I was convinced that there was method to her madness, and that it was up to me to find out what it was.
CHAPTER IX
THE NEXT day—Wednesday—started like any other day. There was nothing in the chilly air of a gloomy morning to tell me that something unusual was about to happen. Something unusual and very, very nice.
I entered the office building and rode up to the eighteenth floor in a big elevator which was all gray and chromium. I always felt important riding in one of those cages. I felt even more important when I entered the reception room of Yarborough & Jensen—Architects. That was where I worked. I was worth one hundred dollars a week to them.
You’ve got to have something on the ball to maintain a suite like the Yarborough & Jensen layout. It occupied about one-third of the entire floor. There was this reception room, approximately half as large as the Grand Canyon. There was a cool, confident, not unattractive receptionist sitting at a little desk on which was a PBX and an office intercom. There was a very young office boy who was astonishingly polite. Both said good morning and both stared at me. I wondered whether they knew I’d been dancing with Candy Livingston the night before or whether their interest still sprang from the fact that a young lady had been murdered in my apartment. I bet myself a new hat that they’d gasp if they knew I had one hundred thousand dollars in the bank, not counting the seven hundred that really belonged to me.
Off the reception room were the private offices of the two bosses; a luxurious conference room which reeked of affluence. There was another room which was stocked with sketches, blueprints, plans and specifications. There was a small storeroom full of the things that journeymen architects require. Finally there was a huge, brilliantly lighted room, studded with high tables on which were drawing boards and drafting instruments. That was where I worked. That was also where eleven other young architects struggled to earn their weekly stipends.
The firm was dazzlingly successful. What’s more, it was good. Some day, perhaps, I’d want to work somewhere else, at better pay. It would do me good in the profession to be able to refer my prospective employer to Yarborough & Jensen.
I pulled up a high stool, and started in where I’d left off the previous day. A couple of the other boys were already at work. Others were drifting in. A nice, intelligent, competent crowd. We said good morning all around. There wasn’t any supervision. We had our jobs to do, and the chiefs were pretty sure that we’d do them the best we knew how.
At a few minutes after eleven the telephone rang. One of the boys answered and called across to me, “For you, Douglas. A Dr. Arthur Maybank.”
I wiped my ruling pen on a piece of chamois, clambered down from my stool, said thank you, and picked up the phone. Arthur’s mild, meek voice came to me over the wire.
“Kirk?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, this is important. I want you to have lunch with me today.”
He seemed excited. I said, “Sure. Something special?”
“Nothing you’re thinking about. Can you stay away from the office for a long time? Two or three hours maybe?”
I hesitated. He went on eagerly. “It’s in line with your work,” he said. “I’d rather not explain over the phone. I want to surprise you.”
“Okay,” I told him. “When and where?”
He said 12:30 would be about right. He named the men’s grill of a swank Park Avenue hotel. He said, “Pretty yourself up, Kirk. There’s somebody you’ve got to impress.”
“Not a woman.”
“Good Lord! No.”
I told Oliver Jensen about the call. He told me to stay as long as I wanted. There was a twinkle in his eyes when he advised me to fancy myself up. I wondered whether he had heard about last night at the Club Caliente. He seemed to be kidding me without saying a word.
At 12:30 on the dot I shoved through a revolving door and entered the grill. I loaned my coat and hat to the checkroom girl. I looked across the room and spotted Arthur. He was sitting in a very choice alcove, at a table which had set-ups for three, and he wasn’t alone. He was with a man.
They didn’t see me, and so I had plenty of time to size up Arthur’s friend as I crossed toward them. One thing I knew for sure: this was one of the handsomest men I had ever seen.
I guessed him to be about forty-two years old, six feet tall and weighing perhaps 175. He had a fine face, strong features, and a head of iron-gray hair which gave him a distinguished appearance. He was wearing a quiet salt-and-pepper tweed. He had on a gray shirt and a plain blue necktie. He was listening to something Arthur was saying, his quiet gray eyes intent on the face of the young interne.
