It took just a moment to recognize Garson Lehman’s thin, nasal tones, and since I couldn’t imagine I’d be interrupting anything important, I went on in.
Maggie swivelled in her chair, nodded good morning to me, my presence cutting Lehman off in mid-sentence.
“Join us, Jack,” she said. Her hair was up, her makeup limited to mostly just bright red lipstick that jarred nicely with her gray suit and white blouse ruffled at the throat. “Mr. Lehman dropped by without an appointment.”
That was a dig, but I doubted the Village’s Resident Expert on Everything Artistic (and Sexual) would pick up on it. His long dark hair had seen a trim and a comb, his mustache too, and he wore a brown-and-black herringbone sport jacket with a charcoal tie—the look of a man hoping to make a good impression.
Little late for that.
“Good morning, Jack,” he said too eagerly. He was sitting in my chair, so I went around him and took the other one.
“Mr. Lehman,” Maggie said, “was just wondering if we’d had a chance to consider his offer to write a column for us, on the popular arts?”
“That’s right,” he said, sitting forward, eyes bright, “something rather more intellectual than you might find in most newspapers these days, but still accessible to the average man. Challenging but with a lot of zip.”
If he wrote such a column for anybody, I hoped he’d avoid phrases like “with a lot of zip.”
I gave Maggie a look, and she read it properly, and nodded permission.
“I’m afraid we’re already picking up a new column,” I said. “By a colleague of yours. Dr. Frederick.”
Lehman blinked in surprise. “Really? What does he know about the arts?” He must have realized how that sounded, because he immediately covered with, “I mean, he’s an authority on comic books and television and other forms of mass entertainment, but in a very narrow way.”
Maggie said, “Dr. Frederick isn’t covering the popular arts for us.”
“In fact,” I said, “he’s expressly forbidden to discuss his views on comic books, because of our business relationships with several of the publishers he likes to criticize.”
Lehman sat back. He had the expression of a student who’d crammed all night but for the wrong subject. “What on earth would his column be about, then?”
I said, “We don’t discuss the content of columns that are still being developed, Mr. Lehman. I’m sorry.”
But Maggie said, “I think Mr. Lehman has a right to have his question answered, Jack. He did spark the idea for this, after all.”
“Yes,” he said, distressed, “we discussed a column....”
“People throw ideas for columns and comics at us all the time,” I said, “like you did at the restaurant the other night. Never amounts to anything.”
He frowned. “Well, this time it obviously did!”
“Mr. Lehman,” Maggie said, “we’ve asked Dr. Frederick to do a column rather in the style of Ann Landers or Dear Abby, but with a psychiatric touch. Advice from a genuine authority on human behavior, a recognized expert.”
And not a self-styled one like this clown.
Maggie was saying, “Yesterday, Dr. Frederick and I agreed that his emphasis would be on parental problems. Since you helped research Ravage the Lambs, you know better than most the extent of his work with troubled children.”
Lehman nodded. “Yes. I wrote an article for Collier’s last year about his efforts at the Lafargue Clinic. Really wonderful what he’s doing there.” Flushed, he added, “I’m afraid I’ve embarrassed myself.”
“Not at all,” Maggie said.
“It’s a good subject, frustrated parents and problem children. I believe I could have handled that subject for a column, as well, though I don’t have a degree in that field, admittedly.”
I didn’t figure he had a degree in any field.
He rose. “Forgive me for stopping by unannounced. And do let Dr. Frederick know that if he needs any assistance on the column, I’ll be available, as I was on Ravage the Lambs.”
Maggie and I glanced at each other. We didn’t have the heart to tell him.
When he’d gone, I took my proper chair and said, “Maybe we should have thrown him a bone,” meaning the ghost job.
Maggie shook her head. “Your Dr. Winters is more qualified. But Lehman dropping in did remind me of something I wanted to show you.” From under one of her neat piles she removed a copy of Collier’s magazine with Danny Kaye on the cover. “Take a look at this.”
I did. “By God, that charlatan did sell an article to Collier’s.”
