I laughed. “I just make a lot of friends, that’s all. Forget it. Better get ready for your big moment, Annalee. Mr. Manton and the Karl Leader are waiting.” But I couldn’t forget about Lisa de Milo and the earnest appeal her eyes had flashed me. I’d already forgotten about Von Arnheim’s crazy prediction about me shoving good old Marcus off the terrace into Times Square.
Fran braced herself at the last door. She drew herself erect and tilted her lovely chin, and the high cliff of her chest pushed out the toggle coat.
“Into the valley of death…” she quoted in a girlish voice. But I could see she was scared.
“Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,” I added as I urged her gently into the cathedral office where Marcus Manton and Karl Leader were rising to greet us. The king and the high priest of Roses in the Rain.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Marcus Manton looked healthier and happier. The bandage on his ear was new. If anything had happened between him and Lisa de Milo and Bud Tremont, he was covering up beautifully. Either that or the show still came first. He nearly smothered Fran Tulip in a bear hug.
“Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t dreaming last night,” he roared. “Dammit, you look even better in broad daylight. Have a seat. Hi, Ed. You know Karl Leader, don’t you? What do you think of her, Karl? Is she a catch or isn’t she? Do you think of anything but Roses in the Rain when you look at her?”
Karl Leader shook hands with me and smiled hello to Fran without knocking himself out the way Marcus was doing. Winchell had itemed him quite a few times in his column. Apart from being the new Kazan, Leader was an expert fencer, architect, painter and all-around American genius who could also speak and write in seven languages.
I studied him for a moment while we all found chairs. I saw the things Winchell hadn’t mentioned.
Karl Leader was two inches taller than my six feet, light as a dancer on his toes, slender of leg and wide of shoulder. His handshake had been a regular McGlaughlin mash. His face was what society women would call darkly handsome. Lean, lynx-eyed, long thin nose, sensitive mouth. The thin nose hung over a satanically penciled mustache and the sensitive mouth rose above a tricky Van Dyke. He looked smarter than a snake and completely untrustworthy. A man to watch. I watched him.
Fran Tulip hid her nervousness under a tight smile and waited, lovely body held upright in one of Marcus’ ornate chairs. Karl Leader sat on one corner of the boss’ desk, long legs dangling. He placed an arm across his lap and focused his attention on Fran. His face was impassive. He might have been looking at a bug specimen or studying the George Washington Bridge to see what kept it from dropping into the Hudson.
I thought of his hit shows. Two of them, The River’s End and High Above Hell, were still running. I also thought that a guy with two hit shows ought to be wearing something better than mechanic’s slacks and a worn, cracked leather jacket. He wasn’t wearing a tie because you don’t wear ties with Basque shirts. But a director with nothing but hits can do whatever the hell he wants. He can even sit on the corner of Marcus Manton’s African mahogany desk.
“Miss Tulip,” Karl Leader said suddenly, his voice something to lure little girls into the bushes with, “Do you know the Gettysburg Address? Can you do any section of it?”
That almost threw her. She colored for a second but recovered instantly. “Yes, Mr. Leader, I do. But I’m afraid I don’t understand….”
Karl Leader smiled a nothing smile. “Please do it for us. Yours not to reason why. Yours but to do and die.” Everybody was charging with The Light Brigade this morning.
For a second I figured he had his authors scrambled, but then I realized he had asked her to “do” the Gettysburg Address, not recite it. I looked at Fran, almost as much interested as Marcus and Leader were.
She smiled at all of us, then lost the smile and plunged into the address. She hadn’t gone five lines when it was pretty plain that Miss Fran Tulip knew what she was doing. She was simple, beautifully eloquent and touching. She wasn’t Lincoln, of course, but she wasn’t supposed to be.
Marcus was beaming with satisfaction over one of his five-dollar cigars. Karl Leader held up his hand just as Fran was working her way past “It is for us, the living, rather….”
“Thank you, Miss Tulip,” he purred perfunctorily. “That was excellent.”
“Well, Karl?” Marcus jumped on him. “Is she or isn’t she? She’ll make mincemeat out of Annalee.”
Karl Leader nodded, his eyes still grilling Fran.
