Homicide at Yuletide Page 8

  “Hello?” Alger said.

  “Pete Chambers.”

  “Howya, Pete? Something?”

  “You busy tonight?”

  “Busy squiring a predatory blonde from South Bend, if you can call that busy. What’s it to you?”

  “Can you squire her where you please?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “You want to earn an easy C?”

  “If it’s easy, sí. Sí, and sí.”

  “Listen. There’s a guy I want to check on. A guy, I’m told, that has an interest in modern jazz. There’s the big joint uptown, Mad City, but he doesn’t figure to go there, it’s too populated. But there’s Eddie Nuki’s joint in the Village, and that other place, Palace of the Burp. Can you make those two?”

  “Why not?”

  “This guy’s easy.”

  “Whenever you tell it, it’s easy. That’s to keep the price down.”

  “This guy’s really easy. He was at a night club last night. He figures for one of those jump joints, one of the two I mentioned.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “That’s what I mean by easy. He’s a guy with a wine-red beard, a wine-red head of hair, and a limp.”

  “This a rib?”

  “No.”

  “There ain’t no guys like that.”

  “Listen to me, will you, Alger? The description I gave you, that’s the guy I want you to check. A guy like that, it wouldn’t be too easy not to notice. Anything you get on him, any iota of information, anything at all—I’m interested. Check?”

  “A hundred?”

  “Any beef?”

  “No. I’m hired. I’ll be in touch.”

  I hung up and looked at Barney.

  Barney looked at me. “Unconventional,” he said.

  “It works.”

  “It’s your business, you work as you please.” He got up and bent over the desk. He opened a drawer and reached into it and counted out twenty-five hundred dollar bills. He came near me and scraped the sheaf under my chin. “You’re working for me, kid. You’re on the payroll. Any special extra expenses, just call on li’l ol’ Barney.”

  “And what can I do for li’l ol’ Barney?”

  “I’m looking for a collection of jewelry. Genie told you, didn’t she?”

  Sadly, I removed the tickling temptation from beneath my chin I pushed his hand away and sipped once from my glass to wet my gullet to ease the reluctant words that were going to divorce me from a fee. “What jewelry?” I said.

  “Prince Krapoutsky. I thought Genie told you.

  “Sure she told me. But according to what she told me, that purchase was made in the name of Sheldon Talbot.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So what’s your interest, boss-man?”

  “What? What?”

  “If he’s the owner of record—what can I do for you?”

  “Do? Do? Why the son of a bitch of a professor—listen, peeper, I want that ice.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “Is it?”

  “Now, look, punk—”

  “You look, boss-man. It hurts me, but I have to refuse the twenty-five hundred.”

  “Why?”

  “Ethics.” I was beginning to enjoy myself.

  “What?”

  “Ethics.”

  “What’s ethics?”

  Potsy said, “That’s a movie, boss. When they spend a hundred dillion dollars on a picture—that’s, an ethic.”

  “Epic,” I said.

  Barney said, “Look. Make up your mind. What is it with you? You lisp?”

  “Ethics. All of us have certain rules that we live by. There are guys that won’t sleep with another guy’s wife.”

  Falsetto-voiced, Barney said, “That’s ethics?”

  “People have to live with themselves. Everybody has—well—some kind of cockeyed set of ethics.”

  “All right, all right. The more you talk, the less I understand. What’s sleeping with other guys’ wives got to do with Sheldon Talbot?”

  “This, simply. You cannot employ me to attempt to recover a stack of jewelry that doesn’t belong to you. Now, can you?”

  “What are you giving me, peeper?”

  “It was a straight purchase by one Sheldon Talbot, a famous scientist, from one Prince Krapoutsky, an infamous louse. Bill of sale and all. Under any interpretation of the law, then, the property of Sheldon Talbot. What do you want to make me—a lawbreaker?” I opened my innocent eyes, big.

  “Look, punk—”

  “Respectfully and regretfully, I decline. I’m a stiff with ethics. At heart,” I sighed deeply, “a country boy.”

