“Directing, you mean?”
“Directing, acting.” He shrugged. “I might as well be hooked on hashish.”
Deciding not to waste time on his problems, I shifted in my seat to face him more squarely.
“I’m trying to locate Mrs. Carol Connoly, Mr. Baldwin. She’s disappeared, you know.”
He nodded, bored, then called instructions to a pretty girl covering the stage furniture. She seemed to ignore him.
“This is going to be my last play,” he muttered. “So help me, the last. I’m going to forget about art and try Hollywood. My mother went to high school with Barbara Stanwyck. And they’ve always kept in touch.”
“Do you know Mrs. Connoly?” I pressed.
“Well, of course. She had a walk-on in the last play.”
“What about this current play? Has she got a part in it?”
“No. The last few weeks—maybe a month or so—Carol lost interest. It always happens. Society dilettantes, they’re all the same—dabblers, out for the kicks.”
“Is that the way you’d describe Mrs. Connoly—a dabbler, out for the kicks?”
He shrugged. “Superficially, yes. She’s out for the kicks—and for herself. She might be a trifle more honest about it; I never really thought much about her.”
“Think about her now. You’re obviously tuned in on people, Mr. Baldwin. Give me your description of Mrs. Connoly.”
“Well,” he said slowly, chewing his thin lips as he thought about it, “I’d say Carol Connoly is basically a pretty cool customer. Her façade is a lot more intact than most of her social-register contemporaries, and there’s probably a lot more behind the façade, although I wouldn’t say it’s all especially pretty.”
“How do you mean that?”
“I mean,” he answered slowly, “that I had the feeling Carol took some hard knocks psychologically before she finally got herself together and filled up all the chinks. And I had the feeling she got along for a while on bulky-knit orlons before she switched to cashmere. All that, of course, is just speculation, impressions. I didn’t talk to her for more than an hour, I don’t think, in all the time she was with the group.”
“How long was that?”
“A little less than a year, I’d guess.”
“When you say she took some hard knocks psychologically, are you saying that she was a vulnerable person in that respect, apt to be unstable?”
“Just the opposite. I’m saying she’s tough—tough as nails.”
“Sometimes the tough ones, if they’re brittle, can crack.”
He spread his hands indifferently, at the same time morosely nodding goodnight to a pair of lithe young men leaving together.
“Let me ask you this, Mr. Baldwin: if you had to guess why Carol Connoly disappeared, what would you say? For instance, would you say that she might’ve had a love affair going and decided to go off with the man?”
The corners of his humorless mouth lifted in a wry smile. “She might’ve had an affair going, but I doubt that she ran off with someone in a fit of girlish passion. Carol thinks twice about everything. She does it fast, so it might seem she’s only thinking once. But she’s a double thinker. The theater’s full of them. The double thinkers usually make it, too, while the real talents are getting tangled up in their emotions, real or imagined.”
“When you say that she might’ve had an affair going, are you thinking of anyone in particular? Anyone in The Dramatists, for instance?”
He took a long moment to tap his wide-spread forefingers lightly together, soundlessly whistling as he studied the gesture. Then, after a sidelong glance, he said, “If I should venture an opinion that turned out to be libelous, who’d get the rap—you or me?”
I smiled. “Me, Mr. Baldwin. If you read the papers, you should know that cops’re getting rapped more and more all the time.”
“Yeah, I know.” He said it absently. Then, with the slack, listless manner of someone basically indifferent to consequences, he said, “Shortly after Carol joined the group, she met a guy named Keller, Charles Keller. I think they had something going. At least, that was the gossip.”
“Is Charles Keller still with the group?”
Ignoring the question, he said, “Charles Keller is an unpleasant type, Lieutenant. He has a short temper, and he gets in fights. I, on the other hand, am a coward.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Baldwin. Your name won’t be mentioned. We protect our sources.”
“So I’ve heard. Still, the more I talk the more I get the feeling that I’m maneuvering myself into a position midway between Charlie Keller’s talented right fist and Mrs. Connoly’s overpaid lawyers.”
