The savage salome

by Brown, Carter, 1923-1985

  "So?" Harvey snarled.

  "So if he finds my corpse today, you'll be the first guy he'll want to see," I said. "So—"

  "He's lying, Mr. Harvey!" Benny said quickly. "He never went near any cop!"

  "Maybe you're right, kid," I said, smiling at him encouragingly, "but Earl can't afford to take the chance on you being wrong. You know what that means, Benny-boy?"

  "It means I'm going to take you apart piece by piece!" he whispered venomously.

  "It means that gun Earl's holding is one big bluff, kid," I corrected him. "He won't dare use it."

  "He won't need to," Benny said, and his right arm blurred into action, the stiffened fingers aimed at my solar plexus.

  I figured Benny had a one-track mind that lacked originality, but then maybe I wasn't being fair to him. I'd let him clobber me all over Harvey's office the last time, so why should he think it would be any different now?

  My hands clamped onto his wrist as I side-stepped the stiffened fingers and pulled him toward me—that pull coupled with his own momentum sent him stumbling off balance at a fast run. I thrust my hip into his groin at the last moment, and his feet left the floor as he sailed horizontally through the air for maybe ten feet before he crash-landed on the couch.

  Harvey had a worried look on his face as he watched Benny anxiously, the gun drooping in his hand. I chopped the side of my hand across the bridge of his king-sized nose in a sweeping arc, and there was a britde sound as the small bones impacted. Earl staggered backward with both hands to his face, making small choking sounds deep in his throat. The gun dropped almost at my feet so I picked it up and suddenly felt a whole lot happier.

  Benny rolled Umply off the couch to the floor and lay there for a while. He wasn't about to quit, I could see that all right—^he made a supreme effort and dragged himself up on his hands and knees. Then he lifted his head slowly and looked straight down the gun barrel held six inches from his face.

  "The both of you bust into my apartment," I said conversationally. "Earl pulls a gun on me while you start beating me up. Chase would say self-defense before I even finished telling him the story. Right, Benny?"

  I tapped his bruised nose sharply with the gun barrel and he whimpered with pain.

  "You don't answer," I said in a disappointed voice. "I hate a guy who's just plain rude, don't you, Benny?"

  I chopped the side of my hand down across the back of his neck so he sprawled face down on the carpet again.

  "Maybe you're a little nervous?" I suggested, kicking him thoughtfully in the ribs. "Right, Benny?"

  "Right!" he gurgled painfully into the carpet.

  "If only Marge were here," I said wistfully. "I could throw her out the window and make a real day of it!"

  Chapter Nine

  AFTER I'd gotten RID OF EARL AND BENNY,

  the rest of the day seemed like anticlimax. The only chance I had of proving Earl Harvey was the killer meant working on one of the three singers for a signed statement admitting the blackmail. There was no chance of getting anywhere near them with the first night of the opera only a few hours away.

  I called Fran to find out what was new at the office and she said nothing except for a dozen bills in the morning's mail, so I figured the hell with it and went walking in Central Park.

  Around six that night I got dressed ready for an evening of torture, then felt better when I remembered Donna Alberta was Salome and I had a front row seat for her Dance of the Seven Veils. When it came to a showdown, I figured I could dig culture along with the best of them; I mean like I read D. H. Lawrence all the time ever since the Post Office couldn't stop me.

  The insistent ring of the phone killed the thought of a new career in music as a private ear.

  "Danny?" the mezzo-soprano voice asked anxiously.

  "Sure, Margot," I answered in my mezzanine baritone. "What's on your mmd?"

  "I was wondering—could you get to the theater early, around seven-thirty?"

  "You mean like a preview?" I felt flattered. "Just for little ole Danny Boyd?"

  "Stop clowning," she said shortly. "I'm in no mood for it right now. Come to my dressing room. I'll leave word

  at the stage door, so you won't have any trouble getting in."

  "O.K." I said. "What's the deal?"

  "I'll save it until I see you," she said, and hung up.

