"With eight miUion people in New York he had to get lucky sometime," I said.
"I'm Margot Lynn," she said smiling.
"You're a singer?"
The smile disappeared suddenly. "A mezzo-soprano," she said coldly. "You don't go to the Met very often, do you, Mr. Boyd?"
"I'm sorry," I apologized. "When it comes to opera I'm just a slob."
"Don't be modest, Mr. Boyd!" Her teeth gleamed whitely for a moment. "I'm sure it comes to a lot more than just opera. Or maybe your sense of humor is like Paul Kendall's?"
"I haven't met Kendall yet," I said.
She moved her shoulders quickly and the black crepe rustled with a gentle sound.
"There's no guarantee you'll meet him tonight," she said. "Just because it's his party it doesn't mean he'll be here. Paul is a great practical joker—if he comes at aU, he's apt to come late and make a grand entrance. Chances are it'll be heralded by a couple of firemen who'll flood the place and the guests with a four-inch hose. Paul's got that kind of humor—if you want to send him into hysterics just break your arm in three separate places. But everybody loves Paul—hke a virus!"
"He sounds a great guy," I agreed. "I just hope I don't get to meet him."
"It must be about eleven now," she said. "He insisted everyone should be here by then, so I guess he'll make his grand entrance soon if he's going to show at all. You'd better meet the other guests, Mr. Boyd, and have a couple of drinks to steady your nerves before Paul arrives."
Margot Lynn led the way into the living room with me dutifully following along in back. One wall of the room was plate glass, overlooking the view of the East River. The other three walls were covered with framed programs of the various shows Kendall had produced—^from opera to musical comedy with a couple of straight plays in between.
We stopped at the bar and the mezzo-soprano waited
while I made myself a generous Daiquiri, then she took me over to the nearest couple and started with the introductions.
"This is Mr. Boyd," she said with a yawn in her voice. "A unique character—^he claims to be a friend of Kasplin."
"I know," Helen Mills said in a low voice, staring at me through her heavy lenses like I was the worm in her apple. "We've met before."
"The way you tell it, darling, it sounds like seduction," Margot Lynn said with sudden interest in her voice. "Was Mr. Boyd the first man to penetrate your defenses, Helen? He deserves a medal or something—^you know—^like the first man on the moon?"
"Don't be disgusting, Margot, please!" Helen Mills said in a quivering voice. "Couldn't you leave sex out of the conversation just once?"
"I'm sorry, darling," Margot said lightly. "I keep forgetting you're a girl's girl. Have you met Rex Tybolt, Mr. Boyd?" She didn't give me a chance to answer. "Of course not—you don't go to the Met do you? Rex is a baritone and all those lovely muscles are real—he tells
me.
Tybolt was a big guy with a barrel chest and the kind of face the stag magazines use in their ads to sell bodybuilding outfits. Only when you looked a little closer you saw the slight thickening of the bruised-looking flesh under his eyes and the softening of the jawline where the chin was starting to multiply.
"Glad to know you, Boyd," he said in a booming voice. "Don't pay any attention to Margot—she always turns sour when lover-boy doesn't arrive on time."
"I hear Paul Kendall is a great practical joker," I said conversationally.
"Well," Margot said bleakly, "have fun, kids. You look like you deserve one another."
She drifted across the room to where Donna Alberta stood in a magnificent silver lame gown, deep in conversation with a tall, Latin-type guy who looked Uke he could match Rex Tybolt pound for pound on any bathroom scales. The way the masculine competition added up, it could be Muscle Beach and not Sutton Place.
"She's a wonderful girl—Margot," Rex Tybolt said genially. "Real sharp. I guess sleeping with Kendall has been good for her, huh?"
"Rex—^please!" Helen Mills said breathlessly. "You're as bad as Margot. Can't we talk about something else?"
"You're singing with Donna Alberta in Salome!'' I asked Tybolt.
"Sure," he nodded. "I'm Jokanaan—^I lose my head!" He bellowed with laughter.
"I remember," I said. "Salome won't dance till Herod offers her an5^hing she wants as a reward. By that time she's gotten you figured out as a real drag—so she asks for your head on a platter."
