Never Give a Millionaire an Even Break

by Kane, Henry

  “Oh, we’re back on sacrosanct millionaire territory. So what happened?”

  “The lawyers got together. The pictures were shown in private conference. A separation agreement was entered into and the lawsuit was discontinued. Mr. and Mrs. Tommy Lyons were legally separated.”

  “And how much is her weekly payment?”

  “Zero.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. She gets nothing.”

  “Those pictures must be something!”

  “I imagine.”

  “And you never got a peek?”

  “Of course not.”

  I sipped Drambuie and smoked filtered tar.

  “How long has this been going on?” I said.

  “What been going on?” she said.

  “This separation, for free.”

  “Two years.”

  “And he hasn’t sent out feelers for divorce?”

  “He has.”

  “At least he says he has.”

  “He has. But she’s still talking in round numbers.”

  “As round as at the beginning?”

  “She’s cut it in half.”

  “That’s still very round, isn’t it?”

  “It’s impossible and vicious. She’s playing a game.”

  “But for big stakes.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And Tommy just lets it go like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “I mean with all his money and all the qualified people he can have doing investigation, he can’t establish grounds. Look, she’s human, no?”

  “She has not given him grounds for divorce.”

  “Adultery, you mean.”

  “That’s what I mean. They were married in New York and New York is their place of residence. Unless there’s consent on her part—you know, Reno or like that—he can’t legally get a divorce.”

  “But hell, two years. She’s young. She’s a woman. She’s got to play, don’t you think?—or does she play too careful?”

  “She just doesn’t play that way.”

  “Then what way?”

  It was a rhetorical question, a question out of exasperation, but it struck a nerve. Her nostrils grew stiff again. We were back on millionaire territory. “Please,” she said, “I’d rather we dropped this discussion.”

  Waiters, diffidently but diligently, were picking up cups and saucers and plates and knives and forks and emptying ashtrays. I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to three. Three o’clock on Saturday night is lock-up time. I took the hint and asked for the check and it came promptly and I paid promptly.

  “Let’s go, my love,” I said and we went.

  We had not uttered one word about the corpse in the kitchen.

  The Brasserie stays open all night and we went to the Brasserie and I ordered booze and I got a look from the waiter as stuffy as a bad cold.

  “It is after three, sorry,” he said.

  The biggest city in the United States stops selling booze at three on Saturday and at four every other day. Why? Nobody yet has figured out a reason. So we ordered coffee and French toast just to make it look good while we killed time, and we drank the coffee and smoked cigarettes and ordered more coffee and smoked more cigarettes and then at ten minutes after four we left the French toast and took a cab to my garage and drove out in the Chevvie. It was quiet: traffic was down to a dribble. It was cool with an on-shore breeze; still, deserted, the great hum at ebb: New York, at this one useless hour, had the tone of a village.

  I drove up along Fifth Avenue, a ghost street with silent shops, up Fifth Avenue that had no pedestrians, no bustle, no furor, up past the silent hotels, the Plaza, the Sherry, the Pierre, all dim and dour and seeming without life, and then I made the turn on 62nd and I slid the car into a parking spot directly in front of the whitestone.

  She said, “Lucky, right in front.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed,” I said.

  “You’ll want me to help you?”

  “No.”

  “I insist.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I insist.”

  “Hell, why?”

  “Two are better than one.”

  “But not in a matter like this.”

  “Even in a matter like this. Just in case somebody comes by, you and I can sort of laugh and josh about our drunken friend. Who knows what can turn up? I insist, Peter.”

  “You win.”

  We did not use the elevator. We walked up the stairs to the first floor and her keys were in her hand when we arrived at the landing. She opened the door and I preceded her into the apartment and she switched on the lights behind me. I went directly to the kitchen and flicked the switch and the yellow room flared to brightness but there was no man in a brown suit in a walnut-wood chair at a walnut-wood table.

  There was nobody in the kitchen.

  There was nobody in the apartment.

  There was no body in the apartment.

  Four

  WE SAT in the den and tried to talk it through. She had changed to silk lounging pajamas, she had washed the make-up off her face and had loosened her hair. Now she was perched on a high stool against the bar and she clung to her knees. “Peter, you’re not leaving me alone here tonight.”

  “I have no intention to.”

  “God, I’m scared.”

  “There’s nothing to be scared about.”

  “You mean you’re not?”

  “No, and I’m not trying to be a hero. Confused, yes. Scared, no. Look, let’s try to approach it reasonably.”

  “Reasonably!”

  “I mean about the scared.” I went behind the bar, put cubes into two old-fashioned glasses, added Drambuie, then Scotch, then a bit of water. She turned on her stool to face me and there we were, face to face across the stick, like customer and bar-keep. I pushed her drink toward her, and laid cigarettes and matches on the bar. “A guy shows up and the guy disappears—what’s to be scared?”

  “It’s … it’s eerie.”

  “Okay, eerie if you want. But their’s nothing to be scared about.”

  “But Peter, how, I mean …”

  A little lying is proper if it will calm the patient. “Arlene,” I said, “our problem is still how he got in—rather than how he got out.”

