“You mean it was murder?” Cain felt a curious uneasiness as the gray eyes never wavered.
Bradley shrugged. “That might get us into technicalities of definition,” he said. “There was a man.”
“And you know who it was?”
“Mercy,” said Bradley, “if I did, I’d have been home in bed long ago.”
Chapter Five
1
With the aid of Armando, Bradley lifted Joe Egan to his feet and half carried him out of the Tinsel Club. Bill Brackett and his band had so strong a hold on the club’s customers that only a few of the patrons around the bar and the checkroom so much as looked around.
Cain went back to Carol’s table. She had drawn her wrap up around her shoulders and as Cain started to sit down she said:
“I want to go home.”
“Aren’t you going to wait to see Bill?”
“I want to go now,” she said.
“Well, I want to see him if you don’t,” said Cain. “Joe Egan was toting a rod. I think Bill ought to know.”
Carol stared. “You mean he was going to … ”
“I don’t know what he was going to do,” said Cain. “But Bill ought to know. There won’t be any trouble tonight because our police-inspector friend was Johnny-on-the-spot.”
“Bradley was here?”
“A personal appearance,” said Cain.
Carol pushed back her chair, and stood up. “Of course you must tell Bill,” she said, “I’ll be waiting for you in the car.”
“Won’t Bill be surprised at your leaving this way?”
“Please, Mr. Cain, make it as quick as you can,” she said, and left him.
Cain threaded his way toward the dressing room door. Brackett was taking applause for the final number of that particular session. He and his band poured into the dressing room on Cain’s heels.
“Looking for the one-armed bandit? It’s in the corner there,” Bill said, pointing to the slot machine. He was dripping perspiration. “Be with you in a minute. Three clean shirts a night in this racket.” He went out of the main room into what was evidently his private dressing room. Cain followed him.
“How’d you like it?” Bill asked, slipping out of his coat.
“Fine … what I heard of it,” Cain said. “There was a commotion.”
“What was it?” Bill said. He sat down in front of the dressing mirror and mopped his face with a small Turkish towel. “I heard some kind of rumpus, but I couldn’t see a damn thing through those spots.”
“It was Joe Egan,” Cain said.
“Joe Egan?” Bill didn’t hesitate in the business of ripping off collar and tie. “What did he want?”
“You,” said Cain. He was watching Bill’s face in the mirror. “It seems you’re the guy that drove his sister to suicide.”
“For God’s sake!” said Bill.
“He was prepared to make a public accusation,” Cain said, “I thought it wasn’t a good idea and eased him out. He pulled a gun on me so I put the slug on him.”
Bill turned around. “You’re kidding!”
“Not me, chum. I wasn’t sure just what his intentions were, so I let him have the old one-two. Bradley happened to be at the bar and took him away. I thought you ought to know that Egan has you in mind as a possible clay pigeon.
“What did he do? Who did he spill this to?”
“To Carol and me,” Cain said. “Incidentally, Carol wants to go home. She’s waiting for me now in the car.”
Bill frowned. “You don’t mean she took that eyewash seriously?”
“I don’t know,” said Cain. “Should she?”
Bill stood up. The tired look had come into his eyes. “You don’t mean you took it seriously, Pat?”
“I’m a stringer here myself,” Cain said.
“So help me God,” Bill said, “I never did any more than pass the time of day with Lydia Egan. That’s on the level. What gave Egan the idea?”
“He seems to have thought it out all by himself,” Cain said. “He admitted he had no real evidence.”
“Saints preserve us from a third-rate ham who wants publicity at any price,” Bill said. “Take Carol home, Pat. Tell her what I said about the Egan dame, will you? And tell her not to worry about brother Joe. I can handle him if he’s looking for trouble.”
“Right,” Cain said. “Be seeing you.”
Cain found the Packard a little down the street from the Tinsel Club. When he got in the chauffeur started up, evidently having his orders from Carol. Carol kept her face toward the car window.
“Bill said to tell you good night and not to worry. Egan was having a pipe dream.”
Carol didn’t answer. Cain took a cigarette from his pocket and lit a kitchen match with his thumb-nail. “What’s eating you?” he said. “You think Bill was the guy?”