"Kendall's had a clay model made," Tybolt said. "It's real lifelike—the guy who sculpted it wants it back after we're finished with it for an exhibition." He studied his fingernails modestly. "The way he tells it, he never had the chance before of working with a classic profile like
mine."
"It"s certainly a wonderful likeness," Helen Mills said with a kind of wide-eyed innocence. "Even to the suntan —^but then clay is a kind of baked mud, isn't it?"
The murderous look remained in Tybolt's eyes while he fought a smile onto his face.
"I'd hate to lose you, Helen," he said warmly, "but from here it looks like Donna's getting a shade too enthusiastic about the Mexican boy. You think you should break it up, maybe?"
Helen Mills looked quickly over her shoulder and saw just how close the Latin type had cut down the distance between him and the prima donna. She didn't hesitate— a fraction of a second later she crossed the room toward them with a determined stride.
Tybolt watched her for a couple of seconds with an amused grin on his face.
"It's known as unrequited love," he said. "It should be tragic but with Helen it's only amusing." He shrugged his thick shoulders. "Those dreadful glasses!"
I looked across at the cozy twosome about to become a gruesome threesome as Helen Mills closed in on them rapidly.
"Whio is the guy with Donna Alberta, anyway?" I asked.
"Herod—the guy who gives her my head on a platter." Tybolt grimaced. "That gives me one hell of a good chance to buck the competition, don't it?"
"What do they call him off stage?" I persisted patiently.
"He's a Mexican tenor by the name of Luis Navarre. Earl Harvey couldn't get a better-known tenor to sing on Second Avenue so he had to settle for Luis."
"He's a lousy singer?"
"He has a very nice voice," Tybolt said indifferently. "With the right handhng and experience he'll be ready for Salome in another ten years possibly."
His face stiffened as he stared over my shoulder. I turned my head and saw Kasplin come into the living room with another guy following.
"The impresario and the prima donna's manager," Tybolt murmured. "Who said the lion can't lie down with the louse? I don't think I'll wait, Boyd, if you'll excuse me. Even talking to Helen Mills is preferable!" He moved away quickly toward the group in the far comer that looked definitely disenchanted since Helen had joined them.
Kasplin headed toward me with small, dainty steps, twirling a silver-topped, ebony cane negligently in his right hand. He was beautifully dressed in a midnight-blue dinner suit with a fancy lace-fronted shirt underneath. The other guy trailing along two steps behind towered over him like a bodyguard.
"I see you made it in good time, Boyd," Kasplin said when they stopped in front of me. "You haven't met Earl Harvey—our impresario."
It was only by comparison to Kasplin that Harvey looked big—otherwise he was average height and lean with it. His mouse-colored hair was long and lank and fell down across his forehead—it should have made him look youthful and innocent but it didn't. He had a big nose and a wide, thin-lipped mouth; his eyes were the color of the Hudson on a rainy morning. The clothes were careless and expensive, making for an over-all impression of a pimp who'd gotten so lucky that once in a while he'd put the girls through the hoops just for fun.
"Kasplin was telling me about you this afternoon," he
said in a harsh, grating voice. "You work out of the dog pound, or something?"
"Don't knock it," I said politely. "Didn't you get your first break with a
troupe of performing ifleas?"
Harvey gave Kasplin a resigned look. "It's the same all over with the hired help these days—they got no respect!"
"Boyd has a reputation for getting results, if not for tact," Kasplin said crisply. "Why don't you go make yourself a drink. Earl?"
"I got nothing better to do," Harvey said Ustlessly. "You told them the party's O.K. and I don't mind if they hit it up a little—^but no singing! They get paid a lot of dough—by me—to gargle their tonsils down on Second Avenue and I don't want they should throw around free samples!"
Kasplin winced. "I told them," he said in flutelike tones. "They may drink, fight, and fornicate—but definitely no songs."
"Yeah." Harvey scowled at him uncertainly but couldn't get past KaspUn's poker-faced look of courtesy. "Well, O.K. then, I'll go get that drink."
He walked across to the bar with a purposeful stride and I looked at Kasplin in disbehef.
"He's for real?" I asked hoarsely. "This is the guy to bring opera to the people—^the impresario yet?"
