The gray light of dawn seeped through the Venetian blinds in my bedroom. I turned to look at Joanne and her eyes opened at that moment.
“A new day,” she breathed, opening out her arms to me. “Let’s start it in a real nice way.”
We did.
It was after nine o’clock when Joanne served up breakfast to me. Bacon and eggs, fruit, tomatoes, toast, coffee. After breakfast we smoked cigarettes over second cups of coffee.
“Do you have any plans?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me about them?”
“Well, I don’t really know where to start. When you’re in doubt, you go back to the beginning. The beginning for me was a guy named Eddie McEvoy. I figure I’ll pay him a visit.”
I had to go around the back of the tenement to reach Eddie’s room. The room had been added to the building like an afterthought. I had to bang on the door three times before I heard Eddie’s sleep-thickened voice:
“Yeah? Who is it?”
“Kent.”
“Just a sec.”
Three bolts rasped, a chain clanked, a lock clicked. The door opened outward. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a door that opened outward. I stepped into Eddie’s room and he pulled the door closed. It was a warm morning but Eddie was in long winter underwear. Something brushed against the back of my legs. A cat. Another cat sat on the night table beside Eddie’s rumpled bed. A third cat was on the sill of the room’s only window. It miaowed and the other two chimed in.
“They’re hungry,” Eddie said, shooting the door bolts home.
“Are you preparing for an invasion?” I asked.
“This is a tough neighborhood,” he said. The cats were meowing louder. “Okay, okay,” Eddie said.
He walked across the room, scratching at his bottom. He drew curtains aside to reveal a tiny kitchenette. A cat jumped atop the small refrigerator as Eddie opened the door. He brought out a bowl of chop meat and spooned out the stuff into three soup plates as the other two cats went around his legs, rubbing against him and meowing. He placed the three bowls on the floor, side by side, and the trio of cats didn’t waste a moment getting to their stations.
“If this is such a tough neighborhood that you need all those bolts on the door,” I said, “you ought to get yourself a dog.”
“A dog?” Eddie looked horrified. “The cats wouldn’t ever forgive me. But what brought you here, Kent?”
“I’m on the case, Eddie.”
He grinned. “You checked out the license number, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s your client?”
“That’s confidential.”
He seemed hurt. But his smile returned when I handed him two fifties.
“Ten percent of the retainer,” I said.
“Thanks, Kent.” He got into a pair of pants and put the folded fifties in a side pocket. “Want me to work for you, Kent?”
“That depends on what you can do for me.”
“To start off, I can take you to Beulah. She’s the one found Stan’s body. You’re lucky this is Tuesday. It’s her day off.” He pulled a sweater over his head.
“Can’t you just give me her address?”
“I could. But Beulah wouldn’t talk to you if you were on your own.” On went another sweater.
“I heard a weather report on the car radio on my way here,” I said. “The weather bureau says it’ll go past ninety today.”
“That a fact?” Eddie looked thoughtful for a moment, nodded. “I guess I won’t need the other sweater.” He picked up his long overcoat from the foot of the bed and put it on. Then he sat down to get into thick wool socks and army boots. “Hold it just a sec, Kent.” He ran the water in the sink, splashed a few drops in his face, turned off the tap and ran his wet hands through his hair. Only one thing remained to be done before a new day in the life of Eddie McEvoy began. His teeth grinned from the bottom of a glass filled with water. He took the choppers out, waved them in the air and opened his mouth to receive them. “Ah,” he said. “Nothin’ like a fresh, clean taste in your mouth in the mornin’.”
It turned out that Beulah lived just off Riverside Drive, near Grant’s tomb. This general area used to be the enclave of the rich, but the slums overflowed into the neighborhood and the wealthy moved out, most to exclusive areas on Long Island, nearby Connecticut and New Jersey. Get-rich-quick landlords bought old mansions and turned them into apartment buildings. A studio apartment in one of these buildings had once been a room into which a tiny bathroom and an even smaller kitchen were built.
Beulah was in the backyard of one of the old mansions tending to tomato plants. She was plump, gray-haired and very, very black. Eddie and I entered the backyard via a gate in the wooden fence surrounding it. Beulah, on her knees, turned her head as she heard the creak of the gate.
“Hi, doll,” Eddie said briskly.
“Watch that zucchini!” Beulah warned.
Eddie evaded the summer squash plant, his long coat brushing against the leaves. “This is the feller I told you about,” he said, jerking his head in my direction. Then: “My, my, what beautiful tomatoes. They’re still sellin’ ’em for fifty-nine cents a pound, y’know. Doll, you must have a green thumb.”
“I got a black thumb,” she said.
“And black is beautiful,” Eddie said quickly. “Y’know, there’s nothin’ I like better of a mornin’ than a ripe red tomato on a piece of toast.”
“Pick a few afore you leave,” she said.
“Why, thanks, doll.”
“But right now ...” she arose with a creaking of joints and a sigh “... introduce me to your friend.”
“Larry Kent, Beulah Jones.”
We shook hands.
“Pleased to meet you, Beulah.”
She smiled and gold flashed. “Proud to meet you, Mr. Kent. Some of my brothers and sisters in Harlem got nothin’ but nice things to say about you.”
“That’s good to hear, Beulah.”
Eddie moved behind Beulah, twirling and pulling at his ridiculous moustache. His bloodshot gaze went down to her ample behind and he let out a long sigh.
“No touchin’,” Beulah said warningly.
“You must have eyes in the back of your head,” Eddie complained.
“Don’t want no dirty white hands with cats’ hairs on ’em roamin’ over me.”
Eddie was insulted. “I’ll have you know that cats are the cleanest animals on the face of the earth!”
“Is that why witches got cats but not dogs?”
“You don’t ever see cats in church,” Eddie said. “But the Pope’s got a whole bunch of cats in the Vatican.”
“To kill rats,” Beulah rejoined. She winked at me to show that her verbal byplay with Eddie was just a game. Then: “I guess I better tell you about the pin.”
