Violence in Velvet

by Michael Avallone

  Lucille’s eyes got as round as half dollars and Miss Tucker gave me a slight curl of her upper lip.

  I spotted Hadley’s tail three tables over. He was pretending to read a newspaper. I ignored him.

  I held out my hand lightly and touched Guy Prentice’s sleeve. He recognized the gesture for what it was and sat down again. But his black eyes pinned me with another right cross, and his aristocratic mouth drew back to show me his pearly whites.

  “We have nothing to say to you, Mr. Noon. Please do not make a scene. No further discussion is necessary.”

  Helen Tucker’s lovely smile was somehow unlovely.

  “Haven’t you said enough already? Really, Mr. Noon, for the sake of the child—”

  Lucille favored me with a toothy grin.

  “I’m having a malted. Do you want some of my malted, Mister Noon?”

  “No thanks, honey. My jaw would hurt sucking on the straw.” I looked at Guy Prentice. “You would have been home free, Fair-Fighting Prentice. But not any more. You now have in your hair one terribly nosey fellow terribly interested in taking you down a peg or two. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  His shoulders hunched in his gray tweed jacket and his black-haired head was as menacing as a pointed revolver.

  “Get out of here!” he rasped. “Before I call the head-waiter and have you thrown out!”

  I gave him the sneer that I reserve for the occasion.

  “Admitting that you need help?” I leaned over him, palms flat to the tabletop. Helen Tucker recoiled in her chair, alarmed. Her beautifully tapered fingers fluttered nervously. “Prentice, I’m going to your show tonight. And I’m going to get a good seat. A very good seat. You got an alibi. Ironclad, they tell me. Well, I’m going to see for myself. And then I’m going to see about everything else there is to see about.”

  He sagged and suddenly looked tired. Just then he was the picture of a man whose wife has been brutally murdered.

  “What do you want of me?” His black eyes were like ashes. “Do I have to suffer further—”

  “I’m a funny guy, Prentice. My face is damn particular about who punches it. If that’s not good enough for you, I’ll find another reason.”

  “Why, you, you, you——really!” It exploded out of Helen Tucker before she could find the right word.

  I straightened up again.

  “You’ll find a good word someday, Tucker. When you do, let me know. Well, so long, Barrymore. You’ve been warned.”

  Guy Prentice looked at me wearily.

  “What kind of man are you, Noon? Just an animal like all the rest of them in the audience? A great, mooing, unthinking herd with only reflexes to guide them—”

  “My reflexes are fine, Prentice. I’m the right kind of man too. The kind of man who does something when somebody pushes him in the face. If that’s being an animal, don’t hold that tiger! Let it go.”

  “Oh, tigers!” Lucille clapped her sticky hands. “Daddy, we haven’t been to the zoo in a long time—”

  I let the whole thing drop right there. I turned on my heel and headed out. Guy Prentice flung me a curt nod as I turned past the big window. Helen Tucker sniffed some ozone and turned the other way. Lucille winked broadly. I had already forgiven her for biting me.

  Hadley’s man folded his newspaper and stayed where he was.

  Some kid, I thought. Some father. Some dame. Guy Prentice’s mistress? Right then I didn’t give a damn. When you don’t care about a dame, you don’t care how many guys she sleeps with. That’s the kind of a world it is.

  I turned down Broadway, mechanically rubbing my jaw. The damn thing still hurt. Upstairs, the big sky was starting to mix up all the ingredients of a first-class rainstorm. The sunny October day had changed just as much as the simple Prentice case had.

  A thought hit just as suddenly as a bolt of lightning whacks down the length of a tree. The .45. The gun that killed Paula Prentice. Swell Sherlock I was.

  I hadn’t even tried to find out whose gun it was.

  SIX

  The rain was pelting the sidewalk like .45 slugs when I finally found a cigar store where all the telephone booths weren’t occupied. It’s really amazing sometimes how so many of your fellow Americans are using the Ameche just when you want one pretty bad.

  I dialed in a hurry and worried through the dial tone that followed. I hadn’t been wearing my trench coat when Lucille had pulled me out of Benny’s bar. The future of the dark blue serge I had recently bought looked pretty black. I sighed for the blue serge and then forgot all about it when a light, well-modulated voice at the other end of the wire said: “Yes?”

  “Sid, this is Ed Noon. Remember me?”

  “Hi, Noon. From the picture of the same name.” His laughter crackled like fresh newspapers. “Long time no hear. How have you been?”

  “Resting comfortably until early this afternoon, thank you. Now, not so comfortable, no thank you. Look, Sid. I need the benefit of your services.”

  Sidney Porcelain is a literary agent. But between helping young hopefuls and tried-and-true professionals market their manuscripts, he is just about the most well-informed man in town about the arts. Including the theatre.

  “Any time, Ed. You need some money—”

  “No thanks, Sid. I don’t know if the evening papers have it yet, but Paula Prentice was murdered this P.M. Messily, besides. And I’m sort of involved.”

  His gasp was excited. “Guy Prentice’s wife? That is something. You didn’t kill her, did you? What happened? Tell me all about—”

  “Not just yet, Sid.” I cut him short. “Look, I’m going to see his show tonight. And I’ve been so damn busy writing my autobiography, I don’t know too much about the Prentices. If you have any dope at all, I’d appreciate hearing it—now.”

  He chuckled. “For a fellow named after Time, you never seem to have any. All right. Where shall I begin?”

  “I got plenty of slugs on me. Just begin.”

  “Well, let’s see.” He paused and then began all over. “Guy Prentice remarried after his first wife, Marion, died in an auto accident. Paula, his second wife, was a loud chorus girl when Prentice wooed and won her. You know, flashy in furs. But still loud and coarse. There’s a child—Lucille—by Marion, Prentice’s first wife. From what I know, Prentice and the child are devoted to each other. The child resented her new mother. Fact is, there was a very bad scene at the Stork Club this summer. Prentice was so broken up by his child’s behavior to his new wife that he nearly cancelled out of Kick and Sing. Which would have been the biggest mistake of his professional career. It’s turning out to be the biggest musical hit since Guys and Dolls.

  “Keep talking. You’re doing fine.”

  He laughed. He was always laughing. “You need Porcelain to wash out dirty linen, don’t you? Sinks and bathtubs, you know.” His voice exploded in my ear. It’s the only bad habit he has. He puns like a maniac.

  “Where was I?” He sobered up like a penitent drunk. “Now there’s a new girl—Helen Tucker. She’s Prentice’s agent. The direct antithesis of Paula. A real finishing-school product. And Prentice is crazy about finished products, from what I hear. She’s got looks, brains and breeding, and Prentice considers himself a real aristocrat. They set each other off like two prize dogs. Nobody has ever known what Prentice saw in Paula. Marion, the first wife, and this Helen Tucker are two special types of high-powered females. Paula was a clod by comparison.”

  “De mortuis, Sidney. De mortuis. Thanks, you’ve saved me a helluva lot of legwork, time and money. One last favor.”

  “That’s all right. I might need a detective someday. I feel like murdering some of my writers. The stuff they give me to read and expect me to sell—”

  I didn’t want him to start crying into his literary tea. So I cut him short:

  “Look, do you know anybody at all at the Fifty-Third-Street Theatre? I’ll buy a ticket if I have to, but I might want to mosey backstage after the show.”

&nb
sp; “Sorry, Ed. You’re on your own there. But you have reminded me of something else. The author of the show is young Wally Wilder. He made a name for himself with two other hits before this one. He was and still is nuts about this Helen Tucker. He’s carrying a torch big enough to outfit the Statue of Liberty. Go easy. He weighs two-fifty and was boxing champ at college.”

  I laughed. “Thanks, Sidney. You’ve been a large help.”

  “Don’t forget to drop around. In case I do murder a writer.”

  He was still laughing when we ended the call. I elbowed out of the clammy booth and dug out a Camel. I had something more to chew on. The plot was thickening like molasses. Now there was a two-fifty author edging into the triangle. Only it wasn’t a triangle anymore. It was a quadrangle.

  Paula Prentice lying dead at the bottom to form a base, Guy Prentice and Helen Tucker holding up the sides and large Wally Wilder looming over the three of them. And little Lucille running around somewhere in the middle.

  Out on the sidewalk, rainwater flashed and danced. I stood under the cigar-store canopy and counted noses. New Yorkers were scuttling back and forth like so many rabbits. I looked at my watch. It was only seven o’clock. I had a good wait before the curtain rang up on Kick and Sing.

  Halfway up the block, the lighted marquee shimmered through the driving rain. Raincoats and umbrellas bustled ominously beneath the big square overhang. I singled out six bluecoats with brass buttons on duty near the exits and entrances. I grinned. Good old Hadley. Just what Monks would have done. Guy Prentice’s shining reputation didn’t mean a thing to a policeman. That’s one thing about murder. It equalizes everything. In its own messy way.

  When your wife is murdered, even if you are the President, you’re a suspect. And the great American public wants its front row seat.

  I put out my cigarette by drowning it in a puddle of water, bought a newspaper and fanned it over my head. Then I scooted across Broadway through the rain and joined the umbrellas and raincoats under the big marquee. I shot a glance at my newspaper.

  Like I figured, Paula Prentice’s murder was already common knowledge.

  GUY PRENTICE’S WIFE MURDERED!

  One crummy headline, but it had worked wonders.

  The area under the squared marquee looked like the bleachers at the Polo Grounds for a Dodger-Giant doubleheader. The crowd was overflowing, long lines of people stretching clear down to the Broadway side. Jamming, pushing, dying to get in to see the murdered woman’s husband give his all on stage. Wanting to be on deck if something happened that had anything to do with what looked like a sensationally juicy murder case.

  Even if the afternoon papers hadn’t carried the story, television would have shot the news flashes clear across the country. And little old New York had the inside track.

  A chance to sit in and watch Guy Prentice go through the musical paces of Kick and Sing.

  It was going to be some evening at the Fifty-Third-Street Theatre.

  SEVEN

  I did have a problem now. Getting in to see the show. I didn’t have a ticket on me but my Chinese laundry one. And since Kick and Sing was the number-one musical to see on Broadway, my chances weren’t too good. But even the best shows have last minute cancellations just like the airlines. So I thought I’d try my luck.

  I elbowed through a packed cordon of wet raincoats and bright evening dresses and squeezed into the lobby. A high-class-looking redhead was parked comfortably behind a clear-as-water glass case going over the receipts. That or a batch of letters from a bunch of anxious young men. She was strictly designed for wolf whistles. But as usual, she knew it. The way she let me wait and then deliberately looked up and said coolly, “Can I help you?” told me she knew it.

  I spent a racing second taking in her painted nails and full-blooded sensuality before I got down to what was on my mind.

  “I’d like a ticket for tonight’s show. One, please. This is the ticket window, isn’t it?”

  Her slow condescending smile told me something else. You poor out-of-towner you, it said, with lipstick and flashing white teeth for decoration.

  “I’m sorry, sir. We’re all sold out. Weeks in advance. You’ll have to reserve a ticket if you really want to see the show.”

  I fumbled inside my jacket and made my face look as heartbroken as I could manage. Situations like this one normally make me laugh like hell.

  “But I’ll only be in town till tomorrow. Then it’s back to Kansas City.” I shook my head. “Poor Guy. He’ll never forgive me. Well—” I made my shrug real regular fellow and turned away. “Thanks, anyway. Maybe I can catch it next month.” I laughed. “The way Guy is clicking it ought to run indefinitely. Well—’bye.”

  She let me get about ten feet away before her voice called out. “Excuse me, sir—” The slight edge of uncertainty in her brisk voice tickled me pink. One of my favorite pastimes is taking arch females down a peg or two.

  “Did I say something wrong?” I asked innocently.

  She studied me, still worried. The smooth texture of her forehead had erected a railroad track in a hurry.

  “Are you a personal friend of Mr. Prentice?”

  “We shared a foxhole for two years in Europe. That personal enough?”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, nothing,” I said good-naturedly. “Why do you ask?”

  She was really worried now. Her manicured fingers pulled at a drawer just level with her nicely belted waist. Bits of green- and blue-colored pasteboard gleamed in contrast with her nail polish.

  “Well, look. Mr. Prentice always holds a few seats in reserve. For emergencies such as this.” She gave me the smile that must have got her the job. “Old friends of his are always stopping by. He’s a real gentleman, Mr. Prentice is.” I could see where Guy Prentice rated in this department. When guys are as handsome as he is, they knock the dolls over from six to sixty.

  “Now, isn’t that just like him!” I swelled with old Army-buddy pride for her benefit. “He always was a thoughtful joker. Bet they’re good seats too.”

  She warmed up to my reaction. Like I hoped she would.

  “Best in the house. Front Row. Seat Five. Orchestra section.” I took the green 2-by-4 pasteboard she handed me, wondering how it could contain so much theatrical heaven.

  “Thanks, Miss. You’ve been very wonderful. I’ll tell Guy when I see him. If I know him, he’ll be very appreciative.”

  I had just given her a medal, and the full blush of her face thanked me. The necessary sophistication of New York fell off her like autumn leaves.

  “I’ll bet Mr. Prentice was a fine soldier. Wasn’t he?”

  I decided to help the fan club along. “The best,” I said solemnly. “Purple Heart and all.”

  “He got the Purple Heart?” Her eyes were two round mirrors of wonder. “Gee, I never knew that. How?”

  I had what I had come for. And nothing but an Act of Congress would keep me out of the show now. So I went back to my usual carefree self.

  “Cut himself opening a can of C rations.”

  Her mouth was still hanging open when I left her. I rejoined the brigade of rainclothes under the marquee. Sure, Prentice had been on all the trips overseas with entertainment units. The USO called him their fair-haired boy. But it had all been after the war was over and the GI’s were just sitting it out for redeployment. I was remembering a lot of things now. Remembering how he hadn’t gone with the first units right behind the combat lines. Not that I had any real axes to grind on the subject. Hell, it’s one man’s world when you get right down to it. Your world that is. And being a real hero only got you two things. Medals and scars.

  I mixed with the mob under the marquee and let my antennae out and my ears open. Wild talk and flying chatter swirled and eddied around me like tiny ants scurrying around the hill they call home. All of the comments had everything to do with the late afternoon murder of Paula Prentice.

  I fired a Camel, set my shoulders against a wall of photos that advertise
d some of the play action of Kick and Sing and waited. A glance at my watch showed me 7:40. I wafted out smoke and stared at the wet sidewalk. The rain was tailing off now but filled-up taxis were swishing by. A lot of them were stopping in front of the Fifty-Third to unload fancy-dress clothes. It looked like a sell-out. Standing room only.

  People were starting to file into the theatre when the jam under the marquee got to oozing out under the protective cover of the thing. It was getting close to curtain time anyway.

  I had just ditched my cigarette when something nudged me in the small of my back. I’d had it shoved in my back often enough to know what it was without turning. A cop’s nightstick. I turned anyway.

  I got a laughable surprise. A burly bluecoat was regarding me with professional suspicion. And boxing him off like a pair of unmatched book ends was a tall feminine fashionplate and a little girl dressed for the rain like little Red Riding Hood.

  “Good evening, Ladies,” I mocked. “And Sir.”

  “Officer, this man has been annoying us all day.” Helen Tucker was giving him the full treatment. Good manners, perfect diction and outraged womanhood. Her fine fingers plucked nervously at a fantastically colored parasol. “Can’t you do something? Send him away.”

  Lucille scowled up at me, trying to co-operate, but two dimples around her mouth winked at me in contradiction.

  “Mister Noon, you’re behaving like a naughty man,” she said exactly the way a little girl would say it.

  The cop looked at me.

  “Start talking, brother. I know Miss Tucker here. I don’t know you.”

  I sighed. “Why don’t you relax, Tucker? It’s a free country. I feel like seeing a play tonight. I usually do what I feel like doing. And here I am.”

  Lightning flashed out of her eyes.

  “Don’t address me in that tone of voice. Don’t even try to sound as if we ever shared one friendly word.” She turned back to the arm of the law. “What do you have to do to send him on his way? I’ll file a complaint.”