The Case of the Murdered Madame (Prologue Books)

by Henry, Kane,

  “So?”

  “I had a drink, and I was going to leave. I didn’t want to intrude on what I assumed was some sort of important deal. I had thought that by nine o’clock, by the time I had arrived, whoever he had had here had left. But I was wrong, and I was about to go, when others began dropping in.”

  “Like who?”

  “Well, first, there was Ralph Adams.”

  “Who he?”

  “One of our staff. The most important one, for that matter. A young man, but oldest in point of service with the firm, although, recently, there had been rumors of a rift between him and Mr. Keith. Anyway, Ralph dropped in, slightly drunk, and slightly sullen. Then came Mr. Keith’s sister.”

  “Julia, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. She came, bearing a gift. That gold candlestick. Mr. Keith hardly looked at it. We — none of us — hardly looked at it. Julia unwrapped it, and put it on the mantel over the fireplace. Nobody touched it.”

  “Gal brings a gift and nobody looks at it? I don’t quite get that, Miss Rollins.”

  “There was an embarrassing situation going on right then. Here’s Mr. Keith with an important client present, and here’s Ralph on the warpath. He’d had a couple of quick ones from the liquor cabinet, and he was beginning to air some of his grievances, right there in front of Brad Hartley. Mr. Keith was dodging, parrying, playing it off as some sort of rib, and I was helping. That’s when Julia arrived. It was a diversion, only Ralph wasn’t diverted. And that’s when the candlestick was placed on the mantel, without anybody paying any real attention. Mr. Keith finally disengaged himself from Ralph, told Julia he had something important to say to her, and they went into this very room, here, the study.”

  “And what happened to Ralph?”

  “I worked him out of the apartment. I got him downstairs, and into a cab. When I came back here, there was an argument raging between Mr. Keith and Julia.”

  “Were they still in the study?”

  “Yes. But we could hear every loud remark out there in the drawing room. We couldn’t hear when they lowered their voices, but we could hear most distinctly when the name-calling took place, and the threats.”

  “Threats, eh? Was everybody drunk, Miss Rollins?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that. We’d all had a few drinks. Even Julia had helped herself to some creme de menthe.”

  “Do you know what the argument was about?”

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  “Okay, let’s hear about the threats.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say they were really threats, Lieutenant. You know how it is when relatives fight, they can say all sorts of things. Julia certainly sounded hysterical. She did shout, at last: ‘Get away from me. Don’t ever come near me again, or I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you …’ Then she came rushing out, flew through the drawing room, and she left, slamming the door behind her.”

  “Then?”

  “Mr. Keith came out, and I could see he was fighting to control himself. He had a drink, tried to laugh it off, made a tremendous effort to try to save the evening. About fifteen minutes later, though, we left.”

  “You and Hartley, both?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Leaving Keith here alone?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Do you remember what time that was?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “Quite certain, sir. I had looked at my watch and I had, tactfully I hoped, made a remark about the time. Mr. Hartley caught the cue. As he was preparing to go, I took Mr. Keith aside and told him I’d be back at about eleven, and he asked me to please do just that.”

  Parker began pacing, tapping the will against his fingers. “And you came back a little before eleven. You pushed the downstairs buzzer. There was no answer, so you used the keys you had. Upstairs, you say you found the door ajar. You came in, and you found him, dead on the floor, the candlestick on the floor near him. You fainted. You came to about five minutes later, and you called the police. You didn’t touch a thing. That right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Now just one more question, Miss Rollins. It’s impertinent, but police sometimes must be impertinent.”

  “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “Can you explain … about your having keys … to Mr. Keith’s apartment?”

  She looked up at him, and one eyebrow arched. She said, “There were many times when Mr. Keith was out of town. There are many business papers here. There are also times when he would want to entertain a client. I mean, if he were out of town, and needed information which he kept here — I would come for it. Or, if he were out of town, and there was a client to be entertained at home, at a private dinner party right here at the apartment, anything like that — these duties were part of my function as an employee of Keith Associates, and for that reason I had a set of duplicate keys. Of course, I never used them without his permission.”

