The savage salome (8 page)

"Now you got me intrigued," I said. "Even in this heat."

"Marijuana—^lots of girls—local talent." Tybolt made a different grimace to go with each word. "It was a ball—I told Harvey after it was all over I never had such a swell time and why didn't he look me up next time he was in New York."

"And he did—and showed you the pictures?" I said tiredly.

The baritone nodded slowly. "He came and talked about his off-Broadway production— Salome —and why didn't I sing the baritone for him. He got the pictures out of his

pocket before I'd even stopped laughing—lay them down on the table like a poker hand. 'Make like you're the editor of the scandal mag that's got the first choice,' he told me. One look was enough for me—then I had a pen in my hand all ready to sign the contract."

"Did he chisel you on the salary?"

"No—I think he's too smart for that," Tybolt said sorrowfully. "He's got the top names in the business—an opera that's always created a furore whenever it's presented. He can't help but make money legitimately out of it!"

"I'll take your word for it," I grunted. "That's all there is, there isn't any more?"

"I wouldn't know about your hot blood, Boyd," he said, toweling his chest vigorously, "but for me it's plenty."

"O.K." I stood up and looked hopelessly at the solid wall of mist in front of me. "You want to show me the way out?"

"I'm going into the hot room," he said smugly.

"Cheez!" I looked at him admiringly. "What do you call this?"

"It's a question of adjustment, that's all," he said. "When you come back in here you'll think it's cold."

"Not me," I said. "I'm feeling like steamed hash already. I guess I can find my own way out, but I don't have any real faith, you understand?"

"Are you going to do something about Earl Harvey?" he asked in a neutral voice.

"To take you off the hook?" I shrugged and nearly lost the damned towel. "I don't know—you aren't my client."

"For those pictures—and the negatives, of course—I could be," he said.

"Anything comes up, I'll be in touch," I said.

"Sure," he said and nodded loosely.

A couple of seconds after I'd plunged into the mist, his voice boomed suddenly loud—"Boyd!"

"Yeah?" I turned around and couldn'" see him.

"You said something about Donna Alberta tagging me with that crazy kidnaping—the dog?"

"That's right, I did," I agreed shortly.

"Whatever gave her the idea I was mixed up in it?" he said in a peevish voice.

"I also told you that answer already," I said. "She gave you the brush-off and you wanted to even the score."

"She must be out of her mmd to think a dreadful thing like that."

"I wouldn't be surprised," I agreed. "See you around, huh?"

"Making wild accusations, I mean," he went on with a nervous edge to his voice, "without any proof."

"I didn't say she hadn't any proof," I corrected him carefully.

"What kind of proof?" he yelled excitedly. "I want to know, Boyd, I've got a right!"

"How could she have any proof if you weren't mixed up in the dog snatch?" I prodded gently.

"Well—sure!" he said in a strangled voice. "But maybe she invented some. I figure Donna Alberta's capable of doing just that—the lousy witch!"

"If she has, it's her secret held tight to that ample bosom," I said shortly. "She didn't let me in on it."

"Sure," he said after a few seconds of silence. "Sorry I got excited, Boyd. You know how it is—a man gets curious."

"And that gets him trouble," I said, "Uke Acapulco."

I waited during the first five seconds that followed, then ploughed through the swirling steam again. I finally got lucky and found the door. A cold shower was so bracing my muscles nearly froze solid—a brisk rubdown with a coarse towel restored the circulation. Then I got dressed and took my sudden ravenous hunger out into the street.

It was around eight-thirty by the time I'd eaten and gotten back to my apartment. The phonebook gave me the number of Harvey's ofi&ce. I dialed and let it ring for a couple of minutes with nobody answering. There was a set of keys in my bureau drawer which I knew from experience to be a real versatile bunch, so I sHpped them into my hip pocket and went out again.

I found a parking place about half a block from the office building, and as I walked slowly toward the entrance, I saw a couple of guys leaving. It was still early enough for the get-ahead characters to be putting in overtime, and I quickened my pace like a guy going places and thumbed the

night bell briskly. When the watchman opened up, I mumbled thanks and shot past him to the lobby cigar counter where, I figured, the night book should be, and there it was. I scribbled a name and number in the book, and made it to the open elevator. As I pressed the button marked four and the doors closed, I turned to see the night watchman sauntering over to the book to see which the hell assistant to which the hell vice president this eager beaver was— but then the night bell buzzed again and he shoved the cigar back in his face and went to open the door to the next eager beaver.

