Armchair in Hell (Prologue Books) Page 7

“Who?”

  “Mad.”

  “Mad?”

  “Madeline Howell.”

  Vaguely he said, “Madeline Howell?”

  “Terrific. Over by Gracie Square.”

  “Madeline Howell,” he said. ”Oh. Oh, fine, fine. Swell.”

  If he knew Madeline Howell well enough to donate a “To Mad, with love” photograph, then I was a hare-lipped congressman with warts on his tongue to whom the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November was another day for bonfires.

  Chapter Nine

  I WENT home and I went to sleep. No dreams. I slept like a guy on a two-day drunk (which, practically, it was); and I rasped back at the Bronx-buzz of the electric alarm when it woke me at nine o’clock in the evening. I didn’t want to get up. Numbly, I took a shower, and I put on a pair of my new beige boxer shorts and I admired myself in the mirror and I struck a few poses like Jack Dempsey and I sparred a few slight rounds with myself. Then my case fell on me. I mean, I remembered.

  I made a neat stack of sixty-five hundred cash dollars and put them in an envelope and put that in a drawer beneath laundered shirts and I hoped, vaguely, there wouldn’t be a fire.

  Dressed, I had some coffee and puffed rice in heavy cream and more coffee and I turned off the lights.

  I live at Fifty-ninth Street and Sixth Avenue (Central Park South, when one is trying to impress a cooky, and the Avenue of the Americas). I started walking across to Broadway. I stopped for a newspaper and I saw it right away in the lower left-hand corner of the front page, double-columned and continued on page eighteen.

  And everybody identified: Algernon Hale, West Coast art dealer; Charlie Batesem, East Coast hood; Sally Irvine, forty-two

  years old, a cardiac case recently released from the penal hospital after a sojourn for shoplifting.

  Everybody identified.

  Okay for Charlie (there were fingerprints on file) and okay for Sally (there were fingerprints too) — these were people on whom the law could flip records. But it wasn’t at all okay for Algernon. Not at all. Algernon Hale should have been as anonymous as broken bits of glass on the bathroom floor, and just as troublesome.

  I went into the Essex House for a cigarette and a sidecar.

  Then it came to me.

  Dear Pierre Vyseuseau.

  I went out and I changed my course. I took a cab to the Waldorf and I knocked on the door of 1212 and it wasn’t opened by Pierre Vyseuseau — it was opened by Ralph March.

  “Ralph,” I said.

  “Peter Chambers.”

  “Ralph,” I said.

  “Peter Chambers. How do you do and please come in, unless the idea is to stand here and mumble names.”

  Ralph March, dapper and elegant in double-breasted blue; horseshoe-bald with a close white fringe; a small man with a small red mouth and a thin straightaway mustache and an enunciation as precise as the movements of a flamenco dancer.

  “Ralph March,” I said.

  “Stop it, Chambers.”

  I came in and I presented him with my hat and coat. He took them and laid them on a chair and he toddle-stepped to the phone. He walked like the girl (at last) who had been frantically waving her hand in the classroom. He also walked like a California elf, which he was.

  He hoisted one eyebrow. He said, “What?”

  “Sidecar,” I said.

  “Room Service,” he said to the mouthpiece. “Four sidecars.” He hung up and he mimicked, in falsetto, “Ralph March,” and he smiled.

  When he smiled his face scrunched up like a squeezed half orange and the ruts in the hollows under his cheekbones deepened and his little blue eyes got lost between the lids on top of his eyes and the bags under his eyes.

  “Well,” I said. “Frankly, I didn’t expect you here.”

  He took out a thin brown cigar and he lit it.

  Came a tap on the door.

  He said, “Thank you,” to Room Service and he took the tray and paid the boy and tipped him. He handed me the gray-yellow cocktail and sipped his and said, “Ah, good,” and he put the tray on the desk and sat down in the desk chair and sipped and puffed until he finished the cocktail.