"Frightening, isn't it?" the dapper dwarf agreed. "But the contracts were signed two months back and we open three nights from now—so we have to make the best of it."
"The way I heard it, the only time he ever missed out on a promotion was the time he passed up the chance to hire tie Garden for an international wrestling match," I said wonderingly, "with the Russian UN delegates making one team and the American delegates the other."
"Be grateful he missed out," Kasplin snapped. "The bout would have been rigged!"
The ebony cane stopped twirling for a few moments while the silver snuffbox was produced. I fit a cigarette while Kasplin ritually sniffed the gray powder from the back of his hand.
"Has Paul Kendall put in an appearance yet?" he asked suddenly.
"Not that I've noticed," I said. "Maybe he got smart when he heard Harvey was coming to his party."
"No"—the large head shook gently—"Paul isn't smart at all, I'm afraid. His absence means another of his dreadful practical jokes, so don't be surprised if we're all arrested for frequenting a brothel—or something equally unfunny. Paul is just an overgrown schoolboy at heart." He thought about that for a moment. "A dirty-minded schoolboy, of course."
"How do you mean that—exactly?" I queried.
"It's part of the pattern of human relationships I wanted you to observe at first hand tonight," he said slowly. "Margot Lynn was his mistress from the first time the cast assembled. It's a known character trait of Paul's that before he can start producing, he has to sleep with one of the leading female members of the company."
"I guess it's a universal necessity for any guy who wants to produce," I said brightly.
Kasplin withered me with one stare. "About two weeks back he suddenly lost interest and Margot resented it strongly—she still does."
"Like he got tired?" I asked. "Or like he found another sleeping partner?"
"He became vitally interested in Donna Alberta," Kasplin said with no particular inflection in his voice. "Paul's virtually hounded her ever since then."
"With any success?" I asked casually.
"No!" he snapped icily. "To my certain knowledge she has repulsed every advance he's made."
"You figure it could be Kendall who mutilated the pooch?"
"Or more possibly, Margot Lynn," he said quietly. "There are other possibles, too. Rex Tybolt has been trying to make headway with Donna also—^with the same tenacity and the same result as Paul Kendall. We mustn't forget the Httle mouse with the big eyes, either."
"Helen MiUs?"
"Helen is—dedicated—to Donna Alberta," he said, smiUng thinly, "and the man who could get her approval hasn't been born yet!"
Margot Lynn suddenly appeared beside me, putting an abrupt finish to the conversation.
"Hello, Kasplin," she said without any enthusiasm. "I don't suppose you've seen Paul any place?"
"Nowhere," he said.
"I could cheerfully cut his throat!" she said wearily. "It's his party and I'm stuck with it." She looked at me as she remembered her duties as a hostess.
"Have you met everyone, Mr. Boyd?"
"Everybody except Luis Navarre," I told her. "That's a joy that can wait, unless you insist?"
Kasplin twirled his cane irritably. "This is a little too much! Does Paul expect us to stand around all night so he can throw mud in our faces?"
"Don't say that!" Margot shuddered. "What's the time?"
I checked my watch. "Ten of twelve."
"The witching hour approaches," she said listlessly. "I have my instructions—everyone has to be in the dining room by midnight."
"What for?" KaspUn asked suspiciously.
"On the stroke of twelve I have to open a special package which contains our good luck for opening night —Paul says!" She shrugged her shoulders so that even the whispering black crepe held a baffled sound. "Do you two mind leading the way while I gather up the rest of them?"
"Anything to be finished with whatever nonsense Paul's manufactured this time!" Kasplin almost snarled.
"I guess I'd better leave the front door open in case he walks in while we're all waiting," Margot said.
"Can't he use the buzzer Hke anyone else?"
"I'm scared I wouldn't hear it In the dining room, with everyone talking," she answered. "Be nice, Kasplin, take Mr. Boyd in there while I round up the rest of them."
We went into the dining room which was a seducer's dream with soft lights and thick-piled carpet. The dining table was set in an alcove with a two-cornered, simip-tuously upholstered couch surrounding it on three sides, instead of the more conventional chairs. Right in the center of the room stood a large black box around four feet high—it looked more hke a packing crate than a package.