  Potsy approached, shook his head lugubriously, took hold of my lapels, and lifted me out of the chair. “I got an elegy for guys like you.”

  “Leave him alone,” Barney said.

  Potsy dropped me back in the chair. “A real elegy.”

  “Elegy?” I looked to Barney.

  “Allergy,” Barney said. “He means he’s allergic to country boys.”

  “Ah, allergy. Allergy Written in a Country Churchyard. Like that?”

  “Wit,” Barney said.

  “I can make a rhyme to that, but I won’t. Not in mixed company.”

  “Nothing’s mixed about me,” Potsy said.

  I put my drink away and flattened my lapels. “Look, Barney, you can’t hate me for not taking your money. I’ll do what I can to find out who blasted Talbot. That I’ll do, I promise you. And I’ll let you know.”

  He riffled the money, looked at me, looked at Potsy, sighed, and put the money back in the desk drawer. “Somebody,” he said, “ought to pay for that.”

  “For what?”

  “For you working on this.”

  “Agreed, underlined, and imprinted on my brain in deep italics. But who?”

  “Me.”

  “Forget it.” I looked at my watch. “Is the audience over, Your Highness?”

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  • • •

  Snow fluffed thickly. I fought the Yukon of buried sidewalks, flailing for a taxicab. There were taxis standing still with wheels whirring in the tenacious grasp of White Christmas, and there were taxis plowing cautiously bearing their load of flush-faced customers, and there were taxis, stationary and driverless, buried beneath snowbanks. There was no taxi for me.

  I made it without snowshoes, but shuffling like a muscle-bound tennis player, to the subway, and I rumbled about underground watching mist pour from people’s nostrils, and then up again into the snow, and I shuffled some more, and then I stamped my feet in my lobby and shivered, and took the elevator to my apartment, and got out of my clothes, and into the shower—and suddenly I realized that Gene Tiny wasn’t there.

  I came out quickly and looked for her, shower water dripping on the carpet. I looked intently, like you look for a lost cigarette lighter or a dropped wallet, lifting the pillows on the couch, that sort of routine, until I realized that highball after highball, in nimble nimiety, had caused the gorgeous Gene Tiny of fine proportions to dwindle in my mind to a slyly hiding Lilliputian. Lamb-like and naked, listening to the hiss of steam from my radiator, I broke out a cigarette, but my wet hands spoiled it. I crumpled it and flung it toward an ash tray. Head hanging, I was heading back to the shower when I saw the note on top of the television. I lifted it with dripping fingers.

  I couldn’t wait any longer. See you at the party tonight. You’re sweet.

  “So be it,” I mumbled, relieved, weary right through to the bones. I padded back, leaving footprints. I showered, rubbed, and plumped out in the lovely warmth of my overheated bedroom. I lay rigid as a husband after a night out, sneaking back to the marital bed, hours after the admonished curfew. I rested. Then I reached for the clock, set it for eleven-thirty, and took it to bed with me.

  Peter Chambers in bed with a clock. Serves him right.

  Somewhere in my dreams, the brightest phrase ever
uttered by the illustrious Barney Bernandino took hold like a zipper on a marked-down pair of pants. Somebody ought to pay for that. Somebody ought to pay for that.

  “And how,” I said, sitting up, looking at my ticking bed-companion.

  I had been asleep a long ten minutes.

  Resolutely I placed the clock on the night table. Strongly I reached for the covers. Firmly I closed my eyes.

  So the phone rang.

  I dragged off and answered it.

  “Honey,” Gene Tiny said. “It happened.”

  “Congratulations. Name it after me. For laughs.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. We’ve run out of negatives. Wha’ hoppen?”

  “My place was topsy-turvy when I got home, which is just now. I stopped off at a restaurant for dinner first. How would you like to help me fix up? Oh, that Barney Bernandino.”

  “I would love to fix you up.”

  “Pardon.”

  “But I must get sleep. If I don’t get sleep, I’m going to die.”

