The Case of the Murdered Madame (Prologue Books)

by Henry, Kane,

  “I let it grow, and I let it grow back to its own shade. Is this the impersonal conversation?”

  “No. This is. What do you know about a little black bag that belonged to Olga Dino?”

  “I know that it contained a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because we were all talking about it at dinner.”

  “And where was this dinner and who was doing the talking?”

  “The dinner was here, downstairs. Our rental includes one meal, dinner at six, which Miss Nelson cooks herself, and cooks very well.”

  “And who was at this dinner?”

  “Full house this time. All of us. And that’s when Olga was talking about her little bag. While Miss Nelson was serving.”

  “Doesn’t she have help?”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Nelson.”

  “There are two women that come in for cleaning every morning. They leave at about four. Miss Nelson handles the rest of the house herself.”

  “Okay. So you were all having dinner and Olga was shooting her mouth off.”

  Her dark eyes seemed to take on a film. “She was a sweet, lovely woman. A good, trusting …”

  “Okay with the eulogies. Let’s get back to the bag.”

  “She seemed to have one little quirk, though.”

  “Olga?”

  “Yes. As you probably know she was an Italian and a great artist. She was in New York for concert recitals and appearances at the Met. But, like so many foreigners, she had her quirks. One quirk — she had no confidence in banks.”

  “I know many non-foreigners with the same quirk.”

  “Anyway, I’d say Madame Dino was, well … a rich woman. She had many holdings in Italy — ”

  “Holdings, huh?”

  “And, what with some of her own money that she brought over, and her fees from concerts and all — she always insisted, through her agents, that she be paid in cash — she had put by an even hundred thousand dollars in her bank vault. She did have a checking account, but that was for rather nominal amounts — for convenience in paying bills.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “a hundred thousand bananas wasn’t really important to her, rich woman like her. I mean maybe that’s why she talked about it so casually.”

  “No. It was more than that. It was that Olga was a sweet person, sweet and completely trusting …”

  “Had it in the vault, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “So how come it winds up in a little black bag?”

  “She was getting married.”

  I scratched my head. “She’s getting married, so she puts her dough in a little black bag? I don’t get it. What was she going to do? Hang it up on the bed-post to inspire her husband?”

  “She was to be married aboard ship. Tomorrow, very early, she was sailing, taking a ship to return to Italy. She and Ralph Hardwood. They were to be married aboard ship, understand. That’s why she took the money from the vault, and that’s the reason for the little black bag.”

  “Who’s this Hardwood, anyway?”

  “A young English actor.”

  “How long’s he been living here?”

  “About a year.”

  “How’s he been doing?”

  “So-so. You know actors. The only one who’s been doing quite well … much television work … is Rocky Green, and that one, he has no real desire to be an actor. An eccentric kid. He’s crazy to be a prize fighter.”

  “Figures. The successful actors are always the crazy ones.”

  She fluttered long eyelashes. “I’ve been successful.”

  “Lady magician. That’s not an actor. Furthermore, who says you’re not crazy.” I started to bite at a fingernail and changed my mind. “What about the old guy?” I said. “Sir Cedric.”

  “Oh … he’s been living here for some time, about three years. Hardwood came here through Sir Cedric’s recommendation.”

  “Hasn’t been doing much work lately, the old man — or has he?”

  “He hasn’t.” She shook her head. “He’s aged considerably, and, well, he’s essentially a Shakespearian actor, and there just isn’t much Shakespeare being done these days.”

  “Hear he likes to hit the bottle pretty good.”

  “Well, I’ll say this. Cedric Ormsby is not as dependable as he used to be. And producers are, well … a little afraid of him, I mean, to trust him. He’s had some bit parts, but …”

  “When you don’t work, you don’t earn — which should give him a slight interest in a small bag containing a trifling pittance. Was he in his room?”

  “No, he wasn’t. Anyway, I don’t believe he was. I knocked but there was no answer.”

  “Okay, my love. Let’s get back to the dinner.”

