Death of a Dastard (Prologue Books)

by Kane, Henry

  She moved about, marching nervously, not looking at me. She went to a chair, sat straight and high, knees tight. She rubbed her palms together, then placed them beneath her chin in an attitude of prayer. She said, “Do the police know about this?”

  “I know about it.”

  “I asked whether — ”

  “If you mean whether I told them — no, I did not.”

  “I … I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Madeline,” I said, “in a murder deal, the cops can get awfully alert. They may not find out from me but they may find out anyway. By pulling away from it, you may wind up stuck in real deep.”

  “But how … what difference …”

  “The guy was found with this address in his own handwriting in his pocket. The cops come to inquire and you tell them he was here at nine and went away. Suppose they learn that he did not go away alone, that you went away with him. Suppose they learn that you spent the evening with him at Pierga’s, that you were there until twelve-thirty. Right off the bat, you’ll be in a spot. They’ll want to know what about … after twelve-thirty.”

  “Nothing. Nothing after twelve-thirty.”

  “And suppose they learn that this wasn’t the first time you’d gone out — socially — with Jason Touraine?”

  She got to her feet, marching again, eyes down, hands clenched. “Peter, I’m trying to hang on to a marriage.”

  “A fine way to hang.”

  “All right. I went out with him a few times, for laughs….”

  “What about Monday night — after twelve-thirty?”

  Her eyes came up to mine. “Nothing. He took me home. And that was it.” And her eyes fell away from mine.

  She was lying and she knew that I knew she was lying.

  “Suit yourself,” I said, shrugged, started for the door, turned. “You’re going to be out all day. How’ll I reach you in case I want to talk to you?”

  “Why should you want to talk to me?”

  “There may be … developments.”

  She was silent for a moment, then: “Call here and leave word with Viola. I’ll keep checking back during the day. But please — please be discreet.”

  “Yeah, discreet.” I opened the door and turned once more. “Madeline, is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  “Why should there be?”

  I sighed. “I suppose it isn’t breaching any confidence to tell you that the cops think a woman did this, a woman with whom Jason Touraine was intimate.”

  “Intimate?”

  “You know, I trust, what intimate means. In this case, intimate is an item on the autopsy report. In this case, intimate means that Jason Touraine had had sexual relations within one hour from the time he died.”

  I left her standing rigid, arms taut, fists closed, mouth open, and eyes as bugged as though they were wired.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I CALLED the office for messages.

  There were no messages.

  “When Saul Frankel calls,” I instructed Miranda, “tell him to leave a number where I can reach him.”

  “Yes, master,” she said. “When are you coming in?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where’ll you be?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “That’s what I like about you,” she said. “Specific.”

  Then I called Gil Wade Formals, asked for Edwina Strange, and got through.

  “Peter Chambers here,” I said.

  “Hi, lover. Do you have my … er … spool of thread?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh, I thought … I mean you calling so early in the morning …”

  “The man hasn’t come yet.”

  “What man?”

  “To open Pandora’s box.”

  “Who’s Pandora, and what’s her box got to do with this?”

  “Patience, my sweet. The spool is still in the can and the can is still in the safe and the safe is still an unopened and total obstruction to my toilet.”

  “You all right?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “Sure you haven’t been belting a few early morning snorts?”

  I did not dignify with reply. I said, sonorously, “My dear young lady, as soon as that safe is opened and I have your treasure, I shall be in touch with you. Either right here at Gil Wade Formals, or at your apartment. So, unless you hear from me, go directly home from work this evening and stay at home.”

  “Yes, sir. I read you. Anything else?”

  “Yes. I want to know if Mr. Wade is in.”

  “Hold on. I’ll have you connected.”

  “No, no, I don’t want to be connected. I just want to know if he’s in.”

  “Hang. I’ll find out.”

  I hung. She found out.

  “He’s in,” she said. “And as long as you’re coming by, you might as well take me to lunch.”

  “Who said I’m coming by?”

  “But he’s in. I just told you.”