  “Sure, you poor guy.”

  “May I beg off?”

  “See you later.”

  The poor guy hit himself on the head twice, once for turning down twenty-five hundred dollars, and once for turning down an invitation to do fixing in a bachelor girl’s apartment. The poor guy was not himself. Either he needed sleep, very badly, or he needed a psychiatrist. Sleep is cheaper. I went to sleep.

  7

  THE ALARM BLASTED like it was building a house. I slapped it off the table but that didn’t discourage it. I got up, surprised at how limber I was. I managed some slight calisthenics, retrieved the clock and shut off the ringing. I had a drink, showered, dressed in my faultless tuxedo, pinched my cheeks for color, appraised my tongue in the mirror, grabbed a bite, a coat, and a homburg, and went, williamnilliam, to a party.

  The Somerset wasn’t far. I walked.

  It was a tall building with a soundless elevator and a one-word-type elevator man who looked like Abe Lincoln.

  I said, “Talbot?”

  He said, “Yes.”

  Then we rode.

  Then he said, “Talbot?”

  And I said, “Yes.”

  Then we stopped.

  He leaned out and pointed a bony finger.

  “Talbot,” he said.

  I shrugged, and went to the door. I pushed the button and someone opened up and, at once, I was part of the party. Terry greeted me, waving like a quarterback behind a line of party guests. A butler, who was indistinguishable from the other men in tails, took my hat and coat. I straightened my tie and looked again for Terry but she was lost among the swarms of the many people. The room was big, tremendous. A three-piece orchestra wafted music at the customers from a stand isolated in a corner, but there all isolation ended. The place was busier than under-the-marquee at a hit show during intermission. There was buzz, noise, shouting, champagne, cigarette smoke, square-shouldered men and bare-shouldered women.

  I worked my way to a punch bowl and had several ladles. Someone shoved champagne at me. I had champagne. Someone danced with me. I danced with her. “You’re fresh,” she said and slapped me. A man behind her grinned. Maybe he was carrying a midget with a pointed elbow. I had more champagne. I saw Evelyn Dru and waved. Someone seized me and I danced again. Someone cut in and I was dancing with another. Someone else cut in and it was Stella. “Hi, sweetie,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Been here for hours.”

  “With all of this mad mob, it could very well be.”

  “Punch?”

  “Whom?”

  “To drink.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  I led her to the punch bowl, but someone dragged her off. I had punch, and I saw Noah Cochrane. “Hello,” I said.

  “Listen, mister, I don’t like you. Between you and me, I think you’re on the make for my wife.”

  “Wife? Who’s your wife?”

  “Well spoken.” He clapped me on the shoulder murderously. “Have a drink. You’re a friend.”

  His shirt front drank most of it. I backed away, losing him. I saw Terry waving at me, but I couldn’t break through to her. In the distance, Evelyn Dru was smiling, but it disappeared waveringly behind a screen of cigar smoke. Then Gene Tiny touched me. “Having fun?”

  “Yup,” I said. “But fun.”

  A couple of wild dancers bumped me and I almost fell on her. She moved back and for just one moment I had a full-length portrait. Describing a plunging white evening gown on Gene Tiny is like gelding a lolly. It does no good. It was white and tight. It covered the bottom and uncovered the top. It did nothing for her figure. You cannot enhance the unenhanceable. I gathered her in and we danced, tightly, and then someone took her away. I moved toward the punch bowl, but a cheery mob surrounded it. I walked along the edge of the room until I came to a half-open door behind a heavy portiere. I sidled through, seeking respite.

  Gay Cochrane was sprawled low in an easy chair with all of the aplomb of a full-flung dishrag. Her feet were out, crossed in front of her, and her hands hung over the arms of the chair, one hand holding a bottle, the other a glass.

  “Hi, beautiful,” she said. “Have a drink.”

  It was a small, sparsely furnished anteroom.

  I took the bottle and the glass. I had a gulped drink, and set them down on the floor.

