Violence in Velvet

by Michael Avallone

  “I’m not a child,” Lucille said indignantly, irrelevantly but not immaterially.

  How callous can you get? I caught myself exchanging glances with Sanderson. All I could do was shrug.

  Sanderson slammed his memo pad back into his coat, put his hands on his hips and looked at them hard. So hard and so long that they all shut up. Even Wally Wilder looked a bit uncomfortable.

  “Look,” Sanderson bellowed. “Somebody’s shooting up this whole family, so would you mind if we get on with trying to find out who and why? I got a job here and I’d like to get it done. So if you don’t mind, please might I go on?”

  “Of course, Sergeant,” Wally Wilder said. “We want to do everything we can to help.”

  For all of his cheerleading, he got a glower from Sanderson. But the rest of us had clammed up so that he drew a deep breath. He nodded, satisfied, and took out his pad again.

  “Okay, that’s better. Now, Mr. Prentice, this whole thing is beginning to smack of a grudge that somebody’s got. Against you. Is there anybody you know that might be out to hurt you and your family?”

  I had to hand it to Sanderson. He was wording it very necessarily nice for Lucille’s benefit. Guy Prentice seemed to appreciate it. Because he forgot about acting and answered seriously.

  “No, Sergeant. I can’t honestly say I do. I thought I made only friends.”

  Sanderson grunted. “Not much help there. Look, think carefully. Has something happened recently that you mighta overlooked? Something professional you might say—like beating somebody out for the part in this show?” He shifted his big shoes uncomfortably. “You know what I mean—something like that?”

  Guy Prentice searched his memory.

  “I’m sorry, Sergeant. There isn’t anything like that that I know of. Not to my knowledge. No.”

  “How about your understudy? This Breen guy that Wilder here just mentioned.”

  Prentice laughed. “Stanley Breen is far too sensitive to go around shooting guns. The man’s a complete mealymouth. A bore.”

  Wally Wilder shrugged. “You underestimate Stanley, Guy.”

  “Do I really, Wally?” Prentice seemed surprised. “Has he some compensating talent I don’t know about? Believe me, I never noticed it.”

  Wally Wilder didn’t have any answer for that, but Sanderson had jotted something down in his pad.

  Sanderson had another tack to hit upon.

  “How about jealousy, Mr. Prentice? You’re a pretty handsome man. Women go for handsome men.”

  “I’m afraid not, Sergeant.” Guy Prentice was his old arch self again. “I’m much too busy with my career.”

  Sanderson fumed. Prentice’s failure to supply a long-suffering rival or enemy gave him exactly nothing to go on.

  “Tsk, tsk,” I said. Said loud.

  Everybody looked at me. And something happened to Wally Wilder’s face. It got as red as four roses in less than three seconds.

  “Now what, bright boy?” Sanderson asked in a tired voice. “Or were you just clearing your throat?”

  “I didn’t say a word,” I reminded him gravely.

  “Go on. Finish it,” Sanderson barked.

  But I had reminded somebody else. Wally Wilder took one big step toward me and put a fist under my nose that would have fitted nicely in a coal stove.

  “You’re in love with Helen Tucker, Wally,” I said, staring past his big fist.

  “So what, Mr. Noon?” His face worked. “So what? Guy knows it too. Everybody knows it. No shame in that. The best man always wins, doesn’t he?”

  “Sometimes,” I said.

  His face stopped working. His breath came evenly again.

  “Noon, there’s no law in the world that says a man can’t be in love with a girl that’s not in love with him. There’s no law that says that he’ll do anything silly about it, either. Like murdering somebody. Show me where it says that in the books.”

  “It’s filed under M, big boy,” I said. “M meaning Motive. Motive meaning murder.”

  TWELVE

  Detective Sergeant Sanderson, James T., got between us in two big strides. He motioned Wally Wilder back and glared at me.

  “Will you please stay out of things, Noon, and stop lousing this up any more than it is?” To Wilder he said: “Relax, kid. I still run things here. Not him.”

  Wally Wilder’s huge hands unknotted slowly and the red left his face like an ebb tide. I looked at Helen Tucker. Her complexion suddenly matched the pea-green creation she was wearing. She flashed a look at Wally Wilder and the big boy subsided sheepishly. Or more like a great hound dog that had been suddenly kicked by its mistress.