“Beulah found a pin near—” Eddie started.
“I’ll tell it,” she cut in. “In the house, Mr. Kent. It’s cooler there.”
“It’s just right out here,” Eddie said. “I’ll stay and wait.”
She shook her gray head. “Ever see a man like that, Mr. Kent?”
“Never.”
“Hottest day of the year and everybody in New York is sweatin’ but Eddie. He stands there in his winter coat and shivers when a hot breeze hits him.”
“It’s my metalism,” Eddie said with a measure of pride in his voice.
“Metabolism?” I offered.
Eddie nodded. “That’s what I said. A doctor told me about it once. Said I was ... unique. Unique, Kent; that was the exact word he used.”
Beulah chuckled. “You is unique all right. Matter of fact, Mr. Cat Man, you is the uniquest person I ever met. Come on, Mr. Kent, let’s go inside. My Andy and me, we got air-conditionin’.”
“Air-conditionin’,” Eddie said with a shudder. “Last time I was in an air-conditioned place was when I went to a movie on Forty-Second Street.”
“One of them dirty movies no doubt,” Beulah said.
“Came down with pneumonia,” Eddie went on. “Three weeks on my back in Bellevue. Damn near froze to death on that hospital bed.” A roguish smile made his moustache go crooked. “What I needed was you, Beulah. You’d keep a man warm at the North Pole.”
“I wouldn’t keep you warm in the devil’s place,” she snapped. “Stay out here with the tomatoes, Mr. Cat Man. But don’t squeeze ’em.” Another wink at me. “The cat man can’t look at nothin’ soft and round without wantin’ to squeeze it.”
“You don’t have to worry about your tomatoes,” Eddie said. “You would have to worry, though, if you were growin’ big black watermelons.”
Beulah made her face go hard but then she couldn’t hold it and broke into laughter. “That cat man,” she said, “is too much.” And she kept laughing as she led me into the house.
We went into the living room. There wasn’t a carpet on the floor, only linoleum, but the room was neat and clean. Commanding pride of place was an old-fashioned French telephone in ivory and gold atop a mahogany table. I went over to admire the phone.
“My Andy works for the phone company,” Beulah said by way of explanation. “Me, I work at cleanin’ every day of the week exceptin’ Tuesday and Sunday.” She paused. “Mr. White used to be my Monday man.”
“His last name was Williamson, not White,” I said.
“Always thought he was hidin’ somethin’. Felt kind of sorry for him. He was a real gentleman. He was on drugs, y’know.”
“So I understand.”
Beulah made a face. “Bad business, that. Had a young brother was on the stuff. No more’n a kid. Overdosed himself. Died in a Harlem alley.”
“I’m sorry, Beulah.”
“Was a long time ago. When Andy and me lived in Harlem. We was too uptight there. Had to get out. Harlem is a jungle without trees, Mr. Kent.”
“It’s that all right. Beulah, about this pin you found. Does it have anything to do with the murder of Stanley Williamson?”
“That’s for you to find out. Lemme tell you what happened. Yesterday mornin’ I cleaned Mr. White’s apartment—I mean Mr. Williamson’s apartment. Then I left. He was asleep at the time. I sort of cleaned around him. Then I cleaned an apartment a few blocks away. I was on my way to the subway to come home when I remembered I left some sweet pepper seeds on a table in Mr. Williamson’s apartment. I wanted to put them seeds in right away so I went back to Mr. Williamson’s place. He didn’t come to the door when I knocked so I used the spare key he gave me.”
Beulah sat down heavily, shaking her head.
“It was awful. There he was on the floor, one side of his head blown—” She stopped herself and her eyes went wet. “Such a nice man. Real gentle, y’know? Like I said, a gentleman. Anyhow, I turned away from the sight of him and that was when somethin’ caught my eye. This ...” She reached into a pocket of her house dress and produced a brooch pin. “It was on the floor. But it wasn’t there before that, when I cleaned the place.”
She gave me the pin. I held it under the light of a lamp.
“My Andy already had a good look at it,” Beulah said. “He used to work for a jeweler, so he knows about such things. Andy says the stones are zircons.”
“If they weren’t,” I said, “this pin would be worth about ten thousand.” The zircon star pattern flashed as I moved the pin in the light. “As it is, the pin must have a value of at least a hundred.”
“One-fifty, my Andy says.”
“He’s probably right. Tell me what happened, Beulah.”
“Well, I phoned the police. I was gonna give ’em the pin when they came ...”
“Why didn’t you?”
“The head fuzz was a pig named Comstock.” Her thick lips thinned out, twisted. “I wouldn’t give him nothin’.”
“Do you know him?”
“I know about him. He’s a bad cat, that one. He used to be with the Narcotics Squad in Harlem. Everybody knew him. His real boss was The Man, Washington Jefferson Smith, big, black dude who wears fancy clothes and has a woman on each arm, sometimes a white woman. Comstock was workin’ right along with Smith’s pushers; he was in Smith’s pocket just like the pushers was. If Comstock was a good cop doin’ his job, maybe my little brother wouldn’t’ve put that first needle in his arm. So I wasn’t gonna give him no help. But I was worried. Maybe the pin was a clue, y’know? So I told Eddie about it. Put the pin on my dress like it was mine when I was talkin’ to Comstock, then I went to see Eddie when Comstock was finished with me. Eddie said to keep quiet about the pin. He said he knew a private detective—you, Mr. Kent—and he’d get you to come into the case. I don’t mind givin’ you the pin, don’t mind that at all.”
“Thanks, Beulah. It could be a very important clue.” I reached for my wallet.
“I don’t want no money,” she said.
“The money comes from my client, Beulah. Clients pay for clues.”
“Well ...”
I gave her fifty and said, “Don’t tell anyone else about this pin. If Lt. Comstock finds out about it he’ll probably slap a charge of withholding evidence on you.”
“What pin you talkin’ about?” Beulah said through a big grin.
“That’s my girl.”
