Dead in a Bed

by Kane, Henry

  “Slightly,” said Medford.

  “I’ll run now,” I said.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Chambers,” said Medford.

  “See you later,” said Parker.

  Going out, I was almost trampled by Parker’s technicians, coming in.

  FIFTEEN

  SURF’S PARTY had not thinned a whit. On the contrary, the motley lot had thickened and thickened a lot. Dusk had released the last of the office workers and those who had known had flown for the free food, the convivial cocktails, the brimming conversation, and the possible pickup for a later shackup when the dusk grew duskier and the lust grew lustier. The literature-lovers were milling like cattle, filling like swine, and swilling like literature-lovers. The place stank of perfume, perspiration, peasant and poet, the ventilation had gone bad, and the clatter of the chatter was shattering.

  I sought Topsy but Topsy was not topside. The Twits had either called it quits or was well-hidden in the jam-pack of the wolf-pack. I sought Surf but Surf was somewhere at ebb. I sought the blonde in the blue gown and I found her. She was the quarry of a quartet of slim-trousered drunks each one trying to make time with the Elgin. I broke through their rank ranks and although she graced my advance with a glacial glance she said, “Hi,” took my arm, and we forsook the quartet for new quarters at the side of the room where she let loose of my arm as though it pained her. “Thanks,” she said.

  “For what?” I said.

  “For the rescue.”

  “I rescued you?”

  “And I’ve thanked you. Don’t make a Federal case.”

  “I mean I don’t know what I rescued you from.”

  “From those awful men.”

  “They seemed quite nice,” I said. “A little lushed perhaps but quite nice. I’d imagine you’d be flattered.” Her nostrils grew scornful. “By what?”

  “By the attentions of nice men.”

  “Mr…. er … I’m not flattered by the attentions of men.”

  “Chambers.”

  “Mr…. er … I’m not flattered by the attentions of men.”

  “What are you flattered by, Miss Elgin?”

  “Oh, you remembered my name.”

  “Frances Elgin. Does that flatter you?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “What the hell does flatter you, Miss Elgin?”

  “Please watch your language.”

  “Yes ma’am. What flatters you, Miss Elgin?”

  “Very little, Mr. Er. Least of all the attentions of men.”

  “Maybe the attentions of women?”

  “Has anyone ever told you were a boor, Mr. Er?”

  “Chambers.”

  “In chambers you were told you were a boor?”

  “No no, my name.”

  “Your name? What has your name to do with this?”

  “Honey, let’s start fresh again.”

  “Please don’t call me honey.”

  “Yes ma’am. May we start fresh again?”

  “Again? You’ve been fresh all the way.”

  “Sweetie …”

  “Don’t call me sweetie.”

  I hauled off with a deep sigh. I would rather have hauled off with a shallow clout. There are children, the psychologists tell us, who have a need for punishment. There are adults, I should like to tell the psychologists, who have a greater need for punishment. Miss Elgin had a private need for corporal punishment as general therapy. Miss Elgin could use a slam at the ham or a pork at the chops or a stew at the kidneys or a whack at the whiskers or an overall shaking, thoroughly administered, to shake her loose from her supercilious posture. Miss Elgin was as spoiled as old meat unrefrigerated. Miss Elgin had flipped her lid under the lip of too many hot guys. Miss Elgin needed a good jolt and I would have loved to have been the piston that shot it at her. Instead, simple male ever mindful of the possibility of conquest, I simpered, “Miss Elgin, here we are at a big cocktail party making with the little talk. Why do you insist upon being difficult? You? You’re a beautiful gal. Me? I’m a humble male trying his darndest to be nice and hoping in the end to date you. Is that wrong?”

  The cold eyes laid their ice on me. “Do you see what I mean about the flattery, Mr. Er?”

  “No.”

  “As you have so poetically put it—I’m a beautiful gal. It so happens, I agree with you.”

  “No false modesty about you, Miss Elgin.”

  “Why do you insist upon interrupting, Mr. Er?”

