Death of a Dastard (Prologue Books)

by Kane, Henry

  I longed for a cigarette but skipped it because I would have to fight my way into my clothes to get at the package. I leaned back in my foam-rubber cell, stretched my legs, crossed my ankles, closed my eyes, and concentrated upon Gilbert Wade of Gil Wade Formals, Inc.

  I knew him but slightly although I had seen him often in the off-beat, unadvertised, dimly lighted, soft-jazzed, exclusively expensive hip joints. Once, and quite some time ago, he had availed himself of my services in connection with a suit brought against him by a Lothario-type hood resulting from a little skirmish over a lady. A nice piece of change was involved, most of which I managed to save for him by a bit of polite blackmail — absolutely aboveboard and legit — that brought about a settlement. In appreciation he bestowed five thousand bucks upon me, insisted upon the perpetual right of paying for my food and drink at whatever hideaway he caught up with me, and took on the onerous and self-granted privilege of chucking me under the chin whenever happenstance brought us liquidly together, nudging me playfully in the ribs, and familiarly calling me Pete. We must all bear our burdens.

  Now a blue-suited boy with pimples swung through the swinging doors into the reception room and said, “Mr. Chambers?”

  “I am he,” I said, grammatically elegant but physically contorted in my trap of chair.

  “Would you come this way, please?”

  “Just a minute,” I pleaded as I struggled for release and finally made it. I bowed, woefully, to Nervous Eyes who was so amused by my antic squirmings that she forgot to flutter her bosom, and I followed Blue Suit through the swinging doors and along a labyrinth of beige-carpeted corridors to the office of Gil Wade.

  The spacious outer office was crowded with well-dressed men and women, some standing, some seated, some jabbering, some silent, but all eyes turned as hostile as bullets as Blue Suit serenely steered me toward the sanctum sanctorum of inner office, opened the door for me, bowed me in, and closed the door behind me.

  Gil Wade was on the phone. He blinked hello by squeezing his eyes together and nodding and he pointed with his free hand toward an easy chair. I declined and seated myself on the edge of a straight chair.

  He was big-shouldered, powerful, but not fat; a rangy long-legged guy, quite good-looking in a ruggedly homely way. He looked like a young edition of Abraham Lincoln with a shave. He wore beautiful clothes and he wore them beautifully: a dark-gray flannel elegantly-tailored suit, a pearl-gray button-down shirt, and a narrow black knit tie held down by a pearl tie clip. On the desk, along the edge of a heavy green onyx ash tray, lay a long thin panatella, freshly lit, aromatic blue smoke lifting lazily.

  He finished his conversation, hung up the phone, picked up the panatella, smiled tiredly, said, “Hello, Pete.”

  “Hi. Boy, you’re an awfully busy guy.”

  “Too damned busy. It’s been this way since early this morning. Convention in town, and buyers from all over the country. What do you want with Edwina Strange?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I said Edwina Strange.”

  “And I said I beg your pardon.”

  He opened a drawer of his desk, extracted an oblong of pale green paper, and handed it to me. It was a check in the amount of a thousand dollars to the order of Peter Chambers. I held it by one corner and said, “If this is a bribe — no soap.”

  “No bribe.”

  “If it’s a payment for me to tell you what I want with Edwina Strange — then it’s a bribe.”

  “It is not a payment for that. It has nothing to do with Edwina Strange.”

  How long do you fight away from money? Not too long if you’re human. I am human. I folded the check and stuck it into a pocket. I said, “What’s the deal, Gil?”

  “Do you want to see Edwina Strange because of the death of Jason Touraine?” Spang on the button. Just like that.

  Lugubriously I started reaching for the check. “A bribe is a bribe is a bribe is a bribe and you’re a son of a bitch for playing around with me.”

  “Cut it out, Pete.”

  “Mr. Chambers to you.”

  “Now don’t be so sensitive.”

  “Look, there are oodles of buyers outside waiting to talk with you. You’re wasting their time. And mine.”

  I started to get up. He waved me down. He had slow, easy motions. He was an easy-moving guy. He puffed on the cigar. He stopped puffing. He said, “All artists are sensitive and I suppose in your own way you’re an artist.”