I stopped at the table and Arthur leaped to his feet. The stranger rose, too. Arthur said, “Mr. Ferguson—may I present my friend, Kirk Douglas? Kirk—Mr. John Ferguson.”
We shook hands. Ferguson had a strong grip and level eyes. We stated that we were pleased to meet one another, he nodded at a chair and we all sat down.
While waiting to be served, John Ferguson broke the conversational ice. He said, “The doctor, here, seems rather fond of you, Mr. Douglas.”
I grinned at Arthur and he beamed. He said, “I met Mr. Ferguson at the hospital. He was getting rid of an appendix and I used to help the nurse take his temperature.”
“You also,” reminded Ferguson with a smile, “used to slip into my room and play chess when you weren’t too busy.”
“And,” confessed Arthur, “sometimes when I was.”
The waiter came with our lunches. I knew that Ferguson was estimating me, though why, I hadn’t the slightest idea. Finally he said, “You’re an architect, aren’t you, Mr. Douglas?”
“Yes. I work for Yarborough & Jensen.”
“Excellent firm.” He ate silently for a moment, then flashed me a charming smile. “This will probably strike you as unusual, but Maybank’s enthusiasm is responsible.”
I waited. He went on: “I am planning the construction of an important office building. Not myself alone: a group of us. The building will not be in New York. We own a choice corner in a large city: 100 by 120. We want the most beautiful 25-story building in America to be constructed on that site. We can get high rentals. Maybank tells me that you’ve made a special study of that sort of design, and that you have some interesting ideas.”
I said, “That’s right, Mr. Ferguson. But Arthur isn’t qualified to state whether my ideas are any good.”
“True. I’d like to find out for myself. Meanwhile, I wondered whether it would be incorrect procedure for me to talk to one of the firm members, and to request that you be assigned to the job? Naturally, your ideas might not check with mine. If I thought you couldn’t offer what I want, I’d be frank with you.”
My heart did a double somersault. This was the sort of break every young employee of a big firm prays for. Of course, if I tackled the assignment and flopped on it, I’d be in the doghouse. But if I could give this man what he wanted . . . That was an important job, even for a firm like mine.
I didn’t attempt to take it in stride. I explained quite honestly—and enthusiastically—what it would mean to me. I was as excited as a kid. I thanked Arthur for what he had done. I was thinking about how sometimes bread cast on the waters returned in the form of angel cake. If a job like this had been laid in my lap years from then, I’d have been thrilled. Coming this way . . . the office getting it through me and with a request of the client that I be assigned . . . that meant plenty.
Mr. Ferguson and I started talking. He knew what he wanted. Most of his ideas were sound. He asked me questions and listened patiently while I talked. Every once in a while he’d nod. Occasionally he’d object. But on the basic essentials we saw eye to eye.
I forgot Arthur Maybank. I forgot him until I saw him standing up and heard him saying he had to get back to the McKinley. He seemed delighted at having been able to do me this favor, but I was sure he didn’t understand what a tremendous favor it was. I felt badly for having ignored him, after all, I owed this break
to him.
He stood at the table, saying good bye to Ferguson. He looked seedy and shy. I said, “Working tonight, Arthur?”
“I’m off at seven.”
“I’ll pick you up at the hospital. We’ll have a celebration dinner together.
Arthur Maybank vanished. Ferguson and I started talking again. After a while, he paid the check and we walked back to my office. I introduced him to Jensen. I said I’d prefer to have them talk privately. I went into the drafting room and perched on my high stool and stared at the New York skyline and let myself float. An opportunity like this! A chance to go far places fast! I put my elbows on the drawing board and crossed two fingers on each hand.
It was three o’clock before Jensen and Ferguson reappeared. Jensen looked as though he had swallowed the canary. They walked over to where I was sitting and the boss said he was handing it to me. He said, “But you’d better not give this firm a black eye, Douglas,” and I said I’d try not to.
