He had exhausted himself with the fevered monologue. He sat on the rustic bench and mopped at his head frantically, as emotional as a wet hen. I dropped down beside him and nudged him out of his sweaty hysteria.
“Is Margo sold on Buddy Binns?” I asked.
“For the time being.”
“Then why did you book her up here?”
He laughed his thin and sorrowful laugh. “Buddy followed her here, Conacher. He would have followed her to Alaska.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “Margo is too big for this place, and you know it. Margo should be playing the Copa, or the Paramount, or something hot and solid before she goes to Hollywood. Yet, you booked her here at The Montord. Why?”
“It was her idea,” Trask admitted.
“You’re her agent. You could have talked her out of it.”
“You don’t know Margo.”
“I’ll get around to it. Did she have any real reason for coming here?”
Trask busied himself with a new cigar, making a big production out of the preliminaries, so that he could have time to think. He was thinking hard and deep as he lit up. He was concentrating on a variety of things as he took his first deep drag and ate the smoke and let it out in a great cloud. He studied the cloud and waved his hand through it. He examined the red end of his cigar and flicked the ashes away. He rolled it in his fingers and removed the band and eyed the band and dropped it on the lawn and stepped on it.
“She had one hell of a reason, Conacher,” he said. “Let me tell you about it.”
Don Trask had a fine flair for drama. He began his tale with the easy effects, the soft words and the descriptive backgrounds. Relaxed now, he told the story with quiet deliberation, from the day that Margo walked into his office.
“I was completely sold on her from the moment she stepped up to my desk,” Trask began. “Once in a great while an agent sees a star stroll into his den, Conacher, and the room lights up and bells ring and you know you’ve hit something bigger than big at last. At that time, I had only three other performers in my meager stable. There was Mary Leblanche, the actress; and Charlie Worts, the juggler; and a kid named Torrance who thought he would put Sinatra out of business. From these three stiffs, I was slowly earning enough to buy coffee and stale doughnuts. But Margo changed all that, right from the start. I got her on television and the people loved her, especially when she showed them how close she could come to revealing her torso down to the navel. The point is, Margo could sing—and they all knew it. They wanted her for her voice and also because she was the sort of broad who would keep the men in the living room waiting for her strapless gown to fall down some day. She had a voice and hips and the savvy to make those hips bounce for the boys. She had the perfect combination for television—the frame and the sex and the voice to sell all these things legally. Right off the bat, the mail began to flood the studios where she warbled. We had a rush of engagements, but I turned down the ones that wouldn’t build her. I watched her carefully, holding them up for big fees, promoting her so that she was second only to Dagmar in one department and almost as big as Dinah Shore in another. My good sense paid off. Soon they were knocking themselves out bidding for her and I knew that the next big step would be Hollywood—and the heavy sugar. Then something happened.”
“Buddy Binns?”
“In a way, yes. It was shortly after she met him—just about three months ago. It happened at a party—a funny sort of party. At Lasker’s penthouse.”
He waited for me to react, timing his pause for my reflex grunt and turn, as sudden as a stab in the back. Trask was a great showman and he was proving it to me. I played it his way and gave him the delayed take.
I said, on cue, “Not H. M. Lasker?”
“The same, Conacher.”
“What kind of a party?”
“Stag reels,” said Trask.
“Incredible.” A deep and tickling laughter bubbled inside me when I thought of H. M. Lasker’s violated portrait. In my mind he had always existed as the symbol of the great American business man, as sane and normal as the Hollywood prototype. Lasker was big in the world of trade. Lasker was all efficiency and energy. Lasker projected a quiet and forceful nature, all of him; the way he dressed and the way he spoke and the way he carried himself. Yet, buried away in the quiet corners of his analytical brain lurked the, festered spot that led him into activities involving dirty films and vagrant, sloppy ideas. “He just doesn’t seem the type, Trask.”
“He’s far beyond the dilettante stage.”
“He has a library?”
“Lasker undoubtedly owns the biggest library of scum film on the Eastern coast,” Trask said. “I’ve seen only one collection that tops his, a special assortment of film fantasies culled from the junior girl stars on the upgrade in Hollywood. A bigshot movie mogul displayed them at a party out there, not long ago. But the Hollywood stuff was tame compared to what Lasker had. The Hollywood reels were staged to feature the body beautiful. Lasker’s stuff showed the same figures. But they did things.”
“The bottom of the barrel?”
“Degeneracy. Your client Mr. Lasker is a devotee of the shock and shiver type of movie, Conacher. He works hard at it. He has a neat and well-padded sweatbox where he holds small parties for his friends. Have you seen his classics? The Milkman? The Radio Repair Man? Did you ever see the Cuban series?”
“I’ve heard of them.”
“Ask your client to show them to you sometime. He takes great pride in his maggoty possessions. He’ll show them to you at the drop of a hat. And the night I attended his party, he showed them all.”
“It must have been quite a ball. Who was there?”