  “Chambers.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “As I was saying, Mr. Er, I agree with you. Now, in the animal world, the males flock to the females who are in heat. In our world, the males flock to the females who are, as you put it, beautiful gals. What, then, is flattering about it? Why should I be flattered because the male of the species constantly crowds about me as though I were a female animal in heat?”

  What in all hell do you say to that? Aside from beauty, she had logic on her side. I said, “But aren’t you ever in heat, Miss Elgin?”

  “Now please don’t be vulgar, Mr. Er?”

  “No no, I don’t mean to be. Somehow, with you, the words come out wrong. What I meant—aren’t you, as a female, ever attracted to a man, as a male? I mean there are sometimes vibrations, mutual chemical reactions.” Her reaction was no reaction. I continued lamely, but trying to be sprightly, lightly: “I thought that something like that, you know something, occurred between us. Now I’ve been away for some time. Will you admit that, well, in some way, without actually realizing it, without actually putting your finger on it, somehow—you missed me?”

  What did I have to lose?

  She straightened, seeming to grow taller. The blue eyes narrowed to frigid slits. Slowly she said, “You were … away?”

  Sometimes by subtle (subtle?) suggestion you can talk things into them. Miss Frances Elgin, it appeared, was impervious to any of my subtle suggestions. I switched, fast. “Miss Elgin,” I said, “come off it, huh? I admit I’m a guy on the make. Can’t you thaw, just a little, even if it’s only because I happened along and rescued you?”

  “You know what I’m thinking, Mr. Er?”

  “What?” I said brightening invisibly.

  “I’m thinking it would be just lovely if right now someone else happened along to rescue me from you.”

  Suddenly I had had it. Suddenly the bulwark of interior defense rose up as a rampart to protect me from me. Suddenly I was so much in love with Topsy Twits it was traitorous of me to trade my blandishments for a barrage of insults. Suddenly I knew that Topsy Twits would not disappoint me, that she would be at my apartment promptly at nine. I was in love! By what riddle of putrid pusillanimity was I hanging on as a tattered target to be riddled by the second-rate blasts of this second-best bitch? I girded for guarded retreat when she finally hoisted the haymaker.

  “You know,” she said, “in a way you’re worse than all of the rest. You’re the humble-type boor, the beggar. You come on strong with the weak pitch, if you know what I mean. Some men disgust me. Others make me ill. You make me ill. Go away, won’t you?”

  My right hand dangling at my right side was doing a trick on me behind my back. It was curling into a knotty burl for a hurling. I shifted stance to haul off and throw a punch, not too hard, just enough to cause a riot. So far this had been a talking party: it was time for action: somebody would start it, why not I? But once more my lady of this evening received buttress from a butler.

  It was the same guy who had paged me earlier. He slid between me and the object of my disaffection and he beamed upon me with an evident pleasure that flattened my hackles and warmed my cockles.

  “You are Mr. Chambers, aren’t you, sir?” he said.

  “I am.”

  “I thought I recognized you, sir. I’m the one who called you to the telephone before. Do you remember, sir? Mr. Surf instructed me to watch out for you, sir. I’m Manville, sir.”

  “Yes, Manville?”

  “Excu
se me,” said Manville to Miss Elgin.

  “Any excuse is better than none,” said the Elgin ticking off to where other sweeping hands clocked her presence in timex-honored embrace.

  “I’m Manville,” said Manville.

  “Much married but seemingly unharried.”

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “I’m Chambers,” I said.

  “I thought I recognized you, sir.”

  “You said that before.”

  “I’m Manville.”

  “You also said that before.”

  “I’m Mr. Surf’s butler, sir. I mean I’m Mr. Surf’s permanent butler, sir. The other butlers, sir, are impermanent butlers, sir, temporary butlers for the party, sir.”

  “I’m permanent Chambers, Manville. sir. What plays?”

  “I’ve been instructed to watch out for you, sir.”

  “Watch out for me for why, sir?”

  “I am instructed to take you to Mr. Surf immediately upon your return, sir.”

  “And where has the Surf receded to?’

  “Heh heh heh.” Horseteeth glittered in a half-neigh half-yes.

  “What the hell was that?” I said.