  “But the man … he … he was dead.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You told me.”

  “Exactly. I’m an eye, I’m not a sawbones. I looked the guy over and I thought he was dead, mostly because he looked dead. I gave him a fast inspection but not a real inspection. I didn’t even put my ear to his heart, let alone a stethescope. Well, I was wrong, period. The guy had a fit, a seizure, and we just didn’t stick around long enough to give him time to get out of it.”

  “Peter …”

  “Honey, I’m sure.”

  “The door was locked, now, again, when we came back, from the outside.”

  “Naturally. As I said, our problem remains what it was in the first place—how he got in. Because just as he got in, so he got out …”

  “But you said he didn’t have a key to the door.”

  “Maybe not on his key-packet, but maybe he did have a key, and he stuck it away somewhere here in the apartment. Then when he recovered from his fit, he got the key, gave up on this joint, and left, locking the door behind him.”

  I was lying. The guy was dead.

  But it helped. The patient stirred. She reached for her Drambuie-Scotch on the rocks and sipped; then, with long fingers, she lit a cigarette. “Peter, whatever the hell this is about—I want to know what it’s about.”

  “Leave that to me. I’m in the business.”

  “And I’m not going to let you out of here while there’s some nut loose with a key to my place.”

  “Leave that to me too, my love.”

  Early Sunday morning I checked the phone directory for some of my friends in the lock-business. The first one did not answer; the second one chewed me o
ut for waking him back into his hangover so early Sunday morning and hung up on me; the third one, Roy Kelly, said: “Did you say emergency, Pete?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “And it’s got to be now?”

  “Now.”

  “Okay, but you’ll pay through the nose, remember.”

  “I’m willing, Roy boy.”

  “Okay, now state your problem.”

  I stated my problem and gave him the address.

  “Okay,” he said, “I’ll be there in a half hour.”

  Roy Kelly came and he brought what I wanted: two expensive deadlocks and one expensive inside slip-catch. He also brought a bag of instruments, including an electric drill. He killed the old lock, installed the two new deadlocks and the inside slip-catch. Then he inspected the windows. It was a fireproof building, there were no fire-escapes, and the outside walls were smooth without ledges. He came back, grinning.

  Arlene, in black slacks and a white blouse, with a mug of coffee in her hand, grinned in return.

  “Well, Mr. Kelly?” she said.

  “Nobody can get in here, Miss, except a human fly or a guy with dynamite. Like the Rock of Gibraltar, Miss. You’re like in a fortress, Miss, a hunnert percent.”

  Her grin grew wider and the little overnight furrows between her eyes disappeared. Whatever his price, he was worth it.

  “How much?” I said.

  “Seventy-five bucks, including material and labor.”

  I paid him.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Thank you, Roy. Now you can go home and go back to sleep.”

  “It’s a nice morning,” he said.

  “For you, a very nice morning.”

  We played with the new locks and a little bit with each other and then I said, “Okay? Happy?”

  “Yes. Somehow I feel safe again.”

  “You heard the man—a fortress. Still scared?”

  “A little but not like last night. You had the word last night—confused. No, I’m not really scared any more: maybe because it’s a bright new morning. I’m sure that little man didn’t come to do me any harm …”

  “Of course not. The guy was no hood. He was a private eye out on a job of work. I’ll clear up the whole deal and I’ll let you know.”

  “When?” She was no dope.

  I shrugged. “Today’s Sunday; maybe even today. If not, I hope by tomorrow. If not …” I shrugged again. “We’ll see how it works out. But don’t you worry. You’ve got nothing to worry about. A private eye did a tour of inspection on a night when he thought you were in Monticello, and he got sick on the job. Well, he won’t be back because he won’t be able to get in. Okay if I cut out now?”

  “You’ll be in touch?”

  “Of course.”

  She walked me to the door, put her arms around my neck, hoisted her lovely body close alongside mine, and kissed me, wriggling slightly. I closed my eyes and, wriggling slightly in rhythm with her slight wriggle, enjoyed. In the midst of the wriggling and the kissing she said, “Key.”

  That put a splutter on my mouth.

  I backed off but not much: her arms were still around my neck.

  “Key,” she said again at my lips like a new type of kiss and then her arms came down and she stood back and her eyes were astonished. “I just remembered. It was so long ago.”

  “What key? What, what?” I said.

  “Long ago, five-six years ago. Would that be important, that long ago?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “I don’t like telling you, Peter. Must I?”

  “A key to this apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Somebody has one?”

  “Had. Five-six years ago.”

  “The only other key?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe you’d better tell me.”

  “I’ll say it and then you go away and please, let’s not ever discuss it. It was a long time ago; I was in my first show; I was twenty; somebody helped me with this apartment; he … he was, well, a lover; it went on for about a year.”

  “Who?” I said.

  “David Holly.”

  Five

  IN MELLOW sunshine yellow as butter, the morning cool and quiet, I climbed into the car and drove home. Home is on Central Park South, opposite the park, but the vicinity of home offered no parking place. The cars crowded the curbs, bumper to bumper. I drove around the block, and then widened that: I drove around two blocks: the cars were latched to the curbs, bumper to bumper.