  He put the empty glass on the tray. “I’ve been having rather a rough time here.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He puffed again. Hard. “A friend of mine has been murdered. Of all things. Bizarre circumstances. Perhaps you read about it?”

  “Bizarre,” I said. “There it goes again.”

  He transferred the cigar to his left hand, and he snapped the fingers of his right hand. Three times, and sharply. “Fortuitous, or whatever — you’re here. I am horribly upset. Horribly. Would you like a case?”

  “I always like a case,” I said, and I got up and changed my empty glass for a full one and sat down.

  “Listen, please. Algernon Hale. Did you ever hear of Algernon Hale? The Algernon Hale Galleries.”

  “I have heard of Algernon Hale.”

  “He was found here in New York. Stabbed. Nude. In an automobile. Two other people, also. A lady and a man. Dead, too, and naked.”

  “My,” I said.

  “Stop it.”

  “What?”

  “The ham imitation of a sophisticate.”

  “The hell with that. What’s all this got to do with me? Where’s Vyseuseau?”

  “Mr. Vyseuseau is downtown at Police Headquarters. He was called for by two thickset gentlemen about half an hour ago. He is being examined in connection with Hale’s murder. We had just begun to discuss that when they arrived.”

  “What’s he got to do with it?”

  “They were affiliated, businesswise.”

  “Hale and the Frenchman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he know about Hale’s murder?”

  “Of course not.”

  So he hadn’t talked. So he was interested. So he and the Little Guy did have a deal. So our basic premise was good

  and basic. Dear Pierre Vyseuseau. I wondered about the charming anecdotes he was furnishing for the law.

  “All right,” I said. “Where do I fit in?”

  “Look here. I came out on the same train with Hale. In a separate drawing room. He was accompanied by two rather unsavory people. He knew I was on the train. They didn’t.”

  “What unsavory people?”

  “A Mr. O’Shea and a henchman, one Charles Batesem. A business transaction in which I was interested.”

  “Shape it up, dear man. Sift it down.”

  He got up and he marched the carpet and the taffeta lining of his beautiful suit (or maybe his underwear) swished like small waves on a pebbled beach on a windless night in the summer. Then he stopped and drew on his cigar, meditatively. Then he started again. He did it that way for five minutes (while I drank his cocktail).

  Then he sat down.

  “Please listen carefully. The subject matter of the business transaction was a group of tapestries. Extremely valuable. Originally they were brought to Hale as a prospective purchaser. Hale called me in as an expert. I verified them as authentic. I told him that in my opinion those tapestries were originals, probably stolen in Europe during the war. The seller wanted two hundred thousand dollars. That was dirt cheap. Dirt cheap. Except that it would have to be a sub rosa deal, that Hale would have to dispose of them, at a profit, of course, in the same manner that he made the purchase. Under the counter, as it were. Hale was not entirely convinced as to their authenticity, so I made him a proposition. I would purchase a one-half interest. Hale agreed, my lawyers drew the papers, and we were partners. Except.”

  “Except?” I inquired.

  “My lawyers informed me that, legally, there was a risk, that neither Hale nor myself had ownership of the tapestries, despite the fact that we paid for them and had a good and binding bill of sale; provided what I thought was a fact — that is, that originally they were stolen. It appears that there is a tenet of law that states that no title can pass as to ownership of stolen material. I told
that to Hale, and together we decided that, regardless, at the price, we were willing to accept the gamble of turning them over, sooner or later, at a profit.”

  “Then?”

  “Then came a most fortunate event. I learned that a representative

  of the French government was in the States for the express purpose of recovering the tapestries and that he was willing to pay a reward of two million dollars for them, which is something in the neighborhood of their true worth. Mr. O’Shea was go-between. Hale and O’Shea and the tapestries, which I helped pack into a gigantic Gladstone, came here to New York to meet Vyseuseau, the French representative. And I. I went along to protect my one-half interest. Hale was to meet Vyseuseau and arrange for the consummation of our business. I had reservations at the Ambassador. Hale was to stay with Mr. O’Shea until the deal was closed, as his guest. He was supposed to call me at the Ambassador.”

