Meanwhile Back at the Morgue

by Michael Avallone

  I coughed loud enough for Marcus to lift his tired head from his hands.

  “Beautiful come-on, lady,” I said, unfriendly enough. “What do you do for an encore?”

  She smiled so I could count her dazzling teeth. I saw eyelashes a foot long and eyes with all the colors of the rainbow in them.

  “I am Fran Tulip,” she said. “I live in Brooklyn.”

  I didn’t laugh. “Naturally, Brooklyn. Tulip for Roses. Oh happy insanity.” I went back to the bottle and poured. I forgot my manners and didn’t offer the dream any. Dreams don’t drink. Marcus Manton straightened his tie and folded his curly ringlets back over his large head. The showman in him had returned. His black eyes glinted dollar signs as they took in the specter of the tulip.

  “Fran Tulip,” his cash-register rumble said aloud. “Great. That’ll be just perfect on a marquee.”

  Fran Tulip smiled, still standing like a lovely statue in the center of my office. “I knew you would think so, Mr. Manton.”

  Marcus smiled. It was almost a blush. Miss Tulip was no stranger to the male blush. I could see that. She lowered the foot-long lashes and placed a pure pink tongue between her superb teeth and moistened lips of the kind that you only see on ads in subways.

  Marcus got hold of himself. His eyes bulged out.

  “Damn, you’re perfect for it! Where have you been? I thought I’d seen every pretty face in this town. But you—you’re unbeatable, out of this world. Why, you’d even make Liz Taylor take second place, and as Frankie would say, that’s going a gasser! Ed, she’s—” He swung on me, groping for another superlative. Miss Fran Tulip stood triumphantly behind him.

  I showed Marcus my Missouri leer. The one that didn’t believe anything it heard, little of what it saw.

  “That’s right, Marcus old sock. Accept her cold. Don’t ask her questions. Don’t wonder how the hell she got here or what she’s doing here in the first place. Don’t ask her why she shows up now, when you’ve got nobody. Don’t ask who her agent is, whether she has her Equity card or if she’s got any acting experience at all. Please leave all of that to me. I’m the detective, not you. But honestly, Marcus, aren’t you even just a little bit curious?”

  That stalled him. But only for a minute. He shook me off with an exasperated growl and returned to his prodigy. Marcus Manton, the showman and starmaker, was in full swing. To hell with the norm. Down with the usual. This was it!

  “Dammit!” he bellowed. “You ask her. I don’t care. Look at her. Audiences will flip when they see her standing in the rain in Act One. She’s a flower, all right. Roses, orchids, geraniums—you name it. She’s the whole damn garden of Eden.” He paused suddenly, his eyes turning to the window, where he saw a neon sign about a hundred feet high. He fanned his ring-studded fingers. “I can see it now: “Fran Tulip, the American Beauty, in Roses in the Rain.”

  It was damn impressive. I had another drink. I’d been without food too long as it was. The tall beauty laughed. Lightly, politely and charmingly.

  “You drink very neatly, Mr. Noon.”

  Only I heard the scorn in her voice. Marcus was too drunk with his production, taking a new lease on life as well as on Broadway. He was already at the phone, pulling out a pad, fumbling for a pencil, dialing like a newspaper cub on his first story. That was Marcus and the enthusiastic bounce to every ounce that had built the Manton Building.

  I studied Fran Tulip, knowing the name was phony, she was phony, the case was phony and everything was as improper as certain English verbs. She knew I knew. She gave me the smile that had banked on Marcus Manton’s doing just what he was doing now. She had relied heavily on her personal appearance, and won. I saluted her with a nightcap and corked the bottle.

  “You win for now, Miss Tulip,” I said, above Marcus’ roaring into the phone. “We’ll save the questionnaire I want you to fill out for later. I’m too hungry to think straight. But whose baby are you?”

  Her smile evaporated slowly. Like the moon easing behind a white cloud.

  “You drink too much,” she said coldly. “And you think too much. If you have nothing to do with the production of Roses in the Rain, then please do not bother me.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” I frowned. “I might be a backer. Or the director. You should be more careful, Miss Tulip. I could fix your clock good.”

