The Case of the Murdered Madame (Prologue Books)

by Henry, Kane,

  “There it don’t figure, no question about it. Look. Let’s get back to this singer, the sister, Julia. She the type who could wrap a candlestick around her brother’s noggin?”

  “Everybody’s the type, Lieutenant. You, me, anybody. Depends upon the provocation. There is no special type.”

  There was a knock on the door. Parker called, “Yeah?”

  Stanley stuck his head in. “Got your pigeon, Lieutenant.”

  “Hartley?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Good boy.” He stood up. “Want to listen, Pete?”

  “Love to listen, Lieutenant.”

  We trooped back to the drawing room. Walsh was sitting on a couch and Stanley joined him. The man standing in the middle of the room was tall and stately, panama hat in hand, with a florid face, upscaled eyebrows and black eyes as bright as the neons of a new saloon. He wore a dark-blue lightweight suit with perfect shoulders, a faintly yellow shirt, and a maroon tie. The panama hat was in his left hand. In his right, he held pale yellow gloves and a shiny black walking stick. He leaned on the stick gracefully, a slender man of about fifty, but young-looking, sprightly and vital.

  Parker said, “Mr. Hartley? I’m Lieutenant Parker. I’m in charge here.”

  “How do you do, Lieutenant. Your man informed me of the circumstances.” His voice was deep, with a cultured enunciation. “This … this is horrible, first time I’ve ever been close to a situation like this, but if there is anything I can do, sir, anything whatever, of course …”

  “Won’t you come in here, Mr. Hartley?” Parker took him through to the study and I trailed behind like junior with an apron-string. Parker said, “Peter Chambers, a private detective.”

  “How do you do?” Hartley laid away the cane and gloves and we shook hands. His hand was hard, strong and dry. He put his hat on his gloves, tugged at his trousers and sat down. He said, “Fantastic, absolutely fantastic. We only left here at ten o’clock. Your man tells me the … the thing was discovered at eleven.”

  “Which means this murder occurred between ten and eleven. At least that’s definite.” Parker re-lit his dead cigar and sighed from deep down. “Mr. Hartley, this is a police investigation of a murder. We ask a lot of questions, a lot of them impertinent questions, and we get a lot of answers. We try to put them together and sometimes we get a pattern and sometimes we don’t. But we try. I’m going to ask you a good many questions, sir. I hope I have your co-operation.”

  “To the fullest, Lieutenant.”

  “I must state, in view of the fact that you have no lawyer present, that anything you say may be held — ”

  “I know all about my rights, Lieutenant. Please ask your questions.”

  “Very good, sir. Our information has it that you had an appointment with Max Keith for seven-thirty, here at this apartment. Would you please tell us about that? Start from as far back as you like.”

  Hartley sighed, stroked the corners of his mouth with thumb and forefinger, said, “How far back, Lieutenant Parker?”

  “Let’s say from the beginning of your acquaintance with Max Keith.”

  “All right, then.” He clasped, then unclasped his hands. “As you may know, the firm of Hartley and Simmons, consists solely of myself, Brad Hartley. My former partner, Hiram Simmons, died ten years ago.”

  “I didn’t know that, sir.”

  “Whatever … several years ago, business began falling off sharply, and I began to think of ways and means of stimulating the same. The idea of a quiet campaign of publicity came to me. Advertising for an established investment house — I mean the usual garish type of advertising — is, of course, out of the question. But a truly skillfull type of advertising — a good press, judicious placement of proper items properly but subtly brought to the public eye — this could well have served the type of business stimulation I sought. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly, Mr. Hartley.”

  “I endeavored to meet people in the field, and one of the people who impressed me most was Max Keith, the head of Keith Associates. I found him an intelligent, very active, very practical, and very charming young man. Pragmatic, conscientious, and fun-loving too. Fun-loving is perhaps a crude term, but I’m a fun-loving man myself. What I mean is that I’m not particularly attracted to a stuffy type of individual. Be that as it may, I decided to retain Keith Associates as my public relations firm, which I did, at a fee of twenty-five thousand dollars for a year.”