  The check was in my hand again. “Have a thousand bucks,” I said. “On me.”

  “No, no, keep it.”

  “It was a tough fight, Mom, but I lost. Take your lousy money back, pal.”

  “Simmer down, will you? That check has nothing to do with Edwina Strange. Actually, I’m not interested.”

  “For a guy that’s not interested, you’re sure worrying the hell out of it.”

  “I’m guessing and I’m interested to know how good my guess is. I’m not prying. I’ve got my own worries. It’s the coincidence. It’s cute. In a macabre way, it’s cute.”

  “What’s cute, sweetheart?”

  “The coincidence.”

  “What coincidence?”

  “If she wants to see you about Jason Touraine, it’s a coincidence.”

  “Why is it a coincidence?”

  “Because that’s why you’re here. That’s why you’re holding my check. Jason Touraine.”

  “You too?” I said.

  “There are others?”

  “Others? It’s some kind of a cult or something. A coterie. A very special club.”

  He puffed, slowly, delicately, with the middle of his mouth, no teeth, like a cigarette. “Edwina Strange is a gorgeous hunk. Edwina Strange and Peter Chambers, that would figure. But Edwina Strange has been working here for a year, and there’s never been a mention of Peter Chambers. There’s been a mention of Jason Touraine but there’s never been a mention of Peter Chambers. Then last night Jason Touraine gets killed and today Peter Chambers is coming to see Edwina Strange. How would you add that up?”

  “I’m bad at figures. And how would you know I was coming to see Edwina Strange?”

  “She told me.”

  I fixed a leer on my face. “She confides in you?”

  “She told me there was a Peter Chambers coming. She asked for the rest of the afternoon off.”

  “Did you give it to her?”

  “No.”

  “A nasty old meanie, aren’t you?”

  “She’s in the showroom with the other models. I’m loaded down with buyers. But I’m not old and I’m not a meanie — neither. I fixed it so that she can have off at three, three-fifteen. Then I called your office — so that I could see you first.”

  “About what?”

  “Put the check away.”

  I put the check away. “About what?”

  “It has nothing to do with Edwina Strange.”

  “About what?”

  He leaned back in his swivel chair. “I met that punk through Edwina Strange.”

  “What punk?”

  “Touraine. A cheap little punk. A shitass little punk. A quick-action-type punk. You know?”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “But a bang-up bear with the chicks.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “We had a party at the Waldorf in June and he crashed through Edwina Strange. He came with his wife.”

  “Karen?” I ventured.

  “A lady. A fine, lovely, charming lady. Far too good for that little punk.”

  “So?”

  “He spread himself out at the Waldorf. He turned on his voltage for all of the chickens. Of course, he picked the important ones. A typical con merchant grinding the gaff.”

  “So?”

  “That’s all.”

  “You mean you’re paying me a thousand dollars for the privilege of bringing me up to date on the recent history of Jason Touraine?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then — what?” />
  “I didn’t even know he was dead. I’ve been here since seven-thirty this morning. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t even home last night, I spent the evening in town. There was a raft of things to do, business, and I had to do them. I didn’t even see a newspaper. I’ve been here in the office since early this morning, didn’t even go out to lunch. About one forty-five, I sent out for lunch and a newspaper — about the time Edwina came in to tell me a Peter Chambers was coming and could she have the rest of the afternoon off. Matter of fact, I was chewing on the lunch when Edwina came in with her request. At first I figured you were on the pitch and because I regard you as a friend, I went along with it. I told her — and I arranged it — that she could have off at about three. Then she went out and I opened my newspaper and I saw the deal about this Jason Touraine. That’s when I called your office and said I wanted to see you but pronto.”

  “Protecting Edwina?”

  “Wrong. Protecting — me.”

  “You?”

  “That’s it, baby. Me.” He tilted forward in the swivel-chair, took a last long puff on the panatella, and laid it away in the green onyx ash tray. He folded his strong hands on the desk. The purple circles beneath his eyes seemed to grow a shade more purple. “Saturday night I belted that bastard. I knocked him on his ass. And, quite out loud, I threatened him. I threatened to kill him.”