  “That’s why I’m going somewhere else.”

  “Man, you’re queer.”

  “I hope Barbara Hines doesn’t think so — although, I’m afraid, she has just cause.”

  “That you’re queer?”

  “Fruity.”

  “Man, what is it with you? Who the hell is Barbara Hines? First with a Pandora and now with a Barbara Hines. She going to have her box opened too?”

  “If so, not by me, I regret to say.”

  “And I regret to say that I’m fully convinced that you’re loaded to the gunwales and when one is loaded to the gunwales this early in the morning, there’s only one comment I can make.” She giggled. “I’m jealous!”

  “Goodbye now, you strange Miss Strange.”

  “Goodbye, you wild Peter Chambers. Go sleep it off. But remember I expect you to be in touch. I’m all wrapped up in that spool.”

  “And what else would you be wrapped up in, my dear?”

  “Nothing. Literally. Or don’t you remember?”

  “I remember,” I said. “Only too well. It’s a matter of juxtaposition.”

  “Wh-a-t?”

  “You and Barbara Hines. You happened alongside one another. You should have happened in sequence.”

  That got what it deserved. She hung up on me.

  Mournfully I checked a directory, mournfully I bailed my car out of the garage, and mournfully I drove up to the Wade mansion in Riverdale.

  It was a white house on a wide hill with spacious lawns, tall trees, spraying fountains, flowing pools, grass, greenery, and landscaped gardens. There were chimes when I pushed the button by the front door, and after a while a Chinese appeared.

  He was a tall man in black trousers and a white jacket. He smiled when he opened the door but his smile was entirely perfunctory. He said, speaking English without any trace of accent, “Sorry to have kept you waiting, I was in the rear. What is it, please?”

  “I’d like to speak with Mrs. Wade.”

  “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

  “No, but it’s important that I see her.”

  He was still smiling as he said, “Are you selling something, sir?”

  “I’m not a salesman. This is a personal matter.”

  “Mrs. Wade specifically requested that she’s not to be disturbed today. You see, sir, there’s a sick person in the house….”

  “Would you tell her please that I have a message from … er … Jason? I’ll wait out here.”

  “You have a message from Mr. Jason. Is that what I’m to tell her?”

  “Yes. Please. A message from Mr. Jason.”

  He seemed to be having a debate with himself for a moment; then he said, “No need for you to wait outside. Please come in.” I entered and followed as he said, “This way, sir.” He led me into a small, neat, wood-paneled room, said, “I’ll speak with Mrs. Wade,” and went out.

  When he returned he was smiling more amiably. “Madame will see you in the Blue Room,” he said. “If you please, t
his way.” He escorted me to the Blue Room and since this time I was a protocol guest he bowed before he departed.

  The Blue Room had a dark blue carpet, pale blue walls, and a faint blue ceiling. The furniture was of red mahogany with fabrics of blue shades. Oils on the walls were predominantly blue with blue and gold frames. It was a large room, airy, high-ceilinged, beautifully decorated. The lady of the house glided in. She was of medium height, slender and pale, with a trim figure, an oval face, widely spaced fawn-brown eyes, thick brown hair, a tiny cleft in her chin, and a fragile inquiring expression. She was quite beautiful although somewhat older than I had expected — I had expected thirtyish; she was fortyish.

  Thin eyebrows gathered together above the fawn-brown eyes as she said, “You … have a message for me?”

  The question contained no anger, no animosity. The frown was quizzical: of curiosity rather than of condemnation. Her voice was sweet, very feminine, cultured, not unfriendly. There was no fright in her voice, no fear in her eyes; she stood ramrod-straight and self-possessed: she seemed a lady quite capable of taking excellent care of herself no matter her quandary, if any.

  “You are Mrs. Wade?” I said.

  “Harriet Wade.”

  “My name is Peter Chambers.”

  “You have a message for me, Mr. Chambers?”

  “Not exactly a message.”

  “From a Mr. Jason?”

  “Not exactly from a Mr. Jason.”