  “When was that, Mr. Hartley?”

  “Two years ago. Whether or not Keith Associates could claim the sole credit — there is a possibility that things in general were ameliorated — business improved palpably. At the end of the first year, I renewed my contract.”

  “Same fee?” Parker said.

  Hartley’s eyes crinkled within the folds of a wry smile. “No, sir. Mr. Keith is — was — an acute business man. The fee was four times as much, a hundred thousand dollars, but I felt it was worth it, and we came to an agreement. The contract was to have run out next week. Our meeting tonight was to discuss its renewal.”

  Parker looked at me arid then his eyes shifted back to Hartley. “Contract, huh?”

  “Yes. That’s right.” Hartley frowned inquiringly.

  “Any idea,” Parker said, “why Mr. Keith would have wanted a bodyguard at this meeting?”

  “A what?”

  “Bodyguard.”

  “Bodyguard for what?”

  “I don’t know. As I told you before, Mr. Hartley, part of a cop’s job is to seek a pattern. Six months ago, Keith had a contract deal with another of his clients. At that time, he hired himself a professional bodyguard. Tonight, you say, your meeting with him was also for a contract deal, and it so happens he tried to hire himself a bodyguard for tonight too. Make any sense to you, Mr. Hartley?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Okay, what happened?”

  “My appointment was for seven-thirty. Here at his apartment.”

  “For dinner?”

  “No. I had dinner earlier.”

  “At home?”

  “No.”

  “With your family?”

  “No.”

  “Alone?”

  “That’s right.”

  Parker’s cigar was dead again. He rolled it around in his mouth. “That usual, Mr. Hartley?”

  “My dining alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Usual, when, sort of, I’m a bachelor, which I am at present. My entire family is up in Maine.”

  “How much of a family, Mr. Hartley?”

  “My wife. My son, who attends West Point. And my daughter, who is engaged to be married to John Allen. That’s Governor Allen’s son, Governor Allen of Louisiana.”

  “I see. All right, then. You came here at seven-thirty, after dinner …”

  “Mr. Keith and I had a few drinks, talked business and came to a decision.”

  “May I inquire about this decision?”

  “I decided to renew my contract.”

  “For how long?”

  “Another year.”

  “Price?”

  “Same price. A hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Then?”

  “I was in no hurry to leave, and Mr. Keith suggested I view a motion picture, something quite amusing which he would show me right here in his projection room. I agreed to that, and I did find it most amusing.”

  “What was it about?”

  “Sun-bathers in the Swiss Alps. Gymnastics, sports, even tennis — men and women — all in various stages of undress.”

  “Sounds amusing. How long did it last?”

  “A half, perhaps three-quarters of an hour.”

  “And then?”

  “We went back to the drawing room. A Miss Rollins arrived, a member of Mr. Keith’s staff …”

  From there, his story was substantially the same as Ruth Rollins', with but one slight variation. At about nine-thirty, according to Brad Hartley, there had been a r
ing downstairs, which Keith had answered, and then a ring upstairs, which Miss Rollins had answered. She’d ushered in a man, who appeared intoxicated. The man had wanted to see Keith, and Miss Rollins had taken him to Keith, but it developed in a confused sort of way, that the man was seeking another Keith, a Reginald Keith. He was most apologetic, weaved about for a few minutes, offered a bit of comic relief, and then departed.

  Parker said, “Nine-thirty, you say. Who was present when this guy showed up?”

  “Miss Rollins, Mr. Keith, Mr. Adams, and Mr. Keith’s sister — I don’t remember her name.”

  Carl Walsh came through the archway.

  Parker said, “Yes, Carl?”

  “Excuse me. Steve’s on the phone. The dame ain’t home.” Parker pulled at his sleeve and looked at his watch. “Not home, eh? She live in a hotel?”

  “I’ll ask.” Carl turned to go.

  Parker stopped him. “Just a minute.” He came to me. “That Julia Keith. You ought to know. 10 East 12th. That a hotel or an apartment house?”

