The Girl with the Frightened Eyes

by Lawrence Lariar

  At Central Park West the car swung uptown for a few blocks, U-turned and parked under a fancy canopy. Griffin House was a big place, one of the newer giant apartment houses opposite the park.

  A man in a doorman’s uniform walked toward the car.

  Semple nudged Bull. “Get out, Bull. Walk straight inside and don’t try anything.”

  Louis laughed again. “Put it away, fatso. You’re knocking yourself out.”

  Bull stared at the doorman. He said, “Class. I didn’t expect to wind up in the mink belt.”

  Semple stood on the curbing, still holding the gun.

  Louis leaned out of the car and whispered to him hoarsely. “Put the rod away, you dope. These guys ain’t running, are they?”

  Semple said, “Shut up and get out of that car.”

  Louis came around. “A goddam fat Boy Scout, if I ever seen one.”

  Semple put the gun into his right hand coat pocket, grudgingly.

  Bull and I led the parade, with Louis behind us and Semple dragging up the rear. We walked into the empty lobby and Louis nudged Bull toward the elevator.

  In the elevator, Semple ordered the seventeenth floor.

  Louis said, “I hope mamma is home.”

  Semple wheeled on him. “I thought I told you to keep your big mouth shut?” The little white scar on his cheek whitened under his sudden color. “Clam up!”

  We walked down a plush corridor to a door at the end of the hall. It was a short hall, of the kind usually found in the deluxe type of cliff dwelling where two apartments occupy the entire floor. Semple pressed the bell. He stood flatfooted before the door, allowing us a close-up of his back. I wondered whether this was the mountain that had dropped upon me not too long ago.

  Semple’s right hand held the gun in his pocket. He was breathing audibly. Louis still whistled the rhumba.

  Bull said, “I feel like a bit player in a grade D melodrama. Don’t these plug uglies simply frighten you to pieces, Jeff?”

  I said, “The big man with the gun thcares me, poppa.”

  The door opened and a little colored girl appeared. She accepted Semple unsmilingly, stepped back to let us in.

  Semple said, “Tell her I’m here with the detective.”

  The girl gave Bull the side of her eye and walked away through a doorway.

  Louis said, “Walk right in and make yourselves cozy, gents.”

  Bull and I sauntered to the wide entrance to the living room and looked inside. We walked in.

  It was a long narrow room, overcrowded with what seemed to be expensive furniture, the sort of overloaded tripe that belonged to the French kings and should have been buried with them. Many odd tables stood in unusual places. There was a rococo-shaded pottery lamp on each of these tables. You got the feeling that perhaps some of these tables and lamps were for sale, there were so many of them. The rest of the furniture was scattered willy-nilly throughout the big room; small chairs, large and well stuffed chairs, antique and modern chairs, enough of them for a wake or a small convention.

  The color, too, was as varied and nonsensical as the furniture, bright range reds and blues seeming to hold sway. The drapes on the east window were broad sweeps of blue material. The walls were almost free of color and their whiteness added havoc to the decor.

  There were a few pictures, most of them of the French bedroom school of art. A lone lithograph dotted the far wall.

  Bull said, “Charming little rat nest, isn’t it, Jeff? And yet some poor and innocent creature undoubtedly calls this home.”

  “A work of sheer art,” I commented. “A gem of decorative skill. Phew!”

  Bull crossed the room and studied the lithograph. It was a Daumier, a picture of a guitarist strumming his instrument and mouthing a song. The word MONOMANES was printed over the man’s head. Below the picture, the French verse read:

  LE GUITTARISTE—AMATEUR

  Narguant le baillement immense

  Qu’il provoque en chantant ses vers,

  Il chanterait une romance,

  Sur les débris de l’univers.

  The initials H.D. were signed in the left corner, over a mark reading: Chez Bauger Ft. duCroissant 16.

  Bull said, “Charming thought. Daumier is the most permanent artist the world has ever seen. He’d make a fortune if he were alive today, just merchandising this stuff with fresh costumery.”

