Triple Slay

by Lawrence Lariar

  I said, “Go into the john and douse your face with some cold water, Linda.”

  “My name,” she whispered. “How in hell do you know my name?”

  “Later. First, the cold water.”

  “Now,” she said stubbornly, still clinging to me, her icy hand on mine. “Who are you?”

  “Don’t fight me,” I told her. “Fainting women give me a feeling of inadequacy. You look pale enough to play Camille.”

  “Funny idea.” She marched unsteadily to the bathroom. It gave me time to grab my hat out of Flato’s food closet.

  She returned looking much better—fresher, brighter. She had a simple kind of beauty; a good face, pure oval and unvarnished with make-up. There was still the feeling of looseness in her, enough to move her unsteadily. I wondered how she would be sober.

  “Feel better?” I asked.

  “I’ll never be the same,” she shuddered. “Not after seeing him in there—”

  “You know what comes next?”

  “Games?” she smiled. “You play games?”

  “Not with a dead body around, Linda. I’ve got to phone this in to the police.”

  “You mustn’t.” She was at my arm, holding it away from the phone desperately. She was still drunk enough to lay into me with dramatic abandon, letting me feel her soft curves and animal warmth. “You don’t think I killed him, for God’s sake?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, Linda.”

  “There you go again. My name. How on earth do you know it?”

  “My business,” I said.

  “Business?”

  “I’m a detective,” I said. “My name is Steve Conacher and I’m in the skip-trace business, which means I find missing people for other people who don’t want them missing.”

  “You’re a friend of Jan’s, then?”

  “Not quite. I was investigating Jan Flato.”

  “But why?”

  “I’m looking for Mari Barstow.”

  “No.” The name provoked her into a fresh reaction, half surprise, half amusement. “You didn’t expect Jan to tell you where Mari is?”

  “Then you know Mari?”

  “We’re old friends.”

  “Sister, you’re in real trouble.”

  “Because I know Mari?”

  “Because you’re here, now, after fainting away, after discovering Flato dead in his bedroom. You’re a big girl. You’d better have a solid story for the police.”

  I was still standing there with one hand on the phone and the other hand inactive at my side, because she leaned into me and clutched my wrist, holding me away from the telephone.

  “Please,” she begged. “Will you listen to me, Conacher? A thing like this could ruin me. Completely, do you understand? Do you know why? I’ll tell you why. I’m an actress. God, it’s tough enough to get good work these days with some of the vermin television producers. I’ve only just begun to make progress. I’ve played second lead on several big shows. I’ve worked hard. I’ve earned good reviews. Some of them tell me that I haven’t far to go before making it. I mean, even in the movies. Can you see how a scandal like this could ruin me? Just because I happened to have a date with Jan tonight. That’s the truth, but the police will never believe it.”

  “When did you make that date with Flato?”

  “Yesterday.” Her voice was coming apart, cracking. She trembled, so violently that Ï thought she might pass out again. “Must we talk here?” she whispered. “Can’t we leave?”

  “Not until I call this in to the police.” What she did next couldn’t have been acting. She sank to her knees and buried her head in her hands and just kneeled there, not weeping, not saying a word, her body completely lost in her agony. She remained that way while I dialed the number, and looking at her I felt suddenly sorry for her. She had been trapped in a situation completely out of her control, a foolish girl on a date to make time with a television director. The situation didn’t add up. If she had knifed him, she would be another girl, a girl with enough intestinal fortitude to carry her away from the scene of the crime without collapsing in a silly faint. If she had knifed him, would she be kneeling at my side now, waiting for the police to come and take her?

  Then the voice of the desk sergeant was greeting me.

  And I was saying: “Police? I want to report a murder.” I gave them the Sixty-Fourth Street address. “Never mind my name.”

  And I was helping her to her feet.

  “Let’s get out of here, Linda. We’ve got some talking to do.”

  “You’re a good man, Conacher,” she said. “This means a lot to me.”

  “It means plenty to me, too,” I told her. “It means that I’m breaking the law. It also means that I’ll lose my license if the city police ever find out about this.”

  In Linda’s apartment she went at once to her kitchen and emerged with a bottle and two glasses, her own already filled and sipped.

  “Drink, Conacher’?”

  “You could do with some coffee.”

  “Don’t preach, for God’s sake.”

  “Put down the liquor, Linda.”

  “And don’t order me around.”

  “No liquor,” I said and took the glass out of her hand. “I can’t use you drunk.”

  “My, my, my. You are the strong type, aren’t you?”

  “Not really. Not any more than you’re the weak type. Forget about drinking for a while. We’ve got talking to do.”

  “Sane and sensible,” she said, sitting beside me on the broad studio couch. Anxiety was beginning to shake her again. Something resembling color had crept into her cheeks, but nothing permanent, nothing healthy. She was much too pretty for dipsomania, just about the prettiest lady drinker I ever saw. She had intelligent eyes and she tried to use them with some purpose now, staring at me, appraising me. “You’ve been very good to me, Conacher. Very sweet. But I really don’t have to answer your questions now. Not anymore.”

  “Muddy thinking,” I said. “You’re all wrong, Linda.”