  She shifted her stance. Her frown deepened. “I don’t quite understand you, sir. You have not exactly a message not exactly from a Mr. Jason. Why, exactly, have you come here, Mr. Chambers?”

  “It’s not a Mr. Jason, ma’am. It’s a Mr. Jason Touraine.”

  There was no change in her tone. “Mr. Jason Touraine is dead. What message could you have for me from a dead man?”

  “Mrs. Wade,” I said. “Frankly, I don’t know where or how to begin. Let’s try this for a starter. Perhaps it’ll clear the air.”

  I took out my wallet and turned over my credentials. She studied them carefully and returned them. The frown mitigated. “Very well, Mr. Chambers,” she said. “You are a private detective. Now where do we go from there?”

  “Well, first off, I’ve been retained — privately, of course — to investigate the death — the murder — of Jason Touraine.” The words stuck together coming out. Somehow or other, for some cockeyed crisscross psychological reason, I was far more nervous than she.

  “All right, sir. And where do we go from there?” For the first time, she smiled. She was very beautiful, smiling. All of her smiled. “You seem to be having trouble getting started, Mr. Chambers,” she said. “Would you like a drink? Coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Won’t you sit down?” Gratefully, I fell into a chair. She sat near. She crossed her legs. She had lovely legs. She said, “I’ve had no experience with private detectives but, at least from what I’ve heard, they’re not supposed to be quite as diffident as you are, sir. Are these special circumstances?”

  “Yes, in a way they are, ma’am. Quite special.”

  “Well, then, please tell me, Mr. Chambers. I’m eager to hear.”

  There are people you like right off the bat. I liked her right off the bat and I could feel, somehow, that she liked me, and I did not want to hurt her, and I did not know how to say my piece without hurting her.

  I laid teeth on lip in an unhappy smile.

  She smiled in return, encouragingly.

  I pulled a deep breath and let go. “In my investigation into the death of Jason Touraine, I came upon many things, except, as yet, his murderer. I know, for instance, that your husband knocked him down last Saturday night at Chez Rio and threatened to kill him — because of a woman. I know this from your husband himself. Your husband did not tell me who the woman was, but he did tell me that the woman had been out with Jason Touraine before, and that he had warned Touraine to stay away. I learned later — uncorroborated — that that woman was you. Now, if you please, will you corroborate, or deny, or whatever the heck you wish? Or you can tell me to go to hell.”

  Simply she said, “I corroborate.”

  “Thank you,” I said and sighed and plowed into it again. “I learned many things about Jason Touraine. I learned that he was a bad actor, the worst, the lowest kind — a professional blackmailer, an extortioner. I learned that he was blackmailing a woman named Harriet. I learned that he had made certain tape recordings involving a woman named Harriet. I learned that he had had rendezvous with a woman named Harriet in an apartment on East Seventy-ninth Street. Now blackmail is often a motive for murder, and the police may learn what I have learned about a woman named Harriet, and that woman would then become a major suspect in the death of Jason Touraine. Of course the fact that Harriet is the name of Gilbert Wade’s wife may be pure coincidence — but I decided to come here and blurt my story. I think that now you can understand my difficulty in getting started. I may be terribly wrong in my jumped-to conclusions and if I am I apologize in advance. There you have it.”

  She was silent for a long time.

  Then she said, “You were not wrong.”

  Then we were both silent for a long time.

  Then I said, “Mrs. Wade, I’m not cops, I’m not police, I have no authority to inquire any further.” I stood up. “If you’d like me to go — ”

  “No!”

  I sat down.

  She said, “You know this much, you may as well know more. Furthermore, there are certain loose ends. A man in your profession may be able to help me.”

  Meekly I said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “To begin with,” she said, “I have an elderly mother who is gravely ill, a terminal illness. She is here in the house. It was because of her — because of her illness — that I did not go away this summer. Normally, I would have been in Europe, with my children. And here, in New York, this summer, I met Jason Touraine.”