  “Except tonight.”

  “I rang downstairs. I knew he was expecting me. There was no answer. I felt that … well … that perhaps something might be wrong. What would you have done in my place?”

  “Exactly as you did.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “Were you the only employee who had such duplicate set of keys?”

  “Yes, as far as I know.” She smiled, tiredly. “After all, I was also the only employee who happened to have been his fiancee.”

  “Of course, of course. Now look, Miss Rollins, I realize how unpleasant it is out there, and there’s still work to be done, so, if you’d like, you can rest in one of the bedrooms. We’ll call you when we need you.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. You’ve been most kind.”

  “I’ll send a drink in. Whatever you like.”

  “Scotch and soda. A good deal of Scotch and a little soda. And thanks again, sir.”

  He led her out, toward one of the bedrooms, and I went to the drawing room. Fleetwood winked at me, said, “Looks like a wrap-up.” He pointed to two photographs on a table-top. I went near and looked. The photographs were of fingerprints. Carl Walsh joined me, saying, “Great new world we live in, ain’t it? If you want, pictures get developed and printed practically as soon as you snap them.”

  The downstairs buzzer rang. Steve answered it.

  Parker returned. Fleetwood said, “Lieutenant — ”

  “Hold it a minute.” Parker went to the open liquor cabinet, pointed, inquired: “These glasses clear?”

  Fleetwood said, “Yes, sir.”

  Parker made a highball and handed it to the man who had been taking the measurements. “Stanley, my boy, do the honors for the lady. Miss Rollins. In the bedroom.” Stanley started for the doorway. Parker called, “And don’t tarry, lad.” Stanley disappeared. The other men grinned. Parker said, “Stanley gets ideas. Bedrooms have an effect on him.”

  Fleetwood began again. “Lieutenant — ”

  The doorbell rang. It was the litter brigade for the body. Parker supervised. When they were gone, he said, “Where’s Stanley?”

  Steve smiled. “I’ll get him,” he said and he went.

  Parker went to the desk, sifted through papers, and lifted a sheet. “These the addresses of all the people who were here tonight?”

  “Yes, sir,” Walsh said. “Taken from his address book.” Fleetwood said, “Lieutenant — ”

  Steve came back with Stanley. “You.” Parker pointed. “You, Stanley. Pick up Brad Hartley. Doesn’t live far from here. Park Avenue too. 950. Bring him here. Any hitch, call me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stanley departed.

  Fleetwood sighed. “Now, Lieutenant?”

  Parker grinned. “Sorry. Go ahead, Bob.”

  “These pictures.” Parker crossed to Fleetwood and bent to the photographs. Fleetwood said, “The one on the right is the stuff off the candlestick. Only one set of prints on that candlestick. Got that?”

  “Yep.”
r />   “The one on the left is the stuff off the glass that had the green drink. What do you call it?”

  “Creme de menthe.”

  “Yeah. So … two sets of fingerprints. And they match. Exactly. No question. That’s it.”

  Parker whistled, rubbed a hand across his mouth. “The little sister, huh? Opportunity, inclination as expressed by threats, even motive, what with a half-share of the estate. It’s so open-and-shut, I don’t trust it. But it figures. And the D.A.'s office will eat it up. Steve!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Pick up Julia Keith. 10 East 12 Street. Bring her here. Any hitch, call me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Steve went away.

  Parker came to me. “All right, Peter. Let’s you and me have a drink, and get ourselves organized.” I smacked my palms together.

  Parker jumped. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “The car.”

  “Car? Car? What car? And don’t ever do that again. It makes me nervous.”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant. Had a guy, friend of mine, drive me over. Figured I’d just be here a few minutes. Told him to wait. Bet he’s still waiting.”

  “I’ll have one of the boys tell him.”

  “No. I’d rather do it myself. No sense scaring him, a nice ordinary guy. I’ll be right up.”

