by Kane, Henry
“Kindly remember the purpose.”
“The purpose is cooperation.”
“Kindly remember that cooperation works two ways.”
“I promise to remember. Gimme.”
“Jason Touraine left his apartment at eight-thirty. The wife tells us he was dressed in soup and fish, and that she stayed home. Monday is her night off from work. He went out alone. His garage guy tells us that he picked up his car at about eight-forty. He was in a gay mood, dressed to kill and he already had a few drinks in him — so says the garage guy. He picked up his car and from that point — except for one little lead that petered out — we have nothing.”
“What little lead?” I said.
He opened a drawer of his desk and brought out two objects. One was a small folded sheet of white paper. The other was a pad of white paper, about four inches by six inches. He pointed a stubby finger at the folded sheet.
“May I?” I said.
“Sure. It’s all been processed.”
I unfolded the sheet and now, similar to the pad, it was about four inches by six inches in size. Scrawled in script in pencil was the name McCormick, plus the 66th Street address and the notation 8 o’clock.
“We found the folded sheet,” said Parker, “in the pocket of his dinner jacket when we hauled him, dead, out of his car. The pad is from his room at his apartment. The sheet came off that pad.”
“And the handwriting?”
“Definitely his.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Nothing of consequence. Smudges. Nothing.”
“So?”
“We checked it out and it petered. McCormick is the name of his employer, as you know. We went to his home address on Sixty-sixth and of course McCormick was in Chicago. We talked with Mrs. McCormick and she told us that Touraine had come there at about nine to talk with his boss: he had thought that the boss would be home by Monday evening, knowing that the boss had gone to Chicago for Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. She told him that McCormick wasn’t due back until early Tuesday morning. He thanked her and departed. From that time on — no trace, until he was found dead in his car at five A.M.”
He refolded the sheet and replaced sheet and pad into the desk drawer. I rubbed circulation into my knees, got up out of my chair, paced, lit a cigarette, paced, went to the door. “Thanks,” I said, “for the cooperation.”
“Just remember about that cooperation. We’re a team, somewhat unorthodox, but a team. I expect to be hearing from the side of the street you’re working.”
“You will. Oh!”
“Now what?”
“What about the autopsy?”
“You don’t miss a trick, do you?”
“Holding out on me, Lieutenant?”
The cigar drooped at lugubrious angle. “Autopsy gave us something, but negative, if you understand.”
“I don’t.”
“It excluded rather than included.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“It further lessened our interest in the wife.”
“Why, please, dear heart?”
“Autopsy revealed seminal fluid in the urethra. Our immodest experts tell us that the boy had sexual intercourse that evening not more than an hour prior to the time of his death. He and his wife weren’t making it that way, not for a long time — they got their kicks from others, as she had informed us, and as their friends and acquaintances have corroborated as far as they could. And it doesn’t make sense anyway that a man would doll up in formal evening clothes, leave his wife in the apartment, go out alone, pick up his Caddy convertible, fill himself with food and drink, (which the autopsy also showed), and be found dead at five o’clock way up on the East River Drive — if all he wanted was to get laid with his own wife. How’m I doing?”
“Like Sherlock Holmes, my dear Parker.”
“So — even if we’re wrong — we’re still looking for a woman whom he trusted and with whom he was, to state it most politely, on rather intimate terms. Now trundle along, my handsome young colleague. You go work your side of the street and let me work mine. And don’t forget to be in touch.”
“I won’t forget. I’ll be in touch. I thank you.”
Chapter Seven
WHEN I skipped out of my car into the posh executive offices of Harvest House, I was greeted by Harvey Everest McCormick as royally as though I were an author of his who had written a book entitled HOW TO STAY YOUNG AND MAKE BABIES UNTIL YOU ARE NINETY.
He unfolded his lean and lanky frame from a high-backed green-toned leather-smelling chair, came out from behind the barricade of formidable mahogany desk, and shook hands with me as warmly as though he had never paid me seven hundred and fifty dollars for doing nothing. “Did you get my message?”
“Message?”
“I called your office.”
“Of course I got your message.”
“I’m glad you had free time to come.”
“You’re a client now, Harvey. One makes time for a client. As a matter of fact I’m here red-hot from coppers.”
“Red-hot coppers?” he said and frowned.
“I come straight from the police when I delivered a mite of verification on your behalf.”
“Oh that. Oh yes. As you predicted, they talked with me. Very pleasant, quite congenial, an Inspector Parker….”
“Lieutenant Parker.”
“Yes. A most charming man.”
“And most astute.”
“Yes.” He lifted the lid of a mahogany cigarette box, offered a cigarette, and lit it for me with a mahogany-based desk lighter. “Sit down, please, Peter, won’t you?”
“Thank you.” I sat in a green-toned leather armchair and he went to his green-toned high-back where he swiveled about for a few moments before settling down.
“Peter,” he said, “I hope you will not regard what I am about to propose as an imposition.”
“Depends upon what you are about to propose.”
“If there is a fee, you name it.”
“Let me hear,” I said, smoking his cigarette and contemplating his money.
He cleared his throat, grinned, cleared his throat again.
