“Will you look at these, please?”
I spread the pictures of Mari Barstow on her coffee table and she scooted to the desk for her glasses and gave the photos her serious concentration. From the very first sight of Mari in a close-up, Mrs. Timmerman’s head was on a hinge, nodding her recognition.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “This one has been here.”
“You know her name?”
“Not her name. But that face, I’d never forget that face. Beautiful.”
“Did Jan ever mention her name?”
“I didn’t discuss his girls with him,” she said with some sharpness. “Jan was like a son to me. I respected his personal life.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “How did you see his women friends? In what circumstances?”
“Here. Over here.” She walked to the window and sat in an easy chair set up so that it afforded a view of the street looking toward the west. From this perch she would have an intimate view of anybody walking up the stone steps to the vestibule. There was a street lamp on the sidewalk, close enough to spotlight any visitor. “I’m not much of a sleeper, you see. Some nights I sit here for hours, just staring out this window. Not that I wanted to snoop. Not that I wanted to spy on Jan. But he would come home with a girl very often and I would see them come in.”
“And when was the last time you saw this one?”
“Not lately.”
“Did Jan ever talk about any of them? Did he have any favorites?”
“You’re a stubborn man,” she said testily. “I’ve already told you we didn’t discuss his personal affairs. What are you getting at?”
“How old are you, Mrs. Timmerman?”
“What’s none of your business.”
“I’d say you’re about forty-five.”
“What difference does it make?”
“You’re a very attractive woman, Mrs. Timmerman. Didn’t Flato think you were attractive?”
“We never discussed my looks.”
“And he never made a pass at you?” I asked. She had been tightening under my questions during the last exchange, her face flushing, her hands suddenly fluttery. She was caught off guard.
“Get out of my house,” she shrilled.
“I meant to compliment you, Mrs. Timmerman.”
“I can live without that kind of flattery.”
“Then let me apologize,” I said sincerely. “It’s just that you strike me as an active woman, a woman of outside interests, a woman of many friends; in short, a very attractive person. You’re a woman of the world, Mrs. Timmerman. I knew that last night when I saw you down at Gretchen MacGruder’s. Are you interested in the Nowist movement?”
“Oh, that? It amuses me. I go there for laughs, that’s all.”
“And does Jeff Masterson give you laughs?”
“Occasionally.”
“You know him well?”
“I know him.”
“An interesting man, would you say?”
“Sometimes.” She had sobered at the mention of his name, not enjoying the sudden shift in the conversational winds. “And other times he’s a terrible bore.”
“Has he ever visited you here?”
“Never.” But the word came too quickly, and the sudden flush that accompanied it didn’t add credibility to her reply. “Listen, I’ve got a terrible headache, had it since this awful thing happened. I must ask you to leave now.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Timmerman,” I said. “And thank you for your cooperation. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Still mad?” I asked Helen Calabrese.
“Don’t be an ass,” she said, smiling a little for me. It was mid-afternoon and we were sitting in Sempione’s bar. “I wouldn’t be here if that was so.”
“I appreciate your running over here to meet me. You came without questioning me. You came, despite the fact that the search for Mari Barstow is over. My work with Silverton ended when she phoned your office this morning.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“It was quite a shock to hear her voice.” She gave me her big black eyes. “We were pretty worried about her, Steve. The tension was really building, you know, the big fear that she was hurt, or—”
“Or dead?”
“Nobody talked about it. But the feeling was there.”
“And did she say when she’d arrive in New York?”
“No definite time.”
“She checked out of her hotel in Chicago a little after ten,” I said. “I phoned out there.”
“You’re very thorough.” She eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and respect. “But I suppose you must be, in your business.”
“I can’t operate without facts, Helen. That’s why I asked you to come down here. I’m on another case now, a case that can’t be solved unless every small detail is checked.”
“Another case? What kind?”
“Murder.”
I built the story slowly for her, beginning at Gretchen’s last night and running through the Nowist idiocy to the horrible business that led to Max Ornstein’s death. I moved Max through the Village to the dark stair landing in Margaret Lane. I held him there, describing the building and escorting her slowly to the spot where he had been stabbed, and from there to roam the studio with me, picking up the strange assortment of clues that pointed to Masterson. She closed her eyes on the scene as I described it.
“A strange studio,” I said. “I’m no artist, Helen, but it looked more like a large closet, a large dirty closet.”
“It’s typical of certain types,” she said. “Certain odd Village types who think art must be spawned in dirt and neglect. I’ve seen many of them.”
“Of course you have. Even seen Mrs. MacGruder’s?”
“I’m not that friendly with Gretchen.”
“I was thinking of Jeff Masterson.”
“I don’t understand, Steve.”
“Think about it,” I said. “Masterson uses Gretchen’s studio, doesn’t he?”
“How would I know?”
“I thought you wanted to help me. We won’t get anywhere if you play games with me, Helen. Everybody down in the Village knows Masterson’s been cozy with Gretchen MacGruder. It’s obvious that he’d use her studio, isn’t it?”
“I tell you I don’t know.”