  I caught Guy Prentice looking at me in keen appraisal. A slight curl of his full, sensual mouth went with the look. His eyes twinkled like a pair of dirty jokes.

  “There seems to be no end to your talents, Mr. Noon. I assure you Wally doesn’t get excited very easily. He’s normally as placid as a sonata.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said, taking in Wally Wilder’s enormous bulk with open admiration. Imagine John Wayne about fifty pounds heavier and maybe an inch taller and you get the idea.

  He gave me a cold look. “We’ll talk some more about this, fellah. Only later.”

  “I’m sure we will,” I said.

  “About this shooting now—” Sanderson rumbled, getting things around to where he wanted them again. “Mr. Prentice, you seem to be okay, but I think we can let the balance of our investigation ride until tomorrow morning. By that time we expect to have some more facts. Lieutenant Hadley will be expecting you. Ten o’clock as agreed.”

  I could see that Guy Prentice didn’t need an alibi any more as far as Sanderson was concerned. James T. was strictly one logical copper. Murderers don’t go around shooting themselves. Or do they?

  “So in the meantime I’ll assign two of my best men to watch over you and the child,” said Sanderson. “Somebody’s out to hurt you. And it’s our job to see that somebody doesn’t. So please co-operate. I’ll instruct my men to stay out of your way as much as possible. You won’t even know they’re around.”

  Guy Prentice hugged Lucille and chuckled.

  “See how important we are, sweetie? We’ll be protected by the Police Department. How do you like that?”

  Lucille wasn’t impressed. “I think Mister Noon can do lots better. Can’t we have him protect us?”

  “Thanks, team,” I said.

  Helen Tucker put a lovely oar in. “Now, Lucille. Mr. Noon has many other things to interest him. Your father knows best.”

  “You’re quite right, Helen,” Guy Prentice said evenly. “I am retaining Mr. Noon as a bodyguard. I don’t care for myself so much. But for Lucille and yourself—that’s a different matter entirely—” He suddenly broke off and turned to Sanderson. “And now, Sergeant, if you’ve quite finished, would you mind withdrawing? I want to be alone with these people. And my leg is beginning to act up a bit.”

  He had made it as polite as all hell, but to Sanderson it was a here’s-your-hat-there’s-the-door remark. James T. clapped his memo book shut with a loud snap, motioned to his men and left as proudly as possible. He had one parting shot for me. A loaded look that warned me to try nothing cute because he was handling things now. I gave him a soft salute and a Prussian click of my heels. He left fuming.

  No sooner had the door closed behind the Police Department than things got back to where they had been interrupted. Wally Wilder advanced on me slowly, his eyes as friendly as divorce cases. I let him get as close as he liked, then I casually dropped my gaze, fished out a Camel, struck a match, raised it to my cigarette and suddenly stared at him over the glow. His face was inches from mine even if he was taller. I let some smoke out in a cloud that sent him back a step gagging.

  “Relax, Wilder,” I said quietly. “We’ve got a lot to talk about. But you and I will have that talk later. Like you said. Not in front of anybody. Just the two of us.”

  Guy Prentice rocked with laughter. Wilder g
lared helplessly, obviously influenced by the presence of the kid and his dream girl. His dream girl looked disgusted with him. I knew what was bothering Helen Tucker. She was dying for Wally Wilder to lay me out for a count of ten. And she wanted to be there to do the counting.

  “For heaven’s sake, Wally,” she sighed. “Sit down and stop fumbling.” Lucille looked puzzled. As if grownups were so peculiar at times.

  “Really, Noon,” Prentice purred. “That was very well done. Your timing was excellent. Just enough pause and suggestive hesitation. Have you ever done any acting?”

  “There’s a little ham in everybody, Prentice. But I’m not in your league. You’re a better actor than anybody.”

  He ignored the remark.

  “You have a few flaws though, Mr. Noon. You mumble sometimes and your projection isn’t always easy. Too many high and low levels. Your voice would make an audience rather restless.”

  “All the time.” I grinned because he was talking around the subject and we both knew it. I can go along with a lot of gags though. “I don’t think I could handle Shakespeare at all. I think I’d be well cast as a cowboy or a Dead End kid, don’t you?”

