She nodded her cute head. “That’s about it. But Voodoo is what I want to talk to you about. Voodoo is the hottest dancer since Salome, whether you call it Calypso or not. I’m telling you, the things this dame can do with her body to a bongo accompaniment would stop clocks. I’m surprised we all haven’t been locked up yet.”
“Keep talking,” I said. “Voodoo I’m interested in.”
“You ought to be. She sent you a crazy telegram today, didn’t she? About coming to the club tonight. And maybe she really spooked it up with all that island bushwa and black-magic junk, didn’t she? Well, on the advice of a good neighbor, and that’s me, ignore it. That’s if you want to keep a whole skin.” She got it all out in a rush, as if she was ashamed to say it, and then settled back in the booth and folded her arms, the small hands closed over each elbow. Her green eyes waited for my answer.
“There’s a motto in my business, lady. Damsels in distress a specialty.”
She shook her head. “This is no damsel in distress. This is a hot-box who thinks up weird stunts to get publicity. Which she doesn’t need, by the way. The club has been jammed since opening night. The men keep coming back for more. Forget the telegram. She cooks up things like that without batting a hip.”
I smiled. “Scared she’ll take your publicity job away?”
Peg Temple scowled at me. “Grow up, will you? I’m trying to save you a skull fracture, or worse. Voodoo has a boy friend who plays the bongos for her in her act. He’s six and a half feet tall and built like a brick outhouse. And he doesn’t like to see another man within waving distance of his dear little Voodoo.”
I played with her words. “This giant’s name Coffee, by any chance? Likes to throw machetes at moving private eyes?”
Her glinting greens glinted some more. “So he’s been to see you already? I thought you looked a little sick around the gills.”
“I always look like this when I have stomach trouble. I’ve got stomach trouble right now.”
“Stomach trouble?” She scowled again. “What kind of stomach trouble?”
“No guts,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “Only a tough guy would make a bum joke like that. And I know how mean Coffee can be. He broke a waiter’s wrist once for spilling a drink on Voodoo’s dress. Cost the club a wad to pay the waiter off so he wouldn’t make any legal trouble.”
“Coffee that good on the bongos?”
“No. But Voodoo is that good. We’re cleaning up with her and she wouldn’t work without her baby. Some baby. Don’t be a sap, Noon. Take the hint and leave those lovebirds alone.”
“Maybe she’s really in trouble. Maybe she needs help.”
“Maybe you need a building to fall on top of you to know there’s an earthquake going on. Sober up. You haven’t had that beer yet.”
I watched her face closely as I asked her another question.
“How did you know about the telegram, Miss Temple? Better still, how did you know what was in it?”
The beat cop had gone, and Benny showed up with our two beers before she got around to the answer.
“She told me about it herself,” Peg Temple said. “Just before the first show started. Almost an hour ago. I scooted over here before you could show up and start another ruckus at the club. Coffee would really wreck the joint if he knew she’d called a cop in.”
“Don’t you think she might really need a detective? What makes you so sure she doesn’t?”
Peg Temple sighed. And her beautiful bust filled my eyes again.
“Because she imagines things. Because she’s a native. Born and bred in Trinidad. Right in the capital, Port-of-Spain. She dances as if she’s bewitched, and makes Dunham look like a truck driver with two left feet. Voodoo’s no kid, but her mind is like a child’s when it comes to black magic and all that island hooey about spells and sticking pins in dolls—”
“She tell you anything she imagined lately?”
The Temple doll got mad at me. “For crying out loud—I come down here to do you a favor and you still don’t hear me right. Forget it, I told you. You stay away from the Calypso Room. I’ll handle Voodoo. There’s nothing to chew your badge about, I tell you. Now smarten up and forget it. I’ll give you my phone number and next week you can take me dancing and we’ll have a big yak about the whole thing. What do you say?”
I sipped my beer. “It’s too late for run-outs, Peg. I’ve got a ten o’clock appointment to take a lady to the Calypso Room.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Are you crazy? Coffee’ll kill you!”