  She turned away and I admired every ripple of graceful movement as she went to an easy chair and sat down. She lit a cigarette and crossed her legs. She was intent upon what she was saying and she didn’t think about pulling her skirt down. Her legs were as lovely as I remembered them. She said, “Madame Dino drew that money from the vault today to take it with her on the trip to Italy. Ralph went to the bank with her. She put the money into that little bag and, at dinner, she just chatted, talked about her plans, in that excitable way of hers. That was the way she was, never a real bad word for anybody, never a real bad thought. She felt that money was just as safe here as in that vault. Mary was furious with her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mary is much more practical. She felt that it was, well … stupid to announce the fact that you have a hundred thousand dollars in your room. Right there, at dinner, and for the rest of the day, she kept after her.”

  “Kept after her for what?”

  “She insisted that Olga hire somebody … sort of as a custodian, bodyguard, somebody properly trained and equipped to … to act as custodian … until tomorrow morning, until they were aboard ship. She kept after her all day.”

  “And finally convinced her. Which explains my presence here. Only, it seems, Olga got convinced too late.” I sighed and went near her. “All right, Miss Joan Bradley. That’s it for the impersonal deal. Now let’s get personal.”

  She tapped out the cigarette thoughtfully, smiling a slow serious smile. “I’ve sort of …” She spoke softly. “I’ve been thinking about … it was so darn long ago …”

  “Synopsis,” I said, “of past events. I was in New Orleans four years back, which is long ago. I met Monte Marvin, something of a big shot then, and Monte showed me the town, and part of the town was you. You were working with the chorus of the Blue Goose and Monte introduced us. We sort of cottoned to one another and I saw you quite frequently, but you played hard to get, and that was all right with me. Then one night, after the last show, we were in the Manager’s Office, just you and I, and you weren’t out of your working togs yet. We sort of began to have an understanding. We chatted, we flirted, we kissed, and then the manager came in and tapped my shoulder — right there in the middle of that first damn kiss. He said he wanted to talk with you. You went out, and I waited almost a half hour, and then I left — because I was told that you had left — and I never saw you again, till four years later, till now. Any comment?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “The manager’s name was Donny.”

  “Is that the comment?”

  “No. Listen.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I was … well … ambitious. Still am. But at that period of my life, that was all that was on my mind, my career. I was working up an act of my own. Lady magician. I was quite good, I had studied, I had training. And Monte Marvin, for some reason, was interested in helping me.”

  “Some … reason?”

  Her voice was suddenly sharper than a swindler’s trouser-crease. “Please get this straight. There was never anything — not one thing — between Monte and myself. I was a kid, and maybe it was that father and daughter routine … whatever �
� Monte was sweet and kind to me.”

  “Okay. It’s none of my business.”

  “Anyway, Monte had seen my magician act, and he really thought it was great. And that night, that very night, Monte had run into Chauncey Holt who was in town for the Mardi Gras. You know Holt?”

  “Know of him. Personal manager for some of the greatest talent in the world.”

  “Correct. Holt was with Monte at Monte’s penthouse. Holt was going back to New York that morning. Monte talked Holt deaf-and-dumb about me, talked so long, until Holt was impressed enough for a look. So Monte left him there at the apartment, and came to the club for me. That’s when he sent Donny for me. When I came out, Monte rushed me into getting dressed, said he’d explain to you. Seems he didn’t.”

  “That’s right, he didn’t.”

  “Holt saw the act, liked it, and right there, on the spur of the moment, with Monte suggesting all the quick ideas — I went up to New York with Chauncey Holt. Monte was able to wangle the extra plane ticket. Holt took me to Europe with him, and there, he perfected the act, and there in Europe I earned myself a pretty good reputation.”

  “Why not? I’ve never actually seen a beautiful magician. It’s a switch. How do you work?”

  She grinned. “In less clothes than when I was a chorus girl.”

  “Not bad.”

  “Anyway, I’ve been back for six weeks, living here, and I open next week in a new club — double opening, sort of, the club and myself — The Golden Gateway.”