“Now all you gotta do is make Mr. Cat Man forget about the pin.”
A sudden thought hit me. I said, “Beulah, how much time do you figure went by between your two visits to Stanley’s apartment?”
“Three, three and a half hours.”
“And you’re sure, absolutely sure, that the pin wasn’t there when you left the apartment after cleaning it?”
Her pride was hurt. “What kind of a cleaner do you think I am? I went over that carpet twice with a vacuum cleaner. Wasn’t a speck of dirt left when I was finished. Don’t you think I’d’ve seen somethin’ as big as that there pin?”
“And you never saw it before?”
“What you gettin’ at?”
“Well, it could have been on a table or something and got knocked off when Stanley was shot.”
“I dusted all over that place. If the pin was on somethin’ I’d’ve spotted it.”
“I’m sure you would have.” I looked at the pin. “Beulah, do you think a rich old woman with good taste would have worn this?”
She snorted. “No chance. That’s a flash piece.”
“Would you buy a pin like this?”
“No way. Unless I was buyin’ it for somebody else and the price was right. I got a niece who’d like that pin. She’s blacker’n me and sometimes she wears a blonde wig.” Beulah made a face that told me this particular niece wasn’t her favorite. “Like I said, Mr. Kent, it’s nothin’ but a flash piece.”
“How do you think it would look on me?”
She chuckled. “You wear that, Mr. Kent, and you’re gonna get whistles.”
She thought I was kidding. I wasn’t. We went out to the backyard. Eddie McEvoy sat on grass under the shade of a peach tree, eating a tomato like it was an apple.
“Should’ve asked you to bring out some salt,” he said, getting to his feet. “Hey, Beulah, can I take a couple more?”
Her gaze scanned the plants. “You already took four. I know every tomato on them bushes. Mr. Kent, you take some with you.”
“Just two,” I said, figuring I’d give them to Eddie in the car.
“I’ll get ’em.”
Beulah picked a pair of plump red tomatoes and gave them to me. I thanked her, and Eddie and I left the backyard and got into the car. I handed him the two tomatoes and he put them in an overcoat pocket.
“How’d she know I picked four tomatoes?” he said. “Must be hundreds of ’em on those bushes. If you ask me, she used voodoo. Did you get the pin?”
“Yes.” I started the motor.
“Did you pay her for it?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“None of your business.”
Eddie slumped in the bucket seat as I drove the Corvette away from the curb. He sulked for a few minutes and said, “You gonna be needin’ me any more today?”
“No.”
“I hope you’re not figurin’ that this is part of our ten percent deal.”
“I’ll pay you for your services, Eddie.”
“When?”
“Before you get out of the car.”
“How much?”
“Ten dollars an hour.”
“I don’t have no watch.”
“I’m keeping track of the time.”
“You ever hear of inflation, Kent?”
“Yes, Eddie?”
“Do you know how much an electrician makes in New York?”
“No.”
“Almost twenty bucks an hour.”
“That’s interesting, Eddie.”
He did nothing but mumble under his breath for the remainder of the trip. I braked the Corvette to a stop just past his apartment building, stuck a fifty-dollar-bill under his nose. He looked at it for a long moment.
“You expectin’ change, Kent?”
“Two hours at ten dollars an hour,” I said. “Plus a thirty-dollar bonus.”
He beamed. “Well! That’s more like it.” He snatched the fifty-dollar bill from my hand. “Not that I ain’t worth more, mind you.”
“Go and eat your tomatoes, Eddie.”
As he got out of the car a bum in tattered clothes emerged from the shadows of a boarded-up store-front. The neck of a bottle, probably cheap wine, protruded from a paper bag in the bum’s right hand.
“Hey, Eddie,” the bum said. “Nice car.”
“Not bad,” Eddie said. “I’m thinkin’ of buyin’ it.”
He pushed the door shut and I drove off.
Gold leaf letters on the glass door spelled out:
WBS NEWS
SPECIAL PROJECTS
I pushed my way past the glass door and into the Special Projects reception room. There were low glass tables, leather chairs and couches, a lot of chrome. The most interesting item in the room was the redhead who sat behind a desk that consisted of a single sheet of glass supported by chrome legs. On the desk top were a phone, a note pad and a silver ballpoint pen. There was nothing to interrupt the view of her long, slim legs. Mini-skirts were out of fashion, but WBS got around that by issuing their girls with uniforms featuring skirts a few inches longer than mini. A girl didn’t stand a chance of being hired by WBS if she didn’t have spectacular legs. The personnel manager apparently didn’t put the emphasis on quantity in the mammary department if the redhead was to be considered an example of his tastes, for she wouldn’t take the tape past the 33” mark unless somebody was stretching the hell out of it—the tape, I mean. I’d seen several other WBS girls; their busts had ranged from huge down to cupcake-size but their legs had been magnificent. So it seemed that WBS wasn’t hung up on breasts. Not that the redhead wasn’t interesting in that area; her tight, nearly sheer red silk blouse gave me a good sight of twin pears with pointed, upthrusting nipples. Her face? In the old days, when movie companies had the star system, she’d have been a starlet if she had so chosen. She was the Greer Garson type but with a fire burning in her green eyes. She smiled at me and it was like looking at a pair of piano keyboards. Her hair? It was almost as though her face was crowned with flame.
“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.
I could think of a hell of a lot of things she could do for—and to—me, but at the moment, for better or worse, I was one hundred percent private detective. Well, maybe sixty-five percent.
“I’d like to see Hal Dempsey,” I said.
Her eyes told me that lots of people wanted to see Hal Dempsey but only a few were able to. “Do you have an appointment, Mr. er ...”
“Kent. Larry Kent. No. I don’t have an appointment.”
“Well, I’m afraid that Mr. Dempsey is extremely busy and can see people only on appointment.”
“You must be new here,” I said. “And you’re not a New Yorker, are you?”
“No. I was transferred from the Chicago office a few weeks ago.”
“It figures. Well, Jane—”
“Deborah.”
