“I didn’t kill him,” she whispered. “You must believe me.”
“You had me sold until you tried the ‘your word against mine’ gambit.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Talk.”
“I was right the first time. You’re a softy, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. I’m trying to play on your team.”
“I can never repay you.”
“I haven’t billed you yet, Linda.”
“A real softy.” She had melted, very close to me on the couch now, the panic no longer in her. Instead she was trying to tell me something with her eyes, smiling quietly and leaning into me and covering my hand with hers. She came closer and still closer and then she kissed me, not deep, not strong, but with gentleness. It wasn’t easy to move away from her.
“Let’s have that drink now,” I told her.
“We don’t have to drink, Steve.”
“You’re playing it from the script again, Linda.”
“I want to thank you.”
“You’ve thanked me.”
“You’re a real human being, Steve.”
“How about that drink?” I said.
I drank with her for a while, letting her find some calm. She was the type who would never let go, never ease off until sleep claimed her.
“Why don’t you tell me how it all started?” I said. “I mean, the events of the day. It would help a lot. Your date with Flato. Start with that. When did you make the date?”
“In his office,” she said. “Yesterday I had a call from Jan’s office about a small bit in a comedy routine he was planning for his show. Oh, it was nothing fancy, nothing really worthwhile; I mean prestige-wise. But I wanted it because it was network. You know the old yen for a big audience, a chance to be seen, to be grabbed for something greater. Actors are imbeciles, really, children who believe in magic.”
“Who called you?”
“Jan’s assistant.”
“But you spoke to Jan after that?”
“I had a dinner date with him, for tonight,” she said. “Jan made it with me on the same day, from his office.”
“Go on,” I said. She had lapsed into sudden silence, gnawing her lower lip and staring at her glass sadly.
“That was why I got high this afternoon,” she said. “That was why I tied one on when I met Jeff.”
“Jeff?”
“Jeff Masterson, a friend of mine.”
“A good friend?” I asked,
“A friend. A good listener, Jeff is. We went over to The Star, a bar around the corner. I was afraid, you see, scared to death of Jan. He had quite a reputation in the field, with the women he hired, I mean. Oh, you know the business, don’t you? There are girls and girls, most of them pretty easy in exchange for a part from a man like Jan Flato. That was what disturbed me, don’t you see, the reason why I had so much to drink. I’m that way, I suppose; too tense, too tight to fight an emotional battle without bottle help. That’s the way it is with me and I admit it.”
“So you turned to Jeff Masterson for moral support?”
“That’s about it. Jeff was sweet. He delivered me to Jan’s place in time for my date.”
“He didn’t come in?”
“He left me at the door.”
“And Flato’s apartment door. Was it open?”
“I walked in,” she said. “It must have been open. You didn’t think I had Jan’s key?”
“Forget it,” I said. “Are you quite sure about your friend of Masterson? Are you sure he didn’t come in?”
“I’m as sure as I’ll ever be,” she eyed me curiously. “He had no reason to come in. He only knew Jan slightly. Besides, it would have been awkward.”
“Yet, somebody did come in, probably at about that time, Linda. You don’t think Masterson could be our boy?”
“I’m positive,” she shrugged. “But that’s a silly thing to say, isn’t it? I was in no condition to notice where Jeff went after he left me.”
“So you came in, saw Jan and fainted. You saw nobody in the living room when you came out?”
“I was much too dizzy to see anybody or anything,” she said. “I collapsed from shock, I suppose. Fainting isn’t something you plan, Steve.”
She was on her feet and moving to the window, standing there draped in a provocative pose, staring sadly into the street. I liked her. I couldn’t blame Flato for trying to make time with this girl. She had a wonderful figure, a pleasant silhouette from any angle. Her body had the quality of naturalness, full in the bust and hips, womanly and well-rounded where a man likes curves.
“Tell me about Mari Barstow,” I said. “You knew her well?”
“We went to college together, studied dramatics together. We graduated two years ago and came to New York. For about a half-year Mari shared this flat with me. Then her direction changed. She always had a marvelous voice, deep and throaty, and very appealing. She got a job with a band leader named Tony Granada. Tony took her on the road and she sort of drifted out of my life. I’d see her occasionally at parties or when she played a New York club. The last time I saw her was at a Village party.”
“Was she alone?”
“Mari alone?” She laughed for the first time, an attractive laugh that lit up her face and somehow seemed to change her personality. A lot of the theatrical polish faded with that laugh and I wondered what it would take to keep her really happy. “Mari Barstow was never alone, from the first moment I met her in college. It was a thing with her, the business of avoiding loneliness. She always had a companion.”
“And who was her companion at that party?”
“Tony Granada, of course.”
“Her steady boy friend?”
“I couldn’t answer that honestly.”
“She never had a steady?” I asked. “In college?”
“In college, yes.”
“His name?”
“You certainly are going way back,” she smiled. “Her beau in college was Jeff Masterson. They were very much dedicated to each other in their senior year. And she saw Jeff in New York for a while, too. He’s a writer, a novelist, one of the beat generation tribe, but still unpublished.”
