The Bedroom Bolero

by Michael Avallone

  “Albin,” Thelma Torrance said in a low voice.

  Monks was way ahead of them. He opened the center drawer of his desk and handed over a stack of photos. They weren’t the police lab uglies of death. Studio portraits which all three victims had posed for in their shortened lifetimes. Both women studied them for a long time.

  “You can’t prove it by me,” Hilda Hale sighed. “I never remember anybody. I’m trained to look down at green bills. Besides, I was so upset about having heart trouble, I cried all the time I was in. I can’t even remember any of the people that worked there.”

  Thelma Torrance handed the photos back. “I thought I might have seen the Albin girl before but I’m not sure now. Being a salesgirl, I may have seen her in the store. No, I can’t say for sure. I’m like Hilda here when it comes to Bellevue. I was real punko that week I was taking all the tests and thinking my life was over.”

  “Captain,” Hilda Hale asked in a curious voice. “You really think we are next?”

  “I don’t know,” Monks admitted. “But the red room can’t be just a fluke. Nor can a lot of other things. But don’t worry. From the moment you leave this office, you’ll be protected. The New York Police Department is responsible for you now. We won’t let you down. We’ll nail this maniac before he can play the Bolero again.”

  “I don’t have the record either,” Hilda Hale said, trying to find some security in the knowledge.

  Monks smiled to relieve the tension that was closing over both of them. I got up, stretching my legs, and gingerly felt my jaw and lips before lighting a cigarette. Even smoking was an ordeal.

  That was all for Torrance and Hale. They said goodbye and Monks ushered them from the office. He left with them leaving me and Melissa to shake our heads at each other.

  She looked worried. “Do you really think they were going to be killed by this maniac?”

  “What do you think, Mel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then yes it is.”

  “Oh, Ed. It’s terrible.”

  “It is,” I agreed. “But Monks is going great guns. At least, he’s not running around in the dark anymore.”

  “He’s a nice man.”

  “Love him like a father. Hungry?”

  She smiled. “You know, I forgot all about you promising me dinner.”

  “I didn’t. As soon as Mike comes back, we’ll buzz off.”

  “You think he minded me butting in like that?”

  I shook my head. “When you get to know him better, you’ll realize he’s a proud man but not too proud to take help on goofy murder cases. Why do you suppose he puts up with me?”

  “Ask me a harder one than that. That’s too easy. You’re too lovable to ever be annoying.”

  “You working for a raise?”

  “No. But it’s an idea.”

  “Shut up, then. Here’s Father.”

  Monks moved back into the room. He threw his shoulders apart with a shrug and sat down. His eyes were narrowed in a frown.

  “Ed,” he growled. “There are seventy-eight precincts in New York. About twenty-four thousand cops including three thousand detectives. But sometimes it seems like I’m running a pipeline to the Main Desk. I’ve been keeping them busy all week, doing jobs, making legwork and asking the B.C.I. to check their whole gallery of mugs for a guy with a looney history. But you know something? I don’t think we’ll find this guy until he’s murdered another woman and played another record. Sure I’ve got these two dolls protected but I’m worried. Anybody clever enough to go this far with it —” He shuddered.

  “You’ve done fine so far, Mike. Nobody could complain.”

  “What’s B.C.I.?” Melissa asked.

  “Bureau Criminal Identification,” Monks rumbled. “They have photos on file of everyone who’s ever had a B number. That’s an arrest classification. But I don’t think we’ll find this guy in a picture. There’s something about this case that’s screwy —”

  I sympathized with him. “The Chief getting you down?”

  Monks nodded. “Can you blame him?”

  “You can’t beat City Hall,” I agreed. “But I got a brainstorm and you can bet your gold shield on this one, Captain. Remember the name this guy gave for the paint company?”

  “Sure. Bostwick. What about it?”

  I grinned. “Come on, Melissa. Let’s go eat. We’ve taken up enough of the captain’s time.” She rose and hooked her arm in mine. But her bewilderment matched Monks’.

  “Well, Noon? What about Bostwick?”

