Death is the Last Lover (Prologue Books)

by Henry, Kane,

  “Like how?” I said.

  “Like a sudden interest in travel. Wanted two years in Europe, felt it would broaden her. Tell you the truth, I was ready. I’d have been glad to get rid of her, if the request were within reason. I was ready to move on to greener pastures, or should I say blonder?”

  “How much,” I said, “to broaden herself in Europe?”

  “A hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Wow,” I said. “You realized, I trust, the trip to Europe was strictly confetti? You realized, I trust, that the hundred thousand dollars was a straight hold-up?”

  “Of course I did. To be absolutely honest, I’d have paid it if I hadn’t realized just that. The little lady had me where the hair is short. She could have caused me a good deal of inconvenience, a good deal of inconvenience. But it was straight blackmail, no matter how she put it. And you know about blackmail — once begun, it never ends. It posed a problem, all right. Believe me, it posed a problem.”

  “When did she make this play?”

  “About two weeks ago.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “Told her I wanted to think about it.”

  “And how did she take that?”

  “She was most gracious.”

  “And how did it finally resolve itself?”

  “You know how. She died.”

  “I know she was murdered,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, “she was murdered.” And the blue eyes moved to mine, pleadingly.

  FIVE

  Now I was up and pacing. I helped myself to more of his whiskey, neat, one drink and slam of glass. “Look,” I said, “did you kill her? Because if you did, I’m the man to talk to. There are all kinds of crazy angles, you know, legal angles. Justifiable homicide, self-defense, even insanity, temporary insanity. You were a guy very much in the middle, and a guy very much in the middle can go out of his mind — ”

  “I didn’t kill her,” he said.

  “When did you find out about it?”

  “About nine o’clock this morning.”

  “How?”

  “It came in over the radio.”

  “What came in? I only read a half-ass newspaper account.”

  “She was found at seven this morning. Time of death was estimated for one o’clock last night. There was the usual sensational blasting, and then the fact that the police were looking for me — Gordon Phelps.”

  “Any ideas why?”

  “I assume she had mentioned my real name to some of her friends, and the police had questioned these friends.”

  “Mr. Phelps,” I said, “if the police were looking for you — and you had nothing to do with it — why in thunder are you holed up here? Why didn’t you go down and talk to them?”

  “That’s just the kind of scandal I can’t use, Mr. Chambers.”

  “But your name’s already in the papers.”

  “Simply that the police want to talk to Gordon Phelps. There’s a difference between Gordon Phelps, an acquaintance of Vivian Frayne — and Gordon Phelps, Vivian’s gentleman-friend-lover, if you know what I mean. Once I talked with them, they’d get that out of me, and that’s just the kind of thing I don’t want smeared over the papers. On the other hand, once this damned murder is solved — it’s over. It’s off the front pages. It’s yesterday’s news. I’d be out of it.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “So just what did you do?”

  “Sneaked out, called my lawyer, told him to come here, and sneaked back. As a matter of fact, that’s the first time I’ve been out of this apartment in the last two days.”

  “Haven’t been home?”

  “No.”

  “What about your wife?”

  “She’s been down in Palm Beach for the last month.”

  “The lawyer get here?”

  “Yes, and he was in quite a hurry, he had a plane to make for the West Coast. He stopped off, in a deuce of a hurry, on his way to the airport. Quickly, we worked out a thing. From the airport, he was to call the police. Supposedly, he had just seen the papers. He was to inform the police that I was out of town on business, and that I was due back in a couple of weeks. He was to tell them that he didn’t know where I’d gone, just out of town on business, back in a couple of weeks. Then he was to send that telegram to Sierra. That would bring you in, and you’d be in charge.”

  “Kind of trust that Sophia Sierra, don’t you?”

  “In a cockeyed way, she’s a friend. And her very avariciousness is on my side. Never hurts to do a favor for a rich man, does it?”

  “All right,” I said, “let’s get down to cases. You knew this Vivian intimately for a few months. You say you’re not involved in this killing. Did she have any special enemies, anybody she was especially afraid of — ”

  “Sophia Sierra,” he said.

  My head shot back as though a finger had been stuck in my eye. “Now how far can a man go when he’s put out about not being able to make it with a dame — ”

  “That’s not it, not at all.” He was excited now and showing it. “I’m not accusing Sophia. You’re asking. I’m telling. Vivian was afraid of her, she was convinced that Sophia was nursing a deep hatred. She mentioned it to me quite often — ”

  “Okay, okay, anyone else she mentioned?”

  “No one else she mentioned.”

  “Anyone else she didn’t mention?”

  “Yes …” he said ruminatively, lifting a clenched hand and tapping a knuckle against his teeth. “Funny, this is the first time it’s occurred to me … funny, it should have slipped my mind….”

  “What?” I said. “What?”

  The hand went away from the mouth, clasped the other hand, and he rocked as though he were praying. “Since I heard of this thing, I just haven’t been able to think clearly….”

  “Are you thinking clearly now?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Okay, what’s occurred to you?”

  “A threat. A kind of threat.”

  “From whom? To whom?”

  “From Steve Pedi to Vivian.”