  “Laughter, sir. Laughter is good for the soul, balm for the psyche. Too much of our natural laughter is repressed by the incestuous mother-image on one side and the homosexual father-image on the other but if we exclude both from our frame of reference—”

  “Oh no! How convertible can our couches get! Manville, are you the permanent butler or are you a Freudulent imposter?”

  “Freud?” He sniffed. “Old hat, cocked hat. No. Not Freud. When I was young I was a Jungian but then I moved on to Adler and when that shoe didn’t fit I transferred to Reik but then I discovered that Reik was wrong for me. Right now I’m Horney.”

  “Manville, if you’re horny, why pick on me, unless you’re a horny pansy?”

  “Karen Horney, sir.”

  “Look. Please. Let’s skip the couch-bit, huh? If Mr. Surf has told you to watch out for me because you and I can make it together on a couch or on a mattress or even on the bare-assed floor —that was Mr. Surf’s idea of a joke. I go for girl-butlers not boy-butlers.”

  “Oh no, sir. Mr. Surf wants me to take you to him immediately.”

  “Where the hell is he?”

  “In the little study on the top floor. Will you come with me, sir?”

  We tunneled through the cocktailers to a busy kitchen where in the rear there was a small elevator which whisked us to the tip of the triplex, the top floor, which was off-limits for the boozing book-lovers. There was a long quiet carpeted corridor ending at a door which Manville opened for me.

  “There you are sir,” he said and flashed his horseteeth and went away.

  “Well, well,” said Alfred Surf. “Come in, come in.”

  “I’m in, I’m in,” I said.

  Surf closed the door behind me.

  It was a small comfortable room, every wall lined with books from floor to ceiling. A small chandelier sprayed an amber illumination. There were two wide windows fitted with Venetian blinds. There was a fine brown desk, a fine brown rug, and fine brown leather armchairs. In one of the fine brown leather armchairs sat a fine brown man. He was suntanned, elegant, graceful, imposing.

  “Peter Chambers,” said Alfred Surf, “meet Barry Howard.”

  “Charmed,” said Barry Howard, rising, smiling.

  He was tall, slender, distinguished, in his middle fifties, but beautifully preserved. He had excellent teeth, dimples in his brown cheeks, frost-white hair neatly combed, large grey intelligent eyes crinkled with humor at the corners, a firm jaw and a strong chin. He was conservatively dressed in an expensively tailored black suit, a cream-colored shirt obviously custom-made, and a maroon tie with matching maroon silk kerchief in his breast pocket. He was a handsome, commanding man: assured, confident, composed, veritably breathing wealth, refinement, breeding, culture. He had a deep rich baritone voice, an aura of accomplishment, and a forceful dominant but disarming presence.

  “Mr. Surf has told me so much about you, he said. “I’m indeed glad to meet you, Mr. Chambers.”

  He came forward with extended hand.

  I did not take his hand, but I gave him mine.

  I gave him my hand, rolled up into knuckles, directly at his chin. The fine brown face went blank as he sank gracefully to the fine brown rug.

  “Holy cow!” said Alfred Surf. “Are you out of your goddamned mind?”

  “With glee,” I said.

  “Look, I know you’re eccentric, but that eccentric I didn’t think. That’s a fine way to say hello. What’ve you got against the guy?”

  “He’s not my dish of tea.”

  “Well, from the looks of things, I wouldn’t say you’re his cup of Kafka either. This you’re going to collaborate?”

  My eyes scouted the room and settled on the windows. “How do you want your blinds?” I said.

  “Pete, if you’re loaded—”

  “How do you want your blinds?”

  “What do you mean how do I want my blinds?”

  “Drawn, as they are, or open? Take your choice, but you’re going to have to stay with that choice for a while. Now how do you want them?”

  He gulped. “Just as they are, but …”

  I vanquished the sills and stole from the blinds and climbed down and used one of the cords, leaving long ends, for Mr. Howard’s wrists and used the other of the cords, leaving long ends, for Mr. Howard’s ankles. I made him comfortable in a comfortable armchair and made short shrift of the long ends, attaching him firmly. His breathing, even while comatose, was elegant. He snored gently.

