Finally the phone unhooked at the other end and a very fuzzy voice rumbled off-key, “Yeah. Kelly’s Bar and Grill. Kelly speaking.”
“Top o’ the mornin’, Irish. This is Ed Noon. Hope I woke you up. I need two good Irish eyes right now.”
He laughed right out of his socks. “Hello, trouble. You ought to be in bed yet. What’s on your alert young mind now?”
I laughed. “Jitterbugs. German ones. Look out your window and see if anybody’s hanging around, will you? It’s important.”
“’Course it’s important,” Kelly snorted. “When ain’t it important? You just never make a social call, Ed. Hold on now.” I waited while he put the phone down and ambled over to the big window. I had time to light a Camel before he got back to me. He was chuckling now.
“Oh, yes, if you please. There’s a Jaguar as big as life in front of your building and your little foreign friend is sitting bright as you please, waiting for you to come out, I guess. He looks real pretty this morning. Any messages for him?”
You feel great when hunches pay off. “Just waddle over and tell him to meet me in Marcus Manton’s office at two o’clock. Just that. Got it?”
“Is that all?” Kelly grunted. “I thought you’d want me to take his sword cane away from him. I’m disappointed.”
“Don’t be, Kelly. It’s not a sword cane. He’s got a gun of some kind in that stick, with a silencer attached.” Fran Tulip put her script down for real. I just nodded. “Thanks, Kelly. See you tonight, maybe. And be careful.”
Fran wanted to talk about Von Arnheim’s walking stick, but I motioned her back to the script and dialed Marcus’ office. I got Miss Carmody, naturally. I didn’t want to talk to her. “Ed Noon to speak to Marcus Manton,” I said as briskly as I could. But she wasn’t letting me off that easy.
“Well—I’d like to give you a piece of my mind. Of all the rude, uncouth, ungentlemanly—” I held the phone away from my ear. And cut into the transmitter.
“I don’t want the last piece, Miss Carmody. Save it for somebody else. Mr. Manton, if you please.”
She started to cackle all over again but her secretarial instincts must have kept her fingers moving. There was a buzz and a click and Marcus Manton’s bulldog roar barked into the phone.
“Where the hell were you last night? I waited all night and had no damn luck ringing you. Don’t disappear like that when I need you—”
“I’m here now,” I said a trifle coolly, “so stop hollering. I don’t want an ear like yours.”
His voice lowered suspiciously. “Where were you, anyway? I even rang Fran Tulip’s last night because you left with her. Ed, this is no time to start picking lillies off the bush.”
“You mean roses, don’t you? Marcus, hang on to your desk. I’ll be at your office at two o’clock. With Miss Tulip. The cops will be there, too. And they’re making sure that Tremont and Lisa and Von Arnheim attend the class. I want you to be there. And that Leader character, too. Did you get all that or should I recite more slowly?”
His snort was prodigious. “Just what in hell are you up to anyhow, Ed? This is no time for a get-together or a party. Have you gone nuts?”
I laughed. “Not at this late date. I just thought you’d like to meet the murderer of Darlene Donegan face to face. And the person who’s been causing everybody so much trouble.”
Now he was whispering.
“Ed, you’re kidding. Why, that’s great! If you can do that, you’re an ace. An absolute ace!” He guarded his mouth. “Who is it?”
“You’ll find out like everybody else at two o’clock. Be there.” I hung up.
The manuscript of Roses in the Rain held no magic for Fran Tulip now. She stared at me incredulously over the clutter of breakfast. Her eyes were wide with admiration at the big rabbit I had just set down on the table.
“You weren’t fooling, Ed? You mean you know who killed Donegan? Why, that’s wonderful.”
“Let’s not talk about it,” I said wearily. “But I would like another cup of coffee, Fran. Before things start popping at two o’clock.”
Before she went for the coffee, she stared at me.
“You wouldn’t tell me who it is, would you?”
I looked at her. “No, I wouldn’t. Now how about that coffee?”
Her tall figure disappeared into the kitchen and I stamped my cigarette out in an ash tray. I watched the cigarette die and thought about Darlene Donegan with her eyes bulging out like a squashed bullfrog. There was no business like show business, all right.