“Suppose he was? You can’t expect a man never to flirt with another woman. If she was fool enough to take it seriously.”
“Bill says its eyewash,” said Cain. “He never did more than say hello to the Egan girl.”
“Well, he certainly didn’t push her out the window!” Carol said.
“I don’t get it,” Cain said.
She looked at him for the first time and he suspected she had been crying. Her eyes were hot and angry now. “What don’t you get, Mr. Cain?”
“You were quick enough to defend him when Bradley was putting on his quiz show at the house. Now you’re practically saying he was the guy in Lydia’s life.”
“I didn’t say he was. I said if he was, what of it? I’ve never asked him not to see any other women.”
“He must have seen a lot of her,” said Cain, “for her to take a high dive. But that’s not the point. He says he’s not it. Either you believe him or you don’t.”
“Why should he admit it? It would ruin him professionally.”
“Don’t you expect anyone to be honest with you?” Cain asked.
“No, Mr. Cain, I don’t. Do you?”
“I kind of count on it,” said Cain dryly.
“Then you’re a romantic sucker,” said Carol. “Who is honest? Not our political leaders; not our business men; not our friends if honesty is inconvenient. Do you know who was the only friend I ever had who was honest?”
“I’ll bite.”
“A dog,” said Carol. “A little cocker spaniel. He used to wet the rug in my bedroom and when I came home he’d hide. That was honest. He was admitting his guilt.”
“What happened to him?” Cain asked.
“Emily wouldn’t let me keep him in the house,” Carol said.
“Sister,” Cain said, “you’ve got kind of a sick way of looking at things. Maybe you ought to meet some real people sometime. The kind who work for a living.”
“Bill works harder than anybody I know,” said Carol. “That’s one of the things I like about him.”
“But you think he’d double-cross you if it worked out better for him that way?”
“Why not?”
Cain shook his head. “If I was your guy,” he said, “you could expect just a touch more from me.”
“That’s very comforting,” said Carol. “But you needn’t worry about finding yourself in that spot.”
“God forbid!” said Cain piously.
2
Starting for his first lesson with Summers the next morning, Cain was reminded of being slicked up as a kid and shipped off to Sunday school. A grim necessity, his father had called it. You didn’t want to go, but you’d signed up and it wasn’t the square thing to go back on a contract. After his evening at the Tinsel Club, Cain had a hankering for the smell of hot iron, for the hiss of a welding torch in his hands. But he was signed up.
None of the Stoddard family appeared for breakfast and Cain went through the solemn formality of being served his bacon and eggs by Richards. He inquired for Edgar and learned that the old man always had his breakfast at seven sharp.
“He has retired to the garage,” said Richards.
“So early
?”
“Mr. Stoddard spends most of his free time in the garage.”
“What isn’t free time?” Cain asked.
“Dinner parties and the like, sir,” Richards cleared his throat. “I have a notation here from Mrs. Stoddard, sir, asking you to keep this evening free.”
“The lady Elks are meeting, no doubt,” said Cain.
“I believe it is a musicale at Mr. Summers’,” said Richards.
Cain wasted an hour writing letters to a couple of friends of his at the shipyard and then set out to walk to Carnegie Hall. He arrived at Summers’ about fifteen minutes early for his appointment.
Margo looked up from behind her desk. She smiled at the perplexity on Cain’s face. The other occupant of the room was a good six feet of dark-complexioned man, with high cheekbones and straight black hair, worn very long.
“This is Mr. Wolf, Mr. Cain,” Margo said.
“How, Buddy,” said Mr. Wolf.
“How!” said Cain, in a meek voice.
“Have a cigar,” said Mr. Wolf, taking a huge, ornate silver case from the inside pocket of his coat. It was summer tweed in a horse-blanket pattern.
“Thanks,” said Cain, “but I promised my father not to smoke cigars till I was forty-one.”
“Too bad,” said Mr. Wolf. “We of the Five Nations smoke cigars at a very early age.”
“The Five Nations?”
“I discovered a few years ago,” said Mr. Wolf, “that I am of Indian lineage. It seems only proper that I should adopt the customs of my race. For business purposes it is impractical to use it, but my real name is Chief Golden Wolf.”
