Violence in Velvet

by Michael Avallone

  I rummaged in the small closet of the mouse auditorium and found an umbrella that one of my clients had left by mistake and never returned for.

  I tested my leg. It was throbbing a little but it felt like I could navigate if I went real slow. I closed the office for the day and limped out, dragging my leg behind me.

  Someone was using the elevator and as I waited for it, I wondered who in this crazy, mixed-up case thought Ed Noon was such a pushover. Hiring two guys to shove him out of a window.

  It had to be connected with the Prentice case. It would be just too pat if it wasn’t. Somebody was going to be awful surprised when I showed up at Headquarters alive. Surprised and disappointed.

  The question was—who? I was still mulling it over when the elevator came.

  SEVENTEEN

  Rolling the Buick to Headquarters was out of the question. My left leg would never be able to operate the clutch. The pain would have been too much. I took a cab and settled back on the leather cushions feeling exactly like a pensioned-off post office clerk. Only I didn’t have a gold watch for twenty-five years of faithful service. I didn’t even have a watch anymore. I shook my head. The Prentice case was beginning to take years off my life.

  Desk Sergeant Millican was glad to see me when I limped in. He’s an old-timer who’s not annoyed by the kids being smart and on their toes like most old people are annoyed. But he worries about me too. His grizzled eyebrows climbed up his forehead when he saw the shape I was in. The barber had worked wonders, but he wasn’t a magician either.

  I grinned tiredly and leaned on my umbrella.

  “Mornin’, Millican. I’m just made up for a scavenger hunt. How’s the family?”

  “Fine, son.” His eyebrows stopped climbing. “You in on this Prentice business? Hadley’s got a private show back there.”

  “If you buzz him, Patty, I think you’ll find him more or less expecting me.”

  He nodded. “Figured that. Heard him talkin’ to young Sanderson this mornin’. Wait just a minute—” He plugged his call through, listened with true official respect, murmured something and then snapped the receiver back with a snappy clack. “In you go, boy. But from the looks of you, you aren’t goin’ to make much speed.”

  He was so right. I was sweating with the strain of moving down a long corridor, turning to the right of a stairwell and limping up to the big door that was humbly marked HOMICIDE DIVISION. I tapped on the glass with my free hand. My leg was throbbing like a samba beat.

  Somebody said, “Come in,” and I did. I made it with an effort, closed the door behind me and surveyed the room.

  With the exception of the Small Lucille, the devil circle was complete. Sanderson, James T., was standing in front of the only window, his big back nearly shutting out all the daylight while his superior, Hadley, was doing his damnedest to look at home behind Monks’s desk. Ringed around the room in three very uncomfortable Headquarters chairs were Guy Prentice, Wally Wilder and Helen Tucker.

  Their faces went through about fifty different moods when they saw the shape I was in. A chorus of sounds rumbled out unintelligibly.

  Guy Prentice, resplendent in morning coat and striped gray trousers, held up a Malacca walking stick in salute, and his elegant mouth crinkled with laughter.

  “Welcome to the club, Mr. Noon. I see you too have a leg injury. My doctor tells me I’ll live. Pray tell us what your doctor tells you.”

  This was talk I could understand. People that minimize their aches and pains are aces with me. I found another uncomfortable chair and collapsed in it. Unfortunately, it was a chair right next to Helen Tucker. She let me know how little she liked the seating plan of the room by seeming to shrink further back in her fur coat.

  I smiled back at Prentice.

  “Doc says I’ll be okay if I stay off chocolate bars, Prentice. Sorry I’m late, Hadley. How far have we gone?”

  Hadley grunted and looked at Sanderson. James T. shrugged. I eyed Wally Wilder. He was staring at me like he was wondering if he had done the damage to me in our little set-to in the wee, small hours. I shook my head at him and the concern in his big, boyish face relaxed. Helen Tucker caught the exchange and a dimple near her nose popped in puzzlement.

  I had a smile for her too.

  “You’re looking charming this A.M., Miss Tucker. Where’s Lucille?”

  She started to tell me off. Then she must have realized she was in a police station and bit her answer out politely.

