CHAPTER 7

10:24 P.M. Saturday

She sat alongside me, one hot hand in mine. She clutched a highball glass in the other dainty mitt and sipped it with a regularity that bothered me. Sandra was brightly lit again. She burned with a belligerent drunkenness, her eyes bright with the sting of the alcohol, her ripe mouth alive with hard words.

“Of course it was Keck,” she said, and leaned in to touch my head tenderly. “Did he hurt you, Johnny darling?”

“Hands off,” I cautioned. “And ease up on the juice, baby.”

“Don’t father me,” she snarled. “I hate to be fathered and you know it.”

“And forget about Keck,” I said. “You have a bad habit of hopping to conclusions Sandra. I only mentioned Keck because he’s a maybe character. But it could have been Leo Austrian, or your father, or any one of a thousand cheap gunsels who ply the tourist trade. If he fumbled the robbery he would itch to finish the job.”

“And come back after mauling Helen?” She asked, annoyed. “He’d have to be crazy.”

“He could be nuts, if he’s on the needle. I’ve seen needle cases who took greater risks when the yen for horse moved them.”

“Horse?”

“Dope. Heroin.”

“George Keck,” she said, spitting the name at me. “He looks the type. I’ll bet he’s an addict, the ape.”

“I doubt it. Apes operate on primitive muscle. Keck is a goon, an oaf. But I don’t see him as the needle type.”

I gave her a short lecture on Addicts I Have Known, a chapter out of my friendship for Bruce Hearn, a federal man who operated in the New York area a decade ago. And as I talked, the horse theory went pale and died in me. Nothing could move Mark Tyson out of my line of reckoning. Nothing could kill off the idea that maybe Tyson himself made the trip to Helen Tate’s room when Keck bungled the job. The search for a hidden gimmick required brains, shrewd reasoning and deduction. Tyson would never trust such mental gymnastics to a gorilla like George Keck.

“Let’s skip the dope monologue,” Sandra interrupted. She had a fresh glass in her hand and there was no way to stop her guzzling. She weaved unsteadily now. I sat her down and tried to calm her.

“Father, dear father,” she said angrily. “Will you kindly cut out the tender care? I’m sick, Johnny, This thing’s thrown me. I don’t want theories any more. I want action. I want to go out to Long Island and see him again. This time I know what to do. This time—”

“Relax,” I told her. “No need to visit him again.”

“What else?”

“I have an idea, Sandra.”

“Smart, smart Johnny,” she cooed woozily. “And what is the brainstorm now?”

“A hunch. The way I see it, your father didn’t find the papers in Helen Tate’s room.”

“Possible. So what?”

“So we have him at a disadvantage.”

“How?” She was all ears now, fighting off the liquor, trying to concentrate on me. “You mean we can threaten him?”

“We can phone him, as a feeler.”

“We? You. I couldn’t talk to him, Johnny darling.”

“I’ll do the talking,” I said. “We may be able to out bluff him.”

“Not we,” she said again. “You, baby. You.”

She was jumpy as a cat while I dialed Tyson’s number. In the small interval while my finger flipped the dial, she made it her business to gulp the dregs of her drink, refill her glass and sip the new libation eagerly. In this mood, she twitched with suppressed violence, pacing the floor and turning as though stabbed when I said hello to Mark Tyson.

“Yes?” His voice was measured and frigid, about fifty degrees colder on the telephone. His throaty poise came through in the first word.

“Amsterdam calling.”

“Ah? The detective, isn’t it? And at a truly mysterious hour. Do you always phone strangers at this hour?”

“I’m calling on business, Tyson.”

“And the business couldn’t wait until morning?”

“The business is ripe for tonight.”

“And what would the business be?”

“We can begin with George Keck,” I said.

“Not that again?” His voice hardened on the line. “What about George Keck?”

