Rook Takes Knight (The Howie Rook Mysteries)

by Stuart Palmer

  Rook promised. He was anxious to get away now, for something was bothering him deeply.

  “I’ll see you before the funeral?” she wanted to know.

  “Of course. And that is—?”

  “Tomorrow at four P.M., Forest Lawn, Glendale. To be held in something called ‘The Wee Kirk o’ the Heather,’ if you can stand it.”

  “A private ceremony?”

  “No. I guess I should have seen to that, but John had left all instructions. He even wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered over the polo field at Riviera, but there’s some new law about that and it’s a cheap subdivision now anyway …”

  “Now, Deirdre—” he decided to make one last pitch—“if you should want to change your mind and tell us who you went to see Tuesday night—”

  “I’ve said all I’m going to say!”

  “Was it the same one you showed the photo to?”

  “I told you the literal truth—that I showed the photos to nobody!”

  “Skip it, then. And one thing more, keep off the phone. I tried to call you twice this morning, and—”

  “Mary had to make some calls. About the night club; she does all the ordering. Ed is helpless without her.”

  “Well, just remember that the line is probably bugged. You’ll hear from me.” This time there was no impulsive goodbye kiss; he must have ruffled her by getting too close to something. Women! Well, she might change her mind after a few hours locked up with all the dipsos and tramps and addicts and bulldykes and other female scum on the fourteenth floor of the Hall of Justice. It was almost ten o’clock, and he stopped in at a filling station to call Agnews.

  Who was in, but barely. “Can’t give you but a minute, Howie. On my way to court. Get anything?”

  “Bits and pieces. I’ll fill you in at noon. Get anything from Charteris’ attorneys on the will?”

  “They say it’s in his safety deposit box, which has to be opened in the presence of official witnesses. The bank is executor—”

  “They certainly have a copy!”

  “You and I know that. But they gave me a brushoff. There’s something funny going on. I may have to get a court order, on Deirdre’s behalf. You see her?”

  “She still isn’t talking. But I think my hunch was right. The case narrows down to the question of just who saw the photo. Mary, the busybody sister, admits showing it to her husband. He may have disliked Charteris—we all dislike people we owe money to—but there’s no sign he was sweet on his sister-in-law. Still, it’s a small break in the defenses. And any minute now I hope to have the name of Deirdre’s anonymous boy friend—”

  “That beautiful bird-brain!” exploded the attorney. “How are we going to save her neck if she clams up on us?”

  “Consider this, Hal. Maybe Deirdre isn’t such a bird-brain after all. Maybe she’s just smart enough to keep ahead of us all the time, realizing that if she tells us who saw the picture she’s putting the finger on some good friend and shoving him into the gas chamber?”

  “Could be. But our first obligation is to the client, Howie. And not to any friend of hers who may have got chivalrous and tried to do her a favor by knocking off her husband. Look, I have to go—”

  “I read somewhere that chivalry is man’s inclination to protect a woman from everybody but himself …” But Agnews had hung up.

  The next indicated step hadn’t originally been on Rook’s little list of What to Do Today, but since his visit to the Charteris house it had become imperative. There was no use trying to make an appointment through the Gorgon of an office nurse. Rook decided to take his chances and walk into the offices of Douglas Lloyd, M.D., Physician and Surgeon, where he pleaded desperate emergency.

  Five minutes later the good doctor came down the hall and found Rook in the armchair in his consulting room, glancing at a pharmaceutical magazine. “I thought Miss Watson took you into the examination room and told you to undress!” snapped the medico.

  “An intriguing offer, but she didn’t stay. And she’s not my type anyway, Doug.” The two men had been long-time adversaries in the bowling lanes and over the poker table, but they had had no professional contact in over a year.

  “You look twenty pounds overweight, Howie. Still on the beer, I see. And we’ll just take some little tests to see if that old ulcer has popped up again.” The G.P.’s friendly, pudgy face looked concerned, but he was in one of his brusque “no nonsense!” moods.

