Death of a Dastard (Prologue Books) Read online

  “Hi,” she said. “So good to see you. How was the trip?”

  “Uneventful. How were things here?”

  “Uneventful. Did you fall in love?”

  “Miranda, are you back on that?”

  “Dearest boss, have you ever been compelled to work with a loveless bachelor?” She smoked brown cigarettes, actually cigarette-shaped cigars, called cigarellos. She laid fire to the tip of a cigarello and sighed. “It is sad, it is disheartening, it interferes with whatever pleasure there is in the work.” She shot smoke at me. “Not even one little nibble in the old Windy City?”

  “Well, a nibble,” I said, “a nibble, that is, on my part. A nibble where you’re not allowed to nibble. Sort of restricted nibble.”

  “Whom did you nibble — a blonde or a brunette?”

  “Blonde.”

  “Good. Blondes make you tranquil, at least for a while.”

  “And now, Miranda — ”

  “What’s the restriction?” she asked.

  “A guy. What else?”

  “That’s a restriction?”

  “Miranda, let’s get to work.”

  “You mean restriction — like she’s married to this guy?”

  “No.”

  “Engaged?”

  “No.”

  “Hanky-panky?”

  “I think.”

  She inhaled heavy cigarello smoke, exhaled as she spoke. “That shouldn’t be too tough for a trespasser as experienced as you, although I will admit Chicago is a long way off and — ”

  “She came back with us. She’s here in New York.”

  “So what’s the difficulty, dearest boss?”

  “Miranda, I trespass — if I trespass — in territories strange and unknown to me. I don’t poach, and now, if you please….”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. She got rid of her little cigar, stuffed chewing gum into her mouth, and chewed. “You had a call at nine o’clock this morning from Mrs. Madeline McCormick. That is all of any importance. I told her I expected you back this morning early. She called again at nine-thirty. I told her you weren’t here yet but you’d call her back as soon as you got in. You’re in for Mrs. McCormick, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” I said and embarked toward my room.

  “Look, about that restricted blonde from the Windy City — ”

  I slammed my door and I made my call.

  Madeline wanted to see me right away if I could make it. I could and did.

  The house was on East 66th Street, near Madison Avenue. It was a three-story whitestone, staffed by Viola, Madeline’s personal maid and secretary; Sara, the housemaid; Alexandria, the cook; and Jimmy, the chauffeur and man-of-all-work — all of whom took Mondays off. On Mondays Harvey and Madeline lived separate lives, right through till Tuesday morning. Harvey slept over at his club (or wherever else he might sleep) and neither checked on the other. It was a day of complete connubial freedom, the weekly marital vacation so highly recommended by our latter-day psychiatrists.

  Now — this Tuesday morning — I pressed the entrance bell of the house on East 66th Street and the door was opened by the prim and bun-coiffured Viola.

  “Good morning, Viola,” said one.

  “Ah, good morning, Mr. Chambers. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “Lovely.”

  “Please to come in. Mrs. McCormick is upstairs in the den. Please, this way, Mr. Chambers.”

  She led me to a Clemson-installed elevator and I pushed the button for floor three, passing the bedroom floor and alighting on the floor that contained, besides Madeline’s den, Harvey’s study, a gameroom, and a TV and stereo room, all of which were equipped with well-stocked bars.

  Madeline’s voice called: “Who?”

  “Me!” I called back.

  “Peter?”

  “Peter!”

  “In here, dear. In the den.”

  She was standing at the bar pouring coffee from a gleaming electric percolator. She was a strikingly attractive woman, her eyes dark, bold, and heavy-lidded, her nose thin and patrician, her mouth full, wide, and passionate, its edges turned down at the fish-lipped corners. Her hair was red peppered with gold this season, cropped in a fluffy cap, coiffed with careful carelessness. She had beautiful legs and displayed them often. Today she was dressed simply in a navy skirt and low-cut white blouse. She wore no jewelry beyond a yellow-gold necklace and matching bracelet.