“A mixed group, drawn from Lasker’s long list of friends.”
“No women, of course?”
“Lasker’s not that bad,” Trask said, with a weak smile. “He had about a dozen men in the room, but the only ones I knew were Buddy Binns and Manny Erlich and Paul Forstenburg. The rest were from the business world. We sat through almost two dozen reels, laughing it up for Lasker because he was our host and also because we had sopped up enough liquor to keep us in the right frame of mind. I had seen many of the reels before, but you don’t tell your pornographic host things like that. At one point I was about to excuse myself on some pretext. But I was glad I stayed. Because the very next movie almost leveled me.”
Again he waited for my reaction. So I leaned in and asked, “Someone you knew?”
“You are a detective, Conacher. The next one had a star I knew quite well.” He paused to build to the climax. “It was Margo!”
He had shocked me in spite of myself. But this time he was caught up in the kickback of his story. He was reliving that fevered moment back in Lasker’s apartment, and the memory ate at him and jerked him into a reflex of nervousness. He mangled a handkerchief into his hands, restless and troubled.
I said, “Are you sure it was Margo?”
“A foolish question,” Trask said sourly. “You forget that Buddy was there—and Paul and Manny. We all recognized her at the same split second. How could we miss? She was shown in an assortment of shots, most of them close-ups. Her routine was something for the birds, Conacher—a madcap riot that was the most shocking of all the movies we had seen that night. You know the stag reels? Then you can understand the reaction that set in immediately.”
“Buddy Binns must have blown a gasket.”
“Buddy went mad, of course.”
“And you?”
“I did what any good agent would do, Conacher. I knew that the release of that stag movie could butcher Margo’s chances for the big time. I immediately bought the reel Lasker had.”
“How much did you pay?”
“Lasker didn’t hold me up. He sold it to me for the price he paid. I didn’t tell him why I wanted it. I cooked up a fake party and
told him I needed it to entertain my friends. In that way I was able to find out the merchant who sold Lasker his films. You know anything about the dirty film business?”
Trask gave me a liberal education. I had heard stories about the underworld of vice movies, the intricate web of outlets in every big city on earth. But Trask had done a detective’s job in tracking down the source of Lasker’s supply. He made contact with the New York shill and bought up all the Margo movies in circulation. Armed with Buddy’s support in the department of finance, Trask went about paying cash on the line for the filthy pictures. Until he had tracked down a roomful of the prints.
“The complete output?” I asked.
“Not quite,” said Trask. “The little crumb who sold me the films let me know that there was still one reel out in circulation.”
“Who has it?”
“That’s the key question, Conacher. That’s why Margo is up here this weekend. Somebody contacted her and told her that the last film would be sold to her—up here at The Montord.”
“Someone? Who?”
“A man,” said Trask, “only because the voice on the phone call to Margo was masculine. He told her to come up here this weekend—with seventy-five thousand dollars in cash.”
I whistled a quick tune. “That’s a ton of loot, Trask. You have it here? You came up prepared to pay that kind of money?”
“Of course we are. Don’t you see what the possession of this filthy film means to her career? She’ll have the shadow of blackmail hanging over her head forever, unless we pay off now. And later on, when she’s really making the big dough, Margo will have to pay much more, believe me.” Trask got up and began his slow rolling pace, disturbed by the fears and torments he had aroused in himself. He jerked back to me and sat down again. “You’ve got to understand how these films were made, Conacher. You’ve got to see that all of it was done without Margo’s knowledge.”
“How is that possible?”
“Let me explain. Margo’s story sounds fantastic—but it’s absolutely true. She was a featured singer on the S.S. Southern Wind before she came to me. The boat was a luxury liner and the passenger list was loaded with wealthy folk, some of whom were rich South Americans on the way home. On a stopover in Havana, Margo was invited to attend a big party at the estate of one of the passengers, a Cuban millionaire named Garcia Montez. Montez took the entire group of entertainers along and paid them well to perform. Margo went with her male singing mate from the ship, a kid named Jeff Carroll, who was her current heart throb. Jeff and Margo sang for the people and after that they went off on their own, drinking plenty and having, a lot of laughs. But Margo soon found herself in an upstairs room with her hot escort. He made love to her ardently and she returned his blandishments. Pretty soon they were sexing it up. Margo thought she was in love with the stinker. And when Margo loves, she loves with abandon. She let her hair down and Jeff wooed her and won her—complete with no holds barred. It was as simple as that.”
“The hidden camera?” I asked.
“The same. Jeff had made a deal with one of the Cuban operators, who filmed the whole scene, from the moment the sexual festivities began. Small wonder that the reel was an epic. You know Margo. Can you imagine her filmed in an uninhibited sex orgy?”
“She knew nothing about the camera?”
“When I told her about the film, it took a long time for her to remember and admit that she was the gal, Conacher. I had to break it into small pieces and describe the locale accurately. Then, in a flash, it all came back to her. She hit the ceiling, but she also conceded that she was in a bad spot. Margo is hungry for fame.”