“Nice. Debbie, I’m a private detective.”
She showed interest. “Really?”
“Really. And Mr. Dempsey is going to be sorer than hell at you if you don’t get him on the phone and tell him I’ve got something for him. Check with Prissie.”
“Priscilla Morgan?”
“Yes.” Prissie was Hal Dempsey’s secretary.
Debbie lifted the phone and punched a few numbers with a nimble finger “Miss Morgan? Deborah Cantrell here. There’s a Mr. Larry Kent who wishes to see Mr. Dempsey. He—Yes, of course.” She held out the phone to me. “Miss Morgan wants to talk to you.”
“Thanks. Prissie?”
“Well, well, well,” said the gravelly voice of hard-boiled Prissie Morgan in my ear, “if it isn’t the poor man’s Humphrey Bogart.”
“I don’t lisp,” I said.
“What do you think of the new receptionist, Mr. No-lisp?”
I looked at Debbie. “My compliments to the personnel manager or whoever it was who got her transferred here.”
Debbie cocked her head prettily and smiled at me.
“So you already know she was transferred from Chicago,” Prissie said.
“Of course. I’ve been out here for almost two minutes. I’d be a hell of a private detective if I took longer to get important information like that. Prissie, I want to talk to Hal.”
“Did the redhead tell you that he’s busy?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s the truth. He’s at a high level meeting with the president of the network. He won’t be available for hours and hours.”
“A shame,” I said.
“If you’ll tell me what it’s all about I’ll pass it on to Mr. Dempsey later.”
“Not good enough, Prissie.”
“Sorry, Larry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You know I’d help you if I could.”
“Sure. No problem. I guess I’m stuck with Sam Bell over at the Mutual Network. Nice talking to you, Prissie.”
“Wait a minute, Larry.”
“Make it quick, will you? Tempus fugit.”
A long sigh. “I have a feeling I’m being conned.”
“Conned? Would I do that to an old pro like you, Prissie?”
“You would and you have.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Prissie. Look, no hassle. Of course, Hal is going to be sore at me for giving it to Sam Bell, so I’m going to make you a promise. I won’t tell Hal that I tried to contact him first. I’ll swear I didn’t even talk to you.”
“You should be a network executive,” Prissie said dryly.
“Heaven forbid.”
“All right, Larry. I’ll break into the meeting.”
“Up to you, sweetheart.”
“Put down the phone. I’ll have Hal call you there in the reception room.”
“Love you, Prissie.”
“Sure. Hang up.”
I did. Debbie gave me a new look. I was on a first-name basis with the great Hal Dempsey and his secretary, which made me ten feet tall in her eyes. She fluttered her lashes and delivered the line I’d heard at least a thousand times before:
“Yours must be a very exciting profession, Mr. Kent.”
“Larry,” I said.
Her full lips parted and she whispered “Larry,” using a lot of tongue. She must have seen all the Marilyn Monroe movies.
“How does New York shape up to Chicago?” I asked.
She managed to look sad. “Well, I had a lot of friends in Chicago. I’m sure I’m going to like it here, but right now I’m a little lonely.”
My cue. But the phone jangled. Debbie looked a trifle annoyed as she picked it up.
“Yes?” she snapped into the mouthpiece. “Oh.” She showed her teeth and her voice was all honey. “Yes, Mr. Dempsey. Just a moment, Mr. Dempsey.” She held out the phone to me and I took it.
“Hal?”
“Larry, this better be important,” said Dempsey’s voice.
“Is solving a murder important?”
Silence. Then he was back:
“John McClintock is listening on an extension, Larry. He’s the president of the network.”
“Hello, Mr. McClintock,” I said.
“How do you do, Mr. Kent. What’s this about a murder?”
“The other day,” I said, “a man calling himself Stan White was shot through the head in his west side apartment. His real name was Stanley Williamson. His parents live in White Plains and are very wealthy. The dead man was on drugs. In my opinion, this case is going to widen out into something very big, very important.”
“Just your opinion?” McClintock asked. “Nothing more than that?”
“It’s backed by a hell of a lot of experience and more than my share of success,” I said a little sharply. “Hal?”
“Yes, Larry.”
“I have a clue the police don’t know about. I think—”
“What kind of clue?” McClintock cut in.
“It’ll be in plain sight every time the camera is on me,” I said.
“Are you asking to appear on my network?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll have to come forth with more information than you’ve given.”
“No good, Mr. McClintock. Hal, are you still there or did somebody pull a zipper across your mouth?”
“Take it easy,” Dempsey said. “Mr. McClintock has every right to know exactly what’s going on. The president of a network has vast responsibilities.”
“Sure. But did you get in touch with him when I told you I had something hot on the Gardiner case?” No answer from Dempsey; I hadn’t expected one. Before he could think of something to say, I rattled on. “You let me have a few minutes’ air time during the six o’clock news session. What I had to say during those few minutes smoked Gardiner into the open. The killer of eleven women was in police custody the next day. But I’m sure you remember all that, Hal—and I know damn well you remember getting an Emmy award for that two-minute segment. You, too, McClintock. Hal didn’t ask you for permission that time, did he?”
“Hal took a big gamble,” McClintock said. “If your little trick had failed, I would probably have had no option but to dismiss Hal for irresponsible journalism.”
“Seems like I’m talking to the wrong people,” I said. “Keep your eye on the little box, Mr. McClintock. You’re going to see yourself scooped.”
“Wait,” Dempsey said.
“What’s there to wait for? All I want is two minutes, no questions asked.”
“We could film it,” Hal said.
“No deal. I’ll go on ‘live’.”
“‘Live!’ Be reasonable, Larry. It might run over. If it’s on film we can cut it down. Every second counts in a news session.”
“I went on ‘live’ the last time.”
“I took a big risk.”
“An extremely big risk,” McClintock put in. “Tell me something, Mr. Kent. What do you have against a film clip?”