But there’s no business like murder business either.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
After breakfast I kissed Fran Tulip good-bye and told her I’d meet her at two o’clock in the Manton Building. I had things to do and she seemed to understand. She was still wide-eyed at what seemed like a miracle to her—my knowing who a murderer was. But she was still a little dreamy-eyed from the night before. Between the two reactions, I couldn’t be sure what she was really thinking. She may have guessed she was a suspect herself. I left her standing in the doorway, smiling me off, a soft look making her lovely face lovelier. It made me feel funny. As if I’d been married three years to the most beautiful girl in the world.
I took another cab. It was a real cab case. And the Buick still sitting in the garage on West Fifty-sixth. Well, it was almost over. Dimly, I thought of vacations and Tahiti and painting. I didn’t believe that stuff about the half-naked brown-skinned babes for a minute, but it would be nice. Gun smoke in the nostrils was beginning to get me.
I thought also about the cast of characters in my latest dilemma: Marcus Manton, Lisa de Milo, Bud Tremont, Von Arnheim, Fran Tulip and Darlene Donegan. Even Karl Leader and Miss Carmody. And Artie and Tip. Now there was a choice list.
My first stop was the office. Von Arnheim’s Jaguar was nowhere in sight so I assumed Kelly had delivered my message. I hurried upstairs. The office was quiet and familiar, as always. I checked my mail under the door. The usual circulars and charity junk. I flicked on the overheads and got myself organized for the Marcus Manton affair.
One of the pieces of mail was pretty interesting. A long white envelope from Fromsett Publishers claimed that This Day of the Dead was out of print and for further information would I please get in touch with Manton Productions, Box 60, New York. Now that was something to think about. I thought about it as I cleaned up.
A shave, some instant coffee and a clean shirt and socks. I dolled up. I parked my cadet-gray blue suit for a charcoal gray that made me look something like William Holden in Executive Suite. Funny about small things like a shave and clean clothes. They make you feel like a movie star and a million bucks. Or a movie star with a million bucks.
The clock on the desk was a new one that said twenty-five to eleven. I had some time to kill. I killed it. I sat back in my swivel chair and idly trained my .45 on the front door, which I had left half ajar. By my calculations, I’d be having company pretty soon. I didn’t know exactly who or when, but I was as sure of company as a farmer is of eventual rain.
I’d set all the wheels in motion. The game was on. But where the little ball would stop, nobody knew. A killer was loose among us, as the saying goes, and the killer was in the game, too, using a killer’s rules. That was the only thing I knew for sure, but, like all good scouts, I was prepared.
I didn’t wait too long. One half hour exactly.
At five minutes after eleven a shadow darkened the frosted glass of the front door.
A woman’s shadow. No man would have stuck a feather in his head except an Indian, and we were miles from the nearest reservation. I clicked the safety on the .45 and waited for the shadow to make up its mind. It did. The shadow knocked.
“Just turn the knob,” I called loudly.
The shadow hesitated, then pushed the door in. It swung wide. I was a bit surprised, in spite of my calculations.
Lisa de Milo walked into the center of the office. She didn’t stop walking until she had come
up against the lip of the desk. She was dressed to kill. Fur stole again, velveteen one-piece with fur trimming. Even the hat that had a white feather in it was piped with fur. Her deep, lovely eyes were sad and dark shadows were camping under their magnificent ovals. I didn’t like the way she was hanging on to a furry handbag with her two white hands. She was too nervous and too determined, both together. But she still managed to look sad, too. She seemed to do everything in seven languages.
“Mr. Noon—you will not understand, but it is you I must see.” Her voice hadn’t changed a bit.
“You’re seeing me, Lisa. What can I do for you?”
She half smiled and then got hold of herself. A little fire warmed her sad eyes. The concentration involved in speaking always animated her.
“I come to give myself up. I rather give to you than the police. You I like. You understand things. I don’t want to go to Marcus’ office at two o’clock and shame myself before all those people—”
Now I was confused. “Hold on, honey. Give yourself up for what?”
She placed one white hand on my desk and clutched her handbag firmly with the other. Her carved chin trembled.
“I wish to confess. I kill her. Nobody else.” She stared at me hard. “You understand what I say? I murdered Darlene Donegan.”