  “And me? I got forgotten in all that fast rush of success.”

  “Not true. Yes, at the beginning, things were rather hectic. And in Europe, well … again, I was constantly on the move. But when I returned to New York … I did … I mean I thought about you … I was going to call … then, well, I kept postponing it … maybe I was embarrassed … I thought perhaps you didn’t even remember …”

  I pulled her up out of the chair. I said, “I remember …” We swayed against each other like a couple of drunks holding on for support. I said, “When do we pick it up?”

  “Whenever you like.” Her voice was a whisper.

  “What’s wrong with tonight?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with tonight.”

  “If things clear up here, then tonight …”

  “If that’s the way you want it …” Her whisper at my ear was an invitation.

  I accepted the invitation. “Unfinished business,” I said. My arms moved around her. “One kiss, still unfinished …”

  But it seems that this was one kiss destined never to be finished. The interruption this time was a tap on the same shoulder as the last tap but this tap was much rougher. I moved away from Joan Bradley and turned to face Rocky Green. Rocky Green was about twenty-eight, thick-set and good-looking, with intense black eyes and a rugged chin. He wore the self-same gym pants, sneakers and sweater, but now he also wore a bellicose expression. Right then I needed Rocky Green like I needed a large hole in the head. Rocky said, “What goes?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What the hell goes on here? Who’s this take-charge guy, anyway? What’s with you, bub? What’s with you mol … mol … molesting Miss Bradley, anyway?”

  “Your name Rocky?” I said.

  “Name’s Rocky.”

  “Go away, Rocky. Go away quick.”

  “Look, Mac. Stick your nose away unless you like to have it broken. I came to see Miss Bradley. You, I did not come to see. So you do yourself a favor, mister. You go away. Blow. You got the kind of face I don’t like, and when I don’t like a face, I change it. Want your face changed, Mac?”

  Gym pants, sneakers and turtle-neck sweater notwithstanding — I belted him. He sat down on his gym pants and he looked up at me. And the way he was looking at me, my puzzled giggle was as involuntary as a cough from a chain-smoker.

  Because Rocky was looking at me admiringly.

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  “Wh-a-a-t?”

  “Beautiful cross, Mac. A real doll right cross. All of a sudden I change my mind — I’m beginning to like your face.” He got up. “Where’d you learn that, fella?” He glanced at Joan. “See that, Miss Bradley? Swift and sneaky. A real doll cross. A beauty.”

  I groaned. “Crazy actors.”

  Joan said: “Mr. Peter Chambers … Rocky Green. Mr. Chambers is a private detective, and rather an old friend.” Her voice was a guileless as the moo of a calf. “And Rocky dear, Mr. Chambers wasn’t really molesting me. We were sort of completing a piece of unfinished business.”

  “You mean something,” Rocky said, “with the magic act?” He smiled. I noticed that he had all his own teeth. For a young man who desired to be a prize fighter but who parried a right cross with his chin, this was a piece of magic in itself. He said, “Sister, if that’s the way you do your magic act, I would, right now, like to apply for the job of first assistant.”

  I said, “I’m the first assistant.”

  Joan said, “Rocky fancies himself an admirer of mine.”

  “That’s a fancy fancy,” I said.

  “Suits me,” Rocky said. “And if it doesn’t suit you, mister …” Dear old Rocky-boy was being truculent again.

  I heaved a sigh. I heaved a sigh from down deep dismal under. Rocky Green needed a lecture, and if the lecture didn’t take, Rocky Green needed a thrashing. He was young and he was strong and he could get lucky, so I reversed my first intention of skipping the lecture. “Sonny …” I began — but this was a night that nothing wanted to get finished.

  “Pete!” boomed a voice from downstairs. “Pete! Peter! Peter Chambers! Come on down here!”

  The voice was the granular roar of the esteemed Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker, Homicide, New York City.