“Then you haven’t ever been there?”
“Please, Steve. I’m not that intimate with Jeff Masterson. Maybe he does hang out in Gretchen’s place. He’s a sick boy.”
“I don’t give a hoot in hell for the state of his mental health,” I said, holding tight to her hand. “But it would help to know whether he’s shacking up in Gretchen’s dump.”
“I honestly don’t know, Steve.”
“He has no other hangout?”
“Please, you’re hurting my hand,” she said quietly. “I’d tell you if I knew, I really would. I don’t know him that well. I keep telling Luigi the same thing, that Jeff Masterson really doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “He’s not for you, Helen. Your brother is dead right about him.”
“Of course,” she sighed. “Luigi is always right, Steve.”
I approached Gretchen MacGruder’s basement trap with great caution, moving slowly on the opposite side of the street so that I could spot John Drummond. There were several casual places where he would stand on a plant and watch her door. But Drummond was not in sight and I assumed that he must have seen Jeff Masterson leaving Gretchen’s and followed him.
Inside, the Nowist nook smelled a bit of last night’s festivities, still retaining the same damp and airless atmosphere. And still retaining a few of last night’s characters.
Like the girl behind the bar.
“Gloria,” I s
aid. “We meet again.”
“The question man,” she said. “Drink?”
“One drink. A few questions.”
“Man, you’re an odd-ball. Scotch?”
“Scotch. Where’s Gretchen?”
“Gone, man.”
“And Masterson?”
“Long gone. He left, hours ago.”
“Where’d he go, Gloria?”
“Crazy Brains doesn’t tell,” she smiled and leaned across the bar and showed me her wonderful breasts. “What’s with you? Twenty questions again? Arthur says you’re a detective. I don’t dig you.”
“You dig me fine,” I said. “About Gretchen, now. She gone on Crazy Brains?”
“Everybody in skirts, man. He sends them all.”
“Including Gretchen?”
“That’s no big secret.”
“For how long?”
“That’s a question for her, detective man.”
“And he shacks up with her?”
“Crazy Brains might. She’s an old cat, but built, man.”
“Here? He lives here?”
“Here and there. There lately.”
“You mean Margaret Lane?” I asked.
“Lately. Here comes my sweet daddy,” she laughed her eyes bright with surprise. She slid down to the end of the bar and embraced Arthur Haddon. “You’ll lose your job, daddy-oh.”
He was drunk again, bobbling drunk, grinning like a fool as he grabbed and held her and blubbered in her pretty ear. He was unaware of me until I took the stool alongside him and tugged him away from her. He gaped at me stupidly, blinking until his fogged eyes focused and found me and recognized me. He was too drunk for sane talk. He laughed hysterically and almost fell on his face as he downed the drink she handed him.
“Spit,” he gurgled. “Before you ask me, Connick. I’m down here to spit again. At Masterson. Spit in his eye. Where is he? Show me the dirty beard. Kill the bastard.”
“Coffee,” said the bosom. “Daddy needs black coffee.”
“Spit,” he insisted.
“Over here,” I said and pulled him away from the bar toward a table. He fought me weakly, his skinny arms flailing at me as he careened backward. Gloria came out from behind the bar, sensitive to my anger, struggling to protect him. “Get him some coffee,” I told her. “I’m not going to hurt him. I’m just going to ask him why he’s so dedicated to the spit routine.”
“Don’t hit him, detective man.”
“Get the coffee, Gloria.”
“Spit,” said Haddon.
“What’s the gimmick?” I pulled him up from the table and slapped his face. “Why the big yen to hit Masterson?”
“Aaaaaaagh …”
He was beginning to break up now, his face tortured and loose, his mouth slack, his drunken eyes brimming with tears. The sudden sadness racked his body, converting him into a trembling and almost hysterical lush. Yet, there was something pitiful about this breakdown. You would not expect a man of his type to let down the emotional bars. Even when drunk, Haddon always retained some of his professional dignity. He could be a funny drunk, a zany, a belligerent. But, a weeper? He abandoned himself to his overpowering sorrow, his head in his arms, the spindly table shaking under the force of his sobbing.
“You ask stupid questions,” he whispered. “Stupid questions. Masterson stole her from me, understand?”
“Who? Stole who?”
“Mari, you idiot.”
“Was it that bad?”
“I loved her,” he said. “I still love her.”
“Drink this, daddy-oh,” said Gloria, back with the cup of coffee.
“To hell with it.”
He brushed the cup of hot coffee off the table and it splattered against the girl’s thigh and she began to scream at him and yammer with pain. Some of the bar Nowists started toward him and she ran through them and into the other room, her young voice high with discomfort. He slumped forward on the table and buried his head again, talking no longer, probably ready for some sleep. They buzzed around him, prodding him and questioning him.
I left him that way, gently snoring while the cultists started back to the bar, already bored by the little man with the big temper and the adjustable sorrow.