“I’ll tell you why I don’t like the idea of a film clip. You may decide against using it on the news session. I don’t like wasting time. No; it’s ‘live’ or nothing.”
“In that case, Mr. Kent—”
“Goodbye, Mr. McClintock.” I hung up.
Debbie stared at me with awe in her eyes. The way she looked at it, I’d just told God to go to hell.
I said, “How about giving me your phone number? We could go out for a drink or something.”
Her voice box was frozen. She could only shake her head. Well, that’s how it goes. If you won them all, the game wouldn’t be worth playing. So I left WBS.
The Mutual Network was cross-town in a lower rent area. “Network” was a misnomer; it was an independent station that had an agreement of sorts with a lot of other independent TV stations across the country. They bought old movies and reruns of reruns in bulk, bringing down the price a little. Their entire output consisted of a few cheap talk shows and their news sessions. Gabe Paul was Mutual news. He was a small man with a tiny office and a big secretary who’d smother you to death if she pressed you to her bosom and forgot to let you up for air. She told Gabe Paul over the phone that I was there and he came out of his office with his right hand ready to pump mine.
“Nice to see you, Larry, nice to see you.” He spoke like he was trying to imitate a machine gun. “What can we do for you, eh? Let’s go into my office and have a drink.” He slapped me on the back. “Hey, Olive, no phone calls for me till I’m through with Larry, eh? I don’t care if Jimmy Carter is on the line. Stall for me. Say I’m out and I’ll be back in maybe half an hour. Thanks, hon.” He shut his door and scooted ahead of me to get around his desk. “Sit down, Larry, sit down. What’ll it be? You name it; I’ve got a little bit of everything.
“Scotch and water, Gabe.”
“You’ve got it.” A bottle of scotch and two glasses came out of his desk. He uncorked the bottle and held it up. “Twenty-year-old Ambassador, baby; nothing but the best.” He poured into two glasses, added water from his carafe, leaned over his desk to hand me my drink. He raised his glass. “Here’s to crime and punishment.”
We drank. He sat down. He did everything quickly, jerkily, in time with his rapid-fire chatter. He had a small, monkey-like face, thick eyebrows that acted as awnings for his tiny dark eyes. His hair was black and straight and abundant; if he didn’t keep it plastered down with hair oil it would spring up in tufts like pineapples.
“Yeah, it’s nice to see you, Larry baby. Now what can we do for you?”
I said, “It’s only fair to tell you that I’ve been to WBS.”
“What for?”
“I’m working on a case and I want some air time.”
“They turned you down, did they?”
“Yes. That is, McClintock turned me down.”
Gabe made a face. “A crud. No guts. Play-it-down-the-middle McClintock. And after all you did for WBS with that Gardiner case. What was his problem?”
“I wouldn’t tell him anything.”
“Oh-oh.” Gabe Paul grinned. “I guess I’ll inherit that problem if I go along with you, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, Larry. Tell me about it.”
I did. When I was finished he got to his feet and began to pace. But the room was too small so he sat on the edge of his desk.
“I don’t see how I or the station can get into any trouble,” he said as though thinking to himself. He looked into my eyes. “It wouldn’t be like I was withholding important police information or anything like that—you can’t withhold what you don’t know. Okay, Larry, I’ll give you three minutes. I’ll build you up with an intro that’ll go a minute or so. After that you’re holding the ball.”
“I’ll need some help from you,” I said. “I’ll be wearing something.”
“Like what?”
“It’s something a man isn’t likely to wear unless he’s got limp wrists and uses lipstick. You’ll see it.”
“And when I do?”
“Ask about it.”
“So I’ll ask.” A canny look moved over his face. “Just one thing, sport. Tit for tat, you know? You’ll be using me and this station so something ought to come back our way.”
“Gabe, nothing at all might happen.”
“But what if something does? What do I get for giving you some prime air time after McClintock refused?”
“I’ll be yours exclusively.”
“That’s fine, Larry. But do you know what I’d like? I’d like a first in television history. We’ve had one ‘live’ killing on TV—when Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald in the guts. That was great, but every television station had it on the screen when it happened. Well, I’d like to see a killer nabbed—with a camera on him. A Mutual camera.”
“I can’t promise the impossible, Gabe.”
“But if it is possible, what then? A hidden camera maybe. Hell, I’d be able to write my own ticket with something like that.”
“If it’s possible, Gabe.”
“That’s all I ask. But, failing that, you don’t talk on any other TV station about this thing, whatever it is. You don’t even talk on the street, if some jockey from another station—radio or TV—shoves a mike in front of you.”
“You’ve got it.”
“Fine.”
“The six o’clock news session, Gabe.”
He looked at his watch. “Plenty of time. We can put it on film and then—”
“We go on ‘live’.”
“‘Live’?”
“Not even a rehearsal.”
“But it’s gonna be ad lib, right? Larry, a news session is figured out to the split-second. If we run over, we’re dead.”
“We won’t run over. Once you mention what I’m wearing it won’t take more than twenty or thirty seconds. I figure we won’t need more than two minutes altogether.”
He looked thoughtful. “A minute and a half for my lead-in, then thirty seconds more after I notice whatever it is you’ll be wearing. Will it be something I’ll spot right away—like a funny hat or a red wig or something?”
“No. It’ll be this.” I took the pin from my pocket. “It’ll be on my lapel. I’ll want a close-up, Gabe.”
He slid off the desk, found a pad and jotted something on it. “Right. One extreme-close-up of the pin.” He grinned at me. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me anything about the pin?”
“You don’t-suppose correctly,” I said.
“How about the case you’re on?”
“I’ll mention that when you’re finished with your lead-in.”
“Okay.” He wrote again on the pad. “I’ll feed you a cue. About the pin, I mean.” He picked up a phone from his desk, punched numbers. “Art? Gabe. Look. I need three minutes during the news session. Mystery spot.”
“Don’t mention my name,” I said.
He frowned. Into the phone, he said, “Can’t tell you who it’ll be, Art. No, it can’t be filmed. Has to be ‘live’. Look, Art. Trust me. If this works out we’ll have the biggest exclusive in the history of the medium.”
