Death of a Dastard (Prologue Books)

by Kane, Henry

  I replaced the film in its tin, replaced the pictures on my wall, lifted my shades for sunshine, got out of my clothes and took a shower. During my shower I thought about Edwina Strange and her fear of Jason Touraine and her fear was abundantly comprehensible. I toweled, redressed, and returned to the treasures of Jason Touraine.

  The small key fit the fancy, locked, black leather attaché case. I opened the case and found within an expensive portable tape recorder of the most sensitive type, and at once of course I understood Jason Touraine’s modus operandi. When he visited his women — or they visited him — he carried his locked important-looking attache case, only it did not contain any important papers, it contained instead a device that could run for hours recording for posterity the events of the day, evening, or night.

  I opened one of the plastic cases marked H, put the tape on the recorder, and let it roll. I got a form of aural pornography that was revolting. I wondered why the motion picture had been, in a sense, entertaining; why the tape was disgusting: and quickly it came to me. The film was pure sex: frankly lustful, ribald, antic, irreverent, a group affair of carnal nymphs and satyrs, amusing and even exciting; the tape was a form of eavesdropping upon the intimate relations of two people seemingly in love — from the initial whispered endearments and soft kisses to the final thrashing-about accompanied by the moans, groans, and stifled screams — the passionate secret commingling to which no one can listen without a sense of utter revulsion directed at an individual who could simulate such tenderness while knowing that a machine was recording every sound for the purpose of future blackmail.

  I listened until her name was mentioned — oh, he mentioned it quite clearly and loudly — and then I reversed the tape and removed it. I played the second tape marked H, again until her name was mentioned — and then I replaced both tapes in their cases and laid them away.

  So much for Harriet Wade.

  Gingerly I started on the next group. I did not have to be much of a detective to suspect whom they would involve. I hoped I was wrong. I was not wrong. I recognized the voice of the female partner on each of the three tapes but one had no need to recognize the voice: Touraine had made certain to speak the name distinctly and frequently.

  The name was Madeline.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I CALLED the house on 66th Street.

  I spoke with Viola.

  “She’s not at home, Mr. Chambers,” she said. “As a matter of fact, she just called. She said she’d be home at about seven.”

  “Did she say she’d call back for messages?”

  “Yes, she said she would, but she didn’t say when.”

  “I see.” I thought about it for a moment. “She’ll certainly call back some time before seven?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay. Tell her I’d like to see her here at my place, my apartment. Let’s make it at about seven. Tell her it’s important. Wherever she is, tell her to grab a cab — ”

  “No need. She has the car. Jimmy’s driving her.”

  “Fine. You’ll be sure to deliver my message, Viola?”

  “Of course, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Thank you.”

  I ransomed my car and drove to Riverdale.

  Once more the white house, the chimes, the black-trousered Chinese.

  “I’m sorry but Mrs. Wade cannot see — ”

  “Now look,” I said. “I’m to see Mrs. Wade. I’m to see her at her request. And it’s very important that I do see her — at her request.”

  I must have sounded convincing. Once more the Blue Room.

  I waited ten minutes, then she came. She was attired as she had been before but there was something different about her. She was pale, perhaps more wan than earlier in the day, and there was a sag to her face, a weariness. But the difference was in her expression. The strain was gone. She looked tired but she looked younger. The fawn-brown eyes held a look of tranquility. There were no tears.

  “My mother passed away about an hour ago,” she said.

  What reply? What do you say upon the news of the death of an elderly woman who had been suffering her terminal illness? Do you say I’m sorry? Do you say I’m glad? Do you say anything?

  I said nothing.

  “In a way, I suppose, it was a blessing,” said Harriet Wade. “She clung to life for a long time, in terrible pain. After a while, even the narcotics could not dull it.”

  There was nothing I could say.

  The tone of her voice changed. She said, “Do you come with news of your mission, Mr. Chambers?”

  I held out the two plastic cases.

  “Mission completed,” I said. “These two cases contain two tapes. That’s all there are, two tapes. Take them and forget about Jason Touraine.”

  She took them without a word, turned and went out.

  Fifteen minutes later she returned with a check, and three minutes after that I was on my way back to town, two tapes lighter, twenty thousand dollars richer, and, when I thought about her and Gil Wade, not one bit wiser. How come a guy who is married to a queen wastes a lifetime chasing the cheap and easy quiff? You figure it out.

  At a quarter to seven my apartment was ready for company and so was I. The bottles were out, the soda was out, the water was out, and the cubes sparkled invitingly in their silver urn. The black leather attaché case, tape recorder nestled within, lay upon my coffee table. Three plastic containers lay in a tier upon my sofa. A highball lay in my hand as I paced, rehearsing my approach.

  At a quarter to seven my doorbell rang and I opened the door to Madeline McCormick. She was stylish in a wide-lapelled silver-gray suit, silver-gray high-heeled pumps, and an enormous leather silver-gray reticule worn as a knapsack over one shoulder. Every hair of her coiffure was in place and her make-up was as firm as a mask, but there was no mask over the bold black eyes which darted about in patent anxiety. But her actress’s voice disclosed no taint of nervousness.