“Thumb through. It’s a dry run for Ravage the Lambs—all about how the Lafargue Clinic deals with children corrupted by comic books.”
“That should surprise me?”
“Look at the pictures.”
I did. The article about the Harlem clinic was illustrated with full-color staged photos of kids doing terrible things to each other, a boy jabbing a girl’s arm with a pen, two other boys tying up a girl to a tree, all the kids probably ten or eleven. But when I said, “full-color,” I slightly misstated.
“All these kids are white,” I said.
“That’s right,” Maggie said. “White, well-fed, well-dressed. There’s nothing in that article that indicates the clinic is in a basement in Harlem. There’s mention of an Episcopal church hosting the facility, but you would never know that the patients were impoverished victims of a notorious ghetto.”
I handed the magazine back to her. “So Mr. and Mrs. Caucasian America will assume their innocent boys and girls might be turned evil by comic books, too.”
Disgusted, Maggie tossed the magazine to one side—she would have to calm down before it again joined a neat stack. “I don’t know whether that misrepresentation is the magazine’s doing or Dr. Frederick’s. But it smells bad.”
“Hey, it stinks. Are we sure we want to get in bed with this guy?”
Maggie arched an eyebrow. “Actually, we’d probably be getting in bed with Dr. Winters, who I’m sure will do most or all of the work.”
“Would it be too easy if I said I was fine with getting in bed with Dr. Winters?”
She didn’t get the chance to answer that, because Bryce leaned in to say, “Your ten o’clock is here.”
Today Sylvia wasn’t in one of her sweater-and-slacks combos. She’d be having lunch at the Waldorf, after all, and taking an important business meeting with Dr. Frederick. A rhinestone brooch winked at me, as she traveled the distance from Bryce’s door to the desk, her light blue suit sporting a slightly flaring skirt—the effect shapely yet businesslike.
That would please Maggie, whose own gray suit was similar. In fact, Maggie stood and shook hands with Sylvia. I was standing, too. I’m not a complete lummox. But I didn’t shake hands with the lovely shrink, just nodded and traded transparently secret smiles with her.
Sylvia’s manner had a touch of shy respect in it. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Starr.”
On the phone yesterday they had a preliminary discussion about her contract, which would be with the Starr Syndicate, though her salary came out of Dr. Frederick’s end. But this was their first face-to-face.
“We have every intention,” Maggie said, “of making this a successful column, a profitable business enterprise for all concerned. But you do know that we have a hidden agenda.”
Sylvia nodded. “I’ve gathered that. And I’ve been open to Mr. Starr about my own negative feelings about Dr. Frederick’s unscientific approach to his comic-book research.”
Maggie reached for a neat pile of folded newspapers, the same pile from which the Collier’s had been plucked. “I’m sure you’re probably aware that my previous profession was in show business.”
“Yes, Miss Starr.”
I had to grin, but didn’t risk a wisecrack. How could Maggie say that with a straight face, in an office with a wall of movie and theatrical posters plastered with her mug and chassis? Or that giant framed Rolf Armstrong pa
stel of Maggie in feathers and rhinestones, looking down on Sylvia and me, like God with a great figure?
“Well,” Maggie said, “these are what we call in the trade the next-morning reviews.”
She tossed the papers toward the front of the desk, where we could see the headlines.
Bob Price had made the front page of the Times: NO HARM IN HORROR, COMICS SELLER SAYS. The New York Post screamed GORE IN GOOD TASTE under the smaller headline SAYS COMIC ROOK KING. And the Daily News shouted, AXE MURDER FINE FOR KIDS, CLAIMS COMICS PURLISHER.
I sighed, looking at the News with its juxtaposition of the falling-woman Suspense Crime Stories cover with a sweaty-looking, five o’clock-shadowed Price. Worst of all, every story had a paragraph on Bob threatening to murder Dr. Frederick, the “noted anti-comics crusader.” At least that hadn’t been the lead....
“We’re in negotiations with Mr. Price,” Maggie said to Sylvia, “to bring out a comic strip property of his. After this, I don’t even know if we can get away with that.”