Ferguson left. I attempted to work, but didn’t make any progress. I saw Yarborough go into his partner’s office, and later he came out and walked over to my desk. He congratulated me. He got a report on the work I was doing and told me he was taking it off my hands. I was to confine myself to this one job. He suggested that I talk things over with him or Mr. Jensen. He cautioned against too great haste, reminding me that major construction couldn’t be started for a long time to come. He was quite cordial. I was, too, but I was in a fog.
I telephoned Dana. The cleaning maid answered and told me she was out: rehearsing. I wanted to tell her all about it. I wanted to strut. I was scared and confident all at the same time.
I scrubbed myself at the office. I went straight from there to the McKinley Hospital. I walked through the same dingy entrance into the same dingy accident room Dana and I had visited not so long ago. The girls on duty were different girls, but just as disinterested. I circled the glass cage and went into the white-tiled room with the half dozen surgical wagons in it, and the row of steel lockers showing through the doorway. I saw Arthur Maybank talking to a cop. The policeman had a notebook and pencil and he was jotting things down. Arthur saw me and waved. He called brightly, “Be with you in a minute. Make yourself uncomfortable.”
I amused myself by watching them bring an accident case in. A tall, thin, boyish-looking interne took charge. I took a look at the patient and promptly wished I hadn’t. By that time the cop and Arthur had finished. The cop walked out, and Arthur joined me. He was dressed for the street.
I hailed a taxi and we jumped in. I gave the address of the Club Caliente. It wasn’t new to Arthur—he’d been there with me a dozen times—but I knew it was always a thrill.
We started across town and he said, “I hated to keep you waiting, Kirk . . . but it was one of those things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Accident stuff. We get policemen in our hair all the time. This man was investigating a hit-and-run case. Guy got hit in Central Park the night of the blizzard. Nobody saw it happen. Nobody saw the car that did it. I was on ambulance duty and made the run. The call had come in from a passing motorist who saw the man lying in the snow. I brought him in—he was somebody named Norton—and gave him a saline infusion in the accident room, and some plasma. A few minutes after we got him into the operating room he died.”
I said, “What did the policeman want?”
“More information. He’s from the motor homicide squad, and those babies are hell on hit-and-run stuff. They hate it worse than poison, and hang on like bulldogs. The patient was conscious in the ambulance, and talked to me some. The cop wanted to know what he said. They’ve never found the car that did it, and they won’t rest until they do. If they find him . . .” Arthur made an expressive gesture. “I’d hate to be the driver, that’s all.”
“You get much of that?”
“All the time. It’s part of the job. Let’s forget it.”
I was willing enough. I started telling Arthur how grateful I was for introducing me to John Ferguson. He bloomed under my thanks. “We talked a lot when he was a patient,” Arthur explained. “He told me about this idea of his, and I started popping off about you. All I did was bring you together.”
I piled it on as thick as I could. I said, “Maybe some day when I’m rich and famous I’ll meet an important man who wants an especially large operation, Arthur, and I’ll steer him up against you. And when it’s over, I’ll still owe you a million thanks.”
We ran into Dana and Ricardo in the lobby of the club. They both looked like thunderclouds. Dance teams rehearse all the time, and they quarrel while they’re doing it. It’s agony to them. Dana & Ricardo were not different from any of the other topflight dance teams in that way.
I bought a glass of sherry for Dana. I dragged her back to my special table. I told her about the break I’d got, and I put the credit where it was due. Arthur was happy. Dana snapped out of her black mood. She wanted to know all about it. She made me believe that she was more interested in office buildings than anything else in the world. She told Arthur he was wonderful. She had him glowing like a firefly by the time she rushed to her dressing room to fix up for the dinner show.
Arthur looked at me and said, “For God’s sake, Kirk—why don’t you marry her?”
“No can do,” I answered. “Bigamy isn’t one of my vices.”
“But look—it doesn’t make sense. You’re crazy about each other. She isn’t really Ricardo’s wife. There must be some way.”
Arthur was plunging into a subject I didn’t often discuss—perhaps because I had thought about it so much. The fact that I talked lightly didn’t mean that I hadn’t spent lots of sleepless nights worrying.