  Surf watched with eyes bugged until I was through. Then in the small still voice generally reserved for address to a dangerous lunatic, he said, “What the hell?”

  “Meet Frankie Nigle,” I said.

  SIXTEEN

  “WHO THE hell is Frankie Nigle?” said Alfred Surf.

  “He is,” I said.

  “He’s Barry Howard.”

  “He’s Frankie Nigle.”

  “Okay, so he’s Frankie Nigle. I told you he was a man of many names. So he’s Frankie Nigle. Does that give you the office to paste him one? Does that give you the office to truss him up like that?”

  “I trussed him, now place your truss in me, pal. Peace. Patience. Hang on to everything, including yourself.”

  His eyes behind his specs were speculative but frightened. I knew he could start pushing buttons and his butlers could button me up and muffle me up while releasing my captivating captive who could then smooth-talk his way the hell out of there. I said, “Alfred, while you’re still numb in the belief that I’m nuts, answer this question. Is there an entrance to this floor of your triplex without going through the other two floors?”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re going to have an invasion of blue men and I don’t want to spoil your party.”

  He was now as walleyed as a staring pollack (which is a fish, not a native of Poland). “Invasion of blue men?” he whispered. “Pete, sit down, huh? Take it easy. You had a rough night last night. You drank a good deal. You’ve probably drunk a good deal today. You haven’t had enough rest. You’re overwrought, overworked. I’ll call—”

  “No, you’re not going to call. I’m going to call.”

  “Whom?”

  “The blue men.”

  “Sit down. Rest a bit.”

  “Cops,” I said. “The blue men. Cops.” I smiled. “You want me to write a book for you, don’t you? Im a literary party, arent I? So what’s so nuts if I’m infected, if I use a literary-type expression.”

  His eyes improved. “Why cops?”

  “For this guy.” I indicated the sleeping Howard.

  “But you don’t even know him.”

  “You’re wrong. We’ve met.”

  “But he didn’t say—”

  “He doesn’t know that we’ve met.”

  The eyes popped again, a go
od deal of the whites showing. “Pete, you’re not making sense.”

  “Will you please answer my question? Than I’ll make my call and you’ll see, it’ll all make sense.”

  “What question?”

  “Can the cops come in on this floor? Can they come in without disturbing your party?”

  “Yes. Instead of going to the twenty-first floor, they go to the twenty-third. They ring the bell of 23 BB. But there’s no one on this floor except us.”

  “Fine. So you’ll answer the door.” I went to the phone on the desk. “Is there an extension to this?”

  “Next door, in a small bedroom. Why?”

  “Go there while I make my call. Pick up the extension and listen. I just don’t have the time to go into it all now. Just listen and you’ll understand.”

  A frown made furrows on his forehead; he hesitated; but then he went. I called Homicide and asked for Lieutenant Anthony Generoso.

  “He’s busy,” said the man on the other end. “Who’s calling?”

  “Peter Chambers.”

  “He’s very busy, Mr. Chambers, and unless its important—”

  “Tell him it’s about the murder of Charles R. Medford.”

  There was a moment’s hush. Then sharply he said, “Hang on.”

  After the clicks came Generoso’s voice. “Pete?”

  “Hi, Tony.”

  “Pete, we haven’t broken this thing yet. How the devil do you know …?”

  I talked quickly. “You got a call from a John Maxwell from the office of the Nigle Realty Company. You came there and found Medford—”

  “How the hell do you know this?”

  “I was John Maxwell.”

  His voice grew soft with suppressed excitement. “Where are you, Peter?”

  “I’m at the home of Alfred Surf, Six-forty Park Avenue. I’ve got Frankie Nigle here for you.”

  “You—what?” It almost snapped my ear off.

  “I’ve got him tied up nice and comfortable. Mr. Surf has a triplex apartment and he’s running a party in it. You and your gentlemen don’t want to spoil Mr. Surf’s party, do you?”

  “No, no, of course not.” He was back to the velvet of suppressed excitement.