Cheap as Beasts

by Jon Wilson

  “I need your help,” she said.

  There’s a type of man unable to resist a damsel in distress; I call them men and count myself among them. We’ve all got our inner Saint George, aching for the dragon. The trouble was she had nothing of the waif about her, not her shape, her clothes, her hair, and certainly nothing in the way she moved. Maneater was writ large in the ebb and flow of the silk along the small of her back. It was spelled in slinky script across each lowered eyelid. She flashed her smoky emerald irises at me, sparkling jewels, barely visible. That was her. The signal she sent out had nothing to do with ‘Save me before I get hurt.’ It was ‘Act fast, my man, because if I have to do things myself, there will be blood.’

  I didn’t tsk her, but I wanted to. Instead I said, “Mind if I sit down?”

  She led us to a cozy grouping of two well-stuffed easies and a chaise lounge at the corner of the room. All of them felt quite close together after the vast expanse of the previous chamber. I took one of the chairs, and she perched on the lounge, her elbow lodged on the pillow end and her slightly folded legs stretching off to the other side. One bare foot lay casually atop the other, as if everything she did wasn’t calculated for maximum effect.

  She must have seen me taking it all in. Her voice was amused, though she somehow managed to keep any trace of it off her face. “I can’t help feeling you’re laughing at me.” As I said, self-aware.

  “Less now.”

  She took a long drag on her cigarette, then let the smoke out slowly, not blowing. It lingered in a wispy cloud around her head. “You’ve got sense. I appreciate that in a man…now and then.”

  “More now.”

  She laughed. It came from deep in her throat and barely made it past her lips. “What did I say that amused you?”

  “You need my help.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  I shrugged, exhausted, and sat back. “You called me here for something, I suppose.”

  “You spoke to my niece on the telephone.”

  “Yes. As I said. We talked.”

  “But what about? I don’t understand.”

  “That makes two of us.” An ash stand was between the two chairs, but no table. The closest surface was a small square of polished cherry near the head of the lounge. I killed my highball in three easy gulps and leaned forward to deposit my empty glass on the box. I flicked my excess ash into the stand and crossed my legs, ankle to knee. “I imagine you talked with her on occasion. You know how she could be.”

  “She was a silly seventeen year old. Overindulged by her aunt and uncle and…” She let it hang, studying something that only she could see, which apparently floated in the air between us. “I can’t believe she’s dead.” She widened her emerald eyes. “You didn’t…see her down there today?”

  “I had no standing. I was just a guy whose name was on a piece of paper in her pocket. I’m sure they’d let you see her. I don’t recommend it.”

  She shivered, and I watched it go all the way down to her naked toes. She made motions with her hands as if she wanted to embrace herself, but she opted instead to polish off her own drink. She offered the glass across to me. “I don’t suppose you’d make me another.”

  “No.” That earned me nothing but a barely noticeable kink in her left eyebrow. I told her, “You have a butler and, presumably, a maid or two. If there’s a button around here that calls them, I might be persuaded to push it for you.”

  She arose, graceful even in annoyance. Or maybe she wasn’t annoyed. When she spoke, making her way across to the bar, her tone was quite businesslike. “I don’t believe Ramona didn’t tell you why she wished to meet. It isn’t—wasn’t like her. And it certainly isn’t like you.” Reaching the bar, she set to work. “I suspect you may even have met with her.”

  “Sure. The police felt the same way. Unfortunately, the people at Eisley’s confirmed I occupied one of their outdoor tables from approximately three-thirty to four-thirty. Alone. I certainly might lie, not just to the police but especially to you. However, I couldn’t afford to buy off the entire deli staff. Half of them are Jews. As to our phone conversation. I thought we covered that. Oh, boy, could she talk. And she did. Just not about what was eating her.”

  “Then why would you agree to meet?”

  “She appealed to me. She liked my name, said it sounded French. She was hopped on France.”

  “Yes, my husband did some…work there. My first husband. He doted on her. And she loved him as only an adolescent girl could.”

