CHAPTER 9

Trask got up slowly and brushed himself off. I had pulled the string too fast for him to take a stab at me before he went down, and he was overcome by a mixture of embarrassment and chagrin.

I said, “Sorry, Trask, but you asked for it.”

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

He hung his head and avoided looking up at the path, where a few clients were strolling willy-nilly, on the alert for an incident of this type, so that they could feed it to their tablemates at the next meal. Big hotels like The Montord are huge caves of gossip and their residents fatten on the daily speculation involving the people around them. Trask had been seen by these termites, and the fact that they would discuss his fall over tomorrow’s coffee was a keen blow to his lofty soul. He continued to shake his big head at the lawn, as sad as a frustrated lover. I followed him into the surrounding gloom, feeling a bit sorry that I had slammed him in sight of the hotel guests. The maggots were still gawking at us back there on the path, waiting for a renewal of our hostilities.

“My pratt fall should keep their slimy tongues wagging for a week,” Trask laughed softly.

“Forget it,” I said. “They didn’t see you.”

My balm didn’t soothe him. He was suddenly humble and soft. It made sense when I put it all together. Trask had long ago abandoned the idea of physical stress and strain. He had made a name for himself as a wit and a brain, the type of sedentary sage who would be unaccustomed to rally his feeble muscles for any counterattack. He would consider the use of bone and brawn beneath his personal dignity. The record of his past showed a long line of quiet retreats from any show of fisticuffs. And this reputation for acting as a punching bag was his personal cross, a business that began ever since he fell in love with Margo Lewis.

Everybody within thirty miles of Lindy’s knew that Don Trask had been burning with love for her ever since the day he signed her. His smoldering passion was a current legend on Broadway. Yet, on several occasions, in bistros and bars, he had been leveled and lowered by assaults from a variety of ardent escorts to the fiery Margo. He had stood up to them and let them feel the barbs from his slick tongue. But he had been slapped down and left to rub his bruises every time he opened his mouth to protest Margo’s easy friendship with the wolves. Trask’s role of quiet lover boy was a comic routine and he knew it. Margo favored anything handsome in pants, and occasionally overlooked the facial charms for the more important blessings of the purse and the promise. She was as loose and free as the wash on Monday’s line. But not quite so clean. In the four years of her association with Don Trask, rumor told that she bad not loosened her well-oiled zipper one notch for Don Trask.

“I should apologize,” he said, with a sad shrug. “I’m upset, Conacher. I’m not myself since I came up here.”

“Then who are you?” I asked.

“I’m something out of a bad television show,” he said, fixing me with his dead eyes for a long pause. He started across the lawn, his hands clasped behind his back, his steps slow and aimless, headed in the general direction of the first green. “I’m the rejected suitor, the big slob who’ll never make the grade, the fall guy, the patsy, the goat and the drip. You’re talking to a man out on a limb, Conacher, a man perpetually goaded to hate.”

He stopped suddenly and stood firmly and adjusted his body so that he had the right lighting for his face, so that I could read the full measure of his changed mood. He was grim and resolute now. He was forceful and open. “Sure I was in Lili’s room last night. Why the hell not? She’s an easy piece and I needed companionship. How do you think I feel when I see Buddy Binns mincing around after Margo? Of all the long list of her recent flames, Buddy Binns is the most nauseating, the toughest to swallow, the most ridiculous to accept. A cornball. A comic with the brain of a flea who considers himself God’s gift to show business, the type of egomaniac who gives theatrical folks the screaming meemies because he fancies himself several cuts above the common herd. I tell you I go mad when I see him, Conacher. And that was why I had myself a half dozen drinks last night and then tried to bed down with Lili Zenda.”

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.