said. “Please.”
“Not yet,” I said.
“When?”
“Not yet,” I said.
A pleasantly crafty look crept into her eyes, a feminine look, pleasant to the male; a filmed, narrow, seductive look; a look with a little smile about the eyes. Her lips came to mine and opened softly against my opening mouth. I stood as though rooted, savoring her; her arms tightly around me, my arms behind my back.
That is a lousy way to make love.
She released me, moved back, seemed shy. “
Gimme,” she said softly.
I swallowed to find voice. “Not yet,” I croaked.
“Why?” Her hands flung up. “Goddamn you, why?”
I went to the living room and she followed.
“Sweetie,” I said, “you’re going to have to string along with me. I can’t turn anything over to anybody before I get this damned thing straightened out. Believe me, I want to, but even if I want to, I can’t. Crazy?”
“And how.”
“I suppose you’ve got to be a man,” I said seriously, “to be able to understand. With a man there’s work and there’s love, and I hate to get off on this philosophical kick, but that’s the way it is, work and love, and, sooner or later, when a man is truly put to the test, his work is Number One. Love can’t interfere with work, and even this … this thing between us, the cockeyed thing between us which may be love — it can’t interfere with work. I’ll see you through on this bit, I’ll do my best for you, I’m all the way on your side, but I’m not turning anything over to anyone, not until this thing is cleared up and wrapped away. That’s my work,” I said stubbornly.
Somehow it got through.
Her shoulders, which were up stiffly, sagged. She took up her bag, went for her coat, lifted it by its collar, threw it over one shoulder like a knapsack. “What do you want me to do?” she said quietly. “Go to my place and wait for me.”
“All right. I’ll go.”
“Phelps is there.”
“Phelps?”
“You two ought to spend an interesting evening together.” I grinned. “You ring five short rings, wait a second, then one long one. Do that, and he’ll open up for you.”
“You coming?”
“I’m leaving here with you. I’ll put you in a cab.”
“Can’t you come with me?”
“I wish I could.”
“Where you going?”
“Maybe to get killed,” I said.
TWENTY-THREE
I got her a cab and got me another. I sat and sifted it around in my head as I was driven toward 244 West 65th Street. I had it, I had most of it: a lot depended on Kenny Masters, born Malone, alias Kiddy. I sifted it around, and I liked what I had.
The street was quiet and desolate, very dark near 244. The cabbie pulled away as soon as he was paid, and I was alone. I shuddered once and violently, although it was not cold, and then I entered a vestibule that was dim and blue-like under one thin fluorescent. The stoolie-genius was correct again: the entrance door opened to a push. The hallway was airless, dank with an old smell of cooked fish. I climbed to the first floor, leaning on a creaking bannister that was as weak as an alliance between enemies. I went to the rear apartment on the right. There was no bell. Dried paint crusted from the top of an old green door. I stood in front of the door for a long moment, rubbing my lips against my teeth. Then I knocked.
There was no answer.
I knocked again.
And again and again.
I was worried that I might wake a neighbor, but I kept knocking, rapping softly but continuously. At long last there was a sound from within: footsteps: a soft barefoot patter. I stopped knocking. The muted sounds ceased.
I knocked again. Once. Hard.
“Yes?”
It was a woman’s voice, soft-pitched. She was in darkness — no light showed in the slit beneath the door.
“Yes?” she said. “What is it? Who is it?”
I put my mouth close.
“Open up,” I said.
“Who is it? What do you want?”
We were speaking in whispers.
“I want Kiddy Malone,” I said urgently. “Open up.”
“There’s no Kiddy Malone here.”
“You want cops, lady?” There was no answer.
“I’m a friend,” I said. “I’m a friend of Kiddy.”
“Who are you?”
“Tell him Pete Chambers. Tell him quick.”
Silence. Then the shuffle of the bare feet.
I leaned my forehead against the door. When I moved it back I saw the dark stain of my perspiration. I took out my handkerchief and wiped my face. I put it back and touched myself, almost involuntarily, touching for a gun. I had no gun on my person. I wished I did have. Then again, perhaps it was better that I didn’t. A cokey is a tricky individual to cope with. You cannot predict his mood. Perhaps an approach with a gun would frighten him. I waited, wanting to use the handkerchief again, but I did not. I stood rigid, leaning against the door, waiting.
It seemed a long time before I heard her again. This time it was the tap-tap of high heels. I moved from the door and braced myself. She was going to open up, otherwise she would not have put her shoes on. A woman is a woman: a woman does not open the door to a stranger when she is barefoot. She had also probably primped a bit, which is why she had taken so long. A woman is a woman.
I heard a click.