  “Did he write her often?”

  She’d had a cube of ice on its way to her glass but dropped it. Her shoulders tensed. Her back was to me, but I figured my question had earned a far bigger reaction than even my earlier refusal to make her a drink. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing improprietous,” I said, taking a stab.

  By then she had recovered. She completed her work and came back toward me. “I told you. They were devoted to one another. I imagine they exchanged letters regularly.” She resumed her perch, telling me pointedly, “Nothing improper.”

  “Good to know. And after your first husband died, Miss Wyman took up his father as a pen pal.”

  Better prepared for the possibility that I might not actually be an imbecile, she handled that last statement almost perfectly. She toyed with turning up a corner of her mouth. “So you are interested.”

  “I never meant to imply otherwise. Even when I said it straight out.” My cigarette was down to a nub, and I smashed it out. I sat forward as I slipped another between my teeth. “I’m interested.”

  She considered. Her new drink had gone straight onto the cherry table-box-thing, untasted. So that had merely been a point of order, as in who gave the orders and who followed them and what might come of my questioning the chain of command. She fiddled with her cigarette holder, twisting off the last butt, even though she didn’t have a replacement.

  I held out my hand.

  She gave the device to me, and I loaded it with one of my Camels, leaving me with two in the pack. That meant I’d need to depart soon or restock from her supply at the bar. And God only knew what frou-frou crap she had there. I put the tip of the holder in my mouth next to my own cigarette and lit both. She watched nearly the entire operation before telling me, “You have wonderful hands. Powerful. Adam had hands like that.”

  I used one of my powerful hands to offer her back her cigarette holder. “Can you control it at all? I know you’ve had a shock.”

  She ignored me, tasting her smoke before asking, “Do you think the police will find who did it?”

  I sat back again, recrossing my legs, same ankle to same knee. Seeing the three inches of exposed sock made me wish I could afford a better wardrobe. Like the hat, the socks weren’t quite on a level with the rest of the ensemble.

  “They’ll try. You have a name and the money to back it up. That’ll interest the papers, and they’ll prod the cops. They’ll definitely try. God knows where they’ll start. Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Know where they’ll start? What did they ask you?”

  She bit her lip, looking away at that other invisible thing again. Then she looked at me. “I could hire you to find who did it.”

  “That would be swell.” I tried to sound like I meant it. “Five hundred a day plus expenses. And cigarettes.”

  “Five hundred? But that’s outrageous.”

  I shrugged before holding up my hands, fingers extended toward the ceiling. “For these babies? Powerful, remember? And besides, I’d need someone to open up. Say you, for example. And that wouldn’t be easy on either of us.”

  “You don’t believe that if I hired you, if you agreed to work for me, I wouldn’t be completely candid?”

  I shook my head. “There were too many negatives in that sentence. Like I said, you’ve had a shock. Though I appreciate the way you were extra precise about me working for you. As to opening up, I’d hope that at five hundred a day, even y
ou wouldn’t want to waste too much of my time.”

  “Can I write you a check? Say for a week in advance. What do they call it? A retainer. Twenty-five hundred.”

  “It’s been a hell of a shock. Should I slap you? Would it help? I got a keen demonstration on how it ought to be done out on your driveway.”

  I half expected her to grab her drink and throw it in my face. I figured maybe that’s what it was for. She kept her expression clean, but there was a glint in her eye. “You really won’t help me?”

  “That again. The day you need help.”

  “Then for Ramona. Do it for her.”

  I sighed, realizing I really wanted another drink myself. But damned if I was going to ask for it. I can have points of order, too. I rubbed my chin rather than let my powerful hand snatch her drink off the cherry box. “Why does Lana think you murdered her father?”

  “What?” She was amazed and confused and tickled pink. It was one of her best performances so far. “That’s insane.”

  “Sure, but why?”

  “Why is it insane?”

  “Why does she think it? I don’t care whether or not it’s insane. Unless Lana’s insane, which…Well, why?”

  “You’d have to ask her.”