“Not if I kill him first. Look, this has nothing to do with Voodoo’s telegram. A lady is giving me five hundred bucks to take her dancing tonight. I couldn’t turn it down. I’m a month behind in the rent, the roof leaks, and I’m tired of eating in the Automat.”
She still didn’t believe me.
“Five hundred bucks just to go out with you? What have you got that’s so special, Noon?”
I grinned. “If you give me that telephone number, maybe you can find out for yourself.”
She stood up. Her face had suddenly gone white. She was no longer tough and breezy and Manhattan-wised-up female. Her face was soft now.
“Go to hell,” she whispered fiercely. “Up until a sentence ago, you talked a little different from most guys, but that crack just threw you in with the rest of the pack. Go to the club. Coffee’s your headache if you show up, not mine. At least I warned you.”
“Thanks for that, anyway.” I said. “And I’d still like that telephone number.”
She buttoned her coat. She had one last valentine for me before leaving.
“You’ll find me in the telephone directory under D’s. Disappointed Females. So long, Noon. See you some time.”
My eyes followed her swell figure all the way out of the bar. Benny and the leather-jacketed wild ones eyed her with approval too. You couldn’t blame them. She walked the way a well-built dame should walk. Straight, proud, everything swinging rhythmically.
I finished my beer and checked my watch. Nine twenty-two. Eight minutes to my rendezvous with Evelyn Hart. I left a dollar bill on the table, said good night to Benny, apologized for the window and hit the street….
The night was dark and cool, a soft wind ventilating the West Fifties. I crossed over to my building and took a position in the doorway next to it. I kept a weather eye peeled for the tall redhead, and spent the spare time wondering what make automobile she would arrive in. Anything from a Rolls-Royce to a Cadillac, I figured.
She was prompt, all right. As on time as you can be. The hour and minute hands were lining up at nine-thirty when a car motor’s roar filled the night air.
A long, firehouse-red convertible reached toward me on dizzy tires, its jazzy body cutting in toward the curb. I started toward it, raising one hand in greeting. Evelyn Hart was positioned smartly at the wheel, her regal head visible through the gleaming windshield. A streaming bright fluff of orange scarf fluttered at her slim throat, playing tag with the wind. She looked like nine million dollars.
I shouldn’t have waved. I should have gone for my gun.
Because she suddenly spun the wheel sharply and the nose of the convertible mounted the sidewalk with a dazzling burst of speed, leaping toward me like a hound dog on wheels. And she stepped on the gas, besides, instead of the brake.
The convertible sprang to meet me as if it had a mind of its own. As if it was built to run down pedestrians.
I had no time to get out of the way.
FIVE
Only one thing saved me. The bright fluff of orange scarf at Evelyn Hart’s throat.
It fluttered in the racing slipstream of the car, and the night wind and spread out across her eyes. And she did what any other woman in the world will do when something suddenly obstructs her vision. Her manicured fingers left the wheel and tugged feverishly at the fabric slapping into her face. Which is all a guy named Ed Noon needed to stay alive to pay some more taxes.
The fi
ngertip-control steerage of her car spun like a turntable and the nose of the car slewed violently to the left, away from me. In less time than it takes to yell Taxi! the red convertible ploughed into the building wall, bounced back and forth like a tennis ball in continuous relay, and then shuddered to a noisy, metal-smashing stop. The side doors sprang open viciously with the impact and the tall redhead behind the wheel peeled off through one of them like a paratrooper bailing out of his homing plane.
Which was lucky for her, too. Everybody was lucky tonight. With a little less horseshoe, the steering wheel might have parted her right between the high arching breasts.
I reached her in a jiffy where she lay on the sidewalk, thrown clear. One of her high-heel shoes was still in the car. But the rest of her was all in one piece. I propped her up against the running board and made a rapid survey. Except for the simple fact that she was out cold, she looked okay. She looked better knocked out than most dames do when they’re on their feet. She had skipped the beige outfit she’d worn in my office for a strapless blue evening gown that barely covered her calves. Her bared shoulders were nicely warmed by a silver fox stole. It looked like fox to me, but it might have been anything. Her beautifully regal face was quiet now, and her hair was still all in one place. Only a small dark patch on her cheek showed she’d been through a wreck. She was still breathing and her breasts were trying to climb out of the strapless gown, but modem design made the big difference. Her own helped, too.