So far it was a breeze. There was nobody in the corridor on the fourth floor, and the third key on the ring opened the door of Harvey's office. Once inside, I closed the door gently and catfooted my way through the darkned, plush reception area and the big room beyond. If Harvey kept any blackmail material on file, I figured the only place it could be was inside his own office, so I kept on going until I reached it.

There was no risk in turning on the lights when I got inside—^with the door shut they wouldn't show. I sat in back of Harvey's desk, lit a cigarette, and opened the first drawer.

Ten mmutes later I got the sour feeling I was wasting my time—I was all out of drawers and there were no filing cabinets in his office anyway. Maybe he had a concealed wall safe or maybe he kept his records home or in the bank. So I'd tried; so I'd goofed; so I might as weU go home and get some sleep. That steambath had drained any energy I had left. I walked across the carpet and reached for the door, but there was no need—someone opened it for me from the other side.

I stepped back, wishing I had maybe a broom so I could make like the janitor or something, as the door opened wide. For maybe five seconds we just looked at each other, then the receptionist with the model's figure and sensitivity about her age smiled slowly.

"Hey, Benny!" she said m a throaty voice. "That punk must have Hked it—he's come back for more."

Benny, the sharp dresser who insisted everybody be real polite, appeared beside her, a smile of welcome on his face.

"Well, now,"—his free hand smoothed down the carefully oiled blond hair, while his other hand kept tight hold on a Luger—"I guess you didn't get the message after all, Boyd."

"Right!" I said in a hollow voice.

"O.K.—^back up!" His voice sharpened suddenly. "Over against the wall with your arms out straight—and lean!"

I did like he said because I wasn't about to commit suicide—or maybe I had aheady. Benny frisked me expertly, lifting the keys from my hip pocket.

"You can turn around now," he said. "Marge—^he's not even heeled!"

"I figured him for a weirdo the first time I saw him," the receptionist said harshly. "I guess I should call Earl, huh?"

"Sure, do that," Benny said idly. "Find out just what he wants done with Boyd. Get the detail, Marge—you know how I love my work."

Marge went over to the desk and lifted the phone, while I wondered why the hell I'd bothered to get out of bed that morning in the first place. Her voice spoke rapidly in low tones for a short time, then she hstened for an even shorter time before she hung up.

"Earl says to do nothing," she told Benny. "Just wait— he's coming right over."

Benny's face showed his discontent. "What's the matter with him?" he asked sullenly. "Wants all the fun to himself?"

"I wouldn't worry, junior," Marge said tartly. "My bet is you'll get all the fun you want—you just have to wait awhile, that's all."

"I guess you're right." Benny brightened up a little. "Sit down, Boyd. I want you should be comfortable. Mr. Harvey always takes good care of his guests—right, Marge?"

"Oh, sure!" she said. The harsh planes of her face seemed to tighten as she looked at me. "Most of all the real pretty ones, like him! Don't you figure he's real pretty, Benny, with that profile and all?"

I sank into the armchair and reached slowly for a pack of cigarettes. "You mind if I smoke?" I asked.

"Go right ahead," Benny said nodding approvingly. "You're learning fast, Boyd. Be polite all the time—^you get along a lot better that way." ^

"Real pretty!" Marge said softly, almost to herself.

Her china-blue eyes glittered as she stared at me, and the hollow cheeks dimpled as she puckered up her mouth.

"You know, Benny," she said rapidly, "he's just about the cutest thing I ever did see."

"Lay off!" he said sharply. "He's mine. Marge. Anyway, you don't know yet—not till Earl gets here."

"I know," she smiled thinly. "I got a feeling about that kind of thing—and Earl's my brother—remember?"

"We wait and see what he says first," Benny snapped, i with the sullen look back on his face. "So shut up, will 1 you. Marge?"

She shrugged her shoulders under the tight silk sheath and silendy mouthed a short but accurate description of the boy wonder. And all the time she just looked at me, like I was a rare painting she needed for her collection.

