The copy boy brought me a few small clippings on Serena Armitage. She had achieved fleeting fame as an art entrepreneur about four years ago when she arrived in Greenwich Village. Serena came to the Bohemian Belt by way of a fairly mild career in show business. She had earned her bread and herring as a stripper in the now defunct Glansky Wheel, a circuit of flea bag burlesque houses on the Eastern seaboard. She was billed as “Serena Latour, The Siren of Amour.” A photo of her appeared in one of her more spectacular newsbreaks when the city fathers in Hoboken raided her show and escorted her to the clink. The picture showed Serena scowling prettily at the cameraman while trying in vain to hide her physical buds from the probing lens. The shot was a classic of news photography. Serena appeared in excellent focus, her face a mask of injured innocence. But the reader would forget her face, especially the male reader. He would be far gone in deep admiration for her body, as naked as an undiapered infant.
The story of Serena’s shame was dated March 17, 1952. And her next press release appeared on June 24, 1956, announcing the opening of her new bistro in Greenwich Village. What had happened to her during the intervening four years? Where had she managed to raise the money for her café?
Questions like these irk me, especially when my head bounces with the memory of a recent thud.
I went to visit Horace.
“Sugar,” he said. “What brings you here at this hour?”
“Lust,” I replied. “I get manic after two in the A.M.”
“Seriously now.”
“Passion.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Ask me in out of this damned hall,” I suggested.
“By all means,” said Horace and stepped aside to let me enter. The place was unchanged, warm, intimate, cozy. I had visited his den a few months ago alter running into him at a Broadway opening. He offered me a nightcap and we discussed the merits of Tennessee Williams, after which he discreetly showed me the door, allowing my maidenly yen for him to wither on the vine of Convention.
“Aren’t you going to ply me with a drink?” I asked.
“Of course. The usual scotch?”
“You remember? How sweet, Horace.”
“Soda? Or on the rocks?”
“Rocks,” I said, taking small bites at his throat with my eyes. He could send me in any costume, but the sight of him in informal garb always made my female hammers pound. But here, in his private sanctum, my curiosity rubbed out my lech for his masculinity. The female in me took over. I rolled my eyes over his pad, admiring the quality of his furnishings; the simple Swedish modern, chairs, the functional tables, the delightful wall groupings of contemporary art. And the handsome and utilitarian couch, snug and soft and full of a yielding bounce to the fanny. To the right, on a small table, sat his typewriter. I eased over to peek at the sheet in it. He had been working in his usual analytical way, pounding out a summary and outline of his theories about the George DeBeers murder.
“Mind if I read your sterling prose?” I asked.
“How can I stop you?” he smiled.
“I can suggest several methods. Like grabbing me, for instance.”
“There’s nothing on that sheet,” said Horace. “Only a few theories.”
“I like your theories. This one you have about Cantrell, for instance. What do you mean when you write: Cantrell—Magda—incredible?”
“Simply that they’re an odd pair.”
“You don’t mean they’re going steady?”
“Possibly. I’ve asked folks in the Village about them.”
“A mad duet.”
“But a duet, Sugar. Of that, I’m sure.”
“Of what else are you sure?”
“Very little, as you can observe from that sheet you hold in your hand.”
“I observe another note about George DeBeers. What does it mean? You write: DeBeers—money—how?”
“Exactly,” said Horace, addressing the rim of his highball glass with a concentrated stare, as though expecting some revelation from the bubbles or the ice. “I was curious about George’s personality, his habits; his movements in the Village. I made many inquiries about him. The pattern of the answers seemed to set him up as some sort of eccentric. He was known to be a flibbertigibbet spender, for instance.”
“Flibbertigibbet?”
“Eccentric. Odd. Offbeat,” said Horace, still as serious as a surgeon over an incision. He had a habit of screwing up his handsome features into a kind of vacant scowl. His eyes looked at me and through me, over the hills and far away into a landscape of his own devising. His brain carried him on a one-track route into the problem at hand. He just didn’t see me. He passed me up with a disdain that made me want to grab him and show him a few Judo tricks.
Instead, I said: “You’re talking about his drunken sprees?”
“Not the alcohol, no,” said Horace. “He drank from time to time, of course. But he also spent money while in his cups. Large sums of money, Sugar. I met an itinerant hobo named Gook Mackail down on Bleecker Street. Gook told me that he could depend on George DeBeers for a touch when George had the money.”
“Poor, kind Georgie.”
“Not kind, really. George DeBeers was wanton in his spending, don’t you see?”
“What are you getting at, Horace?”
“Nothing much,” he shrugged. “George’s access to sudden money, however, is an interesting note, wouldn’t you say?”
“Provocative.”
“Where do you think he got it?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“No ideas at all?” Horace teased.