  “Michael, you are tired. We both agree that our maniac spends a lot of time with names and technique, right? Well, Bostwick just couldn’t be a name that he pulled out of the air, right? Okay. So what does Bostwick suggest to you now?”

  Monks took a deep breath. “Jesus Christ, I am tired. The number one laughing academy on the West Coast.” His fingers flew toward the intercom box. He was moving like a gorilla who’d had his glands revitalized.

  Even as I left with Melissa Mercer, I could hear his roaring voice alerting more than one member of the Department.

  “You’re a clown,” Melissa said. “You know that?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But I made my point, didn’t I?”

  11 — The Amorous Ada

  I’d forgotten about my ten o’clock appointment by the time I’d put Melissa Mercer in a cab after dinner. She wanted to take the subway but I insisted five dollars worth. She’d been a great help in the sidewalk battle, a fine listener in Monks’ office and a beautiful companion in Casa Dario on West Forty-Seventh Street where we split a bottle of Chianti and filled ourselves on spaghetti aglio olio. That’s what I mean by forgetting about Ada Grabowski, Evelyn Eleven’s normal sister. Aglio olio is garlic and oil and what it does to your breath would have handicapped Gable on his best day.

  I remembered when I saw Pete the elevator operator’s smiling face.

  “Your secretary’s back,” he winked. “She beat you here by fifteen minutes.”

  “Pete, you’ll never know.”

  “Know what, Ed?”

  “About secretaries. You just can’t live without them.”

  He must have taken a good look at Ada both nights and liked what he saw. “I’m with you, Boo Boo. But what happened to your face?”

  When I let myself in, Ada was ensconced on the sofa in the living room, her ball of bouffant blonde hair comfortably planted on a stuffed pillow that was my favorite. Her long legs were nicely straining against a pair of Capri slacks and her high chest was looking low-down in a blue halter arrangement which wasn’t doing much halting. She smiled with all her teeth and waved a copy of some nebulous movie magazine airily.

  “Would you believe it? Troy may give up everything for love and Debbie still loves Eddie and the kids and doesn’t have any hard feelings about Liz. Also, if you cut out the coupon on page twenty-five, you’ll get a wallet-sized picture of Elvis kissing his guitar. Interested?”

  “Very,” I said drily, moving into the room and staring down at her. “Liz blows her nose and I’m an observer. Miss me?”

  “Come here and I’ll tell you.” She dropped the magazine, swung her legs to the floor, smiled again and saw my face for the first time. “Ed — your face!”

  “Not very becoming is it? My wrong shade of red.”

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  “I tried to carry a stuffed moose head through a revolving door.”

  “God, you look awful.”

  “That’s the ticket. Make me feel good.”

  “Oh, Ed —” Her voice softened, her face fell and she melted into my arms. I had a brief whiff of the wet violets and fragrant perfume of her personality and then she jumped back with a yelp.

  “Sorry, Ada. I lost my head. I ate Italian tonight.”

  She started to laugh, the laugh built into a howl and finally, she wound up on the sofa completely collapsed as if I were the reincarnation of W. C. Fields. I excused myself stiffly, went into the bathroom
and brushed my teeth, rinsed my mouth, gargled endlessly and asked Nature for mercy. When I was sure my breath was kissing-sweet again, I returned to the living room.

  Ada was trying to hold her slender waist together with both hands. Her eyes were filled with laughing tears.

  “Oh, Ed — Ed —”

  “I know. I’m funny. I should have gone on the stage.”

  She sobered up. “No kidding. What really happened to your Greek profile?”

  I studied her face as I told her about Melissa Mercer and the three angry young men. Her face only showed a great contempt for the men and pity for me.

  “Do you always have to be the big hero?”

  “Not always. I don’t wear it very well but it’s a lot harder on you if you take it without dishing some out yourself.”

  “Melissa is beautiful, of course?”

  “Of course.”

  She frowned. “My sister told me to stay away from you.”

  I smiled. “How is dear Evelyn, the belle of the graveyard?”

  “Okay. She knows I was here last night.”

  “You tell her?”

