Death of a Flack Read online

  Detective-Lieutenant Louis Parker, Homicide, was in charge. Detective-Lieutenant Louis Parker was short, dark, bulky, blunt, honest, honorable, and an old, dear, and respected friend. Detective-Lieutenant Louis Parker noted my presence with a sidelong glare and an exaggerated if hapless shrug, shunted me off to a seat in a corner, and directed his squad of men. He talked briefly with the hospital attendant, thanked her, and dismissed her. At length, the body was carted out, a uniformed policeman was stationed outside, and Parker and I were alone in the room. “All right,” he said. “Give.”

  “I can give you the murderer,” I said. “There’s no mystery here.”

  “Give,” he said.

  “Henry Martell.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s a flack.”

  “What’s a flack?”

  “A press agent.”

  “How do you know?”

  “That he’s a flack?”

  “That he’s the murderer.”

  “Miller told me.”

  Parker obtained glasses and poured brandy from the bottle for both of us. He sat down near me. “Now let’s have it right from the beginning, Pete. What time did you get here?”

  “About twenty minutes ago. I found him tied by the cords from the Venetian blind to that oak armchair there, the back of his head split open, and his face bruised and bleeding.”

  “He was conscious?”

  “Yes.”

  “What brought you?”

  “I came on business for a client.”

  “What business?”

  “Louie, you know that a private detective can’t divulge the confidences of a client.”

  “Oh, you’re going to start with that routine?”

  “Barry Miller died because of that routine.”

  Parker sipped, pushed the glass away. “Died because of what routine?”

  “Miller had done an investigation of Martell. Martell had got wind of it. He came here to find out. Miller was an old weasel in this racket but he stuck by basic principle—an eye does not divulge a client’s confidences. Martell hit him over the head with that statuette, knocked him out, tied him to the chair, slapped him back to consciousness, and then beat the hell out of him to coerce the information, but Miller didn’t talk.” I stood up and took my last swig of brandy. “Martell probably hit harder than he thought. This won’t be murder, it’ll be manslaughter.”

  Parker sighed, rattlingly and grinned, good-humoredly. “So now you’re taking over for the District Attorney, too. Boy, you guys sure move around.” He stood up and corked the bottle. “You know this Martell?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know where to find him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s go.”

  ELEVEN

  Ten East 79th Street was seventeen stories high but of hardly any width, a tall, skinny apartment house rising between squat, adjacent, old-fashioned neighbors. It was of modern multicolored brick, with chromium streaks and casement windows, and if it had a caretaker on the premises, he should have been fired. The outer door was unlocked, the inner door was unlocked, and the self-service elevator creaked like an old man getting out of bed. Parker and I emerged at the third floor and went to a red-lacquered door marked with a rectangular metal bracket: martell. Parker tried the knob; it did not turn. He pressed the button, and we waited. There was a sluggish shuffling sound from within and then the door was opened. It was not opened by Henry Martell. It was opened by Lori Gilmore.

  She stood motionless. She uttered no sound of greeting. The smoke-blue eyes were filmy and though they gazed at us, they seemed to gaze through us, to somewhere beyond. Her blonde hair hung wetly limp about her face which was putty grey. She wore a beige suit with a white, ruffled, high-collared blouse, and over that a short stylish blue gabardine raincoat. Her white shoes were wet but her white gloves were immaculate. Her left hand hung as though weighted. Her right hand hung, and it was weighted, clamped about the butt of a black pug-nosed automatic.

  TWELVE

  Parker pushed past her and I closed the door behind him. In the middle of the white-walled living room Henry Martell sat in a high-backed mahogany chair, a mixed expression of annoyance and surprise on his face. He appeared to be regarding us with three eyes, two of which were glazed. The third was a round red hole just above the bridge of his nose. Parker went to him, went from him, reported, “Very dead.”

  Lori dropped the gun.

  I caught her before she fell.

  I put her into a soft armchair. Parker opened a liquor cabinet, grabbed a bottle which was Scotch, poured into a shot glass, brought it to her, said politely, “Drink this, please.” She gulped it, choked, but retained most of it. Color came to her face in blotches. I took the glass from her hand.

  “Are you all right?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  Parker pointed to Martell. “Did you do this?”

  “No,” she said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gilmore,” she said.

  “Lori Gilmore,” I said. “The daughter of Cobb Gilmore.”

  Parker was impressed but he tried not to show it. He looked from her to me. “You know her?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You know everybody.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You didn’t shoot him?” Parker said to her.

  “No,” she said.

  “The gun was in your hand.”

  “It was on the floor when I came in. I saw him, I saw the gun on the floor. I … I realized he was dead. I … I picked up the gun. Then you rang. I opened the door.”

  “You just got here?”

  “Yes.”

  “But if he was dead when you got here, how did you get in? That door was locked.”

  “It needn’t have been locked,” I said. “That’s a snap lock. I mean actually locked. I mean, someone going out just slams the door and it’s locked.”

  “I don’t care if it was slam-locked or snap-locked or any other kind of locked. It was locked. How did you get in, Miss Gilmore?”

  “I … I have a key.”

  “You have a key!”