  The smile came back. The smile that would have laid nine good men and true out in a neat pile ready to die for her.

  “I know who you are, Mr. Noon. A detective. You do not concern me. I am only an actress ready to do the part of her life.”

  “That’s your story, but I’m not stuck with it. Who sent you here? Von Arnheim? Bud Tremont? Or are you on Miss de Milo’s payroll?”

  “You are drunk. Those names mean nothing to me.”

  “Okay, Fran Tulip. You’ve sold Marcus for tonight. But not me. Tomorrow you have to sell me. I’ll be a lot harder. Take my word for it.”

  Her eyes raised at that. “Really, Mr. Noon? You can’t be so different from other men. You seem pretty basic to me, for all your bluster and oafish words.”

  I laughed and dropped the subject. “I guess you told me.” I went back to my chair and sagged into it, the whisky hitting home. I felt sleepy now. And Marcus was still waking up newspapermen and offices in the dead of night to plant publicity releases and all that guff. Great little organizer, Marcus Manton.

  Fran Tulip remained where she was—in the center of the office, the center of attention. An unseen spotlight had her riveted and pinpointed. She might have been standing under a halo of changing colors and moods. She knew how to stand. I regarded her sleepily, trying to think of something sensible, but I couldn’t. The pace of the mad day had caught up with me.

  I suddenly noticed her clothes. They hadn’t seemed very important up to that point. A tightly belted woman’s trench coat that showed off her figure the way a four-alarm fire displays the warehouse it’s burning to the ground. But now I knew the clothes were important. Marcus’ crack about Act One had convinced me. Even though I hadn’t read the play, I’d bet anything that Annalee was dressed exactly the same way. Shrewd cookie, Fran Tulip.

  Marcus hung up my phone with a noisy burst of satisfaction. The white bandage on his ear was sidesaddle, but he had long since forgotten it. He was going through the first great pangs of discovery. It was good medicine for him. He closed in on Fran Tulip as if he were going to hug her to see if she was real.

  “You are the incredible phoning man,” I suggested.

  He grinned. “Put it on my bill. We’re all going to be millionaires, Ed. And now, Miss Tulip, you’re coming with me. I’m putting you under lock and key until tomorrow when I spring you on Karl Leader. When he sees you, he’ll drop dead.”

  That’s what I like about Marcus Manton. He’d forgotten all about somebody’s trying to murder him.

  Miss Tulip purred. “Karl Leader is directing Roses? Why, that’s wonderful, Mr. Manton! He’s an artist.”

  “Damn right,” Marcus boomed. “The best director in captivity, and I’ve got him. Three movie Oscars, five Emmy Awards and six Academy nominations. I had to move armies to get him for Roses. He wanted to go to Tahiti for a rest, but once he read the script and saw the green of my money he was hooked. Probably could have got him for half of what I’m paying him, at that. But I don’t care. I work only with aces. Like Ed here. And I’ve got another ace in you, Miss Tulip. Though you’re more like a queen.” He paused, uneasily, which was unusual for him. “Damn, but you are an ace! An ace with a face!”

  Fran Tulip looked at me intently.

  “Mr. Noon doesn’t share your enthusiasm, Mr. Manton.”

  “Who, me?” I asked dryly.

  Marcus went into his Edward Arnold laugh.

  “Ed’s a detective. He doesn’t trust anybody. Until he was seven, he suspected his mother of trying to poison him. When he was ten he asked his father to prove his parenthood by showing him a marriage license and a birth certificate.”

 
; I didn’t laugh. Neither did Fran Tulip.

  “That’s not funny, Marcus,” I said. “Guys like you killed vaudeville.”

  Marcus sobered instantly. He took Fran Tulip’s hand and guided her to the front door. She let herself be guided, moving smoothly and easily like the queen she was.

  “Well, Eddie boy, we’ll go over things tomorrow, like I said. It’s your job anyway. I’m getting Miss Tulip to a place where I can keep an eye on her.” He chuckled. “I can see Lisa’s expression when she spots Fran.” He was really enjoying himself now. The chuckle left him gasping, his eyes wet.

  I shook my head from the depths of my chair.

  “Lisa took a shot at you once, Marcus. Think that over while you’re laughing yourself sick.”