  We went to the window and looked down at the kidney shapes that were the park lakes. Semple came after us, turning to stand in the wide entrance near the piano. Bull took a cigarette from a teak box.

  “Sit down, Semple,” he said. “You’re a bundle of nerves. Your blood pressure will floor you if you don’t watch out.”

  Semple stared at him. “Go to hell!”

  “You’re frightening me again. Where’s your boss?”

  At that moment the woman with the retroussé nose strode into the room holding her head high. She was a smaller character in her bright yellow robe. She carried herself with the same bold posture, weight on her hips. She made the most of her ample bosom. She swayed with a burlesque stride. The yellow robe was cut low.

  She had a face that held a small spark of faded beauty, and the nose promoted it. Her eyes were well set in her head and loaded with mascara. Her lips were an orange smear. She was smiling a brittle, nervous smile when she reached us.

  Bull didn’t rise from his chair. His eyes played with her hair and rolled slowly down to her shoes.

  She leaned for a cigarette, lit it, and jerked her head toward the door and Semple. Semple wasn’t looking at her. He was making believe he liked flowers, plucking at the bowl of imitation gardenias on the piano top.

  She crossed the room and swung Semple around by an elbow. Semple reddened to the ears. His right hand remained in his pocket. She eyed the pocket.

  “You stupid fool!” she screamed and hit him hard with the full strength of her right hand. Semple’s gun hand came out of his pocket and moved up to protect his face. She felt his right coat pocket at that moment. She slapped him again, harder.

  She used both hands and slapped him three times across the face with each hand. He didn’t move away from her. He stood there taking it. His eyes watered and his mouth hung open stupidly, but he stood there taking it.

  “You imbecile!” she screamed. “Did I tell you to go get this man with your gun? What do you suppose he thinks of me now, sending a jerk like you after him with a gun?”

  Semple didn’t know the answer.

  “I told you to go get him—to ask him to see me,” she shrilled. “Didn’t I? Didn’t I tell you that? I should have known better, sending an ape like you. Hand me that gun!”

  Semple put the gun on the table. His eyes were a sea of tears now, bathing his cheeks. He sucked in his breath twice, in quick, childlike gasps. He turned his head away from her, staring obliquely at the rug.

  She jerked the gun away and put it in her robe. Then she slid an evil glance at Semple.

  “Get out!” she snapped. “Get the hell out of here, you fat lush, before I lose my temper again!”

  Semple left. He didn’t slam the door when he walked into the hall. With a great show of nerves, she crossed the room and sank into a chair opposite Bull. She sobbed great sobs into a lace handkerchief.

  Bull said, “What’s eating you, Mrs. Gant?”

  She brought her head up at the mention of her name. She cut the sobs with a knife and sat there sniffling, eyes wide. “I thought I was smart when I found out who you were, Bull, and where I could get you. But how do you know my name?”

  “I used to read the tabloids when their editorials were comic strips. The good old days, when you were a great event in the lives of the press photographers.”

  She managed a weak and artificial smile. “Sure. Of course.” She rose and drifted to the lacquered orange bar near
the window, “Let’s have a couple of light ones before my head breaks open. You boys like Scotch, I’ll bet.” She fiddled with bottles. “I’ll bet you think I’m crazy, or something, the way that dope brought you up here.”

  We accepted the Scotch. Bull said, “If you wanted me, why didn’t you come yourself? I’m not a hard man to see when a lady knocks at my door.”

  She had big black eyes full of mascaraed slyness. “I guess I was afraid to ask you. I’m a home body,” she said. “I don’t go out much.”

  “You patronize night clubs,” said Bull. “You were sitting in Lecotte’s place on the night he was murdered. Have you been interviewed by the police yet?”

  “They know where to find me.”

  “I wonder. Maybe they haven’t found out you were there. In that case you would be a lucky girl.” Bull walked to the window and eyed the landscape. “But Trum is a pretty thorough hound. He’ll get to you.”