  I drove to my garage and turned over the car to a smiling young man whom I did not know. The garage had recently changed ownership and there were many smiling young men none of whom I knew.

  I came back into the yellow sunshine, and walked. I stopped in at a tiny counter and was served coffee and an English muffin by a sleepy-eyed young woman, then I walked again through the Sunday morning streets, so quiet and even seeming clean on the morning of the day of rest. I got into my apartment at half-past ten and out of my clothes down to undershirt and shorts. I was tired, I was sleepy, and hunger had hardly been assuaged by an English muffin with butter and jelly. I looked for the Brooklyn phone directory but I did not have a Brooklyn phone directory, so I called information and got the number of Carl Rockland, 1011 Linden Boulevard, Brooklyn. I called Carl Rockland and, naturally, Carl Rockland did not answer: I got Answering Service.

  “Yes?” said Answering Service. “Carl Rockland’s office.”

  “The office and the home are both together?”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “The office and the home—”

  “We cannot answer personal questions, sir. Mr. Rockland is not in. Would you care to leave a message?”

  “I’ll call back later,” I said, and I hung up.

  I debated between whiskey and food and decided on a shower. I was headed for the bathroom when the bell rang. I opened the door for Tommy Lyons resplendent in grey mohair tuxedo with fancy-ruffled shirt.

  “Hi,” I said. “You come calling in the morning in soup and fish?”

  “Hi,” he said. “It’s still night for me.”

  “A bright night,” I said. “Come in.” He came in and I offered refreshment. “Scotch?” I said.

  “What brand?” he said.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Name the brand,” he said.

  “Oh, come off it, Pappy. Does the snob-bit never let up? Do you want a drink or don’t you?”

  “I’ve got Scotch in the car. I can send down for it.”

  “Not from here you can’t send down for it, Mr. Lyons.” I rubbed a hand to the back of my neck. “A pleasure to see you, but why?”

  “I called Monticello.”

  “Now there’s a piece of information thrills me right down to the coccyx.” I looked toward the bar. “Do you want Scotch?”

  “Name the brand.”

  “Finish with the Scotch. Offer withdrawn. Out, Pappy.”

  “Now look here, you impertinent—”

  “Oh no!” I groaned. “Not today. Not this morning. I’m not in the mood for your jollities. I’ve hardly had any sleep.”

  “I’ve had no sleep.”

  “So go home and go to sleep.”

  “I came directly from a party on my boat.”

  “I’m very flattered, but some other time. Go back to your boat and go to sleep.”

  “No Monticello this Saturday night, lover boy?”

  “Go away, Mr. Lyons. Please. Now.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  The decision between food and drink was resolved. I went and made a ball of Scotch and water. One ball. For me. “Fine host,” he said.

  “You’re no guest,” I said. “You’re a name-brand intrusion.”

  “I think I’ll send down for my own,” he said.

  “Whom will you send?”

  “Me.”

  “Please do that,” I said. “Send yourself, but don’t come bac
k.”

  “I’ll come back.”

  “There’ll be nobody home.”

  “I want you to stop seeing her,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Whom,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Whom?”

  “Arlene.”

  “Die,” I said. “Go send yourself for Scotch. Get the hell out of here.”

  He swung a clenched fist and I ducked. The clenched fist was hard as was bicep and shoulder. Tommy Lyons was a big man and trim as his boat which was not a boat but an ocean-going yacht that had a permanent crew of fifteen people.

  He came up out of the swing and stood tall, legs wide in a triangle to the crotch. Tommy Lyons was a beautiful man.

  He was six-feet-three, thirty-six years of age, all brawn and muscle and manly physique. His features were chiseled as though out of granite: clean jaw, patrician nose, wide mouth, high forehead, strong bone of face. He had live blond hair that curled up in graceful waves from a widow’s peak but his strength was in his eyes and he was strong. The eyes were deep-set, bold beneath the ledge of long blond eyebrows: ice-grey, cold, and capable of evil.

  He was Thomas Rutherford Lyons, Junior, known as Tommy Lyons throughout the world. A call from a lackey of Tommy Lyons reserved the best anywhere: restaurant, hotel, racetrack, night club, theatre, museum, safari, concert, chartered plane, art gallery, or brothel. He was reputed to be worth, conservatively, eight hundred million dollars, give or take a million, mostly by lawyer-angled inheritance out of a family that started as slave-traders and wound up with a stupendous fortune from plastics during World War II. Unlike David Holly, he hardly ever worked; his money worked for him; he played, in his own fashion, from lounging in well-stuffed male Bikinis along the Riviera to dangerously hunting lions in Africa. I had met him through David Holly, a pauper by comparison—maybe worth four hundred million, give or take a million—and I had met David Holly through Arlene Anthony. Holly had got his through a family attracted to real estate—purchasers of soil and builders of office-edifices—but Holly had increased the original lump of his fortune; Holly was a worker; the foremost producer of plays in the United States. Tommy Lyons was co-producer with David Holly for Holly’s Follies starring Arlene Anthony.

  Now Tommy Lyons said, “I want you to stop seeing her.”

  “Get the hell out of here,” I said.