  “Mr. Martell was my fiance. We were engaged to be married.”

  “Oh,” said Parker. He turned away. “Is there anything else that you can tell us, Miss Gilmore? Anything that can help us?”

  Belatedly I said, “This is Lieutenant Parker, of the police.”

  “There is nothing,” said Lori Gilmore.

  Parker went to the phone, reported a murder, requested men, hung up. He stooped to the automatic, curled his pinky around the trigger guard, lifted the gun, and placed it upon a table. With his back to us, he studied it. “Smith and Wesson,” he murmured. “Twenty-five caliber.”

  “Oh my!” I said.

  He twisted about. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  He marched to Martell, inspected the hole above the bridge of his nose. “No question he got it from the automatic,” he said. “The cartridges are jacketed. They go in fast, they don’t bump around, they don’t spread when they hit bone as lead bullets do. That’s why there’s hardly any bleeding.” He stepped back, cocked his head, and regarded Martell. “He got it from a friend, or at least an acquaintance, and he sure didn’t expect the guy—or the gal—to pull the trigger.”

  “Now how in blazes would you know that?” I said.

  “Look at the poor mug. Why, an actor couldn’t register more recognizable emotions. Annoyance—and surprise. Not fear, not startled fright, just annoyance and surprise. Well, figure it. Somebody pulls a gun on him, suddenly. That somebody just isn’t the type who would use a gun, actually fire it, if you know what I mean. So the guy gets annoyed. Most likely says something like: ‘Put that thing away. Don’t be silly.’ And then in that split second after the explosion, surprise and the slug hit him together, and the expression is fixed on his face like it’s painted there. We can tell a lot from the expression of a dead
man—if he was tortured, if he suffered excessive pain, if he was in terror, if he was trying to ward it off—lots of things. This guy was annoyed and surprised. He got it from a friend or an acquaintance—or a sweetheart—I’ll bet on that.”

  “You learn every day,” I said.

  Parker went to the gun on the table, did a knee bend for eye level, studied the serial number at the base of the stock, repeated it mumblingly as he straightened and went to the phone, called Headquarters, repeated it clearly, identified himself, repeated it again, asked for a check, and waited. Then he hung up. “This gun was reported lost,” he said.

  “By Jefferson Clayton,” I said.

  His eyes did a broad jump from their sockets. “What the hell is it with you? Are you clairvoyant?”

  “Jefferson Clayton is an acquaintance of mine. He owns a Smith and Wesson automatic, twenty-five caliber. He lost it. He reported the loss. Everybody doesn’t lose a Smith and Wesson automatic twenty-five caliber every day. I’m not clairvoyant.”

  “Do you know where he lost it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “At the apartment of Sherry Greco.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “Who’s Sherry Greco?”

  “A red-headed chick with green eyes and a shape that would even shake you up. She owns the Club Athena on 4th Street. The apartment is upstairs over the club. Well,” I added, “that puts friend Clayton in the clear.”

  “What puts?”

  “The lost gun.”

  “Puts nothing.”

  “But he lost—”

  “It may and it may not. Plenty of times that’s been used as a ruse. Guy reports his gun lost and then uses it to pop somebody. Did this Clayton know this Martell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any hard feelings?”

  I did not answer.

  “Any hard feelings?” he repeated.

  “Well, he was kind of gone on Miss Gilmore here.”

  “Rival with Martell?”

  “Kind of.”

  “And Martell won out?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Is that a fact, Miss Gilmore?”

  “Yes,” she said, and her lips trembled and her hands quivered and she looked as though she were going to keel again and Parker delivered more Scotch and Miss Gilmore blotted it up and Parker said kindly, “I’ll have a man take you downtown. Miss Gilmore, and you’ll swear out a statement, and then you’ll be able to go home, but please keep yourself available. I shall be in touch with you. I’ll probably be in touch with your father, too. I hope you don’t mind.”

  If you are rich and powerful, or you are the daughter of one who is rich and powerful, it has its effect, however subtle, even upon the likes of the staunch and incorruptible Parker. It has nothing to do with corruption. Each of us is geared to our times and the gears of our times grind softly for the rich and the powerful. Softly grinding, they sometimes transport you to the electric chair, but you will avoid the brunt of false imprisonment or hot lights or lonely rooms or rough treatment or peculiar procedure or undue process.

  “Thank you,” said Miss Lori Gilmore, beginning to recover. Ah, the miraculous stimulus of two healthy shots of Scotch.

  Came the rasp of the door buzzer, and Parker’s people swarmed in upon us as moronic fans swarm in upon slick-lipped movie stars. Experts went to work, and we had bustle and noise and casual quips and excitement which was not excitement to its purveyors. Flash bulbs popped, pictures were taken, measurements were made, fingerprints were sought, the gun was examined, and the body was taken from its chair and laid upon the floor and a medical examiner medically examined. A handsome young cop cheerfully extricated the one female from the all-male melee. She gazed gratefully upon me, winsomely upon Parker, bestowed a wan smile upon all, and then disappeared cheerfully surrounded by the handsome cop. Somebody said: “I’m through with the stiff. Death by gunshot within the last few hours.” And then Henry Martell commenced his journey to the morgue locked within a brown, canvas-topped stretcher.

