The Bedroom Bolero

by Michael Avallone

  Melissa nodded knowingly. “Sure can. Picked on by the rest of the boys. Called a sissy or something worse because he didn’t shoot a gun and always had his nose in books. I knew lots of boys like that. From Harlem too. The big, tough boys always pick on them.”

  “To a T. So he kept to himself. Not making many friends. And not sharing the usual Army regard for anything in skirts. The rest of the men say to hell with him, secretly fearing his superior mind, but openly hiding their fear by making bum jokes about his manliness and you-name-it. And now, a beautiful Korean girl named Soo Seng enters the picture.”

  Melissa looked worried. “You mean he —”

  “Fell in love, I believe the expression is. Like a ton of bricks. You see, he’s in rear echelon. Plenty of time to see the natives. The rest of the men are in the front lines having a lousy time of the war. And Ted Crane sees Soo Seng every day. He likes her, admires her and then he falls hopelessly in love with her. Him. Ted Crane who never thought of women before. Naturally, he’s like a kid about it. He writes her poems, gives her his rations and makes a two-mile walk to her village to see her every day. He never touches her because he doesn’t know how. He’s a gentleman too. A noble American scholar and she’s a fair flower blooming in war.”

  “Don’t be so cynical, Ed,” Melissa said almost angrily. “Makes you sound mean.”

  “Sorry, Mel. I just wanted to show you how a squad of so-called normal, virile males would resent a pipsqueak like Ted Crane marching off with a beautiful girl they can’t have. Or think they can’t have until one of them finds out she is the softest touch in Korea.”

  Melissa’s smile was tragedy. “I see.”

  “Sure you do. Crane treats her like a queen so she acts like one. But she’s a woman who likes love for fun and profit. He hasn’t got all the candy bars in Korea so she strings him along. But then one of our wonderful men in service conceives of a brilliant plan.”

  “I shouldn’t hear the rest of this, I suppose, but I want to. That make me dirty?”

  “No,” I said. “It makes you human. You guessed most of it. Crane’s comrades arranged a tryst. The kind that makes your blood run cold. They set it up on him when they knew he’d be seeing her one cold night. He liked to go there and sit with her in her house and play records he’d wangled from the Signal Corps library.”

  “The Bolero was one of them, of course?”

  “Koussevitzky’s Bolero which is why this has to be the same man who killed these girls.”

  “What happened, Ed?”

  I lit a Camel slowly. It always takes time to unravel nightmares.

  “They hid under her bed, in the closets and wherever they could and watched as Ted Crane held hands with the girl he loved. The girl was in on it. She thought it was a good joke. Besides, it ensured her more American goodies if she played ball with nine men instead of one.”

  “The bastards,” she said.

  “Exactly. They popped out of hiding, drunk and hooting and then one of them got a very bright idea. They took turns when they tied Ted Crane to a bamboo chair and gagged him with her shawl. They made a gang job of it right before his eyes. Picture that if you can. He must have been alternately insane with anger, revulsion and shock. To see Soo Seng taken by all his enemies right before his eyes. Her being willing was the capper, I guess. For God knows how long, he watched the woman he loved open up for a lot of guys named Joe. The nearest Mertz can figure out, besides what Crane told him at Bostwick was that the room was painted a Chinese red and the Bolero was the number that played over and over again throughout the whole business.”

  “No wonder he lost his mind,” Melissa sobbed.

  “No,” I disagreed. “That’s the wonder of it all. When they untied him, he didn’t say a word. He simply went back to his room in one of the company buildings. After that, he dried up. Just kept on reading his books, doing his job and never confiding in anybody else until the war was over. All he ever admitted to Mertz was his great joy when he knew that seven of the nine men died on Heartbreak Ridge.”

  “Stayed by himself, huh?”