I smoked the cigarette down to the butt and was halfway through the second when Earl Harvey came into the office. The mouse-colored hair still fell down across his forehead, the thin hps were compressed into a tight line, and the cold gray eyes had an irritated expression as he i looked at me.

"He had his own keys, Mr. Harvey," Benny said po-htely, jangling them between his fingers. "I figure he's a real nosy guy who just don't learn."

"You're right about him not learning," Harvey said in a nasal whine. "How many times you got to tell him?"

"He's a punk," Benny sneered contemptuously. "He don't even carry a rod when he comes calling. It figures— like this morning he don't even try and stop me cuffing him around!"

Harvey walked around the desk, then slumped into the swivel chair and looked at me sourly.

"What was the idea, busting into my office?" he demanded.

"I was checking your ffies, Earl," I said easily. "Looking under 'B' for Blackmail, but maybe you keep that file at the bank?"

"I think you're crazy," he said evenly.

"If you want, I can be specific," I said. "Or should I wait until you've spelled it out for Benny's benefit?"

"Go on," Earl said curtly.

"I figured that Acapulco caper you pulled on Tybolt sure was original," I said. "It made me curious to find out the capers you pulled on Margot Lynn and Donna Alberta."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he snapped.

"Suddenly it all gets simple," I said in a wondering voice. "You blackmail the three of them into doing this opera for you and everything's fine. Then Donna Alberta —^who's not only a prima donna but fives hke one—starts to get out of line. TThat would be a problem, Earl—I can sympathize with you. You couldn't have Benny kicking her around because it would show. So if you couldn't hurt Donna, you could hurt something close to her like her dog—as a warning to stay in line!"

"How does he get this way, Mr. Harvey?" Benny asked in a bafiBed voice. "You figure it's goof balls or he's a mainfiner already?"

"Shut up, Benny!" Harvey rasped. "I want to hear the rest of it."

"That makes the prima donna real mad," I went on. "She gets her manager to hire a private eye—^me—^to find out who killed the dog, and she confides in her newfound lover, Paul Kendall. Then the producer fronts you and threatens all kind of mayhem if you don't take the prima donna off the hook."

"Are you seriously suggesting I killed Kendall?" Earl snarled.

"Not you personally, maybe," I said generously. "Maybe you let Benny-boy have the pleasure as a reward for disemboweling the dog. But you ordered him dead, Earl, that's for sure!"

"Like I said before—^you're nuts!" he said. "You dreamed it up in your mind where you're real sick."

"Sure," I said. "With Tybolt as a witness that he was blackmailed into his contract with you. Once he tells Lieutenant Chase that, how long do you figure it'll be before Margot Lynn and Donna Alberta back him up?"

"Is that the big idea, pretty-boy?" Marge asked eagerly.

"You going to spill all this to the cops with Rex Tybolt along to back it up?"

"Why not?" I said confidently.

Earl Harvey studied his blunt fingernails for a long moment, then sighed deeply. "Marge—who's operating the concession out at Fountain Park now?"

"Harry Keeno, like always," she said.

He nodded slowly. "I guess that's the best place."

Her eyes lit up eagerly as she took a deep breath. "A big one, Earl?"

"Yeah," he said bleakly. "A big one."

"Mr. Harvey?" Benny said urgently. "Fd take it as a personal favor if you'd let me—"

"Cool off, kiddo!" Marge said sharply. "Pretty-boy is mine and you come along strictly for the ride."

"Mr. Harvey!" Benny almost pouted his full lips. "It's not fair, she always—"

"Shut up, Benny," Earl said absently. "Marge is my sister, remember? She wants it—she's got it."

"Thanks, Earl." Marge's sallow cheeks flushed slightly. "I'll make it a real neat job."

I got up out of the chair and grinned at them. "You can keep trying if you want—^but you're wasting your time. A bunch of cheap grifters like this outfit couldn't scare candy away from a kid even!"

Marge smiled almost warmly at me, then yanked the tight skirt up over her thighs. For a wild moment I wondered if I was supposed to drop dead in ecstasy— then I saw the sheath strapped to the inside of her right thigh and wished I'd kept my big mouth shut for once.

It was a beautiful knife with a sUm ivory haft and an even slimmer blade around eight to nine inches long. Marge held it easily in her right hand as she came toward me, the smile still fixed on her face. The next moment the sharp point was held against my throat.