  I figured Second Avenue wasn't the Met so I didn't need to wear a dinner suit—^which was fine because I didn't have one. The brown. Glen plaid worsted got its second airing instead, and it should give the theater some class at that, having set me back three hundred clams—^not two hundred like Chase had guessed.

  The doorman gave me the kind of look mostly reserved for guys with beards and bombs in their attache cases.

  "I got strict orders from Mr. Harvey," he growled. "Nobody gets in here but the cast."

  "I didn't know he was on a Hindu kick," I said, interested. "Anyway, I'm the exception—^Boyd is the name —to see Margot Lynn."

  "Oh, you're Boyd," he said in a disgruntled voice. "Yeah—she said it was O.K. to let you in. Her dressing room's the second to the right."

  I walked past him into a madhouse of voices and people, pushed my way through a mob of deck hands, grips, and juicers, and finally made it to the corridor which led to the dressing rooms. A tall, darkly handsome guy, with a magnificent flowing beard and dressed in rich robes, smiled and nodded to me as he went past.

  "Senor," he said pohtely, and was to hell and gone before I realized he was Luis Navarre, the Mexican tenor.

  It figured the theater would be old home week—^ten yards further down the corridor was a young guy with heavily oiled blond hair and a shiny new dinner suit. He saw me coming and the bruise down one side of his nose seemed to turn a shade darker. I kept on going and he stepped back instinctively when I got close.

  "What's the good word in the yachting set, Benny?" I asked warmly.

  "What the hell are you doing here, Boyd?" he said.

  "I was invited, kid," I told him. "You want to make something out of it?"

  For a moment his faded blue eyes lit up with a vicious longing, but it faded fast. He looked at a spot a foot above my head and shrugged with elaborate nonchalance.

  "You were invited," he said in a dull voice. "I guess it's O.K."

  "Thanks, kid," I said with deliberate condescension. "How's my old buddy Earl?"

  Benny took a sudden, sharp breath. "He's fine," he said woodenly. "He's around some place."

  "That's great," I said. "Not having any trouble breathing through his mouth all the time?"

  "No." Benny's lips were stiff with the effort of keeping it polite. "It's going to need surgery when he's got the time."

  "I figured he needed a nose job the first time we met," I said. "These plastic surgeons are doing first-class work all over—maybe they'll fix up Earl to look like a member of the human race, even. Tell him hello for me, Benny, huh?"

  "Sure—" his voice cracked. "He's thinking about you all the time, Boyd. Like he figures you deserve nothing but the best and he don't care what it costs—^he'll buy the top pro gun in town—^just to take care of you!"

  "You're kidding, Benny," I said and grinned at him. "Like I said this morning—Earl needs me aUve more than he needs me dead. But if you get a kick out of dreaming, what the hell?"

  Another five yards down the corridor and a door opened suddenly beside me. I got a brief glimpse of the silver-blonde prima donna, surrounded by dressers and make-up men, and a momentary impression of Helen Mills's pale face and blue-rimmed glasses, as she watched fondly. Then a chest-high voice said drily, "Good evening, Mr. Boyd."

  I looked down at the little man who had just left Donna Alberta's dressing room. Kasplin was in his dinner suit, the lace-fronted shirt and all, and the silver-topped, ebony cane dangled neghgendy between the first two fingers of his right hand.

  "I'm surprised to see you alone," I told him. "Or maybe Maxine stayed home tonight because she was too tired."


  He smiled thinly. "What a delightfully subtle approach have, Boyd. Like a wart hog dancing ballet!"

  "I stiU want to talk with you, and it's still urgent," I said.

  "I'm afraid it will have to wait," he said curtly. "There's

  less than an hour to curtain time, and a million things to do. These people aren't used to opera, and a demanding prima donna."

  "How about making a definite time?" I said wearily. "You name it and 111 be there."

  "Very well," he nodded briskly. "I'll call you tomorrow morning."

  I knocked on the second door to the right and Margot yelled for me to come in. She was sitting in front of a mirror adding a final touch to her make-up, and for a moment I almost didn't recognize her. She wore a heavy gown of rich russet velvet, with a tight, lowcut bodice and a long train. Her dark hair was sprayed with a blue dust that ghttered metallically in the light, and heavy lines of grease paint aged her face twenty years.