  “All the way. He left the Army a corporal technician and found a job with Empire Studios in their production department. He was a sound man. You know, fiddling with the sound tracks and scores of movies. Editing, mixing, that sort of thing. And then one day, it was in ’54, I think, he went berserk on the set of a movie they were making called Bolero Girl. Naturally, they were using Ravel’s music. Well, Crane had never married or had anything to do with girls. He had no relatives. Empire signed him into Bostwick and picked up the tab. But after a few years, they forgot about him and then Ted Crane was hustled out of Dr. Mertz’s care because they weren’t getting anywhere with him and he acted perfectly harmless. Mertz insisted he was potentially dangerous but he was overruled. So Crane was released in the middle of 1958 and came to New York, according to all surmises. And that’s where the trail ends for Mertz up until now.”

  “Golly,” Melissa marveled, “if he’s this mad killer, what’s the reason for it? Why would he revenge himself on five girls with bad hearts?”

  “Anything I tell you is Mertz’ opinion, remember. But it certainly holds up. Maybe Crane remembers too well the sounds and sights when he saw his beloved Soo Seng submitting to nine men he considered slobs. That would explain his taking it out on women. He wanted them to die for something they enjoyed. He’s crazy all right but he certainly had the deck stacked against him. Mertz’ supposition makes sense. He claims that the feeling smouldered in Crane all the way from Korea, repressed, held down, ignored if you like, until that lousy day when he was editing that Bolero sound track and it all came back.”

  “So the red room, the music, the love business is all as screwy as it sounds?”

  “Yes. But to a maniac it would add up. The satisfaction must be enormous.”

  Melissa Mercer said, “Flick your cigarette. And what about Bellevue?”

  “It’s a guess, Mel. But a good one. He had to support himself in New York. So it’s possible he got a job at the hospital. He was an electrician but he could have worked in one of their labs where they have X-ray equipment or something. My guess is he must have had some connection with the heart angle. You know, reports or those cardiographs. That’s probably it because that explains why these girls all had heart conditions. Maybe, the whole twisted idea came to him then. He could be working there right now but we won’t know until Monks gets that picture from the Army.”

  “Suppose there isn’t a picture?”

  “There has to be. The Army has a record of every man it’s ever owned. If he was in the Army, they have a picture of him. Mertz didn’t make him up.”

  Melissa couldn’t stop shaking her head. “And what about Ada? She didn’t have a bad heart. She wasn’t made love to —”

  My smile was awful. “Wasn’t she?” A tiny light strove for life in my head. No, Ada wasn’t killed because she’d been kind to me. The killer had done that to louse me up with the law, hadn’t he? Unless —

  My secretary changed the subject.

  “And those men yesterday? The ones who beat you up? What about them?”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” I admitted. “It was planned. It could have been that Zombie Evelyn’s plan to mess me up in an innocent way. But you’ve got me. I can’t figure that out yet. But it belongs in there somewhere, girl. It belongs.”

  “Anyhow I’m glad you were there, Ed. Nobody ever fought for me before.” Her black eyes were shining.

  “Forget it,” I growled. “You’re part of the family now. Your people are my people.”

  “Let my people go,” she laughed.

  I let her go out for a newspaper while I burned some more oil in the late afternoon again. The phone was strangely silent. I got a bit restless and phoned Thelma Torrance’s apartment.

  A gruff voice answered. One of my copper buddies from last night.

  “Hi,” I said. “This is Noon. Everything okay?”

  “Oh. Cha
mbers, here. Meant to tell you. Nice thinking last night. You saved me and Bellini a lot of headache.”

  “It was a pleasure. No sleep for you guys?”

  “Straight eights until this nut is collared, but it’s worth it. If you’re calling about the girl, she’s fine. Sleeping like the doctor ordered.”

  “That’s what I was calling about. Thanks. If she wakes up say hello for me.”

  “Will do.”

  “Don’t play that record no matter how bored you get.”

  “I won’t,” Chambers laughed. “See you.”

  Melissa came back with an armful of afternoon editions. The Post, the Journal and the World-Telegram. The case was still page one with not a little space devoted to Ed Noon, Private Investigations.

  “Man,” Melissa giggled. “This is the big time. I won’t need any references when this job is over.”

  I hardly heard her. I couldn’t stop thinking that the key lay in oddball Evelyn Eleven’s direction. She and Sanderson were uppermost in my thinking. If Jimmy had given her the leads on all the murders, why had he done it? Did she have some hold over him? It’s always a little upsetting when a cop with a record like Sanderson’s goes over to the other side. Of course, Evelyn might not be on the other side but she still was a civilian who had no business having a pipeline into Headquarters.

