The Case of the Murdered Madame (Prologue Books) Read online

  THE VOICE FROM THE DOORWAY SAID:

  “But why point the gun, Mr. Chambers?”

  The lady who owned the voice was tall, with wide dark eyes and a fine full figure….

  The lady was familiar — too familiar. And if my memory was not upsetting the gun in my hand — the last time I saw her the lady was in my arms….

  They called it a “theatrical” boarding house but when madame was found — very lovely and very dead — Peter Chambers found himself with a case of multiple murder, a missing 100,000 in cold cash, and an ex-stripper who had not forgotten how to strip, on his very able hands….

  The Case of the

  Murdered Madame

  HENRY KANE

  Complete and Unabridged

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  The Case of the Murdered Madame

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  The Candlestick

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  Precise Moment

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  Armchair in Hell

  Also Available

  Copyright

  THE CASE OF THE

  MURDERED MADAME

  Wherein Peter Chambers does not race throughout New York. Our usually peripatetic private eye practically sits this one out in the interesting confines of a theatrical boarding house. He even permits the learned Detective-Lieutenant Louis Parker to steal the spotlight in the question-and-answer routine, but in good time he pops up with a ruse, a murderer and a girl, in that order.

  THE CASE OF THE MURDERED MADAME

  I

  The red-head said: “You’re asking for murder!”

  The dark woman said: “Who says so?”

  The red-head said: “Nobody says. But with your stubbornness — the possibility exists. So why be so stubborn? Why?”

  The blue-eyed young man said nothing.

  They were alone, the two ladies and the gentleman, in a room that was large and peculiarly furnished. One corner held a handsome concert piano, top tilted up, a metronome rising majestically from the highly-burnished mahogany edge. Diametrically opposite was a huge canopied antique bed. The remainder of the high-ceilinged room was motley: a wispy, faintly-yellow Persian rug; a fireplace with a splintered marble mantel; an old-fashioned roll-top desk; a frayed Elizabethan sofa; and four briskly modern easy chairs.

  One of the easy chairs contained the lean, brown-faced young man with the blue eyes. He had flat cheeks, a patrician nose and a lantern jaw. His mouth was pursed in an amused expression as he listened to the conversation of the two women on the other side of the room. The women were both about forty years of age, both buxom though well-figured, and both were attired in lounging pajamas. The dark one was standing within the curve of the piano, leaning gracefully, delicate hands clasped in front of her. She had bright black eyes and a full wet mouth. The red-haired woman, smooth-faced and strong featured, was quite near her. She was very earnest, pointing a spatulate index finger and continuing:

  “Olga … Madame Dino … I haven’t owned a rooming house for ten years without learning a little something about human nature …”

  “Is it” — the dark woman had a musical foreign accent — “your wish to frighten me? Is that your wish?”

  “You bet your boots that’s my wish.” Now the index finger was withdrawn and a thumb jerked in the direction of the lantern-jawed young man. “He sits there like this is a lot of fun. He sits there like it’s two crazy women arguing about nothing. You’d think at least that he — he of all people — would be on my side.”

  “Miss Nelson,” the young man said, “I am on your side. Only because I myself have so very few convictions — I am always on the side where there is firm conviction. Frankly, though” — he shrugged languidly — “I am of a passive nature. I detest taking sides almost as much as I detest making decisions. It’s simply that I’m not constituted that way.” The young man had a precise, clipped, British accent.

  Miss Nelson sniffed. The index finger whipped out again and she returned to Olga Dino. “Nobody in the world is that reckless with money. Not even a … uh … uh … an opera singer.”

  Olga smiled with strong white teeth. “Frankly, Miss Nelson, I do not have the understanding of money. There are many in my life who have laughed at Olga.” The fragile hands unclasped and the long fingers waved upward. “Money — poof. I am an artist. I understand of love, of music,” — she gestured toward a rain-splashed window — “of the soft sound of the patter of rain. Do you, Miss Nelson, have the understanding of money?”

  “I understand enough to know that it should be taken care of.” She turned toward the young man again. “Now what’s wrong with a bank? I’m asking you.”

  “You’re asking the wrong individual, Miss Nelson. I’m probably as ignorant in matters of money as Olga. More. At least she knows how to earn a great deal of it.” He stood up, stretched, fumbled at his pocket for cigarettes.

  Olga Dino snorted. “Banks. In my country, many banks have failed, many times.” She went away from the piano, stooped, lifted a small black bag and held it to her. “I have learned to keep money in a vault, and when that is not possible, close to me.”

  “But a hundred thousand cash bucks … right here in this room … in that little black bag you’re hugging like a pussy-cat … and people knowing about it …”

  “You have no confidence in people, Miss Nelson?”

  “Look, I’m your friend, I’m talking for your benefit.”

  “I know that. But again, do you not have confidence in people?”

  “No. Not with a hundred thousand cash bucks hanging around loose.”