“Was he at that Village party you mentioned?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Still in love with her?”
“Love? Jeff would sneer at the word, Conacher. His group is more concerned with the primitive pleasures. A strange bunch.”
“Tell me about the bunch,” I suggested.
She went into a slow monologue about the beat generation tribe, talking to the window while I used the time to look around her apartment. It was a two-room layout; a living room, a small kitchenette, and a bedroom. The furnishings were nondescript. The place radiated a feeling of good taste, not expensive but interesting. There were several colorful reproductions on the wall. A small line-up of theatrical photos decorated the top of the bookshelf. One of the photos was Mari Barstow, taken in college, a Bohemian lass dressed in dungarees and a heavy sweater, her hair done pony-tail style. She was a remarkably pretty girl, prettier than the press shot Oliver Silverton had showed me.
“Cute girl, Mari,” I said.
“Oh, she’s a cute one, all right.”
“Lots of boy friends?”
“Too many.”
“Jan Flato?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I didn’t know Jan well enough to discuss his women.”
“Women?”
“He had many bedmates.”
“Do you know him well enough to discuss his enemies?”
“I’m afraid not, Steve.”
“I was thinking of a man named Arthur Haddon.”
“Arthur?” She laughed at the thought. “Arthur only hates himself, really. He’s a sweet man, mild
and harmless. Everybody in show business knows his big heart. He was a television genius in his day and he’s been shuffled back to a desk job. He has the license to be angry with the younger group of directors, don’t you think?”
“The group? Or Flato in particular?”
“Why Flato?”
“I was thinking that Mari Barstow might have stood in the middle, between them. Arthur Haddon had a yen for her. Maybe he still has. She doesn’t seem to be an easy girl to forget.”
“She’s not easy,” said Linda. “Not easy in any way.”
She got up nervously and had another drink. She faced me with a measured, intense look, the sort of expression she must have used thousands of times in her dramatics, a look of complete honesty, a look of open nobility of purpose.
I said, “Stop twitching, Linda. You’re going to be all right.”
“Do you really think so, Steve?”
“I don’t think you murdered him.”
“Will the police agree with you?” Her old worries were back to plague her again, doing strange things to her, moving her to my side at the door where she clung to me with trembling desperation. “Will you come back, Steve? Will you see them? The police? What shall I do if they come?”
“Tell them the truth,” I said. “And by all means don’t let them see you with a load on. I’ll be back. I’ve got things to do, Linda—but I’ll certainly be back.”
I kissed her goodbye and left.
CHAPTER 3
The morning papers were piled on Oliver Silverton’s desk. The top one, a tabloid, carried a bold headline:
TV DIRECTOR MURDERED
Police Hunt Mystery Visitor
The inside story featured a variety of poses of Mrs. Timmerman and the police. She was the key witness, the only photographable element in the case. The news artists had drawn several diagrams of the apartment, complete with directional arrows and theoretical meanderings of the murderer.
Mrs. Timmerman described the mysterious man who pretended to be a Life research worker. Again, the staff artist created a composite “killer picture” made up of the elements of Mrs. Timmerman’s strange description. I was pictured as a vague type, rather watery looking in the eyes and somewhat cherubic in facial contours—a roundish head in a rakish felt hat described as sort of “greenish” but with a brown feather in the band. “He was a short, average little man,” Mrs. Timmerman told them, “very polite and quite nice. He certainly fooled me completely. I would never take him to be a murderer. He looked more like a Fuller Brush man or an insurance agent or somebody like that.”
I laughed out loud.
“Something wrong, Conacher?” Silverton asked.
“Flato’s landlady,” I said. “A very funny woman with the descriptive prose.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Her account of the mystery man. That would be me, Silverton.”
“You?”
“In person. I’m the mysterious stranger.”
I broke it down for him and he heard me out, not happy with my tale. The shock of Flato’s death had changed him. He was normally a man of great poise, an executive who would show only one face to the world, one of complete calm and control at all times. He had Madison Avenue overtones; lean, alert and crisp-tongued. He would be used to giving commands to menials, issuing interoffice communications, holding forth at the top end of a board table. He would have skipped up from the ranks on the strength of his perpetual smoothness, his almost frigid confidence. But it was all gone this morning. He no longer radiated composure. He was completely unnerved by the terrible news.
“And your effort was wasted?” he asked. “You found nothing at all?”
“Crumbs. Dream stuff, Silverton, theory. Flato was knifed and I think the job was done by a professional. Flato would be no easy target for an amateur knifer. He was a wiry man, muscled and energetic. He would have had a better chance against a neophyte stabber.”
“Incredible,” said Silverton, on his feet now and staring down at the city. “Double trouble, Conacher. It’s my job to handle public relations for this network. This is the ugliest assignment ever to come down the pike for me. People like Jan Flato simply don’t get involved in murders. He was far too usual, too normal. You met him. Didn’t you think so?”