  Edgily I said, “And he didn’t.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “So you went to the police.”

  “No. I called O’Shea. Most of the night. No answer.”

  “Then you went to the police.”

  “I waited until four o’clock in the morning. Then I called the police.”

  “Did you tell them about the tapestries?”

  “No.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them just when Hale had arrived in New York and with whom, that he should have been in touch with me, and that he hadn’t been. That I was extremely worried.”

  “Did you give them the whole story?”

  “I told them everything. I omitted the business end.”

  “Just a minute,” I said. “Let’s get this one thing straight. Why did you hold out about the business?”

  He smoothed at his eyebrows with thumb and forefinger. “Because of the dubious nature of my legal title to the tapestries. I have a hundred thousand dollars invested. If there is seizure by the vested authorities — I don’t know, I might become involved in the legal difficulties of which my lawyers had warned me.”

  “Check,” I said. “Then what?”

  “I received a call at about nine o’clock this morning. I was told that Charles Batesem had been found dead, and a woman, and an unidentified man. Since Mr. Batesem had accompanied Mr. Hale, there was the possibility that the other man was Hale. Would I come down to the morgue and see. Can you imagine?”

  “What?”

  “Me. In the morgue. Before breakfast.”

  “No,” I said. “I cannot imagine.”

  “My breakfast was brandy, lots of brandy. Then I went.”

  “All right. So the corpse was Hale. But not hearty.”

  That stank.

  It got the shout of silence it deserved.

  We were both quiet for a few minutes. I looked at empty cocktail glasses. Then I said, “What are you doing here? In this apartment?”

  He sighed. Prissily. “Through my New York paper, one of my syndicated outlets, I ascertained the whereabouts of Pierre Vyseuseau. I called him in the afternoon. He was out. I finally reached him, not too long ago, and I came here to discuss this with him.”

  “By the way,” I said. “How come Vyseuseau gets mixed up with cops? Do you know?”

  “Yes. I had told them that Hale was in New York to discuss certain matters with Vyseuseau. I did not want to omit any information that I thought might help. I was terribly worried, and, as it happens, with cause. I told Vyseuseau precisely what I had told the police and precisely what I had not, before they came for him.”

  “One thing. What about this Vyseuseau? Does he check?”

  “Completely. We investigated. Vyseuseau is as authentic as the tapestries he is seeking to recover. There is no question about that.”

  I leaned back. “How’s Madeline?” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Madeline Howell?”

  “Who?”

  “Madeline Howell. She works on a paper that runs your weekly article.”

  I watched him.

  Irritably he said, “Now how would I know? What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. She’s a friend of mine. I thought you knew her.”

  “Never saw her in my life.”

  That was that.

  I looked again. There just weren’t any more cocktails.

  I lit a cigarette. “Well?”

  Very slowly he said, “Ours was a survivor-take-all agreement.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because of the subject matter. As it happens, both of us are bachelors, so there wasn’t any immediate family to worry about. It is not unusual in joint ventures of this sort that a survivor-take-all clause is inserted. We didn’t want any outsiders and estate botching it up and perhaps causing embarrassment to the survivor in the long-chance event that one of us died. Neither of us expected to die, really; together we hoped to dispose of the tapestries in a short enough time, at a profit. This was to be no long-term pull. Both of us had excellent connections in the field.”

  I crossed my legs. I nodded. I said, “I see.”

  “All right. Hale is dead. Right now I am not interested in Hale. I am interested in Ralph March. I came here to discuss it with Vyseuseau, to cease being the silent partner, to become sole owner. I didn’t have time to tell him. Now you’re here. This might become involved. All right. I would like to hire a good, resourceful man to protect my interests.”