  “Lucille has her lessons today. Private tutors. Guy saw no need for her being here—”

  “Quite so,” rumbled Hadley. “Now that we’ve all said hello to Ed here, let’s get back to where we were. Mr. Prentice—” Guy Prentice’s matinee-idol head came up from where it had been, in idle reflection of the head of his walking stick. “Your wife was murdered with a .45. Army type—one that according to all reports belongs to you. You verify that?”

  “Certainly, Lieutenant. It’s common knowledge. The gun was a gift from a two-star general in Germany who was grateful for the morale-building job I had performed on my USO tour. I was allowed to bring it back to America with me without the usual customs bother. When a man is famous, normal rules do not always apply—”

  Hadley let that one ride. “You kept it around the apartment, loaded like that, with a small child running around all the time—”

  “Lieutenant—” Prentice delivered the title icily. “The gun was never to my knowledge loaded, as you say. It was kept in a drawer in my desk. A locked drawer, to which I alone had access, I might add.”

  “You had the only key?”

  Prentice’s smile was perfect.

  “To put it that plainly—yes.”

  Hadley toyed with a mechanical pencil, one of Monks’s tricks during an interrogation.

  “Did you ever give the key to anyone else—say to get something out of that drawer for you? You know, pick up something for you because you were too busy to do it yourself or wanted to save time?”

  Helen Tucker coughed in a ladylike way and everyone looked at her. Her finely shaped head bobbed in determination.

  “Of course, Guy did. As his agent, many times I’ve had to go to that drawer and take out important papers. Contracts—”

  “Helen, it isn’t necessary to—” Guy Prentice began.

  “Be yourself, Prentice,” I cut in. “You tell Hadley that only you could get at that gun. Then it follows that only you could use it. Somebody else goes to that drawer and the gun can be removed or at the very least a duplicate key can be made. Haven’t you ever heard of hardware stores and locksmiths?”

  Guy Prentice eyed me evenly.

  “Thank you for putting it so plainly, Mr. Noon. I don’t know how I would have managed without you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  Hadley sniffed.

  “So Miss Tucker goes to the drawer too. That’s interesting. And the little girl—”

  For some reason, this offended Wally Wilder. He straightened and his huge shoulders squared.

  “Come off it, fellah. That’s crazy. No kid could handle a gun that big. Besides, the whole idea—”

  “The whole idea,” said Hadley, cutting him dead, “is that we’ve got a murdered woman to account for. So everything has to be accounted for and allowed for. Nobody’s saying the child did anything. What she might have done is something else. A child could bring a gun to an older person or—Hell, will you please let us do this our way, Mr. Wilder?”

  Wally Wilder subsided with a frown, but Guy Prentice’s back had stiffened angrily.

  “Please continue, Lieutenant.”

  “Okay,” Hadley barked. “Your wife was killed yesterday. Last night somebody winged you while you were onstage. We found a .25 calibre bullet lying among the junk backstage. A spent slug after it passed through the fleshy part of your thigh. Somebody hates the Prentices like poison. Sanderson tells me you’ve retained Noon here to protect the kid against somebody. Sanderson asked you who you thought m
ight have it in for you. You say nobody. Well, we’ve been all over the ground. And we have to disagree with you.”

  “And how!” rumbled Sanderson from the depths of the window.

  Guy Prentice’s face was cold and imperial. His teeth were clenched with fury.

  “Go on.”

  “Here’s how it lines up, Mr. Prentice. I’ll give it to you cold. Nothing personal. Just the police trying to do their job. All our reports are in. You and Miss Tucker are in love with each other. Your wife knew it, hated it. The child, Lucille, didn’t like her. She still remembered and loved her real mother. Also your behavior toward Lucille had changed. Scratch around where I’m talking and you’ll find enough motives for a lot of people to want Paula Prentice out of the way.”

  Guy Prentice’s aristocratic fingers tightened around the head of his walking stick. But he said nothing.

  Hadley looked at him blandly. His lower lip pushed out in its habitual position.