A strip of light appeared beneath the door. “Are you there?” she whispered. “Right here,” I said.
I heard a bolt pull away. The door opened wide and I entered directly into a living room. I did not see the woman. She had remained behind the door as I had entered. Now the door closed and I heard the bolt shoot back into place. I still did not see the woman. She was behind me and I did not turn. I saw Kiddy Malone and that is why I did not turn.
He was seated in an armchair, squarely in the middle of the room, facing me. His hair was tousled but his face was clean and shaven. He was wearing expensive, tight-fitting, yellow silk pajamas of the ski type. He was smiling but it was stiff: it seemed to be carved on his face. But his eyes were good, better than I had expected. He had stuff in him, but he had it right: he was not overloaded, nor was he in need of a jolt. His blue Irish eyes were clear, the pupils not too widely distended.
That pleased me. And his hands were steady, which pleased me even more, because one hand was holding a huge automatic.
“Hi, Kiddy,” I said.
“What do you want?” he said.
His voice was good too. I was in luck. I began to relax. I stopped sweating.
“That the way to greet a friend?” I tried for a gay voice. It came out slightly falsetto.
He seemed ashamed. His smile became more real, less rigid. “It’s a pretty lousy time to come calling, ain’t it?”
“It’s because it’s important, Kiddy boy. I come as a friend and” — I gestured toward his gun — “look how you greet me.”
“You heeled?” he said.
“Would I come heeled — to a friend?”
“Feel my friend, Betty.”
I finally saw her. Once again the stoolie-genius was correct. She was a redhead with a sensational shape, built for a stripper rather than a waitress. She was tall — probably a head taller than Kiddy — with a full large powerful figure, and friend Kiddy had done well for her in the matter of night clothes. She was wearing white silk high-heeled lounging shoes and a white silk tight-mesh negligee, practically transparent. She had huge upright breasts and a roundly convex graceful rump. Long full thighs glistened in the silk as she moved toward me. Unfortunately, there was a disconcerting note, disconcertingly similar to Kiddy Malone’s disconcerting note.
She too was holding a gun.
Naturally, he was not as bright as he thought he was. If I were on a rash errand, her coming like that to frisk me would have been a godsend. I could have clipped her gun, used her as a shield, and taken my chances. But I was not being rash this trip. I stood meek as a frightened patient behind a fluoroscope. She felt me.
“No gun,” she said.
His smile contracted to penitent pursed lips. “Sorry, fella,” he said.
“I come as a friend,” I said. I wanted to hammer that through.
His gun was no longer pointed at me. It rested, within the grip of his hand, in his lap. He looked like a mischievous little boy caught holding the matches with which he was going to set fire to the kitchen.
“Give my friend a drink, Betty,” he said.
“He drinks Scotch, the best in the house.”
Kiddy Malone was in good shape. I was delighted.
“You’re in good shape,” I said.
“The best,” he said. “Sit down, friend. Make yourself to home.”
I sat on one end of a divan. The redhead had disappeared into another room, but she came back quickly, without the gun, but with a tray on which was a bottle of Scotch, an open bottle of soda, a pitcher of water, and glasses.
“If you want ice …?” she began.
“Oh, no, thank you. This is fine.”
She set the tray down near me, and she sat herself down on the other end of the divan.
“How do you like my Betty?” Kiddy said. “A beautiful lady,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said and she smiled with strong white teeth. She had a wide high-boned face and round blue eyes.
“She’s the greatest,” Kiddy said. “Big as she is, she’s really little. The smallest, believe me, she’s really the smallest.” He laughed loudly and in the middle of it he suddenly stopped laughing and frowned. “What brings you, Petie? What they call an ungodly hour. What brings you?” And now the carved smile was on his face again, and it was a frightened smile. “And how the hell did you know to get here?” His eyes darted to Betty and back to me.
I poured Scotch and gulped it raw. I needed it.
“I found you,” I said, “because you’re in trouble. When you’re in trouble, that’s when a friend is supposed to find you.”
“He’s a friend,” he said to Betty, nodding seriously, but the carved smile remained.
I looked about the room. It was plainly furnished. The floor was bare.
“Not quite like the Montrose,” I said, “eh, Mr. Masters?” The smile dissolved. The gun popped up again. “Please don’t point that thing at me, Kiddy,” I said. “I’m on your side. I’m with you.”
“What the hell goes?”
“Did you pop him?”
“Me? You out of your brains?” Then his eyes grew crafty. “Pop who?” he said.
“Mousie Lawrence had most of his face shot away. Both your holsters were there in the bedroom. Yet you’ve got a piece right here in your hand. That what you shot him with, Kiddy?”