Rook Takes Knight (The Howie Rook Mysteries)

by Stuart Palmer

  Then an inner door opened and the possessor of all this magnificence appeared. He took Rook’s hand and shook it with a somewhat languid grip, then waved him to the nearest chair. Harry Holtz was tall, taller than he had seemed in his pictures at the Charteris parties. Uplift heels? He was youthful-looking but with lovely gray temples, his greenish-tan sharkskin suit exquisitely tailored and worn very casually. Rook had to conquer an immediate feeling of annoyance with all this perfection; he would have been willing to bet that the man had a haircut every week and kept an electric shaver in his desk to be used before he gave audience to any lady client.

  “Sorry you were kept waiting,” he said. “But when I’m boning up in the law library I give orders not to be disturbed. What can I do for you, Mr.—” He looked at the note. “Mr. Rook? But let me first warn you that it’s unethical for me to discuss my client—”

  “Correction. Mrs. Charteris isn’t your client, and you’re not her attorney of record. Hal Agnews is, and I’m on his staff. We’re only trying to keep the lady from being arrested on what we consider to be a bum rap, if you’ll pardon the colloquial expression. As her friend, and a former friend of the family, I thought you might help.”

  Holtz looked honestly concerned. He said quickly, “You mean that Deirdre is actually under suspicion of complicity in John Charteris’ death, and that she’s really in danger of arrest? That’s unthinkable.”

  “So we’ve already found a point of agreement, Mr. Holtz. Now our client has told us that she consulted you twice, and that you advised her to leave Charteris and let you institute an action at once?”

  “Exactly. Any attorney in his right mind would have said the same thing. John Charteris was not a man any woman should live with.”

  “We agree again. And whoever killed her husband did her a very great favor, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Perhaps, in one sense. But I think divorce would have been more sensible, on the grounds of extreme physical and mental cruelty. But then I live by the law and I believe in the law.”

  “And Deirdre is in the clutches of the law, or about to be. I might as well tell you that the whole case, both for her and against her, seems to hinge on a photograph which I’d like to show you. Or which I must show you, rather.” Rook reached for his pocket. But the balloon didn’t go up.

  Holtz shied away. “If that’s what I think it is, please spare me!”

  “You’ve already seen it, then. May I ask what was your reaction to this photo?” Rook held up the print.

  “I was sick with disgust, as any man would be. And I knew that I could get her a decree on that alone, no matter how hard my old friend John Charteris might have tried to fight the action.”

  “Forgive my asking, but you’re personally fond of Deirdre, aren’t you? You’ve been a guest in the Charteris home many times, and—”

  “And taken her out for lunch or for cocktails once in a while? Women today don’t exactly live in purdah, you know. She’s the loveliest and most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen. She was designed to be adored and treasured—which makes the photograph all the more horrible.”

  “Quite so. It has a haunting quality. As a successful attorney, you must be a good student of human nature. What do you think the effect of this photo would be on somebody—on anybody—who was under the lady’s spell?”

  Holtz was quick, very quick. “On a primitive sort of mind, it might give rise to thoughts of immediate violence. But, Mr. Rook, I believe in due process. The law is sacred to me. I suppose that under certain circumstances I could kill—the ape is still latent in all of us. But I could not kill in cold blood, and not when the lady could have had immediate redress and recourse through the courts of the land.”

  “But she couldn’t bring herself to take that step, and meanwhile she lived under the shadow—”

  “She’d have come to it. But no matter. There’s one thing you should know, Mr. Rook. Deirdre did not show me that picture.”

  “Then did Charteris himself, for God’s sake? Her sister? Or—”

  “I’m not at liberty to say how it came to my attention. And while I don’t expect you to believe me—you must have a fairly cynical view of humanity because of your work—even if I might kill a man under certain conceivable circumstances, I could not crush out the life of an innocent dog. Most particularly not a dog that I helped bring into this world!” The attorney pointed to one of the photographs on his desk. “See that beautiful black bitch? That’s Champion Surprise Package. She won Best of Show last year at Westminster, even though cockers are out of fashion now and the toy poodle is all the rage.”