“Is Charles Keller in the phone book?”
“I don’t know.” He laboriously levered himself higher in his seat and turned to look toward the theater’s tiny lobby. “Sue’s still here. Sue Bryan. She can tell you.”
“Fine. I’ll just ask you a couple of more questions, then. First, do you have any personal knowledge of Mrs. Connoly’s movements Tuesday night? We know she came here for a rehearsal, but that’s where the trail ends.”
“I don’t know a thing, Lieutenant. I remember seeing her, and I remember that she left early. That’s all.”
“How early?”
“Well, that night we were rehearsing two acts instead of one, like tonight. So it was a late rehearsal, probably eleven-thirty.”
“What time did Mrs. Connoly leave?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t see her go. If I had to guess, I’d say she left about nine or nine-thirty. But I could be wrong.”
“Did she leave with anyone?”
“I told you: I didn’t see her go. So I couldn’t very well—”
“All right, thanks a lot, Mr. Baldwin. If everyone is as helpful as you’ve been, it won’t take us long.”
“Anytime, Lieutenant.”
I left him sitting slumped in his seat, a hunched, narrow-shouldered figure, alone in the darkened theater. Three youngsters, dressed hippie style, passed close to Stanley Baldwin on their way out. They hardly glanced at him.
Sue Bryan was closing the office. I introduced myself, then watched her eyes ingenuously widen as I asked for Charles Keller’s home address. She backed into the office, turned on the lights and riffled rapidly through a card index. She was a young, pretty, fresh-faced blonde with her hair done in a ponytail. She wore a miniskirt, revealing smooth, well-muscled legs. I wondered whether she danced, or played tennis, or hiked.
“Here—” She printed Keller’s name, address and phone number on a slip of paper.
“Thanks.” I glanced at the address, recognizing a short, scruffy alleyway in a marginal neighborhood at the bottom of Telegraph Hill. “Do you know Charles Keller?”
She leaned against the desk, facing me. She folded her arms beneath full, firm breasts, then nodded. She was a small, almost chunky girl. Her eyes were wide and blue—farm-girl wide, cornflower blue.
“I knew him for a few months, before he left the company. Not well, though. Just slightly.” Obviously, she disliked Keller.
“What about Carol Connoly? Did you know her?”
“Also slightly. But I knew her well enough to be surprised that she just disappeared like that. Has she been kidnapped, do you think? Murdered?”
“We don’t know, Miss Bryan. We’re just checking. Were you here at the theater Tuesday night?”
“Yes.” She turned her head toward a cluttered desk. “I was working on the mailing list. We have about six thousand names. I’m too shy to act—too scared, really. I get out on the stage, and I have to go to the bathroom. It’s terrible.”
I glanced at the theater’s front door, easily visible from the office. “You probably saw Mrs. Connoly when she left, then.”
“As a matter of fact, I did. When I read about it in the papers, I thought I should, you know, volunteer. But I figured that someone would come asking.” She smiled. “And here you are. I’ve never talked to a detective before.”
Tentatively returning her smile, I realized regretfully that Sue Bryan wasn’t much more than twenty-one, about half my age. “What time did Mrs. Connoly leave, would you say?” My voice sounded very official.
She tongue-tipped her lips, frowned and finally said, “About nine-thirty, I’d guess.”
“Good.” I nodded, satisfied with the cross-check of Baldwin’s statement. I was making progress. I glanced at my watch, deciding that I’d have time to question Charles Keller and still get home before midnight. “Did Mrs. Connoly leave alone?”
“Yes, she did. I remember because she was wearing a beautiful handwoven coat from Yucatan. I saw one of them down at Magnin’s last week. They cost two hundred fifty dollars. Unlined. I work just across the street from Magnin’s, and about twice a week I walk through on my lunch hour. I even dress up, those days. So I won’t feel conspicuous.”