  “Ah, Peter, dearest Peter,” she said. “So good of you to come.”

  I shrugged. “So good of you to ask me.”

  “Dear Peter, would you care for coffee or would you prefer stronger stimulant?” She used her beautiful voice — her experienced, eloquent, actress’s voice — as a good fighter would use his left jab: high, low, cunning, or downright dirty. She was using it now medium-low, edged with involuntary strain.

  “At this hour of the morning,” I said, “despite the bull-shitty legends about private eyes, coffee is about as strong a stimulant as I can take.”

  “But you do continue the legend of the shocking language of the private eye?”

  “Destroy all the legends and you disappoint your public, and a disappointed public equals a dearth of customers. We’ve got to live.”

  “You’re pretty quick for so early in the morning.”

  “I spent a long, quiet, restful weekend.”

  “Coffee, you said?”

  “I said,” I said.

  She poured again, into another cup, left that at the bar, took her cup to a chair, and sat down. I broke out cigarettes. She accepted one and I lit it for her. I lit one for myself and went back to my cup on the bar. She smoked, sipped coffee, and remained silent. I smoked, sipped coffee, and thought about her.

  Rumors had always been rife about Madeline Van de Velde Clemson McCormick. She was reputed to have had many many lovers, and always young lovers. Rumor persisted that she had had an affair with McCormick during the lifetime of Clemson and rumor insisted that she continued the sporadic succession of young lovers even after her marriage to McCormick. Rumor had it that she was a rich, spoiled, passionate woman — discreet, careful, clever, and utterly circumspect — but given to cheating out of ingrained habit, out of long-developed piquant need, as pressing as an addict’s need of drug, for secret thrill and surreptitious sensation. Rumor had it that, withal, she was fiercely in love, jealous, and intensely possessive of the charming husband ten years her junior, and that she was certain she could keep him in line for a long long time because she was rich and without her he was poor; that she was in full and unilateral control of her vast wealth as she was in full control of the publishing firm of which he was president at a salary of $50,000 a year and expenses. Rumor had it that he rankled in his harness and chafed at his bit, that he had married her for her money, and that he was unhappy in his role as employee at Harvest House, for he was no more despite his grandiose title and enormous salary. So much for rumor.

  For face — and of these facts I was personally cognizant — Madeline Van de Velde Clemson McCormick was deeply in love with Harvey Everest McCormick. If she did indulge in adulterous caprices — and there had never been one iota of proof that she did — that could be attributed to certain minor flaws in an inscrutable nature but did not detract one whit from an overwhelming, full-flowing, encompassing love of her husband. Even if I did not know her as well as I did — and I knew her, and well, and for many years — the evidence, on its very face, was incontrovertible.

  Kindly don’t get me wrong. Despite the lack of probative incident, I was as firmly convinced that Madeline bounced about in occasional extramartial capers as I was that she was truly in love with her husband. I was convinced because I considered it part of her nature, part of her inciting need for excitement; just as I was convinced that, essentially, she was an innocent; that her occasional, or even frequent, boudoir bouts, were, to her, as insignificantly naughty as a puritannical spouse’s spasmodic propulsions to a racetrack, or even to a whorehouse.

  As to t
he rumors of Harvey’s dissatisfaction — as far as I knew — there was no dissatisfaction. I knew that he had been offered three times his salary as president of Harvest House and that he himself had turned that down as a silly gesture of prestige since the greater portion would go to the government as personal income tax; I knew that he had an unlimited expense account, with no check upon it. I knew (because I had been one of the witnesses) that he was the sole heir and devisee of Madeline’s will, that she had bequeathed her entire fortune to him, and I knew that he knew that too because she made no secret of it. I knew that in worldly goods he had everything he desired; that he was pampered and petted by an extravagant wife but neither constrained nor spied upon; and that if he were allegedly disgruntled about being allegedly subservient to an allegedly dominant wife, he gave no sign: he gave every appearance of being a very happy man. I could state for certain that this wife was in love with this husband; whether or not he was in love with her, I could not — because I did not have such knowledge — state for certain, either way.