  “What can happen? You’re the only one who saw me at Jan’s. It would be your word against mine.”

  “You’ve been reading too many bad television scripts. There are certain rules in my business, hard and fast rules. One of the most important ones is this: I must cooperate with the police at all, times. Sound funny? That’s because the fictional detective is always battling it out with some iron-jawed police chief, fighting to prove the cops a bunch of morons. Nothing could be further from the truth. The top man down at headquarters is Dave Cushing, a very clever detective and a good friend of mine. I’ve known Dave Gushing for years because I’ve been in business for years. He knows me as a respectable business man who happens to operate in his line of work. Dave Gushing and I have gone to police benefits, civic lectures and Yankee ball games together. I want you to understand the relationship. Dave Cushing has lots of respect for my opinions, and he certainly would never question my good faith in a thing of this sort. He will be glad to use any information I may offer him. You can imagine how happy he’d be if I phone, him and tell him I happened to find a girl in Flato’s place. He’ll pick you up and sweat you out under the lights down there.”

  I prolonged the monologue, watching her closely, aware that she was going through a basic struggle with herself, her eyes alive with fright. She had intended to outsmart me, to walk away from the mess quickly and easily. She had assumed that her fantasies concerning crime were cunning and clever. And now the thin wall of confidence began to crack. She collapsed in tears, a lonely little girl again.

  “I’d better call Dave Cushing,” I said.

  “Please, Conacher.”

  “Why should I go out on a limb for you, Linda?”

  “Do you think I killed Jan Flato?”

  “I don’t want to think it.”

&n
bsp; “I didn’t kill him,” she whispered. “You must believe me.”

  “You had me sold until you tried the ‘your word against mine’ gambit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Talk.”

  “I was right the first time. You’re a softy, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. I’m trying to play on your team.”

  “I can never repay you.”

  “I haven’t billed you yet, Linda.”

  “A real softy.” She had melted, very close to me on the couch now, the panic no longer in her. Instead she was trying to tell me something with her eyes, smiling quietly and leaning into me and covering my hand with hers. She came closer and still closer and then she kissed me, not deep, not strong, but with gentleness. It wasn’t easy to move away from her.

  “Let’s have that drink now,” I told her.

  “We don’t have to drink, Steve.”

  “You’re playing it from the script again, Linda.”

  “I want to thank you.”

  “You’ve thanked me.”

  “You’re a real human being, Steve.”

  “How about that drink?” I said.

  I drank with her for a while, letting her find some calm. She was the type who would never let go, never ease off until sleep claimed her.

  “Why don’t you tell me how it all started?” I said. “I mean, the events of the day. It would help a lot. Your date with Flato. Start with that. When did you make the date?”

  “In his office,” she said. “Yesterday I had a call from Jan’s office about a small bit in a comedy routine he was planning for his show. Oh, it was nothing fancy, nothing really worthwhile; I mean prestige-wise. But I wanted it because it was network. You know the old yen for a big audience, a chance to be seen, to be grabbed for something greater. Actors are imbeciles, really, children who believe in magic.”

  “Who called you?”

  “Jan’s assistant.”

  “But you spoke to Jan after that?”

  “I had a dinner date with him, for tonight,” she said. “Jan made it with me on the same day, from his office.”

  “Go on,” I said. She had lapsed into sudden silence, gnawing her lower lip and staring at her glass sadly.

  “That was why I got high this afternoon,” she said. “That was why I tied one on when I met Jeff.”

  “Jeff?”

  “Jeff Masterson, a friend of mine.”

  “A good friend?” I asked,

  “A friend. A good listener, Jeff is. We went over to The Star, a bar around the corner. I was afraid, you see, scared to death of Jan. He had quite a reputation in the field, with the women he hired, I mean. Oh, you know the business, don’t you? There are girls and girls, most of them pretty easy in exchange for a part from a man like Jan Flato. That was what disturbed me, don’t you see, the reason why I had so much to drink. I’m that way, I suppose; too tense, too tight to fight an emotional battle without bottle help. That’s the way it is with me and I admit it.”

  “So you turned to Jeff Masterson for moral support?”

  “That’s about it. Jeff was sweet. He delivered me to Jan’s place in time for my date.”

  “He didn’t come in?”

  “He left me at the door.”

  “And Flato’s apartment door. Was it open?”

  “I walked in,” she said. “It must have been open. You didn’t think I had Jan’s key?”

  “Forget it,” I said. “Are you quite sure about your friend of Masterson? Are you sure he didn’t come in?”

  “I’m as sure as I’ll ever be,” she eyed me curiously. “He had no reason to come in. He only knew Jan slightly. Besides, it would have been awkward.”

  “Yet, somebody did come in, probably at about that time, Linda. You don’t think Masterson could be our boy?”

  “I’m positive,” she shrugged. “But that’s a silly thing to say, isn’t it? I was in no condition to notice where Jeff went after he left me.”

  “So you came in, saw Jan and fainted. You saw nobody in the living room when you came out?”

  “I was much too dizzy to see anybody or anything,” she said. “I collapsed from shock, I suppose. Fainting isn’t something you plan, Steve.”