“Do you know how Mrs. Connoly left, Miss Bryan?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, did she call a cab?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so, because she didn’t leave in one. I remember, though, that she did make a phone call about fifteen minutes before she left. She hung around the lobby after she called, and we talked for a minute. She’s really very nice, you know—a very direct kind of person. Not pretentious or artificial, like so many of those”—she thought about it, still hugging herself—“those socialites. Carol just took people as they came and didn’t sweat it. And she didn’t try to act half her age, like a lot of them. She was very—democratic, too. I was telling her once that I wish I’d finished college. And she said that—”
“How did she leave, Miss Bryan? Did you actually see her leave?”
“Sure I did. She left in a red Porsche—a 911 or a 912 Targa, with a black top. Of course, all the Targas have black tops. It’s the same car that used to call for her several months ago, before she started letting that creep Charlie Keller take her home. I remember thinking Tuesday that she was back with the same guy she’d had before, giving it another try after Charlie. She’s married, I know, and maybe I’m saying too much. But—”
“Is that T-a-r-g-a?”
“Right. It’s a special body style. It has a brushed-chrome roll bar, and only the front half converts, back to the roll bar. I think it’s the coolest car on the road, if you don’t count the E-Jag. For about two months I went with a fellow who had a Targa. But I couldn’t make up my mind whether he was in love with his mother or his Porsche. Will you give me a ride home, Lieutenant? I only live a few blocks away, and I’ve never ridden in a police car before.”
“Miss Bryan,” I said, “it’ll be a pleasure.”
6
“WOULD YOU LIKE TO come up?” she asked. “My roommates would love to meet you. We have Scotch and bourbon. Some vodka, too.”
“How many roommates do you have?”
“Four.”
“I’d better not, Miss Bryan. But I want to thank you. Very much.”
“Well, if you change your mind, we don’t go to bed until midnight on Fridays. At least.” She opened the car door, smiled and ran up the steps to her apartment. I watched her legs, still wondering whether she danced, or hiked, or played tennis.
I drove to the nearest call box and asked for the squad room. Sergeant Rankin answered on the second ring.
“Who’s on call?” I asked.
I heard his chair squeak as he turned to read the duty board. “Sobel, Sigler, Haskell and Canelli.”
“Who’s actually there?”
“Canelli and Haskell.”
“All right, tell Canelli to meet me at”—I held up Sue Bryan’s slip of paper—“at the corner of Fredericks Alley nearest number thirty-eight. He can hitch a ride if he wants to; I’ll drop him off. Ten minutes. Then I want you to run Charles Keller, that address, through R and I.”
He repeated the instructions. “Anything else, Lieutenant?”
“Yes. Tell Sigler to check the cab companies for a fare at 7859 Pacific Avenue Tuesday night about eight—Mrs. Carol Connoly. Tell Sigler to look over the Connoly file on my desk. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I want him to find the cab driver and interrogate him. I know Missing Persons did it, but I want it done again.”
He repeated everything, and we hung up.
Turning down the radio, I settled back in the seat, closing my eyes and listening to the monotonous muted murmur of Friday night violence. Less than two years ago, I’d been out there on the street, dogging the calls—listening for the sound of desperate footsteps disappearing down a darkened alley, holding my breath against the smell of violent death: vomit, excrement, liquor and filth. Now I sent my subordinates out on the routine calls, protecting myself from the job’s nasty little surprises.
A squad car turned the corner and stopped while Canelli got out, casually waving as the car pulled away. Physically, Canelli resembled Friedman: a perspiring, shuffling, pear-shaped giant. Canelli, only twenty-nine, seldom sat down without sighing appreciatively. His shirttail invariably bulged from beneath his vest, and his wrinkled collar was always mashed beneath the bulk of a massive double chin. But he was conscientious, cheerful and calm in the crunch. And he was lucky. Even Canelli couldn’t explain it, but he often found himself in precisely the right place at the right time, usually yawning, indifferent to his unexpected coup. It was a squad-room joke that Canelli had only once been seen running: when he’d forgotten to park his cruiser in gear, on a hill.
“Hi, Lieutenant. What’s doing?”
