As she mixed drinks for both of us at the bar, I wondered what Friday saw in the girl. She was beautiful, of course, but the ex-racketeer’s wealth could have bought him any number of beautiful women. Beneath Evelyn’s beauty there seemed to be nothing: no humor, no conversational ability, no interests beyond the shallow interests of self. And, judging by last night, no personal regard for Ed Friday beyond a rather abject recognition of duty due him as her provider.
But apparently she possessed whatever it was Ed Friday wanted in a woman. I noted she again wore the diamond bracelet he had ripped from her wrist the evening before.
Sliding a rye and water across the small bar to me, she asked, “Want to go into the front room, or stay in here?”
“This is fine,” I said, seating myself on one of the three slim bar stools.
“Okay,” Evelyn said indifferently. She stayed on the other side of the bar, leaning against the back bar and eyeing the drink in her hand with more interest than she had so far exhibited in me.
“Madeline Strong has engaged me to look into Walter Ford’s murder,” I told her. “I thought maybe you could give me a little background on Ford,” I said. “Seeing he was such a good friend of yours.”
“Of mine?” She looked at me in surprise. “He gave you a birthday present.”
“Oh, that.” She shrugged, took another sip and looked at me without expression. “I guess he gave away a lot of those little guns. It didn’t mean anything.”
“It did to Ed Friday. He didn’t like it a bit. Anyway, I, didn’t mean just the gift when I said Walter Ford was a good friend of yours. Did you know Ford’s wife was planning to name you co-respondent in a divorce case?”
She looked at me blankly. “Me?”
“You,” I assured her. “She had a private detective tailing Ford, and on several occasions he tailed him to this apartment. At least once Ford spent the night here.”
Her body straightened haughtily. “You’re being insulting, Mr. Moon.”
“I frequently am,” I admitted. “Sometimes it’s hard to be polite when you’re working on a murder case. Murder itself is not polite. So to get on with our conversation, Walter Ford was a good enough friend to spend the night here when Ed Friday was busy elsewhere. Right?”
Behind me a slurred voice said, “Right, if it’s any of your business, Mr. Moon. Now let’s drop the subject.”
Swinging around on my stool, I saw Ed Friday standing motionless in the doorway leading from the front room. In his hand he held a door key, which he dropped into a pocket as I watched.
Behind the ex-racketeer stood his bodyguard, Max Furtell. Friday moved his thick body into the room and across to Evelyn, who came from behind the bar to meet him. Max stayed in the doorway.
Friday dipped his head to give Evelyn a perfunctory kiss, then turned to face me. Neither he nor the girl seemed in the least perturbed over his having overheard my remark about Walter Ford’s clandestine visits to the apartment.
Correctly interpreting my puzzled expression, the ex-racketeer said, “We had the subject of Walter Ford all out last night after I brought Evelyn home, Mr. Moon. He was a chaser and Evelyn was enough of a sucker to let him play around a little. But the man’s dead and I can’t work up much jealousy over a dead man. As far as I’m concerned, the subject’s closed.”
“It isn’t your jealousy of dead men that interests me,” I said. “I’m more concerned with how jealous you were of Ford before he got dead.”
For a moment he merely examined my face. Then he said in a quiet voice, “I didn’t happen to know about Ford and Evelyn until after he was dead.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “I don’t much approve of you, Friday, because I’ve got a silly prejudice against crooks. Even rich crooks who get their pictures in the papers for heading up charity drives. But I’ve got a lot of respect for your intelligence. Five minutes after I joined your party last night, I could see your date was carrying a torch for Walter Ford and he was playing her along for the laughs. I really don’t believe you’re so dumb you missed it.”
“I caught the play between them,” he admitted heavily. “But I didn’t know about Ford’s visits here until after he was dead. What are you getting at? You got some fantastic theory dreamed up that I had Ford bumped because he passed at Evelyn?”