  She turned her head and smiled at me. "Close the door, Danny, and don't scream! Remember I'm supposed to be Donna's mother."

  "I'll buy that," I said, and closed the door obediently.

  "Sit down." She nodded toward a stiffbacked chair in the center of the dressing room.

  I sat and lit a cigarette. "Did you get to recharge your and batteries O.K. last night?"

  "I had enough sleep," she said smiling at her own reflection in the mirror. "Danny—I've been thinking about what you said last night."

  "So?" I said in a noncommittal voice.

  "So I find I'm cursed with some kind of a conscience," she said soberly. "If Harvey murdered Paul Kendall, then I don't have the right to put my career before justice and the law taking its course. If it needs a signed statement from me admitting to the blackmail, Danny, to convict him—rU do it."

  "That's a fime and noble sentiment, honey," I said cautiously. "You sure nothing else happened to make you change your mind?"

  "A personal interview when I arrived at the theater— with the great impresario himself," she smiled wanly. "It didn't change my mind, just clinched the idea."

  "What did he say?"

  "The usual story in detail how my whole career would be smashed it the material got out," Margot said flatly.

  "Then he added a new twist—I'd better stop seeing you, or even talking to you, if I wanted to stay healthy. He was almost raving, Danny." She shivered suddenly. "Babbling about his sister and the things she could do with a knife!"

  "But, still and all, you're prepared to sign a statement?" I asked.

  "On one condition." She turned away from the mirror and looked at me steadily. "I want protection, Danny. I'm no heroine—^he scared me sick and I felt he meant every word he said. I want you to stay real close to me from now on."

  "My pleasure," I assured her. "He comes within talking distance of you, and I'U bust his nose all over again." Her eyes widened. "You did that? He's got it taped across the bridge—I wondered what happened."

  "There's only one problem," I said. "I can't walk on stage in back of you, unless I make like a skip-chaser or something."

  "You can watch from the stage manager's box," she said easily. "I fixed it with him—he's a nice guy and he owes me a favor." She saw the question in my eyes and shook her head in mock anger. "I backed him in all the beefs with Donna during rehearsals, that's all!"

  "Fine," I said. "If you're going to make that statement, anyway, you mind if I ask the obvious question, like my curiosity's killing me?"

  "What's Harvey got to blackmail me with?" "That's right."

  Margot looked into the mirror again and doodled with an eyebrow pencil. "I've got a record, Danny. Juvenile delinquency. I did time when I was seventeen—fifteen months—under my real name of course." Her mouth twitched in an involuntary smile. "Janie Rigowski—glamorous, isn't it?"

  "Is that all?" I said.

  "It's enough," Margot snapped. "Maybe it wouldn't matter so much to a bubble dancer—but a mezzo-soprano!"

  "How did Harvey find out?"

  "I don't know," she said, shrugging. "I think he must make it his business to dig into people's backgrounds—

  how else would he get so many big names to work for him all the time?"

  "Yeah," I agreed, remembering Marge had said Benny was employed as a researcher, the first time I was in Harvey's office.

  "Anyway," Margot continued, "I thought if you take me to your place after the show, 111 write out tiie statement then."

  "Fine," I said happily. "Then I can give you a demonstration of just how close I can stay to a client."

  A wicked gleam showed in her eyes for a moment. "Please, Mr. Boyd," she said demurely, "remember I'm old enough to be your mother!"

  The stage manager was a guy named Alex, and he gave me a whole twenty seconds of his time—long enough to say hello, then stand me in one comer of his domain and warn me to keep the hell out of his way. The switchboard in front of him looked more complicated than a jet-liner's even, so I could sympathize—and I had a fine view of the stage through his glass window.

  A long time back I'd read Oscar Wilde's Salome because some kook had kidded me it was the life story of the first strip tease dancer. It gave me the advantage of being able to follow the opera without much trouble. It stuck close to the original play, which meant I didn't need to figure out what the singers were singing, and that was a break since I never had learned German.