I got out of the car, locked it and explained the situation as we walked down the dim, alley-width street. Less than a year ago, I was thinking, there’d been a knifing in this same small street—a robbery and assault, still unsolved.
“How’d you happen to pick me?” Canelli asked.
I glanced at him, smiling to myself. For a cop, Canelli was remarkably outspoken—often naïve, blinkingly perplexed. “This Keller is supposed to be handy with his fists,” I said. “At my age, I need all the protection I can get.”
“Hmm.” He slipped his blackjack into an outside pocket. “No fooling?”
“No fooling. Keep your eye on him. Just stay in the background and look alert. Menacing, too.”
“Yeah. Right.”
I paused in front of number thirty-eight, a narrow, disreputable-looking building that appeared to be a double garage converted into a small house. Looking closer, I realized that it was an old carriage house, built directly on the sidewalk.
I couldn’t find a doorbell and finally knocked. Canelli, taking me seriously, was stepping aside, unbuttoning his jacket.
I listened, then knocked again. Lights were burning inside, and now I heard footsteps. The door opened, revealing a tall, stoop-shouldered man dressed in a heavy sweater and blue jeans. I couldn’t see much of his shadowed face.
“Mr. Keller? Charles Keller?”
“Right.”
“I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings, Mr. Keller. This is Inspector Canelli. We’re trying to locate Mrs. Carol Connoly. Can we come inside for a few minutes?”
“It’s eleven-fifteen. I was just going to bed.”
“This’ll only take a few minutes, Mr. Keller.”
“I’d rather you came back in the morning.”
“No. We’re here now, and we’re going to ask you some questions. Now, we can either do it inside, or we can do it in my car. It doesn’t make any difference to us.”
Still he stood leaning against the doorframe, insolently relaxed, thinking about it. Finally, shrugging, he slouched aside, noisily exhaling. The pattern of his behavior was familiar: the cop hater, pushing it as far as he could.
I walked inside, leaving Canelli to bring up behind Keller. The place seemed to consist of a single large high-ceilinged room, painted entirely in white. The original heavy timbers and rough siding of the carriage house had apparently been haphazardly sprayed with the white paint, top to bottom. The tall, stark walls were hung with huge paintings. I stood in the middle of the room,
taking a long, calculated moment to study the dozen-odd canvases. The motifs all seemed similar: dark, brooding abstractions split by a bright, searing scar of twisted, tortured color.
“Are you a connoisseur, Lieutenant?” Keller’s voice was mocking, close beside me.
“Your paintings?” I asked, turning to face him.
“Yes.” He abruptly turned away, gesturing to a miscellaneous collection of second-hand furniture grouped around a scarred oak dining table, cut to coffee-table height. “You may as well sit down.” He dropped into an old-fashioned armchair trailing white cotton stuffing.
“We won’t take much of your time,” I said, settling myself. “As I told you, we’re trying to locate Mrs. Carol Connoly. I’d like for you to tell us everything you know about her, starting with whether or not you saw her Tuesday night.”
His long, brooding face twisted in a slow, malevolent grin. “Everything I know about her, Lieutenant. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Vital statistics? Taste in food? Taste in men?” He was goading me—testing, teasing, probing.
“Start with her taste in men. You, for instance. I understand the two of you were having an affair. Tell me about it, Keller.”
“Why should I tell you about it? I might incriminate myself.”
“Not if you tell the truth, Keller. If you lie to us, though, we’ll find out. And then you’ll have a problem.”
“All right, then, I’ll start with her love-making technique, which was great. Absolutely unsurpassed. Is that what you had in mind?”
“Go ahead. You’re doing fine.”
He nodded, thoughtfully gnawing at his lower lip, staring at me with his dark, intense eyes. Then, elaborately spreading his hands, he shrugged. “What else is there to tell? Carol was great in bed. She hated men, really. So it was a contest with her, a fierce competition, with only one winner. Carol is a beautifully sleek, tawny, elemental predator—one of the most exciting women I’ve ever known. But I wouldn’t want to marry one, as the saying goes.”
The Disappearance (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 5