  “Well, goody for her!” said Rook. “However—”

  “Poor Surp, as I call her, lived up to her name by whelping ahead of time on my Aubusson carpet at four o’clock in the morning. She had a bad time—one puppy seemed born dead. I had to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to the runt of the litter—and that was the puppy I gave to my friends John and Deirdre Charteris as a wedding present! If you’re not a dog lover, that may mean nothing to you, but—” The suave attorney was close to losing his temper, and Rook grudgingly had to like him for it.

  “Sorry,” he said. “But I have to ask these questions.”

  “And I’m glad the lady has such a staunch defender. I don’t know Agnews personally, but I’ve seen a good deal about him in the papers. I would say that he shouldn’t have much trouble, since there’s such insufficient evidence against Deirdre or anybody. Please tell him that if there’s anything I can do—”

  “There is one thing. I have to do some elimination among the people who knew Deirdre as Mrs. Charteris of Brentwood and as Dee Delaney of Hollywood. We think that somebody cared enough for her to kill in her behalf, having blown his top because of the photo. Would you be insulted, Mr. Holtz, if I asked you where you were late Wednesday evening?”

  Holtz was imperturbable. “And would you be disappointed if I told you that I was playing bridge with some friends in Beverly Hills, a Mr. and Mrs. Edgar Buell, until sometime around eleven thirty? Since it was a rather pleasant night I walked the couple of miles to my apartment on Charleville. I stopped at a newsstand on Wilshire to buy a paper, but I have no idea whether the man would remember me or not, probably not.”

  “You don’t drive a car, then?”

  “I have a chauffeur, but he’s an ardent Angels fan. So after he drove me to the Buell home I gave him the rest of the evening off, and let him have the car.”

  “The Rolls?” Rook couldn’t help making that stab.

  “It happens to be a Bentley, if that matters.”

  Rook stood up. “You’ve been most helpful, Mr. Holtz,” he lied. “Oh, one thing more. Knowing the Charterises as you do, was there any male friend of theirs who seemed especially attentive to Deirdre?”

  “Surely that would be for her to say.”

  “She may not be being completely frank with us, and she might not have even been aware of it.”

  Holtz was thoughtful. “I see what you’re driving at. But most of their friends were business and political acquaintances of John’s, plus their wives. I’d say that from what I observed, Deirdre got attention and even homage from most men, and accepted them as her due, in a delightfully old-fashioned sort of way. Everybody knew that Charteris was as possessive as if she’d been made of Venetian glass. As far as I know, she never gave him reason for jealousy.”

  “Were you there the night she is supposed to have danced too many times with a Charley Booth, who trained a horse Charteris owned?”

  “Everybody was a bit high that night. Mr. Booth, I should imagine, is more accustomed to rotgut redeye whiskey than to champagne. But I’m sure there was nothing much to it. He’s hardly the type to attract Deirdre. And I never dreamed there was anything wrong with the marriage until she came to see me about a divorce.”

  “Didn’t Charteris confide in you, ever?”

  “He was upset over some mysterious phone calls she had been receiving. But that sort of thing go
es on all the time, when a beautiful woman is concerned.”

  “Did Charteris ever say anything to you about Deirdre’s past?”

  “No. I’ve known him since we were in college together. I didn’t know there was anything serious going on until they eloped to Yuma. Oh, he did say something once about a jazz musician she used to know, and she herself once said that she’d once been engaged to a Marine or Navy flier who went out to Vietnam and got killed or reported missing or something, but that was back when she was only nineteen. That’s absolutely all I can think of.”

  “Well, thanks again.” They shook hands, a tighter grip this time, and Rook went out into the hall, shutting the door not quite firmly behind him. He took three heavy steps, then turned back silently. It was an old dodge, but once in a while it worked.

  This was one of the times. With his ear to the crack Rook could hear the sound of a desk drawer opening and then the whirr of a telephone dial. The big man was suddenly jubilant. Now if Holtz was trying to call up the Buells in an attempt to fortify or extend his alibi a little, that would indicate—

  But the attorney’s voice came, “Deirdre! Harry here. Guess who just came barging into my office!”