  “Wilder here is in love with Miss Tucker too. That’s old news in every night club and backstage in town. Lots of guys would do anything when they’re carrying a torch. Even if you are the star of Wilder’s show and maybe his success depends on your good health. I really wouldn’t know. But suppose Wilder kills Paula, hoping you’ll get blamed for it so as to leave him a clear field with Miss Tucker? You see, everybody is a suspect in this case. Wilder, Miss Tucker here—and yourself, Mr. Prentice.”

  Hadley’s technique was throwing me for a loss. He was pounding away like Mike Monks, but I couldn’t see in what direction or toward what end. So I kept my lips buttoned and listened.

  “I see.” The Prentice voice was as contained and as liquidly polite as it could be. He had waved an angry Wally Wilder down. “Is there really anything more, Lieutenant Hadley, to this hypothetical nonsense of yours, before I retain my lawyer to protect me from your overly active police imagination? I’ve never listened to such a wild, harebrained analysis in all my life.”

  That got Hadley sore. Even Sanderson moved in from the window. Hadley half rose, his hands flat out across the desk.

  “Okay, Mr. Prentice. You force me to be pretty blunt about this.” He took a deep breath. “When was the last time you had relations with your wife?”

  Now everybody was shocked. Everybody that is, except Guy Prentice. His proud actor’s head poised and his beautiful mouth made a mockery of his smile.

  “Of course, Lieutenant. A husband should know. A loving husband in any case. But now may I damn myself before witnesses?” He didn’t wait for anybody’s okay, either. “There had been no love lost between myself and my late wife for quite some time. Why keep up appearances? I love Helen. The world will know it soon enough.”

  Hadley looked upset and I began to catch on.

  “Give him a break, Prentice,” I said. “Hadley’s trying to ask you when exactly or approximately you last slept with your wife?”

  Wally Wilder stirred uncomfortably, his decent kisser tied up in knots. “Easy there, Noon. That’s kind of rough talk—”

  It was. Helen Tucker killed me with a look that was loaded with DDT, poison, hate and plain old fancy hell. Guy Prentice laughed out loud, caught himself.

  “In character as always, Mr. Noon. Yes.” He nodded classically. “Seven months ago, if you like. Small wonder. She was cold, low, vicious—an animal. Beneath me. I wonder why I ever married her.”

  “Okay, Hadley,” I said. “There’s your answer. What’s the pitch?”

  Hadley smiled his thanks. He looked at Guy Prentice keenly.

  “Mr. Prentice, the post-mortem on Paula Prentice came in this morning. I’ve got it right here on my desk.” His fingers plucked angrily at a low pile of typewritten sheets. “Police autopsies are very thorough in homicides, Mr. Prentice. This one on your wife is a lulu. There’s a joker in the deck.”

  “Pray speak English, Lieutenant. Mr. Noon here would understand you. But I’m afraid I don’t.”

  Hadley glared at his sarcasm. His lips curved.

  “Okay, Mr. Prentice. Listen to this, Ed. Item five on the post-mortem of Paula Prentice.” He read slowly from the report, letting each word sink in like a bulls-eye on a target.

  “…. deceased had been pregnant … over a four-month period.”

  Hadley’s face was very nearly evil as he leered at Guy Prentice.

  “What do you say to that, Mr. Prentice?”

  I looked at Guy Prentice. He didn’t like it a bit. He had fallen back in his chair, the color leaving his face like a fast train out of town.

  EIGHTEEN

  Guy Prentice didn’t let his train get too far from the station. He was quick on the uptake. He half rose indignantly, spluttering like a drowning man.

  “That’s preposterous! I don’t believe it. Paula never once mentioned—”

  Hadley was patient with him now. He’d already made his point anyway.

  “Do I have to call the coroner in to convince you, Mr. Prentice?” He moved to poke one of his army of black buttons.

  “That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant.”

  It was Helen Tucker sounding off in her low, calm, modulated voice. Hadley halted midway and looked at her questioningly. Guy Prentice and the rest of us were just staring.

  Helen Tucker eyed us all evenly, her deep blue eyes holding only sympathy for Guy.

  “I’m sorry, Guy. I’ve known since almost the beginning. A woman can spot a thing like that. Besides, Paula had been drinking heavily on one of her bad nights. And took me into her confidence. She made me promise at the time not to tell you. Said she wanted to surprise you.”

