The Body Lovers (11 page)

“That’s what we wanted to talk to you about,” Hy said. “Sit down.”

I pulled out a chair and he nodded to AL “Fill him in.”

Al eased back in his chair and had a sip of his coffee. “First, we think we found Mitch Temple’s last contact. He was in a woman’s clothing shop on Broadway asking about those damn negligees and finally bought one. He had given his name and the office address to the salesgirl and laid down twenty bucks for a twelve-dollar item. The girl left to ring up the sale and when she came back he was gone. Now on Broadway, people don’t just leave tips like that, so the girl remembered the incident after a little bit of persuasion. She hadn’t mentioned it before because she didn’t want the manager to know she had taken any cash on the side. The second thing she remembered was that while she was writing up the sales slip, Mitch kept looking at another customer down further in the store who was poking around a clothes rack and was preoccupied enough so that she had to ask him twice about the address before he gave it to her. She never saw either one again.”

“What did Mitch buy?”

“A black nylon shortie outfit. Real sexy, she said. What we figure is, he recognized the other guy and followed him out. The date on the sales slip tallies with the day he first started to go through the morgue files.”

“Anybody else recognize the other one?”

“No. There was one new girl who might have waited on him, but apparently he didn’t buy anything. If it was the one she
thought
she remembered, it was just a man who asked if that were all the colors they had in stock. She said that was it and he left. What was peculiar about it ... there was a complete color assortment of new stock that had just been put out that morning.”

“Complete except for one,” I said.

Al Casey shook his head. “Every color. I even checked their stock records.”

“Not white,” I told him.

Both of them looked at each other and a frown began to form between Al’s eyes. “That’s right,” he said. “There wasn’t any white. But how would you know?”

“Mitch Temple told me. That’s why he was reaching for that white handkerchief in his pocket. Not for anything else he had.”

Hy shoved his glasses up on his forehead and stared at me hard. “I don’t get it, Mike.”

“Velda spotted it first,” I told him. “Green for redheads, black for blondes. What color dame would look best in white?”

After a moment Hy said, “A brunette or black-haired doll.” “Like Greta Service,” I added.

There was a pattern coming out now. All it took was for that first piece to fall in place. Pat might have put his finger on it after all. Police records were spotted with psycho types who would go to any extremes to satisfy their own strange desires. They could be as devious as a snake and harder to track down. They could weave their own schemes into such fantastically intricate designs that there seemed to be no beginning nor end of the confusion. It wasn’t so much a pattern as a suggestion of one, but it was there.

I said, “How much of this has Pat got?”

“His own squad made the same rounds. If they got different answers that’s their tough luck.”

“How long do you expect to sit on it?”

“Until we get one step further,” Al told me. “Norm Harrison got back from Washington today where he was covering the latest Senate subcommittee investigations. He was going to go through all his papers to see if Mitch dropped a note to him after he couldn’t reach him by phone. There was a mail chute in Mitch’s apartment house, so it’s a possibility.”

Hy lit his cigar and blew the match out through a cloud of smoke. “I’m going to see him tonight. He’s covering a political bash one of the U.N. members is giving for a newly admitted country. One of those splinter groups from Africa we’re supporting. You want to go along?”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re in this as deep as we are and damn well know it. We’re not passing up any chance of missing an angle on Mitch’s death even if we have to play along with you.”

“Thanks, pal,” I grinned. I looked at Al Casey. “And you?”

“Back to those files. I think I know the system Mitch used in going through them. It wasn’t alphabetical. If I can find the last folder he hit we’ll narrow it down pretty well. Even if something’s missing, we can check it against the negative files.”

I pushed back from the table and got up. “Okay, buddy, I’m with you.”

 

The town house of Gerald Ute was a newly restored three-story building just off Fifth Avenue opposite Central Park. My own knowledge of Ute came from sketchy newspaper accounts and on the way over Hy briefed me on his background. He owned several flourishing corporations that had expanded into the multimillion-dollar class since 1950, but he himself hadn’t erupted onto the social scene until his wife decided Chicago was too restrictive for their new position and coerced him into a move to New York. She lasted a year before she made him a widower, but Ute had gotten to enjoy the high life of society circles he could afford and he widened his activities so that he was everything from patron of obscure arts to unofficial host to visiting dignitaries.