  “And guess who’s just tiptoeing out,” Rook said to himself as he heard a door opening down the hall. As he passed through the reception room he bowed gracefully to the duchess.

  The interview had been somehow disappointing, but it had made it clear that if Holtz was an antagonist he was a formidable one. He might even have been subtle enough to run down the dog deliberately, figuring that as a known animal lover and breeder he would thus eliminate himself from suspicion! Just because a man had a chauffeur didn’t mean that he couldn’t drive a car or take a taxi out to the supermarket and borrow someone else’s.

  But would a man like Holtz, a perfectionist, have performed a cold and brutal execution? And wouldn’t he have made certain that Deirdre really was home, or at least had an alibi? At any rate, the original plan of eliminating the suspects one by one wasn’t working out as smoothly as Rook had hoped.

  But he had to go on. Next on the list was Max Linsky, theatrical talent agent. The phone book read that his offices were in the old Taft Building at the corner of Sunset and Vine. As Rook drove down the once-famous boulevard he had to note the increasing dinginess of the thoroughfare; except for the Pickwick Bookstore and Musso-Franks’ ancient restaurant it was now all purely honky-tonk and brummagem. The offices turned out to be a smallish cubicle at the rear of the building, the walls covered with framed and warmly inscribed portraits of the stars of yesterday and day-before-yesterday—Vilma Banky, Norman Kerry, Vivien Leigh, Mae Marsh, Rod La Roque, and even Sonny Tufts (Sonny Tufts?)!

  It was like walking through an untended graveyard, Rook felt. Linsky’s office was something of a contrast to the expensive, perfectly appointed suite he had just left. The place reeked of old cigar smoke and dusty casting directories, scripts and manuscripts, back numbers of trade journals, mucilage and mildew. There was no sign of a receptionist, but Rook noticed a call-control device on the phone. It was a shoestring, or at least a one-man, operation.

  But Max Linsky was a cherubic gnome in bright sports jacket and mauve slacks, his face and scalp worn smooth as a beach pebble, with an easy smile which did not extend to his heavy-lidded, washed-out but bright blue eyes. A man hard to outbluff in a poker game, Rook would guess. He spoke his piece.

  “You’ve caught me at a bad time,” said the agent. “I’m due out at CBS …”

  “You could spare a moment to help a former protégée, maybe?”

  “Did I say I wouldn’t? Let’s go somewhere where the phone won’t interrupt us. How about a cup of coffee?”

  When they were downstairs in the drugstore and perched on two stools, Rook opened up abruptly. “You know Deirdre’s in trouble?”

  “So I guessed, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “You were her agent from the beginning, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, she was a client and a friend. Damn nice kid but not too heavy on talent, you understand. Beautiful, yes. Lovely in her still pictures, sure. But the movie cameras never did her justice.”

  “One camera certainly didn’t do her justice.” Rook reached for his pocket, watching the other intently. But Max Linsky had a poker face to end all poker faces. He accepted the color print and looked at it, with nothing in his manner to show whether he was seeing the grim exhibit for the first time or not. So Rook plunged on. “You knew about this.”

  “So? It’s not pretty, is it? Such things shouldn’t happen.”

  “Deirdre showed it to you?”

  “Why would she show a thing like that to me or anybody?”

  “Yes or no, Mr. Linsky!”

  “Let’s say maybe I knew about it.” The agent shrugged. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because it’s probably going to be Exhibit A for the defense.”

  And now there was some reaction, a sort of calculated surprise. “Don’t tell me they’re seriously going to charge Dee with murder—not Dee Delaney, the gentlest, nicest—”

  “She made the mistake of lying to the police and the D.A.’s men,” Rook interrupted. “Said she was home when her husband was killed.”

  “That’s supposed to be proof?”