“Gabe,” I said.
He placed his hand over the mouthpiece. “Yeah?”
“A promo every hour on the hour and a full repeat of the interview in the eleven o’clock news session.”
Gabe repeated this over the phone. “No argument,” he said. “Sure, sure. I’ll take full responsibility. I know it’s taking a chance, Art. Do you know of anything worth doing that doesn’t have an element of risk in it? You just set it up, pal.”
He put down the phone, shook his head. A tuft of hair escaped from its greasy prison and stood straight up. He said, “The pin is a gimmick. You’re using it to bring somebody out into the open. Something like that, huh?”
“Something like that, Gabe. That’s all you need to know. What time do you want me here?”
“Half-past five at the latest. Makeup might want to put something on your hair or maybe powder your nose.”
I left the building and killed time in a movie house. I needed a new band for my wristwatch so I bought one. The last half hour I spent in a saloon sipping at two dry martinis.
The Mutual newsroom was a bedlam when I arrived. People scurried back and forth with pieces of paper. Gabe and his co-anchorman, Fred Dante, edited copy and checked with their producer and director about time, mumbling copy while the executives held stop-watches. Gabe saw me and pointed a finger.
“Makeup is that way, Larry.”
The makeup room wasn’t much bigger than a phone booth. A thin fusspot of a guy with a bush of blond hair and curling eyelashes sat me in a chair and walked around me, studying my face and head and making “tsk” sounds through his teeth. He picked up a pair of scissors, snipped here and there and said, “Much better.” Then he patted something on my hair and used a comb. He walked around me again, flicking the comb through my hair from time to time. He used the scissors again, then a brush, said “Ah,” and sprayed my hair. “Makeup will not be necessary,” he said, a hand on a hip and his head cocked as his eyes took in my face. “You have a beautiful tan, Mr. Kent. Bermuda?”
“Central Park and Westinghouse,” I said.
“Westinghouse?”
“Sun lamp.”
“Oh.”
“Thanks.” I got out of the chair. “See you around.”
People were still running around in the studio. Gabe Paul was perspiring and his black hair stood up in little tufts. The clock said eight minutes to six. Gabe and his co-anchorman continued to work on their copy. Finally, at three minutes to six, they had their pieces of paper sorted out and the makeup man appeared. He dried Gabe’s face with a towel and went to work on his hair. At one minute to six he dried Gabe’s face again, patted on some makeup, and hurried off the set along with a woman who’d been working on the co-anchorman.
“On the air in ten seconds,” boomed the director’s voice through a wall speaker; he was behind glass in the control room.
“Stay where you are, Larry,” Gabe said. He pointed to a chair near his desk. “Go there when I tell you.”
I nodded.
Music started. “Mutual brings you the six o’clock news with Gabe Paul and Fred Dante,” said an announcer who stood off the set. “Gabe Paul ...”
A camera moved in on Gabe. “Good evening,” he said. “On the local front, the Shell refinery fire continues to burn tens of thousands of gallons of precious oil. The Brooklyn Slasher has attacked again, and his latest victim is in St. Mary’s Hospital in Queens, her condition listed as critical. In Bergen County, New Jersey, police officers and firemen threaten to strike unless their salary demands are met. And, here in our studio, I interview a famous New York City detective who has something to say about a murder. All this and more when we come back in just a moment.”
A commercial appeared on the monitor. I caught Gabe’s eye and pointed to myself. He held up his hands in a “wait” signal. Fred Dante had his eye on the director in the control room. The director held a finger in the air, stabbed it in Dante’s direction and Dante looked directly into his camera. The red light under the camera winked and Dante began to speak about the oil refinery fire in Long Island. Cut to the blaze and firemen fighting it. Dante’s voice came over the film clip. Then it was back to Gabe Paul who read copy about the Brooklyn Slasher and his latest victim. Switch to a field reporter who stood holding a microphone in front of St. Mary’s Hospital talking about the condition of the victim. Cut to an interview with the victim’s mother, ending with the woman saying, “The man is sick, very sick. He’s got to be caught soon—it ain’t safe to walk the streets of Brooklyn, day or night.” Dante handled the threatened strike in New Jersey. As he spoke over a film clip, Gabe motioned to me and I went over to the chair near his desk and sat down. He pointed to one of the cameras. “That’ll be on you,” he whispered.
Dante finished his bit and the red light under Gabe’s camera came to life. “With me in the studio tonight is private investigator Larry Kent.” The light under my camera winked and I looked into it. My camera’s light went out and Gabe continued: “Let me tell you something about Larry Kent. In the late ’sixties he declared a one-man war against the Mafia. I, along with every other newsman and newswoman in all the media, knew exactly what he was up against, and we said so, in our newspapers and over our airwaves. However, the police department and other law enforcement bodies ...”
As Gabe spoke I put the pin on my lapel.
“... leaving Kent completely on his own. The Mafia decided to take advantage of this lack of interest paid to Kent by those who are sworn to uphold the law and protect the lives and property of our citizens. They sent out not one hit man, but two. Kent killed both. Another pair of killers was sent after him, then another and another. Kent killed seven of the eight men—in self-defense, let there be no mistake about that; the eighth man was severely wounded and is now a cripple in a wheelchair. We news people were ashamed of ourselves and of those who are paid to protect us against the viciousness of organized crime. So, in newspapers and magazines, on radio and television, we hit out at the Mafia and at the helplessness of the police. People rallied to Kent’s aid. They demanded action. And they got it. The police cracked down on the Mafia. Scores of arrests were made. Then came an unprecedented move by the moguls of crime; they let it be known that they considered Larry Kent to be too hot to handle. They didn’t take out a full-page ad in the Times or anything like that; they let the information dribble through their various channels of communication. I can’t go into that without committing libel and fighting law suits for defamation of character, so I’ll jump from there to a quiet night some five years ago. Take a look at Larry Kent ...”