“The chief,” Margo explained, “is a new pupil like yourself.”
“He may be a new pupil,” said Cain, “but that’s as far as the likeness goes … I hope!”
“I am naturally interested in the music of my native tribes,” said the chief, “so I have come here to learn to render them in the traditional manner.”
“I’ll bet you render them limb from limb,” said Cain. He sat down beside Margo’s desk.
“I owe you a debt of thanks,” said Margo.
“Me?”
“You saved my life yesterday,” she said.
“I saved your life?”
“Robert Royce,” she said, “He had me on the ropes when you walked in.”
“That’s okay,” said Cain, “and don’t worry. Mum’s the word.”
Margo laughed. “Robert is so incredibly childish. Arthur knows where I was.”
There was a clatter above them and Mr. Virgil Cook came down the stairway from the second floor. He wore a light gray suit with a pink shirt and a black bow tie.
“Good morning,” he said briskly to Cain. “Good morning.”
“How, Buddy,” said the chief.
“Margo, if you must borrow my fountain pen to write checks,” said Beany, “you could at least return it.”
“Oh, Beany, I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t know why Mr. Summers ever bothered to keep a diary,” Beany said. “Nothing is under the right dates. And it is full of recipes for lobster newburgh, a lot of figures that are just plain gibberish, addresses, telephone numbers. There’s no more order to it than there is to his desk. Well, I must get back to work. Don’t ever set out to write the biography of an untidy man, Mr. Cain.”
“I promise,” Cain said.
“See you tonight,” said Beany. He disappeared up the stairs.
“You’re about to be victimized,” Margo said. “Arthur has what he calls a class once a week. Some of his pupils sing for a few friends. The new ones are called on in the beginning so we can see how they improve with time. You and the chief are the novices for this evening.”
Cain spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “How come Summers fools around with this phony Indian?”
Margo shrugged. “He’s never done any work with Indian music. It interests him.”
“He can go to his church and I’ll go to mine,” said Cain. A burst of maniacal laughter from the next room interrupted him. “Good God, what’s that?”
“Rosokov!” Margo laughed. “That’s the Mephistopheles’ Serenade from Faust.”
Cain shook his head. “I’ve got a lot to learn about this business. But that Rosokov wasn’t kidding when he talked about a set of bellows.”
Margo glanced at the chief and then lowered her voice. “I hear you were in a mix-up at the Tinsel Club last night.”
“Where did you hear about it?”
“That nice red-headed policeman was in here this morning early.”
“Bradley?”
“Poor Joe Egan,” said Margo. “He seems to have gone completely haywire.”
“He’s got no doubts about Brackett,” said Cain.
“That’s so ridiculous. Bill hasn’t looked at anyone since he met Carol.” The buzzer over the desk sounded. “Well, you’re the next patient, Cain. Go right in,”
Summers was sitting at the piano, “Morning, Pat.”
“Hi,” said Cain.
“Take off your coat and loosen your collar,” said Summers. “We’ll get right down to work.”
“Best two out of three falls,” said Cain,
“We have to understand the theory of this thing before we begin,” Summers said. “The whole principle of singing has to do with breathing. It’s the breath passing through the vocal cords that creates the sound. The roof of the mouth is a sounding board against which the sound first strikes. The teeth and the tongue give you your diction. The first thing you have to remember is that the volume and control of your voice are not centered in your throat. Most amateurs damn near choke themselves to death straining their throat muscles. Your power and control come from the diaphragm.”
“Diaphragm?”
“Your gut!” said Summers. “Take a deep breath and hold it with those diaphragm muscles. Now, control the sound from there! Ugh! Ah! Wow! Here, put your hand on my stomach. Feel how the control is centered there? Try it.”
“Ugh! Ah! Wow!” Cain shouted.
“Keep your throat muscles loose. Your throat is just a shaft through which the air is forced.”
“Ugh! Ah! Wow!” Cain tried it again.
“That’s it. Now we try sustaining a single note. Sing on the one note like this: Mee-may-mah-maw-mee! Go ahead, try it”
“Mee-may-mah-maw-mee!” Cain sang.