“It’s about Barbara … Barbara Hines … in a way, I’m afraid … embarrassing …”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” I said with interest.
“No. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not embarrassed. It’s the circumstances. I mean … she … her presence here … at this time … I mean an embarrassment that way.”
“I should be embarrassed like that.”
“You’re not a married man.” He grinned his boyish grin. “This unfortunate Touraine thing,” he said. “As you know, Madeline was acquainted with him. She’s taken this thing very badly. She’s quite distressed.”
“Naturally. Who wouldn’t be?”
“I myself, now — I mean as regards Miss Hines — I’m in a difficult position. What with Madeline reacting the way she has, I feel I should be available at any time she wants me, sort of stay close to the hearth as it were. You know?”
“I understand perfectly, Harvey. All the way.”
He was relieved, patently, that he did not have to draw diagrams. “I talked to Barbara today and of course I feel like a louse — bringing her here and then having to drop her, neglect her, at least for a while. In point of fact, she asked about you, which, actually, triggered my call to your office. Peter,” he said, “if you please, I’d consider it a personal favor, if … if you’d sort of take over for a while. I know she likes you, thinks you’re a fine person.”
“Well, thank you, and thank her.”
“It would — I mean at this time — relieve me …”
“Your relief is my relief, Harvey.”
He spoke more quickly. “I promised that you’d call her. I’d like you to take her to Chez Rio this evening — that is, if you don’t have another appointment. Karen informs me she won’t work this evening. That will leave a blank in Mr. Rio’s show and if you’re f
ree to be Barbara’s escort, I’ll call him and ask that he fit her in for an audition, a public audition, right there before an audience, in Karen’s place.”
“You mean for her to do the entire act?”
“No, no, just the singing. I’ll tell him about the rest of the act, but for a first audition, I mean as a part of his regular show, I think just the singing would be sufficient, don’t you?”
“I like the entire act.”
“So do I. But in the circumstances …”
“You’re right, Harvey. I’m only teasing.”
“Now, are you free tonight, Peter?”
“Free as a bird.”
“The expenses are on me and if there’s any fee — ”
“No fee. No expenses. A pleasure. All mine.” I disposed of the cigarette, slapped my thighs, and got to my feet. “Anything else?”
“Nothing. And I’m deeply appreciative. And I do hope you’ll explain my position to Barbara. I’m afraid I stuttered….”
He rose up out of the green chair and we shook hands again and he ushered me out of the royal chambers and downstairs in the lobby I paid my way through the public phone to call Hotel Quilton and ask for Miss Hines and when we were connected I said, “Peter Chambers.”
“Oh, so good of you to call!” There was enough spark in her voice to turn over a high-compression engine.
“I talked with Mr. McCormick,” I said, “and he asked me to be in touch …”
The motor stalled. Quietly down-voice she said, “Is that the only reason you called?”
Was I in the middle of something?
“Well …” I said.
“You know I called your office,” she said. “Seems I’ve had a large day at the office. Miranda’s ears must be burning.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Miranda. My secretary. Did you call me for anything special, Miss Hines?”
The pistons jogged again and the motor purred. “No, not really, nothing special, but, actually, aside from Harvey, you’re the only other person in New York who holds any interest for me….”
I was in the middle of something!
I said, “I’m to take you to Chez Rio tonight. Harvey can’t make it. You see, this guy who got killed — ”
“I know. I’ll be delighted to go with you, Peter. May I call you Peter?”
“Of course. And I’d advise fancy duds, Miss Hines.”
“And you may call me Barbara.”
“Fancy duds, Barbara. You’ll probably be doing an audition for Mr. Rio. Orders from the boss.”
“And did the boss order you to wear dinner clothes? If not, I’m ordering.”
“Yes, ma’am. At your service. I’ll pick you up at about nine. Is that all right?”
“I’m looking forward,” she said.
“Me too,” I said.
I hung up and called Harvey and told him I had called Barbara and told him to call Rio and make whatever arrangements were necessary and he thanked me and I thanked him and I strutted out into the brisk air. I climbed into my car, drove to my garage, put the car back into warm storage, and called my office from the rocky confines of the brick-walled garage. Miranda reported that Detective Lieutenant Louis Parker had called (which I knew), that Barbara Hines had called (which I knew), that Harvey McCormick had called (which I knew), and that Mrs. Karen Touraine had called (which shoved my lips against the mouthpiece as though I were a fetishist in love with a telephone).
“What about this Touraine?” I breathed.
“You’re to call her on the phone or to call in person. She left the phone number and the address. Do you have a pencil?”
“No need. I thank you. Goodbye, my secret passion.”
As usual, she hung up on me.
I caught a cab a half a block from the garage.
Chapter Eight
FREDDIE THE doorman, cap askew and cape flying, opened the cab door, and when he saw for whom it was that he was performing his amenities, said in hushed voice, “Geez, hi, how-eye-ya, Mr. Chambers?”
I paid and crawled out of my pint-sized cab and said, “Geez, fine, and how are you, Freddie?”
“Geez,” he said as he escorted me into the lobby. “You been up to Mosholu Parkway yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Don’t go.”