The sun was beginning to dip behind the higher buildings when I arrived at The Ridge Apartments. The Irish doorman stood exactly where I had seen him last, planted near the curb and quick to open my cab door. He assured me that Mari Barstow had not yet returned to her apartment. He had been instructed by the superintendent to advise the management of her arrival since there was a little matter of current rent to be paid. And had there been any visitors? Any attempts to visit the Barstow apartment? None at all. Any inquiries? None at all.
I walked across to First Avenue and then uptown toward Linda Karig’s street. It would be dark soon and I was beginning to think of John Drummond’s report on Masterson. He would be phoning in, perhaps in an hour or so. The thought of Masterson reheated my curiosity. He annoyed me. He made me itch and burn inside. All day long my instincts had been battling my logic. No amount of rationalization could kill my yen to corner him. I saw him on the stairs in Margaret Lane. I saw him in the dark, attacking Max. And when the picture came clear to me, the anger bit hard and I forgot everything but the overpowering urge to reach Masterson and make him talk.
My mind was lost to Masterson as I turned into Linda Karig’s street. I paused in a doorway across from her flat to make the jump back into reality. Only yesterday I had stood on this very spot with Max, making calculations about Linda. And now? The pause became a happy circumstance. A cab pulled up at the corner.
And Oliver Silverton got out.
When he disappeared in the vestibule of Linda’s place, I came out of hiding and crossed the street and ducked into the alley leading to the narrow yard behind the house. Somebody had struggled with this foliage a long time ago. Now weeds grew high and wild along the dirt path and shrubs spilled over the tall grass, burying the remains of a rustic dining set in weeds.
The usual clutter of garbage receptacles decorated the area near the back door. Above, a few easy steps up the heavily vined wall, was Linda’s kitchen window. It was no trouble at all to raise it and climb inside.
I paused here, caught by the sound of voices.
Oliver Silverton was engaging her in conversation. I edged close to the door and the picture came clear to me, a dignified late afternoon tête-à-tète. He sat on the chair alongside the couch, a drink in his hand, as casual as a cocktail date. As always, an air of refinement and dignity hung about him. Silverton would look proper in any environment, his handsome, smiling face at ease as he spoke his line.
“… a regular in our new Drama Workshop, Linda.”
“Poor little me? This is a surprise, Mr. Silverton.”
“You can call me Oliver.”
“How friendly.” Was she a bit drunk again? Or was she only putting on her best cocktail face, struggling to impress the network tycoon with her poise and bearing? “To what do I owe this sudden windfall?”
“You’re worthy of it, Linda.”
“You’ve seen me? In Flame of Summer, perhaps?”
“Not I,” he said. “My scouts have been watching you.”
“Incredible.”
“Not at all. It’s quite normal.” He got up and joined her at the fireplace, the gentleman of distinction alongside the Actors Studio lass. She was dressed in a simple outfit, tight black pants and a red shirt and no make-up on her pretty face. She regarded him with a curious eye. “We’re selecting a special group of talented young people for next year’s experimental Drama Workshop,” he said. “I think you may qualify. Of course, you’ll have to come over and audition for the director, but if my scouts are right about you, you’ll make it easily.”
“How nice,” she said. “
And you came over personally to tell me this?”
“I always run my own errands: The project is mine, Linda.”
“Just like that?”
“You’re a cynical girl.”
“I’ve been in television for some time, Oliver.” She looked at him with deep understanding. “What’s the gimmick?”
“The gimmick?”
“Which mattress? Yours?”
“You’re a frank one,” he said, and fondled her cheek casually. “This is not that kind of a deal.”
“But it is a deal?”
“Not quite.”
“Another drink?” she smiled. “Or will you tell me what you want on only one?”
“Why don’t you and I have dinner together?”
“Please, Oliver. I can save you money. I’ll give you an out right here. Besides, I can’t have dinner with you tonight.” She looked at her watch. “It’s getting late. Did you come here about Mari Barstow?”
“You are clever,” he smiled. “How did you guess?”
“It was easy. Mari worked for you. She has a capacity for involving her employers in romance. She must have hit you pretty hard, Oliver. You even hired a private detective to track her down.”
“How would you know that?” He seemed a little nervous as he sipped his drink. “That information was confidential. He shouldn’t have told you.”
“Nonsense,” I said, and stepped into the room.
Silverton almost dropped his glass. Linda began to laugh, a little too high and hilarious for the scene. She eased herself to the couch and gave herself up to laughter, converting the occasion into a more awkward drama for Oliver Silverton. He stood there, staring at her unbelievingly, as fidgety as a lover in a closet.
“How else would I get information about Mari Barstow?” I asked him. “How can I ask questions without revealing my quarry?”
“How long have you been here, Conacher?”
“Long enough to hear your pitch.”
“Pitch?”
“You told me Mari came back, Silverton. Yet, you haven’t seen her today?”
“Exactly.”
“Then you’re still looking for her? And you thought Linda might know where she is?”
“He’s not the only one,” said Linda. “My apartment has become an information booth, Steve. I had visit from Arthur Haddon this afternoon. And a mysterious phone call from a woman.”
Triple Slay Page 11