  The apartment was thoroughly searched and I assisted in the search. I do not know what Parker’s people were looking for but I was looking for two duplicate spools of pornographic film. I did not find them.

  THIRTEEN

  Perhaps it was an omen. When I quit Martell’s apartment and emerged upon wide 79th Street, a pale blossom of sun bloomed behind dispersing clouds in the happy heavens. It was twenty minutes after two o’clock on a lethal Tuesday of a capricious springtime in the city of stone, and the drizzle had sundered as the hymen of a star-struck virgin upon the first suggestion of a skinny crooner. Brightness broke through. The air had a fresh, washed smell. There was a small breeze. There was no more rain.

  First stop was my bank. I deposited a check for five hundred dollars, I deposited my cash in the sum of two hundred dollars (leaving a hundred in my kick for expense loot), and I deposited Jefferson Clayton’s cash in the sum of two thousand dollars (a bank is a place for safekeeping whether or not the money is your own). Then I went home and got rid of my nuisance of unused bumbershoot, divested myself of my damp clothes, changed, and went to my desk drawer. I took out Barry Miller’s letter to Lori Gilmore, reread it, replaced it, added Lori’s check to Miller and Gilmore’s check to Martell, and placed the envelope and contents into my safe in my study.

  Then I called Clayton. Clayton was not home.

  Then I called Sherry. Sherry was at home.

  “Hi,” I said. “Peter Chambers.”

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Are you going to be home?”

  “Why?” she said.

  “I want to see you. It’s important.”

  “When?” she said.

  “Right away.”

  “I’ll be home.”

  I hung up and called the office.

  “Nothing,” said Miranda, “except a Miss Patri. Called twice. Left her number.”

  She gave me the number and I called Patri.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hello? It is my Peter?”

  “It is your Peter.”

  “Hello, Peter. I called. I found the number in the book.”

  “I know. I’m calling back.”

  “How are you?” Even in the afternoon, her voice was of the evening and of the night. I had to punch clear of it. I had work to do.

  “Did you call about your key?” I said.

  “Key?” she said.

  “I still have your key. I forgot to return it.”

  “Oh no. Please keep it. There is another, a duplicate, which I have. I want for you to keep it.”

  “Thank you. Why did you call?”

  “Just to talk. I did not hear you go this morning.”

  “I kissed you good-bye.”

  “I did not feel it.”

  “You were sleeping.”

  “I like to feel it.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Honey, Americans have to work, to make a living.”

  “Yes. Of course. I know. It was I made a joke. Will I see you this evening?”

  “Will you be free?”

  “Yes. Mr. Gilmore is sick.”

  “Sure. We’ll do the town. How about it?”

  “I will love it. What time, Peter?”

  “I don’t know. Late. Don’t eat. We’ll have dinner together, or maybe it’s supper.”

  “Very good. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, sweetheart. I thank you. See you later on.”

  I cradled the receiver, waited for my pulse to subside, fought off languor, and bounced out into the bright afternoon, all sunshine, the streets dry and clear and spring-like, and when I arrived at Greco’s apartment, the damned pulse rate quickened again.

  The redhead wore red. The redhead wore a red leotard, and that was it. The redhead wore her hair high on her head, tiny pink ears exposed, no jewelry, no shoes or stockings, toenails tinted titillating red. The redhead w
as red naked in the sheen-shine of red leotard. The redhead was pointed and rounded to distraction. The redhead was a belly dancer with shape to match. The belly dancer, in red leotard, rump provocative, breasts explosive, thighs inviting, pubic region protruding, navel softly hollow, was a nakedly curvaceous incitement to sexual assault. I made a pass, and she struck me off.

  “Pragmatic,” I said.

  “Come again?” she said.

  “Like a little bit you’re a whore,” I said.

  “Make it tease and I’ll go along with you,” she said. The green eyes glowed with brandy. She poured more into a fat-bellied snifter glass. “Would you like a drink?” she said.

  “I would like you,” I said.

  “Earn me,” she said.

  “Pragmatic,” I said.

  “You’re stuck on that word.”

  “I’m stuck on you.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “You ought to know. You’re supposed to be a college graduate.”

  “Business-like,” she said. “Canny. Practical.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “That’s me,” she said.

  I made a pass again. She struck me off, roughly.

  “You know,” I said, “I bet you’re frigid.”

  “Baby, you hit it right on the nose. Does it discourage you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Why not?” The green eyes glowed spitefully. She was tight on the brandy and it showed and she did not care that it showed.

  “Sometimes it’s better,” I said. “A man can satisfy himself, like an animal, and he’s not obliged to worry about his partner.”

  “Bravo,” she said. “You know, you’re beginning to grow on me. At first, you were handsome, and your hanging on to me was flattering. Then you began to display intelligence, which made you interesting. Now you’re showing another side. You’re hip. I like them hip.”

  I made another pass. She slapped my face. Hard. I curled a fist but I did not use it. I wanted her. I did not want to ruin it.

  “Did it ever occur to you,” she said, “that I’m a Lesbo?”

  “It occurred,” I said.

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “No.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No.”