  I sucked breath. Hastily I fumbled for my cigarettes. I took my time lighting up. My face was near his as I laid the burnt match in his green ash tray.

  “That’s why the thousand bucks,” he said.

  “You want me to cover for you?” I said.

  “I want you to protect me,” he said.

  Our eyes hit like a collision, and stayed stuck for a moment. Then I leaned back and so did he. I inhaled for lung cancer (it always happens to the other guy) and spewed my smoke. “How do you want me to protect you, pal?” I said softly.

  “The guy was moving in on a woman of mine, a woman who is important to me. I had warned him to stay away.”

  “What woman?”

  “I … I’d prefer not to mention names.”

  “Okay by me, Gil. So?”

  “Saturday night … she … the woman … wasn’t home. I had a hunch, and I played it. Late Saturday night I went to Chez Rio.”

  “Why Chez Rio?”

  “Touraine’s wife sings there. It’s a favorite spot of his. I figure he and his wife had an arrangement or something — he’d bring his chicks there and she wouldn’t mind. Maybe he wanted to show off his latest conquest, maybe he was comfortable in the joint, maybe he felt like a big shot there, who the hell knows? I knew it was one of his special haunts and I went along with my hunch. Sure enough, coming in, I met them in the cocktail lounge, on their way out. I admit I flipped my wig. I laid hands on him. I belted him but good. I sat him on his mother-grabbing ass. I pulled him up and I told him I’d kill him if it ever happened again, so help me, I’d kill him. Then I took the woman away and I left him there.”

  I bent again, tapped out my cigarette, bent back. “This woman was important to you?”

  “Very important.”

  “Did you kill him, Gil?”

  “No.”

  “Would you tell me if you did kill him?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

  “People heard your threats?”

  “At that time of night, there weren’t too many people in the lounge. Yes, I suppose people heard, but they wouldn’t know who I was. I got out of there fairly fast.”

  “What do you want for your thousand bucks, Gil?”

  “I want you to scout the situation. I want you to protect me, if you can. I want to know if this damned thing begins to seep down to me. If it does, I want to know it, in advance. Night-club people are discreet: it doesn’t figure to spread. But if it does, I want to know, in advance, so I can prepare. I want your ear to the ground. That’s what I’m paying you for. You’re my advance man.”

  “Then in advance I’m telling you, Gil.”

  “Telling me what, baby?”

  “If you killed him, or I think you killed him, I’m out of your camp, I shoot the other way.”

  “On one condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “If you think I killed him — you tell me first.”

  “You’ve hired yourself a richard, pal.”

  “Thanks for taking my thousand bucks.”

  “You’re welcome, doll.”

  “You want to see Edwina Strange?”

  “No, I want to go dancing with your receptionist.”

  “Did you notice those tits?”

  “Man, you’d have to be led by a seeing-eye dog if you didn’t.”

  “She’s an idiot. She was hired because of a couple of bazooms like launching pads at Cape Canaveral. Conversation piece, like an Etruscan figurine in a special niche at your apartment. I’m a businessman. Anything that keeps them talking about Gil Wade Formals, no matter how trivial, is a part of advertising.”

  “Trivial?” I said.

  “All in life is relative,” he said. “Gil Wade, the philosopher,” I said. “Thanks for taking my money,” he said. “Please try to earn it.”

  “Could be you’re digging your own grave. Smarter people have outsmarted themselves.”

  “All in life is relative,” he said. He flipped a key on his intercom. “Send in Kenny,” he said and released the key. “I feel better already, knowing I’ve got a front man out, sort of beating the bushes.”

  “May I take that as a reference to Edwina Strange?”

  “Man, brace yourself. That kid is something. Wild. Strange is Miss Strange. Like a trip to the moon.”

  “Green cheese,” I said.

  Blue Suit entered.

  “Mr. Chambers,” said Wade, “is to see Miss Strange in the showroom.”

  “Take me to your Liederkranz,” I said.