  “See there? I don’t doubt I could get it out of you, but for nothing less than a grand a day.”

  Proud of my snark, I sat there puffing away. She was looking something over, although it didn’t appear to be that mirage that had entranced her before. Maybe it was my cheap socks.

  “This was a mistake.”

  “Almost certainly. What’s more, it’s something you and Miss O’Malley can agree on. Though I believe she called it a waste of time.” I stood. “I’ll go.”

  “No.” She held her hand out toward my thigh, probably as much a reflex as anything else. Old habits die hard. She was just far enough away that her fingers hovered about an inch from my leg. She tilted her face up and lifted her eyelids nearly three quarters of the way. Very emphatic. “Please.”

  I stayed there looking down skeptically at her.

  She said, “She must have told you why she thought I was responsible.”

  “Lana? No. Miss O’Malley, her brother, Miss Wyman—they all told me remarkably little. That’s why I’m being so extra patient with you.”

  “Damn, you’re insolent.”

  “Mostly, I’m tired.” I sat back down. “And thirsty.”

  “Take mine,” she said. She covered her face with her hands, and she rubbed slowly up and down. It was quite similar to the move George Kelly had pulled earlier, only not so rough. “This isn’t easy for me, Mr. Colette.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  She lowered her hands to watch me swallow about a third of her beverage. “I didn’t murder Larry. It’s absurd. Why would I?”

  “Again, not my look out. I don’t care if you murdered him. I asked why Lana thinks you did.”

  “She received an anonymous letter. But it is ridiculous. He thinks—” She stopped herself and, rather than let her know I noticed, I pretended to interrupt her by blurting out the first thing that popped into my head.

  “From Troyes?”

  “What?”

  “The anonymous letter.”

  “Why do you mention Troyes? That’s where my husband died.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “I thought he died here. In the bedroom.”

  She was flustered. I decided that was a real achievement on my part, though it wouldn’t do. I shoved it aside with a wave of my powerful hand. Okay, I’ll stop that now. But you must admit it was funny. Powerful hands. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

  “So you do know about the letter,” I said, playing up my savvy. It’s not something I often get the chance to do, and I relish it when the occasion arises. “I just wanted to be sure. You know what’s in it.” I made it a statement, not a question.

  “Of course.”

  “Well, how did Mr. Anonymous know all that?”

  “All what? It’s nothing but vague accusations. The author was naturally careful not to include anything that could either be proved or disproved. Lana’s a fool to have shown it to you. I thought Joe had convinced her there was nothing to it.”

  “When did she show it to you?”

  “She didn’t, of course. Certainly not. We’ve barely spoken in months.”

  “Where did you get a copy?”

  “Does it really…” But then she saw that wouldn’t wash. “I have my resources.” I believe she thought that might wash.

  “I’ll bet.” I got to my feet again, beginning to feel like a yo-yo. I shook my pant leg down, embellishing the action with a shake of my head. “But you need my help. Where were you yesterday from three to midnight?”

  She ignored me, focusing instead on sucking the life out of her cigarette.

  I took a deep breath through my nose. “I’ll call you. Or that old Fraulein who handles your phone. Maybe I won’t. Don’t get up. I’m not so turned around I can’t find my own way.”

  Chapter Nine

  I don’t know how butlers do it. No warning at all, and he managed to beat me to my hat. He didn’t pick it up, however.

  “If you have a moment to spare, sir, Mr. O’Malley wonders if you might join him in the game room.”

  “He wonders, does he?” But I decided I couldn’t take it out on the help. Especially not that stony-faced specimen. He was several shades lighter than the lawn jockey outside, but not nearly so proud of himself. His was that quiet, aloof dignity employers would mistake for obsequity. Still, of everyone in the house, I probably had the least chance of getting any info out of him. And he probably knew twice as much as any other. Butlers. I told him to lead the way.

  He took me across the foyer in the opposite direction of how I’d gone before. We walked down a long, windowless corridor, then turned up another, exactly the same only darker, to a set of heavy doors. Morgan O’Malley was leaning against the wall, smoking.