  “No. Evelyn just knows things. Sometimes, it’s creepy the way she can read your mind, you know. She knew I was coming here tonight so she gave me a message for you.”

  “Probably witch’s curses mixed with blasphemy and thunder. Well, what is it?”

  Evelyn’s nicer sister grinned. “Not what you expect.” She thrust her white hand down the halter and probed. I watched mesmerized. There was gold in them thar hills. But Ada chuckled, drew forth a tiny scroll of paper, neatly tied with white string and handed it to me.

  “Read it and weep,” she said.

  Ada was right. It wasn’t what I expected. Simply a five-by-eight inch square of white paper on which some lines were written in black ink in a crablike script:

  You are an animated individual.

  You like things done with a bang and a flourish.

  You lean toward the colorful and the sensational. Also you are pretty sentimental. You are covetous of friendships and remember people long after they have forgotten you.

  You like attention. You like being attended and love getting a compliment. Sometimes you fish for them.

  You are easily excited, have a lot of courage and are generous almost to a fault.

  “What the hell is this?” I growled. “Something you got out of a fortune cookie?”

  Ada winked. “This is your life, Ed Noon. Evelyn is also a handwriting expert. I’d say she has you pegged pretty neat. It’s a hobby of hers. Pretty good, huh?”

  “I like that part about things with a bang,” I said as drily as I could manage. “‘Where did Evelyn get a sample of my penmanship?”

  Ada sighed. “Eddie — don’t you remember last night? When we sat around in the bedroom, you doodled on some scrap paper. You wrote Ada from Decatur and Bolero all over it more than once.”

  “And you took it to your sister this morning?” Now I sighed. “You dames baffle me. It was personal. For your eyes alone.”

  She moved closer to me and tilted her chin. “Kiss me. So I can smell you.” She locked her arms around my waist. I pulled back.

  “Is Fats still in the apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Evelyn the type to hire three guys to beat me up?”

  “No.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Ada moved her mouth closer to mine, her eyes on my lips.

  “Whatever Evelyn is and God knows that’s plenty, she never was the type to have men beat up. She never had to. She’d just scare them off with hocus-pocus and black magic.”

  “Maybe,” I said. Now I was looking at her mouth.

  After that we were kissing and I can’t remember exactly when it was that the most important thing in the world was how to be graceful and gentle helping a beautiful woman out of slacks.

  Only the Renoirs saw us.

  “Tell me some more about your sister,” I said in the darkness with only cigarette tips for illumination.

  “I’m jealous,” she purred, biting my shoulder.

  “Don’t be. This is a murder case.”

  “That damn thing again. What if a nut is running around loose getting kicks a crazy way? Do you have to think about it?”

  “I do.” I bit her shoulder. She screamed low. “Now tell me about Evelyn.”

  “Oh, all right.” She rolled over on her back and lay her right ankle over my left one and rubbed. “All showmanship that girl. I guess you know that. Look how she hopped on this Bolero bandwagon with you. Incorporating the number in the act and all. She even invited some newspapermen down to The Cellar tonight. No dope, Evvie. I got to hand it to her.”

  “What about this police contact she says she has at Headquarters? To believe she has nothing to do with the murders, I have to believe that. There’s no other way of accounting for her moving so fast. She had to know all the facts in a hurry to take advantage of them like that.”

  “She did,” Ada murmured drowsily. “Evelyn can do anything.”

  “What about Fats?”

  “What about him? He’s just Fats. A fat slob who Evelyn keeps around for laughs. Forget about him. He couldn’t engineer a diet if he had to plan it. He’s hopeless.”

  I flicked my cigarette, finding the ashtray carefully in the darkened bedroom.

  “You like Melissa?” she asked suddenly.

  “She’s a nice girl.”

  “Did you ever sleep with her?”

  “She only started working for me two days ago,” I pointed out.

  “That’s not what I asked you.”

  “It was a lousy question, Ada.”

  “Do you want to?”

  I put out the cigarette. “Unanswerable on the grounds that the defendant refuses to commit himself.”