“Marcus tells me you made quite an entrance last night. I am equally impressed now, my dear. Your appearance is startling. You are not only beautiful—you are a work of art. I am delighted that your vocal ability matches your appearance. You’d be surprised how often we get a Claire Bloom face with a Martha Raye voice. The Lincoln speech is excellent for detecting bad tricks of voice and interpretation. The words are very nearly perfect, and you knew how to use them. My congratulations again. Now I am going to give you a copy of Roses in the Rain to read. I want you to take it home and read it and absorb it and bathe in it until you think you know what the play is about backwards and forwards. Tomorrow we will go over your notions and ideas thoroughly. Then I will tell you what I want you to be, as Annalee, But for now, as far as I am concerned, I think you will be ideal.”
Words, words. But the words aspiring young actresses go through lifetimes of anxiety to hear. She flushed, blushed, tried not to smile, then broke out into the biggest one of her young life.
Karl Leader didn’t move from the corner of the desk, but spoke over his shoulder to Marcus. “We can begin rehearsal a week from today, Marcus. You’ll have your show in ten weeks. And that’s a promise.”
Marcus rubbed his hands. “This calls for a drink. A double.” He bounced out of his chair and bounced over to his portable bar. “What’ll it be, Fran? I know what the boys drink.”
She rose from her chair and went over to help him with the drinks. I smiled at Karl Leader from the depths of my chair. His eyebrows rose in mild puzzlement. Every move, every nuance of the man’s face and body was a study in control. Nothing could happen, nothing could show, unless he wanted it to.
“You seem to have something on your mind, Mr. Noon?”
“I have, Mr. Leader,” I said. “And it’s not Roses in the Rain. You’ve read about Darlene Donegan’s murder. The police are going to be all over your play, looking for murderers.”
Karl Leader shrugged the barest shrug.
“The police do not concern me. The publicity will help the box office enormously. I do not intend to allow a beautiful play to be delayed any further. About Donegan I have few regrets. A great show woman but a very bad actress, really. I must confess to boredom with musical comedy. But, as I say, Roses is my only concern at this time.”
I stretched my legs and stood up. “How about Marcus and all those threats? You have any ideas about who might be trying to knock him off and spoil his show?”
Karl Leader’s pointed beard bobbed with his smile.
“You are the detective, aren’t you?”
“Type-casting,” I said.
“I’m afraid you aren’t keen enough, Mr. Noon, for detection and deduction-type heroes. You seem more the physical type-direct and one-two-three in thought and tempo. Be Marcus’ bodyguard and let the police do all the brainwork.”
I could see we were going to be great friends. He was an expert at not talking about what he didn’t want to talk about.
“Do you have a handkerchief on you, Mr. Leader?”
That startled him. “I beg your pardon, but I do not. Why?”
I showed him my teeth. “Just wanted to wipe your spit out of my eye. Thanks, anyway.”
Marcus came over with a Scotch on the rocks for me and a stinger for Leader. That made it two stingers in a row. Fran was breathless and still excited, a whisky sour in her slender fingers. Marcus was quite the bartender when he concentrated on the job.
We all toasted Roses and Fran in a lon
g gulp. Leader’s eyes studied me over his glass. I couldn’t understand Marcus’ good humor, in view of all that had happened. I drew him to one side while Karl Leader interviewed Fran in his cultured, low voice.
“You’re pretty chipper, Marcus, aren’t you? What about Lisa and Tremont? They make a scene in here?”
He made a sour face. “They were looking for you. Tremont was mad about the cops working him over. To hell with them. Now that it’s out in the open, I’m forgetting about Lisa, too. Soon as she took up with Tremont she laid herself right off my payroll. Let Tremont pay her bills if he can.”
“She loves him, Marcus. Believe it or not.”
“I believe it,” he said soberly. “Lisa’s got a lotta fine qualities when you get to know her.”
“What about the cops? Monks been back here?”
“Your ugly friend has his boys all over the building. Those four poor kids. One of them is still in the hospital for shock. Dammit, I feel responsible for that somehow.”
I shook my head. “That’s like blaming yourself for a war. Well, you’ve got your play on the road. Maybe you’ll live to see it on Broadway yet.”