  “What’s the matter?” I said. “Unsociable?”

  She smiled, loosely. “Too sociable. Which is why I’m sitting around, waiting for my second wind to catch up.”

  “I just saw your husband.”

  “He’s a lout.”

  “He accused me of being on the make for his wife.”

  “Just the opposite, my friend. I’ve got you filed and catalogued. Remember that.”

  “Must I?”

  The door closed behind us. It was Terry. “I saw you go through, Mr. Chambers, and I’ve finally caught up with you. Gay, dear, I’d like to talk with him. Please?”

  “Why not?” Gay stood up, swaying. “I’ll take the bedroom.”

  “Bedroom?” I said.

  She came close and opened wide her filmy eyes. “You heard me. You two stay here. I’ll take the bedroom.” She turned to Terry. “Forty winks’ll do it. Lemme sleep, huh? Lock me in. I’ll be perfect in an hour. You’ve done it before for me, Terry.”

  Terry took her arm, finger-wise, like the arm was a live eel. She led her through another door, locked it, and put the key in a drawer of an end table. “An hour from now, miraculously, she’s as good as new. Everybody else will be staggering all over the lot, but dear Gay Cochrane will be sober and superior. Won’t you sit down?”

  I sat and she sat beside me.

  “About Sheldon,” she said.

  My party simper contracted. “Sheldon?”

  “I know he’s dead, Mr. Chambers.”

  “How?”

  “Stella told me.”

  “When?”

  “Directly after she came back from there. I was waiting at her apartment.”

  “That Stella’s an awful little liar, isn’t she?”

  “Why?”

  “She told me she didn’t tell anyone.”

  “Well, perhaps she meant—”

  “Listen, about her age—”

  “Stella’s older than any of us. Stella was born old.”

  “She lie about that too?”

  “What?”

  “Her age.”

  “How old did she say, Mr. Chambers?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “She wasn’t lying.”

  “Look,” I said. “You know anything about a package of jewelry?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “He told me.”

  “When?”

  “This morning. I saw him this morning.”

  “Where?”

  “On Thirteenth Street.”

  “Did he tell you about Barney
Bernandino?”

  “He told me about everything.”

  “Do you have them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you have them?”

  “No. Why?”

  “They’re gone. Disappeared.”

  “May I ask a question now, Mr. Chambers?”

  “Sure.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Barney B. told me. You can check that with him. Or with Gene Tiny. They’re gone, all right. You don’t have them, do you?”

  “No, no, of course not.” She was quiet for a few moments, primping thoughtfully at her beautifully arranged white hair. Then she clasped her hands tight. “I’m worried about Stella.”

  “Suddenly you sound like a mother.”

  “She told me about your having found her with the gun in her hands. Do you think she—?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “She’s a peculiar girl—willful—”

  “So I’ve been led to imagine.”

  “Look. If by any chance, she did— I mean—we must cover it up, we must take measures, affirmative measures. I’ll pay you—”

  “Let’s skip that, for the time being.”

  “Yes, yes.” She rubbed a hand at her forehead. “He wanted fifty thousand dollars. He was willing to turn over all of that jewelry for fifty thousand dollars.”

  “You might stick the word ‘stolen’ somewhere in there, I mean, as long as you insist upon the tragic note. Stolen jewelry. Which he stole. He was willing to return that for fifty thousand dollars. That way, it’s not quite so sacrificial.”

  “You don’t understand the man, Mr. Chambers.”

  “I never knew him.”

  “He was a complex person.”

  “So I assume.”

  “He had learned a good deal about Bernandino. He had learned, for instance, that Bernandino operated a crooked gaming house.”

  “They all do, if they can get away with it.”

  “That was why he had appropriated that jewelry. He felt that he was merely turning the tables on Bernandino, taking back a small part of what had been taken from him. I don’t want to go into all of it. Suffice to say, once he had made up his mind to return it, he wanted no part of it, no part of it whatever.”

  “Except a booby prize of fifty thousand simoleons.”