  VI

  The tableau, as I descended, was Parker near Mary Nelson, two plainclothesmen near Parker, and two uniformed policemen, one near the door and one near the curtained windows. Mary Nelson was seated and looked as if she had been crying.

  Parker barked, “How are you, Pete?”

  “Fine. And how are you, Lieutenant, this pleasant evening?” I had my hands clasped behind my back because I didn’t want to startle the assemblage. I had a revolver in my right hand.

  “All right,” Parker said. “So we stop with the pleasant palaver right now.” He gestured at Miss Nelson. “The lady’s brought me up to date, right up to when you appeared on the scene. Now I want your story — up to now.”

  “Pleasure, Lieutenant.”

  He turned toward his plainclothesmen. “You, Cassidy, and you, Peterson, go up there and look over the corpus delicti. Bring me details. Also bring me the gun.”

  Respectfully I said, “I have the gun, Lieutenant.”

  “Where?”

  “Right here.” I unclasped my hands from behind me. “Picked it up from a portable bar.”

  Parker’s eyebrows imitated a gone-crazy helicopter. “Portable bar?”

  “Where I’d put it. In Miss Bradley’s room. Miss Nelson tell you about Miss Bradley?”

  “Miss Nelson told me about everybody.” Now his roar returned and his jowls shook in amazement. “Like that you handle a murder weapon? Are you drunk? Or crazy?”

  “No need to handle it carefully, Lieutenant.” My dulcet tones were even making me sick but if I was baiting my friend the Lieutenant, it was innocent baiting.

  He repeated as though in a trance: “No need to handle it carefully.” And now the roar burst as though from a startled buffalo. “Why not?”

  “You’ll understand when I bring you up to date — on my story.”

  He glared at me, looked at his assistants, glared again, then returned to his assistants. “Okay, you guys. Upstairs. No gun. And see to it that everybody up there remains in his room, till we call them. And give me a check on who’s up there. Supposed to be” — he frowned in thought — “Joan Bradley, Cedric Ormsby, Ralph Hardwood, Rocky Green, William Brown. That the lot, Miss Nelson? That the list?”

  “That’s
right, sir.”

  “By the way, that’s Miss Nelson, isn’t it? Not Missus?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Okay, you guys.” The two plainclothesmen scampered up the stairs. The two uniformed officers stood by repressing smiles. The Lieutenant was on a rampage this night and his young men knew it. So did I. I planned to be on my best behavior. I said, as sweetly as I could manage, “You want my story, Lieutenant?”

  “You betcha. And I specially want to know why you handle a murder gun like it’s a toothpick you been chewing on after a heavy meal.” He trained a slightly fretful, fatherly stare upon me. “Sure you haven’t been keeping the chill off tonight?”

  “Had a few, Lieutenant. But not enough to worry you.”

  “Okay. Come on over here, and let’s have it.”

  He led me to a corner sofa, and with lavish if sardonic courtesy, drew me down and we huddled closer than young lovers at a fraternity party. “My crew is on the way,” he said. “I want to get over the rough edges before we start digging. Keep your voice low. This is just between us.”

  “Yes sir, Lieutenant.”

  “All right. Now give. And this had better be good.”

  I gave. I told him my story from start to finish but this being a night when nothing could get properly finished, we were interrupted twice. First by the arrival of the search-crew of six men who were quickly dispatched in quest of a little black bag, and then by Cassidy and Peterson, reporting that Olga Dino was dead of an infusion of bullets (three to the forehead) and that Sir Cedric Ormsby was not at home. Then Parker requested a repeat of my story, and I obliged, and then the search-crew was back in force. A cursory examination had failed to turn up the little black bag. The crew was now ready for the real ripping upheaval of true search. “We got a load of equipment outside, Lieutenant,” one of them offered.

  The Lieutenant said, “Not yet. Nothing doing on that.”

  “But why?”

  “Listen.” Parker called to Mary Nelson. “When you were up there, Miss Nelson, in Olga Dino’s room — that little bag was there?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “And when Hardwood left her room — it was still there?”

  “Yes, sir.”