“None,” I lied. Horace was fortifying my ego, replenishing my confidence. He was playing into my hands, discussing the element in the DeBeers murder that had brought me here. My mind was full of a confusion of contradictory images about George. When I knew him he was a mild, dedicated, sincere artist. He had little money. He spent what he had, of course, but never in the lavish way Serena Armitage had described to me. What promoted the unrest in George’s emotional brainbox? What stirred him and gnawed at him when he had money enough to try drowning his worries? What prompted him to affix himself to a cheap tart like Marianne? Did she give him comfort during his fits of liquored extravagance? And, most important of all—where did he get the money for his sprees? My womanly intuition rose up to face the challenge. I picked Jacques Lambert as George’s source of financial balm.
“I have a thought about the source of George’s sudden wealth,” said Horace.
“You have?” I asked eagerly, putting on a big show of awe at his masculine mentality.
“It could have been Jacques Lambert.”
“What a clever idea,” I enthused. “Of course it could have been Jacques. Probably paying him off for a picture sale in small lumps of money.”
“I thought you’d agree,” Horace said soberly. “But the problem isn’t that simple, Sugar.”
“It isn’t?”
“How much money do you imagine George spent on his gay rounds last night?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“I couldn’t either. And for that reason, I checked. I traced his course through The Village, a comparatively simple job, because George was so well known to the bars and coffee houses.” Horace crossed to his desk and produced a small sheet of paper. He put on his glasses with the delicate gesture of a professor about to pursue some serious research. In that pose he tugged hard at the laces of my emotional corset. I fought down the urge to cross the room and dump him into the couch.
“George started his tour at Bendetto’s Bar,” Horace began. “He treated the customer in Bendetto’s to two free rounds of drinks. He then left and visited another bar, Horan’s, where he picked up Marianne Fry.” Horace paused to smile at me. “Of course, the continuity of this alcoholic expedition is not necessarily correct. George may
have been in other bistros I’ve missed. But I checked his appearance with Marianne Fry at seven places. In most of them, George spent more than fifty dollars. He also spent over six hundred at a place called Art for Youth, a small gallery that features the work of promising beginners. The owner informed me that George DeBeers bought several pictures, all painted by a boy named Phil Kaster, an artist George thought great.”
“A lot of money,” I whistled. “Over a thousand dollars?”
“And always in cash, Sugar.”
“Always? He did this that often?”
“Every few months, according to the people who should know, the bartenders who served him. I have a strong feeling that the source of George’s windfalls should help point us to his murderer.”
“How clever you are,” I said innocently, delighted that his facile brain had led him into my alley of speculation. He blushed a bit and offered me another drink. But he didn’t refill his own glass. Another small shot might have done things to his wall of reserve, might have fractured his bottled-up libido.
“You look tired,” he suggested softly. “Why don’t you get some rest, Sugar?”
“Is that a proposition, Horace darling?”
“Only a suggestion. Tomorrow will be hectic on the DeBeers story. Shall I take you home?”
“You’re sweet,” I told him and pressed his hand in mine. “I’ll find my way home alone.”
“Good-night, then.”
“You say the nicest things.”
The talk with Horace braced me, buoyed me, wiped some of the cobwebs out of my head. The fact that he was outlining his theories on the DeBeers case made the adrenaline bounce in me. Once before, in the not too distant past, I had seen Horace plot his ideas in this fashion. It meant that he was on the last mile down the trail of the kidnaped heiress. It meant that he was ready to move in a straight line. It meant that he might reach the solution of the case before me.
And that was why I moved, too.
On my own cockeyed path, to the nearest phone booth available.
I buzzed the apartment.
Gwen said: “Hello and goodbye. I’m busy.”
“Relax. This is Sugar.”
“Dandy. I’m still busy, darling.”
“You sound crocked, Gwen. Are you?”
“Silly girl. I said I was busy, didn’t you hear?”
“Anybody I know? I smell masculinity.”
“I don’t care how you smell, darling.”
“I also smell you could be in bed.”
“Your libido is showing, Sugar. Maybe I’m already in bed.”
“Climb out, chum.”
“Not a chance. I can’t break loose.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Who said it was bad?” She laughed.
“We’ve got important work to do, Gwen.”
“Now? Why now? I’m up on cloud nine.”
“Jump off. I need you.”
“Do you know what you’re asking me?”
“I can guess. Kick him out.”
“Stop playing the virgin queen. You’re giving my glands too much discipline.”
“Who is it this time?”
“Remember the cute guitar player at Serena’s?”
“So soon? You don’t even know him.”
“Pedro’s easy to know. We’re old friends.”
“Ask your old friend a question for me,” I said. “Ask your old friend if he knows Timothy Cantrell’s address.”
There was a small pause during which I heard the muted-twang of a well-played guitar. Then Gwen was with me again and telling me Cantrell’s address.
“What’s with Cantrell?” she asked. “You’re not flipping for the queers, are you, Sugar?”
“I may want to see him soon.”
“I didn’t imagine you cared for that type.”
“Stop with the soupy gags, Gwen. I need your help. Now.”