  “Easy does it, Doug. I don’t have to strip to the buff just to show you a photograph, do I?”

  “A what?”

  “I want your professional opinion on this.” Rook showed him.

  Dr. Lloyd looked, winced as if stung by a wasp, and then put on his glasses and looked again. “Lord, Howie, the things you get mixed up with! Take it back—or I won’t want any lunch today. And I thought you told Miss Watson that it was an emergency!”

  “It is, only I’m not the stretcher case. What I’ve got to know is this. Suppose a young woman was beaten up this way, would there be any permanent scars?”

  “Why—not necessarily. Not unless there were severe lacerations. If there was immediate first aid—”

  “Well, approximately how long would the marks be expected to remain? Shouldn’t there be some signs of them after, say, three weeks?”

  Dr. Lloyd looked cautious. “Is this important?”

  “I said it was an emergency, and I meant it. A whole investigation may hang on it.”

  “Let me look at the thing again.” This time the medico used a magnifying glass. “It depends to some extent on the skin type,” he explained. “The subject is dark-haired, blue-eyed, with a very fair skin. I’d say offhand that there would probably be noticeable marks still, if the injuries occurred three weeks ago. That’s only a calculated guess, though.”

  Rook sighed. “Then this photo could possibly be a fake, and the supposed welts put on, say, with stage make-up or ordinary lipstick?”

  Dr. Lloyd shook his head. “Hardly. If the photo were in black and white, we could be fooled. But this is color. The marks aren’t just black and white contusions, there’s some yellow and purple and green and black and blue and all shades in between. It would take a Vincent van Gogh to make it look believable. No, I’ll say this unfortunate woman was genuinely beaten. And, very frankly, I’d like to take a horsewhip to the person who did it to her.”

  Rook was now utterly confused. “But I got a glimpse of her shoulder last night and a look at her bare back this morning, and I couldn’t see any marks!”

  “Really, Howie. You’re pretty damn naïve for a gay bachelor-about-town. While you couldn’t put these marks onto a woman’s back with ordinary cosmetics, there are dozens of commercial preparations—like Covermark and others advertised by the big cosmetic companies—that women use to cover scars and blemishes and birthmarks. They can fool anybody.”

  “But—would they stand up under water?”

  The doctor thought so. “And after three weeks the marks would be pretty faint anyway. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Howie.”

  “Well, I’m about to start barking and do some biting, Doc. How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing—unless you’re on an expense account.”

  Rook had to admit that he was a temporary member of Hal Agnews’ staff. “It’s the Charteris murder case.”

  “Never have time to read the papers. Since this is for Agnews, I’d like to make it two hundred and fifty dollars—because that’s what he charged me for not getting my youngest son off on a reckless-driving charge last winter. Anyway, it’ll be fifteen dollars for the regular office call. I’ll have Miss Watson send you a bill. See you at the Vendome Lanes?”

  “You’re more likely to see me—or at least my modest byline—in the Sunday papers, if you can bring yourself to look. And maybe this picture, too.” Rook went down the hall telling himself that it had been worth the visit just to know that—whatever Deirdre had been holding back or lying about—there had bee
n no fakery of the marks of what the late and unlamented Mr. Charteris had done to her poor back. And now he had a medical opinion to throw at Mr. Assistant D.A. Wilt Mays, if necessary.

  There was a phone booth in the medical building lobby; he found a dime, dialed the number of Inside Filmdom and asked for Miss Potter. It was, he thought idly, only in Hollywood that a woman could be married four times and still be Miss. But finally Evelyn came to the phone. “I didn’t find just one item, I found half a dozen, Howie dear. Does that mean I get taken out to dinner six times?”

  “I don’t know—are they any good?”

  “How can I tell? She was photogenic enough to get some space just on her looks. But you’ll have to decide that for yourself. How about taking me to lunch at Musso’s and—”

  “Not today, dear lady. I’ll be at your office in ten minutes.”