  The singers were good—superb maybe—and the sensual, stimulating music built the whole atmosphere in ever-increasing tension.

  Donna Alberta made a magnificent Salome with every gesture exuding fire and sex, outling her love-hate relationship with Jokanaan. Rex Tybolt was unrecognizable as the white-beared, staring-eyed prophet; Luis Navarre, made up, like Margot, to look twenty years older, was a dignified and harassed Herod.

  An intermission was thrown in, even though the opera has only one act. Maybe it was there so the clientele would be happier about getting their money's worth—or maybe it was for sheer relief. At any rate, when the lights went up, Alex sighed gratefully. "That takes care of the worst

  half—I hope," he said, grinning at me. "What did you think of it?"

  "Great," I said sincerely.

  "Strauss would never have gotten away with it, if it wasn't opera," he said, still grinning. "The first time it played the Met was around 1907, I think. It only lasted a couple of performances—there was a hell of a scream about outraged public morals and all that jazz. 'Perfumed decadence,' one of the critics called it—not bad, eh?"

  "I'll let you know after the dance," I told him.

  I walked back to Margot's dressing room, and met Rex Tybolt on the way. He wasn't exactly enthusiastic to see me.

  "How are things, Rex?" I asked politely.

  "Fine, I think," he muttered. "Look, Boyd—about last night, I—" He stopped suddenly, staring at something in back of me for a few moments, then walked on past me quickly.

  I turned around and saw Earl Harvey standing there, his eyes calculating, the white tape across the bridge of his nose emphasizing the dirty color of his eyes.

  "What the hell are you doing backstage, Boyd?" he rasped.

  "Protecting my client's interests. Earl," I said gently. "Like you even get close to her and I'U give you a busted spine to keep the nose company!"

  His face darkened rapidly and he opened his mouth wider to say something violent—then suddenly changed his mind and walked away from me quickly. By the time I got into the dressing room, it was time for Margot to be backstage again ready for the curtain, so I kept her company back as far as the stage manager's box.

  The second half of the opera was even better than the first. Donna Alberta's Dance of the Seven Veils was performed with a frank enthusiasm that had the audience gasping for breath. There was an absolute silence throughout the whole theater as the tension grew with each discarded veil.

  The last veil fluttered gently to the floor, leaving her clad in a tiny, flesh-colored bra and G-strin
g, which would be almost invisible to the audience out front. Her head bowed slowly toward Herod and her majestically curved

  torso froze in a gesture of supplication. Bathed in brilliant white light, her body became a marble statue given life by some pagan god.

  "Man!" Alex said hoarsely as he punched five buttons in a row along his switchboard. "She could make a million in burlesque!"

  You could feel it took the audience another five minutes to catch up with the action after that, and I was right with them. By then, Salome had successfully demanded Jokanaan's head, and Herod was feeling the first pangs of remorse. The fights dimmed gradually as the executioner disappeared through the trap door in the center of the stage which represented the cistern where Jokanaan was imprisoned.

  Then, as Salome triumphantly commanded Jokanaan's head be brought to her, the stage blacked out completely. Five seconds later, a shaft of blue fight from a single spot showed the tense, kneeling Salome beside the cistern. You could feel the shudder run through the audience as the black arm of the executioner slowly appeared through the hole, bearing a silver shield with the head of Jokanaan upon it.

  I remembered Rex Tybolt had told me the clay model was a hell of a good likeness, and it was. Salome seized it eagerly as Herod hid his face in his cloak, and then she suddenly dropped it.

  "Cheez!" Alex muttered desperately, "I knew somebody had to blow it sometime during the first night— but why now?"

  Donna Alberta stood there without moving, as if she was transfixed to the stage, for a timeless moment before she crumpled to the floor.

  "My God!" Alex yelped in anguish, frantically pushing buttons. "What did I do, this should happen to me?"

  For another agonizing ten seconds nothing happened on stage—then Luis Navarre finally acknowledged Alex's frantic cuing, and the action continued to the quick cfimax as the soldiers rushed forward to crush Salome beneath their shields.