CHAPTER 19

Apartements Goncourt—Rue de la Trémoille

Gaston was behind me when I stopped for a quick Pernod on the way to Peggy’s apartment at the Goncourt. He watched me abandon the cab at her door. He parked under an awning across the street, suddenly interested in a small book. It was long past his hour for dinner and I felt sorry for him.

I ran over and tapped his arm. “Let’s be friends,” I said.

“Monsieur?” he asked, as dumb as a poodle. “I no speaking English.”

“Sure you do. Malencourt wouldn’t send a man after me unless he had ears.”

“Monsieur?” he said again.

“You heard me, Gaston.” He was fighting to kill the little grin that curled his lip. But he was losing. “You’re no dummy, my friend. I don’t want to see you standing here hungry. Malencourt wouldn’t want a man to starve, would he? I may be busy at the Goncourt for some time, understand? A social visit. Why not knock off and grab a quick sandwich? Am I coming through to you?”

“Monsieur?”

“Stubborn boy. Stout fellow. Bon flic, alors. You do as you like, mon ami. But you’re a damned fool if you stand here chewing your gums when you can take time off for dîner.”

He smiled again, shrugging me off. I left him that way.

In the lobby, I paused to look back at him. He was going through a small battle with his conscience. He stuffed the book into a pocket. He came out from under the awning and looked at his watch and scratched his chin. He cased the street, this way and that. On his right, two doors away, a small café winked at him. He started for it, paused and returned to his post under the awning. He shook his head, shrugged, examined his watch again. Then he ran over to the café and sat at a sidewalk table.

I was chuckling at the pantomime when Larry Frick slapped my shoulder.

“The invisible man,” he said. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been combing the brothels for you.”

“Watch your language,” I said. “And wipe the lipstick off your fat mouth.”

He did the job with the back of his hand, grinning like a fool. “Women,” he said. “Why don’t they leave me alone?”

“You’ve been upstairs?”

“What a detective you are.”

“Bothering our client?”

“Don’t make me laugh. She wouldn’t give me the time of day. Thought I’d find you up there. Our client was stiff as a board, detective. And almost friendly. She didn’t mind it too much when I made a pass at her.”

“You’re a grade A stinker,” I told him. “You know the doll’s upset.”

“You should talk. From what she tells me, you’re her big moment, chum. She’s pining away for you. She’s so fond of you that she took a powder when you didn’t show up for dinner.”

“Where did she go?”

“That’s her little secret. She instructed me to inform you that you are a cad. I’ve been waiting here in the lobby to tell you the glad tidings.”

“She’ll keep,” I said. “I was on my way up to get a rain check on our dinner date anyhow. We’ve got things to do. In a big hurry.”

“No food first?” Larry moaned. “I’m a bundle of nothing without fodder.”

“You’ll have to grab it on the run.”

‘Where am I running?”

“To Lester Garr’s.”

“A pleasure. He’ll have plenty of food, complete with scones and caviar.”

I broke it down for him slowly. He stopped his quips when I explained his job.

“Lester’s the prize quail in the Velma Weston deal. The way I see it, he was nuts about her from way back. I caught him coming out of Bowker’s dump before I went in. Everything adds up for Lester. He could have taken that knife from Jastro’s place. He could have dumped the Folger stuff in the closet, planted it to set Jastro up as Folger’s murderer.”

“But why would he kill Folger?”

“Jealousy. He’s a little man with a loused-up sense of power. He’d be given to worshiping a doll like Velma from afar. His maggoty brain schemed a quick way to get rid of her new lover. He must have joined them when he knew that Velma was blind drunk, too drunk to remember him in the group. He took Folger out when she collapsed. He butchered Folger, or hired a few thugs to do the job.”

“My God. It makes sense, all of it.”

“It’s the pitch, I tell you. There’s only one item missing.”

“Item?”

“The shocker,” I said. “First-hand evidence. We’ll get that later. Right now, I want you to stay close to Garr. Follow him wherever he goes. Watch him carefully. He’s our duck. You know him well. You can get to him and get with him. Offer to take him out tonight. Offer him anything. But stay with him.”

“Where will you be?”

“I’ve got other fish to fry. I’ll meet out at Garr’s, later.”