  He dashed into Hollywood, parked with the recklessness of youth in a taxi zone, and ran up the stairs two steps at a time. There was Evelyn, with an armful of back copies of the magazine. She was a big woman, looking bigger than ever in her Capri slacks, but he could have picked her up and tossed her and caught her in midair for coming through thus in a pinch.

  Then she showed him the items. The latest was April, 1963, and showed Deirdre with John Charteris holding hands in a booth at The Innkeeper’s, a magnum of champagne beside the table … “No dice,” said Rook. Going back in time, the next was a portrait of Deirdre with her hair in pigtails, the caption “Deirdre Delaney gets cameo role as Minnehah in a The Monroes segment.”—February, ’63. That was hardly type casting. “No dice again,” he said. Then, in November, ’62—“Deirdre Delaney voted most photogenic starlet by TV Camera Association,” and a month before that—“Deirdre Delaney, featured in a forthcoming Perry Mason hour, glimpsed in Shelley’s Manne Hole with new heartthrob, Travis Dorn.” There Deirdre, her hair in a weird beehive arrangement, was sitting with a handsome juvenile in what was all too evidently a shot posed by studio publicity men. The rest of the stuff was equally disappointing; Rook had guessed right in thinking that Deirdre was too beautiful to be ignored by the fan press, but there was absolutely nothing to indicate that she had any private, genuine romantic attachments. Deirdre, like the vast majority of Hollywood hopefuls, had played the game and obligingly suffered herself to be photographed in any night spot with any young male the studio publicity men were trying to give the build-up treatment; it was all phony as a whore’s kiss.

  “A dry run,” Rook concluded. Evelyn hopefully suggested that there might be something in one of the rival magazines. “It would all be the same. Don’t worry—you’ll get the dinner. If and when the heat is off.” He went down the stairs one step at a time. The petunia in his buttonhole had wilted and so had his spirits. When he got back to his Plymouth there was a parking ticket under his windshield wiper.

  He drove home and poured himself a dark beer. Then he checked in at the Agnews office. Hal wasn’t back from court yet. No word from Mike Finn. But a Mr. Keyes had called and left a number …

  Probably to say he couldn’t have the color enlargements ready in time, after all. But Rook returned the call anyway—and hit the jackpot. “Yes, Mr. Rook. You remember asking me if I could remember the name of Dee’s big heartthrob?”

  “Yes, yes. Go on.”

  “I didn’t remember, but I called a couple of the guys who worked with me way back when, and they’re just as anxious as I am to give a hand to anybody who’s trying to help Dee Delaney. Us picture people stick together. I didn’t get the name of the flier in uniform that Dee was supposed to be carrying the torch for, but I did find out that she had a thing going with a handsome, boyish-type jazz pianist, name of Danny Ruggles. Any help?”

  “It’s a direct answer to prayer,” said Howie Rook fervently.

  V

  IN A TOP-FLOOR APARTMENT ON Adelaide Way, near where Chatauqua Boulevard comes to an end in the Will Rogers Beach Park and the Pacific, a lean and lanky musician was rudely aroused from a troubled sleep by a heavy knocking upon his door. He had half heard the downstairs bell and ignored it, but there was no ignoring this. He looked at his bare wrist, and remembered that his watch was still in pawn. But by the blast of sunlight streaming in past the window shades, it must be almost noon. Time to get up, anyway. He struggled into a terrycloth robe and then tottered to the door.

  Opening it with some caution, he looked through bleary eyes at the stocky, hirsute, faintly belligerent figure of a perfect stranger. He had an instant suspicion that it might possibly be the fuzz. “What d’yuh want?” he demanded.

  “Your name Daniel Ruggles?”

  “And what if it is?”

  The intruder took a step forward—it was an old police ploy—and Danny fell for it and automatically stepped back. Now they were inside the apartment, which was no sight for sore eyes or any eyes. There were empty beer cans, dirty plates and cups, overflowing ashtrays, and assorted masculine garments of all shapes and colors scattered around as if by a minor tornado. Only the old upright Ivers and Pond in the corner, covered with sheet music and music manuscript paper, had any real air of respectability. The place smelled like a goat’s nest, Rook decided. His own apartment was pristine by contrast.

