Violence in Velvet

by Michael Avallone

  Violence in Velvet

  Michael Avallone

  STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

  BEVERLY HILLS

  2012

  Copyright © 2012 Susan Avallone and David Avallone. All rights reserved.

  http://mouseauditorium.tumblr.com/

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

  Story Merchant Books

  9601 Wilshire Boulevard #1202

  Beverly Hills CA 90210

  http://www.storymerchant.com/books.html

  For the heroes of childhood:

  D’Artagnan, Richard Wentworth, Doc Savage, Mel Ott,

  Gary Cooper, and

  WILLIAM JAMES DAPRATO

  An index card extracted from Ed Noon’s business file:

  LUCILLE

  toy-size doll with jumbo parent trouble

  THE PRENTICES

  distaff half no longer kicking and singing; male half doing a single

  500 GREEN MEN

  payment for keeping the toy doll in an unbreakable state

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ONE

  I was sitting in Benny’s bar when she came in. Only she was no lady. She wasn’t even a woman. Calling her a girl would have been stretching the truth by too many years.

  She was a kid. A small, wide-eyed kid somewhere in that empty void between pigtails and adolescent gawkiness. Her dress was what her mother would call a pinafore, and the bold brightness of her eyes more than matched her costume.

  I was nursing a cold beer along and Benny was a mountain of bulk in front of his cash register. He saw her reflection in the big glass behind his bottle stock and something happened to his face. I grinned at the effect a kid can have on a bartender. He whirled with a rough growl:

  “Come on now, honey. Outside. This is no place for little ladies.”

  “You can say that again, Benny,” I murmured in my drink.

  I started to turn around to watch her retreat from Benny’s bar, but suddenly a small hand was tugging at my sleeve.

  “Excuse me. Are you Mister Noon? The man who has the detective office across the street?”

  It was a new one on me. I leaned my elbows back on the bar proper and stared down at her. I tried to look kind because kids expect it from you.

  “That’s me, little lady. What can I do for you?”

  Benny’s bulk was agitated. We were alone in the bar because it was still daylight and early in the afternoon. That didn’t mean anything to Benny. He kept an eye out for the beat cop.

  “She can’t hang around in here, Ed. Be reasonable. A minor being seen in here—” His voice trailed off helplessly.

  The little girl pouted, the expression making her pert little face as cute as a pickle seed.

  “Why can’t I? I’m ten. Besides, I just have to talk with Mister Noon here—”

  I got down from the stool. Her black-haired head just reached the level of the bar.

  “Sure, you do.” I took her small hand. “But not in here. Outside. You can tell me all about it outside. We don’t want to get Benny in trouble, do we?”

  She made a face. “I don’t care about him. I’m the one that’s in trouble. Big trouble.”

  That made Benny laugh. “Somebody steal your bicycle, kid? Ed’s good on stolen bicycle jobs, ain’t you, Ed?”

  “The best,” I said seriously. But the kid had spunk. Benny’s crack nearly curled her pigtails.

  “That’s not funny. Mister Noon, it’s not a bicycle. That’s kid stuff—”

  I calmed her down and led her out to the sidewalk, winking at Benny. Benny thought it was hilarious. He had practically collapsed over his cash register.

  I guess it was pretty funny at that. And a new wrinkle besides. Private detectives get all kinds of clients from famous names to African tentmakers, but they certainly never get ten-year-old girls that cornered them in their favorite bars. I had it all figured though. An ice cream cone and I’d be rid of her. I’m not the busiest guy in the world, but kiddie capers are for funny radio programs.

  We stopped outside and I stared down at her. She looked right up at me. She had as much anguish in her face as a ten-year-old kid can summon up.

  “You will help me, wontcha? I can’t go to the police—”

  “Now, wait a minute.” I decided on a little firmness. “What’s this all about?”

  “It’s Mommy,” she shrilled. “Daddy’s trying to hurt Mommy!”

  Even for an imaginative kid, I couldn’t laugh at something like that.

  “Easy, now. What makes you think so? Why would your father want to hurt your mother?”

  Questions were obviously something for later. She began to push me and tugged at my coat. Her oval face was strained.

  “Come on, please. We’ve got to hurry. We’ll be too late if we talk here. Please, Mister Noon. I can pay you. I’ve got money—”

  This time I decided to play the game with her. I didn’t want a hysterical kid on my hands. Not in front of Benny’s bar at any rate.

  “Okay.” I got business-like. “How much?”

  The tears that were beginning to start stopped just as quickly. Her small hand came up, left a lump of wet, sticky coins in my palm. I made a show of counting them.

  “Hmm,” I mused aloud. “One dollar and ninety-eight cents. Exactly the right amount for this sort of investigation.”

  She was still tugging away. “Will you come now—please?”

  “You hired me. I go where you go. Where do you live?”