  “Thank you, Fenton,” he said.

  That’s society speak for scram, and the butler left us. Morgan opened the doors, gesturing me to proceed him. I did, and I found myself in the dark heart of Africa.

  It was another huge, double-storied room, this time made almost entirely of stained teak. Long low fireplaces lined the side walls, interspersed with the occasional tropical plant in a large vase, or, in a few cases, taxidermied animals mounted on pedestals. The heads of other specimens jutted from the walls, and spears, blowguns, and ivory tusks dotted the room. Native African masks, painted like long-faced Zulu warriors, glared down at us with hollow eyes.

  Moving directly to a wet bar just to the left of the doors, Morgan said, “Paul Jones, right?” Apparently, based on recent events, that was society speak for, ‘Thanks for agreeing to speak with me alone.’

  I examined a rhinoceros head close up. It gazed down with sightless inscrutability from above the second fireplace along the left wall. The floor beneath was covered in the striped ivory pelt of a Siberian tiger. My scruffy wingtips were practically lost in the fur.

  Morgan brought me my drink, nodding up at the big head on the wall. “Revolting, huh?”

  “Huh, indeed. I wasn’t looking at it from that angle. I think he looks surprisingly resigned.” I tasted my beverage. He’d forgotten the ice, seltzer and cherry. I shrugged. “Not the sort of game I was expecting.”

  He pointed further along the wall. “There’s a dartboard.”

  We both stood drinking a moment, him not looking at me or anything else and me looking from the rhinoceros to him and then sort of vaguely around the room. “How many of these are yours?”

  “Not a single one. Even if I’d had any desire to shoot something, father wouldn’t have allowed it. Well, I mean, he wouldn’t have cared, but he never would have allowed me to display them here. This was his room. His triumphs.”

  “He liked to hunt?”

  “I suppose. He enjoyed killing things. But really he liked showing off their pitiful heads. What is
it Lear says? ‘Allow not nature more than it needs. Else the lives of men are as cheap as beasts’?”

  I thought he was saying it wrong, but just nodded like I understood. I’m not a big fan of quoters, generally, and I tend to have even less patience for those who do it poorly. “Was that the old man’s motto?”

  “No.” His voice got drowsy for a moment, and I wondered how many straight whiskeys he’d had. He yawned and frowned up at the rhino. “And I take that back, about him enjoying killing things. He much preferred to see his victims suffer.”

  “And here I remember reading something about what a great humanitarian he was. A philanthropist. A real supporter of the war effort.”

  “He and the war did all right by one another.” He shrugged, then seemed to wake back up. He looked at me. “You? Europe I’d guess.”

  “Very good.” It’s not a question I usually answer, but since he got it right, I figured he deserved something. “You went to the Pacific.”

  “Heavens no. Europe for me as well, though I never made it out of Merrie Olde. Special Attaché to General Willard F. McElroy.” The name apparently left a bad taste on his tongue, and he had to wash it down. He grimaced. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Typical army snafu? You never should have made it out of the states. A phiz like yours could have sold a ton of war bonds.”

  I expected him to laugh, but my crack only confused him. He retreated to the bar for a refill. My glass was still three quarters full, so I did a little work on that, then told him, “So yours wasn’t then?”

  “How’s that?” He was pouring and didn’t risk a look back at me. “My what wasn’t what?”

  “Your life,” I said, toasting the rhinoceros. I corrected O’Malley’s line for him. “Cheap as beast’s.”

  That time he did laugh, lightly. “I hope it cost him a goddamned fortune.”

  His remark had a strange effect on me. Maybe it was coming as it did so soon after hearing Wayne Holmsby’s accusation about the mechanic. Maybe it was that I don’t like entitled millionaires. Or maybe it was that I’d been hoping he’d turn out to be every bit as heroic as he looked. And honestly, I can’t say what upset me more—the possibility that his father bribed the war board, or the fact that he could disparage the old man for it.