I said, “I’m hoping Frederick’s new campaign, against TV violence, will make this yesterday’s news.”
“Well, right now it’s today’s news,” Maggie said. Then to Sylvia, “Dr. Winters, none of this directly affects you. But I don’t want you to go into this under any illusions. I want to be frank with you, but I must have your assurance that what I’m about to share is in strictest confidence.”
“Certainly.”
“My sub rosa plan is to muzzle Frederick on the subject of comics, by tying him through our syndicate to two of his favorite funny-book whipping boys—Americana Comics and Entertaining Funnies. Once he’s signed, I intend to pressure him unmercifully.”
“All right,” Sylvia said, frowning in confusion, apparently not seeing how she fit into this.
“If the column doesn’t do well,” Maggie went on, “I will continue its syndication only if Dr. Frederick behaves himself. But he will not know this until after the ink on the contracts has dried. The doctor is a man who may have good intentions, but who is utterly ruthless and unethical in how he pursues them.”
“As to comic books, anyway,” Sylvia said, “I would have to agree.”
“Because of all this, Dr. Winters, I can only guarantee you a one-year contract.”
Sylvia’s confusion went away and a smile blossomed. Now she got what Maggie was getting at.
“Fine. Understood.”
Maggie smiled back at her. “It’s nice doing business with an intelligent young woman like yourself.”
I said, “I hear men have their uses.”
“Yes they do,” Maggie said. “For example, you’re perfectly suited to escort Dr. Winters over to the Waldorf. You’ll be late if you don’t leave now.”
“Yesterday Harlem,” I said to Sylvia, “today the Waldorf. It’s a full damn life, don’t you think?”
We were in the midst of the mile-long lobby of the palatial hotel—between Forty-ninth and Fiftieth Streets, Park and Lexington Avenues—surrounded by more marble, stone and bronze than in a high-tone cemetery, and more paintings by famous artists than at most museums. The furnishings were 18th Century English and Early American, but the guests were too rich to be impressed. Two thousand such guests were looked after by the same number of hotel staff members.
“You seem to know your way around here,” Sylvia said, following me past potted plants and overstuffed chairs.
“Yeah,” I said. “Some big-time cartoonists live in the tower suites, which are strictly residential. Hal Rapp lives here, the late Sam Fizer used to.”
I decided not to mention that gangster Frank Calabria, who had once been a silent partner of the major’s, also had one of those suites, though he didn’t live there. His mistress did.
The top eighteen of the hotel’s fifty stories were the twin towers, which had their own bank of elevators. We went up to the 35th floor and quickly found 3511, the doctor’s suite.
“You know, the Presidential Suite is just down the hall,” I said, pointing. “It’s where Ike and Mamie stay when they’re in town.”
She wasn’t impressed. “I voted for Stevenson.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
I pressed the doorbell. It was that kind of hotel, or anyway that kind of suite.
No response.
I tried again, then I knocked good and hard. I did this several times.
Also no response.
I tried the knob. I can’t tell you why, other than it was a sort of reflex action after ringing and knocking hadn’t got me anywhere. Plus, we were expected.
“It’s open,” I said.
Sylvia looked at me wide-eyed and I looked at her narroweyed.
She said, “Should we go in?”
“The doc may have left it open for us. Maybe he’s in session with somebody.”
“Dr. Frederick said he didn’t take patients till one P.M. And we’re right on time.” She mulled it briefly. “But...since he’s working out of where he lives, maybe he doesn’t have a receptionist or secretary. And just leaves it open for patients or expected company. Like us.”
“Okay, you sold me.” I edged the door open, then looked back at her. “Why don’t you stay out here?”
“Why?”
“I don’t really know why, but why don’t you?”
I had a chill or a premonition or something, and that didn’t make me Edgar Cayce: Dr. Werner Frederick had been subject to more death threats lately than Joe DiMaggio. He married Marilyn Monroe, you know.
Moving through the marble-floored entryway, I called out, “Dr. Frederick! It’s Jack Starr!”
