“Skip it. Let’s move to your hobbies.” I showed him the photograph of Mari Barstow. “Where did you get this?”
“Picked it up,” he grumbled. “I buy lots of pictures.”
“Where?”
“Sixth Avenue. Uptown.”
“When did you buy this one?”
“Month ago. Maybe two.”
“You’re a liar, Grippo. This doll hasn’t made it yet. And you don’t pick up studio portraits on Sixth Avenue. Magazines, yes. Cheesecake shots, sure. But never a photo like this. Are you going to tell me the truth? Or do I have to slap it out of you?”
“Real tough,” he said. “Don’t you ever give up?”
“You want another three minutes?” I moved in and let him feel the gun in his back. I jabbed him hard, wanting him to feel my anger and impatience. There can never be any subtleties with primitive characters. Logic and persuasion are ridiculous to the animal types who regard such mental gymnastics as signs of weakness.
And that was why I put extra pressure behind the gun barrel until his back tensed and he began to mutter his usual obscenities. My patience gave out then. I let him have the butt again, hitting him in exactly the same spot I had massaged before. He yowled with pain and slid to the floor.
“Please, Steve,” said Helen. “I want out.”
“Not yet,” I said. “Our friend Grippo is going to tell us where he got Mari Barstow’s picture. And why.”
“Don’t hit him again. I’ll tell you.”
“You’ll tell me what?”
“How he got this picture.”
“And how would you know?”
“I gave it to him,” Helen said quietly. She was trying hard for the touch of integrity the line needed. She was laying it on thick, struggling to make it convincing, her pretty eyes opened wide in a schoolgirl’s show of honesty. She might have pulled it off if I had been standing in another position. But from where I stood I could see Grippo’s reaction to her confession. And Grippo was eyeing her with uninhibited astonishment. “Isn’t that right, Grippo?”
“Check,” said Grippo.
“Let’s double check,” I suggested. “Play it from the beginning, Helen. How did you happen to give it to Grippo?”
“It’s rather simple, Steve. I work in the publicity end of television, remember? We get all kinds of press shots of our stars, thousands of them. And I’m forever carrying them around town with me. I dropped in at Luigi’s for lunch last week and happened to have some pictures of Mari Barstow. Grippo saw this one and I gave it to him.”
I stood away from her so that I could watch Grippo as he recovered and lifted himself wearily from the floor and resumed his position at the wall. His animal eyes studied her as she talked. He registered a combination of approval and befuddlement and deep appreciation. And she avoided his eyes as she rambled on, explaining her possession of the publicity shots and her duties— with Oliver Silverton in the network office.
“Leave Grippo alone,” she was saying. “He’ll never talk to you because he feels it would be a betrayal of my brother. He’s always been that way and you know it. He’d rather die than give in to you. Can’t you see it, Steve?”
“I can see it,” I said.
“And may I go home now?”
“Not quite yet,” I told her. “But soon.”
CHAPTER 15
There were at least a dozen things I should have been doing instead of standing on a plant with Helen Calabrese outside Grippo’s hotel. Yet, the past hour’s activities seemed to point in this direction first. I wanted her to understand that a big part of the rat race was over. I wanted her impressed with my cleverness and intuition. I also wanted her to remain frightened and worried.
“Grippo will be out in a few minutes,” I said. “Just as soon as he cleans the blood off his pretty neck.”
“And then what?”
“It’s my guess he’ll head for brother Luigi’s.”
“Isn’t that natural?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Does he usually visit brother Luigi at this hour? It’s past one.”
“You’ll have to ask Luigi that question,” she said thoughtfully. “When can I go home, Steve? I’m really exhausted.”
“Soon. Here he comes now.”
Grippo came out quietly and carefully, standing at the hotel door while he examined the street. It was a routine gesture for a man of his type. He would be looking into the shadows for a tail, probing the hidden places like the black doorway in which Helen and I stood. His head turned on a slow axis and his eyes were aimed our way for a part of the panoramic sweep. And then he was off, walking briskly to the west, his dumpy body bent forward at an aggressive angle. I gave him a hundred yards and stepped out, pulling Helen after me.
And then Helen tripped and fell.
My gentlemanly reflexes slowed me and I helped her to her feet and made the proper sympathetic remarks. Until we moved away after Grippo again. In the brief delay, he had turned the corner up ahead and vanished among the scattered pedestrians. I was aware that Helen might have helped him by tripping so conveniently.
“He’s gone,” she said.
“We can still make a try at him.”
“Must we?”
“Be my guest,” I said, and whistled a cab and steered her inside. She sat back, still play-acting at exhaustion and saying nothing. I was in no mood for further talk. She had successfully pulled me away from Grippo, and I was willing to bet it was no accident.
At Luigi’s apartment, the doorman informed me that Mr. Calabrese had gone out about ten minutes ago.
“Isn’t that strange for Luigi?” I asked Helen. “Leaving his flat at this hour?”
