Laurel and Hardy Murders (17 page)

I tried to equivocate by pointing out that both were terrific choices, but the disputants insisted I take sides.

The Old Man grumped at me all the way over to O. J.’s.

But when he recalled what Della looks like, he forgot to be mad any longer.

“Jumping bulldogs,” he murmured, “what a broad!”

When we walked in, the honey-blonde was just completing a sale of a skypiece to a young man who plunked down his money without ever seeming to notice the merchandise. She was wearing an orange blouse made of some translucent material and matching slacks, tight enough to delineate without overstating the case.

The customer said something silly as he took the wrapped package. Della giggled as if he’d studied Funny from Mel Brooks.

“Gene,” she greeted me after the young man left, “I was just talking about you. I hear you’re between gigs.”

I nodded. “Hilary let me go.”

“She told me on the phone. Not ten minutes ago.”

That surprised me. “I thought you hardly knew each other.”

Della nodded. “She phoned to talk to O. J., who’s still out of town. I asked her something, she asked me a question, and eventually she was talking about her problems. Does that seem strange to you?”

It did. Hilary never opens up to people, least of all a comparative stranger.

“It’s not so peculiar,” said Della lightly. “I was explaining all the trials and aggravations of being a Sons widow.”

Butler punched me in the belt. I apologized for forgetting to introduce him, then rectified the omission. The first thing he did was to proposition her. She laughed as if he were the greatest kidder in the world, simultaneously salvaging her honor and his ego. Then she turned to me and asked the reason for our visit.

I told her I positively had to get in touch with O. J. When she tried to put me off, I gave out with Natie’s news about O. J. wiping the knife.

It didn’t phase her. “Sounds just like my husband. If you’re eating spaghetti, he’s liable to reach across and wipe your chin.”

“But where is he? Why can’t you say?”

She sighed. “He’s in Altoona. Our plant had a minor fire and he had to go look over the damage. We don’t want the story to get around, or we’ll have scared creditors hounding us.”

I assured her I wouldn’t say a word about it. “One more thing, Della...did Wayne Poe ever get fresh with you?”

She laughed, showing a perfect set of teeth. “Of course he did! So what?” She looked over her shoulder. “Don’t
do
it, buster...”

She smiled when she said it, but there was enough edge for Butler to decide to busy his hands on some neckties on display, rather than where he’d first intended.

“Doesn’t O. J. ever get jealous?”

“Of what?” she replied, a teasing mockery in her voice and eyes. “Is there anything he should be jealous about?”

She inhaled as she said it, not by accident, and I did my best to keep my eyes on hers. Ignoring her question, I asked for the phone number of their factory.

“The phones are out, Gene, because of the fire. You might be able to get him at the Nittany Lion in State College. He likes to stay there, even though it’s thirty miles away.”

“Maybe you’d better give me the address of the plant.”

“Sure. I’ll write it down for you.”

While she scribbled it, I told the Old Man to get ready to go. He had a green beanie in his hand. It had blunted fishhooks stuck all around the crown. He asked me what I thought of it.

I told him, but he bought it, anyway.

“Why should I listen to your taste in hats, boy? You can’t even tell the difference between a pretty girl and a
woman
.”

He was still ticked off at me for choosing Mary over Susan.

Y
OU PROBABLY ALREADY HAVE
it figured, but I was still too hung up with thoughts of Hilary Quayle. I ought to have had part of the answer that Friday, but the pieces didn’t start clicking into place until Monday afternoon.

If I hadn’t been near the phone to get Hilary’s call, it probably would have taken longer.

Here’s how it went.

Friday afternoon, Butler had the door to the Packard fixed. We ate dinner at the Shalimar, then took off for Altoona to find O. J. We arrived just before eleven, thanks to Butler’s maniacal driving—but O. J. was already gone. We backtracked to the Nittany Lion Inn, but he wasn’t there, either. Apparently, while we were speeding across the Keystone Commonwealth, O. J. was already heading in the direction of New York.

In the morning, we dragged ourselves to the Packard and took a little more time getting back to Manhattan. I called the shop right away, only to learn, to my utter disgust, that a new crisis at the plant had forced O. J. to turn right around and drive back to Altoona.

“I say to hell with it!” Butler complained.