Things started popping. The neighborhood came to life with rousing cries, grating sounds of windows riding up. A whistle shrilled someplace, and I heard running feet. But I concentrated on Evelyn Hart. The firehouse-red convertible had its radiator stove in and would never look the same again. But it was only a car, and the Hart checkbook could take care of everything. She was a different matter entirely.
And she had tried to plaster me to a stone wall for no good reason—her dancing partner for the evening. You figure it out.
I started warming her hands and wrists with my own. I rubbed like crazy. She groaned. That was my cue. I slapped her smartly on each cheek. Soft but sharp. She groaned again and opened her eyes.
“Feeling better, Miss Hart?” I kept my voice level.
“Oh—” she said.
“Oh is right. Make that a big oh. You tried to kill me with your car. Remember?”
“Mr. Noon—I—where am I? This doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I admitted. “But the first thing we gotta do is vamoose. Can you get up?”
“I think so.” She was quick on the rebound. I helped her to a standing position against the fender of the convertible. I wasn’t at all surprised to find that the softness of her body was deceptive. She was fine and steely, too, like a woman athlete. She blinked at me and felt of herself experimentally.
“Normally, I’d love doing that for you, lady. But I’m in a bad mood right now. Anything broken?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so—” Then she started suddenly and for a second I thought shock was setting in. But it was only female indignation. “What do you mean I tried to kill you with my car? Why, that’s absurd!”
“Isn’t it?” But I wasn’t asking her a question and she sensed it. She wanted to come back with some more but she shut her lips tight. A beat cop had come pounding up with about ninety citizens egging him on.
“Here now!” he thundered. “What’s going on here?” His pad and pencil were out, but he’d also unhooked the nightstick that hung from his pinned badge. He held it at port. The faces and voices of the rubbernecks behind him reminded me of the mob scenes from those Frankenstein pictures.
I tried a grin but the expression on the cop’s face froze it right out of me.
“If you’ll get rid of the angry villagers, Officer, maybe I can explain what happened. You see, the lady here swung her car to avoid hitting a dog that was crossing the street, and—”
“That is correct, Officer,” chimed in Evelyn Hart in her best finishing-school voice. “Another second, I would have run over the animal. But it caused me to lose control of my car and if it wasn’t for this gentleman here, I might have been killed.”
The officer wasn’t young and he wasn’t an officer. He was a beat cop. There’s a difference. He hung his nightstick back on his badge and looked at us sourly. He made no move to disperse the crowd surging at his back, which meant he loved an audience. It looked like a rough night ahead.
“So that’s it, is it? The lady swerved to miss a dog and rammed into the building. Now that’s a real wide miss, isn’t it? And you, mister—you were here all the time and saw everything. That’s fine.”
Several unasked-for opinions drifted out of the mob at his back. He grinned sourly again, but his voice was sweet enough to make you sick.
“Well, now, how about the pair of you showing me some identification? And I’d like to see your papers for the car, ma’am.”
He was an efficient cop. But he loved giving a show too. He spent all of five minutes checking my PI card and license and Evelyn Hart’s driver’s license and permits. Not once did he turn to chase the mob or tell them to shut up. They were yammering away like ghouls and starting to give me a headache. I looked at Evelyn Hart. I might as well have looked at a queen. She was regal and imperial, cool and detached. Her own lady again. She was also smoking a cigarette, the filter tip in the foot-long holder. I tried not to laugh.
The beat cop grunted and put away his pad and notebook.
“Well, Officer,” I said. “I’ll see that the lady gets home all right. Unless you have any more questions?”
He smiled at me. But it was no smile. “Somebody will have to get this mess off the sidewalk. You got any ideas?”
