“Mr. Noon?” she asked sweetly in a gently shaded voice. “I’m Myra Colby.”
I took my hand out of my pocket. One of her white gloves was clutching a handbag that couldn’t have held more than a lipstick let alone a gun. The other one was poised attractively on a superbly rounded hip.
I nodded. “You look like a Myra Colby. The name suits you. But what can I do for you, Miss Colby? I was just leaving.”
She let me see almost all her teeth and her sensual nostrils pinched upwards towards her eyes. I took in the rest of her. She was a good-natured girl all right. Nature had been good to her.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to cancel whatever business I’m interrupting, Mr. Noon. I think you’ll want to come with me when you hear what I have to say.”
I wasn’t in that much of a hurry. “Well, I’m not going to drag out a chair for you. So give it to me while I’m still in a mood to listen.”
She stopped smiling but her eyes were still twinkling.
“Will you permit me to reach into this purse? I have something to show you.”
This was a new one. “Go ahead,” I said but my hand closed around the P38 again.
She zippered open the purse she was carrying and poked delicately inside. The thing she took out gleamed under the overhead lights. I took it from her extended hand.
I turned it over in my fingers. All blonde hair looks alike you’ll say. You can’t tell one dame’s from another. Hair is hair be it blonde, brunette or redhead. Well, I’m not going to take a stand on it but I knew that the cut blonde locks I was turning over in my fingers were Alma Wheeler’s and no one else’s.
I looked at Myra Colby. Her dazzling smile was suddenly something that wasn’t attractive at all. Exactly like wild jungle animals who may be things of great natural beauty but who are deadly all the same.
Myra Colby was beautiful all right. The way a snake might be beautiful. But she was still a snake.
“Lovely hair,” I said earnestly. “Is that what you used to be—a blonde?”
“I thought you might be difficult,” she said amiably. Coolly, she handed me something else out of her bag. This glinted and gleamed as she passed it to me. “I think this will certify the rest of what we have to talk about.”
It did. It was something Alec St. Peter had carried ever since he’d been discharged. The Soldier’s Medal. The small hunk of pride the army had given him for losing both hands in that dynamite shack in Fort Riley. Something he had done to save the two buddies that had been with him.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Colby,” I said, putting the medal and the hair in my pocket. “But do you know your face is making me sick right now? Okay, you made your point. They’ve got Alma and Alec. My lover, my friend. What does it cost me? Get to it.”
She was one cool article. She zipped her bag shut and looked at me evenly, the smile refusing to leave her lips.
“Maxim is a very clever man. I love clever men. Maxim thinks it would be much better for you to leave your office in the company of a lovely woman. Arm in arm. We will look well together since you aren’t exactly unhandsome. Though you would look much better if your clothes weren’t so untidy. But blue does become you, Mr. Noon. Blue makes a masculine man that much more masculine.”
“If you’re through falling all over me, I’d like to hear the rest of it.”
She put the fingers of her white gloves together allowing her purse to dangle by its short plastic strap.
She still wouldn’t get mad.
“There’s hardly much more to tell. Maxim says you know what you are to bring with you to ensure the safety of your friends. And while we are on the subject, Mr. Noon—I do admire your taste in women. If I had been a blonde, I would have liked to look something like Miss Wheeler. Even with her clothes half-torn as they are, she seems a fascinating woman.”
I felt like throwing up my hands but I didn’t. I tried a smile. You always learn a helluva lot more when you smile.
“I guess Fairways and Maxim have had a little heart-to-heart since the last time I saw either of them.”
She wouldn’t bite. “Whenever you are ready, Mr. Noon. My car is just outside.”
I sighed and went over to the desk and scooped up the alarm clock. I put on an act for Myra Colby by acting like a frustrated kid. I dumped the clock into an empty pocket. I had one last hornet to sting her with.
“Maxim is taking a helluva lot for granted, Miss Colby. How does he know I won’t beat hell out of you or drag you down to Headquarters?”