  “Then why do you blame me for not having the confidence in banks? Who are the bankers?” She dropped the little bag, kicked it aside. “Are they not people? And is it not people whom you say you do not trust? People are — are they not — people?”

  The young man interrupted. “Ladies, if you please. Miss Nelson, I do believe you’re on the right side of this discussion, but discussion or no discussion, as you know, I’m to get up quite early tomorrow. I’d like to relax a bit, sit about and read, before going to bed. So, by your leave, my good ladies, I’m going to my room now.” He went to Olga Dino, kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, my dear. See you in the morning. Good night, Miss Nelson.” Then he waved and departed.

  Miss Nelson looked to where he had gone out the door, and shook her head, half-smiling. “He’s as bad as you are.”

  “A person of no decisions. A person who needs one to lean upon. Perhaps that is why I love him so dearly. My own Ralph.”

  “Let’s get back to cases, sweetie.”

  “Cases?”

  “Some one around here has got to make decisions. Look, tomorrow morning you return to Italy — ”

  “To sing in my La Scala …”

  “You’re to be married on the ship going over — ”

  “He is so sweet, is he not, Miss Nelson? So young and sweet — ”

  “Too young and too sweet, if you ask me, but you’re not asking. Okay. So you had a hundred thousand bucks here
in a bank vault. So you drew it out today and put it into that little black bag. You did that today because you’re sailing tomorrow morning at eight and you want to have it with you. There are business ways of doing that, but you had to go and pick the crazy way. That’s bad enough, but you had to go and make it worse.”

  “But you have already told me, Miss Nelson. You have told me, and you have told my fiancé.”

  “Telling that Hardwood, your fiancé, telling him is like telling nobody. But I’m telling you again, and I’m insisting. You chattered like a magpie at dinner, you mentioned this thing to everybody.” She raised her hands to her head. “A hundred thousand cash bucks, and this opera singer advertises it.”

  “But there are only four other lodgers, except of me, and except of Ralph.” She went to Miss Nelson and patted her arm. “And they are so sweet people, so charming, lovely …”

  “Lord spare me from the artistic type. Look, I’m serious.”

  “I know. You are a good, true person …”

  “I’m going to do what I told Ralph I wanted to do, and what I told you. It’s only for overnight, and we’ll all rest better. I’m going to call this private detective, he has a fine reputation, I only hope I can get him in. I checked him in the phone book and he lives right near here. I’m going to call him, and if I can get him, I’m going to ask him to come over. It’s only for this one night, and Olga, please, it’s for your own benefit.”

  “But are they not so terribly expensive, these private people, these detectives …?”

  II

  Thunder spanked at the sky. Rain pelted and lightning opened to spasmodic blue fluorescence. It was cold for the warm season, unexpectedly marrow-chilling cold. It was Monday and Monday is always a bad night on the town but this Monday it was devastating: the town was as empty as the crater of an atom blast. It was cold when it should have been warm and it was pouring rain when it should have been spilling moonlight, so I was at home.

  I had bathed and read a book. I had munched of goose liver and had worried, lightly, about morning heartburn. Now I was snuggled in pajamas and holed in under the covers. I intended to be up bright and early. I hadn’t been up bright and early in a long time (unless I stayed up to watch the bright-and-early happen) but this was one time I intended to awaken to it. I closed my eyes and I tried to sleep and I could not sleep. I turned from back to side to front and I began sweating in the darkness. I switched on the light and switched off the light, time and again. My glances at the clock showed a stoppage of the movement of time. All my good resolutions dissolved. There are those who can sleep at night, and those who cannot sleep at night. I was convinced as to what I had always maintained — I was not one to sleep at night. I shoved out of bed and massaged frantic fingers through my hair. I knew I was going to get dressed but I had no idea as to where I was going. I pulled the door of a cabinet and did a bit of calisthenics with a Scotch bottle. Could be I didn’t know where I was going, but I was going, and when you’re en route and you don’t know where you’re going, it helps if your gears are greased. I was back to pondering as to what to do on a dark brown Monday night, dirty with rain — when the phone rang.

  I lifted it joyfully but I kept my voice sullen. It could be a customer disturbing my slumbers and it is bad business to sound joyful to a prospective customer. I said, “Hello?” My eyes on the clock showed five after nine.

  The lady’s voice said, “Chambers?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Chambers? Peter Chambers?”

  “That’s right, lady. At your service, if it’s service you want.”

  “Oh, I’m glad, I’m so glad I was able to reach you.”

  “You’ve reached me, lady, and I’m glad you’re glad. Now what is it, please?”

  “My name is Nelson. Mary Nelson.”

  “Yes, Miss Nelson.”

  “I own a rooming house at One East Fifty-third Street, not far from you …”

  “No more than five minutes, ma’am …”

  Agitation crept into her voice. She started talking faster. “Now look, sir, Mr. Chambers, it’s kind of, well, an emergency, sort of looking after something, just for tonight.”

