Knife at My Back

by Lawrence Lariar

  “Did you check the call?”

  “Oh, I’m a detective, all right. I asked the girl right away where that call came from. She said it was from one of the lobby phones.”

  “Which lobby?”

  “The main one—near The Champagne Room.”

  “And then what?”

  “At first I was going to run over there. But I realized it would be pretty stupid. It would take me time to get dressed, and if I didn’t get dressed, my public would think I was off my nut appearing among the breakfast crowds in my robe. So I played it safe and tried to reach you. But you were out. So I’ve been sitting up here and chewing my gums and waiting for you to arrive. I left a message for you at the switchboard.”

  “Did you tell this to anybody else?”

  “Nobody,” Margo said.

  “I was thinking of Buddy—or Don.”

  “You were thinking wrong.”

  The mention of their names upset her, and she got up and began to stroll a bit. Without the bright veneer of her professional make-up, Margo Lewis was a different girl. Some dolls lose whatever small dose of allure and dash they own in the small tough hours just before breakfast. Some dolls stare at you out of bagged eyes, their faces drawn and drab and lined with a waxy pastiness that make them look like something out of a horror story. With Margo, all this was different. She was on her feet and it was a little after nine and she had just scrubbed her face after hopping out of bed. She was operating on an empty stomach, yet her face shone and sparkled with the glow of a college girl, the perpetually ripe and ruddy American Goddess of youth and energy. Her complexion was good and her lips were full and soft and her eyes as fresh as tomorrow’s headlines. But the expression behind her limpid eyes was turning to sour cream and blintzes.

  Because I was leveling with her.

  I was saying, “Let’s be honest with each other, Margo. Haven’t you forgotten something? You know everybody in this dump connected with your line of work. You’ve been around show business for a long time, considering your age. Of all your intimates and acquaintances up here, there must be somebody who generates a spark of suspicion in you. It isn’t normal to be so unsuspecting. Just who do you think is behind the big deal to hold you up for that stag reel?”

  “I wish I knew, Steve.”

  “You don’t suspect anybody?”

  “Why should I? I’ve got no lead, nothing to hang it on.”

  “You’ve got quite a few leads.”

  “Name one.”

  “Don Trask,” I said.

  She laughed at the ceiling, letting me sample the soft lines of her neck and her quick tempestuous laughter. Was she laughing from nervousness? The sound of her hilarity seemed to fall on dead walls, and when I didn’t join her in the festive mood, she cut it short and in its place showed me a skittish confusion. “Don hasn’t got the imagination.”

  “How about Buddy?”

  “What a crazy idea.”

  “Crazy people spark crazy ideas.”

  “Not Buddy. Buddy’s in love with me.”

  “And Don?”

  “Not lately.”

  “But he was, for a long time,” I said. “What makes you think he’s given up trying?”

  “He hasn’t. Don is the steady old flame type, you know. But he’s all oatmeal inside.”

  “You should know.”

  “Don hasn’t got guts enough to try a deal like this.”

  “Then skip him. Anybody else who loves you dearly?”

  “I can’t think of anybody who’d do a thing like this, Steve.” She made an honest effort, but her mind was not geared for this sort of byplay.

  “Manny Erlich?” I asked. “Paul Forstenburg?”

  “Ridiculous.”

  I dropped the bombshell. “Hugo Repp?”

  “Hugo Repp?” Margo screwed her pretty face into a knot of honest befuddlement. “Now who in hell is that one?”

  “You don’t know the name?”

  “Should I?”

  “He’s the czar of the stag reel industry, Margo.”

  “I still don’t know him,” she said angrily.

  “He might have been the man who filmed you in Havana,” I said. “He might have had his boys at that party, the boys with the cameras. Think back—you never heard the name before?”

  “Are you insinuating that I knew I was being photographed in Havana?” she almost shouted. “Because if you are, little man, I’m going to scratch your goddamned eyes out.”

  “Easy,” I said, enjoying the sudden show of temperament, the close-up of her figure standing over me, a five-alarm fire of honest wrath. “Easy, Margo. I was only asking.”