  That kind of question was all my client needed. She dragged me off down the block. I let her lead, thinking all the while how funny it must have looked. The top of her head just made the second button of my suit jacket. And she was a pretty determined kid. I tagged along in a hurry, ready to turn her over to her parents with a strong suggestion that they keep her away from gangster comics and the wrong kind of TV shows. My Boy Scout training had already gotten the better of me anyway. The kid’s folks might be worrying themselves blue about her. And I didn’t ask her any more questions either. The kid was full of gory details along the way, but I listened with half an ear. I’d get her home, return the one dollar and ninety-eight cents, which had all the earmarks of a piggy-bank raid, and get back to Benny’s. My office was in a rough neighborhood, and a kid her age would be well off not being in it.

  I did have one question though. The only really necessary one.

  “What’s your name?”

  The rushing made her pant. Between gulps, she said, “Lucille.”

  “What’s your father’s name?”

&
nbsp; “Guy Prentice. And Mommy’s name is Paula—”

  “And your name is Lucille Prentice.”

  “Of course, silly.” She stopped to scowl at me. “He’s my father, isn’t he?”

  She’d given me more than that to chew on. Guy Prentice. Something cold tried to work down my spine, but I fought it off. It couldn’t be the same Prentice. Or could it? I racked my brains for all the tidbits you glean out of Winchell columns. Yes, Guy Prentice was married. He had a kid but—could there be two guys with a stage name like that? I didn’t think so.

  “How much further, Lucille?”

  “Just another block. You getting tired, Mister Noon?”

  Just another block was practically Columbus Circle and my mind was taking the name Guy Prentice and kicking it back and forth until I had to come up with one unalterable conclusion. It had to be the same Prentice. The Guy who was currently the song-and-dance success story of Broadway. The headline attraction of Kick and Sing, the musical smash with the hardest-to-get seats. I looked down at Lucille and fought for the resemblance. But it wasn’t there. Of course, that didn’t prove a thing. Girls usually take after their mothers anyway.

  I fought it off just as Lucille guided me with a “Here we are!” to one of those huge apartment buildings that look out over Central Park from the big wash basin of Columbus Circle. I said to myself that this was the same Guy, all right. The wrong one wouldn’t live here. A big-shot Broadway musical star would.

  I told myself I’d get it over with in a hurry. Drop the kid off, accept thanks and let it go at that. I didn’t want any tip either. I would have felt insulted. Even if I could use it.

  Lucille bounced into the lobby, said hello to the uniformed staff and proudly installed me in one of the plush elevators. The staff smiled down at her and up at me in a way that confirmed my worst suspicions. This kid was a tomboy who wandered off at will and had been returned before. I grinned with the notion that even the rich and successful had problems I never had to contend with.

  We alighted on a floor that was rugged up Persian style fore and aft. Lucille’s breathing had gotten staccato, and her tiny hand in mine squeezed with fear.

  “Easy, honey,” I said. “Everything’s all right. You’ll see.”

  She didn’t use a key. The door was unlocked and we went in.

  There was wealth on all sides. The kind that lets people buy that Ming Dynasty stuff and period doodads so they can clutter up a joint just the way their artistic hearts desire. Well, the Prentices had followed their natural bent and the place was sagging under the weight of it. Their home looked like a museum.

  Lucille seemed to tiptoe through the magnificence from force of habit rather than current fears. I tagged along. Otherwise, I was like a guy waiting for a streetcar where the tracks have been dug up.

  “Anybody home?” I called loudly. Lucille screamed. A little girl’s scream.

  “Something’s happened—” she moaned. “I just know it. Daddy’s not here. And Mommy’s not—”

  “Easy,” I soothed. “Let’s look around first. Don’t get so many ideas. It’s bad for a kid your age.”

  Lucille took my notion to heart and ran into one of the other rooms. I went into a tiny room which seemed to lead out to a terrace of some kind. Bright sunlight was streaking in as I took a look.

  To this day I’m glad I found the body first. It wasn’t pretty.

  It was stretched across the floor, one tapered feminine hand just barely touched by the sunlight streaming in. I heard Lucille skipping back from her survey of the other rooms. I whipped a shawl off a long table and draped it quickly over the head of the corpse. It was nothing for anybody to see, let alone a ten-year-old kid.

  If this was the mother, it was going to be rough the next few minutes.

  The corpse’s face had been blasted out of existence, close range, with a .45 calibre automatic. I saw the gun lying on a chair nearby.

  The whole clip was empty.

  TWO

  I hadn’t had to touch the gun to know that all of its teeth had been removed. The empty magazine lay in plain view on the chair right alongside its mother.

  I tried to think about it. The picture was phony somehow. Two quarter-size holes scarred the paint job on the opposite wall. From the position of the corpse, even if the holes were authentic misses the dead lady must have been a running target.

  It was too soon to think about anything else but the kid anyway. I got that message in a flash. There was a low, muted “Oh!” from the open doorway. I whirled, trying to block off the view of what was on the floor as I did so.