She had a smile and an answer to that one too.
“Because if I’m not back where we are expected in exactly forty-five minutes, Miss Wheeler and the young man will have a very bad time of it, indeed.”
“That answers my question. Let’s go.”
Her laugh rippled over me like coal water.
“One other thing, Mr. Noon. That gun in your other pocket will have to be left behind. Maxim doesn’t like it.”
My smile tried to match hers but I felt lousy. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.” I threw the P38 down on the desk disgustedly.
We marched out together. But not arm-in-arm like she had said. I would have cheerfully throttled her even though she was one of the most attractively well-stacked dames I’d ever run into. But when a dame goes hand-in-hand with threats and sudden death, how can she appeal to you?
Going down in the elevator, I felt better about one thing. At least Alma and Alec were still in the land of the living. That was something.
I studied Myra Colby all the way. A dame like her mixed up with spies and plots to overthrow the good old U.S.A. No wonder the country was going to the dogs. She would have looked more at home on the cover of Vogue or Mademoiselle. Or maybe running for ambassadress to Siam like a Clare Boothe Luce. Instead she was mingling with the cream of the international underworld. And what a lousy bunch they were. That’s life. That’s why I’m a private detective.
Outside my building, it was a warm, cheery morning and a long, low coupe shone like seven hundred dollars. Up the street, a flock of kids were trying to get a stickball game going and Benny’s place was open. I could see him hunched over a newspaper by the big window. He looked up, saw me and waved. I didn’t wave back.
Myra Colby positioned herself neatly behind the wheel of the car.
“I’ll drive. Get in, Mr. Noon. And please don’t do anything to make me report you to Maxim. I rather like you.”
“I rather hate you,” I said and got in. But I was clumsy doing it. My foot caught on the rim of the no-running board side of the car. Myra Colby squealed in alarm and tried to get out of my way. I saved myself by falling across the steering wheel with both hands. But my elbow came down on the car horn hard. The damn thing blasted away like a lunch whistle in a boiler factory. It wouldn’t stop blasting until I had lifted myself off it with an effort.
I settled back on my side of the car and let out some breath.
“Sorry,” I said. “I haven’t eaten as well as I should lately. Getting weak in my old age.”
Myra Colby was fanning out the wrinkles in her skirt and eyeing me coldly. For once, the smile had vanished from her cool, classic face.
“I hope for your sake that was an accident, Mr. Noon. I’d hate to think you were attempting anything rash.”
“Rash, smash,” I said tiredly. “A guy can trip, can’t he? Come on. Quit stalling. Let’s go where we gotta go and get there.”
She looked at me for just a second longer but her hands were releasing the emergency and her well-shod foot rested on the clutch.
“As you say, Mr. Noon. A guy can trip.”
She meshed gears and the coupe eased away from the curb and glided down the block past Benny’s place. I didn’t look because Myra Colby had the wind up.
“Which way are we going?” I said, not expecting an answer.
I didn’t get one. She laughed lightly and tooled the car along Eighth Avenue, turned East and cut across Broadway. I put my hand
around the clock in my coat pocket. Three lives were going to depend on a piece of junk worth no more than a few lousy bucks.
But it seemed to be worth everything to a bunch of guys I hadn’t even known existed the day before yesterday.
And maybe to Myra Colby.
Chapter Fourteen
She was smart looking and maybe she belonged on fancy magazine covers but she also knew how to drive a car. I’d never gone cruising with a better one. Woman driver, I mean.
New York is no garden spot to get around in by car but Myra Colby had the coupe eating out of the palm of her hand. She handled it like a pet dog, beat all the red lights and made every cab driver that tried to browbeat her the way cab drivers will, fall back and say “Uncle” to the tune of banging their own horns disgustedly. I had to hand it to her. I did.
“Nice going, sister. You really know how to get a show on the road.”
She gave me the thirty-two teeth smile again. Even in broad daylight, it was slightly overpowering.
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Noon,” she said. “Except where I’m taking you.”