  “If you’re going to continue that kind of slop you can shake your skinny toil out of here. But right now.”

  “Not yet. The question about Repp was important.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was shot last night,” I said.

  Margo sat down hard, completely stunned by my news. In the pause, she reacted with disturbing restlessness, so that the scene filled with a fresh note of tension. She worked her hands nervously and had trouble holding herself quiet in the chair near me.

  “More?” she asked herself. “If Repp had that film, who killed him? Why? I’m all mixed up, Steve.”

  “Maybe you’d better have some breakfast,” I suggested.

  “Order it.”

  “Anything special?”

  She didn’t answer me. She didn’t seem to hear me. So I phoned for breakfast and watched her at the window. It was raining out there, the flat and slapping downpour of early fall, an erratic swirling flood that darkened the sky and bathed the room in a gloom as deep as twilight. I lit a lamp and said nothing. Margo joined me in the sticky silence. I played it her way, only watching her as she nibbled her lip and stared moodily out at the damp landscape. In the close-up, she was worth a long and silent interval of study. The phony, sultry edge of her beauty was gone in the cold light of day. But in its place, Margo’s loveliness had another quality, a stronger appeal. Freshness? Innocence? Youth? The gray light from the window sweetened the classic lines of her profile and rendered her portrait in quiet shadows and soft outlines. She had on a filmy gown, a light and gossamer negligee tied loosely around her moulded hips. The figure underneath the whitish silk stood out in silhouette now, arms akimbo, so that the ripe fullness of her youthful breasts strained to break through the filigreed barrier. Her hair rolled down over her shoulders and did something to add the basic quality of simple girlishness to her pose. In this light, at this time of day, Margo lost the crusty polish and stood out as something a man might worship. I could understand the zeal and fiery ardor of Buddy Binns and Don Trask—and even Jeff Carroll. The only thing I couldn’t understand was Margo. Somewhere in the recent past, she had lost the clean glow that belonged with her virginal beauty. Somewhere her mind had been trapped and held prisoner by the shock and shiver of some deep and destructive obsession. She was hard. She was as hard as the glass in the window. I wondered whether she would crack as easily.

  “Try to think back, Margo,” I said. “When you passed through the bar last night. Did Repp seem to know you?”

  “Repp, my backside,” she said nastily. “I’ve already told you I don’t even remember hearing his name mentioned last night. How could I recall any one particular face out of that mob around the bar?”

  “You could if he made an impression.”

  “Well, if Repp was there, he didn’t.”

  “You’ll feel better after the coffee arrives, Margo. I didn’t come up here to annoy you. I’m here to help, remember?”

  “Of course.” She smiled, softening over there at the window, turning briefly to show me her vivid smile. “Excuse me, will you, Steve? In my business you get used to people making damned fools of themselves in bars. That’s why I
probably forget Repp was there. You get to sort of wipe them out, the way they shove their faces up front to stare at you. Sometimes they give me a pain in the fanny.”

  “Now you’re sounding like Buddy.”

  “Am I? I didn’t mean to. Buddy’s got it bad. With him, it’s a disease, I mean his attitude about his audiences. I keep telling him that someday they’ll get wise to him. Then it’ll be curtains for Buddy, because you can’t hide the fact that you hate people, even when you’re on the stage. Am I right?”

  “I’m a detective, not a psychiatrist.” I laughed. “But you could have something, Margo. Buddy does project a sort of snottiness. Sometimes I’ve even felt it while he’s on stage.”

  The boy with the coffee interrupted our discussion of show business psychology. Whatever burned and bothered Margo seemed to fade with the first gulp of java. And when the third cup was soothing her, I took her back once again through the activities of the last few weeks, starting from the time she made up her mind to come up to The Montord. She had a keen and probing memory for all manner of trivia and was able to hold herself through a day-by-day account of her personal habits, including places and people. I gently prodded her with flattery as she tried to explore the circumstances leading to her engagement in the Catskills. Did she remember the phone call from the blackmailer? His voice? His personality?