  “What the devil could be this important?” she demanded. “Gosh, I’m tired. It’s been a long day. I’ll have a bourbon and soda, please.”

  I mixed the drink and brought it to her.

  She sat down with it and crossed her beautiful strong legs.

  “Madeline,” I said. “I’m going to hit you right in the jaw.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “Figuratively.”

  “Oh!” The black eyes danced their crazy dance. The calm controlled actress’s voice did not belong with the eyes. “Figuratively I can take a hit in the jaw. Go ahead, hit.” She drank deeply of the bourbon and soda.

  “You’re a liar,” I said. “You’ve been a liar with me right from the start of this Jason Touraine thing. First you said he came at nine and went away. Then you admitted that you had been with him until twelve-thirty. Then you admitted that you had been out with him before, but for laughs. Well, now I say that it was more than laughs. I say that you were having an affair with him. I say that I can prove that you were having an affair with him. What do you say?”

  “I say you can go right plumb to hell!”

  “Madeline, what must I do to blast you out of your phony complacency? I know all about the husband you love, and the marriage you want to hang on to, and your not wanting to admit any hanky-panky. But this is a murder rap you’re involved with — ”

  “I am not involved.”

  “That’s what you think — that you’re not involved. You hope that you won’t be involved. But I told you that the cops are looking for a woman, and a woman whom he was intimate with, and you’re a woman, and you’re a woman he was intimate with. I found that out. If I found it out, the cops can find it out. Suddenly, they’ll be sitting all over you. Now if you killed him, let’s have it. Maybe we can figure out justification before you get clapped into a cell and confused by expert inquisitors. If you killed him, there must have been a reason.”

  “I didn’t kill him.” She put the glass down but it spilled over. I straightened it and mopped up.

&n
bsp; “Want another drink?” I said.

  “No.”

  “Want to start telling me the truth?”

  She made no answer.

  “Want to tell me about the times he took you to his charming place on East Seventy-ninth?”

  That brought her to her feet as though she were rising to an ovation. She walked my living room pummeling fist into palm. When she faced me, tears had stained her make-up, but the face was devoid of emotion, and the controlled voice held strong: only the eyes were wild; moving, moving; never still.

  “All right. All right. How do you know?”

  “We’ll get to that, Madeline. But first I want the truth. I don’t care about any of the details of the affair. That’s none of my business. I want to know about Monday night?”

  “How … how did you know?”

  I gave her time to collect herself. I said, “Do you remember his telling you about blackmailing a woman? A person named Harriet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he tell you how?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll show you how.” I went to the black attaché case. I said, “Do you recognize this?” She looked at it. “Should I?”

  “Well, there’s nothing special to identify it. But in connection with Jason Touraine — suppose I told you it belonged to him — would you recognize it?”

  Her eyes stayed on the black case. She said slowly, “Yes, frequently, when I saw him, he carried a bag similar to that.”

  “And what did you imagine was in it?”

  “I didn’t have to imagine. He told me. Work. Papers from the office. Manuscripts.”

  “Let me show you the manuscripts,” I said. I opened the attaché case. I took out the tape recorder. I sat it on the coffee table.

  She made sounds in her throat as though retching. All pretense of control was gone from her voice. A pallor came upon her. Dark circles came beneath her eyes. “What … what is it?”

  “What the hell does it look like? A tape recorder. Living tape of his love-life. He was a collector. He collected fond reminiscences — and then played them back for dough. Had he started playing you back to you?”

  “You … you’re crazy.”

  “I’m so sane I’m nauseating. That’s the way he pulled it on the lady Harriet. And that’s the way he was going to pull it on the lady Madeline. As he himself recently put it — ’One was already paying. The other was all set up and ripe.’ Harriet was paying. You were ripe.” I pointed to the sofa. “There are three tapes — three live, living, loathesome tapes — of Jason Touraine’s adventures with an aging — ”

  “Stop it! Stop it!”

  “All right. We’ll get back to that later. Now I want Monday night. I want all about Monday night.”

  She went to the bourbon bottle, poured into a shot glass, gulped, choked, fought it, conquered it, went back into her chair, gasping. I mixed a little bourbon with a lot of soda and brought it to her. She drank some of it as a chaser, put the glass away.

  “Monday night,” I said.

  “I’ll give you more,” she said.

  “Give me whatever you want.”

  She drew a deep sigh. “I’m a nut, I’m a thrill-seeker, I’m a kook, call me what in hell you damned wish. I love my husband but oh you kid. I want to preserve a marriage but I have needs which put the marriage in constant jeopardy. All right. I’m sick. And one of the symptoms of my sickness was this little whippersnapper, this idiot boring boy, this pompous little nothing, this powerful hunk of man, this nothing-type screw companion, this silly little momentarily satisfying Jason Touraine.” The dark eyes were filmed as they looked toward me. “Do you know the deep underlying fear of every cheater?”

  “I’ve never been married,” I said primly.