“And where might that be?” I asked lazily to trap her into telling.
But she’d been talking to the male animal for years now and there wasn’t a thing I was going to be able to teach her. She broadened her smile in mild reproach and shook her head.
“It isn’t too far. You’ll be reunited with Miss Wheeler before you know it.”
Her sarcasm got the better of me.
“Since you seem to be so much on the side of the birds and the bees, Miss Colby, how come you’re mixed up in an international rodeo like this one? Or are you just the rich young thing type who’s bored with all of father’s money and really wants a few laughs?”
That got rise out of her. She flung a look at me and then got back to the road. We hurtled on by a lumbering sanitation truck.
“The man must be psychic,” she sang out gaily. “And thanks for thinking me romantic. I am really, you know.”
I took in her thirty-six bust with hips to match and dug out a cigarette. I didn’t offer her one.
“You’re a shade sexier than romantic, Miss Colby. But as you say, I am anxious to see Alma again.” I didn’t know what tactics I was using now but I decided to see which way the wind blew her skirts. “Now Alma is romantic. She’s really a woman the way a man dreams a woman should be. But a way a man seldom finds.”
This kind of patter she could listen to all day. I could tell by the subtle way her head cocked to hear me, the sudden pressure on the accelerator of her fancy shoes. All of a sudden I realized that the contour of one fleshy thigh had been boring into mine since the ride had started. I must have missed a few beats wondering where the hell she was taking me. But I didn’t know. Myra Colby was a man lover. And a thrill seeker.
Her next remark sent the jury home. “What kind of woman appeals to a rough type like yourself, Mr. Noon?”
I grinned and gave back some thigh pressure of my own.
“I’m hard to get, Miss Colby. All a woman has to do is want me.”
She laughed. Out loud. And for all her fancy clothes, Finishing School manners and painted fingernails, it came out with a ripple of coarseness in it. Sort of go-to-hell good humour. If you’ve been in bars, you’ll know what I mean.
“I’ll remember that,” she promised. She flashed me a look from under the dark lashes that showed me she was a girl who kept her promises. Well, I had a good memory too.
She was making good time now. The coupe was clicking the blocks and the lights off like excess baggage. We were somewhere in the East Forties heading towards downtown New York. I hadn’t the foggiest notion where we’d wind up so I gave up all the theories I’d been kicking around. I’d decided to concentrate on Myra Colby anyway.
She was way ahead of me. Her right hand was free of the wheel and I looked down to see one of her nice white gloves resting easily on the middle part of my thigh. Her hand was still inside the glove too.
“Maxim wouldn’t like that,” I said dryly.
For answer, her hand closed on my thigh. Squeezed. She laughed again.
“Max has been so busy lately. So very busy. He and his silly old clock.” She turned to stare at me. “Look at me. Would you put me on the shelf to bother with a clock?”
“That depends,” I hedged.
“I like that,” she pouted. “Depends on what?”
“Maybe the clock will bring enough prosperity so that Maxim will have a lot of free time for you for the rest of his life without ever worrying where his next meal is coming from.”
“That was the right answer,” she chuckled. “You please me. I thought I would like you, Mr. Noon. You’re cute and there’s something very straightforward about you.”
I burned her thigh with some pressure again.
“You and I are going to get along fine, Miss Colby.”
“Call me Myra, Ed.”
“Okay. Myra it is.”
“Ed,” she said suddenly. “I hope you’re bringing Max what he’s expecting. He’s a bad man to fool. I’ve decided I want you to be around where I can find you again. So don’t play games. Give Max his silly clock. He’ll let you go and then we can have a reunion party somewhere.”
Hard to believe, isn’t it? She actually sounded as if she thought she was expounding nothing but pure Gospel. I caught myself staring at her. She looked about thirty but a child of twelve would have been able to figure this one out better. My silence bothered her.
“It is the right clock, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want—”
“Myra,” I cut her short. “What do you know about this clock? I mean what did Max tell you?”
