Wilkinson’s career (according to Ohlmasti) had not begun until he tied up with Kutner in the big Chicago store. It was Kutner who had “discovered” Wilkinson and sold him to the bigwigs in the outfit. Their attachment from that moment on was more than casual. Kutner considered Wilkinson a great talent, to be nurtured and encouraged in the field of advertising. Together, these two had made fantastic records in sales and promotion, which was the reason why Cumber had imported both of them to New York. Wilkinson had no demerits on Ohlmasti’s report, other than a penchant for womanhood that seemed to keep him busy in his leisure hours. He gambled a bit, horses and poker, but had never overdone these sports.
Kutner, on the other hand, seemed to intrigue Ohlmasti. There were footnotes galore on the report about the store manager. Kutner moved far and fast when he was on the loose. He had been seen too often at the track to be considered a vagrant bettor. And when the great and shining Rock Hill opened to Chicago nightlife, Kutner became a steady customer of the place, playing the wheel, the crap table and the other pastimes. And losing often. He appeared on his night time jaunts with a girl on his arm, always a young wren who stood out as a notorious piece. Kutner prided himself on his perpetual youth, and the records showed that his fiery temper had pulled him into many local fistic engagements because of the type of babe he squired.
Ohlmasti went on:
“—local information leads me to the conclusion that Kutner may have gone too far in his gambling, suffering the big, IOU type of loss on many occasions. It is almost impossible to gather information of this type from George Chase, the owner of Rock Hill, but I managed to get a bit of the inside stuff from some of the men who work the tables and know the customers. Huroch (one of the wheel croupiers) reported that Wilkinson dropped a few thousand one night while with Kutner. The same week, Kutner went down to the tune of $12,000, dropping an IOU to Chase until two weeks later. Kutner is—of course, a wealthy executive. Salary always in five figures, and never in debt commercially. Wilkinson’s only loss of a big nature is the one reported above. Would remind you, however, that no accurate account of Kutner can ever be secured by way of a gambling house like Rock Hill, since Chase always covers for his customers and minimizes all losses for the sake of the reputation of his house. There is a rumor, however, current around Rock Hill, that Kutner left for the New York job in hock to Chase for a big slice of change. No way to check it here, but it might be something for you.”
Ohlmasti’s report diddled around with more tripe of the same sort and then died in a barrage of promises. I tore the damned-fool thing into small slices and dropped them into the basket. Ohlmasti could keep this routine going forever, if I let him. I didn’t let him. I wrote him a wire and told him to cancel the service to me temporarily.
Then I went back to my apartment and showered and shaved and got ready for the big party at Cumber’s.
CHAPTER 8
That night, the fifth floor of the Cumber Department Store buzzed with activity. At 9:30 most of the guests had arrived. They were gathered around the long table, laid out at the edge of the Toy Department, a bevy of free loaders from every important newspaper, radio, TV station and magazine in the big town. They drank the best in liquor. They munched the most succulent in hors d’oeuvres, specially imported from Delicatessen, on the sixth floor. They ebbed and flowed around the table, plucking at the sweetmeats while downing their alcohol. The group was gay and garrulous. A variety of well-dressed wrens from all branches of the press nibbled and gulped themselves into a slow state of abandon. Their masculine cohorts mooched and meandered among the females, hell-bent for private dates after the party.
Beyond the pocket of activity, beyond the babel, the vast reaches of Cumber’s fifth floor lay in quiet. The revelers were confined to a small area, around the Christmas displays. But back in the gloom, Midge Doughty was watching the show, deep in the shadows rimming the Sporting Goods Department. From her vantage point, Midge could see any vagrant strollers who might be out for a kleptomaniac trip.
I circled the edge of the brawl and started for Midge. She was sitting in a corner near the corridor. She had found herself a comfortable camp chair and was enjoying a secluded smoke behind the edge of a few display pines. She grinned at me when I approached.