Reluctantly, I concurred. We drove another hundred miles to Philadelphia. There, Butler disappeared to sort out family business and I collapsed on his bumpy couch.

I spent most of Saturday sleeping, rousing only to eat a late dinner with the Old Man. On Sunday, I lolled around, reading the book Hilary’d given me most of the morning. I took a walk for lunch—Butler being away—then returned, let myself in with the key he’d provided, and started on the
Times
acrostic.

The phone rang. I picked it up, figuring it was my host.

It was Hilary.

I sat up straight. “I didn’t expect to hear from you again.”

“Harry said you stopped over for a few things, and you called once. That’s all I heard.”

“Harry takes good messages.”

A silence.

I finally broke it. “I’ve been working on Poe’s murder.”

“Oh.” A dead sound. “For the Sons?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“Weren’t you doing the same?”

“Not for the Sons,” she said.

After that, a long silence. I thought I could hear her breathe, but I wasn’t positive. The tempo matched mine too much to be sure.

“I called,” she said at last, “because you had a message.”

“From whom?”

“Darrell Hovis.”

“That’s Dutchy. What did
he
want?”

“He said he didn’t know where you were staying, but thought I might be able to reach you. He sounded disturbed.”

Another awkward pause.

“Well,” I said at last, “you reached me.”

“Yes.”

And she hung up. As soon as she did, I cursed myself for not mentioning the fact that I was reading the book.

B
UTLER HAD TO ARRANGE
bail for his brother Monday morning, so it wasn’t till late that afternoon that we returned to Manhattan. I’d made a phone call to Dutchy Sunday evening and arranged a time to meet; Butler got me back into the city with barely enough time for us to meet him at the scheduled hour at The Lambs.

Dutchy looked extremely worried. He wasted little time in getting to the point.

“Listen, boys,” he said, “I know you’ve been digging around this stuff. I want to show you something I found under my door.”

He put the envelope on the table without further comment. It was already slit open, of course, so I immediately withdrew the folded piece of bond paper and smoothed it out.

The bold typed letters fairly shouted at me from the page:

IF YOU GO TO PHILADELPHIA,

YOU’LL BE SORRY!

I tapped the note with my forefinger. “What does this mean, the joint convention?”

Dutchy nodded. “I’m supposed to officiate at the main initiation ceremony.”

“Initiation ceremony? Since when are there formal membership rites? I never—”

“It’s something new Jerry Freundlich and Dutchy worked up,” Butler interrupted. “Deep dark secret.” He winked at me to emphasize the need of keeping my mouth shut.

I stared at the note for a few seconds. Then, all at once, things started clicking.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” I muttered.

I’d spoken softly, but Butler picked up on it right away.

“What’s up, boy? What do we—”

“Take it easy,” I told him. “We’ve got a little light detecting ahead, then we’re practically all set.” I stood and motioned him to do the same. I took the note, folded it, and stuck it in my wallet.

“Hey!” Dutchy barked. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Go to Philadelphia,” I suggested. “Have a good time.”

Which sage advice almost cost another life.

I
CALLED THE MAGGERT-AXEL
agency, got the number of the film studio in Brooklyn, and checked out Phil. Sure enough, he reported to work that morning, but was already gone by the time I phoned.

Butler wanted to chase on over to his apartment immediately, but I was still worn out from the weekend and couldn’t see any particular rush. We had dinner at the Xochitl and turned in. I suggested something cheaper than The Seymour, but the Old Man liked it and insisted he pay for the room.

I figured he owed me for the shell-game swindle, so I let him do so.

First thing next morning we went down to Phil’s building. We had a choice. We could ring his bell and take a chance on his getting cute again. We could buzz other buttons until we found somebody who didn’t care who was let in. Or we could decide to fiddle around with the lock to the front door.

It was old, easy to open.

In the elevator, Butler took out his revolver and checked the chamber.

“Put that away, damn it! We won’t be needing it.”

He gave me a fishy look, but did what I told him.

The walkway was repaired and back in place. I tread it lightly, but the Old Man lumbered across like an elephant doing the rhumba.

I crept around to a window and looked in. Phil was snoozing on a sofa bed. I motioned for Butler to stay still, then made a quick circuit to see whether there were any other accesses besides the front door. There weren’t.

The lock was a good one, no chance of picking it quickly. There was no bell. I nodded, and Butler pounded on the door with his fist.