  “You won’t tell him?”

  Bull threw up his hands. “Me? Not a chance. Trum and I aren’t sharing secrets. You didn’t call me up here on police business, did you? Because if you did—”

  She walked over to him quickly and put a hand on his elbow. “Take it easy, big boy. I called you up here because I know you’re a better man than Trum. I’ve got a case for you.”

  “I didn’t know I had a public. My trade is writing.”

  “I know. I knew all about your detective work from the newspapers. The time you got that lumpy nose character—”

  Bull turned away from her. “That was last year. Since then I’ve retired. I’ve decided to leave all the detective work to detectives like Trum and concentrate upon my muse. I’m not in the market for cases, you see. I’m no pro.”

  She forced a laugh. “What difference does that make?” She took a long swallow of her drink, then sat down and crossed her legs. They were still all right—good enough for eager eyes over the runway—thin and well curved where curves should be. But her frame was fleshy now and far out of the big leagues in burlesque. There was something sad about her, something too big for me to grasp in between the quick dialogue.

  She said, “I can pay you well, Bull.”

  “No doubt, but I’m not interested in money any more. A man makes a certain amount of dough these days and takes it easy. Surtaxes, you know.”

  She threw him a broader smile. “Every man has a price. I’ve got plenty of what it takes for a man like you.”

  “Not today. Besides, you’ll be hearing from Trum one of these days. I don’t want to be mixed up with that guy anymore. He irritates me, and everybody he meets—especially people he can wangle under those big strong lights he’s got down there. He likes to take pretty little women like you and lock them in a room with a few of his handsome detectives. Then he turns on those runway lights and aims them into your mascara until your eyes water and you begin to sweat like overtime in a Turkish bath. After he has opened your pores he walks onstage himself, and begins to ask you funny little questions. You’ll enjoy those questions. Trum is quite a wit.”

  “I’ve got nothing for Trum. Absolutely nothing.”

  Bull smiled. “Trum is quite an art lover—he’ll be crazy about those pretty gams of yours. He’ll look at your legs while he shoots you a few funny little questions about a fellow named Lecotte.”

  She stiffened but said nothing.

  “You recollect the name?” Bull asked his drink. “You were very near Monsieur Lecotte Wednesday night, enjoying his good liquor and his fancy art work with your man Semple. Then, all of a sudden, you left. I wonder where you went?”

  “For a ride. My chauffeur and Semple were with me, and can alibi me.”

  Bull rose and put down his glass. “Where did these fine upstanding alibis take you?”

  She narrowed her eyes, lost her smile. “I called you up here to ask you questions and pay for answers, Bull. How do I collect from you?”

  Bull said, “You don’t. You answer my questions. Period.”

  “You’re a stubborn little man, aren’t you? We drove through the park for a while. The boys will back me up.”

  She got up again and moved in close to Bull. She stood on one side of the bar and bent low for her drink. The diamond brooch at her bosom had loosened and the robe hung lower than ever. The diamond brooch had a catch clip arrangement on the back. It was the type of clip that never slips unless a hand forces it.

  Bull said, “Pull yourself together and think of a better gag. Trum will never swallow that routine.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  Bull stared her eyes down. He reached for his hat and put down his glass. “Maybe Trum will swallow that guff. Me, I have a weak stomach and it’s getting late and I want to go to bed.”

  She watched him cross the room. “You win, Bull. I don’t know what you’re getting at and I don’t care much. If I give you the lowdown on where I went from Lecotte’s, will you listen to me and take my case?”

  “I might,” said Bull. He came back to the couch. “I don’t give a hoot in hell about your case or about Lecotte’s murder. I’m just curious. I like to find out what makes people tick. But if I stay, you’ll have to cut out the burlesque routine. Lying women do things to my gastric juices.”

  “I promise.”

  “Start at the beginning and skip the embroidery. I’d like to know about Semple first. Where does he fit—errand boy?”