  “It was all corny,” Margo said, with an acid laugh. “You know the type of phone call it was? I could tell, as soon as the bastard opened his mouth. The usual stuff, as if he was talking with a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth.”

  “He? Can you be sure?”

  “It sounded like a he.”

  “But it could have been a she?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “People who stuff handkerchiefs in their teeth to disguise their voices operate that way for a reason,” I said. “Usually, they’re afraid that the listener might recognize them. That could mean the man who called knew you well.”

  “But it sounds crazy,” Margo said. “What man?”

  “Don Trask, maybe?”

  “Are you out of your mind? Are you hinting Don might be blackmailing me?” Her nerves jumped and heaved under the implication. She was as restless as a fly on a hotplate, out of her chair now and strolling the room. “It doesn’t make sense, Steve. Why would Don do a thing like that?”

  “In a word? Money.”

  “Not Don. It wasn’t his voice.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure?” She asked herself the question, tapping out her nervousness with her dainty mule. She plucked a shred of tobacco off her lip. Her restlessness exploded in an impetuous toss of her head, followed by the release of laughter. “Oh, let’s quit this routine, Steve. It wasn’t Don. And furthermore, I couldn’t possibly place the voice because of the muffled sound of it. So let’s forget about that idea. What else is bothering you?”

  “You.”

  “What about me?”

  “You and Buddy,” I said watching her shift gears from one mood to the next, at ease now and cautious.

  Her sultry smile returned to kill the fresh girlish simplicity of her face. It was a dirty smile. It was almost a dirty word, and the look in her eyes became the exclamation point behind the obscenity. She snaked back from the window and dropped her supple chassis in the chair alongside me and stared and stared and stared.

  She tapped my arm gently as she spoke.

  “You don’t think for one minute that Buddy, in his wildest dreams, could have a possible reason for doing a think like this?”

  “What do I know about Buddy Binns and his dreams?”

  “I’ll tell you. The idea is ridiculous.”

  “Why? Buddy could do lots of crazy things to make you his child bride.”

  “Not that,” Margo said flatly. “His mind doesn’t work that way. And he hasn’t got the guts for this kind of deal. Buddy’s soft. Listen, I know Buddy Binns. Underneath that crustiness, he’s just a kid, don’t you understand? A kid who never got over the fact that he could tell jokes and make people laugh at him. But that’s the beginning of it and the end of it.”

  “You should know.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t sound like the anxious bride,” I said.

  “Bride?” She laughed her dirty laugh. “What gave you that idea?”

  “Me and a few million other people. Publicity.”

  “Junk. You should know better.”

  “You’re not marrying him then?”

  “Don’t make me laugh,” she said.

  “When did you change your mind about him?”

  “Marriage was his idea.”

  “Then who’s the lucky boy?”

  “Nobody,” she snapped. “Nobody at all.”

  “You don’t have to kid me,” I said. “I’m not a press agent.”

  “I don’t kid. I also don’t marry. I’m not the marrying kind.”

  “And Buddy knows this?”

  “He’s beginning to get the idea.” She began to laugh, and it built itself into something strange and upsetting. It was as though somebody had a small feather under her ear and was tickling her and there was nothing she could do to stop. She laughed and laughed, trembling with it, shaken by it, powerless to stop it. “The poor slob. The crazy idiot.”

  “Buddy looks serious to me,” I said.

  “They all do,” she roared. “I keep telling them they’re stupid. But do they listen? Can they understand?”

  “Can you?”

  “With me, it’s simple.” Her laughter died suddenly and she stood over me and measured me before explaining. She did a few deep breathing exercises and when they were done, her body loosened and some of the nervousness fled it. But in its place came bitterness and hard words. “Listen, I made up my mind a long time ago that the business of getting hooked to one man, one personality, it doesn’t work for me. It’s as simple as that. There was a time when I thought Buddy Binns was my man. I’ll tell you how long it lasted. It lasted exactly ten days. After that I got tired of him. I got tired of his little boy habits, the way he sulked and the way he snarled; the way he walked and the way he told jokes; the way he ate and the way he made love. He bored me. He bored me silly, especially when I remembered how I felt about some of the others. I felt fine about some of the others. Is there anything wrong in that? Every lousy man on earth does it. Every one of you plays the field. Why shouldn’t a woman do the same thing? I like it fine. They come and go for me. And when they don’t go, I kick them out.”