She laughed again. “You think I’m a brainless idiot, don’t you? Oh I know it’s all treason and Maxim is a spy. Certainly. The clock contains something of a high military premium that Russia wants very badly. And don’t tell me that an American girl like myself shouldn’t be involved in something that may mean the country’s downfall. Who cares? It’s all fabulous and exciting. And I’m Maxim’s woman. I’ll do anything for Max. What do I know or care about all this nonsense about clocks and secret information? The only thing that’s important is that I’m in the middle of all the excitement and activity. It’s a fascinating game. And you meet the most fascinating men.”
This time I pinched her thigh. She said “Ouch” in startled surprise and her eyes flew to me. But then she laughed again. Laughed in the completely relaxed and unrestricted way that marked her for what she was.
I gave up lecturing at an early age because people that need lecturing are usually beyond help anyway. I tossed my cigarette into the wind and folded my arms.
“Is it much farther?” I growled.
“Not very.” Her pinched nostrils snorted. “You aren’t mad at me are you?”
“Mad? Don’t be silly. Who am I to get mad at anybody? I was born on a rainy day when my father was out of a job and we were two weeks behind in the rent and the roof needed plastering real bad. Don’t be silly. I’ve got rhythm. Had it all my life.”
Now she really laughed. Honestly laughed. It came out without the vulgarity or the coarseness or the go-to-hell.
“You’re funny,” she choked. “Really funny.”
I didn’t say anything and she concentrated on her driving. The coupe was winging past Fourteenth Street, gliding easily down the turning, twisting streets that form a maze below Union Square. I checked my watch. Going by all outward indications, we were heading for Greenwich Village. I wondered just where in that Nowhere.
“Myra.”
“Yes, Ed.”
“Are Alma and Alec St. Peter okay?”
“Both perfectly healthy. Still worried about them?”
“I mean—Maxim didn’t work them over, did he? He seems to be willing to try just about anything for his damned clock.”
She frowned. “He was going to—as you say—work them over. But he gives you a lot of credit. More credit than he’s ever gi
ven anyone. He seemed to realize that only you knew where the real clock was. Believe me, it was that and that alone that saved your friends.”
Now I frowned. “What do you mean?”
She laughed again. “Because you broke his wrist, I understand. The last time you met. He was very unhappy about that. He’s a clever person, Maxim, but he’s apt to be like a baby about such things. Besides, Fairways also intervened on their behalf.”
“Fairways,” I smiled. “The good old fake FBI man. What did he have to say for himself?”
“Mr. Fairways pointed out that when I brought you you’d be in a less receptive mood to do business. If your friends looked like they’d been ill-treated.”
“I’ll thank him next time I see him,” I said lightly, but inside me the relief was almost dizzying.
“Which won’t be too long from now. Here we are.”
I looked up. She was braking the coupe to a halt on one of those crazy, good-spit-apart side streets that clutter up the Village just enough to make it seem like a burlesque version of Paris. We had stopped on a block that was as empty of human beings as Wall Street on Sunday. Stopped just in front of a four-story high façade that boasted a canopy and stonework that I would be hard-put to describe. The windows were remarkable in their smallness and there weren’t too many of them to begin with. I saw a curtain shoot up on the third floor. But that’s all I had time to see.
Myra Colby had got out of the car and was blocking my view from the sidewalk. I looked at her. She was tall all right. Nearly as tall as myself but the filled out parts of her that ought to be filled out made her seem less so.
She smiled down at me.
“If you want to admire my figure go right ahead. But they’ll be waiting for us. And we don’t want to keep Maxim waiting. Or Alma either for that matter, do we?”
“Shall I leave the clock in the car?”
“Don’t be funny now. This isn’t the place. Be a good boy.”
I got out of the car and pressed behind her, gripping her arm between the end of one white glove and the elbow. My mouth was inches from her creamy neck.
“I can be a very good boy,” I said huskily. “You’d be surprised.”
The Alarming Clock Page 9