“It’s a motive. And Max had plenty of opportunity.” When both Friday and Max snorted at this, I said, “Don’t bother to protest your bodyguard’s unsullied virtue. You know and I know and Max knows that if you had told him to bump Ford, he’d have done it without batting an eye.. Maybe he didn’t kill Ford, but spare me your indignant protests that he’s incapable of murder. I’d bet he’s got at least six notches on his gun.”
Max made a growling noise deep in his throat. When I looked at him, he said huskily, “Give me the word, boss, and I’ll add a seventh notch.”
In a testy voice Friday said, “He’s just trying to needle you into saying something to bolster his empty theory, Max. Clam up. Don’t even answer him again.” To me he said, “I think you’d better leave.”
“Just when the conversation’s getting interesting?” Draining my highball, I set the glass on the bar. “Something else that’s been puzzling me is why you were so eager to get me out of town. Since our single relationship had to do with Ford’s death, I have to assume it was because you didn’t want me messing in the case. You got some other explanation?”
Friday’s face set in hard lines. “I don’t think I’m required to explain my actions to you, Mr. Moon. For your own good I suggest you get off my back and stay off. Max, show Mr. Moon to the door.”
“Sure,” the big man said with pleasure. He took a step toward me, but stopped when Friday said definitely, “I said show him. I don’t want any trouble in Evelyn’s apartment.”
Disappointed, Max shrugged and politely moved aside to let me precede him. I was a little disappointed myself.
CHAPTER TWELVE
USUALLY I TRY to be prompt for appointments, but what must have been a subconscious desire to put off as long as possible my meeting with Bubbles right under Fausta’s nose made me linger in the shower longer than usual, have trouble getting the studs in my shirt front and more trouble knotting a black bow tie. Then at the last moment, when I was all dressed, had on my hat and was unable to think of any more reasons for delay, I decided it was my duty to phone my client and report what little progress I had made.
When I rang Madeline Strong’s number, a man answered the phone.
“Is Madeline there?” I asked.
“Just a minute.” There was a pause as he apparently started to lay down the phone and then changed his mind. “Is this Moon?” “Yes. Who’s this?”
“Barney Amhurst. I recognized your voice. Madeline is kind of down in the dumps over Tom’s arrest, and I’m over here trying to cheer her up. Hang on a minute.”
This time I heard the phone rap on the table as he laid it down. A moment later Madeline’s voice said, “Hello.”
“Manny Moon,” I said. “Just thought I’d phone you a progress report. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but it looks more and more as though any number of people might have had a motive for rubbing out Walter Ford.”
“Who?”
“I don’t yet know enough to start bandying names,” I said. “But I’ve got at least one fair suspect. And I may turn up a few more after I dig into Ford’s blackmailing activities. When a blackmailer dies, it’s always at least a strong possibility that someone he’d been blackmailing arranged his death. I really haven’t as yet got any definite leads, but more and more I’m becoming convinced young Tom was framed. I thought it might make you feel a little better to know that.”
“Oh, it does,” she breathed into the phone. “You don’t know how much better it makes me feel.”
“You get a lawyer for Tom?” I asked.
“Harvey Brighton. He’s already been down to the jail to talk to Tom, and he’s going to try to get bond set in the morni
ng. If everything goes all right, Tom may be free on bond by noon tomorrow.”
I said dubiously, “Did Brighton tell you that in a homicide case bond would run at least twenty-five thousand dollars?” “Oh, yes. I can handle it all right.”
She said it so casually I began to wonder just how rich she was. When I had asked if she could afford my fee, she had said, “Of course. I have plenty of money.” That could have meant she had a million-dollar bank account, or only a couple of thousand. Engaging
Harvey Brighton indicated she had more than a couple of thousand, because he was the state’s top criminal lawyer and I suspected he wouldn’t even consider handling a criminal case without at least a thousand-dollar retainer. And now her implication that she could meet whatever bond the court set suggested her. wealth was practically unlimited. It occurred to me I ought to dig into her credit rating before I made out my final bill so that I wouldn’t make the mistake of charging too low a fee.
I said, “I’ll let you know the minute I dig up anything definite,” and rang off.