  Monks phoned back before five o’clock. The miracle of IBM was once more upon us. A photo of Ted Crane had been wired from Washington, D.C. It was on Monks’ desk precisely as he was talking to me.

  “Anybody I know, Mike?”

  “Nobody I know,” he said sourly. “Going to run it through B.C.I. If this guy had a B number before or since Korea, we’ll have him.”

  “I’d like to see that picture, Mike.”

  “What do you think I called you for?”

  “Give me a half hour. I’m locking up now.” I nodded to Melissa. She started covering her typewriter. “What does the guy look like, Mike?”

  His grunt was a bark of sound.

  “Like anybody else. What did you think he’d look like?”

  I wasn’t sure what I thought. I hung up and reached for my hat. I looked at Melissa Mercer.

  “Feel like seeing the inside of Headquarters again, Mel?”

  “I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t invited me,” she pouted. “Where you go, I like to go.”

  We went to Headquarters. Between the phone bill and cab fares, I wasn’t going to make a dime on this case.

  But I still owed it to Ada Grabowski to find her killer.

  17 — Portrait of a Killer

  The photo on Mike Monks’ desk was a good one. I remembered the day in Fort Riley when they snapped my mug for the A card. They caught you close up, head and shoulders, to show the OD shirt and the mohair tie. Things hadn’t changed that much since World War Two. Ted Crane was in full face, same OD shirt and mohair tie. Dr. Simon Mertz was right. He was a child. It was a child’s face. Smooth forehead, spilling blond hair and a face that hadn’t been lived in. The glasses made him look like a lost soul. The mouth, nose and eyes fought for prominence. Ted Crane hadn’t changed much in ten years. He’d gotten heavier but not that much.

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Monks asked. “A real Casper Milquetoast, isn’t he?”

  I put the photo down on the desk gently.

  “I know him,” I said. “And now that I know about Ted Crane, it really couldn’t have been anybody else.” Melissa Mercer and Mike Monks were both looking at me as if I had rubbed Aladdin’s Lamp and changed them both into statues. Mike was nearly speechless with disbelief.

  “You’re kidding,” he said heavily.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Somebody I know where to find when you want him.” I rubbed my nose. It was still too startling to credit all by itself. “But let’s forget about that for a minute. Before we run down to pick him up, there’s something else that needs taking care of.”

  “Ed, I don’t want to play games,” Monks barked. “Who is this guy and how come you know him and the police don’t? If you’ve been withholding evidence again —”

  “Mike, Mike. Don’t pull rank on me. I didn’t know anything you didn’t until I saw that picture. But there is that something else you ought to know about first. Especially, now. It makes it worse for Jimmy now that I’ve seen that picture.”

  “Jimmy? Jimmy who?” He was too annoyed to think straight.

  I looked at Melissa and sighed. “Sanderson, James T. There’s every reason to believe he’s been keeping the Eleven woman up on this whole case since it began.”

  Monks fumed. “What’s that again?”

  I told him, slowly and quietly. From Evelyn’s boast right down to Fats’ slip in front of me and two detectives. Monks’ big face darkened like a thundercloud. If he hates murderers, he must hate cops-on-the-take more. He punched the intercom without saying a word.

  “Hold on,” I said. “Maybe you don’t want us here.” I indicated Melissa who looked as embarrassed as I was. “This will be hard for James T. to take.”

  “Harder if it’s true,” he snapped maliciously. “And I always believe in confronting the accused with his accuser, don’t you, Ed?”

  “Yes, Mike,” I said resignedly. “It’s only fair.”

  There was no more talk after that. Not till the office door opened and closed and Sanderson, James T. stood in front of Monks’ desk. Mike was sitting, facing him. Melissa and I had the other two chairs.

  Sanderson’s face was expressionless. I studied him. I’d known him for years, even liked him. He was big, friendly as a cop could be friendly and we’d seen some rough ones over the bumps. I noticed for the first time, it seemed, his freckles and red hair.

  “Yeah, Cap?”