“For Luigi nothing is strange. He could be at any number of night clubs, Steve.”
“Any special ideas?”
“Am I my brother’s keeper?”
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
“You sound angry, Steve.”
“The birds stopped singing for me after breakfast today.”
“Can I go home now?”
“Not yet.”
“Please.” She showed me a fresh side of her temperament, sudden annoyance that fractured her usually ladylike poise. “What on earth are you trying to prove?”
“Only that you’re a liar.”
“Hard words, Steve.”
“Maybe you’re a hard girl. Harder than I thought.”
“And if I am? Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
“Why should I lie to you?”
“A good question,” I said. “A question I’m going to answer—tonight.”
“Without me,” she said airily, moving away from me toward the cab. “I’m going home to bed, Steve:”
“No. You’re coming with me.”
The fight died in her after that. She sat quietly in the cab while I let her sweat a bit. It was a short haul to her office building, but she didn’t recognize it until we were marching into the deserted lobby.
“Why here?” she asked.
“We’re visiting your office, Helen.”
“At this hour? We can’t get in.”
“You can sign us in.”
“Why, Steve, why?”
“I’d like to visit your office.” We were halfway down the marble lobby and she stopped and held me there. Far down the end, the night man got off his stool and stood watching us expectantly. The silence closed in. The night man coughed. From some distant floor an elevator sang in a shaft. She watched the indicator dial swing slowly down from the fifteenth floor.
I held her elbow and nudged her forward. “It won’t take a minute, Helen.”
“There’s no need to go up,” she said.
“You know what I’m after?”
“I’ve gotten to know you pretty well. Y
ou don’t leave loose ends, do you?”
“Not the obvious ones,” I said.
“You want to go up and check that photograph of Mari?”
“You’re a clever girl, Helen. Grippo’s photo of Mari was no ordinary press shot. I caught the signature of the photographer who did it, Machin, one of the top portraitists in the field, isn’t he?”
“Machin is the very best,” she said.
“Who paid for the job?”
“Probably Oliver Silverton.”
“Probably? Aren’t you sure?”
“You’ll have to ask Oliver.”
“No dice,” I said, marveling at her ingenuity. “If Silverton had a copy of that portrait, he would have given it to me when he assigned me the job of tracking her down. But Silverton had only the stock publicity shots. Why would he hold back giving me the portrait photo?”
“Oliver wouldn’t want it known that he paid to have her lovely face done by Machin. You don’t know him well.”
“I know him well enough, Helen. I also know you well enough. Can you explain how Grippo got that photo? Are you still going to tell me you gave it to him? Or are you going to level with me?”
“I’m doing my best, Steve,” she said with sincerity.
“You’re doing your best, but not for me. I’ll tell you where Grippo got the Machin portrait. He got it from brother Luigi, didn’t he?”
“That’s silly. Why would Luigi have it?”
“She has him hooked.”
“He knows her,” Helen said wearily. “He told you that. He knows her as a casual date.”
“Mari is never a casual date,” I said. “From the very beginning of my hunt for her I knew she was a strange one. You question people and sort answers and after a while a picture of the missing person begins to take shape. In some ways, this picture is often more accurate than a personal interview with the locate. Every small scrap of evidence adds to that mental picture until you feel you have a keen m sight into the basic personality of the quarry. I can’t shake off the impression that Mari is fabulous with the boys. Once snagged, they can never forget her. She ties them in knots. Maybe she tied your brother in knots, too.”
“He never told me, Steve.”
“He didn’t have to tell you. You guessed it when you saw that photo in his office. It worried you, didn’t it?”
“I never liked Mari Barstow.”
“You told him that?”
“I guess I did.” She lowered her head and I had the feeling that she was leveling with me, that this, at last, was the real Helen Calabrese. We were out on the street, strolling to the east slowly, on the way back to her apartment. “It’s funny,” she said. “Luigi and I are very fond of each other. He was just as anxious to have me give up Jeff. I’ve tried hard to be objective about both Mari and Jeff. Maybe Jeff was a ne’er-do-well, Steve. But Mari seems much more dangerous to me, much more evil. I honestly didn’t know how Luigi really felt about her until tonight. Oh, he talked about her once in a while. And he was concerned when I told him that we had hired a detective to track her down. But I didn’t guess how important she was to him until I saw Mari’s picture in Grippo’s place.”
“You think he had Grippo out looking for her?”
“Don’t you?”
“I’m not sure, Helen. I won’t be sure until I talk to Luigi.”
“Would you like to come up and have a drink, Steve?”
“Too late.” We were at her door and I was feeling very good about her, liking her, believing her, thinking that it would be nice to know her after this was all over. She would be somebody to drink with later on when the worry about Luigi no longer clouded her pretty face. But right now there was no idleness in me. To the east a stronger wind had sprung up and the lightning flashed closer in the black sky. The storm would break soon. “Will you give me a raincheck, Helen?”
“You’ll need one before the night is over.”
“The night’s just beginning for me. I’ve got to look for real estate now. Real estate on Fire Island.”