  “Mr. Mays, the Assistant D.A., thinks so. He plans to arrest her, unless we come up with a miracle. Oh, Mr. Agnews doesn’t think they’ll be able to make it stick, unless they have a lot more up their sleeve than we know about. But meanwhile Deirdre could spend months in jail.”

  “Such things shouldn’t happen, like I said.”

  “It’s one theory that she’s innocent and that some well-meaning friend tried to do her a favor by eliminating her husband.”

  “And a very weak theory it is, Mr. Rook. It’s not logical. Why should anybody be so dumb? She was married to a sadistic, psychotic personality and didn’t have the courage to divorce him. A real friend would maybe kidnap her and drag her to safety, yes. Twist her arm and make her start suit for divorce, yes. But steal a car and use it to smash the nogoodnik she was married to? No, my friend, not when any man in his right mind would realize she’d be the first one to be suspected.”

  Rook nodded. “If he stopped to think, which murderers don’t always do. As it was, the death came very close to being written off as an accident. Yet, Mr. Linsky, this photo haunts me—and I didn’t even meet the lady until late last night! What would be the effect of it on someone who knew her and cared about her?”

  The agent finished his coffee. “Look, there’s no denying that I was and am and always will be fond of that girl. Not just because of her looks. Beautiful girls are a dime a dozen in this business. They come and go. The most beautiful have the most grief—look at Barbara LaMarr, look at Harlow, look at Monroe …

  “Let’s stick to Deirdre. You knew her better than anyone else.”

  “She was like a daughter to me, you understand. And even when I was younger I never was like some flesh peddlers I could name, men in my business who fool around with their clients. I was the one introduced her to the man she married, God should forgive me. It was when Charteris was playing around with the idea of putting some money into independent TV production. The deal fell through, but he got interested in Dee. I was happy for her when she married out of the profession, because she didn’t have what it takes to get to the top. She was always friendly, but not enough with the producers.”

  “You knew Deirdre when she was running around with a musician named Ruggles?”

  “Dee told you about him? I wouldn’t think—”

  “No, I ran into a former studio still photographer who found out for me—a man named Keyes. Deirdre said they used to call him ‘The Pinch.’ ”

  “Oh, him! A character. They called him that because when he passed by he’d try to leave any nicely curved tokus black and blue. Somebody said he left the studios to make moonlight, non-union girlie movies on the side—he was the dirty-old-man type even when he
was young. But that’s show business.”

  “Did Deirdre make any films with him?”

  “What? She’d have died first. And I wouldn’t have let her, anyway. As for this Ruggles, she had it bad for a while. Used to come cry on my shoulder over that bum, and I was afraid she’d make it legal with him. But that was all over before she met Charteris.”

  “One thing more, Mr. Linsky. I have to ask. Where were you late Wednesday night?”

  The pale blue eyes widened. “I was where a man my age ought to be, safe home in bed. I was reading over a script that Zanuck wants one of my more important clients to take a role in, maybe. And watching the idiot box, which I consider chewing gum for the eyes. Let’s see—I remember! I was watching Dark Passage, with Bogie and Bacall. If you want, I can tell you the whole story!”

  Rook sighed. “A film made in 1947 or thereabouts, which you could have seen half a dozen times. That’s an alibi?”

  “How did I know I was going to need one? Look, I gotta run. Anything I can do for that girl—even money, God forbid—” Max Linsky grabbed up the check and was gone. Leaving one question still unanswered. If he’d been at home Wednesday night, why hadn’t he answered the phone when Deirdre tried to call?

  Well, that was that. As far as the photograph was concerned, the only real clue in this entire muddle, Rook was getting nowhere fast. In spite of Deirdre’s protestations, there was nobody on his list of potential suspects who hadn’t or mightn’t have seen it. Linsky and Holtz had been almost too cooperative, Ruggles too much the opposite. This was like one of those Japanese box toys—you opened the first one and there was another inside, and you opened that and there was another, and so on …

  Rook drove thoughtfully home, and then phoned the Agnews office. Hal wasn’t in, the switchboard operator said. Finn had reported from Boyle Heights and was presumably in Covina. And Sergeant McDowd had called …