The savage salome (2 page)

"What worries me, Boyd," he continued slowly, "is whether the faintly repulsive incident of the dog is only a prelude to something worse.'*

"Like maybe whoever killed the dog might try killing a human being next?"

"Precisely!" He nodded, his too large head jerking as if pulled by invisible strings. "There are strong—and sometimes odd—^passions within an opera company, Boyd!"

"It figures," I agreed blandly.

"I want you to meet the principal people concerned in the opera company, Boyd," he went on. "Paul Kendall, the producer, is throwing a party tonight and they'll all be there—so you're invited."

"Thanks," I said. "Does Kendall know?"

"He won't mind," Kasplin said confidently. "The party is due to start at eleven—^Paul made a special point about the time so don't be late. I'll give you the address." He used a gold pencil to scribble it on a pad, then tore off the sheet and threw it across the vast expanse of black ebony toward me.

"I don't think there's anything to discuss at the moment, Boyd," he said. "I'd prefer to see you again in the morning—after you've met the others—and get your impressions then."

"O.K.," I said. "FU caU you."

"Be here at eleven," he said curtly.

On my way out I stopped off at the statuesque redhead's desk for a couple of moments. She looked up at me with

remote interest like I was something the plumber left the last time he came to fix the pipes.

"You wanted something?" she asked in that throaty contralto.

"Just because I don't sing in key," I said brightly, giving her the profile treatment de luxe, "is no good reason why we can't make beautiful music together, is it?"

"I need your kind of music like rocks in the ear," she snapped. "Beat it—^big man!"

I stepped out of the office block into the nice crisp air of midday autumn in New York. It was bracing, Hke I could almost smell the tang of burning pinewood on the breeze and see the leaves fluttering gently onto the sidewalks—like I was a backwoods boy again and hungry for some plain home cooking—like I had a simple httle Chateaubriand for lunch at Monsignore to sustain the nostalgic mood.

Chapter Two

THE PRODUCER, PAUL KENDALL, HAD A

penthouse on Sutton Place and a new line in butlers— feminine, brunette, and gorgeous. She opened the door and just stood there, proving dreams can come true if you concentrate hard enough and ignore the Freudian overtones.

Her hair had been teased out into a fluff of silken strands that accentuated the gamin quality of her hollow cheeks and uptilted nose. She wore a sleeveless black crepe top that fitted tight over the small, high-pointed breasts, and a white organdy skirt overlaid with big black dots. Her earrings were fat clusters of pearls and a matching necklace looped three strands around her neck. There was a wicked gleam in her huge dark eyes as she smiled at me.

"Are you selling something?" she asked in a vibrant voice.

"Butlers aren't supposed to ask questions," I said, "just announce the guests."

"You're a guest?" She had no trouble making the question an insult.

"I'm a guest of a guest," I answered cautiously. "Kasplin said Paul Kendall would love to have me along at his party."

"I guess it's O.K. then," she said easily. "Come on in."

I stepped into the entrance hall while she closed the door, then turned to take a second look at me.

"I'm Danny Boyd," I told her. "You can ask for my phone number if you like."

"I'm curious," she said evenly. "I didn't know Kasplin had a friend."

"With eight miUion people in New York he had to get lucky sometime," I said.

"I'm Margot Lynn," she said smiling.

"You're a singer?"

The smile disappeared suddenly. "A mezzo-soprano," she said coldly. "You don't go to the Met very often, do you, Mr. Boyd?"

"I'm sorry," I apologized. "When it comes to opera I'm just a slob."

"Don't be modest, Mr. Boyd!" Her teeth gleamed whitely for a moment. "I'm sure it comes to a lot more than just opera. Or maybe your sense of humor is like Paul Kendall's?"

"I haven't met Kendall yet," I said.

She moved her shoulders quickly and the black crepe rustled with a gentle sound.

"There's no guarantee you'll meet him tonight," she said. "Just because it's his party it doesn't mean he'll be here. Paul is a great practical joker—if he comes at aU, he's apt to come late and make a grand entrance. Chances are it'll be heralded by a couple of firemen who'll flood the place and the guests with a four-inch hose. Paul's got that kind of humor—if you want to send him into hysterics just break your arm in three separate places. But everybody loves Paul—hke a virus!"

"He sounds a great guy," I agreed. "I just hope I don't get to meet him."