  Parker shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  The uniformed policeman opened the door for me, the elevator took me down, and my own two feet hustled me around the corner to Lexington Avenue and the nearest public phone booth. I inserted my coin and dialled OR 2-0021. There were three rings, and then the lady’s voice answered. “Yes?”

  “Hi. Pete. You dressed?”

  “Yes. Why? What is it?”

  “I’m going to talk fast, because you’re in a hurry.”

  “You’re going to talk fast? Because I’m in a hurry? You drunk?”

  “No. Listen. Pack a bag and get out. But quick. Walk a few blocks and then grab a cab. Check in at the Century. Check in as … Mary Hoover. Stay in, have your meals sent up, and don’t go out. I’ll be in touch.”

  “What’s the matter with you? What is this?”

  “There’s been a murder.”

  “Murder?”

  “Max Keith.”

  There was a gasp, then there was no sound.

  “Julia …” I called.

  Finally she said, “Why? Why me? Why am I supposed to run?”

  “Because there’s a mess of facts and they stink. Once it gets to the D.A. he’ll chew you up. Chew or no chew you’ll be in the clink a long time. There’s no bail for murder, and I heard the facts, and no writ’ll get you out either. Maybe you can beat it at a trial, there’s no question you can, but it’s a long time between arrest and trial, and a hotel room is much more comfortable than the pokey. Get going, will you? They’re on their way down to pick you up right now.”

  “But Pete — ”

  “Do as I tell you. Century. Mary Hoover. Move.”

  I hung up, pulled a handkerchief, wiped sweat from my face, got out of the booth, and for the first time I realized I was in a saloon, and what could be better? Fortification was in order. I had fortification, twice, chased with water, and then I legged it back to Max Keith’s place. Parker was alone with Carl Walsh. I said, “Where’s everybody?”

  “By everybody,” Parker said, “all you can mean is Fleetwood. I sent him after that Ralph Adams, who lives in Queens. Got to get us a quorum. Ever see this joint? The whole of it?”

  “No.”

  “Seven rooms, counting a terrace. Let me show you. Tour of inspection.” He said to Walsh: “You’re in charge. Buy yourself a drink. Look in on Rollins. Give her a drink too. Me and the private richard are going for a stroll and a talk. Let’s go, Peter Pan.”

  We started with the terrace. Then back to the drawing room. Then the study. Then a dining room. Then two bedrooms, one of which was occupied by Ruth Rollins. Then a kitchen. Then we doubled back, through one of many corridors, and Parker opened a door and switched on a light and I did the double-take his pleased expression was waiting for.

  It was a large room set up as a little theater, a motion-picture projection room. There were black shades which were drawn, covering the windows, and a white motion-picture screen which was pulled down like an unfurled roll-up map of the world, and a projection table with a projection machine on it, and a small metal cabinet. There were six rows of jump-seats, like those in a movie house, with six seats in each row. That was all there was.

  I opened the metal cabinet. It was empty.

  “Real class,” Parker said. “This guy treated himself good. One of his clients was Sam Murray, who used to be with Paramount, now a big private producer. Must have run previews here of the top pictures for private house parties. Real stuff. Just like Hollywood.”

  “Why not?” I said. “If a chump can afford …”

  “Sure. Sit down, Pete. Time for talk. Time for pow-wow. Let’s start at the beginning. How’d you come to know this guy in the first place?”

  “The name Julia Keith do anything for you?”

  He plucked a cigar from his pocket, bit, spit, chomped on it. “Don’t do a thing.”

  “It’s an admission, Lieutenant.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of a lack of appreciation. Of the arts.”

  “Arts? What arts?”

  “Music. Musical comedies. Operettas.”

  “Shows, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Shows, I mean.”

  He grinned around the cigar. “Guy in my business has no time for that kind of nonsense. What’s that got to do with Julia Keith?”

  “Nothing, except she’s probably the most valuable musical comedy property in the entire City of New York. In the last two years, she was the leading lady in Sing For Your Supper, Student Prince, and One Night With You. Two hits, one flop, but the most fantastic rave reviews for her in all three.”