“Murderers don’t follow rules,” I said. “They’re not a special breed, the way you play them on the television screen. Once, in Brooklyn, I saw the homicide squad prove a case against the sweetest old lady this side of Grandma Moses. She looked as innocent as Whistler’s mother. But she happened to be a handy old girl with a knife.”
“But why Flato?” he asked impatiently. “The man had no enemies. He was liked, respected, the nicest kind of a guy, really.”
“How about Haddon? Did Haddon like him?”
“Arthur? Yes, even Arthur approved of him, Conacher.”
“Despite the fact that Flato took his job?”
“Nonsense. Arthur Haddon is a realist. He’s perfectly aware that he can’t direct any more. The strain would kill him. He was replaced because he couldn’t stand the pressure of his work, both physically and mentally. He knows that somebody younger had to fill his spot. The fact that Flato got the job is routine.”
“That’s hard to believe, Silverton. Haddon doesn’t seem to be that kind of clam. Was he a heavy drinker before the axe fell?”
“Arthur Haddon always drank,” he smiled. “He’s home today, hung over.”
“Where can he be reached?”
“You might try The Coach Bar, on Lexington.”
“No family?”
“Haddon’s been divorced four times. He prefers living alone now. You think he’s involved in this?”
“I met him last night. He was pretty well crocked. But he mentioned Mari Barstow’s name with quite a bit of feeling.”
“Meaningless,” smiled Silverton. “Mari Barstow has the capacity for making herself remembered.”
“How about Flato? Did he know her well?”
“I couldn’t be sure.”
“He told me he dated her.”
“Nothing unusual about that,” Silverton said. “In this business, a busy director does quite a bit of socializing if he’s so inclined. Mari would challenge him.”
“You think he made time with her?”
“Possibly.”
“Is she easy?”
“Easy?” Silverton smiled at me in the manner of a professor listening to a freshman. “I never tried her, Conacher. She may have been a trifle easy for Jan, however. He was an important director, a man who controlled one of the biggest shows on our network. Young women with ambition are reputed to offer their bodies to important people like Jan Flato. This is pretty much a business fact, in the same sense that dress salesmen entertain out-of-town buyers. But the simple seduction of a girl like Mari couldn’t have meant much to Jan Flato. He would consider her a passing night’s amusement and nothing more.”
“And if he considered her more?”
“What are you saying?” Silverton sharpened to my idea, more than a little interested now. “You think Flato was serious about her?”
“He was serious enough to remove her name from his list of phone numbers. He was careful to remove her pictures from his photo album. These may be idle hunches, but I’m sold on them. If Flato purposely removed her from his personal effects at home, he may have known where she was. Unless he had serious enemies, his murder shapes up as a silly piece of business. It couldn’t have been robbery. The police have discounted that thought and I’m with them. City detectives are shrewd, Silverton. Your industry has done them a disservice by painting them as semi-morons in the half-hour shows.”
“You’re right, of course. There were two of them in to see me this morning, intelligent men, both of them. Cushing and Gahan. Know them?”
“Bot
h,” I said. “My work rarely brings me into contact with the homicide group, but I’ve met some of them. The private investigator operates in a world of his own most of the time, digging leads in the routine way and rarely bothering with the local police officials, except to check Missing Persons once in a while. We help each other when and where the opportunity offers itself. It’s that cut and dried.”
“Have you been to see Missing Persons about Mari Barstow?”
“That would have been pretty stupid,” I said. “You wanted to keep it from the newsmen. You haven’t changed your mind?”
“Certainly not.” He eyed me with real concern. “It’s more important than ever now to hold the Mari Barstow thing away from any publicity. Is that clear, Conacher?”
“It’s pretty obvious.”
“It would damage us severely at this time,” Silverton said. “Of course, we can’t bury it for too long, you understand. Do you think you can find her soon?”
“There’s no telling.”
“A week?”
“No way for me to know.” His tentative deadline amused me. He was an educated man, well read and wise in the ways of the world. He must have read many accounts of the problems involved in tracking down the missing. A man of his intellect should have been familiar with the celebrated Judge Crater case, the fantastic saga of a well-known public citizen who faded into limbo and was never seen again, alive or dead. There were always magazine articles about the fascinating craft of skip-tracing. Every year, hundreds of perfectly normal people left perfectly normal homes and offices to vanish in the mysterious outer world and never return. It often took years to track down a purposeful wanderer. “I can only promise to do my best.”
“You’ve got to promise more than that, Conacher,” he said firmly. “What does it take to double your efforts?”
“Double my manpower.”
“An assistant?”
“An associate,” I said. “My friend Max Ornstein would hate to be called my assistant. Loss of face.”
“Get him,” said Silverton. “Right away.”
“I’ll call him at once.”
“Anything else you need, Conacher?” His interoffice phone was buzzing violently. The pile-up of appointments, calls and messages could no longer be dammed at Helen Calabrese’s desk. Silverton was beginning to sweat as he barked orders into the phone.
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