“I hope so. Let’s drink to that.” He shivered.
We did, and I suddenly remembered Von Arnheim and his crazy prediction. I also wondered why he hadn’t shown up yet. By some major coincidence, Marcus had moved through the French doors out to the terrace and I had moved along with him almost automatically. It was screwy, but my eyes were drawn to my watch, almost furtively. It was close to twelve. The “Noon” hour.
Broadway raced by below, streaming with cars and ants. Horns blared, bells clanged and muted hums of noise reached up to us sixteen floors above the street. Marcus jammed himself over the stone railing and stared down at the main artery, cigar smoke swirling about his shoulders. I was reminded of Notre Dame and the gargoyles. It was a little scary now, in view of Von Arnheim’s success with his charts and figures. I had to get hold of myself, as silly as it sounds.
“Funny, isn’t it, Ed?” Marcus said suddenly, not turning to look at me. “Up here it all seems so different, so easy. The world is yours, and junk like that. Soon as you take the elevator and go down you become an ant again. Life! Who the hell can figure it out sometimes?”
“A man who can figure out death,” I said quietly. Behind us I could see Karl Leader in close conference with Fran Tulip. She looked as rapt as a child listening to a ghost story.
Marcus laughed. “Somebody killed Darlene, all right. Sent me a tarantula, fixed that elevator, worked that routine with my phone. But who? Who would want to deck me out? I’ve done plenty in my time, but I can’t figure one person’s going to all this trouble to stop me and my show. Maybe it’s an organization. A whole army of enemies.”
“Could be,” I said, folding my arms and leaning against the low parapet alongside him. “I figure Darlene was killed by somebody who thought she was going to play the lead in your show. That is, if our theory about your being the victim of all this skullduggery holds.”
Marcus swiveled his bull head and looked at me, the cigar jutting from one corner of his roomy mouth. “Maybe I ought to do myself a favor and jump off this damn terrace. That way it’d all be over. No more shows, murders or giving three-quarters of your dough to unloving wives, the government—Ahhhh.” He took a halfhearted lean over the parapet and I guess I must have panicked. Either that or Von Arnheim’s damn sales pitch had been too much for me.
I say that because I reached out and grabbed Marcus by the arms, automatically, without thinking. He froze in my grasp and whirled, sputtering with fright, his eyes popping with surprise and fear. The look on my face must have scared him.
“Ed—for heaven’s sake—let me go, will you?”
I let him go, relief flooding through me, feeling the sweat cooling my forehead, hearing the crisp, military voice behind me snap out in precise English, “It is beautiful out here on the terrace, is it not, Herr Noon?”
Beautiful, sure. Beautiful and nuts.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Marcus Manton recovered his old look and I turned weakly to regard Leopold Kurtz Von Arnheim with something akin to awe. Sure, I hadn’t tried to push my meal ticket off the terrace, as he had predicted, but I had certainly wrestled with him on his terrace, no matter what my motives had been. Damn, it was nuts. And Von Arnheim’s slitted eyes were twinkling with mockery as he leaned with Music Hall relish on his black Malacca walking stick.
Marcus’ face broke into a sales-pitch smile at sight of him. He even was relieved by the interruption, thanks to my nutty behavior.
Somewhat shaken, I introduced the two men.
Von Arnheim transferred the sword cane to his other arm, bowed slightly and extended a gloved hand to Marcus.
“You have read Von Arnheim, ja, Mr. Marcus? Gut. Sehr gut. I am pleased we have mutual interests in our friend Mr. Noon.”
Marcus frowned. “How’s that again? You and Ed know each other?” He was still frowning when he looked at me. I shrugged.
“But of course,” Von Arnheim purred. “Our dear Noon and I are old friends. We share much the same theories regarding death, do we not, Mr. Noon?”
“Oh, decidedly, Baron,” I said. “Let’s go get another drink. I’m thirsty.”
Marcus shrugged, but he clapped a hand around Von Arnheim’s shoulders and led us into the office. I could see Marcus made friends very easily.
