“They seem good judges of character,” Haig murmured.
I ignored that. “The barmaid is Jan Remo. She’s been working there for almost a year. She’s divorced, and has a two-year-old kid. The other waitress—not Maeve—is named Rita Cubbage. She just started there about a week ago. I can see them both late tonight if I’m awake because they’ll be working their usual shifts.”
“The club will be open, then? In spite of the tragedy?”
“Leemy doesn’t think it’s a tragedy. He thinks it’s a bonanza. He’s got a sign in the window that you’d love. ‘See the stage where Cherry Bounce was murdered! See the show so hot it might kill you!’“
“You’re making this up.”
“I am not.”
“Heavens,” Haig said.
We were in his office. It was almost five-thirty and I had just finished summing up my day in my inimitable fashion. I had wanted to rush my report so that I could see Tulip, who had finally been sprung from jail by one of Addison Shiver’s underlings and had been conveyed directly to Haig’s house after a quick stop at her apartment to shower and change her clothes and feed her fish. Haig had spent about an hour grilling her, and then when I got back I hardly had time to say hello before he’d banished her to the fourth floor so that he could hear my report privately.
She hadn’t seemed to mind the banishment—she’d been itching to study Haig’s operation up there—but I minded. So I tried to hurry my report but Haig wasn’t having any. He made me go over everything in detail and then he sat there with his feet up and I wanted to yell at him.
I said, “So far I’m putting my money on Haskell Henderson. His motives aren’t entirely rational, but no one who eats like that is going to behave rationally. You wind up with alfalfa on the brain. Here’s what happened. He resented the fact that Tulip’s fish ate a better diet than she did. He kept giving her wheat germ and she kept feeding it to the fish and this infuriated him. He figured if he poisoned her fish she’d have to eat the wheat germ herself because there wouldn’t be any fish to feed it to and she wouldn’t want to let it go to waste. So he made himself some strychnine. I looked up poisons in the encyclopedia, incidentally. Strychnine and curare are both neurotics, which would give them something in common with old Haskell.”
“That means they act on the nervous system.”
“I know what it means. I was making a funny. I learned that strychnine is extracted from the seeds and bark of various plants. Henderson’s got seeds and bark of everything else at Doctor Ecology, so why not Strychnos Nux-Vomica? I’ve been training my memory, that’s how come I remember the name of the plant. I hope you’re proud of me. He extracted the strychnine and poisoned the fish.”
“Phooey.”
“Is that all you’re going to say? I thought it was a brilliant theory.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And Miss Abramowicz? Why did he murder her, pray tell?”
“Give me a minute. I’ll come up with something.”
“Bah. This is childish. Call Miss Wolinski and—”
“Wait, I just figured it out. Tulip was his girl because he was crazy about her and enjoyed having a warm physical relationship with her, but Cherry was more experimental about nutrition. So he kept bringing health food to Tulip and what the fish didn’t eat Cherry ate. So he killed Cherry for the same reason he killed the fish. All in the interest of getting Tulip to stop eating cooked meat and other poisonous things. What’s the matter? I think it’s neat the way I tied it all together. Why don’t you call Gregorio and tell him to pick up Henderson? I won’t let on that it was all my idea. When I write up the case I’ll give you all the credit.”
“Fetch Miss Wolinski,” he said. “Perhaps she’d like a cocktail before dinner.”
“Maybe some carrot juice,” I suggested. “Alcohol’s bad for the vital bodily fluids.”
He gave me a look and I went upstairs to fetch Tulip.
I don’t know exactly what dinner consisted of but I’m sure Haskell Henderson would have turned green at the thought of it. Wong had marinated squares of beef in something or other, then sprinkled them with toasted sesame seeds and mixed in some stir-fried vegetables, and the whole thing came together beautifully as always. During the meal Haig talked with Tulip about the problems of breeding the Ctenayom species. I didn’t get the hang of more than a third of their conversation, and I won’t plague you with any of it.