  “I’ll bet.” She grabbed a fistful of the flesh on my shoulder and twisted. “You’d like to, wouldn’t you?”

  “What started this?” I begged lamely.

  “Forget it,” she growled. “I feel bitchy all of a sudden.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “You don’t have to agree with me,” she pouted.

  “I don’t, really. I just don’t want to start any fights over nothing.”

  “No, of course not,” she said dully.

  I was bewildered now. She had started to cry. I kissed her softly. She kissed me hard. In a little while, we were both trying to straighten each other out. Between the tears, the kisses and the wild scrambling for possession of each other, both of us lost. Or one of us won. I don’t know how you measure those things. All I do know is that we fell asleep in each other’s arms pretty content with the knowledge that men were designed for women and vice versa. My last conscious thought before sleep closed my eyelids was that rain was beating a production number against the building like a thousand pairs of dancing shoes.

  I didn’t wake to daylight.

  I woke to nightmare. Somebody screamed in the middle of my dreams and I bolted erect in the darkness. It’s hard to bat your eyes into the pitch dark of a bedroom whose venetian blinds were closed because the sun has a habit of bombing your face from Central Park West if you don’t. I came awake with a sudden jolt. A quick realization born of a million misadventures that while I had gone to sleep with lovely Ada, the bed I was in held only my own tensed, frightened bundle of humanity. The trailing sound of the scream coupled with my fear and got me off the bed. I fell across a night table in the darkness and cursed as my right foot cracked in agony. The black room mocked me. I staggered for the door. It should have been open. It was open when I had gone to bed. Now, it was closed. A small point of arrangement that was more terrifying and upsetting than a reappearance of the Frankenstein monster might have been.

  I pulled the door back, the light of the other room pounding my vision with squares, prisms, kaleidoscopes and fun houses of color. I ran rather than walked into the living room.

  And fell across the naked body of A
da Grabowski.

  Even in the nightmare of falling, I could see the length of staghorn jutting between her shapely shoulder blades. I saw it all in a sweep of insanity.

  The knife, the wash of blood, the trailing bun of blonde hair and the awful question mark her body had become on the floor of my home.

  Dead she was beautiful.

  Beautiful she still was dead.

  12 — Who Killed Ada Grabowski?

  That was the question but nobody had the answer. Least of all me. I took the brass ring hands down. I’d been sleeping while a murderer walked into my apartment (was the door unlocked or did he have a key?) and stabbed Ada Grabowski (while she lay at my side or did she get up to go to the bathroom?) and left as quietly as Santa Claus. A bloody Santa who left gifts of death including a long switchblade knife with a stag-horn handle. Fingerprints? Don’t be silly. Anybody who could kill like a phantom had to be too smart for fingerprints. Naturally, Pete the all-night man had seen nothing but people who work at night read papers, catch smokes and doze sometimes, don’t they?

  I was no help at all. I didn’t know how soundly I’d slept but I knew I hadn’t heard a damn thing until that scream. Another good argument for not mixing sex with murder investigations. I’d been as relaxed as a four-year-old child in sleep after a daylight assortment of activity. Now that Ada was dead I was glad we had made love. It was like that tired old gag about stolen hours and last minutes. Without it, I would have been rigid with remorse as well as grief. No matter how I felt, it didn’t take away a damning feeling of stupidity and negation.

  Try having somebody killed right under your nose and you’ll get the idea.

  It’s nice to have a good cop for a friend. Otherwise, I might have gone through the wringer of cross-examination by a battery of squint-eyed detectives in a dark room with a water tap running. Or been snapped, fingerprinted and turned inside out by the clue seekers. Monks saved me all that. He didn’t spare me because he asked the questions. But he started from the simple premise that I could never have killed a beautiful girl and that made all the difference in the world. He knew I was clean but he wanted me to help him prove it.

  But the apartment wasn’t spared. It couldn’t be. The men from the lab, the police photogs and the plainclothesmen spread over the four rooms like the plague. When Ada’s naked body was covered with a kind sheet and lifted into the basket, there was a large splotch of her blood on the rug that not even Mr. Clean was going to get rid of.