  “So?”

  “She’s Max Keith’s sister.”

  “So?”

  “In between shows, she works night clubs.”

  “So?”

  “So that’s how I met her. In a night club.”

  “When?”

  “About a year ago.”

  “So?”

  “So, through her, I met Max Keith.”

  “When?”

  “Oh … maybe seven, eight months ago.”

  Parker pushed down a jump-seat, slid into it, motioned to me, and I sat beside him. He said, “All right. What kind of a guy?”

  “A prig.”

  “That can mean a lot of things.”

  “Sure can.”

  “Tell me a few.”

  “Well, I suppose I have no right to pass judgment. The only real time I spent with him was on that week’s work, six months ago. Struck me as a shrewd apple, a fast guy with a buck, a guy who knew all the right answers. Real class-guy with the dames. On the best of terms with all the big-money party-girls. Struck me as the kind of guy who’d throw in his grandmother to make change on a big deal. That kind of a guy. Money, period. A money guy. Chief interest, money. Most minor interest, money. Money, up and down the line. I don’t exactly cotton to the type.”

  “Ever discuss him with the sister?”

  “Matter of fact, I tried once. She stopped me. Got a slight hunch she didn’t particularly cotton to him either. Stopped me cold and asked me as a favor that we keep him out of our conversations. We did. I never mentioned him again and neither did she.”

  “But you did see them together?”

  “Sure.”

  “How’d they act?”

  “Like brother and sister. Displayed the usual affection. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Parker finally put fire to his cigar. Blue smoke wafted up and hung at the ceiling. “And what,” he said, “was that week’s assignment about?”

  “Bodyguard.”

  “Anything special?”

  “Nope. He asked me to stick with him for that week
and to carry a gun.”

  “Anything happen?”

  “Nothing, except a big round of parties and a lot of drinking and a lot of night clubs.”

  “Just you and him?”

  “Me, him, and a client by name Jack Schiff, a guy from Texas. Also, a constant variety of dames.”

  “Was it a twenty-four hour deal?”

  “What?”

  “The bodyguard deal.”

  “No. I’d pick him up at the office at whatever hour he specified and I’d stay with him until he turned in for the night. I figured he expected trouble somewhere along the line.”

  “You mean from this Jack Schiff?”

  “That was my figure. That’s the only guy that was with us all the time. He told Schiff I was one of his office associates. He and this Schiff did a lot of talking while I was out of earshot, but I was always near enough in case of trouble.”

  “And do you know what they were talking about?”

  “Business. Schiff’s one-year contract with Keith Associates had run out and Keith wanted him to sign for another year. He wined him and dined him, but I had a hunch he was a little afraid of him too.”

  “How did it turn out?”

  “They signed a new contract and they parted — as far as I’m concerned — the best of friends.”

  Parker smoked in silence. Then he said, “Figure there’s any connection?”

  “Between what?”

  “Between requests for a bodyguard. First time he used you, it was some kind of business thing between him and this Schiff. This lasted a week. Figures Schiff came up from Texas. Figures he stayed a week.”

  “That’s right, Lieutenant. He stayed a week, the week I worked.”

  “Now Keith wanted you for a bodyguard again. Short haul, this trip. Just for this evening. And again he’s involved in a business deal. Brad Hartley, this time. And Hartley doesn’t live in Texas. Hartley lives here. Any of this make sense to you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither. I’m just throwing it around, maybe it’ll strike a chord somewhere. Let’s try putting it together this way. Maybe somewhere along the line this guy, this Keith, expects violence from his clients. He hires himself a bodyguard when he figures this violence might come to a head. Any sense to that?”

  “Well,” I said, “maybe that’s a theory that can fit in with a wild man from Texas. This Schiff was big and brawny and plenty frisky, an oil man with millions. Guys like that like to get their names in the newspapers, so they hire themselves publicity people. Maybe with a guy like that, violence figures. But with the distinguished Brad Hartley …”