“And how does Buddy feel about all this?”
“Numb. But Buddy would give everything he’s got to see her well out of this mess. He wants to marry her, and the whole stinking deal is ruining his nervous system. Much as I detest the guy, I can sympathize, Conacher. The hero in that stag reel was playing the part that Buddy has been after for some time.”
“You wouldn’t mind it yourself, would you?”
I dropped the line easily, and he reacted in the way I expected. He had been simmering down in the last half hour, his personal stake in the story washed off and lost in the greater job of narrating it. But he came to earth with a sudden jolt now. He avoided my eyes and lost himself in the rim of darkness around us.
“Forget about me, will you?” he asked quietly. “I’ve spilled my guts to you because I’m worried, Conacher. Maybe you can help me? Maybe you can help Margo?”
“It’s out of my line,” I said. “Unless it ties up with the murder of Grace Lasker.”
“How is that possible?”
“I’m only stabbing. Have you been contacted by the stag reel salesman yet?”
“Nobody has come near me.”
“And Margo?”
“The same.” He rubbed at his jaw with ardent desperation. “The whole deal is driving us nuts. If we only knew who the contact was.”
“Maybe it was Grace Lasker.”
“I don’t quite follow you,” Trask said.
“Grace Lasker spoke to you last night. What was it all about?”
“She only wanted to see Margo.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Did she tell Buddy Binns?” I asked.
Trask didn’t pause to reply. “She asked Buddy the same question, Conacher. She was hell-bent for talking to Margo, that was all. Matter of fact, after she left Buddy last night, I spoke to her and reassured her that she’d positively meet Margo before the night was over. The woman was obviously upset about something. I wanted to help her.”
“Why?”
Trask nibbled his lip for a moment. Then he began to chew on my question and adjusted his face to show me he didn’t like the taste of it. Something gnawed him in a tender spot. “Who the hell knows?” he said. “I liked her, I guess. She was a damned pretty little piece.”
“You told Margo about her?”
“Margo was all set to see her. After all, we’ve been waiting patiently to be contacted about the stag reel.”
“You could be wasting your time,” I said. “The salesman might bury himself for a while, Trask. Especially if there’s a connection between Margo’s movie and the death of Grace Lasker.”
There was a question on his lips but it died before his tongue could bring it to me. He stared over my shoulder, in the direction of the right wing of the main house. Trask was registering surprise and consternation, plus a fillip of terror as he gawked and bunged his eyes at the scene beyond me. In the same moment of his change of pace, things began to happen. A wave of sound, high-pitched and hysterical, rose up into the still night, a flurry and fuss of madness that built and bloomed until the air around us filled with a thousand noises, shouts and screams and the whinnying sounds of mounting terror that always come when a mass of people reacts to an emergency. Trask was already moving away from me when I turned. And, following him, I saw the reason for his quick and energetic bounce.
The windows of The Champagne Room flamed and flickered with the sullen glow of fire!
“Great God!” screamed Trask, as he sprinted for the entrance. “Margo’s in there!”
And he ran puffing and yammering toward the billowing puffs of smoke that hung like a great veil over the facade of The Montord.
CHAPTER 10
Fire, along with every other emergency in the book of calculated risks, was handled with neatness and alert efficiency at The Montord. By the time we reached the lobby, a squad of uniformed boys had herded the people out through the main door, where they were directed to stand and watch beyond the hotel, under the big trees. The door to The Champagne Room spilled a great cloud of noxious smoke that hung inside the lobby and dimmed the brightness of the cluster of lights in the walls and ceiling. Figures flitted quickly before me, heading toward the night clu
b and armed with a variety of fire-fighting equipment. Sharp voices rode the air, ordering everybody to stay away from The Champagne Room.
But Don Trask made a bee line for the door, brushing away all who would hold him out of the Champagne Room. I followed him closely until a figure emerged from the gloom and clamped hot and biting hands on my arm.
“Steve!”
I held off the impulse to brush the lady away, but she clung to me and screamed at me.
“Lili,” I said quietly, working to calm her. “Better get out of here, baby, before you singe yourself.”
She tugged me with the fury of a blind and panicky fear. She pulled at me and held me, whimpering and mumbling her anxiety.
“Jesus, you’ve got to save Manny!” she pleaded.
“Where is he?”
“In The Champagne Room. He’ll be burned to death, Steve.”
“He certainly will be, unless you let me go in after him,” I said. She responded to me at last. She released the pressure of her long, sharp nails, and held my hand instead. Her palm was strangely iced. For a short moment, I debated whether it might be better to see her out of the lobby. “I’ll get Manny, Lili.”
“Thank God,” she moaned.
“Thank Him outside,” I shouted, and gave her a head-start toward the entrance door, slapping her arm with a sharp, quick pat. She responded with movement, coughing and spluttering as the smoke worked on her. But she would make the main door in good time. A bellhop had her and guided her through the gloom.
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