The atmosphere in the office was unchanged. Karl Leader still had one of Fran Tulip’s exquisite hands clasped in his as he extolled to her the virtues of Roses in the Rain. He had her spellbound. Small wonder. It was the part of a lifetime and the big chance of her own twenty-two years. But they both looked up as the three of us returned. Von Arnheim must have slipped quietly by them. Either unnoticed or without comment.
Marcus made introductions all around and more glass and ice tinkled. Suddenly I was weary. I wanted out. I could hardly wait. I felt less like a detective and more like a social lion with nothing to do. Karl Leader and Von Arnheim fell into a real grapple about Death—The Last Essay, a book on which the baron was currently working. Leader was fascinated, now that the subject had been changed from roses to floral wreaths. Fran was excited and thrilled by all the great talk flying around her. To her unschooled eyes Von Arnheim, Karl Leader and Marcus Manton were as impressive as members of a summit conference.
“Ed,” she breathed huskily, “pinch me. I can’t believe all this is true.”
“If I pinch you it won’t be because you’re dreaming. You about ready to leave? I’m getting restless.”
Marcus suddenly broke out of the general discussion and riveted his black eyes on me. His curly black locks, still holding off the advance of gray, were falling across his wide forehead.
“Well, Fran, you run along with Ed. Karl and I will line up some of the schedule stuff and junk like that. Just go home and read that play. In three months Broadway will have a new star. Marcus Manton gives you his word on it.”
I managed a tired smile. “You have the word of the ace.”
He glowered at me as Von Arnheim made his bowing farewell to Fran. He kissed her outstretched hand with real class. Karl Leader stood, smiling coolly, his Van Dyke and mustache making his face more satanic than hell.
“Good-bye, Fran,” he said meaningfully. “See you tomorrow. Learn your sides as quickly as possible.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order. For all her naïveté and excitement, Fran Tulip didn’t miss her cue.
“Certainly, Mr. Leader. I mean—sure. You bet.” I took her arm before she fell all over herself with apologies.
“If you’re not busy later,” Marcus growled at me, “come to the apartment and see me. We’ll talk things over. You know where it is.”
“I know where it is,” I said. “So long, Baron. Don’t take any wooden crosses.”
Von Arnheim chuckled softly. “Auf Wiedersehen, Mr. Noon. Guten abend, mein fraulein.”
We left them like that: Von Arnheim
chuckling softly, Karl Leader playing Devil and Marcus Manton ruling all with a grand hand. I was sick of it. I couldn’t get out of the building fast enough. I was too bored even to give Miss Carmody a parting shot, bad as she needed it.
Downstairs, on the sidewalk, I took several deep breaths of air. The Manhattan afternoon was suddenly colder and brisker. Traffic seemed to whip by, life going on its familiar, crazy, mixed-up New York way.
I looked at Fran Tulip. She was humming happily, clear-eyed and supremely beautiful in her beige toggle coat. I sighed.
She laughed and squeezed me as if we’d known each other for years.
“Don’t be gloomy, Eddie boy. This is Fran’s big day. Be happy with Fran. Your face is longer than your arm.”
“Sorry, Fran. Where does Fran live?”
“West Seventy-first. A lovely dump. And you’re coming home with me. And I’m going to make you dinner. What do you say?”
“Sounds like fun.” I hailed a cab. We got one fast and climbed in. “Anything to drink on the premises? If we’re celebrating, we have to drink something.”
She huddled next to me in the rear, as affectionate as a newborn kitten. Her head rested easily on my shoulder.
“You name it, I’ve got it.” We were hardly out of Times Square and cutting past Columbus Circle when she suddenly took my worried face in her two slender hands and gave me a long, cool kiss. Before the kiss warmed up she broke away with a light laugh.
I was surprised, but I said, “Again. I wasn’t ready for you that time.”
She looked at me, her face breaking away from humor, suddenly going naked and red hot with something besides the temperature of the heated cab. Without another word, she melted in my arms. I folded her in them neatly and kept her that way for a long time.
“Seventy-first Street,” the driver said in a dull, bored voice. We broke apart a little breathlessly and laughed together. I paid the driver and followed Fran up a stone stoop into a narrow hallway and down the hall to the first white door in the building. Apartment One.
Meanwhile Back at the Morgue Page 10