  “My wife’s out of town, so excuse the looks of the place.” Then a belated thought occurred to Danny Ruggles. “Say, you haven’t come to tell me that something’s happened to Jeannie?”

  “Not that we know of.” The “we” was window dressing—it was a felony rap to impersonate a policeman, but if somebody wants to leap to the wrong conclusions … “It’s not about your wife, Danny. It’s something else—”

  “Well, come to it! What’s the beef? You can’t just bust in here—” Ruggles was making a stab at playing the outraged citizen, but his voice was uncertain.

  “Nothing’s happened to your wife, but something is happening to a good friend of yours, a Mrs. Deirdre Charteris. She’s under suspicion of the murder of her husband late Wednesday night.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say, nothing at all! How’d you find me, anyway? Did Deirdre—?”

  “We didn’t get your address or name from Mrs. Charteris. But you and she used to be pretty close, didn’t you?”

  “What of it? I haven’t seen Dee in years—”

  “Except about a week ago, when you had lunch together at the Beverly Hills Derby!”

  “We just accidentally met on the street!”

  “And at lunch she showed you a certain photo—”

  “She did not!” Ruggles had been expecting something else; he looked relieved. “We just talked about old times, stuff like that.”

  “And maybe about how she made a mistake, dumping you for John Charteris, who didn’t turn out to be such a bargain after all?”

  “Mister, you’re outa your cotton-pickin’ gourd! She and I broke up months before she met this guy Charteris. And what’s all this got to do with anything anyway?” Danny Ruggles crossed over to the kitchenette and got himself a can of beer. On second thought he looked at his visitor and said “You want one?”

  Rook hesitated, then nodded. When he actually accepted the beer and took a thirsty swallow, Ruggles looked more relieved still. “You aren’t the fuzz, then! They can’t drink on duty.”

  “You’re wrong. They can—but they usually don’t.”

  “Then where do you come in, looking me up? What if I did have a romance with Dee? That was years ago, and she married somebody else and I married somebody else. She moved into a different world. I haven’t been in touch with Dee—only that luncheon by accident—except that she phoned me yesterday and said there’d been some stink about her husband’s death and not to come rushing over with flowers or something or I might get mixed into it. And what right do you have, mister—?”

  “Rook’s the name. Howard J. Rook.”

  “Never heard of you.”

  “Maybe you’ve heard of Hal Agnews, who’s Dee’s attorney. I’ve been handed the rough job of defense investigator
. We’re trying to keep her out of jail, but it isn’t easy going. She’s hardly cooperative. I thought maybe that you, as an old friend—”

  “If there’s anything I can do, just say it!”

  “How about giving her an alibi for Wednesday night?”

  “I can’t—but we—well, you see—” Ruggles was lost.

  “You mean you won’t or you can’t?”

  “I’d have to have Dee ask me first.”

  “She won’t. And you still maintain that you haven’t seen this photo—or anything like it?” Rook produced one of the prints, watching the musician all the while with hopefully suspicious eyes. But Ruggles accepted it, pretended to stare at it and be shocked by it—and only proved, to the big man’s satisfaction at least, that he was no great shakes as an actor, no matter how good a jazz pianist.

  “I’m sorry it happened to Dee, but it’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “You knew what it was, because you’d seen it before!”

  “I’ve nothing else to say.” Ruggles handed back the photo.

  “You know, that’s the whole trouble with this case,” Rook observed confidentially as he took another swig of the beer. “Nobody’s talking, and when they do talk they don’t make sense. You ever meet Deirdre’s sister?”

  “You mean Mary, the one who looks like something that would eat her own young? Sure I’ve met her, why?”

  “She can say nothing in more words than anybody I ever ran into. And as for our client—she lied to the police and said she was home in bed when her husband got hit, and then she lied to the D.A.’s men and said she’d taken sleeping pills and couldn’t have heard the phone, and she finally told me that she’d driven down here to see you that night, without mentioning your name—”