It was twenty after eight when I walked up El Patio’s wide steps and was bowed through the bronze double doors by the uniformed doorman. Inside, Mouldy Greene failed to fracture my spine as usual with his catcher’s-mitt-sized right hand. Instead he merely examined me puzzledly.
“You trying to commit suicide, Sarge?” he asked.
“She’s here, huh?”
“In the dining room at the table you reserved. Fausta knows you reserved it, and she’s been walking around with a funny look in her eye. Look, Sarge, it ain’t too late. You go on home and I’ll tell this blonde kid you broke your hip and you’ll phone her when it mends.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But I’ll take a chance on maybe getting it really broken.”
Instead of her favorite shade of green Fausta was wearing a turquoise blue gown of some shiny material that looked like polished metal. It had even less front than her gowns usually possessed, exposing the upper swell of her firm breasts so far you could see the cleft between them ; and where she was covered, the dress fitted as though it had been painted on.
As she swept toward me, she smiled brilliantly, with hands clasped in front of her, inclined her head the merest obsequious inch and said with the formal politeness of a headwaiter, “Good evening, Mr. Moon. Your young lady friend is already seated. Follow me, please.”
Cautiously I followed, keeping a discreet distance back in order to avoid any accidental contact between my good shin and one of Fausta’s sharp heels. But apparently the caution was unnecessary, for her conduct remained impeccable. Too impeccable, I thought uneasily as she made a graceful gesture toward my chair.
Bubbles, wearing a frilly gown which made her look about sixteen and made me feel like a grandfather, said with mock crossness, “I thought maybe you’d stood me up, Manny honey.” Then she giggled.
“Hi,” I mumbled, stumbling slightly just before I took my seat. I thought about making some kind of excuse for being late, then decided the hell with it.
“Is the table suitable, Mr. Honey?” Fausta asked me politely.
“Fine,” I said.
“Is your headwaiter sick tonight?” Bubbles asked Fausta. It was nothing you could put your finger on, but even though her tone was pleasantly friendly, Bubbles managed to insert a note of triumph into it. I am not sure how I knew, but suddenly it was quite clear to me that she had deliberately chosen El Patio in order to get under Fausta’s skin.
Fausta said, “The headwaiter is around somewhere. I often attend to favored customers myself. Sometimes I even cook for my best customers.”
Fausta slipped a menu into my hand, gave a smaller menu to Bubbles, favored us both with a bright smile and moved away.
Bubbles stared at her menu in astonishment. “Why this is a child’s menu!”
She held it up for me to see. Sure enough it was the bill of fare El Patio made up for children, consisting of a number of colored pictures of animals, with the meals listed on the animals’ bodies. The top one, I noted, was “The Teddy Bear Special,” and included a small steak, half portions of potatoes, vegetable and salad, milk served in a Mother Goose cup, and an ice-cream cone for dessert.
“She made a mistake,” I said hollowly, trading menus with her.
But I knew the child’s menu had not been a mistake. It was merely Fausta’s delicate way of accusing me of robbing the cradle.
Fausta brought the drinks herself, another departure from normal El Patio procedure, as I had never before seen either her or the headwaiter personally deliver anything to a customer aside from a menu. Noticing that the headwaiter was now back at his accustomed stand, I wondered if Fausta had now switched roles to that of waitress.
Apparently she had, for after depositing our drinks on the table, she went away and returned with a pencil and order card. Any of the regular waiters, of course, would have produced both from a pocket instead of having to go after them, but there was no place in Fausta’s skin-tight ensemble to conceal even a pencil, let alone an order blank.
Bubbles decided to order spaghetti and meat balls.
By now I was too unnerved to put much thought into what I wanted for dinner and settled for the first item on the menu. Unfortunately I forgot I had traded menus with Bubbles.
“Teddy Bear Special,” I muttered. Then when Bubbles giggled and I looked up to find Fausta was ignoring this and still patiently waiting for me to order, I realized which menu I had in my hand. “I mean a Bubbles Special. That is, the same thing Bubbles ordered.”
When our waitress had moved away, Bubbles said, “You aren’t engaged to Fausta, are you, Manny?” “No. Why?”