I groaned. And God created great whales and beautiful women who would do all for love. Or for a part in a hit play. I got up from my chair and went around the desk and Lisa de Milo and closed the door. She waited for me to get back to her, trembling and uncertain about what to do next.
I moved in toward her, took the pocketbook from her fingers, took both her lovely white hands and placed them around my neck. She didn’t resist me, but her eyes were puzzled and her breathing a little scratchy. I smiled to show her everything was all right. She was quivering and ecstatically lovely and we were alone, but I’m a detective first, last and always, I guess.
“Sure,” I said. “You killed Donegan. Strangled her with your two lily-white hands. Well, we’re going to play a little game, since you like acting so much. I’m Captain Monks of Homicide. I’ve been a cop all my life. You’re still Lisa de Milo. But I’m Monks pretending to be your victim, Darlene Donegan. Now go ahead. Choke me. Strangle me hard. Convince me that you’ve got the strength in those fingers to have done the strangling job we saw on Darlene Donegan.”
Her eyes suddenly flamed and the puzzled look went out of them. Her chin got firmer than the one on the George Washington face up at Mount Rush-more. She dug in. Dug hard.
For one of the few times in my crowded lifetime, I got the hell scared out of me.
For all of her soft, rounded femininity, Lisa de Milo had fingers of steel.
She was choking the life out of me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Time,” I said feebly, and eased her hands away from my throat, firmly but quickly. She caught her breath and fell back, a blaze of triumph igniting her eyes. I swallowed hastily, convinced that my Adam’s apple had changed position. I knew two things. Lisa de Milo was capable of strangling a gorilla. She had also enjoyed our little scene tremendously.
“You see, Mr. Noon?” She was excited and breathing low. “I am strong. Work in fields in Latvia as little girl. I kill her easy. She soft and getting fat—”
“Sure, sure. But why did you do it, Lisa?”
She sighed and waved her hands. “She maybe only competition for Annalee. I think Marcus—set—on her. I lose my head. Invite her to my place. Kill her before you and Bud come.”
“Sure, sure. So dear Mr. Tremont had nothing to do with this?”
Her eyes flew wide with concern. “Oh, no. No. Bud I fool just like I fool you when we find her in my bed. Bud only interested in the show. And money. He loves me. Never mind how he treats me sometimes—”
“Uh huh.” I looked at my watch. Time was going, but Lisa de Milo had thrown a large monkey wrench into my plans. And I didn’t want Bud Tremont busting in on us like an outraged husband. I didn’t think for a minute he’d taken my advice about Artie and Tip.
“Come on, lady. Let’s bust out of here. You got a car with you?”
She nodded, but her eyes still held a question. “You take me to police station? I confess. I tell them everything.”
“I’m sure you will,” I agreed. “But let’s run over to Marcus’ office, even if we are early. Time enough for the cops. I don’t want to hang around here. Especially with a dame who has strength enough to choke the hell out of me.”
She smiled her half smile and that settled it. While she waited for me at the door, I killed the overheads, closed the windows and added a fresh pack of cigarettes to my pocket. All the time I expected the phone to ring, but it didn’t. Anyway, we got the office locked and took the Civil War elevator down three flights to the street. I kept my eyes peeled, certain that Tremont and his young goons were hiding behind every wall and door, ready to spring out at us.
A jazzy convertible with the top down was begging for a ticket by the next fire hydrant. But the cops on the beat hadn’t seen it yet. It had to be Lisa’s car, and it was. We climbed in and I let her drive. A short glance at the rearview mirror was all I needed. Von Arnheim’s Jaguar eased slowly into sight from between a laundry truck and a parked cab. He’d got my message all right, but he was still killing time his own way.
Lisa de Milo shifted gears noisily, stripping them horribly, and I winced. She hit the accelerator with a high heel and we shot forward like a horse leaving the post. She drove like she talked. Badly.
Von Arnheim hung smoothly to our tail. Not too close, but always in view. I couldn’t quite get over the baron. A queer man who led a queer life. But he’d be out of my hair by nightfall. I hoped.