“Fine. Now up half a tone.” Summers struck the chord.
“Mee-may-mah-maw-mee.”
“Good. Another half tone up.”
“I-feel-so-God-damn-silly!” Cain sang.
Summers relaxed, laughing. “You’ll get over feeling self-conscious about weird sounds,” he said. “These exercises are simply contrived to get you using all the … the moving parts as you might say of a machine. The breath, the sound, the diction. We have the one for the vowel sounds, which are most difficult. Try: Eee-ay-ah-aw-oo!”
“Eee-ay-ah-aw-oo!” Cain sang. “Hell, you can feel it in your stomach.”
“Sure you can,” said Summers. “Now, this takes it all in. Sing: This-is-a-very-fine-day! … Then up half a tone: I-don’t-care what you say! That gives you both vowel and consonant sounds, lips and teeth.”
Cain tried it. “Say, you really get a workout at this, don’t you?”
“Sure you do,” said Summers. “Take it easy for a minute. Did Margo tell you about the class tonight?”
“Yes,” said Cain.
Summers rubbed a hand over his eyes. “It’s going to be rather an odd party. We’re to be honored by the police. That Inspector Bradley thinks he might get somewhere talking to some of my people informally. It seems to me he’s only stirring up a hornet’s nest. Even if he finds out who Lydia’s boyfriend was it won’t bring her back or put him in jail.”
“It’s the district attorney who’s interested,” Cain said. “Bradley’s just following orders.”
“It’s damned unpleasant and something of a nuisance,” said Summers. “He’s been here twice in
the last twenty-four hours. Well, let’s get back at this, Pat.” He struck a chord. “Mee-may-mah-maw-mee.”
“If the boys at the shipyard could only see me now!” said Cain.
Chapter Six
1
When his part in the musicale at Summers’ studio that evening was over Cain felt much as he had on a certain afternoon when he had sat behind a rock in the broiling Spanish sun, a wound in his foot, a battered machine gun braced between his legs while a group of Franco’s little playboys charged his position. On the fourth charge Cain had used his last belt of ammunition. He couldn’t get away because of his foot. He knew when they came again he was done for. But they didn’t come!
That same incredible relief was what he experienced when he finished singing Mandalay for the assembled gathering. The ordeal wouldn’t have been so bad if the people had all been strangers. Instead it was a small party and Cain knew all but two of the people present. The Stoddards had come; Emily full of brittle cheer and encouragement, Edgar with the air of one forcibly dragged to a wake, Carol distant and looking as if she had put herself through a day of misery.
On the way to Carnegie Hall in the car Cain and Carol sat on the little folding seats in front of the elder Stoddards.
“If you’re still worrying about Bill,” Cain said, leaning close to her, “Margo Reed said today it was ridiculous. She said he hasn’t looked at anyone since he met you.”
“You think I’ve been stewing over that all day?”
“Yes,” said Cain.
Carol didn’t answer.
In addition to Summers and Margo and Beany Cook and Robert Royce there were Mrs. Naomi Wilder, the numerologist, decked out in a black satin evening dress cut for a girl of twenty, and enough clanking metal for Marley’s ghost; the huge hairy Rosokov who presented a tiny, doll-like wife who couldn’t have been over four feet eight. She was one of the strangers to Cain, and she turned out to have a lovely coloratura voice. Margo explained to Cain that she was a far greater artist than Rosokov, but that she had given up her career at his insistence. The other stranger was a Mr. Bartholomew Schenk. He was, he told Cain, an operatic acting coach who had a studio on the same floor and worked with some of Summers’ pupils including Rosokov. Mr. Schenk was fifty, fat, and bald as a billiard ball. His conversation consisted of a series of dramatic pantomimes, punctuated by a pair of shooting starched cuffs. These he would snap down over his thick wrists and then they would suddenly disappear, apparently drawn back by invisible elastics. Finally there was Chief Golden Wolf in full Indian regalia, fringed pants, buckskin blouse, and feathered headdress, saying “How, Buddy!” to everyone. To Cain he said that on party occasions he always wore his native attire. Unfortunately, he added, it was not practical for business purposes.
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