The red light came to life under my camera and tens of thousands of people were looking at my face as Gabe talked on:
“You’d figure him to be in his mid-thirties, wouldn’t you? Wrong. He is, in fact, older than I am. That face he’s now wearing isn’t the one he was walking around with when the Mafia sent pairs of assassins out after him. I remember the old face well. It was nothing like the boyishly handsome one you see now. His nose was broken and there were the scars of battle all over it. Yet some of my female colleagues found him close to irresistible.”
I raised my eyebrows at that. Gabe laughed shortly and my red light went out. Gabe’s face sobered, and he said:
“On that quiet night five years ago private investigator Larry Kent nearly lost his life. A man named Morgan had been released from prison on parole that morning—a man who’d gone to prison on evidence Kent presented to the police. Morgan wanted revenge. His chance came in a nearly empty parking lot. Kent was walking to his car when a Buick sedan came at him out of the night. The car pinned him against a steel-wire fence. Morgan backed the Buick about thirty feet and then hit him again ... and again. He left Kent there for dead. But a spark of life remained when an ambulance brought him to the emergency ward at Mercy Hospital. Though it seemed impossible that Kent could live through the night, doctors fought for his life. To their amazement, he lived on. Two months later Kent was moved from the intensive care ward and his name was taken from the critical list. But he had no face. His entire face had to be rebuilt. There were many plastic surgery operations.
“Finally, a year later, the Larry Kent you see now …” my red light winked on “... left Mercy Hospital. This is a very tough character. Larry, what are you working on now?”
“A murder case,” I said. “The victim was living on the west side under the name Stan White. His real name was Stanley Williamson.”
“That was several days ago, wasn’t it? Yes; we covered it on our eleven o’clock news session. Larry, that thing on your lapel—it looks like a woman’s pin.”
“It is,” I said.
“I imagine you have a good reason for wearing it?”
“I do.” I looked into the camera. “I want someone out there to see it and wonder about it.”
The camera dollied up for a close shot of the pin and Gabe said, “Can you expand on that, Larry?”
“I’ll just say this. Somewhere out there is a woman who lost this pin. Maybe she’ll come and see me.”
“Not tonight, Larry. Your home number isn’t listed. She’ll have to wait until tomorrow and go to your office. Or phone you there.”
“She can get my office number out of the book and dial it. When I’m not there the call is automatically transferred to my answering service, any hour of the day or night.”
“Are you going to tell us where you found the pin, Larry?”
“She’ll know where I found it. And that, Gabe, is all I have to say on the subject.”
“A perfect cue for a commercial,” Gabe said. A moment later he gave me the okay sign with his thumb and forefinger.
I got to my feet and moved quickly off the set. The director left the control booth and pumped my hand.
“Well done, Mr. Kent. Good luck on whatever it is you’re trying to do.”
I thanked him, turned and waved to Gabe. He waved back and I got out of there. I drove straight home and was tuned in to the Mutual channel at seven when a promo came on for the eleven o’clock news. There was a close shot of Gabe Paul.
“Tune in to the eleven o’clock news on six, the Mutual channel,” Gabe said. There was a cut to me sitting in the chair near his desk. The studio lights shot fire from the pin on my lapel. “This is private investigator Larry Kent, now investigating the murder of Stanley Williamson. See why Kent is wearing a lady’s pin.” He smiled. “That is, try to guess why.”
That was it. I flicked off the set and poured myself an Irish whisky. Paddy’s Old Irish. If you drink enough of Paddy’s you might see a leprechaun who goes by the name of O’Shaughnessy. O’Shaughnessy, if he’s in the mood, will answer questions for you. On the other hand he might tell you to go to hell. Or you’ll see an elephant or a giraffe or a vampire. As it turned out, I saw a cop named Comstock. He pressed the button that activates my door buzzer and I looked at him through the peephole. There was a big, big guy with him; if a sculptor had fashioned the guy’s face out of rock you’d have said the sculptor hadn’t finished his job. And there was another fellow, a skinny little character dressed in rags. His face was familiar. Of course it was familiar. I’d seen him when I’d let Eddie McEvoy out of my car after visiting Beulah. I opened the door and the three of them entered my living room.
“Nice to see you gentlemen,” I said.
But they weren’t really gentlemen; all three scowled at me.
“Ben,” Comstock said.
“Yeah?” said the bum.
“Is this who you saw?”
“It’s him,” Ben said.
Comstock jerked a thumb in Ben’s direction. “Ben Cowner,” he said. “One of our undercover street men. Tell him when and where you saw him, Ben.”
“When was late this morning,” said the cop who was playing the role of a wino. “Where was just past the apartment building where Williamson was murdered. He let a guy named Eddie McEvoy out of his car. McEvoy flashed some money at me and said he’d gotten it from him. Said he was working on a case with him.”
“Fine, Ben,” Comstock said. “You can go.”
Ben let himself out. The big fellow moved closer to me and stood there with his legs wide apart, a dirty smile stretching his thick lips.
“This is Sgt. Blunt,” Comstock said.
“Well named,” I said.
The dirty smile got broader. “That’s good,” he said. “Get nice and sassy. I like it when punks get nice and sassy.”
I looked at Comstock. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s about that cheap act you put on for the TV cameras,” Comstock said. “I was told about it and I went to Mutual and made them play me the whole interview. Where’d you get that pin?”
“Privileged information, Lieutenant.”
“Nothing is privileged in a murder case. Where’d McEvoy take you this morning?”
“He didn’t take me any place. I was driving around and I saw him, uptown. I gave him a lift home.”
“Ben Cowner saw you pick him up an hour or so before you dropped him off. I assigned Cowner to that spot, told him to keep his eyes open. Where’s the pin?”
“In my pocket.”
“Hand it over.”
I gave it to him.
“Now,” he said. “You’re going to tell me where you got this.”
“I found it.”
“Where?”
“In Williamson’s apartment.”