Phil peepholed us, then tried to pretend he wasn’t there, but I called out that I’d seen him on the sofa.

“If you don’t open up, fine,” I said, loud enough to be heard past the closed door, “but we’re going to stay here all day if we have to.”

The Old Man had other ideas. “Open that goddamn door or I’ll put my foot through the window!”

Phil let us in.

His “penthouse” was a one-room studio with miniature kitchen and a closet-sized alcove which I presumed was the bath. The sofa bed and a 16-inch TV set took up most of the floor space, while the walls were covered right up to the ceiling with curios, posters, and pennants from the days of radio drama—Captain Midnight decoders, a red lantern, Jack Armstrong pennants, a huge photo blowup of Carlton E. Morse posing with Jack, Doc, and Reggie from the “I Love a Mystery” program, and (Phil’s favorite) a gigantic color poster of Orson Welles as The Shadow.

Under the circumstances, there was nothing Phil could say. I sat down on the edge of his bed, and he waited for me to start speaking.

“The notes went too far,” I said, shaking my head. “Too heavy-handed, Phil.”

“Notes? Whaddaya mean?” He pretended to look puzzled.

“Come off it! You’ve been running us ragged, you and O. J., trying to scare us away from finding out anything about Poe’s death. Why?”

“Aww, hell, boys, we was just havin’ some fun...”

“FUN!” Butler roared. “Trying to paste us against the sidewalk’s
fun
?”

“I wouldn’t’ve run over you,” Phil insisted. “Just was trying to shake you up a little.”

“And rip the goddamn door off my Packard!”

“That was an accident. Me and O. J. sent you some money for it.”

“Sixty lousy bucks!”

Phil shrugged. “O. J. woulda made it more, but he was pissed that you shot out the headlight of the rented Chevy.”

“What I want to know,” I said, “is why you agreed to go along with O. J. on this business. Didn’t you think it was kind of peculiar?”

Phil rose and went to the refrigerator, a small unit set into the sink structure. He took out a bottle of tomato juice, poured himself a glass, and offered us some. I accepted and instantly wished I hadn’t when I saw the glass he handed me. Butler made a face at the very notion of a nonalcoholic beverage and declined.

“See, O. J. explained that it was a bad thing for the Sons,” said Phil, sipping his juice. “I could believe that. None of your business, snoopin’ around, interfering with the police and—”

“Come off it, Phil! Stop being a parrot. How much did O. J. pay you?”

The old trouper blushed deeply and stared into his glass. “Enough,” he murmured.

“All right,” I sighed, “no permanent harm done, so long as I can get on the good sides of Lou Betterman and Irv Katz again. But stay out of it from now on, Phil. You’re unwittingly helping a murderer.”

That did a number on him. His watery eyes bulged and his mouth sagged open. “Leapin’ lizards, Daddy Warbucks!” he exclaimed in a perfect imitation of Little Orphan Annie. “You don’t mean—”

“I GOT IT, I GOT IT, BOY!”

Phil and I both turned to the Old Man in surprise. He was hopping up and down with glee.

“Stop it!” Phil yelled. “You’re gonna knock down somethin’ valuable!”

“But I got it!” Butler repeated. “I figgered it out!”

I calmed him down. “Okay, we’re listening. What have you come up with?”

“I smack Poe in the puss with the cake, he flops down, trying to be funny for a change. O. J. climbs up, pretends to look worried, then when you turn around and tell everybody to cool it, he sneaks out his hanky with the knife inside, and plants it in Poe. Then, when he sees we’re on his track, he panics, hires Phil and—how come you’re shakin’ your head no?”

“I’ll explain why.”

Just then the phone rang. Phil picked it up, said hello to Natie, then listened.

“First of all, Old Man,” I lectured, “the angle of the knife would be all wrong for what you’re saying. Second, O. J. is the one member of the Sons who liked Poe, he had no motive, not if Della is telling the truth about him not being a jealous man...”

“But he wiped off the knife! And how about this crap with threatening notes and fake bombs and—”

“Add it up,” I told him. “He was standing by the dais talking to Chuck. Chuck’s back was toward the stage, but O. J. was in a direct line with the wings and the kitchen door. He got on the stage first, remember? Then, according to Natie, the first thing he did was wipe the knife. Don’t you see what it means?”