Nothing, except some echo off marble.
Then I was in the high-ceilinged, long, narrow living room, which echoed other Waldorf residential suites I’d been in—a fireplace at right with facing black leather sofas separated by a glass coffee table; a big picture window on the city at the far end; French doors to a dining room at left (also a door to the kitchen); and beyond the fireplace sitting area, the closed bedroom door. The carpet was fluffy and white, the furnishings modern, everything black and white, solids, no checkered stuff—this leather chair black, that metal lamp black, this leather chair white, that lacquer end table black.
Black and white like the doctor’s way of thinking. Black and white like the daily comics. The only splashes of color were magazines on the coffee table—one being that Collier’s I’d just seen at Maggie’s. My guess was all these magazines had articles by or about Dr. Frederick.
This was the most sterile, Spartan Waldorf suite I’d ever been in, not even a knickknack or award on the fireplace mantle; but that may have been because the living room had been transformed into essentially his patients’ waiting area.
And when I checked the dining room—“Dr. Frederick!”— I found that the area had been converted into an office, complete with a brown leather couch, a desk, swivel chair with tufted leather back and seat, a similar but not swivel visitor’s chair, lawyer-style bookcases, everything warmly masculine, reassuring. His desk was as neat as Maggie’s—even the stack of vile comic books, for research purposes, made a neat pile.
Okay. So this was where he saw patients.
Because it was handy, I checked the kitchen. Nobody in there, either.
Apparently the doctor had no cook, no secretary, no receptionist. The choice of the Waldorf seemed to have more to do with meeting and attracting upper-class clients than living in comfort. This was, after all, a small tower suite, designed for bachelor living—Frederick was a widower with no children—and he had given up the largest room for his office. His work was his life.
That left only the bedroom, always the most awkward room to enter in a situation like this. I damn near skipped it. I mean, he probably wasn’t here, right? Maybe he went downstairs to get his hair cut in the fancy barbershop, or his breakfast in the coffee shop had run late, and like Sylvia said, he just left the door open for us.
Maybe.
The bedroom was Spartan as well. You fa
ced the foot of the double bed upon entering; the bed was modern with a brown spread. Glass doors led onto a balcony—these stood slightly open, and as this was another cool day, it was damn near cold in there. More bland modern furnishing ran to a couple of night stands and a dresser, and another bookcase. Also a smaller work area, a little desk. The only other item of note was Dr. Frederick himself.
He was right in front of me—hanging from a ceiling light fixture by a heavy rope. Eyes rolled back, tongue lolling, dried spittle on his chin, in a lab coat and tie and well-pressed trousers. A chair had been kicked over.
“Oh, Jack!”
She was just behind me in the doorway. She had a clawed hand to her mouth, as if about to stifle a scream—and would have been right at home on the cover of Tales from the Vault.
So would Dr. Frederick.
I held up a stop palm. “Sylvia, maybe you should wait out in the hall. Whatever you do, don’t touch anything.”
“We have to get him down!”
She was moving past me and I stopped her, held her by the arm.
“No,” I said. “He’s dead. No helping him. That makes this a crime scene.”
“Well, it’s...suicide, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, and that’s a crime.” Which it was, but I doubted Frederick would do any time.
“So what does it mean?” She was doing her best not to come unglued.
“It means the doctor’s a piece of evidence now, that shouldn’t be tampered with.”
“Oh, Jack.” She fell into my arms and buried her face in my suit coat. These intelligent women did have a use for a man now and then.
She was shivering, not crying, but upset. I patted her back as my eyes traveled the bedroom. The chair that had been kicked away—either by the doctor to kill himself or a murderer to do it for him—was on the small side. I figured it went with the little writing desk.
She gripped my arm, frightened. “Jack...the floor...what is that? It can’t be blood....”
The carpet, more of the white fluffy stuff, was so wet it was squishy, but there was no discoloration.
“Back away, honey,” I said. “Just stand in the doorway, if you don’t want to wait in the hall.”
Seduction of the Innocent (Hard Case Crime) Page 9