“You didn’t go into the apartment. You should have checked, Kent. You’d have seen that the apartment is sealed. The front door and all the windows. Breaking a police seal is a criminal offence. So, if you’d busted one of the seals, I’d throw you into jail right now. I wish you had broken one. All right. Who gave you the pin?”
“I don’t know.”
“His brain needs some exercise,” Blunt said. He smacked his great right fist against the palm of his left hand. “A few belts in the head will bounce his brain around a little ... wake it up maybe.”
I kept my eyes on Comstock. “The pin was mailed to me at the office,” I said. “There was no return address on the envelope or on the note inside. The note was typed. It said that the pin had been found near Williamson’s body. Whoever it was who typed the note didn’t want to get involved.”
“‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”
“I don’t expect you to believe anything I tell you.”
“Let me have him alone for just a couple of minutes,” Blunt said, almost pleading.
Comstock looked at me with a leer on his face. For a moment I thought he was going to give Blunt the green light, but in the end he shook his head and said, “He’s got too many friends in the news media. Anyhow, Blunt, that’s the kind of thing I’d like to do myself.” He stared into my eyes for a full five seconds before adding: “One of these days, Kent, it’ll be just you and me.”
“It’ll be a pleasure,” I said.
“In the meantime I’ll be watching you.”
“Do that, Lieutenant; you may learn something.”
“He’s too damn smart,” Blunt croaked.
“He’ll keep,” Comstock said. “Besides ...” He tossed the pin in the air, caught it, looked at it. “Blunt, do you know how a hunter gets a man-killing tiger? He puts out a live goat. There’s a rope around the goat’s neck. The other end of the rope is tied to a tree or a stake in the ground. The hunter climbs a tree and waits. Well, when night comes that goat bleats and bleats. The tiger hears it and comes for a meal. The hunter shoots the tiger ... but sometimes he waits till after the tiger has killed the goat. This pin, Blunt, maybe it’s made a goat out of Kent.”
Blunt looked happy. “Yeah,” he said, laughing. “He does make you think of a goat, don’t he? All we gotta do is wait for that tiger to show up. And maybe, maybe, Lieutenant, we’ll wait just a little too long before we go after the tiger, right?”
“Could be, Blunt. Let’s go.”
They left my apartment. I could hear Blunt’s laughter as they went down the stairs. I poured myself another Irish. Some of the whisky spilled and I cursed at my trembling hand. The phone jangled. I picked it up. A newspaperman. I told him there were no new developments, that I had nothing to add to what I’d said on TV. I hung up and a minute later the phone went again. A newswoman. I gave her the same story. I finished the Irish and was in the act of pouring another when the jangling phone stopped me. I picked it up and said my name into the mouthpiece.
“Larry, this is—”
“Gloria!” I cut in. “Well! Haven’t heard from you for a while. How are you?”
There was the slightest pause and then Joanne Williamson said, “I’m just fine. And how have you been?”
“No complaints. Is there something I can do for you?”
Her voice took on a husky quality. “Let me put it this way, darling. There’s something we can do for each other.”
“I should say no,” I said. “I should tell you how busy I am. But I’m weak. Can I pick you up?”
“That’d be nice.”
“Where?”
“The same place where we met.”
We’d met in her parents’ home. I said, “How romantic.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she said.
“See you soon.”
I cradled the phone. Smart girl. She’d caught on that I was afraid my phone was tapped. Comstock’s idea of keeping a man under surveillance included electronic devices. I went to the window, where Comstock had stood for a few seconds. I found his bug in the window putty. I left it there.
A few minutes later I drove my Corvette out of the garage. Looking at my rear vision mirror, I saw a car pull out from the curb behind me. There were two men in it. Two of Comstock’s men. It took me five minutes to lose them. I drove around for another few minutes to be sure I’d lost my tail, then I headed for the West Side Highway.
Joanne was waiting for me about a hundred yards short of the iron gates that opened into the Williamson estate. She got in. The first shades of night were falling as I drove past the estate.
“You have a quick mind,” I said.
She smiled. “At first I thought there was a girl named Gloria. I was jealous. Was there someone with you?”
“No. I think the cops have a tap on my phone.”
“Because of your appearance on television?”
“Did you see it?”
“No. But Daddy received a phone call about it. The call was from Lt. Comstock. The lieutenant wanted to know if Daddy had hired you. He said he hadn’t, of course, and then Daddy asked Mother and me if we’d been to see you.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I hadn’t. Turn right just ahead.”
“Why? Where are we going?”
“The Colonial motel. I booked us in as Mr. and Mrs. Davis. Cabin nine. I have the key.” She smiled. “And please don’t tell me that you never make love to a client.”
“It’s a fact; I don’t.” I took my eyes off the road for a moment and saw her face go sober. “Of course,” I said, “we could call your retainer a donation and get rid of the client-private detective relationship.”
Her face remained sober—I saw this through the corner of my eye as I returned my attention to the road. She said, “We have a lot of things to talk about, Larry. Important things.”
“Like what?”
“There’s the motel. Drive right past the office and park in front of number nine.”
“When did you make the booking?” I asked.
“Immediately after talking to you on the phone. I drove to the motel and then back to the house and waited for you.”
I turned the Corvette off the highway and onto the motel’s pebbled driveway. A skinny fellow watched through the window of the manager’s office as I parked at number nine. He opened the door and looked over at us as we got out. Joanne waved to him.
“Just wanted to make sure it was you, Mrs. Davis,” he said. “Saw you drive off in a red car.”
“My husband and I decided to use his car instead,” she said.
“Howdy, Mr. Davis,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.”
“Everything is just fine,” Joanne said, taking the door key from her purse.
The manager stepped back into the office.
“Ten to one he doesn’t believe our name is Davis,” I said.
Joanne fumbled with the key. Her hand was shaking. Perspiration beaded the skin above her upper lip. Something was wrong. But the message had no sooner entered my mind than the door was opened from the inside.
A man in shirtsleeves stood there. “Come in,” he said. He waved his gun. “Please.”