Apparently Ute was smart enough to stay out of the political jungle, though on several occasions his influence was used to mollify ruffled feathers among the U.N. members he cultivated. His activities didn’t seem to interfere with his businesses, which were still climbing on the big board in the Stock Exchange, and at sixty-two, he was pretty well out of the scandal class.

The muted sounds of a string quartet floated through the rooms against the background of quiet murmuring. A butler took our hats and behind him the guests were gathering in small groups, waiters circulating with trays of champagne glasses. There was little formality. Most of the men were in business suits, a few in black ties, while the women fed their vanities in Paris originals winking with diamonds.

Gerald Ute knew the value of good public relations. I saw Richie Salisbury who usually covered the Washington beat, Paul Gregory whose “Political Observations” were featured in a national magazine and Jean Singleton who usually handled the foreign news coverage. Ute was talking to Norman Harrison when we walked in, stopped long enough to come over and say hello to Hy and be introduced to me.

For all of his years, he was still ruggedly handsome, though starting to bulge out at the middle. He had the sharp eyes of the shrewd speculator that could laugh at locker-room jokes or cut ice if they had to. When they focused on mine they were reading me like a computer being programmed and he said, “Mr. Hammer. Yes, you’ve made some headlines recently.”

“Accidentally,” I said.

“But good for business.” He dropped my hand and smiled.

“Sometimes.”

“It’s too bad I can’t write half the things I know about him,” Hy put in.

“Why don’t you?”

Hy let out a laugh. “Because Mike might decide to write a biography and I’d be in it. How’s the party going?”

“Fine, fine. It’s just a welcoming thing for Naku Em Abor and his party ... getting him acquainted with the city and all that. People will be drifting in and out all evening. Suppose I introduce you around.”

Hy waved him off. “Don’t bother. I know everybody anyway. If I don’t, I will.”

“And you, Mr. Hammer?”

Before I could answer Hy said, “Don’t worry about him, Gerald. You never know who this guy is buddies with.”

“Then let me introduce you to our hostess for the evening.” He walked between us to the nearest couple, a woman in a black strapless gown that flowed over her body like a silvery fluid who was talking to a small oriental in a tuxedo. He said, “My dear

... if you have a moment...”

She turned around, her hair still glinting like a halo, eyes twinkling and touched so that they seemed to turn up at the comers, and when they looked at me, widened with pleasure and Dulcie McInnes said, “Why, Mike, how nice to see you here!”

Hy nudged Gerald Ute with his elbow and whispered, “See what I mean?”

Our host laughed, presented James Lusong, talked for a few moments, then the three of them went back to the others, leaving me with Dulcie and a glass of champagne.

“From fashion editor to hostess,” I said.

“Our advertisers appreciate the association.” She took my arm and steered me through the crowd, nodding to friends and occasionally introducing me. I saw Hy to one side speaking quietly to Norm Harrison, but couldn’t overhear what they were saying. “It adds class to our publications,” Dulcie told me.

“It won’t if you’re seen with me,” I said.

“Ah, but you add excitement. Society girl on safari with white hunter.”

“That doesn’t make for healthy relationships.”

Her fingers squeezed my arm and she grinned up at me. “No, but interesting ones. After you left the office there were all sorts of speculation going on. I rather thought our employees read only the more gentle periodicals, then I find they like sensationalism too. You seem to have supplied it for them. A few discreet questions and I learned a lot about you.”

“I’m surprised you’ll still speak to me, Miss McInnes.”

“You know women better than that,” she said. “And the name is Dulcie. Now ... satisfy my curiosity.... Since you weren’t on the guest list, how did you make it here?”

“Power of the press. Friend Hy Gardner was invited and dragged me along. Not that I’m much on these bashes, but we have an appointment later.”

“Any friend of the press is a friend of Gerald’s. I’m glad you made it. Anyone here you’d like to meet?”