  He’d already thought it over and had stopped laughing. He put a big hand on the doorknob.

  “Never-forget-anything Noon. Call you tomorrow, Ed. I’ll be in the office all day.”

  “Sure. Good night, Marcus. See you again, Miss Fran Tulip.”

  She turned slightly and her unforgettable eyes bored deep into mine. Her red mouth widened in a faint smile.

  “You certainly shall, Mr. Noon.”

  The husky intonation of the line hung in the tiny office long after they had left. I went to sleep in the desk chair still hearing it, still remembering the beautiful oval of her face and the dramatic curve of her body as she looked standing in the center of the office.

  I slept dreamlessly because I went to dreamland counting Von Arnheim jumping over the bodies of all the suspects. The baron was having a ball with all his charts and figures.

  He never made the fifth suspect. I was asleep by then and the rest was nothingness.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The next day dawned bright and clear on my empty stomach. My howlingly empty stomach. I dressed up properly, cut myself shaving and lammed out of the office on the double. I was down the elevator and out on the sidewalk, blinking in some unseasonal sunlight, when I first got back to thinking about crazy yesterday. The Marcus Manton caper with all the hops, skips and jumps of murder and attempted murder. I shuddered inwardly, thinking about the impossible string of goofy suspects that had piled up in one day.

  I ticked them off in my mind as my size nines guided me toward the combination drugstore and luncheonette on the corner. Lisa de Milo, Bud Tremont, Von Arnheim and now the fantastic Fran Tulip who had dropped off Cloud Nine into the heart of the case. All of them had good reason to kill. I mentally added Marcus Manton to the suspect list. I didn’t trust him either any more. Sure, he’d done the hiring, but his showman’s brain was capable of anything, bad ear or no bad ear. I could still see the .32 he had pointed in my kisser.

  I beelined for a red leather stool at the other end of the long counter, and sat down. My watch said ten thirty-two. The store was deserted except for the counterman and the druggist. The druggist was checking off a load of headache powders by his cash register. The counterman was wiping off his griddle when I interrupted him by arriving. I kept my eyes on the front door, my back to the rear of the store, à la Wild Bill Hickok. The habit was always a good one. In the last century I would have been a cinch to be either a sheriff or an outlaw. I’m a gunslinger as it is.

  I went all out for breakfast. Cold cereal, pancakes, sausages and coffee, plus a beaker of orange juice. The counterman showed me a patient smile as he went into his act. I settled back and lit a Camel, burning up some mental wood as well as tobacco.

  It was next-move time. What was my next move? Check with Mike Monks on the Donegan murder? Go see Lisa de Milo and twist her arm? Ask Bud Tremont about the juvenile goon duet named Artie and Tip that he had sicked on my tail? Look up Von Arnheim and find out what crystal ball he was looking into? How about Marcus Manton and his new discovery, the mysterious Miss Fran Tulip? I shuddered under the weight of possibilities. And there was still the tarantula, the falling elevator and the phone call that had exploded in the Manton ear. A gorgeous case all around.

  I was still kicking the gong around when my food arrived. I plunged into the goodies, still thinking. Thinking helped because it took my mind off the badly made coffee, the orange-less orange juice and the rubbery tastelessness of the flapjacks. French chefs are not to be found at lunch counters—that was the only deduction I came up with that morning that was worth anything. The rest was a tangled mess of conclusions and flying guesses. It was my final guess that something else would have to happen before I could come up with anything. It did.

  I was on my second cup of coffee when Miss Fran Tulip walked into the drugstore, explored the place with her mysterious eyes for a full second, saw me and smiled. I saluted her with a raised coffee cup and watched her bridge the twenty-foot distance separating us. Last night’s sleepy evaluation stood up in the cold, clear light of dawn. Standing, walking, sitting, doing just about anything, Miss Fran Tulip was the flower of womanhood beyond compare. She had height, style, grace and sensuality by the foot and by the yard. Something only a handful of movie stars have. Something hardly anybody has unless it’s manufactured. She’d be a standout in Roses in the Rain, even to a myopic critic. Pictorially, she was a knockout. If Hedy La Marr had a twin, Fran Tulip would be it. Hedy La Marr with a Monroe figure, that is.