"It must be about eleven now," she said. "He insisted everyone should be here by then, so I guess he'll make his grand entrance soon if he's going to show at all. You'd better meet the other guests, Mr. Boyd, and have a couple of drinks to steady your nerves before Paul arrives."

Margot Lynn led the way into the living room with me dutifully following along in back. One wall of the room was plate glass, overlooking the view of the East River. The other three walls were covered with framed programs of the various shows Kendall had produced—^from opera to musical comedy with a couple of straight plays in between.

We stopped at the bar and the mezzo-soprano waited

while I made myself a generous Daiquiri, then she took me over to the nearest couple and started with the introductions.

"This is Mr. Boyd," she said with a yawn in her voice. "A unique character—^he claims to be a friend of Kasplin."

"I know," Helen Mills said in a low voice, staring at me through her heavy lenses like I was the worm in her apple. "We've met before."

"The way you tell it, darling, it sounds like seduction," Margot Lynn said with sudden interest in her voice. "Was Mr. Boyd the first man to penetrate your defenses, Helen? He deserves a medal or something—^you know—^like the first man on the moon?"

"Don't be disgusting, Margot, please!" Helen Mills said in a quivering voice. "Couldn't you leave sex out of the conversation just once?"

"I'm sorry, darling," Margot said lightly. "I keep forgetting you're a girl's girl. Have you met Rex Tybolt, Mr. Boyd?" She didn't give me a chance to answer. "Of course not—you don't go to the Met do you? Rex is a baritone and all those lovely muscles are real—he tells

me.

Tybolt was a big guy with a barrel chest and the kind of face the stag magazines use in their ads to sell bodybuilding outfits. Only when you looked a little closer you saw the slight thickening of the bruised-looking flesh under his eyes and the softening of the jawline where the chin was starting to multiply.

"Glad to know you, Boyd," he said in a booming voice. "Don't pay any attention to Margot—she always turns sour when lover-boy doesn't arrive on time."

"I hear Paul Kendall is a great practical joker," I said conversationally.

"Well," Margot said bleakly, "have fun, kids. You look like you deserve one another."

She drifted across the room to where Donna Alberta stood in a magnificent silver lame gown, deep in conversation with a tall, Latin-type guy who looked Uke he could match Rex Tybolt pound for pound on any bathroom scales. The way the masculine competition added up, it could be Muscle Beach and not Sutton Place.

"She's a wonderful girl—Margot," Rex Tybolt said genially. "Real sharp. I guess sleeping with Kendall has been good for her, huh?"

"Rex—^please!" Helen Mills said breathlessly. "You're as bad as Margot. Can't we talk about something else?"

"You're singing with Donna Alberta in Salome!'' I asked Tybolt.

"Sure," he nodded. "I'm Jokanaan—^I lose my head!" He bellowed with laughter.

"I remember," I said. "Salome won't dance till Herod offers her an5^hing she wants as a reward. By that time she's gotten you figured out as a real drag—so she asks for your head on a platter."

"Kendall's had a clay model made," Tybolt said. "It's real lifelike—the guy who sculpted it wants it back after we're finished with it for an exhibition." He studied his fingernails modestly. "The way he tells it, he never had the chance before of working with a classic profile like

mine."

"It"s certainly a wonderful likeness," Helen Mills said with a kind of wide-eyed innocence. "Even to the suntan —^but then clay is a kind of baked mud, isn't it?"

The murderous look remained in Tybolt's eyes while he fought a smile onto his face.

"I'd hate to lose you, Helen," he said warmly, "but from here it looks like Donna's getting a shade too enthusiastic about the Mexican boy. You think you should break it up, maybe?"

Helen Mills looked quickly over her shoulder and saw just how close the Latin type had cut down the distance between him and the prima donna. She didn't hesitate— a fraction of a second later she crossed the room toward them with a determined stride.

Tybolt watched her for a couple of seconds with an amused grin on his face.

"It's known as unrequited love," he said. "It should be tragic but with Helen it's only amusing." He shrugged his thick shoulders. "Those dreadful glasses!"

I looked across at the cozy twosome about to become a gruesome threesome as Helen Mills closed in on them rapidly.

"Whio is the guy with Donna Alberta, anyway?" I asked.