Evelyn Hart was way ahead of him; And me too. She had climbed in behind the wheel and was trying the gear shift and accelerator. The motor beneath the crumpled hood started to thrum smoothly and powerfully.
“May I give you a lift, Mr. Noon? You’ve been too kind.”
I moved easily around the other side of the car and climbed in next to her. “Delighted, Miss Hart. Could you drop me off at the Times Building? I want to buy the Kansas City Star.”
The beat cop started to say something, came around to her side of the car, started to put his arm on the door, and changed his mind. Something about Evelyn Hart’s boss-lady demeanor kept him off stride.
“Yes, Officer?” she inquired sweetly. She stared up at him and turned on her fifteen million volts of female charm. He reddened and growled. But what could he do? It was her car, nobody had been hurt, and the vehicle was still in running condition. And Evelyn Hart could have been a police commissioner’s daughter or a magistrate’s daughter or a big-cheese’s wife, mistress or kith and kin. He stepped back and waved his arm. “Go on. And drive more carefully next time!”
She smiled at him, put the convertible in reverse and moved back into the street with a gentle lurch. She spun the wheel smartly, shifted gears and waved at the cop and the crowd gaily. Like a movie star. The men in the audience cheered and whistled over law and order. I couldn’t help laughing, because as we shot down West 56th crosstown, I could hear the cop bellowing and yelling at the crowd to break up and go about their business.
The red convertible headed smoothly into a stream of uptown traffic. It was only a hoot and a holler to the Calypso Room. We could have cabbed over, but I guessed Evelyn Hart wanted to travel in style.
She was an excellent driver. She knew how to change speeds, beat lights and stay on the right side of everything. Too excellent a driver to have tried to drive over me accidentally.
“Want to talk about that business back there? The dog running in front of you would have made me feel better about everything. But there was no dog.”
Her answer startled me. She took her eyes off the road for a flashing second of fear.
“Mr. Noon—there wasn’t a dog?” She gasped. “Oh, my Lord!”
“Stop clowning, lady,” I said harshly,
“or I’ll give you the five bills back right now and you can go to the Calypso Room by yourself.”
“Mr. Noon, you won’t believe this, but …”
“What won’t I believe?”
She took a deep breath. “I have no memory whatsoever of how I got to your place. Or what I did there. When I came to in your arms on the sidewalk, it was the first conscious thought I had since I left my home for your office to pick you up—”
“Wait a minute, lady. This is me. I’m not the beat cop. You can’t great-lady me into stupidity. What are you trying to sell me?”
“The truth,” she said simply, spinning the wheel to avoid a reckless truck driver on Fifth Avenue. “That whole ride is a complete blank. I must have had a dizzy spell or something. I can’t remember a thing—”
It was a warm night, but I shivered. Something crawled up my spine and started playing tag with my little disks and vertebrae. What gave? Voodoo telegrams, my stomach ache, Coffee and his machetes, the stabbed mannequin hurtling through Benny’s window, and now the regal redhead who had tried to kill me, claiming she never did no such thing. Somebody was losing his or her marbles. And I wasn’t too sure it wasn’t me. It wasn’t a very comforting thought.
“Skip it,” I said.
“But if there is something wrong—”
“Skip it. We’ll talk about it later.” I looked through the the windshield at the neon lights, the stone outline of the city, the massive architecture of the man-made civilization. For one wild second, I saw a tropic moon, a lonely island, heard the far-off sound of a beating drum. It was a weird sensation. I shook it off by whistling “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” Evelyn Hart kept the rest of the drive to herself. She was silent and methodical. Maybe she didn’t like my taste in music. She was more Gershwin than Berlin, at that.
Suddenly she pulled over to the curb and parked the car. “Here we are,” she said in a guarded voice. “The Calypso Room.”
I never felt more like Sloppy Joe’s in all my life.
SIX
We walked in on the Duke’s act. The stage show was in full sway. And if Miss Evelyn Hart hadn’t been wise enough to reserve a table for two at ringside, we might still be waiting to get in. The Calypso was jammed. But jammed.
The Voodoo Murders Page 3