  “An apartment house, Lieutenant.”

  “Hear that, Carl?”

  “Yes. sir.”

  “Okay. Tell Steve to get to the super, to flash his potsy, and to get into her apartment. Tell him he’s to wait there for her. When she shows, he’s to bring her down to Headquarters. If she doesn’t show, after a while, let him call me downtown, and we’ll relieve him. Somebody stays there till she does show. That clear?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll tell him.”

  “And Carl …”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Send in Miss Rollins.”

  “Yes, sir, Chief.” Carl disappeared.

  Parker munched on his cigar. I lit a cigarette, then, belatedly, offered one to Hartley. Hartley shook it off, brought out a cigarette case and had one of his own, a special long job with a filter tip. Then Carl Walsh came through with Ruth Rollins. Carl said, “Steve’s got your orders.”

  “Good. Thanks.” As Carl went out, Parker said, “Now, Miss Rollins …”

  Hartley was on his feet, smiling.

  Miss Rollins said, “Terrible, isn’t it, sir?”

  Hartley’s smile remained, a courtesy, a frigid grimace of habit. “Terrible,” he said. “Unthinkable. It’s affected me in — ”

  Parker interrupted. “Two questions, please, Miss Rollins.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “One. Mr. Hartley tells us he deposited you in a cab when you two left. Where did you go?”

  “Home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “My apartment. 82 East 73rd.”

  “And now another thing. Mr. Hartley tells us about an intrusion, some drunk that wandered in here. Do you remember that?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You didn’t mention it, Miss Rollins.” Parker looked aggrieved.

  “No,” she said. “Come to think of it, I didn’t.” Her eyes squinted in recollection. “It just had no importance, slipped my mind entirely. I was trying to concentrate on the events that might have had some bearing, everything that I thought could possibly help you. It … simply slipped my mind.”

  “Perfectly natural,” Parker said. “But you did see him, didn’t you?”

  “Oh yes. In fact, I opened the door for him. He said, when finally we were able to get it out of him, that he was looking for someone else, a … Reginald Keith, I believe.”

  “That’s right,” Hartley said. “Reginald Keith.”

  Parker turned his back and walked, slowly. Then he came back, slowly. “Probably junk, the kind of junk that clutters up a file. But you punch every key that pops up, that’s being a cop. Okay, now you’re both here. Between you, we ought to be able to get a picture. Let’s have a description of this drunk.”

  One prompted the other and the picture came up tall, broad-shouldered, red-haired, about thirty-five and quite handsome, with smooth reddish eyebrows and two scars. Two small scars. One at each eyebrow. Each smooth reddish eyebrow, split by a small scar.

  Parker and I exchanged glances, then Parker went to the archway and called: “Walsh.”

  Walsh appeared. Parker said, “Take Miss Rollins and Mr. Hartley down to my car.”

  “Your car?” Hartley said.

  Walsh said, “What about you, Lieutenant?”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Hartley repeated: “Your car?”

  “Yes,” Parker said. “We’ll go down to Headquarters. You two’ll look at pictures in the mug file. I’ve got a broken-down hunch and we’ll play it together. Please go with Detective Walsh.”

  Walsh got them out, and Parker said: “Huk in town?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How’s he figure in this?”

  “Search me.” I followed him into the living room. “Sounds like Huk,” he said. “Doesn’t it?”

  “Sounds, all right.”

  The telephone rang. Parker lifted the receiver, said, “Parker,” listened. Then he said, “Good. Don’t talk to him, and let him save his talking for us. Take him to Headquarters. We’ll be there.” He hung up, looked thoughtful a moment, said. “Fleetwood’s picked up Adams. All right, Pete, let’s get a move on.” He got his hat, went to the door, and I went with him. The only one left in the apartment was the uniformed cop. In the elevator, Parker said, “You coming downtown with us?”

  “I’m going to stop off at my apartment first.”

  “Then you coming down?”

  “Yes, then I’m coming down.”