"Herod—the guy who gives her my head on a platter." Tybolt grimaced. "That gives me one hell of a good chance to buck the competition, don't it?"

"What do they call him off stage?" I persisted patiently.

"He's a Mexican tenor by the name of Luis Navarre. Earl Harvey couldn't get a better-known tenor to sing on Second Avenue so he had to settle for Luis."

"He's a lousy singer?"

"He has a very nice voice," Tybolt said indifferently. "With the right handhng and experience he'll be ready for Salome in another ten years possibly."

His face stiffened as he stared over my shoulder. I turned my head and saw Kasplin come into the living room with another guy following.

"The impresario and the prima donna's manager," Tybolt murmured. "Who said the lion can't lie down with the louse? I don't think I'll wait, Boyd, if you'll excuse me. Even talking to Helen Mills is preferable!" He moved away quickly toward the group in the far comer that looked definitely disenchanted since Helen had joined them.

Kasplin headed toward me with small, dainty steps, twirling a silver-topped, ebony cane negligently in his right hand. He was beautifully dressed in a midnight-blue dinner suit with a fancy lace-fronted shirt underneath. The other guy trailing along two steps behind towered over him like a bodyguard.

"I see you made it in good time, Boyd," Kasplin said when they stopped in front of me. "You haven't met Earl Harvey—our impresario."

It was only by comparison to Kasplin that Harvey looked big—otherwise he was average height and lean with it. His mouse-colored hair was long and lank and fell down across his forehead—it should have made him look youthful and innocent but it didn't. He had a big nose and a wide, thin-lipped mouth; his eyes were the color of the Hudson on a rainy morning. The clothes were careless and expensive, making for an over-all impression of a pimp who'd gotten so lucky that once in a while he'd put the girls through the hoops just for fun.

"Kasplin was telling me about you this afternoon," he

said in a harsh, grating voice. "You work out of the dog pound, or something?"

"Don't knock it," I said politely. "Didn't you get your first break with a troupe of performing ifleas?"

Harvey gave Kasplin a resigned look. "It's the same all over with the hired help these days—they got no respect!"

"Boyd has a reputation for getting results, if not for tact," Kasplin said crisply. "Why don't you go make yourself a drink. Earl?"

"I got nothing better to do," Harvey said Ustlessly. "You told them the party's O.K. and I don't mind if they hit it up a little—^but no singing! They get paid a lot of dough—by me—to gargle their tonsils down on Second Avenue and I don't want they should throw around free samples!"

Kasplin winced. "I told them," he said in flutelike tones. "They may drink, fight, and fornicate—but definitely no songs."

"Yeah." Harvey scowled at him uncertainly but couldn't get past KaspUn's poker-faced look of courtesy. "Well, O.K. then, I'll go get that drink."

He walked across to the bar with a purposeful stride and I looked at Kasplin in disbehef.

"He's for real?" I asked hoarsely. "This is the guy to bring opera to the people—^the impresario yet?"

"Frightening, isn't it?" the dapper dwarf agreed. "But the contracts were signed two months back and we open three nights from now—so we have to make the best of it."

"The way I heard it, the only time he ever missed out on a promotion was the time he passed up the chance to hire tie Garden for an international wrestling match," I said wonderingly, "with the Russian UN delegates making one team and the American delegates the other."

"Be grateful he missed out," Kasplin snapped. "The bout would have been rigged!"

The ebony cane stopped twirling for a few moments while the silver snuffbox was produced. I fit a cigarette while Kasplin ritually sniffed the gray powder from the back of his hand.

"Has Paul Kendall put in an appearance yet?" he asked suddenly.

"Not that I've noticed," I said. "Maybe he got smart when he heard Harvey was coming to his party."

"No"—the large head shook gently—"Paul isn't smart at all, I'm afraid. His absence means another of his dreadful practical jokes, so don't be surprised if we're all arrested for frequenting a brothel—or something equally unfunny. Paul is just an overgrown schoolboy at heart." He thought about that for a moment. "A dirty-minded schoolboy, of course."

"How do you mean that—exactly?" I queried.

"It's part of the pattern of human relationships I wanted you to observe at first hand tonight," he said slowly. "Margot Lynn was his mistress from the first time the cast assembled. It's a known character trait of Paul's that before he can start producing, he has to sleep with one of the leading female members of the company."