Afterward the three of us sat in the office. Tulip and I had coffee. So did Haig, who also had two Mounds bars in lieu of dessert. I picked up the phone and dialed Andrew Mallard’s number again, and I got the same odd busy signal as before.
“Sometimes he just leaves it off the hook for long stretches of time,” Tulip said. “He gets into these depressed states where he decides that there’s no one on earth he could possibly want to talk to. It was really aggravating when I was living with him. I’d get calls for jobs and I would never know about it.”
“What does he do if somebody rings his doorbell when he’s in a state like that?”
“He generally answers it. But not always.”
“That’s great.”
Haig said, “Miss Wolinski, you formerly shared that apartment. Do you still possess a key?”
“I think so. Yes, I’m sure I do. I think it’s still on my key ring.” She fumbled in her purse and detached a key from the ring. “This is it,” she said.
“Might he have changed the locks? You moved out some time ago, I believe.”
“It was five months ago.” She thought for a moment. “No, he wouldn’t change the locks. He’d think of it but he would never get around to it.”
I wondered why she had ever set up housekeeping with Mallard in the first place. He wasn’t all that much to look at, and the more I heard about him the less enthusiastic I got about seeing him.
“You had better take that key,” Haig said. “You needn’t see Miss Remo or Miss Cubbage until late tonight Mrs. Henderson can keep until tomorrow. Miss Tattersail can probably keep throughout eternity as far as we are concerned. A cranky old woman might be capable of harassment. Such persons frequently poison other people’s dogs and cats. It’s a form of paranoia, I believe. I cannot imagine her flipping curare-tipped darts at a topless dancer.”
“She wouldn’t even walk into Treasure Chest,” Tulip said. “Not a chance.”
I felt like a character in a comic strip with a little light bulb forming over my head. “Just a minute,” I said. “Earlier today you said the person who poisoned the fish was someone different from the person who poisoned Cherry.” Tulip gaped and started to say something but I pressed on. “Does that mean the Tattersall woman poisoned the fish? And how do you know that, and why don’t I talk to her and find out why? Because we already decided the two things tied in, they had to tie in, and—”
Haig showed me the palm of his right hand. “Stop,” he said. “Helen Tattersall did not poison the fish. Let us for the moment forget Helen Tattertsall entirely.”
“Then who did poison the fish? And how—”
“In due course,” Haig said. “There is a distinction between a surmise and conclusion. There is no need to air one’s surmises. It’s odd that Mr. Flatt hasn’t called. When did you see him last, Miss Wolinski?”
She thought it over, trying to frown her memory into supplying the answer, and the phone picked that minute to ring. I reached for it but Haig waved me off and snatched it himself.
He said, “Hello? Ah, Mr. Flatt. I was expecting your call. Yes. Let me make this short and to the point. I am representing your ex-wife, Miss Thelma Wolinski, in an investigation of the murder of her roommate . . . . If you’ll permit me to continue, Mr. Flatt. Thank you. I have only one question to ask you. Why did you quit the premises of Treasure Chest so abruptly last night when Miss Bounce was murdered? No, sir, the identification was positive. No, I have not informed them. The police and I do not pool our information, sir. Indeed.” There was a pause, and Tulip and I spent it looking at each othe
r. “I want you in my office tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Flatt. At three o’clock. No, make that three-thirty. I don’t care what you tell your employers. Three-thirty. 311 1/2 West 20th Street, third floor. I look forward to it.”
He hung up the phone and tried not to look smug. It was a nice try but he didn’t quite make it.
Tulip said, “How did you know he was there? I didn’t see him. Who told you?”
“Mr. Flatt told me. Just now.”
“But you said—”
He shrugged. “Chip left a message for Mr. Flatt almost five hours ago. He might have called back immediately, routinely returning a call. He did not. He took time to establish that I am a detective and to stew a bit in his own juices. Then, knowing that I am a detective and guessing what I wanted of him, he ultimately returned my call. If he had called back immediately or not at all he might well have had nothing to hide. By taking the middle course, so to speak, he established to my satisfaction that he was at Treasure Chest last night.”