  “They need protecting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If they ever find out about that survivor-take-all stuff plus that you held out on them about the business, you’re liable to wind up as a grade-?, number-one suspect.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “In my room at the hotel. Most of the time.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Well … I made phone calls.”

  “People can do all sorts of things in between phone calls and before they started making phone calls and after they ceased making phone calls. Were you with anybody during all of that time?”

  “No. I was alone.”

  “See what I mean?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I stood up and came close to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “There’s another thing. Don’t jump. They’ve been stolen.”

  “What?”

  “The tapestries.”

  “My God, man, what are you talking about? How would you know?”

  I backed away from him. “Take my word for it, Ralphie. What do you think I’m doing here?”

  He reached for a cocktail. There was no cocktail.

  “See here,” he said. Then he said, “Look, I’m confused. I don’t know of any reason in the world why you should lie to me. If they have been stolen, that makes it so much worse. Will you please handle this thing for me? Will you?”

  “Do you have your contracts with Hale?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where?”

  He tapped his jacket. “Right here. I was going to show them to Vyseuseau.”

  “How much would you pay me?”

  He thought about that. “I don’t know,” he said.

  I went to the couch and I sat down. He came over and sat alongside and he tickled at his mustache. I tickled at mine.

  “You could,” I said, “pick up two million dollars.”

  “Mm,” he said.

  “Mm,” I said, “but two million.”

  “What about it?”

  “What’s ten percent?”

  “Please.”

  “That’s it. For ten percent I’m your boy.”

  He crossed his legs. Daintily. He uncrossed them. He crossed them again. “My God, man. That’s a heck of a lot of money.”

  In hurt dignity I said, “For my services?”

  “A heck of a lot of money.”

  “Don’t get excited, Ralphie. You pay me only if
you collect. Contingent.”

  He stopped crossing and uncrossing his legs.

  I said, “Let’s see the contract.”

  He reached in and brought it out of an inside jacket pocket and he gave it to me. I read it. Survivor-take-all, all right. It ended on top of page five, with a lot of blank space underneath. I took out my pen and I wrote: “I hereby retain Peter Chambers to recover the tapestries herein mentioned. I promise to pay Mr. Chambers ten percent of whatever I may realize upon the sale (or reward) of same. It is understood that Mr. Chambers knows of his own knowledge (and can prove if question arises) that as of this writing, these tapestries were stolen from Algernon Hale.”

  I affixed the date and time and I handed it back to him. He read it.

  “See what I mean?” I said. “Protection, and all. Only I hope you didn’t sort of do this job on Hale yourself, because that way neither of us is going to make any money. Believe me.”

  He frowned at me. Then he took my pen and stared again at what I had written and sighed from deep; then he signed. I took back my pen. I also took the contract, “That’s my protection,” I said. “Also I might need it somewhere along the line to show my authorization.”

  My problem in ethics was more jumbled. But now I was being paid enough not to care too terribly. Viggy O’Shea, Madeline Howell, Ralph March. Everybody loves a valise.

  I said, “How much actual conversation did you get in with Vyseuseau?”

  “Not much.”

  “That’s good. You don’t tell him anything. You don’t tell him that you have any interest in the tapestries. You shut up all over. You let me do it, which is what you’re paying me for. For Vyseuseau, you came here as a friend of Hale’s, to talk about it. By the way, did Vyseuseau have anything at all to say about tapestries?”

  “Just that he had been informed that the deal had been postponed. That a Barry Drumgoole had called upon him with a message from O’Shea that the deal was temporarily held up.”

  I went for my hat and coat. “So long, Ralphie. Nice visit. I hope a profitable one, for both of us. I’ll be in touch with you.”

  “Yes,” he said. “The Ambassador. 1806. I’ll be there several days. Then I’m due back West.”

  “Sure enough,” I said.

  “Oh. One moment. What do you want me to tell Vyseuseau? I mean, any message. I’m going to wait for a while.”