  “That’s all. What did you think he was?”

  “Let me ask the questions. What does he do? You pay him a salary for following you with a gun?”

  Her laugh was low and throaty. “I thought everybody knew about Semple.”

  “Everybody knows what he did for your ex-husband. He was the bully boy of Gant’s gang. I don’t quite understand his routine with you.”

  She shrugged. “Gant was fond of the jerk. A human watch dog, he called him. That’s what I call him, too. He’s been with me ever since Gant died.”

  “Why should you need a Saint Bernard?”

  “I’m sentimental, I guess—he’s like one of the family.”

  “You pay him a salary?”

  “Why not?”

  “How cozy. Semple intrigues me. He lives here?”

  Her head shot up. “Don’t be funny! He lives downtown somewhere. I’ll get you his address if you really want it.”

  “Don’t ever let me forget. How about Louis?”

  “The same routine.” She took the glasses out of our hands and went to the bar with them. She spilled Scotch into them with a lavish gesture. “Let’s get off the merry-go-round, Bull. I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m a regular customer down at Lecotte’s joint. Ask the doorman. Ask the bartender, ask anybody down there, they’ll tell you I used to go there every night. So what? So I like the place. Last time I went there was the night Lecotte got cut up. Does that mean anything? Why don’t I go there anymore? Because I’m a lady with a weak stomach. That place will always smell of murder to me from now on.”

  Bull got up. “That sounds like the prologue to some more song and dance, Mrs. Gant. There are probably a thousand night clubs in New York City. You’re no art lover. You’re just not the type of woman who would keep going back to look at Lecotte’s pretty pictures.” He fingered his hat again. “Either you give it to me straight or I’m saying good night.”

  She settled into a chair and sighed. When she looked up at him her eyes gave her away. She was beaten. “All right—I had a reason for going down to Lecotte’s so often. That’s why I got you up here, Bull.”

  “You were looking for somebody at Lecotte’s?”

  She nodded. “I was looking for my kid sister. Paula Smith.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Bull put his glass down on the table. He said, “It’s about time you got around to Paula. What were you waiting for?”

  Mrs. Gant lowered her eyes. “I w
as afraid—for Paula, I mean.”

  “You thought she might have killed Lecotte?”

  She eyed him balefully. “You’ve got a cop’s mind, after all, Bull. I couldn’t have thought anything about Paula. I haven’t seen her in maybe eight, nine years. I ran into her some time ago in that dive. Don’t look at me that way, I’m leveling now. I pleaded with her to lay off Lecotte. I knew his reputation and didn’t want the kid mixed up with him. I thought she might have been in love with him or something and wanted to steer her straight.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “About five weeks ago.”

  “And you’ve been visiting Lecotte’s steadily since then in the hope of running into her?”

  Mrs. Gant nodded. “After all—I’m her sister.”

  “You’re also an old Lecotte fan, aren’t you?”

  She laughed. “Whoever told you such a thing?”

  “A couple of gossip columnists told it to a few million people not too long ago. I read the papers. Everybody with half a memory knows that you were crazy about Lecotte. That Daumier lithograph on the wall proves it. Lecotte wouldn’t give up any of his precious Daumiers to any two-bit doll.”

  “Don’t get dramatic,” she said. “I didn’t care that much for the heel.”

  “Who knows?” Bull asked his fingers. “Maybe you were crazy about him. Maybe you and Lecotte had a little row that night and you stuck him with a knife and then returned to the club to set up a pat alibi. That would be a smart way of handling him, wouldn’t it? A big brain like Semple could work the deal out that way.”

  “You don’t know Semple,” she laughed.

  “Lucky me,” said Bull. He sighed and turned to me. “Tell her about her sister, Jeff.”

  I told her about the phone call. She followed my story with her mouth open and there was pleasure and relief in her eyes. She smiled at me and put down her drink. She said, “That’s wonderful news. She’s safe, then?”