  And now she tapped out the cigarette and said, “Have you seen this morning’s papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you read about … Touraine?”

  “Yes.”

  She rose and brought her empty cup to the bar. She went behind the bar, reached her hand beneath, and produced a sheaf of bills. “Two thousand dollars,” she said. “In cash.”

  “For what?”

  “For you. As a fee.”

  First I took the money. Then I said, “As a fee for me for what?”

  “I want you to find out what happened to Jason Touraine, and I want you to report your findings to me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “You understand why I’m paying you in cash. I could have written a check — which I didn’t.”

  “You want this confidential.”

  “Correct. Utterly confidential. First thing this morning, I went to the bank for cash.”

  “First thing? Before you read the papers?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then how did you know the guy was dead?”

  She smiled, tiredly. Only the mouth. The dark inscrutable eyes did not smile. “I was informed at about five-fifteen this morning. The police came here.”

  “Here? Why?”

  “When they found him, there was a sheet of note paper in his pocket. This address was written on it. He was dressed in evening clothes. They came to inquire as to whether he had been here, or whether I had been out with him.”

  “Had he been here?”

  “Yes. He came here at nine o’clock last evening. To see Harvey about some matter at the office.”

  “But he knew Harvey was out of town, didn’t he?”

  “He did, but he thought he was due back last evening.”

  “And did you go out with him?”

  She did not answer immediately. She touched the empty cup, touched the percolator, came out from behind the bar, went to a window, and stood looking out, her back to me. “No. When I told him Harvey wasn’t due back until today, he left.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “He did not.”

  I sipped coffee. “Tell me a bit about him, Madeline.”

  She turned from the window, unsmiling, strode to a chair, seated herself, and crossed her fine legs. I deserted my coffee and sat down opposite her.

  “He was a tall, good-looking, exciting young man,” she said. “But you met him at my party, didn’t you?”

  “I did. Tall and good-looking. I don’t know about the exciting. He didn’t excite me.”

  “You’re not a woman.”

  “What else about him, Madeline?”

  “He was a rotter. About as complete a rotter as I’ve ever known. And in my time I’ve known a few, the best and the worst. This lad was at the top of the class.” She spoke without emotion, without bitterness, almost with amusement, as one would speak of a spirited mischievous child.

  “I take it,” I said, “he wasn’t rotten with you.”

  “With me? Oh no. With me he was all sweetness and light.”

  “Then how would you know?”

  “By knowing him. By listening to some of the stories he told me. By observing his delight in telling his stories.”

  “Stories, such as — ?”

  “Such as his being a gigolo, such as his taking money from women, such as his being a procurer for rich men on the West Coast. He even practiced blackmail. Why, right at the present, here in the East, he was blackmailing some woman — ”

  My ears perked. “What woman?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he mention a name?”

  “Yes.” She thought a moment. “Harriet.”

  “Last name?”

  “He didn’t say. Just Harriet.”

  I drew out a cigarette and was elaborate in lighting up. “Madeline,” I said as casually as I could throw it away, “don’t you think an affair with a young man like that could be dangerous?”

  Her eyes challenged me. “Affair?”

  “Don’t you think being interested in a guy like that could be dangerous?”

  The challenge remained. “Interested?”

  “Look, sweetie, you’re interested enough to spend two thousand dollars to find out about the whys and wherefores of his being killed.”

  “I am, and for many reasons. First, I can afford it. Second, I knew the boy and that way I’m interested. Third, the police were here and in some cockeyed way they might link me to him and create scandal and I abhor scandal. Fourth, and very important, I have a marriage to preserve, and my husband abhors scandal as much as I do. And fifth …” But her voice trailed off and she was silent.