All my thinking hadn’t ever got me anywhere. There had been times when I’d been so depressed by the hopelessness of the situation that I’d blame Dana. Then I’d come to my senses and start blaming myself. And that wasn’t good, either.
I said, “I wish I could find the answer. It isn’t as simple as it looks. You’ve been around here enough to know that Dana is two people: she’s Dana, the nice kid: and Dana, the dancer. She’s half of Ricardo & Dana, and that means plenty.”
“Marrying you,” he insisted stubbornly, “wouldn’t break up the act. She could go on dancing with him—or would you object?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course I wouldn’t. It’s a big part of her life. The point is that Ricardo doesn’t see it that way. He promises that he’ll get her a divorce when and if he finds a new partner. Or, in answer to the statement that he isn’t trying to find one, he says he’ll turn her loose at some indefinite future date. And he swears he’ll fight any divorce action she might bring.”
Arthur said, “In this State there’s only one legal cause. Infidelity. Do you mean to tell me that Ricardo doesn’t play around?”
“He may. But if he does, he’s discreet. We’ve never caught him at it.”
Arthur said, with a violence surprising for so diffident a person, “I don’t like him. His slant isn’t normal. It’s sadistic.”
“The result is the same.”
“But your attitude ought to be different. I think the man gets a kick out of keeping you two apart.”
“You may be right. But suppose it were possible to push over the applecart: that wouldn’t be much of a way to start a successful marriage, would it?”
“You’re too damned high-minded, that’s what’s the matter with you, Kirk. If I were in love with a girl like that, and she was in love with me, I’d do whatever I had to do to get her.”
“Suppose there’s nothing you could do?”
He made an impatient gesture. “Are you proposing to take it on the chin indefinitely?”
“I don’t know. That sounds spineless, but it happens to be true. Ricardo would fight any divorce action she might bring. He’d block her. Then we’d be worse off than we are now.”
“Why?”
I said slowly, “If necessary, he’d file a countersuit. He’
d defend by charging her with infidelity. Neither Dana nor I would like that.”
“I get it . . .” Arthur gripped the edge of the table. “But it’s rotten. And since I’m shooting off my mouth, I’ll tell you something else. I do more than dislike Ricardo. I’m afraid of him.”
“Afraid?”
“Not for me. For you. The man hates your guts. He’s suave on the surface, but he wouldn’t stop at anything. You take my advice, Kirk—and keep your guard up.”
I said, “You’re driving at something. What is it?”
Arthur leaned across the table. His pale, weak eyes bored into mine. “Think this over,” he said. “Try to figure what it might add up to if Ricardo was still in love with Dana.”
I said, “I don’t quite follow.”
“All right, I’ll draw a picture for you. Suppose he’s still in love with her. It’s not impossible, you know. And if that’s how it is, try to figure how he feels when he sees her with you, when he is reminded day after day and night after night that she is in love with you. Suppose . . . ah! forget it.”
“Go ahead, Arthur. Please.”
“All right, I will. Suppose he were brooding over it. Suppose he went to your apartment and found a woman there. Suppose he thought it was Dana. Suppose he killed her.”
I said, “It couldn’t have happened that way.”
“The apartment was dark when they got there, wasn’t it?”
“Yes . . .”
“Then it could have happened like that.”
I was silent for perhaps a minute. Then I said, “You’re crazy.”
He looked at me and shook his head. He didn’t say anything.
I thought, “Sure, he’s crazy.”
And then I thought, “But suppose he’s not . . .”
CHAPTER X
WE’D PROBABLY have continued the conversation indefinitely, except that somebody came in. It was John Ferguson. He was wearing a business suit of midnight blue which looked black. He looked very handsome, and he was alone.
The head waiter started to put him at a corner table, gave him a second look, and seated him instead at a choice table. Ferguson said something—probably he ordered a cocktail—and the head waiter walked off importantly.
Love Has No Alibi Page 7