“My God,” said Larry, stunned. “What a brain.”

I dropped him at the Champs-Élysées. He ran down the Rue Balzac, puffing and thumping. He would find no casual restaurants on the way. He would be forced to take potluck with his host, a fascinating project for a man of Larry’s appetite.

The cabby gave me the edge of his nose when I ordered him to double back to the Goncourt. He shrugged and sighed and muttered a feeble statement about the crazy Americans. Behind me, another cab snaked along. I laughed out loud. Gaston must have been caught before his soup. Gaston would be calling me names, too.

I took the elevator to Peggy’s flat. There was a long wait at the door. I buzzed again, leaning into it.

She came to the door with a glass in her hand.

“Go away,” she pouted. “I don’t want to see you.”

“We had a date for dinner.”

“Hours ago.”

“You’ve eaten?”

“My heart out,” she said drunkenly. She backed away from the door, rolling a bit. She was dressed in another bedroom job, all silk and big buttons. But some of the important buttons were lazy, up near her low neckline. Her hair was loose and free. She dropped into the couch and lay there, looking up at me drowsily. “Don’t like to be kept waiting,” she said.

“You’re drinking too much, baby.”

“Like it.”

“And you’ve been having company.”

“Company?” Her glazed and shallow eyes lit with dull curiosity. “You’re crazy. Crazy little detective.”

“Larry was here,” I said. “Playing games?”

“So what? Nice boy.”

“You changed your mind about him?”

“Nice boy,” she said again. “Funny boy.”

“Put the glass down,” I said.

“Not me.” She rolled to her feet and staggered to the little bar and began to fill up again. I caught her there. She struggled against me, a bundle of frantic girlishness. She began to giggle as we hammed it up. She dropped the glass and reached for me, grabbing me tight. “Jealous, Stevie?” she gurgled. “Jealous?”

I hauled her back to the couch. She was hell-bent for forgetting her troubles, all the way. Her pretty mouth was open and she would have bit my hand if I let her. She squirmed and wriggled against me, muttering sly little phrases.

I said: “Kill it, baby. You’re not that drunk.”

“Kiss me, Stevie.”

“I said kill it.”

“Please, you’re hurting my wrist.”

“Sit up and talk sense,” I said. “I’ve got big news for you.”

The anger in me came through to her. If she was drunk, this would be the test. She hauled herself to a sitting position, staring at me blearily. She was a terrific actress, all the way. She nibbled her lip and brushed the hair out of her eyes. Now some sense of sanity returned to her. Not much, but enough to show me she could understand me.

“News?” she said, slurring the word.

“About Judy.”

“Sweet sister Judy.”

“I’ve found her, Peggy.”

She stiffened and stared. The drunken spree began to fade for a moment. The fogged eyes began to clear. In the close-up, her body quivered and shook under the impact of the sudden news. She sucked air in heaving gasps, her girlish breasts alive under the silk barrier. The reaction lasted for a perfect interval. Then came the tears.

She broke down for me completely. She went into an emotional flip, banging her body into the pillows and flailing at the air. She said: “Oh, no, no, no,” over and over again, in between great sobbing gusts of emotion. I struggled to bring her back to where she was, half drunken, half sleepy. But the shock had sent her into a tailspin, so hysterical that I couldn’t handle her, there was only one way to bring her out of it.

I slapped her.

She recoiled. The sting of my hand hurt her.

“Oh, Steve, Steve, Steve,” she sobbed. “I’ve been such a fool. Such an idiot. How can I ever thank you?”

“You can begin by sobering up.”

“You don’t hate me?”

“You’re a mixed-up kid,” I said. “And you drink too much.”

“Where is she? Where’s Judy?”

“I’ll know for sure later tonight.”

“How much later? I want to be with you. Take me to her.”

“When you’re sober,” I said at the door. “Take a few Bromos and black coffee. I’ll phone you in a few hours.”

“You don’t hate me?”

Her arms reached for me. Her body was too close for comfort, too active for a quick goodbye. I kissed her quickly, to quiet her, to keep her gay and hopeful. Her lips were hungry.

“Tell me you forgive me, Steve.”

“Baby,” I said, “you’re the craziest.”

I blew her a kiss and ran for the elevator.