“Just this. There was a nasty bit of mayhem performed on a young girl named Helen Tate. Helen was slugged and assaulted in a New York hotel. The thug who beat her up did a good job. He almost killed her, but not quite. Helen is in the hospital with a severe concussion. But the last time I visited her she came alive for a few moments. She suggested to me that she might be able to identify her assailant. That could spell trouble for George Keck.”

“Ridiculous.” He snapped and bit the word, working to project righteous indignation. “George Keck has been with me every night for the past week.”

“You’ll alibi him?”

“Alibi?” His deep-throated chuckle irritated me. Even his laughter pricked and hurt. I fought down the temptation to tell him off. But that would have been playing it his way. “I’m not in the habit of creating alibis for my help, Amsterdam,” he said with measured slowness. “And now, if your business is finished, I’ll say goodnight.”

“I’ve only begun,” I said, as calmly as possible. “Maybe we’re both knocking ourselves out, Tyson. Maybe this thing could be wrapped up peacefully.”

“Wrapped up? What are you trying to wrap up, Amsterdam?”

“Why play games with me? You know damned well your daughter’s going to follow through on her legal claim to a share of your comic strip.”

“My daughter can do as she pleases.”

“Sandra’s a stubborn girl, Tyson.”

“And so’s her old man.”

“But Sandra is too sensible to prolong a matter that can be settled easily. She’s willing to forget what’s happened. She’s willing to bargain with you, Tyson, to settle with you.”

“Indeed?” He chuckled again, the laughter of a patient parent over a small boy’s antics. “Has she put away her gun? Or will she shoot me down if I refuse to come to terms?”

“Let’s forget about the gun.”

“But that would be silly, Amsterdam. My daughter has a violent temper. Perhaps it will be her undoing. You see, I have a witness to the fact that she threatened me yesterday.” He paused, skillfully using the silence to stab at my annoyance. “I have evidence,” he added with oily confidence, “I have proof that she threatened to kill me in my studio, remember? Would you like to hear it?”

“Hear it?”

“Indeed yes, Amsterdam. You see, while she exploded yesterday, while she sat in my studio and threatened to take my life, her fit of hysterics was being taped on my recorder. The instrument was set to record the entire conversation. Would you like me to play it back for you? Can you see it being produced as evidence in a court of law? How much chance will she have to win any legal action against me, Amsterdam?”

“She’ll take her chances,” I said with as much bluster as possible. But he had slapped me in the face with the hard hand of logic. In the electric pause, my mind stalled. I had no clever comeback. Legalistics leave me cold. I yearned for the nimble wit of Dave Gross, his background of bargaining in all manner of brain bouts of this type. “You’ll hear from her soon,” I said with finality. “And you’ll pay her off, Tyson, because her claim is solid.”

“As solid as a ball of fluff,” Tyson laughed and hung up.

Sandra reacted to the turn of events with fresh hysteria. She went pale with anger. She spat her frustration at the black sky over her tiny terrace. Her drunkenness had blossomed into snarling venom. She shook clenched fists at heaven. I pulled her gently inside and closed the doors to the terrace. But there was no holding her, no arguing with her. I took the tough course and wrestled the drink out of her hand and forced her to sit on the couch.

“Cool off,” I told her. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

“That tape,” she said. “That awful tape.”

“Forget it.”

“If I could get it, Johnny—”

“You’re drunk, Sandra. Sleep it off.”

“Horrible,” she moaned. “He’s a horrible man, isn’t he?”

“He’s a heel, all right. But you can beat him in court, I tell you. A good lawyer can use his tape as ammunition for your case, don’t you see?”

“I only see that my father is a louse.”

“You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Never,” she said bitterly. “Never, Johnny.”

I left her that way, still drunk, still angry. She promised to hit the hay, to take a Milltown and call me in the morning. I stood at the door and looked back at her for a quick moment. She stood at the window again, her nervous hands clutching the drapes. She tossed me a whispered goodnight over her elegant shoulder, her voice quivering with throttled emotion. The events of the past few hours still hammered at me, the pain in my head walloped me and wearied me so that I itched for my own bed and, a long, deep sleep.

I left her that way because I could do her no more good.