This absolutely impressed the daylights out of Tulip. She couldn’t get over how brilliant he was, and he was so delighted with her admiration that he celebrated with a Clark bar and rang Wong for more coffee.
Wong brought two cups. He must have sensed that I wasn’t having any. I would have liked another cup but I would have had to stay in that room to drink it and that was out of the question. And he’d had the nerve I to say phooey to my theory about Haskell Henderson and the health food conspiracy! I’d been babbling, for Pete’s sake, but I’d come as close to reality as that load of crap about he-didn’t-call-early-and-he-didn’t-not-call.
It had been a bluff, pure and simple. If Flatt just told him he was crazy he could roll with the punch, and if Flatt bought the whole pitch then he was home free. It was a bluff, and a fairly standard bluff, and not too far removed from what I’d pulled on Henderson. I had to give him credit, he’d read his lines beautifully, but all it was was a bluff and the explanation he thought up later was just that, something he thought up afterward to fit the facts and make him look like the genius he wanted to be.
Of all the goddamned cheap grandstand plays, and of course Tulip bought it all across the board. And I’d had to sit there and watch. Well, I didn’t have to put up with any more of it. I dialed Mallard’s number once more, just as a matter of form, and then I scooped the key off the desk and got away from Miss Willing and Mr. Wonderful.
Andrew Mallard’s apartment—by virtue of squatter’s rights it was his, anyway—was on Arbor Street near the corner of Bank. I had more time than I needed to get his story before I was due at Treasure Chest, and I wanted to walk off some of the irritation I felt toward Haig, so I hiked down Eighth until it turned into Hudson Street, and then I groped around until I found Bank, made a lucky guess, and located Arbor Street. I usually get lost in the West Village, and the farther west I go the loster I get. I can find almost any place, but only if I start out in the right place. (I’m not the only one who has that trouble. When you’ve got a geometrically sensible city with streets running east and west and avenues running north and south, and then you rig up a neighborhood in which everything goes in curves and diagonals and Fourth Street intersects with Eleventh Street, you’re just begging for trouble.)
I looked for a bell with Mallard on it and couldn’t find one. Then I went through the listings carefully and found one that said Wolinski. He really was an inert type, no question about it. I mean, he’d been there five months by himself, and for a certain amount of time before that he’d shared the place with her, and her name was still on the bell and his wasn’t.
I rang his bell and nothing happened. I rang it again and some more nothing happened, and I tried Tulip’s key in the downstairs door and of course it didn’t fit, it was the key to the apartment. I wondered why she hadn’t given me both keys and then I wondered why this hadn’t occurred to me earlier. I said a twelve-letter word that I don’t usually say aloud, and then I rang a couple of other bells, and somebody pushed a buzzer and I opened the door.
Mallard’s apartment was on the third floor. I knocked on his door for a while and nothing happened. I decided he was either out or asleep or catatonic and there was no point in persisting, but it had been a long walk and I had the damned key in my hand so I persisted. At 8:37 I let myself into his apartment.
Ten
AT 8:51 I let myself out.
Eleven
I WALKED INTO the first bar I saw, went straight up to the bar and ordered a double Irish whiskey. The bartender poured it and I drank it right down. Then I paid for it, and I scooped up a dime from my change and headed for the phone booth in the rear. I invested the dime and dialed seven numbers and Leo Haig answered on the fourth ring.
I said, “How clean is our phone? Do you suppose we’re all alone or do we have company?”
“Let us act as though we have company.”
“Probably a good idea. I’m at a pay phone and I understand they’re all tapped. But who has the time to monitor all of them? Of course if somebody was listening in I’d be a dead duck and that would make two tonight.”
“I see.”
“I was hoping you would.”
“You’re certain of the fact?”
“Positive.”
“Do you know how the condition was induced?”