  I stayed with my point. “Madeline, dear, that’s just what I’m driving at. As one who abhors scandal — don’t you think it was dangerous linking up — no matter how casually — with a weirdo like Touraine?”

  “Peter, you’ve known me for a hell of a long time. Don’t go naive on me at this stage of our lives. You know damned well that I adore danger, that danger titillates me, that I’m the kind of nut who has actually created dangerous situations because I get a bang, a crazy kick; that when I’m frightened I’m fascinated, and I’ll go all the way to the edge to get my kicks, but I won’t go over. And that’s just about enough of that.” Her face set, her mouth grew tight, and her eyes held warning. Poking along that alley, I had ventured about as far as I dared. I retreated.

  “How long did you know this Touraine?” I asked. “A couple of months.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “I saw him at the office. Harvey introduced us.”

  “Then?”

  “He took off from the office one afternoon and came here on some phony pretext, and then admitted it was a pretext. He was cute, earnest, disarming, and awfully good-looking. In a way, I was flattered.”

  “Naturally. How long has he lived in New York?”

  “How do you know he’s not a New Yorker?”

  “I talked to him, remember? I’m a detective, of sorts.”

  “Four months.”

  “From where?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Married, wasn’t he? I met the wife, Karen. She sure let him run on a loose leash.”

  “That marriage was over.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He told me.”

  “Divorced?”

  “No.”

  “Living apart?”

  “No.”

  “Then what does it mean, the marriage was over?”

  “They had had it, each of them. She let him run free, and he let her. She was asking for a divorce but he wasn’t consenting.”

  “Why not?”

  “Part of his being a rotter. She was in love with a man.”

  “So?”

  “Jason felt the man should pay to procure her freedom.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”
/>   “That boy clicked on all cylinders, didn’t he? Did he mention the name of the man?”

  “Yes. A night club person. The owner of the place where Karen sings. John Rio.”

  I squeezed out my cigarette and stood up. “Did you ever meet this John Rio?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where Jason Touraine lived?”

  She named an address on lower Fifth Avenue.

  “Pretty fancy.”

  “The wife earns two hundred and fifty dollars a week.”

  “That Jason didn’t leave out a thing, did he?”

  “Perhaps I was curious.”

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s about it. Time to go to work. Unless there’s anything else you can think of that might help.”

  “Nothing. And please remember this is strictly confidential.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  “And you’ll report any developments as they occur?”

  “That’s what I’m being paid for.”

  “Thank you very much, Peter.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Chapter Four

  AT MY bank I deposited two thousand dollars in large bills and cashed a check for two hundred dollars in small bills for spending money. I started spending the spending money in a cafeteria where I had a ham and egg sandwich and coffee and indulged in a bit of detective-type ratiocination anent the decease of Jason Touraine. I had offered my services to Harvey McCormick — offered? — I had stuck a finger in his eye — and he had declined upon the logical premise that the public police could do just as well if not better than a private richard in arriving at the solution of a murder-type killing of a guy found dead in a car at 116th Street and East River Drive. Morosely but emphatically I could not but agree with old Harv. On the other hand, his wife, manifestly, did not agree — she had forked over two thousand dollars’ worth of disagreement. Or was it disagreement? I pondered that and came up with the answer — no, it was not disagreement. Which posed the next question. Why does one retain a private detective for two thousand dollars to do exactly what the public detectives will do for nothing, if municipal taxes can be construed as nothing? The answer flapped like the wings of a bird, twofold — one, the individual, for her own protection and for appropriate countermoves, wishes to be apprised of events before or simultaneous with police development of same; and two, reasonably growing out of one, the individual had not been fully cooperative with the police. Applying this ham and egg logic to Madeline McCormick, somewhere along the line she was in a spot, somewhere along the line she had not cooperated with the police; but, then, neither had she cooperated with me, because she had told me nothing that she could not have told the police.