“Back for some sporting, boss?” she asked.
“I could use some,” I said. Midge was a delight in her party outfit. She had entered the mêlée as a member of the Advertising Department group, all of whom were here to entertain the guests. Midge should have been under the strong lights. Her outfit showed me elements of her personality I had never seen before. I pulled over a camp chair and sat beside her. I gave her the drink I knew she needed. “Guzzle some of this Cumber fire,” I told her. “You’ll be needing it before the night’s over.”
“Sweet of you to remember your slave, boss.”
“Sweetest slave a boss ever had,” I said. “See anything I should know about?”
“I blush to mention some of it.”
“Blush, but mention it.”
“Some of those reporters are the outdoors type,” Midge said with a laugh. “Some of the ladies go for tents. I caught one of the babes with her proverbial panties down.”
“All in the good name of publicity,” I said. “See any of the Cumber characters?”
“Lila Martin was back in the shadows often. She made the tour with a variety of the better-paid help. She’s been back for smooching with Larry Pettigrew and Greg Wilkinson. And just five minutes ago she appeared with old Kutner himself.”
“Doing what?”
“With Kutner? Just talking.”
“Nobody spotted you here?”
“Greg Wilkinson stopped by for a few words,” Midge said, “You know something, Steve? Greg’s really not a bad lad.”
“Come again?”
“Greg strolled back with the Santa Claus. Saint Nick’s been having an attack of the heaves. Doesn’t like the idea of being photographed. Nervous as a cat, he was. Greg spent a good twenty minutes plying the old boy with Bourbon. After that, Nicholas rallied a bit and went into the Toy House.”
“No kleptomaniacs yet?”
“Nothing but sex fiends,” laughed Midge. “I feel like a chaperone in a brothel.”
“Don’t let it throw you.”
I returned to the jamboree by the long route, around the corridor that skirted the stairway and through the catacombs behind the large liquor stockroom. When I finished the trip through the narrow hall and opened the door to the Toy Department, the blast of sound slapped at me with the force of a stinging gale of noise.
A cocktail party is a stage show. A cocktail party is a hotbed of drama, a one-night stand with willing actors. The hubbub beat at my ears, a cacophony of husky whispers, coy giggles and drunken dissonances. The well-turned broads were sneaking out into sly places. They worked their brittle smiles on the available males, snaking and squirming into personal promotions, laughing it up as the boys came their way.
A strange figure came loose from the crowd to join me near the elevators. She wore one of the blue badges to indicate, that she was Cumber personnel. The name on her badge was Helen Sutton, of Advertising Art.
“Can I get you a drink, Steve Conacher?” she asked.
“Another lady detective,” I said. “How’d you know me?”
“Everybody in Advertising knows you, Steve.” She was just a little drunk, the cocktail glass unsteady in her hand. I had seen her around the Art Department, but Helen Sutton blossomed tonight in her fancy regalia. She was a plain-looking girl who came to work without makeup. She had the fresh and unspoiled air of a kid at school, scrubbed and pink and peasanty. In the office, Helen Sutton wore tweeds and mannish garb. Right now, dressed in evening costume, her figure blossomed. She had a strong, full frame, fullest in the best places. And from the way she carried it, the fullness was all hers. She was aware of my
sudden interest and blushed when my eyes grabbed hold of her upper chassis. “You,” she said with a shy smile, “are the most celebrated person in the store. Have you caught any sneaky shoplifters yet, Steve?”
“They’re lifting nothing but their spirits,” I gagged. “Are you having a good time, Helen?”
“Scrumptious, up until a while ago.” She put her glass down and stared moodily over the crowd. She was searching for something. But she was finding nothing but heartache. “Have you seen Chester?” she asked.
“Chester deserted you?”
“Temporarily. But he said he’d be back.”
“Back from where?” I asked.
“He had something to do for Greg Wilkinson,” Helen said sadly. “But that was some time ago.”