  “Jimmy.” Monks looked at him almost paternally. “There’s a leak out of this office. Do you know anything about it at all?”

  Sanderson’s big shoulders shifted. “Says who, Cap?”

  Monks scowled. “Never mind who. Is there anything you have to say?”

  The big man looked puzzled. “Come again?”

  “Okay, Jimmy,” Monks sighed. “We’ll do it the hard way. Noon here has proof that you’ve been spoon-feeding information about this Bolero Case to that screwy dame from The Cellar club. If it isn’t true, you have my permission to throw him out on his fanny. If it is true, you better tell me instead of an investigation committee.”

  The only defense a good cop has, one who has forgotten his ethics or code for some reason, is that when confronted, he will not try to bluff or give somebody else a hard time. Sanderson was that kind of a cop. He shifted uncomfortably on the balls of his big feet. He didn’t say anything.

  “I’m waiting, Jimmy,” Monks pleaded. “Say something.”

  Sanderson’s answer was to take out his wallet, unhook his gold shield and drop it on the desk. He removed his service revolver and it joined the badge. Monks watched the movements with a steadily falling face.

  “Jimmy —” he muttered.

  “It’s true, Cap,” Sanderson said hollowly. “Sorry, but it is.” I didn’t feel so hot about being right. I looked at Melissa. She was holding her breath, watching Monks and Sanderson.

  “For God’s sake, Jimmy, there has to be a reason! Don’t tell me you were getting paid for the information.”

  “No.”

  “What then? Come on, Jimmy. This is me. Mike. Your friend.”

  Sanderson buckled at that. His shoulders sagged. He spread his big hands. “If I told you, Cap, would it make it any better? I loused up. Okay. So let it go at that. No excuse is good enough.”

  I stirred from my chair. “Sanderson, James T., I know you too well. If you were giving in to Evelyn Eleven, it couldn’t be for money or gain. So that leaves one thing. Blackmail. You’re too good a cop to be forced to do something that goes against your nature, unless it was something pretty personal.”

  “Shut up, Noon,” he barked. “It’
s none of your business.” The change in him was amazing. His face had worked up in anger.

  “Sure,” I said. “Now I can guess. Evelyn was married once. To a man named Orelob she said. But that was a lot of hooey. More Bolero phoniness to capitalize on these kills. Come on, James T. Tell us before I tell it.”

  “Noon —” he gurgled helplessly.

  “Jimmy,” Monks said quietly. “Tell it. We’ll find out one way or another, won’t we?”

  Sanderson, James T. stiffened. His eyes slowly traveled around us. First he saw Melissa Mercer’s sympathetic face, then mine at least trying to be. But it was the friendly concern of his superior’s face that was the last straw. Sanderson brushed angrily at his eyes.

  “Yeah,” he rumbled. “It’s me. I was married to that ghoul once. I never wanted anybody to know. Especially the boys. Evelyn knew how I might be ashamed of her. So she put the screws on me. Insisted I tell her right away about any crazy crimes she could use in her night club act. This Bolero thing was right up her alley —” He ran down helplessly. “This was the first time she ever took advantage of any dope from me. If she’s involved in it in any way, then I guess it’s my hide you want.”

  Mike Monks growled. “Shut up and sit down somewhere and let me think. And take back the gun and badge. We’ll wait till this party’s over before I decide what to do with you. Jesus Christ, Jimmy, you should know better.”

  “Sorry, Cap,” he mumbled and walked to a corner of the room and leaned his big arm against a four-drawer file.

  Mike Monks swiveled around and stared at me.

  “For your sake, I’m glad you were right. For mine, I’m sorry. But no more tricks. You know who the guy in the picture is, right? Okay. So we call up Dr. Mertz, go see him or bring him here, make positive identification and he cracks. Right?”

  “Right,” I agreed. “But let’s do it this way. You come with me tonight with a detail, if you like, to The Green Cellar. We can shake up Miss Eleven and pick up Mr. Crane but I think we ought to set it up. It calls for a little showmanship, Mike. A short cut that will give you your confession as well as your killer. Torrance and Hale are safe now. They’re covered so all we have to do is pick up Crane.”