“Why not?”
“Ain’t you heard the radio?”
“I haven’t had the time, Freddie.”
His voice held more hush than a lullaby. “Benny got belted, conked, dead as a doormat, poor Benny. Got hit by a hit-and-runner. Juvenile delinquents out for a joy ride. Stole theirselves a broke-down car and went out joy-riding. Hit poor Benny and knocked him for a loop. The cops has found the car, like abandoned, you know, but they ain’t caught up with them joy-riders yet. So there’s no use you going up to Mosholu no more. Geez, how do you like that, Mr. Chambers? You never know what’s around the corner. Here today and gone tomorrow. Geez, I just can’t believe it, you know? Like it don’t come through like for real, you know?”
“I know,” I said.
“You back to see Mrs. Touraine?”
“Yes.”
“She’s in. It’s Eleven B. You just push the button — Number Eleven. Automatic. Geez, it just won’t come through about poor Benny. I just can’t believe it.”
The ride to Eleven was as smooth as a grifter’s pitch and pressure on the button of 11B brought a two-tone tinkle and the quietly beautiful Karen Touraine.
“Hello, Mr. Chambers,” she said. “Please come in.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I had more of an opportunity to observe her now, and more interest, than I had had the one time before when I had met her. She was dressed in a simple mauve half-sleeved gown with a wide black patent-leather belt. She wore but a touch of color upon her lips. Her dark hair, drawn tight and white-parted in the center, was pulled back to a copious bun in the rear. Her forehead was high; her face, unblemished and olive-skinned, was heart-shaped. Her eyes were dark brown with wide black pupils, her expression intent and serious. Her lips were curved but thin, acquisitive; her nose was delicately pointed; the point of her nose moved when she talked. The set of her head was imperious; her carriage, her bearing, her manner, were proud, poised, assured.
“Won’t you come this way, please?” She smiled with small white teeth and half-raised a graceful-fingered hand. She led me to a living room adorned with scatter-rugs, lithographs, and motley modern furniture, but all in order, comfortable and clean.
“Would you like a drink?” she said and pointed to a small table on which sat a high glass of fizz-water with lime floating. “I was just having a gin and tonic, and if you’d like …”
“No, no, thank you.”
“Then won’t you sit down, please?”
“Thank you.” I sat in a wicker-bottomed chair with a wide curved back and no arms.
She sat in a small chair near the small table with the high drink. “I suppose, Mr. Chambers, you are wondering why I asked you here.”
“Frankly, Mrs. Touraine, yes.”
Her husband had been killed last night and she had twice been questioned by the police today; yet she gave small evidence of strain. Occasionally there was a muscle twitch at her right temple, and occasionally she drew her lips together in a tight pucker: no more. “Mr. Chambers,” she said, “I take it you know what happened to … to Jason last night?”
“Yes, I do.”
She sipped of her drink, set it away. She clasped her hands in her lap. She drew a deep breath before she spoke. “I don’t want to be a hypocrite. I don’t want to pretend to be a terribly bereaved widow. Death is ugly and one cannot be impervious to death but I did not love my husband and I won’t pretend now that I did, nor am I suffering any special grief and I won’t pretend that either.” She tightened her mouth for a moment, then tried for a smile that missed. “The police, of course, have questioned me, and I’ve done my best to help. I answered every question fully and completely, omitting
perhaps, here and there, certain private details that I wouldn’t impart to anybody. But on the whole I believe I was most cooperative and gave them all the information they wanted — except certain information that I am going to give to you now. I’m going to give that information to you because, even before I met you, Mr. McCormick mentioned you as a discreet and experienced person, and when I did meet you, however fleetingly, I was favorably impressed, and most important, I must tell this to somebody other than the police, yet somebody sort of quasi-police who can properly evaluate what I have to tell, and, well” — she smiled — ”you’re it, there’s no one else I know.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“This information may possibly have some bearing on Jason’s murder — or it may not. If it has, well and good, you’ll know it, and you may do what you consider proper. In that case, I’ll be perfectly willing to admit to the police that I held off that information from them and gave it to you. If it has nothing to do with the murder, then I shall have been justified in my course and I will have saved heartbreak and scandal to innocent people.” She sat back as though waiting for applause.
“Mrs. Touraine,” I said, “pardon me but I don’t know what in hell you are talking about.”
“I don’t expect you do.” She leaned forward. “I have a friend in this city — we’ve known one another since we were kids on the West Coast — Miss Edwina Strange. Edwina has all the facts — and the proof — of the information I’m talking about. When she heard about what happened to Jason, she called me, early this morning, before the police came. She was frightened, of course, wanted my advice. I told her to sit tight and do nothing until I was in touch with her. I had you in back of my mind, of course, but before I could get in touch with you, the police came, and they’ve kept me pretty busy since. Now, if you please I’m going to call Edwina and tell her that you’re going to come and talk with her. All right?”
“Sure.”
She stood up and went to make her call and I stood up and studied the lithographs which were bad copies of great paintings. She came back and said, “I hope I’m doing the right thing.”
“We all have our own consciences, Mrs. Touraine.”