“I’ll track him down for you,” I told her.
“You’re an angel, Steve Conacher.” She blushed again, probably aware that I knew her girlish secret, her unabashed affection for Chester Carpenter. She would be worrying about Chester and Lila Martin, of course. She was running her bright eyes over the crowd obviously searching for Lila. And not finding Lila. “Chester’s probably doing something very important, I suppose. If you see him around, remind him that I’m waiting for him.”
“You have a date with Chester after this brawl?”
“He promised to take me home,” she said, more to herself than to me, on the way back to the cocktail table. She managed a cheery hello to one of the reporters and went off on his arm. But she was eying me gloomily as I left her. “See you later, Steve Conacher,” she breezed.
I flipped a hand at her and went back into the shadows. Greg Wilkinson caught my eye at the Toy House. The Santa stood on the tiny porch, struggling to smile at the battery of cameras aimed his way. Santa was a large, square-built man. His face seemed made to order for the role he played, round and ruddy and plump. All he lacked was Saint Nick’s smile. He scowled and fretted. He squinted and fidgeted before the cameras, fingering his glass of Bourbon. On his right hand, an incongruous square and black-stoned ring glistened under the powerful lights.
Wilkinson finally put the man at ease for a long enough pause. The photographers snapped their shutters like crazy. After the first few shots, Santa began to balk again, however. Wilkinson led him back behind the cardboard trees at the side of the house. He handed Santa the bottle and the fat man took a long and earnest swallow. Standing alongside Father Christmas, Greg Wilkinson could have been his twin. His cheeks, reddening under the pressure of his duties, looked perfect for the chore. And Wilkinson had the same type of figure, larded and tubby. He gulped a slug of Bourbon and pushed Santa up again, back to the porch and the waiting cameramen.
I stalked away from the bright lights and flashbulbs. It was time for another stroll through the darkened floor. The party noises faded behind me, a vague and, muffled buzz of talk. Once beyond the dividing wall between Toys and Sporting Goods, all sound died. There were a few dim lights burning all the way down the line near the windows, casting only a shallow glow around me. I paused at the edge of the corridor. Something held me there. A noise? A breath?
Two breaths. The long hall was empty all the way down to the south side of the building. Here the last ceiling bulb glowed with a weak and soupy aura. Toward the end of the corridor there was a small niche, an oblong cut in the wall designed to hold crates and boxes for the freight elevators. But there were no crates and boxes in the niche now.
Instead, two people played games. And one of these gamesters was Lila Martin. She had her arms up to encircle the neck of her companion. I could see only his hands, meandering along the nether reaches of her delicious torso. Lila seemed welded to him in the shadows, her supple body pulled up and into him at an angle that was calculated to level a man. From where I stood, her voice came as a husky whisper in the small pauses. I felt like an interloper at a stag reel.
“Not here,” Lila whispered. “Not here, lover.”
“Will you see me later?”
“Do you really want to see me?’
“What do you think?”
“Please. You’re hurting me.” Her whisper was a cloying sigh, a tease, a challenge. “You play too rough.”
“You like it rough, Lila?”
“Kiss me now.”
I stepped back, sure of my man now. In the quick movement of his kiss, Lila had pulled back and drawn him to her. His face came into view, a handsome, bony type of lover. He fitted Midge’s description of Larry Pettigrew. The pale light showed me the classic cut of his jaw, the long and perfect nose, the high cheek-boned masculinity of his profile.
I ducked through the corridor, taking the hail that led through Sporting Goods and veered abruptly near the big Liquor Department storeroom. Now the noises from the party began to filter through to me, a wind of sound that killed off the immediate silence around me. I stepped forward slowly, still looking for everything and anything. The sound of footsteps, dull and careful, hit my ears and held me where I stood. Then a man came around the turn and bumped me.
It was Chester Carpenter. He was fidgety with fright, blinking his myopic eyes at me in the gloom. He held three liquor bottles in his arms and they clacked violently when we collided.