  She was up again in this fevered monologue, showing me how well she could do the emotional bits, the histrionic roles that sweep a woman out of control and render her tempestuous and skittish. She strode the room with the fire of Sarah Bernhardt in a featured role. She worked her lines smoothly, giving them a hot rhythm, working her body restlessly and doing things with her slender hands. In the quick interval of her disturbance, she reminded me that she was her mother’s daughter. Something of Grace Borden shone through; the fire and flame in her eyes; the quality of her laughter; the deliberately sensuous stride of her as she returned to stand over me and bite her lip at me. She breathed heavily as she brought her face down to mine. This was the clincher, the end of the act, the final stab at promoting her zany personality. A pulse beat low in her neck. Her lacy gown seemed to fall open suddenly and she challenged me to examine the delectable symbols of her womanhood from a fresh angle. It was all madness. She sat beside me on the arm of my chair. And at that moment, with her body touching mine, all resemblance to Grace Borden died.

  This kid was fruity.

  She curled her lip at me and said. “It’s the way I am and I suppose I’m shocking the pants off you, detective?”

  “My belt is still buckled.”

  “I like it this way,” she said. “I want what I want. Don says I’m c
razy. Maybe he’s right. Someday I’ll find out. But not now. Right now I’m going to the top on my own, all the way. I don’t want Buddy with me and I don’t want Don with me. I’ll make it under my own steam and when I get there I’ll still do what I like. So forget all about Buddy and Don. I want that stag reel because it might ruin my career. Get it for me, will you, Steve?”

  “I’m on my way,” I said, and bounced out and away from her.

  “But get it fast,” she added. “I’ve got a date in Hollywood and I don’t want the lousy thing around anymore. I’ll pay you anything you want. You understand? Anything.”

  “I understand.”

  “You’re a little doll.”

  “I like you, too, Margo.”

  “Another cup of coffee, maybe, doll? Hot?”

  But the little doll was at the door and he had it opened and was grinning back at her in his best Boy Scout manner. The little doll was running away from an early morning nightmare with a broad who might paralyze him if he stayed. She was showing her medals and smiling with all her teeth and rubbing the little doll’s wrist with fingers that had toasted tips. So the little doll said, “Not right now. I’ve got things to do. Important things.”

  And then the little doll started down the hall.

  But fast.

  CHAPTER 17

  The odds were fifteen hundred to one. Nothing like this ever happened at my favorite horse haven, the Roosevelt Raceway, where the trotters scoot behind the sulkies; no daily double equaled this gamble for sheer fantasy; no single wager ever can. The detective sits behind his personal parimutuel machine, running down the nags in his own rat race, handicapping his suspects out of the dim and distant charts of experience and perception. The odds in The Montord were fifteen hundred to one because the guests and the staff were in league against me. Around and around my humming brain they raced. But I was cutting them down and weeding them out. Before long, I would narrow the field to the important subjects and scratch the rest. Right now the field was almost in line and there would be no extra starters.

  The rain had stopped, as suddenly as it began.

  On the edge of the swimming pool the bathers sat around in attitudes of careless relaxation, the younger set geared for the heat of the morning sun in Bikini ensembles, enough to cover their burgeoning charms with a wisp and a wink. The feminine contingent sprawled and squatted in the key positions at either side of the blue-green man-made lagoon. Around and about them roved the masculine water sprites, flexing their muscles and exercising their eyes in the ritual routine of all predatory Punchinellos. Here and there a couple danced quietly to the tune of a distant rhumba, rubbing and rocking in lumpy gestures on the concrete floor. The music was muted and mellow, rolling out of the small shack at the edge of the tennis courts. There was a sign on the roof: