There Is Something About a Dame

by Michael Avallone

  MEMO MORGAN …

  … He had a fabulous memory. It got him two hundred grand on a television quiz show. It got him the friendship of every guy and doll within a mile of Times Square. And because it wouldn’t let him forget something that happened on D-Day, it got him a .45 slug in the belly.

  It also got him an avenger. A private eye with the sassiest mouth, the fastest mitts, and (when he needed it) the deadliest gun in town. The private eye they called…

  … ED NOON

  THERE IS SOMETHING ABOUT A DAME

  Michael Avallone

  Ed Noon Mystery #12

  STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

  BEVERLY HILLS

  2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Susan Avallone and David Avallone. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

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  THE CAST OF CHARACTERS

  …according to Shakespeare’s plays

  ED NOON

  Twelfth Night

  MEMO MORGAN

  Much Ado About Nothing

  SIR STEWART ST. JAMES

  Hamlet

  SAVANNAH GAGE

  The Taming of the Shrew

  MIKE MONKS

  A Comedy of Errors

  DEVLIN

  Coriolanus

  LINDA GATES

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  THE VOICE

  Romeo and Juliet

  ARTHUR ZWICK

  The Merchant of Venice

  SANDERSON, JAMES T.

  All’s Well That Ends Welt

  (… and some of them get fast curtains!)

  For

  William Robert Guhl

  of The Times Square Table, The

  Agreeable Restaurant, Gary Cooperdom

  and all manner of pleasant things

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue to a Tragedy

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Prologue to a Tragedy

  The man entering Shubert Alley from the Forty-fifth Street side was not exactly nondescript. His brown striped suit, flowing orange tie and battered velours fedora shone in the sunlight. His broad lumpy nose, bushy eyebrows and thin-lipped mouth seemed to glare at the world at large. A frayed cigar jutted from his face, shot short, spiral clouds of blue smoke swirling around his wide shoulders. He walked with the muscular agility of a great ape.

  He might have been a clever advertisement for a hit musical or a satirical version of a pitchman for a carnival show. Yet he was neither of those things and as much a part of the Broadway scene as a Tyson ticket agency.

  Julie Newmar came zipping through the alley on a Lambretta scooter. She slowed to a stop at the stage door opening on the lane, caught sight of the man and her lovely face broke in a full smile. She blew a kiss across the span of her handlebars and the man acknowledged the gesture with an emphatic wave of his cigar.

  This was one day before the tragedy.

  A lanky ancient doorman materialized in the entrance of the theatre and halted in his tracks.

  “Memo!” he called. “Wanta talk to you.”

  The man paused, shifted his cigar to the left side of his wide mouth. “Hi, Charles.”

  Charles nodded, motioned with his arm, and drew the man to a side door, looking furtive.

  “I’ve got ten thousand to play around with now. Been hearing a lot about investments. You on to anything?”

  The man smiled, drew a black billfold from his gaudy coat and extracted a white business card.

  “See this guy. Just tell him Memo Morgan sent you. He’s safer than a bank, Charles.”

  “Gee thanks, Memo.” Charles took the card quickly. “Anytime you wanta see my show, you got a free seat. Best in the house, too.”

  Memo Morgan chuckled. “Sure, Charles.”

  Charles vanished into the theatre with a hand wave. Memo Morgan pushed on, reached West Forty-fourth and turned east. The street was beginning to fill with matinee throngs, ready with tickets for the afternoon performances of hit shows.

  Morgan squinted toward the doorway of Sardi’s. Two trim, lithe men were standing there, semaphoring frantically. Without a change of speed, Morgan ambled over.

  “Memo,” Chester Morris barked crisply, “you’re just in time to settle a bet. Bracken here says Arthur Byron was The Thin Man and I’m holding out for H. B. Warner.”

  Eddie Bracken grinned. “It’s not exactly a sixty-four thousand dollar question, Champ, but we would like to settle it.”

  “Actors,” Memo Morgan sighed. “Never know enough about your own trade. Well, you’re both wrong. The Thin Man in the William Powell picture was Edward Ellis.”

  Morris’ still youthful face crumpled. “Ouch. Hell, you’re right. I should have remembered Ellis. A fine actor.”

  Bracken smirked. “C’mon, expert. We’ll buy each other a drink. Want to join us, Memo?”

  “No, thanks,” Memo Morgan said. “Have to keep a clear head today. Big deal cooking. Thanks anyway. I’ll take a raincheck.”

  Chester Morris and Eddie Bracken went into Sardi’s and Memo Morgan swiveled his dying cigar to the other corner of his mouth. His small eyes held no expression. Grunting, he moved on.

  “Morgan! Hey, Morgan!”

  A familiar voice foghorned above the roar of the street. Morgan paused as Dave Burns rocketed across the sidewalk and fastened an eager hand on his arm.

  “Just the man I want to see,” the comedian growled. “Where can I buy a jeep without them seeing me coming?”

  “A jeep?”

  “Yeah. Need one for the farm. I’m getting too old to walk around forty acres. How about it, kid? Know a place?”

  Memo Morgan laughed and tugged out the black billfold again. He found another card, consulted it briefly and then passed it over to Burns.

  “Try that outfit. If they can’t get you one I’m a New England minister.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re a sweetheart. C’mon. I’ll buy you a drink. I still got time before the matinee—”

  “Thanks, Davy. But no thanks. I’m busy on something and I’ve got arrangements to make.”

  Burns made a face. “She got a friend?”

  Memo Morgan laughed harshly.

  “Me and a dame? Now you are being funny, Davy.”

  Dave Burns took his leave of Memo Morgan and he pushed on once more. Before he reached Times Square, he had been intercepted by a policeman, a Yonkers loser, a budding actress and three young Chinese who were en route to the UN Building. The policeman wanted to thank Morgan for assisting in the breakup of a dope ring in Hell’s Kitchen, the loser wanted a tip on the fifth race, the actress wanted
to know how she could get a reputable agent to handle her and the Chinese were curious about protocol in the UN. In answer to all their questions, Memo Morgan simply made reference to the black billfold and a veritable library of scraps and clips and memoranda filling the pockets of his loud suit.

  Memo Morgan was of Broadway, by Broadway and for Broadway.

  Broadway loved him. He was the man who knew Everything.

  The only thing he didn’t know was that he was barely thirty-two hours from dying…

  “The play’s the thing… ”

  ONE

  My troubles all began with Claudette Colbert. Maybe I shouldn’t pin a terrible murder case on the lovely likes of Claudette but if it hadn’t been for her, I never would have gone down to Times Square to get those theatre tickets. I never would have met that awful imitation of a human being named Devlin. I guess I wouldn’t have met the crazy Memo Morgan either. Nor would I have learned the secret of Savannah Gage’s tattooed thighs. And how would I ever have run across that incredible stage Englishman, Sir Stewart St. James?

  My private detective business was on West Fifty-sixth Street. Ten years, eleven cases and two bullet wounds ago, I rented a two-room trap on the third floor of a converted loft building. For ninety bucks a month, gas and electricity included. I haven’t been a howling success as a businessman. I’ve got $330.22 to show for the eleven cases, a thousand minor jobs and bad memories of love, violence and murder. That plus some scar tissue over my right eye and a left knee that imitates an accordion in bad weather. Beyond that, I’ve been my own man and never called anyone Boss. Even though the Police Department doesn’t call me Brother, we get along.

  The office is a noisy place because the windows face the street side of a Puerto Rican neighborhood. I don’t get much sky anymore because they threw up a towering building on Fifty-seventh a couple of years ago. But it’s a homey place anyway. Just a big wide room with space enough for a four-drawer Cole file, a leather swivel and two or three mismatching chairs. Just like you see in old movies on the Late Late Show about newspaper offices. I also have the Monroe calendar, a beat-up reproduction of Custer’s Last Stand and a serviceable leather couch that serves as a bed because I live there.

  Living there has everything to do with Claudette Colbert.

  Because for three solid months I woke up each morning with the famous lady staring me in the face. The couch faces the window at eye level and for longer than I wanted to remember Claudette Colbert was there. Staring back at me across forty feet of space and street.

  A life-size theatrical poster of Claudette Colbert, that is. The landlords of the opposite building had sold wall space for advertising the new hit show.

  “An Extraordinary Farce!” WATTS, POST

  CLAUDETTE COLBERT

  in

  “AFTER THE DAWN”

  Et cetera, et cetera.

  CC was always a favorite of mine. Long before BB, CC had wowed me in my shaveless years with some great femaling in a dozen good pictures. I used to dream about her taking her milk bath in The Sign of the Cross. But three full months of her fixed expression and the same toothpaste ad unreality of the poster wore my nerves to a raspy frazzle. I got tired of saying good morning to a cardboard lady. So when I got back to my restless liver and called up an old girl friend for a date, the inevitable happened.

  “I want to see a play for a change,” the old girl friend said. “I’m tired of looking at my wallpaper and listening to you bleed for humanity.”

  “Suits me fine,” I agreed. And then, just to show her I was a real man about New York—“How about the Colbert thing? It got great reviews and I know a guy who can get me tickets for tomorrow night.”

  The Colbert thing was swell with her and swell with me. She was quite a girl, the old girl friend. We’d been in love once, lost the magic, but were still good friends. Which is the way it is with actresses who don’t have time for anything but a career and private detectives who don’t have time for anything but trouble.

  All of which places me on West Forty-fourth Street between Eighth Avenue and Broadway on the night of April 19. The actress-girl friend didn’t show up. But another old friend did.

  Death and Hard Times.

  And that was the night that the whole terrible insane deadly unbelievable fantastic business all started.

  Claudette can have my Colbert button back any time.