  “What happens in an emergency — that is the fear. If you are in a hotel room where you don’t belong — what happens if the man dies? What do you do? How do you sneak out? What telltale thing have you forgotten? Or what happens if the man becomes ill, how can you help him? What can you do? You don’t belong there. Your personal life is at stake. What do you do? How can you help? Do you leave him there to die? Suppose he has a heart attack? What do you do? You know? You know what I mean? Every man and woman — every cheater — all have thought of that, all push it back, away, out of the mind, but that fear is there — what of any emergency and you are where you do not belong. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That happened Monday night.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I had been to that place on Seventy-ninth. On Mondays, when I was certain that Harvey was out of town, he had been to my home, this boy, this Jason Touraine, and he had slept in my bed — and yes, once I distinctly remember, that little bastard had had that attaché case right there in the bedroom.”

  I kept it in line. “Monday night,” I said.

  “Harvey was in Chicago, I’d spoken with him. I had a date with Jason. No black bag, just Jason. We were going to do it up right, formal and fun. He picked me up at nine. We went down to Pierga’s. The boy ate like a pig, drank like a swine. We left at twelve-thirty. We came back to my place. We drank more. We … we made love. At about three-thirty, suddenly, stark nude, he took a fit, a convulsion, something. He passed out and he wouldn’t come to. I was frantic. I tried everything. He stayed unconscious. I thought he was dying. Do you know what I mean? Do you know what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know. What did you do?”

  “I dressed him. I got him into the elevator and out the service entrance. It was about four o’clock. The street was empty. I got him into his car.”

  “And you left him there?”

  “I walked up Madison to a nearby place called the Heavenly Kingburger. It’s open all night. I used the phone booth. I called police. I said there was a man on Sixty-sixth near Madison, in a car, who looked as though he were dead. I said he’d been there for some time. Then I hung up. I felt they’d investigate, put it on that radio thing to their patrol cars, and so he’d be helped.”

  “And then?”

  “When I got back — the car was gone!”

  “What?”

  “Gone! When I got back, he and his car were gone.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I went upstairs and tried to go to sleep. I felt that he had recovered, had realized the situation, and had driven home. And then — the police came. You know the rest.”

  “Are you telling the truth now, Madeline?”

  “So help me God.”

  The phone rang.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “It could be for me,” she said. “I left word where I’d be.”

  It was not for her.

  It was for me.

  It was Barbara Hines.

  “I love you, I love you, I love you,” she said, blithe, happy, raving, radiant even over the wires. “I got it, got the job, got it.”

  “Just a moment,” I said nasally. “I’ll take it in the other room.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I have a client.”

  “Male or female.”

  “Male. Please hold on. I’ll take it in the other room.” I laid the receiver aside, smiled stiffly at Madeline, said, “A client. Personal. I’m going to take it in my bedroom. I won’t be a minute.” And in the bedroom I lifted the receiver and said, “So? You love me?”

  “Love you, love you, love you. Mr. Pierga flipped, but all the way. I do my entire act. I start at five hundred per and I want to kiss you, kiss you, kiss you, eat you up.”

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  “Cripes, you really sound like an agent.”

  “I’ll take my ten per cent out in trade.”

  “Man, you talk a great game.”

  “I can’t even talk whatever my game right now. I have a client.”

  “Will you come over later?”

  “I’ll be happy to.”

  “I’ll wai
t. I’m waiting right now. Don’t keep me waiting too long. I’m just jumping out of my skin.”

  “About Pierga?”

  “About Pierga. About you. About everything that’s suddenly begun to happen. I’m waiting, lover. I’m waiting only for you. No one else is permitted.”

  “Not even Mr. McCormick?”

  “Not even nobody. Only you.”

  “Faithless.”

  “Just the opposite. Faithful. To you.”

  “Bye now.”

  “See you later.”

  “You bet.”

  I came back into my living room.

  My living room was empty.

  Madeline McCormick was gone.

  Gone also were the three plastic containers from my sofa.

  I dashed.

  Outside in the corridor the indicator showed the elevator going down.

  I used the stairs.

  I lost the race.

  When I arrived pell mell, snorting, gasping, into the lobby, I could see her outside, beginning to climb into the custom-built Cadillac, Jimmy respectfully holding the door for her.

  Her knapsack was bulging.

  My lobby is a long lobby and the stairs are at the rear. I kept running, but others were running. Jimmy got into the driver’s seat, but the others, running, reached the car before I did.

  There were three men, converging from different directions.

  One of the men was Detective Lieutenant Louis Parker.

  He slid in beside Jimmy. I could see his mouth moving as he talked to the chauffeur. Two others, plain-clothes men, each using an opposite rear door, flanked Madeline McCormick, on both sides, doors slamming.

  The car whisked off.

  I stood at the curb, panting.

  Chapter Twenty

  I WAITED in Parker’s office. I had learned very little pegging rapid questions at flying officers. I had learned that a gun had been found linking Madeline McCormick with the murder of Jason Touraine. I had learned that they had gone to her home, discovered that she was visiting with me, and had come to take her when she had made her exit from my apartment house.