  “Oh,” I said, “so now we’ve got this Pedi back in again.”

  “A rough, tough, capable man,” Gordon Phelps said. “I overheard a conversation, there at the Nirvana….”

  “When?”

  “Oh, about a week ago. I was there, at the Nirvana. Vivian had gone upstairs — Pedi had his office upstairs. I had waited for her, at a table, and when she hadn’t returned, I had gone up after her. Steve Pedi generally has one of his bouncers stationed outside his office, a big fellow, Amos Knafke, but at that moment Amos wasn’t there. The door to Pedi’s office was partly open and I was able to overhear the tail end of an argument between Vivian and Pedi.”

  “About what?” I said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, what did you hear?”

  “She was saying something like: ‘… and I’m just like a big sister to these kids. I know what’s going on around here, and if it doesn’t stop, I’ll blow the whistle on the joint, so help me.’ “

  “And you have no idea what it was about?”

  “None whatever.”

  “And you heard what Pedi answered?”

  “It was something like: ‘You and your frigged-up bluenose ideas. Butt out, or you’ll get your head handed to you, and with a couple of holes in it.’ “

  I squinted at Gordon Phelps.

  Gordon Phelps squinted at me.

  “Interesting bit of dialogue,” I said. “Then what happened?”

  “I pushed in and they both greeted me with smiles, forced smiles, true enough, but smiles.”

  “Anyone else,” I said, “on your list of possibilities — aside from yourself?”

  “No one else,” he said, “aside from myself.”

  I went away from him. I went to the window and looked out into the street. I said, with my back to him, “Where did she live, this Vivian Frayne?”

  “115 East 64th.”

 
; “You visit her often?”

  “I never visited her. Let’s say … she visited here. Matter of fact, when I went off for vacations, she had carte blanche. She had a key to the place, of course.”

  “Of course.” I turned to him. “When did she visit with you last, Mr. Phelps?”

  He hesitated, but just for a moment.

  “Last night,” he said.

  “She was murdered last night,” I said, “wasn’t she?”

  “In her own apartment,” he said, “not here.”

  “What time did she leave this apartment?”

  “About midnight.”

  “Did you take her home?”

  “No, she went home alone.”

  “Wasn’t she working last night?”

  “No, she had taken the night off.”

  “And had she continued about that hundred thousand dollar trip to Europe?”

  “She had.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “Told her I was still thinking about it.”

  “And when she left — what did you do?”

  “I went to sleep. I was dead tired.”

  “Figures,” I said, “you were dead tired.”

  “Why are you being sarcastic, Mr. Chambers?”

  I had no answer to that question, so I ducked it. I took his hand and shook it. I said, “Good-bye, Mr. Phelps. You’ll be right here, I take it?”

  “At least until this thing blows over.”

  “Or blows up,” I said.

  “Chambers,” he said, “you really think I did this, don‘t you?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said.

  “At the risk of being repetitious,” he said, “I didn’t.”

  “That’s your story. We’ll see how it holds up.” I went to the door.

  “Keep me informed,” he said.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I want reports. Please.”

  “Which means I’ll have to be coming back here.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Then we’ll have to do it real whodunit, won’t we?”

  “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  “You’re not going to answer to everybody, are you — I mean like you answered to my ring today?”

  “I saw you coming. I was watching at the window.”

  “You’re not going to be spending all your time watching at the window, are you?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Let’s do a system, shall we? Let’s make it five short rings, a pause, and then one long ring. Like that you’ll know it’s Prometheus bringing fire to man.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Prometheus. A very good idea, really. I hadn’t thought of that at all.”

  There was a good deal, it appeared, that Mr. Gordon Phelps had not thought of.

  SIX

  He had not thought, for instance, of the possibility that a lady named Sophia Sierra might be attracted to a member of homo sapiens, gender male, without such member depositing a bag of loot at her feet like a sacrifice at an altar. He had not thought of the possibility that Sophia Sierra might be attracted to an individual half his age without such individual having to barter for her affections as though they were jewels for trade in a forbidden marketplace (I realized, quickly enough, that I was being utterly subjective and answering to the pique of my peculiar soul, and I realized that I was an employee, and, as such, I should shove being subjective and pandering to pique of soul, so I went on from there). Gordon Phelps had not thought, for instance, that he had absolutely no alibi: the fact that he said that he was alone in his hideaway apartment during the time of the murder of Vivian Frayne was exactly that — no alibi. He had not thought of the fact that he was a prime suspect, adorned, like a harpooned whale, by three deadly shafts, and all of them sticking out of him: motive, opportunity, proximity. He had not thought of the fact that, even if innocent, he was withholding information necessary and pertinent to police investigation of a capital crime. He had not thought of the fact that, no matter what his lawyer had told the police, they were, right now, in all probability, making every effort to seek him out and take him in. He had not thought of the fact that perhaps the police had thought of the fact that the lawyer was transporting a load of fertilizer shipped direct by the client. He had not thought of the fact that, perhaps, even Sophia Sierra — I stopped it right there.

  Once it was back to Sophia Sierra — I stopped it.