In four different spots around the room, men were clustered in a tight circle, laughing occasionally, talking with that odd intensity they developed when the nucleus of the circle was a pretty woman. “Maybe the Proctor Girls,” I suggested.

Dulcie poked me with her finger. “Uh-uh. They’re just eyewash. Besides, they’re too young for you.”

“How about them?” I indicated the men around the girls.

Not one of them would ever see fifty again.

She looked at them and laughed lightly. “Funny, isn’t it? When the Assembly is in session they’re at each other’s throats or thinking up some scheme to transform the world. Now here they are simpering at twenty-year-olds like schoolboys. There’s nothing like a pretty face to keep peace and quiet at a party.”

“You ought to try it at the U.N. Maybe that’s what they need.”

“Oh, I’ve given it a thought. Gerald didn’t exactly favor the idea the first time, but the Proctor Girls were such an asset he insists we invite them. Actually, it was his wife’s idea originally.”

“How did you get involved with being his hostess?”

“I’m a social climber, or haven’t you heard?”

“Rumors,” I admitted. “I’m not a member of the set myself.”

“Fact is, I was born to this sort of thing. My family was Midwestern blue book and all that, I attended the right schools and made the proper friends, so that all of this comes naturally. I rather enjoy it.” She sipped her champagne thoughtfully and said, “Every one of those Proctor Girls you see are from important families. One is engaged to a junior congressman, one to the son of a wealthy industrialist and the other two are being signed by a Hollywood studio.”

“Lucky.”

“No ... they work for it. The qualifications for a Proctor Girl are quite rigorous. If they weren’t, we couldn’t afford to have them here.” She put her empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and took another. “By the way ... have you found the girl you were looking for?”

“Not yet. It’s a big city and it’s easy to get buried in it. I’m giving it a little more time.”

“Did the photographs help at all?”

I shrugged and shook my head. “Nobody’s seen her. But you don’t forget a face like that.”

Dulcie turned and cocked her head, her eyes thoughtful. “You know, I’m wondering....”

“What?”

“Teddy Gates ... the one who photographed the girl you wanted. He has contracts independent of ours and sometimes uses models we turn down. It could be possible he kept a listing on her. He’s done it before.”

I could feel my neck muscles tighten with the thought of the possibility. “How can I reach him?”

“You won’t have to. He keeps an office in our building and I have the keys.” She looked at her watch and said, “It’s eight now. We’ll be breaking up here about midnight. Are you intending to stay?”

“No.”

“Then suppose you meet me in the lobby of my building ... say at twelve-thirty. We’ll take a look.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Uh-uh. I like white hunters. Now let me go play hostess. Have fun.”

I watched her walk away, appreciating the patrician stride that was so full of purpose, yet so totally feminine. Other eyes caught her as she passed, and watched regretfully when she was out of sight.

Norm Harrison hadn’t found any communication from Mitch Temple. He had gone through his files and his notes without seeing even an interoffice memo. The kid who did his desk work said he remembered Mitch trying to contact him, but his conversation was hurried and the main point was for Norm to call him back when he came in. The kid didn’t remember anything else.

We were all together in the library trying to figure out Mitch’s reason for the call, but Norm couldn’t put his finger on it and all he could speculate on was the one time they had been together at a party was when Mitch queried him about the political repercussions of his series on the Mafia. Since then Norm had been assigned to cover the general political situations in the U.N. and the forthcoming elections in the States, neither of which touched Mitch’s area of operation.

One of the maids came in, told Hy he was wanted on the phone and we waited while he took the call. When he came back he had a look of excitement on his face, waited until we were alone and said, “Al Casey located the cabbie he thinks picked up Mitch. He had him follow another cab and passenger to a store on Twenty-first Street. They waited outside for about fifteen minutes, then this man came out with a package under his arm, walked to the end of the block and got into a private car he apparently had called for. They tailed him out to the Belt Parkway, but the other car was going like hell and when the cabbie tried to keep it in sight, he got stopped by a police cruiser and picked up a ticket. Mitch had the guy drive him back uptown and got out near his apartment.”