I shook my head, then realized that wouldn’t work over the telephone. “No,” I said. “He could have done it himself, he could have had help, or it might be God’s will. No way I could tell.”
“Hmmmm.” I waited, and turned to glance through the fly-specked glass door of the phone booth. Several heads were turned in my direction. I turned away from them and Haig said, “I trust you have covered your traces.”
“No. I took my lipstick and wrote Catch me before I kill more on the bathroom mirror.”
“There is no need for sarcasm.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It shook me, I’ll admit it. Do I report this?”
“Yes, and right away. Use a different phone.”
“I know that.”
“You said you were shaken.”
“Not that shaken,” I said. “Hell.”
“Report the discovery and return here directly.”
“Is our friend still with you? Because she’s—”
“Yes,” he cut in. “Don’t waste time.” And he hung up on me, which was probably all to the good because I really was a little rattled and I might have found ways to prolong the conversation indefinitely.
I went back to the bar and ordered another shot, a single this time, and a man came over to me and said, “Oh, let me buy you this one, why don’t you. You seem terribly agitated. Nothing too alarming, I hope?”
I looked at him, and at some of the other customers, and I realized I was in a gay bar. “Oh,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
I couldn’t really resent it. You go drinking in a gay bar and people have the right to jump to conclusions. “Never mind,” I said. “I don’t want the drink anyway.” I pocketed my change and left, feeling very foolish.
Two blocks over I found a booth on the street. I dialed 911 and changed my voice and told whoever it was that answered that there was a dead man at 134 Arbor Street and gave the apartment number and hung up before any questions could be asked of me. I walked another block and got in a cab.
I had found Andrew Mallard in the bedroom. The whole apartment had reeked of whiskey and vomit, and I figured he’d passed out. He was lying on his bed with his shoes off but the rest of his clothes on, laying on his back, a trickle of puke running from the corner of his mouth down his cheek.
I very nearly turned around and left at that point, and if I’d done that I’d have been in trouble, because I wouldn’t have bothered wiping my fingerprints off the doorknob and a few other surfaces I’d touched. But something made me put my hand to his forehead. Maybe I sensed unconsciously that he wasn’t breathing. Maybe I was toying with the idea of shaking him awake, though why would I have wan
ted a wide-awake drunk on my hands? For whatever reason, I did touch him, and he was cold, the kind of cold that you’re not if you’re alive. Then I reached for his hand and it was also cold, and his fingers were stiff, and at that point there was no getting around the fact that Andrew Mallard was a dead duck.
“But I can’t tell you what killed him,” I told Haig. “I counted five empty scotch bottles around the apartment, and that was without a particularly intensive search. If he emptied them all since the police let him go this morning then I know what killed him. Alcohol poisoning.”
“He tended to leave garbage around,” Tulip said. “I went back once for some stuff and there were newspapers three weeks old, and lots of empty bottles.”
“Well, he emptied one of them today. The whole place smelled of booze and he reeked of it. I don’t know if he drank enough to kill him.”
Haig frowned. “You said he had been sick.”
“You mean he threw up? Yes. Not a lot, though. Just a trickle.”
“Hmmmm.”
“He could have been poisoned. He could have had a heart attack or a stroke. I couldn’t tell anything from what I saw, but then I’m not a medical examiner, I don’t know what to look for. If his throat had been cut or if there was a bullet hole in his head I probably would have noticed. Then again, somebody could have strangled him or shot him in the chest and I probably wouldn’t have noticed. I didn’t want to disturb the body or anything.”
“That was wise,” Haig said. “The police will determine cause of death and time of death. They are sound enough in that area. Any efforts you might have made would only have served to render their work more difficult.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Did anyone see you enter the building?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t trying to avoid being seen. I made sure nobody saw me leave. Anyway it doesn’t really matter if they can prove I was there around 8:30. I don’t know how long he was dead, I don’t know how long it takes a body to lose body heat, but it was awhile.”
CH04 - The Topless Tulip Caper Page 10