She emitted a small giggle. “You’re acting like a teen-ager caught by his steady girl friend out with another girl. Why don’t you relax?”
“For one thing I’m too old for you. You’re only a kid. I’m thirty-two years old.”
“I’m twenty-one. Eleven years isn’t too much difference.”
“It is for me,” I assured her. “You remind me too much of my younger sister the last time I saw her.”
“You mean you want me to be just a platonic friend?”
“Something like that. We can confide our troubles to each other and weep on each other’s shoulders over unfortunate love affairs. For instance, you could tell me about your affair with Walter Ford.”
“Walter? Whatever for? He’s dead.”
“I know,” I said. “Madeline Strong engaged me to investigate his murder.”
“You mean you asked me out just to ask questions about Walter?” she demanded indignantly.
“Not entirely,” I backtracked a little. “Naturally any man would jump at the chance of taking such a lovely blonde wining and dining. But working on the case gives me a chance to combine business with pleasure. You’d want to help me out if you could, wouldn’t you?”
“I guess that would only be fair,” she admitted. “What do you want to know?”
While I was framing questions in my mind, Bubbles took a sip of her martini, then lifted the olive out by its toothpick and started to take another. Suddenly she emitted a suppressed yelp, set down the glass and pushed it away from her.
In its bottom, where it had been hidden by the olive, was a dead fly.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AN ANGRY FLUSH suffused Bubbles’s doll-like face. As she started to open her mouth, I said rapidly, “I’ll order you another drink.”
“No!” Bubbles said decisively. “She put it there on purpose. I’m not going to let that jealous female think she can get a rise out of me.”
Lifting the martini glass, she leaned over and emptied it into a vase of flowers bracketed to the pillar against which our table set. Removing the olive from the toothpick, she dropped that in also and returned the toothpick to the glass.
Holding my own drink up to the light, I examined it carefully, but could detect nothing floating in it except ice. Needing a drink to settle my nerves, I drained the glass.
A few moments later a bus boy deposited a tray of covered dishes on a nearby stand. Fausta, following behind him, nodded in signal that she would take over the serving and stopped before our table.
Eyeing Bubbles’s empty glass, she asked, “Was the cocktail all right, Miss Duval?”
“Delicious,” Bubbles said in a condescending tone.
Fausta blinked once, the only evidence of surprise she gave, then turned to the tray and began transferring dishes to our table.
As usual the spaghetti was magnificent, but by now I was in no mood to appreciate it fully. Bubbles seemed to enjoy hers, however, falling to with a gusto surprising in a girl who couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds.
During dinner I steered the conversation back to Walter Ford, but without learning a great deal more than I already knew about him. Not that Bubbles wasn’t entirely willing to talk. The trouble was that she seemed to know remarkably little about the man. For instance, she seemed genuinely surprised to learn he had been married, though the knowledge didn’t seem to upset her. She showed no particular concern when I told her Mrs. Ford had evidence, through a private detective, that Bubbles was one of the women Ford had been seeing.
“She can’t name me as co-respondent in a divorce suit against a dead man,” she said philosophically. “Walter and I were only casual friends anyway. He made a big play for me at first, but he had a wandering eye. And I didn’t care enough about him to bother. I knew he was beginning to pant after Evelyn Karnes. You couldn’t miss it when they were in the same party. Walt was all right as a man to go out with now and then, but I wasn’t wasting any serious time on him. He spent money when we went out, but it stopped there. The only gift he ever gave me was that silly gun.”
“Bubbles, I understand you were on that trip last November when Lloyd Strong was killed. How did the shooting happen?”
“I wasn’t there,” she said. “I stayed back at base camp in the cabin. I think that was the day I painted my toenails.” She thought a moment, then said, “Yes, I’m sure it was. I must have been painting them just about the time Lloyd was killed. I didn’t know anything about it until hours afterward, of course, because the others went into town with the body and didn’t get back to camp until that night. I went to the inquest the next day though. The coroner decided it was an accident and told us to go home.”
Give the Girl a Gun Page 7