  “Some surprise,” I interjected mildly. “Not even the usual nine months’ notice.”

  Hadley didn’t think it was funny at all.

  “It’s a bigger surprise when it’s not even your kid.” He looked long and hard at Guy Prentice. “Didn’t you know there was another man? I should think a man could spot a thing like that.”

  Guy Prentice had relaxed into a familiar role again. He was bored now. Real effete.

  “I was hardly interested in anything she did. I told you she was common. Pregnant by another man. Fancy that. I always knew she had the instincts of an alley cat.”

  He didn’t know it but he was offending the gentler natures of two fine old family men. Hadley and Sanderson exchanged sneering glances.

  Hadley grunted. His face was stony cold. One of his stubby forefingers poked a buzzer.

  “There’s somebody I want you to meet. Somebody who thought a lot more of Paula than you obviously did.”

  “Stanley Breen,” Wally Wilder said with a dawning note in his voice.

  Guy Prentice’s head snapped around. Two red spots appeared magically in his cheeks.

  “Really, Wally. Don’t be fantastic. What would any woman see in that poor excuse for a man? I don’t think even Paula would stoop—”

  “Sorry to hurt your feelings, Mr. Prentice,” cut in Hadley. “But Stanley Breen it is. Bring him in, Tom.”

  A tall cop named Tom came in with a small man obviously named Stanley Breen. I had just gotten a quick impression of a mousey little man with a thin mustache who was as unprepossessing as a dull movie when things started popping.

  With a hoarse yell that would have done credit to a Sioux Indian on the warpath, he broke free from the tall cop that had brought him in and headed straight for Guy Prentice. Poor Prentice. He was as taken by surprise as anyone can ever be. Stanley Breen was all over him in less time than it takes to tell it. And then Helen Tucker was flailing away with her handbag and Hadley was yelling. But Wally Wilder was moving. In two big strides, he was across the room, plucking the pesky Breen off of Prentice with one big hand and depositing him none too gently on the floor. Then the tall cop took over and sat Stanley Breen down in a chair where he immediately collapsed in a storm of tears. With my leg in the shape it was, I had stayed out of it. Family affairs aren’t my dish anyway.

  “Take it easy, Breen,” Wally Wilder said, his voice surpris
ingly gentle.

  I was surprised to see that Breen was handcuffed. I looked at Hadley. He smiled and nodded.

  Guy Prentice was trying to compose himself and look dignified at the same time. But the gaudy muffler at his throat was in shreds. He only looked laughable.

  “I told you the man was an idiot! In handcuffs, is he? Fine! Handcuffs belong on his kind—”

  “Mr. Prentice,” Hadley interrupted him. “Stanley Breen is handcuffed because he confessed early this morning that he shot you in the leg last night, because he thought you killed Paula Prentice—the woman who was to be the mother of his child.”

  Guy Prentice was incredulous.

  “Him? Stanley Breen …. Paula’s lover? The man who tried to kill me? I don’t believe it. Look at him. The man’s a mouse. An utter nothing. How could he feel all those things? Why on the stage, he projects nothing but weak tea. He—”

  “Prentice,” I said. “Stop bucking for an Oscar and be a human being for once in your life. The guy’s feeling miserable. Leave him alone.”

  Stanley Breen looked up. His face was torn with grief but somehow he had heard what I had said. He looked at Guy Prentice and something insane shone in his eyes.

  “He doesn’t know what it is to be human, Mister. He’s a phony. The biggest phony that ever lived. I hated him because he was crushing Paula’s spirit. Her soul. Yes, her soul—damn you!” Prentice had started to sneer. But the wild look in Stanley Breen’s eyes stopped him. “I loved her. You call me a mouse. But she made me feel like a human being. I tried to get her to leave you. I wanted to tell you about the child. But she was afraid. She said you’d beat her. But you finally killed her, didn’t you? God, how I hate myself for missing you last night. Murderer! Murderer!”

  He tried to get up again but Tom the tall cop held him down.

  “Really, Lieutenant,” Guy Prentice purred. “I feel safer now that you have this maniac in irons. But do I have to submit to this?”