  Blue Suit popped his eyes at me. Penitently, I rose and followed him.

  The showroom was an immense room, black and red and gold. The high ceiling was a lacunar, the sunken wood panels all tinted gold. Gold drapes festooned the walls from ceiling to floor. There were small black tables and black chairs at which buyers were seated making notes on pads. A black dais extended into the room like a runway, two sets of stairs at its far end leading off to two black doors. When I entered with Blue Suit through two golden swinging doors, four models in evening gowns were moving about on the dais. A floor manager said a word and the four models turned and started trooping toward one set of stairs as four new models began to ascend the other.

  “Which one,” I said, “is Edwina Strange?”

  “The last one going out.”

  All I could see was the back of her. She was wearing a silver sheath of a metallic material slit down in the back all the way to the coccyx.

  I was to see more of her. Much more.

  “What happens now?” I said.

  “The four new ones show the numbers,” said Blue Suit. “The fellas standing around, they’re the salesmen. The people sitting, they’re the buyers. The salesmen make the pitch to help the buyers make selections. Meanwhile the other four, each one goes back to her dressing room. Then a dresser comes in and fixes a new number on them, drapes it on real classy. Then when these four are finished the other four come back on wearing the new numbers. Like that it rotates.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said. “What happens now to us?”

  “Oh, you want to see Miss Strange.”

  “You’re a smart lad. You’re going to get places.”

  We went back through the golden swinging doors, to a wide corridor with four numbered doors on each side. Kenny knocked on Number 3 and a high musical voice called, “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Kenny,” said Kenny. “Kenny Johnson.”

  “Yes? What is it, Kenny?”

  “I have a gentleman here.” He looked at me, put a question mark on his face.

  “Chambers,” I whispered.


  “Mr. Chambers is here,” said Kenny.

  “Oh. Yes. Good. Tell him to come in, please.”

  Kenny smiled, saluted, and went off.

  I opened the door and closed it behind me.

  Edwina Strange said, “Mr. Chambers?”

  “I … er … eh … uh …”

  “I’m Edwina Strange.” She came toward me and we shook hands. She grinned prettily. “Well, now, I certainly didn’t expect you. Somehow I had imagined somebody short, fat, bowlegged, and bald.”

  “I … er … eh …”

  “Tall, dark, handsome, and rugged. My type,” she said. The grin grew merry and mischievous. “Karen should have warned me. I’d have worn something special.”

  She was not wearing anything special.

  She was, as a matter of fact, not wearing anything at all.

  Aside from a pair of spangled black pumps, she was entirely nude.

  Chapter Eleven

  THERE was a full-length pier glass mirror on each of the four walls of the small room so that no matter which way I turned — perhaps squirmed is the word — the mirrors kept throwing her back for inspection, and, dear laddies and ladies, she was something to inspect.

  Tall and slender — too skinny for my particular taste — she was as firm as a contract made by lawyers for lawyers. Her breasts, small, but with the thrust of a howitzer, stayed high and without quiver as though held by an invisible bra. Her backside was round but tight, her legs long and gracefully muscular, her stomach concave, her arms and shoulders thin but not angular. Her skin was smooth, a golden tan. There was no hair on her body, none, nowhere. I realized that she was a model, a special kind of model specially selected, the cream of the crop as it were. Milady’s evening gown, high-fashion in this era of our culture, is but a cunning cloth for as much nudity as she can get away with: the foundation garment of the model is herself, and there must be no unseemly hirsute bulges.

  Her face was the face of a gamin: a wicked smile, a pert expression, a merry jaunty manner. Her shiny black hair stood back from her head in a long pony-tail that fell to the small of her back. Everything about her was gay, outgoing, disarming, and cheerful, except her eyes. The eyes contradicted the face. Long, narrow, shrewd, slitted, glittering green — the eyes were a discrepancy: the merry carefree urchin’s face held the cold, calculating, ageless eyes of the consummate bitch, the inscrutable feline. It was not a flaw. It gave distinction, an interesting disturbing touch, to an otherwise beautiful but ordinary face. She appeared to be about twenty-six; except for the eyes, even younger.