"What the hell is that?" I said nervously.
"I have no wish even to think about it," Kasplin said determinedly. "It could contain anything from a collection of wild monkeys to a compressed heap of mouldering garbage—and probably does!"
Donna Alberta came into the room then with the Mexican tenor close at her side and Helen Mills following determinedly one step in back of them. Margot was next, then came Rex Tybolt with a hunted look in his eyes, and Earl Harvey beside him talking earnestly into his ear—hke a last minute briefing for a summit conference and Earl had just thought of the Russian for a couple of dirty words that hadn't been used yet.
"Good evening, Mr. Boyd," the rich voice of Donna Alberta said graciously. "How nice to see you here."
The silver lame was cut low in front revealing the start of a deep cleavage between the dazzling expanse of firmly rounded whiteness. Like the man says, I had to adjust quickly and reshape my objectives—^remember I needed to talk, not grab.
"My pleasure, Miss Alberta," I said huskily.
"Have you met Luis Navarre?" She turned to the handsome Latin without waiting for an answer. "This is Mr. Boyd, Luis. He's helping me over Niki." Her eyes clouded for a moment. "Mr. Boyd is going to find the fiend who murdered my poor darling!"
Navarre smiled at me and nodded. "Sefior."
"I envy you, friend," I told him. "You're the guy who'll have Donna Alberta perform the dance of the seven veils for him six nights a week—matinees and aU!"
His smile broadened. "I am a very lucky man, Senor Boyd."
Margot Lynn clapped her hands together a couple of times, then waited until she had everyone's attention.
"Well, friends and neighbors!" She smiled bleakly. "It's midnight so I guess the best thing is to go ahead and get it over."
"Get what over?" Harvey demanded suspiciously.
"Paul's detailed instructions," she said. "At midnight, with everyone assembled here in the dining room, I press that." She pointed to the shiny button which protruded a quarter-inch from the side of the box just below the lid.
"So what happens then?" Harvey grunted.
"Mr. Harvey," she said coldly, "if I knew the answer I probably wouldn't be here!"
She pois
ed her finger over the button, then closed her eyes tight. In the fraction of a second that followed, someone let loose a herd of elephants in the living room—or that's the way it sounded.
"I guess that's Paul now," Margot said with obvious relief. "So he can push his own damned button!"
The door burst open and a hard-looking character walked quickly into the room, followed by a couple of uniformed cops.
"I'm Lieutenant Chase," he rasped, "from Homicide."
They aU just gaped at him for a few moments until they figured it out as the start of a typical Kendall gag and then they looked cagey.
"You don't want to know me socially, that's fine with me," Chase snarled. "Where's the body?"
"Body?" Margot quavered.
"Somebody called in and reported a homicide," Chase said with slow and immense deliberation. "So where's the corpse?"
"Corpse?" Helen MiUs squeaked breathlessly.
Somewhere inside Margot a conditioned reflex kicked over and her finger stabbed the button. The Ud of the giant box flew open with a whirring sound like a heavy spring had been released, and the grinning face of a clown shot into view as the top half of his body sprang upward from the box.
The startled screams died away as the clown stayed where he was—half out of the box—his arms close to his sides as he swayed gently backward and forward. If Kendall figured a giant-sized jack-in-the-box was his idea of fun, I figured Kasplin was dead right when he said the producer had the mind of a schoolboy, and a backward kid at that.
There were a couple of things that didn't seem right about the clown's face—under the heavily daubed grease paint the face was a chalky color. I stepped closer as his body swayed slowly toward me, and his eyes held mine for a long second in a fixed, unwavering stare.
"My God!" Margot whispered beside me. "It's Paul!" About then I realized the thick red line smeared around
his neck wasn't grease paint at all. Someone had cut his
throat from ear to ear.
Chapter Three
I GOT INTO MY OFFICE AROUND TEN THE
next morning feeling jaded. After the discovery of Kendall's body it had been Chase who'd been the life and soul of the party. He'd asked questions until his face was a mottled purple and it was four a.m. As far as I could figure it the answers hadn't gotten him any place.
The savage salome Page 2