  “Tonight? Short notice, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, sir. I know it is, sir. But she’s up there with a hundred thousand dollars, a hundred thousand dollars in cash. I want you to come over, sir, to come over as fast as you can make it … oh!“

  The “oh” was a harshly strident exclamation which lapsed to the diminishing mush-soft tone of a groan. Then — silence. An open wire — and silence.

  “Hello,” I called. “Hello! HELLO!”

  There was no answer.

  I hung up and I dressed rapidly. I finally knew where I was going. I didn’t know why I was going, but I knew where. After all, the lady had said emergency.

  (Small note of confession: I’d have gone if the lady had said it was an invitation to a poetry reading at an aged spinsters’ conclave.)

  III

  Thunder rumbled. Rain poured like a millionaire distiller giving a party to advertise his latest brand of bourbon. Lightning burst in dazzling flashes. I wrapped my much-maligned trench-coat firmly about me, flagged a passing cab and was deposited in front of One East Fifty-third Street ten minutes from the time of the phone call.

  It was a three-story brownstone with an entrance-door two steps up. Across the street a sad saloon winked rain-splashed neons but I resisted. Resolutely, I pushed at the doorbell and resolutely I waited for an answer, but there was no answer.

  Above me there was a creak and I looked up. It was a sign on an elbow of iron, swaying in the wind and, by the rain-sick light of the flickering saloon-neons I could make out: ROOMS. SELECTED GUESTS. NO VACANCIES. The thing kept creaking as though in warning. I pushed at the bell again, and no one answered again, so I turned at the knob and the door responded. I went in, slammed the door behind me, crossed through a small vestibule and I was in a spacious downstairs room, clean and cleanly furnished. To the left was a stairway, going up. To the right was a telephone-table and chair. The table held a telephone and the chair held a lady. The hand-set of the telephone was off, the instrument emitting the plaintive wailing disconnect-signal. The hand-set, dangling by its stretched wire, touched the ankle of the lady, who was red-haired and pajama-clad. The pajamas were of blue satin, as were her matching shoes, and the lady filled her pajamas admirably. She was very attractive, if you are one who thinks in large terms. Her terms were quite large, and quite exposed, as she hung limp over the chair. The lady was out like the proverbial light.

  I moved.

  First I hung up the hand-set. Then I grabbed her chin in my left hand and slapped at her cheeks with my right. She groaned softly, then she grunted, then she finally came awake, gurgling: “Uh … uh … ooo … ah.” Then her eyes opened, and she shook her head like a punch-drunk fighter after one punch too many. “Who …?” she said. “Who …? What …? Who …?”

  “Not me, lady. If that’s what you’re asking.” She started to sag but I didn’t let her. “Up,” I said. “You’re coming around fine. Just try to stay awake.”

  She rubbed a hand at her head and she looked at me goggle-eyed and vague. “Somebody slugged me,” she said. “But good.” And now her eyes widened and the vagueness began to disappear and her voice held fright. “You …? You …? Who are you? What is it? What do you want?”

  “Are you Miss Nelson?”

  “Yes. Miss Nelson. What is it? What do you want here? Did you — ”

  “If you mean did I slug you — no I did not. Name’s Chambers. Peter Chambers. I was talking to you on the telephone when …”

  She touched a timorous hand to her scalp again and her eyes moved up in her head as she groaned. Then she lurched to her feet, and struggled for balance as she blew through lax lips, grimacing. She glanced toward the stairs, glanced back at me, and started for the stairs. “Please wait,” she called. “Please don’t go away. I’ll be with you … be wi
th you in a few minutes.” She yanked at the bannister and pulled herself up the stairs.

  I paced like a worried defendant waiting for a jury’s verdict. I’ve been in the business for a long time and when it’s a rush-call to a private richard it’s like a fast call to Bellevue: it figures for a mess or a mix-up. I pulled a cigarette and lit up and then I almost swallowed the cigarette as the screams burst from upstairs. I flung away the cigarette and flew up the stairs and fell in on Mary Nelson in a room with a thrust-open door. I said, “Shut up, for God’s sake,” and, as other doors opened, I locked our door behind us.

  Mary Nelson pushed one stifling hand to her mouth and pointed with a rigid finger of the other. She was pointing at a dark-haired woman on the floor, stiff as a slat of lumber. I could hardly see her face for the thick mask of blood. Three holes in her forehead were still oozing mucus and, near her, perhaps two feet away, was the usual small instrument of large consequence — a nickel-plated revolver. I bent to her, touched her, unbent, went to Mary Nelson and said softly what was so very obvious. “She’s dead.”

  She was fighting hysteria. “Yeah … yeah … sure … they killed her … sure … sure …”

  I had disregarded the rappings on the door but now they grew too insistent to be disregarded. I shot the lock and opened the door and looked out upon an undistinguishable huddle in the hallway but a young man pushed through into the room, a stocky young man in gym pants, sneakers and a turtle-neck sweater. “What the hell’s going on here?” he said. “What the hell goes?”