The convertible made a too-sharp turn on Eighth and Lisa charged into the heavy truck traffic that seems to be peculiar to that lane. A twenty-ton trailer bore down behind us, making us lose Von Arnheim’s Jaguar in the rear. A heavy stream of trucks, cabs and cars joined us in a race down Ninth. We’d caught the green light all the way. I looked at the speedometer. We were about fifteen miles over the speed limit. And women drivers do make me nervous.
“Slow down, lady,” I said evenly. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
She flung me her half smile and eased up on the accelerator. The corner light ahead ran up a red beacon. Too late too beat. Her foot went to the brake. I worried about the twenty tons behind us because Lisa hadn’t given him much right of way. And Von Arnheim’s Jaguar was cutting in and out of traffic like an acrobatic rabbit.
My blood ran cold. Just like that. The convertible didn’t slacken speed. Lisa pumped the brake pedal but nothing happened. Her face swung to mine, open-mouthed, terrified and incredulous.
“Mr. Noon, the brakes— Is broken.”
Behind us, a truck horn blasted warningly, sending the fright meter up a thousand points higher. Ahead of us, traffic was going crosstown on a westbound block because the green light over there was on. And we were hurtling through a red-light signal at better than forty-five because Lisa de Milo’s brakes wouldn’t respond. Ditto the emergency brakes.
Suddenly ten thousand city voices thundered in a symphony. Horns blasting, voices yelling, rubber squealing in protest and brakes screeching like fighting cats in a dirty alley. I moved. Faster than I’d ever lose my hair. I flung myself across Lisa, batted her fright-locked hands away from the wheel and wrenched madly. The convertible shot diagonally for the corner, cut away from a westbound Ford whose driver slammed on his brakes to avoid a head-on collision. I straightened the wheels and the convertible hogged all of Ninth Avenue, gathering speed instead of losing it, because of the downgrade. We were clear but there was still traffic up ahead. Traffic and trouble.
Behind us, the hastily halted trucks were starting up again, with frightened, cursing drivers at the wheel, and Von Arnheim’s streamlined Jaguar was smoothly sailing along.
Lisa was moaning terribly and I was rammed across her, wrestling with the wheel. We ha
d the green light again and I could beat them all the way, but I’d have to stop sometime. And turn sometime.
Up ahead, the city’s life went on. Traffic signs flashed by, people stopped to gawk, pedestrians wandered across the avenue thinking they had enough time to cross. Not knowing that I was driving a car without brakes with a confessed murderess at my side.
Tahiti and the half-naked brown-skinned babes looked real good to me right then.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
There was only one thing to do. I did it. I had to lose speed more than anything else. That’s what brakes were made for. I cut the ignition switch and double-clutched to low gear, ripping the transmission to shreds.
I kept cutting the wheels from left to right. Our forward lunge had that one advantage: nothing was close behind us. I zigged and zagged, using as much of Ninth Avenue’s broad back as I could. It helped in spite of the wriggling, moaning Lisa de Milo. We’d made ten blocks already. I saw the bars and small grocery stores of the West Forties. The speedometer dropped to thirty miles per hour. Not bad, but not good either, without brakes. I felt like a pilot without his landing gear. Lucky all the kids were in school. Lucky it was daylight. Lucky there weren’t too many people walking around to worry about. Lucky, hell. It was bad trouble any way you looked at it.
I heard a police whistle shrill a couple of times but the sound was gone before I could think about it. Lisa was still crying and whimpering with fright. And my hands were rigid with the tension of the wheel. Old Hot-Rod Ed. At my age, too. Sweat was dancing its wet adagio on my forehead. My clothes clung to me. Lisa’s body was a solid bed of fear beside me. And I was lurching, tearing, fighting the wheel like a maniac, my eyes filled with what was ahead. I’d geared the speed, but we were dead weight rolling forward.
It ended. It had to, somewhere. We were losing speed but the convertible was rolling independently of mechanism. A solid weight plunging forward like a juggernaut. And I couldn’t keep on fighting the wheel until we ran out of gas. It takes longer to tell, but the whole business of the brakes that wouldn’t respond was a matter of heartbeats. Hardly two minutes had gone by. This was it, though.
Meanwhile Back at the Morgue Page 13