  Lucille was framed in the doorway, staring at me and around me, her eyes goggling. Her oval face fought with something as her mouth worked and her pink cheeks swelled. I took a step forward and reached out instinctively. It was no time for words.

  No time is right. Her eyes disappeared as her bony young knees buckled in a dead faint. I caught her easily, cradled her over to a heavy leather couch by the desk. She was as light as a bag of feathers. I checked her tiny wrist for pulse. It was slow and regular but it was still there. She’d come around in a little while. I forgot all about her for a minute.

  It was a stumping feeling. Columbus Circle, a sunny October day, a small kid with one dollar and ninety-eight cents and a lot of wild talk about Daddy wanting to hurt Mommy, and now Mommy was dead. Really dead. Blasted dead close range with a .45 calibre destroyer that was still with us. Plus that was the refusing-to-go-away fact that .45s make more of a racket than a bop concert, and nobody had come to check the noise. I didn’t get it.

  I stared around the room, looked at the thing on the floor, the kid on the couch and the make-up of the room. I rubbed the day-old beard on my face. That usually stimulates my brain. But it didn’t work this time. I only irritated the tips of my fingers on the sandpaper.

  I found a phone on the desk buried amidst a stack of unopened mail, newspapers and entertainment mags. Overly thumbed copies of Cue, TV Guide. Mags like that.

  I dialed Police Headquarters slowly thinking over a story for myself that would make some sense. The picture began to clear up for me a little.

  There was the desk, the leather couch, a big combination file and safe. But more particularly there was a mess of recording equipment and a huge player contraption and a long, low bin of record albums that explained away the unheard .45. Sure. It figured. Guy Prentice’s workshop. The place where he dry-ran his silver singing voice and tried out his Broadway styles and techniques on wax. A soundproof studio room. Soundproof but not murderproof.

  It figured all right. But what didn’t figure was the door opening onto the terrace. It could only mean one thing. The face-blaster had blasted away with that door closed and then left by that route without closing the door. They were French-type doors at that. You know, glass and wood.

  The phone clicked in my ear and a standard police voice wanted to know what I wanted. I let him have it quick and fast without introducing myself because I wasn’t too sure I was going to stick around yet.

  “There’s a messy homicide in Guy Prentice’s apartment on Columbus Circle. Dead woman. Seems to be Mrs. Prentice. Make all possible speed, will you?”

  The cop got sarcastic.

  “Now, wait just a minute. Who is this?”

  “Murphy’s Funeral Parlor. Guy Prentice’s place. Columbus Circle. Got that? See you.”

  I hung up as he started to sputter.

  It’s not really the clown in me that makes me talk like that, you understand. From my past experience with cops, you have to make an impression on them to get them to move. They’re so buried in red tape that only off-the-beaten-path measures get results with them.

  The police callboard is loaded daily with crank calls but this was one that this particular cop would do something about.

  I went out to the terrace through the open door that had bothered me. It was on the west side of the building because the afternoon sun bathed me with heat when I got there.

&nbs
p; It wasn’t a big terrace though. Just an elbow-room affair that permitted the Prentices to see the sky over Central Park and stare down at fifteen floors of Manhattan sidewalk. The semblance of a garden in the shape of old-fashioned window boxes crawling with green leaves formed a square U in front of me.

  I inspected every inch of the small area without even the faintest notion of what was prompting me. But dead people have that effect on so-called dispensers of justice. Especially dead murdered people. A dead person is the oldest and most popular riddle in the world. To a moth-eaten private detective who has just gotten innocently involved, the riddle needs solving bad.

  I finished with my inspection and got one hard fact. The terrace was a dead end. If you walked out on it, the way back was the way you came. It was only a jut-out, like a balcony. All the other windows of the building were too far removed to have any escape value. Only a Houdini could have done anything with it, and by the old Harry it would have been pure magic anyway. It was just no way out.

  A sound of something moving behind me brought me back into the murder room. I had forgotten all about Lucille.

  My eyes adjusted themselves from the sunlight outside to the necessarily gloomier interior. Things came back into focus and one of those things made me wish I had stood in bed, taken up landscape gardening, become a movie star or a soda jerk. Anything but a down-at-the-heels detective.

  Because Lucille, my little client, had recovered rapidly and was sitting up on the couch, playing as a small kid will with an object in her hands. At first I thought it was a toy.

  I stopped dead in my tracks. The toy was the murder weapon. The .45.

  My first concern was for her. Shock sometimes will set kids off on dizzy tangents. But then the concern was for myself.

  She heard me come in. She sprang off the couch like a fast squirrel heading for a tree, bringing the ponderous automatic up with both hands clasped around it. Even from where I stood I could see she was holding it the right way. Her bony white forefinger was curled around the trigger, and the blunt deadly nose of the thing bored straight at me.