  “At a party at the Waldorf given by Gil Wade Formals, Inc.”

  “How much do you know. Mr. Chambers?”

  “Not much, really. Smatterings. Odd and ends, here and there.”

  “Well, you’ll know all of my part, firmly woven together, when I’m through. All right, I met Jason Touraine. His attentions were … flattering. He was a handsome, attractive, charming young man. I say ‘young’ advisedly. Jason was about twenty-seven. I am forty-one. He was most attentive and I was, let us say, ready for such attentions. I went out with him several times, I had him out here to the house several times. Gilbert fumed about it but I didn’t care — ”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I said Gilbert fumed — ”

  “You said you didn’t care that Gilbert fumed.”

  Emotion put a tinge of huskiness in the voice but the brown eyes betrayed nothing. “My husband and I are not in love and have not been in love for a long, long time — years.”

  “But it’s known that Gilbert Wade adores his wife; that he is, as a matter of fact, insanely jealous — ”

  “Adores?” Her chuckle held no mirth. “That is part of Gilbert Wade’s pattern. He likes the world to think of him as a genial family man who adores his wife and children. As a matter of fact, except for brief flying visits, he has not seen much of his children in the past five years. As to adoring his wife” — she shook her head — ”he hardly knows his wife exists. He does not hate her; he simply has no feeling for her.”

  “And the jealousy? Is that a pose too?”

  “Peculiarly, no, it is not. ‘Insanely jealous’ is the proper phrase. Actually, this jealousy has nothing to do with me — it has to do with him. It is a part of his own peculiar psychological make-up. He is jealous of anyone who tampers with anything that is his — not because of any love for that which is his — but because of the reflection upon him that such tampering might cause. It is quite involved, difficult for me to explain, and there’s no sense my going into it at this time. Suffice it to say that I was a part of his career, a st
eppingstone — or a stone to be stepped on — in his dramatic and never-stemmed march to the top. I am merely a chapter in his success story.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t quite understand.”

  The soft smile came back. “My maiden name was Harriet Vandecour. My grandfather was Eli Vandecour of the Vandecours who built and owned so many of the railroads in this country. My father was Albert Vandecour whose millions made so many more millions as a pioneer in electronics. My father is now dead but I am the only child of Albert and Jaqueline Vandecour. Gilbert Wade’s first big successful business coup was meeting me and marrying me; better said, meeting me and marrying my money. The dashing, rushing, never-to-be-stopped Gilbert Wade married me when I was nineteen and he was twenty-one. My father put him into business and from then on his rise was spectacular. But within a few years — after our children were born — I gradually became cognizant of my status with my husband: I had been a steppingstone. One does not marry a steppingstone for love. One marries a steppingstone because it is a steppingstone.”

  “Then why didn’t you end it? There certainly was no question of financial dependence.”

  “I was an old-fashioned girl reared by old-fashioned parents. My father was still alive, my mother in excellent health, and I had two children in quick succession. I was ashamed to admit the failure of my marriage, and I did want my children reared in a normal household. We went along, Gilbert and I, in a gorgeous pretense. I pretended I did not know of his many other women and his frigid calm with me, and he pretended that I was not an utter fool and that we were a happily married pair. For a long time we were a divinely devoted, brilliant couple, especially at sit-down dinners and social soirees. And then, slowly, in slow development, we both dropped our pretenses and went our separate ways.”

  “And one of your ways — led you to Jason Touraine.”

  The eyebrows gathered again in the small frown. “If you please, we won’t go any further into that. Sufficient, that a couple of months ago I knew why this charming young man had been so devoted to me. Even as a blackmailer, he had charm. We were at that apartment on Seventy-ninth Street. He was very serious, talking about his needs, his desperate needs. At first I thought he was going to ask for a loan, and he would have got the loan, had he asked, even though I knew, right then, that such loan would never be repaid. Then — and most charmingly — he apologized for what he had to do — and what he had to do was play a tape recording of … of us … together. He wanted twenty-five thousand dollars for that tape.”