  “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio … ”

  TWO

  Rain was pattering the sidewalk with wet fingers when I turned into West Forty-fourth from Eighth. It wasn’t quite seven-thirty but the theatre crowds were already beginning their slow customary filter toward the three brilliantly lit marquees that dominated the block. The Olympic, the Regal and the Ritz gleamed like shrines in the wilderness. I made a beeline for the Ritz. I was on my way to see Sol Miner about two tickets for After the Dawn. I was wearing my trench coat, my fedora was porkpie and my hands were jammed into my pockets. All of which Mr. Solomon Miner found very funny when I cornered him in the lobby of the Ritz, a full hour before curtain time on the long-running smash, China Song.

  “You look like a lousy TV show. You kill me, Noon.” He was lean and alert in appearance, thanks to trim clothes that were always in style and always fit him. His high forehead, sparkling spectacles, long nose and energetic manner didn’t hurt any either.

  “You owe me a favor,” I said pointedly.

  He looked at me over his glasses like the lawyer he was in the daytime. Handling the candy, soft drink and checkroom concessions was his profitable pastime.

  “Such as?”

  I smiled. “Lady friend of mine wants to see After the Dawn. I want to see it too. Any ideas?”

  “Funny man,” he sniffed. “Maybe you want to see the moon too? That show is booked solid through January with theatre parties. I could get you in to see Kennedy with less trouble.”

  I made a face. “Rats. She won’t like that.” I looked around the lobby. They’d renovated it real nice for Rodgers and Hammerstein. Marble flooring, marble bench, ceiling-high mirror. Nice gold and yellow decor. Even Sol’s candy counter which held down the back wall in the center of the lobby looked like it held something more spectacular than chocolate bars, cigarettes and opera glasses for rent.

  There was a tall young guy with big shoulders stacking the merchandise in order and minding his own business while a stout usherette in a black dress with a Mary Jane collar was toying with her flashlight in one of the two lobby entrances. The place was so orderly and self-contained that a loud cough would throw everything into a panic.

  Sol wouldn’t let go of an idea once he was latched on to it conversationally.

  “So she wouldn’t like it. Look, I gotta get you a show, right? You helped me with those divorce deadbeats so I’ll get you a show. What about Old Vic?”

  My eyes got back to him. “McLaglen was always a favorite of mine. But I want to see a play, not an old movie.”

  Miner spread his hands and heaved a mammoth shrug at the tall young guy with big shoulders who was quietly stacking and not missing a thing.

  “Bill, you hear this? The shamus isn’t only a comedian, he’s an ignoramus.” He scowled at me. “Old Vic, Noon. The English Repertory Company. They’re doing Henry the Fifth over at the Broadhurst. It’s a great show. My wife loved it. Your girl will love it.”

  I laughed. “Then why is it so easy to get tickets?”

  “How they going to compete with musicals and comedies? You want the freebees or don’t you?”

  “I’ll go because I never look a gift horse in the mouth. Tomorrow night for two and we’re in business, Miner.”

  Sol shook his head. “I gotta bargain with him, yet. Bill, mind the store while I make a phone call for my friend the detective here.”

  Bill nodded and Miner disappeared up the carpeted stairway to an invisible phone booth on the mezzanine floor. Bill looked at me with seemingly blank eyes, a quarter smile making his placid face look friendlier.


  “Why don’t you look a gift horse in the mouth?” he asked quietly.

  “It might bite me,” I said.

  His smile widened. He made a gun with this thumb and forefinger and shot me. “Killer,” he said. Then he forgot all about me and went back to stacking the candy bars and Lifesavers. Just like that. He was a cool apple all right and looked as if he’d picked the tree to fall from.

  I let him alone, lit a Camel, and waited for Miner to get back from his call. The lobby started to get busy. A porter in a suit that had just been pressed materialized from nowhere and began picking up invisible stuff from the floor. His face tightened when he saw my cigarette but I didn’t put it out. I was thinking about tomorrow night and seeing the old actress-girl friend again.

  I should have been thinking about other things. Like how long does a man live after a .45 slug rips a hole through his lower abdomen? And why shoot a man through the gut anyway unless you wanted him to suffer real bad? Or is Life just a succession of sappy accidents after all and none of us are exactly geniuses when it comes to directing our own breaks? Of course, I had no warning to think about those things. But I should have been thinking anyway.

  Because before Sol Miner could come back down the steps with the dope about Henry the Fifth and long before Bill could finish stacking whatever the hell he was still stacking, the door next to the candy counter—the one that led into the side alleyway—swung in silently. I felt the draft of cool air into the heated lobby before I saw the door open. Then I turned out of pure habit.

  The door opened onto the wide corridor that led to the backstage dressing rooms of the performers. But the guy that staggered through it wasn’t a performer. He could have been the way he was dressed and the way he was acting but I’ve seen too many banged-up people in my time to be fooled.

  I reached him before he crashed into the pointed marble corner of the candy counter. Bill looked up swiftly, his poker face registering for the first time.