  His eyebrows raised, but I could see he was enjoying himself.

  “I’d say you’re perfectly cast for what you are. A private detective. Brash, arrogant, a deal-maker. A man interested in money. With the necessary hardness and baseness of character to be capable of almost any act.”

  That was hitting below the belt. And he knew it too.

  I smiled coldly. “You’re so right. So you’re hiring me to protect your kith and kin against all enemies. Both foreign and domestic. Now that really is a low act, isn’t it? I’m selling myself down the river.”

  Wally Wilder snorted in exasperation.

  “Will you two cut all this fencing out? It’s no laughing matter. Guy, do you have to hire this mug? I can do all the body-guarding that’s necessary—”

  “I think Mr. Noon will be in a better position, Wally,” Guy Prentice answered him coolly. “He has no personal interests at stake. Save the hard cash. What is your fee, Mr. Noon?”

  Normally, I know just how much a job like this calls for. But I was in a funny mood. Prentice brought out the haggler in me.

  “How much is it worth to you, Barrymore?”

  “It’s been a good year, Mr. Noon. Five hundred dollars for the whole job. For as long as it takes. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. Will I be in character if I ask for some of the money in advance?”

  His tired smile congratulated me. “Perfectly. Helen, will you draw up a check in the morning for the full amount?”

  She fumbled in her handbag for a pencil and paper to make notes with. Her eyes appealed to him.

  “Guy, do you think you should? I know he’s perfectly capable, but I’m inclined to side with Wally. The police should be adequate protection, and Wally and I will do our best—”

  “Please, dear,” he demurred. “I’d rather have Mr. Noon with us. He has certain reckless capabilities that appeal to my more rugged sides. I think he will find out things that even the police cannot.”

  The comment was loaded with innuendo, and Helen Tucker and Wally Wilder exchanged glances that the jury box should never see. But Lucille was all for the whole idea. I could see that I had replaced Jack Armstrong and The Shadow in her affections. Even Superman.

  “Wheee! You see, Mister Noon? Now we can see lots more of each other. Lots and lots.”

  I chucked her under the chin. “Remind me to buy you an ice cream cone sometime. Two scoops.” A kid’s devotion is pleasant medicine. Even if this particular kid had nearly blasted me to the next planet with a .45.

  Helen Tucker looked at me. “I’ll mail the check to you tomorrow morning. May I have your address?”

  I gave her the location of the mouse auditorium that is my office in the middle of Manhattan.

  “I’d like to go home,” Guy Prentice said suddenly. “I’m so very tired. Today—the reporters—the confusion. All this. I’m really all done in—” He buried his face in a towel that La Tucker had handed him and started to wipe his make-up off.

  “Since I’m working for you, Prentice, let me start earning my money. The police have figured out something. Something you should have guessed by this time.”

  “Really?” Helen Tucker was helping him into an overcoat and a gaudy crimson muffler. “And what that can be, I’m sure I don’t know.”

  I buried my short cigarette in an ash tray on his dressing-room table. I watched his reflection in the brightly lit mirror without turning. I idly screwed the cap on an open, smelly jar of cold cream.

  “Between your last appearance in Act One and your next appearance in Act Two, about twenty-five minutes elapsed. Thanks to all the necessary stops and encores in that Minskyish Mistress number. That gives you an awful lot of free time to account for.”

  “I’m afraid you have me, Mr. Noon. Please explain.” His face in the mirror had lost the tired look. Now he only looked confused and faintly troubled. But Helen Tucker’s kisser had changed color again.

  I sighed. “Twenty-five minutes is an awful lot of time to account for in a murder case. Especially since your costume change was just the addition of an overcoat. Most especially since your home is so close to the theatre.”

  “Oh.” His pause was pregnant. “I see what you mean.”

  “That’s it exactly. The police will say ‘Oh,’ too. Can you account for those twenty-five minutes?”

  Helen Tucker was indignant again. “That’s ridiculous! Did Guy shoot himself tonight? Even the police can’t argue with that.”

  “Tucker,” I said, “it doesn’t mean a thing. Both shootings aren’t necessarily connected yet. Until they are, it won’t hurt Guy to have an alibi anyway.”

  Guy Prentice laughed. For a guy with a load of trouble and a painful bullet hole in his thigh, he laughed pretty good. Long and loud too.

  “Okay,” I said. “Your projection is terrific. But what does it mean?”

  “It means, Mr. Noon,” he sobered up gravely, “that I was in my dressing room with a splitting headache, loaded up with aspirins. After having left explicit instructions with my valet that I wasn’t to be disturbed until my next curtain call.”

  I shook my head. “All alone behind a closed door for twenty-five minutes. That’s bad. Very bad. Hadley’s going to have fun with you.”

  “Oh, this is all absurd,” Helen Tucker hissed violently. “Come on, Guy. We’ll get you home—”

  “Look, Maestro,” Wally Wilder blurted. “I went for the aspirin. I kept you company all that time. The cops won’t be able to shake that. And this wise guy here will keep his mouth shut about the whole thing. If he knows what’s good for him. Christ, who’d ever think you killed Paula anyway? Except a crum with no decency.”

  “Thanks, Wally. Loads,” I said. “But it doesn’t change a damn thing. The cops will get the truth—one way or the other.”

  “We’ll talk about it in the morning, Mr. Noon.” Guy Prentice’s eyelids were closing against his will. “Come on, Lucille. It’s way past your bedtime. Will you come too, Wally?”

  “You bet, Maestro,” the young playwright growled. “See you later, hot-shot.” He glared at me. “You won’t be needed until tomorrow morning anyway. The cops and I will take over tonight.” He placed a huge arm around Guy Prentice.

  I followed them out through the backstage entrance. The Fifty-Third was deserted now. The lone bulb over the door where stage-door Johnnies made their last stand guided us out into the darkened alleyway.

  “Oh, Tucker,” I said.

  “Yes?” she chilled back at me over her shoulder.

  “Don’t mail the check. You can give it to me at Headquarters. I’ll be there too.”

  “Mr. Noon,” Guy Prentice said drowsily. “You are to protect Lucille. I hired you.”

  “Sure you did. And I will. Headquarters is just one stop. I have to see a guy named Sidney Porcelain in the morning. He
knows a lot about everybody.” Helen Tucker’s lovely eyes met mine and held them for a second. “He might be able to put me onto something that will uncover a whole list of your enemies, Prentice.”

  He was too sleepy to argue. “Anything you say, Mr. Noon—”

  They left in Helen Tucker’s car—a huge robin’s egg blue sedan that looked like it had just rolled off the assembly line. Being Guy Prentice’s agent seemed to be a pretty lucrative pastime.

  Nobody said good-bye to me, but Lucille semaphored a hand excitedly in farewell as the car whirred away.

  I thought about Guy Prentice and his mocking heroics. The guy was baffling. A dead wife on his hands, his own life up for grabs and he seemed as bored as a lady wrestler at a lawn party.

  “Good night, Sweet Prince,” I muttered to myself drunkenly. “And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest—” I broke off and cursed. A real jawbreaker of a curse. Now he had me quoting, and I felt silly because I had unconsciously tried to project it. Like he had said.

  I buttoned up and waited a couple of seconds until I spotted the police tail, a black coupe, ease away from the curb and take up the trail of Tucker’s sedan. Well, the cops were on the job. My work could wait until morning.

  I hunted up a bar for a nightcap before I went home.

  THIRTEEN

  The drink wore off by the time I got back home. In the street outside my building, I checked my watch. It was just stroking one o’clock in the morning. I looked across the avenue. Benny’s bar, the soft drink emporium that is my second home, was still wide awake. And so was I. Shrugging, which is a definite sign of no will power at all, I crossed over and went in.

  Benny was pouring for a pair of loudly dressed, half-stewed dames when I went in. I waved to him as I went by, giving him the martini sign, and took my usual seat at the rear end of the bar, the part that curves right back into the wall. It’s a good place to sit because it gives you a view of the street through the plate-glass windows. And nobody can come up behind you and get the drop on you. Not that I think I’m Wild Bill Hickok or anything like that. It’s just that it keeps you one step ahead of bill collectors, cops and just plain troublemakers.