“Come home, darling. Come home in an hour or so and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“Meet me at Serena’s. I want to interview some of the denizens for reaction. I’ll need your sketches.”
“How can I leave?”
“Tell your Cuban lover to come back tomorrow night.”
“I can’t. He doesn’t understand much English.”
“Push him off the bed. He’ll get the message.”
“You’re ruining my Latin-American relations, darling.”
“Write a letter to Nixon,” I said. “But before you do, tell me what happened to Magda. The last time I saw you she was up in her pad and you were on the street watching her door. Then Boyer came?”
“Boyer grabbed her,” Gwen said wearily. “I waited until he released her down at the precinct. She came out sniffling and sucking wind, like a kid who just lost her lollipop. Boyer must have scared her because she started to run across town, toward the Village. I followed her to Bleecker Street and she went into a dive called Mama Florio’s, a basement dump where they serve vile coffee and worse pizza. She took a table and had a drink and after a while stopped blubbering. Then our nance friend Cantrell came in, spotted her and gassed with her.”
“Is she there now?”
“I don’t know. I left her about a half hour ago. Then went back to Serena’s and—”
“I know. You fell madly in love with a sexy guitar.”
“I may leave for Havana on the morning plane.”
“Over my dead body,” I said. “You’re leaving for Serena’s right now. We’ve got work to do.”
“You said that before,” she sighed. “You’re ruining the best years of my life.”
“Meet me at Serena’s, love-bug.”
“Wait,” said Gwen optimistically. “Serena’s dump could be closed. Pedro and I heard her planning close up about a half-hour ago. She was emotionally beat, anxious to go home and rest.”
“Did you see her leave?”
“Well, no.”
“Then we’ll take a chance on her. I’ve got to talk to her Gwen. Meet you there in ten minutes.”
“I hate you,” Gwen said. “And so does Pedro.”
CHAPTER 12
4:19 A.M. Saturday
After three in the morning the city sleeps fitfully. Uptown, along the quiet streets, only a faint glow of traffic moves, the ubiquitous taxis hauling their tired freight back from the downtown clubs. In the commercial areas the streets become black canyons, empty of all life save occasional cats and the small tribe of night-time laborers.
But Greenwich Village rarely seeks sleep at any hour. I moved slowly along the pavements in the amusement belt, my head still alive and hurting with the prickling hammers. I was tired enough for a long week-end of ladylike rest in Bermuda. Rest? A deep and urgent devil drove me on. Somewhere in the great and sprawling city, a murderer laughed at me. Was he one of the cast of characters I had met in the recent past? Or did he belong to the land of limbo? He might have been any one of a thousand vague and shadowy characters, a bum, a grifter, a thug or a professional heist man. George had been drunk enough to show his money in many places. He could have been spotted by a wandering thief and tailed to his studio. And could Boyer trap such a vagrant through the usual police methods? The prospect seemed remote because Marianne Fry would be the only identifying witness.
Marianne Fry? Her memory stirred me, moved me toward Serena’s at a faster clip.
But I slowed to a dead-end stall when I approached the black canopy of Serena’s bistro.
There was a small crowd on the sidewalk. A few uniformed police held the little mob away from the entrance. Beyond the door stood Boyer, his mouth wide open, as usual. He was barking an officious question at the young cop. Beyond, in the deeper shadows, was Serena, her face pale with anxiety. And alongside her, of course, stood Gwen, her pert eyes alive with fres
h excitement.
I signaled her my way.
“Fun and games,” she said. “Serena’s place has been robbed.”
“Spell it out for me.”
“Hold on to your girdle, Sugar. Serena left here about an hour ago, bound for her flat, on the edge of a Washington Square. When she arrived at home, Serena remembered that she left her coffee percolator on the stove back here. She came back at once, naturally, afraid of a fire. When she arrived, she found her little office burgled.”
“She has a safe in the office?”
“A small wall safe. But the crook gave up on that and took almost everything else.”
“Namely?”
“Her pictures and her valuable African sculptures.”
“An artistic thief,” I whistled.
“A nut,” said Gwen. “Who else would steal art?”
“It’s been managed before.”
“Not in Greenwich Village, according to Boyer.”
“Is Serena insured?”
“Only modestly.”
“Insured?” Serena had caught the edges of our conversation with her inevitably sharp ears. She pushed Boyer aside and approached us, her handkerchief to her nose, her big eyes damp with fresh tears. “Money can’t replace my stuff, don’t you see? The bastard took my best treasures.”
“Go inside and cool off,” suggested Boyer, prodding her with an urgent hand. He snapped a command to his men and slammed the door behind us.
Inside, he tugged me to the shadows near the bar.
“Three times in one night,” he said, mopping his brow. “Two murders and now this crazy heist. It’s crazy.”
“Your hand,” I said. “It’s patting my girdle again, Boyer.”
“I was just talking, Sugar baby.”
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