“Why Fire Island?” she laughed.
“Silverton’s house. Do you remember it?”
“A fine house.”
“Outside,” I said. “Do you recall a sapling fence?”
“Not unless he had it put up recently. But his house is severely modern, Steve. A sapling fence doesn’t sound like Oliver Silverton.”
“Anybody you know?”
“A silly question,” she said, shaking her pretty head at me. “A very silly question, Steve.”
I said good night and crossed the street and had a private battle with my inner man, wondering whether she would stay inside for long. Luigi! Worry about him would not let her rest tonight.
Silverton’s man, a Filipino valet equipped with the expected bland stare and meaningless smile, answered my ring. He bowed with grace, a mechanical menial who came complete with the proper dialogue.
“Mister Silverton,” he told me, “busy now.”
“He’ll see me. Tell him it’s Conacher.”
“Very sorry sir. Tomorrow?”
“Tonight. Now.”
“Very sorry—”
I pushed through, catching him off guard. The vestibule of the penthouse was square and large, tiled in large black and white squares. The valet tried again, blocking my way to the giant living room beyond. He stood with his legs spread, hands down, ready for a quick judo joust with me. On the far end of the living room a double door led to the terrace. There was the sound of chamber music, violins and only violins.
“He’s up,” I said. “And I don’t want to wrestle. Why don’t you save yourself time and get him for me, pal?”
“Sorry, sir—”
But the voice from the terrace door froze him before he could make his move. It was Silverton.
“All right, Luki,” he said. He was dressed neat and pretty in a kind of oriental robe, a yellow rig that gave him the quality of a well-posed snob in a cigarette ad. “I’ll see this man,” he said.
The manservant bowed and retired discreetly while Silverton acted the gracious host, got me a drink and made me comfortable. The show of upper-class gentility went well with him. He had the build and the bearing for this type of routine, the politely frigid host against his background of Park Avenue fluff and formality. It was late and he might have been tired, but he seemed completely poised and alert, standing against the big door to the terrace as he waited for me to drop the first line.
“A couple of questions,” I said. “I know I’m out of order, Silverton. I also know that you can throw me out of here if the talk bores you. I want you to understand exactly why I came to see you. I need your help.”
“I see,” he said with his usual matter-of-fact stiffness. “And what could I possibly tell you that might help, Conacher?”
“A few simple truths.”
“Truths? Are you implying that I’ve told you lies?”
“I’m implying nothing. I need filling in. Sometimes things get fouled up because small facts are purposely avoided. Sometimes the sins of omission can foul up even a simple locate.”
“I think I understand now, Conacher.”
“Good. Let’s begin with Mari Barstow.”
“Begin?” He laughed, a controlled chuckle. “But I’ve already told you everything I know about her. I wrote—”
“You wrote fact. Let’s get emotional, Silverton.”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you feel about her?” I said. “Are you still in love with her?”
“Did I ever say I was in love with her?”
“Times have changed,” I said. “You can tell me the truth now, Silverton. She has you on her hook, hasn’t she?”
“I suppose so. She’s a mighty attractive girl.”
“Understatement. You’d still li
ke to bed down with her, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s a nice idea,” he smiled. “A good thought.”
“Is that why you went out looking for her at Linda Karig’s today?”
“Not exactly.” The oil went out of his voice and he regarded me with a thoughtful eye. “I contacted Linda because Mari hadn’t phoned in to the office. What I mean is, if Mari returned to New York, why hadn’t she come in to see me? The network has made big plans for her. Mari knows that time is important. Yet, I haven’t seen or heard from her all day, Conacher. That’s why I went looking for her.”
“And did you locate her?”
He shook his head wearily. “Wherever Mari is, she’ll appear when she’s ready, and not a moment sooner. She’s that kind of person, I’ve concluded.”
“And do you know what I’ve concluded?”
“What would that be, Conacher?”
“That you’re a liar, Silverton.”
I tried to hold my temper down. I tried to play it his way, cool and conversational. But there was nothing that could screen the angry heat in me, the impatience that had to come when facing the wall of his perpetual calm. He put down his drink and prepared to continue the smart and dignified patter, discounting my insult with his usual thin and contemptuous smile. But the smile irritated me and I got off my tail and grabbed him and shook him up a little. “I haven’t got time for your Ronald Colman routine,” I said. “You’re still crazy about her and you know it. You’ve gone down the line for her.”
“The line?”
“Starting with Flato. If you wanted Mari and he wouldn’t give her up, you might have killed him.”
“You’re all wrong, Conacher.”
“And after Flato, who was the big competition? Masterson, wasn’t he?”
“Ridiculous.”
“You could have threatened to kill Masterson if he didn’t stay away from the love of your life. And you could have gone to Gretchen MacGruder’s dump to get rid of Masterson. And you could have knifed Max Ornstein, mistaking him for Masterson.”
“Wait,” he said. “You’re all wrong, I tell you.”
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