  “Sit down,” I said, indicating the stool next to me. “Do I have to treat you to breakfast?”

  She wagged her head, folded her arms like she meant business and looked at me. Last night’s trench coat had given way to a three-quarter toggle coat whose beige coloring put an extra glint in her multicolored eyes.

  “Had mine an hour ago, Noon. Thanks, anyway. Look, dad, I want to talk to you.” She was staring at me earnestly, completely ignoring the goggle-eyed counterman. I smiled and looked into her eyes. They were actually brown, going into a deep black. In her exquisitely white, soft face, they were unforgettable. But I forgot about them.

  “I’m glad you’re dropping the Little Theatre English you were using last night, Miss Tulip,” I said. “And that nice overdone husky quality you had. Reminded me of Margaret Sullavan with several dashes of Hepburn. This Jean Arthur brightness sounds more like the real you. You didn’t remind me of an out-of-towner at all. Though you did mention Brooklyn, didn’t you?”

  She shrugged good-naturedly. “Didn’t fool you very much, did I?”

  I pushed my coffee away and reached for my cigarettes. She didn’t want one. I lit up.

  “You were good. Very good. But that theatrical entrance was just too much. You couldn’t be real and come on like that. Nobody could. So I figured you were working for an effect. And it worked. Marcus went for you very big.”

  She smiled thinly, a trifle uncertainly. It threw her classic kisser into another superb study.

  “I thought you were bright, dad. Now I’m glad I decided to look you up. Wasn’t hard to find you. The whole neighborhood knows you. Some kids steered me in here. I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “You’re talking,” I said. “Now say something.”

  She put a tapering, lovely hand on my sleeve. But it was more earnest than enticing.

  “Look, before you run into a dead end on me, let me explain. I don’t want you thinking I’m a murderess or somebody’s front girl or junk like that. Sure I planned all of yesterday. Exactly like I wanted it, too. And one hour from now I get the break of my life. Mr. Manton is taking me to see Karl Leader. I’m going to read, and if it works out—”

  I interrupted her with a smoke ring blown past her.

  “You’re getting ahead of the story. Tell me what I don’t know. Before last night, I mean. Tell me about you.”

  She took a deep breath. “I think I will have some tea, after all. The excitement’s beginning to get me.”

  I ordered some tea, and she opened her purse for her own cigarettes.

  “Okay. I’m twenty-two, I do live in Brooklyn and for four years since Midwood High I’ve been thinking I could be an actress. Everybody thought so. I mean—” She stared down at her lovel
y hands in confusion. “Well—I’m pretty.”

  “You’re beautiful,” I said. “Go on.”

  She thanked me with a smile that would have sold a million dollars’ worth of toothpaste.

  “So I went out. Made the rounds. Three seasons of summer stock with Gateway Theatre—that’s in Bellport, Long Island. All kinds of parts. All kinds of good connections but—”

  Her tea came, in the hands of the counterman, who made a royal gesture out of serving the sugar and cream. She took her tea with no sugar but she stirred with the spoon anyway. Once again I studied her hands. They were indescribably perfect.

  “Go on,” I prodded. “Good connections but—”

  She laid the spoon down beside the cup, with finality.

  “I couldn’t act. I was terrible. Couldn’t remember my lines, couldn’t sustain a character long enough. Didn’t know what to do with my hands. That first summer in Bellport was awful for me. There I was—young, on my way, going to be the most beautiful dramatic actress that ever lived, and I couldn’t hold a candle to the frowziest female in the show. Some of those kids are on Broadway and in the movies right now.”

  “Talent will out in the long run, Miss Tulip. But you said was.”

  She sipped some tea. She sipped like a lady.

  “Well, I’m no dope. I took myself in hand. I couldn’t act, but I had looks. Oh, I’m not talking about the casting-couch bit. I had enough offers but I didn’t want to make it that way. So I did the next best thing. I became a model.” She smiled. “I make a nice living with TV residuals. Ever watch the Nona Hand Cream commercial? Those are my hands.” She held them up for me to see. “And I do all right with Ballin Bathing Suits, too. So I’ve been able to earn a living. I’ve been studying all the time.”