I said: “Liquor larceny, Carpenter?”
His weak and bloodless face twitched. “What are you doing back here?” he asked with a pale show of authority.
“I asked you first.”
“You have no right back here. If you’re a guest, I’m going to report you.” The bottles clacked an accompaniment to his anemic routine. He was as jittery as a fly on a pole, a little man with a big worry. “You’d better get back to the party.”
“I like it here,” I said quietly. “I’m the store operator, Chester.”
He almost flipped. One of the bottles tried to slide away from him and be went double, holding it in his arms. I took the bottle from him. I eased him over to the wall and held him there. Carpenter did not struggle. He wasn’t the type for fancy gymnastics. In the close-up, he sweated mightily, blinking his watery eyes at me and swallowing an invisible oyster that would never go down.
“Relax,” I told him. “Anything wrong?”
“I was getting some liquor for Greg, that’s all.”
“You were walking in the wrong direction, Chester.”
“I always do down here,” he said with confusion. “How do I get back to the stupid party?”
“Go up along the Sporting Goods display,” I said, pointing the way for him. “You’ll find a girl sitting on one of the camp chairs near the tent. Just past her is the aisle that leads back to the party.”
“Well, thanks,” Chester breathed.
I watched him walk off slowly, wondering about him. When we collided, Chester had been headed back in the direction of Lila and her lover. He would make a laughable antagonist for the big and muscled Larry Pettigrew. It could be that I had saved Chester a large headache.
I backtracked a few yards and started down the next corridor to my right. All of these dead-ends and hidden passages were familiar to me. I knew the alleys and cul-de-sacs of the giant store as well as I knew my own name. For hours, long before my first day on duty, I had memorized the map of this place. For another stretch, all by my lonesome, I had marched through the empty store, learning its layout. I was headed now on a detour that would take me to the cocktail party by way of a locker room connecting this hail with the Toy House. There was another turn up ahead in the dim hall. To the left, after the turn, I would be close to the locker room.
But I didn’t quite make the turn.
Somebody hit me with a hard and heavy object.
I grabbed for my assailant. He must have been waiting for me at the edge of the narrow corridor. He was equipped with a bottle for my head. I knew it was a bottle because I heard the vague and faraway tinkle of glass as I went down. He spun me around with the force of his
blow. He hit me behind the ear, a grinding wallop that closed my eyes and dropped me like a package of bricks.
It was dark and empty in the bottomless hole that sucked me down into oblivion.
CHAPTER 9
Midge Doughty stood next to me in the washroom. She swabbed at my head with a towel. The bottle had raised a bump behind my ear, but there was little blood. She handed me a bottle of Scotch and I took another long, strong swallow. A group of deliberate and antagonistic midgets were banging a thousand hammers alongside my ear. Otherwise I felt fine.
“Don’t take too much, Steve,” Midge said. “You’ll get potted.”
“On me it would look good right now,” I said. “How long was I out?”
“You’ve got a head of iron. You were blinking awake by the time I ran back here.”
“You see anybody?”
“I was concentrating on you,” Midge laughed. “Whoever hit you ducked back to the other corridor before I could make it to you. Didn’t you see anything?
“Assorted stars.” I took another swallow. The hammers in my head were clanging with a lesser jangle now. But the bastard who hit me had meant business. He was hell-bent for putting me away.
“What about Chester Carpenter?” I asked. “The little man with the three bottles.”
“He passed me and walked north, toward the party.”
“You saw him reach the party?”
Midge wrinkled her cute nose. She could not tell a lie. “Actually, no. He headed back down the aisle. But I didn’t watch him go all the way. Sometime after he left me, I heard the crash of glass back here.”
“So Chester could have doubled back and conked me.”
“He doesn’t look the type.”
“God save me from the professional introverts,” I said.
“What are you going to do now, Steve?”
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