  “Good.” In the lobby downstairs, he took his hat off and scratched a nubby finger at his stiff short-cut hair. “We’ll need a statement from you.” Then he slammed his hat on his head and now the stubby finger was scrubbing at his chin.

  I said, “My little ole innocent statement got you looking so cockeyed, Lieutenant?”

  “No. It’s Hartley.”

  “Hartley?”

  “You heard him, didn’t you?”

  “Heard every word.”

  “Heard how he enjoyed a motion picture with a lot of sun-bathers jumping around the Swiss Alps?”

  “Heard. And envied.”

  “It’s got a catch, Petie.”

  “What size, Lieutenant?”

  “Large size, Petie.”

  “How come, Lieutenant?”

  “That projector. It had no film in it. No film at all in the projection room. No film anywhere. Not one strip of film in that entire goddamned apartment.”

  III

  The Century was an ancient and orderly mass of rock on 34th Street and 8th Avenue. It was staid, respectable and out-of townish. The lobby had more spread than the backside of an opera singer: vast, carpet-quiet and cushiony. To the right was a wide marble desk with two skinny night clerks, to the left a bank of seven brass-doored elevators, and off in a corner, a covey of public telephone booths. I used one, called the hotel, got through to Mary Hoover, said, “What’s the room number?”

  “503.”

  “I’m coming up.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  I hung up, scurried to one of the elevators, said, “Five,” was hoisted up, went to 503, knocked, said, “Me” to the “Who’s there?”

  Julia Keith opened the door and I went in.

  It was nice. Suite stuff. Big living room, last furnished thirty years ago, but clean and smelling of hotel dust. Figured for a bedroom and bath, maybe even a kitchenette. Figured for at least twenty dollars a day. Nothing small about Julia Keith. Neither figuratively nor literally. Nothing small. From the eyes to the figure. Right now the figure was encased in a pink satin dressing gown pulled sash-tight in the middle. That divided her in two. Upper and lower. It was a frantic question which section grabbed your eyes first. All pink-smooth and shiny, there was no rustle of anything on underneath as she paced, puffing hard on a cigarette. This was no time for admiration, but I admired nevertheless. I admired the upper section and the lower section, and I admired the tremulous movements beneath the pi
nk satin dressing gown as she walked, striding long, the pink gown occasionally parting for a flash of a long brown tapered leg. Julia Keith. Black hair, black eyes, high-boned face, red-wet trembling lips. “What happened?” she said. She squashed the cigarette in a tray. “What happened?” She had the kind of voice that made for the tearing off of pink satin dressing gowns: deep, throat, vibrant, restrained.

  I said, “He was killed.”

  “How?”

  “He was hit over the head with a candlestick. A smooth gold candlestick. With your fingerprints all over it, and only yours.”

  The enormous black eyes grew more enormous but there were no tears. “He’s had it coming,” she said. “He’s had it coming for a long time.”

  “But did he have it coming from you? That’s what cops are going to ask, and I’m only talking like cops are thinking. He was killed between ten and eleven. Hit over the head with a candlestick. Only your fingerprints on that candlestick. Plus there are witnesses who heard you threaten him. Plus, by his will, you get half his estate. And now you say he had it coming. Real cozy, huh? Go stuff a deal like that.”

  She went to a table, lit a new cigarette, started walking again, walking hard, both thighs showing now when the dressing gown parted. “Ten and eleven. I can tell them I was with you, can’t I? You and me, alone. That’s what’s called an alibi, isn’t it?”

  “Sure. But who’ll buy it?”

  “I can tell them I was with you.”

  “You can tell them. But who’ll believe you?”

  “You can back me up.”

  “But who’ll buy it, Julia? A jury? No. The cheapest commodity in the world is the testimony of a private detective. There are guys who are in business practically for the one purpose of supplying alibis. A jury is always cautioned about that. Believe me, a private detective as a witness stinks, especially when his testimony is uncorroborated, and who’s going to corroborate this testimony except you, and you figure to be the defendant. Not good.” She sucked on the cigarette.