  I flailed fingers at a cab and we had a glue-like ride through the morass of New York traffic to the precinct station wherein were housed the minions of the law devoted to Homicide in that section of Manhattan. There, too, was housed the brain and bulk of one Detective-Lieutenant Louis Parker, staunchest of the minions of the law: cop, friend, gentleman, human being. And there I was informed, after prodding lesser minions, that Parker was not due back in his office until eleven o’clock in the evening. So I went to the bank to deposit five thousand dollars, but it was after three and the bank was closed, and since my office is equipped with an office-safe, I went to the office.

  My secretary, Miss Miranda Foxworth, ancient, creaking, forthright, lovable, and ever-complaining of her psychosomatic arthritis, was bundled in her coat and reaching for the door when I entered.

  “Hi,” she said. “I was just going home.”

  “Bon voyage,” I said. “Any messages?”

  “Nothing,” she said, a glint in her shrewd eyes. “But I sent you a message, in person, and what a message! What are you doing here? You slipping?”

  I showed her the money. “Bank’s closed,” I said, “so I’m using the safe.”

  “That dame came bearing money? I don’t believe it.”

  “The money’s from a man.”

  “But I sent a gal.”

  “And she sent me to a man.”

  “And you went? You are slipping.” She patted my cheek. “Anything you want?”

  “Nothing, thanks. Go home.”

  “I’m going,” she said and she went.

  I put the money into the safe, absently twirled the dial, absently lit a cigarette, absently went into the inner office, sat down at my desk, put my feet up, closed my eyes, and played free-association with myself. The first thing my mind flushed was Nirvana. I was just reaching into Nirvana when the raucous peal of the phone pulled me back. I lifted the thing.

  “Hello?” I growled.

  “Mr. Peter Chambers?” It was a lady’s voice spacing each syllable in precise enunciation. The question was practically a pronunciamento.

  “This is he,” I said, carefully grammatical.

  “Barbara Phelps, here,” she said.

  “Beg pardon?” I said, but my feet came off the desk.

  “Mrs. Gordon Phelps,” she said. “This is Mr. Chambers, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes, Chambers,” I said.

  “I should like to see you, if you please, Mr. Chambers? Are you available?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Phelps, I’m available.”

  “Could you come here?”

  “Where?” I said. “My home. 2225 Fifth Avenue.”

  “When?” I said.

  “Right now, if you please, Mr. Chambers. Can you make it?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I can make it.”

  “Very good,” she said and she hung up and there I was, sitting somewhat on the edge of my seat, holding a receiver in my hand and shaking my head to relieve my mind of the persistent poking of free-association Nirvana.

  SEVEN

  A butler opened the door for me, a real-life, motion-picture-type, British-accented, butler. In uniform. “Who, please?” he uttered.

  “Chambers,” I uttered right back at him.

  “Oh this way please,” said he. “The drawing room.”

  The drawing room was a gorgeous cavern with stained-glass windows that did iridescent tricks with the dying sun of the early evening. There were two denizens within the gorgeous cavern, both of whom stood up, as the butler discreetly withdrew after discreetly announcing: “Mr. Chambers
, Madame.”

  There was a lady and a gentleman, except the gentleman was no gentleman. His name was Adam Frick and he and I had had business together but a private richard learns to be almost as discreet as a British-accent butler, so I did not recognize him. He was tall, lithe, lean and young, with blond hair and blue eyes, and he was death-on-wheels to susceptible damosels, and if they were not susceptible, he made them susceptible.

  I had never seen the lady before.

  “I’m Mrs. Phelps,” she said, “Barbara Phelps. This is Adam Frick. Mr. Frick is the pilot of our private plane. Mr. Frick, Mr. Chambers.”

  “I know Mr. Chambers,” Frick said. He said it first.

  “Of course,” I said. “How are you, Mr. Frick?”

  “Very well, thank you,” he said. He was holding a snifter glass of brandy in his right hand. He shifted it to his left hand, extended his right hand, and we shook. The hand had all the warmth of the fin of a fish. He moved off, a graceful figure in sport jacket and tweed slacks. He was a most competent pilot who had been fired from a national airline because he had raped an airline hostess. The hostess had not been entirely innocent. She had been enamored of his baby-blue eyes, his wavy blond hair, his slick manners, and his concave-belly charm. She had led him on but she had not realized she was dealing with a gentleman who had a conscience vaguely equivalent to the conscience of a hyena. She had been a virgin begging to be raped, and Adam Frick did not have to be begged, but the young lady had had religious scruples against such type of intrusion, and she had screamed. It had developed into the usual mess, which was when Adam Frick had become my client. I had uncovered twelve airmen who had gone to bed with the young lady, doing aeronautical maneuvers whilst keeping the hymen intact, and such disclosures had a mitigating effect upon the screaming young lady. She had refused to sign an official complaint, and the matter was dropped. So was Adam Frick, but he had retained his license, and now he turns up as Mrs. Barbara Phelps’ private pilot, which made Mrs. Barbara Phelps a very interesting lady, indeed.

  “Would you like a drink, Mr. Chambers?” she said. “Brandy?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I don’t drink.” Adam Frick’s eyebrows almost hit his hairline, but he said nothing. Everybody was being discreet today.