  She was on her feet and moving to the window, standing there draped in a provocative pose, staring sadly into the street. I liked her. I couldn’t blame Flato for trying to make time with this girl. She had a wonderful figure, a pleasant silhouette from any angle. Her body had the quality of naturalness, full in the bust and hips, womanly and well-rounded where a man likes curves.

  “Tell me about Mari Barstow,” I said. “You knew her well?”

  “We went to college together, studied dramatics together. We graduated two years ago and came to New York. For about a half-year Mari shared this flat with me. Then her direction changed. She always had a marvelous voice, deep and throaty, and very appealing. She got a job with a band leader named Tony Granada. Tony took her on the road and she sort of drifted out of my life. I’d see her occasionally at parties or when she played a New York club. The last time I saw her was at a Village party.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Mari alone?” She laughed for the first time, an attractive laugh that lit up her face and somehow seemed to change her personality. A lot of the theatrical polish faded with that laugh and I wondered what it would take to keep her really happy. “Mari Barstow was never alone, from the first moment I met her in college. It was a thing with her, the business of avoiding loneliness. She always had a companion.”

  “And who was her companion at that party?”

  “Tony Granada, of course.”

  “Her steady boy friend?”

  “I couldn’t answer that honestly.”

  “She never had a steady?” I asked. “In college?”

  “In college, yes.”

  “His name?”

  “You certainly are going way back,” she smiled. “Her beau in college was Jeff Masterson. They were very much dedicated to each other in their senior year. And she saw Jeff in New York for a while, too. He’s a writer, a novelist, one of the beat generation tribe, but still unpublished.”

  “Was he at that Village party you mentioned?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Still in love with her?”

  “Love? Jeff would sneer at the word, Conacher. His group is more concerned with the primitive pleasures. A strange bunch.”

  “Tell me about the bunch,” I suggested.

  She went into a slow monologue about the beat generation tribe, talking to the window while I used the time to look around her apartment. It was a two-room layout; a living room, a small kitchenette, and a bedroom. The furnishings were nondescript. The place radiated a feeling of good taste, not expensive but interesting. There were several colorful reproductions on the wall. A small line-up of theatrical photos decorated the top of the bookshelf. One of the photos was Mari Barstow, taken in college, a Bohemian lass dressed in dungarees and a heavy sweater, her hair done pony-tail style. She was a remarkably pretty girl, prettier than the press shot Oliver Silverton had showed me.

  “Cute girl, Mari,” I said.

  “Oh, she’s a cute one, all right.”

  “Lots of boy friends?”

  “Too many.”

  “Jan Flato?”

  “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I didn’t know Jan well enough to discuss his women.”

  “Women?”

  “He had many bedmates.”

  “Do you know him well enough to discuss his enemies?”

  “I’m afraid not, Steve.”

  “I was thinking of a man named Arthur Haddon.”

  “Arthur?” She laughed at the thought. “Arthur only hates himself, really. He’s a sweet man, mild and harmless.
Everybody in show business knows his big heart. He was a television genius in his day and he’s been shuffled back to a desk job. He has the license to be angry with the younger group of directors, don’t you think?”

  “The group? Or Flato in particular?”

  “Why Flato?”

  “I was thinking that Mari Barstow might have stood in the middle, between them. Arthur Haddon had a yen for her. Maybe he still has. She doesn’t seem to be an easy girl to forget.”

  “She’s not easy,” said Linda. “Not easy in any way.”

  She got up nervously and had another drink. She faced me with a measured, intense look, the sort of expression she must have used thousands of times in her dramatics, a look of complete honesty, a look of open nobility of purpose.

  I said, “Stop twitching, Linda. You’re going to be all right.”

  “Do you really think so, Steve?”

  “I don’t think you murdered him.”

  “Will the police agree with you?” Her old worries were back to plague her again, doing strange things to her, moving her to my side at the door where she clung to me with trembling desperation. “Will you come back, Steve? Will you see them? The police? What shall I do if they come?”

  “Tell them the truth,” I said. “And by all means don’t let them see you with a load on. I’ll be back. I’ve got things to do, Linda—but I’ll certainly be back.”

  I kissed her goodbye and left.

  CHAPTER 3

  The morning papers were piled on Oliver Silverton’s desk. The top one, a tabloid, carried a bold headline:

  TV DIRECTOR MURDERED

  Police Hunt Mystery Visitor

  The inside story featured a variety of poses of Mrs. Timmerman and the police. She was the key witness, the only photographable element in the case. The news artists had drawn several diagrams of the apartment, complete with directional arrows and theoretical meanderings of the murderer.

  Mrs. Timmerman described the mysterious man who pretended to be a Life research worker. Again, the staff artist created a composite “killer picture” made up of the elements of Mrs. Timmerman’s strange description. I was pictured as a vague type, rather watery looking in the eyes and somewhat cherubic in facial contours—a roundish head in a rakish felt hat described as sort of “greenish” but with a brown feather in the band. “He was a short, average little man,” Mrs. Timmerman told them, “very polite and quite nice. He certainly fooled me completely. I would never take him to be a murderer. He looked more like a Fuller Brush man or an insurance agent or somebody like that.”