“All right, let’s say it. Now, what kind of information do you want?”
“Is the hair real?”
“What?”
“Your hair. Is it—”
She laughed again and uncrossed her legs. “Don’t be silly. It’s a rinse, of course. You’d be surprised how many billings this hair gets me, Mr.—Mr.—”
“Davis.”
“Mr. Davis. A Chinese girl with bright red hair. Knocks them dead.” She paused and eyed Ray thoughtfully. “Have you ever caught my act?”
“No.”
“Shame. It’s pretty good, if you like that sort of thing.” She smiled archly. “Most men like that sort of thing.”
Ray grinned thinly. “Did you know Eileen Chalmers?” he asked.
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “Not again!”
“I—”
“That’s all right, Mr. Davis. It’s just that everyone seems to ask the same questions over and over again. Yes, I knew Eileen.”
“Well?”
“Fairly well. No great friendship, if that’s what you mean.”
“Did you know Charlie Massine?
“Yes, of course.”
“Was there anything between them?”
“Who?”
“Charlie and Eileen.”
“Oh, of course not. Charlie and Eileen?” She began laughing. “That’s absurd.”
“Why?”
“Well, they’re just not—compatible, I guess you’d say. No, Mr. Davis, never. Never.”
“I understand you’ve been seeing a lot of Dale Kramer lately.”
Rusty paused to reflect. “Yes, we work at the same club.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Only since I began working at the Trade Winds.”
“And how long is that?”
“My, you have a lot of questions.” She slid down on the couch. “About four months, I guess.”
“Did you know Charlie before this?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Charlie Massine, you mean?”
“Is there another Charlie?”
“Well, there are a lot of Charlies.”
“I mean Charlie Massine.”
“I’ve known him for years.”
Ray’s features expressed surprise.
“I played the Borscht Belt with him,” Rusty went on. “I had black hair then, and they billed me as Toy Willow.” She smiled and added, “Toy Willow! Can you see that?”
“Charlie had his own band?”
“Why yes. Kramer played the—” Rusty cut herself short.
“Kramer played what?”
“Nothing.”
“Did Kramer play with Charlie in those days?” Ray was leaning forward now. Rusty sat up and tucked the gown around her.
“Did he?” Ray insisted.
“Yes,” she said. Her voice was small.
“Why’d you say you just met him then?”
Her eyes flared as she leaned forward. “Because I’m sick and tired of everyone snickering behind their filthy hands about us. I knew Kramer, so what? Maybe we even had a romance then, so what? Eileen was a tramp, and everybody knew it. So why all the fuss about what Kramer and I did or are doing now?”
“No fuss,” Ray said softly.
“All right, then.” Her anger seemed to subside as she leaned back against the cushions again.
“How long ago was this?” Ray asked.
“I don’t follow.”
“The Borscht Belt.”
“Oh. Six, seven years ago. I don’t remember.” Her eyes whipped Ray’s face. “Toy Willow was another girl, Mr. Davis. Rusty O’Donnell never thinks of her.”
“I see. This band was Charlie’s?”
“Yes, I told you it was. Kramer played piano for him.”
“I see.” He considered this a while; then he asked, “I wonder how things got reversed.”
“Well, the band split up a few years after that.”
“Oh? Why?”
Rusty paused, seemed to ponder whether she should go on or not, then shrugged one shoulder and said, “Massine had to leave suddenly. An appointment with the state—two years with free room and board.”
“Prison?” Ray asked.
“Yes.”
“What was his crime?”
Rusty shrugged again. “Possession of narcotics with intent to sell.”
Ray nodded. “Well, that ties in. Anybody caught with him?”
“A lone wolf, far as anyone could tell,” Rusty said. “He went to jail like a clam, and Kramer took over the band. When Charlie got out of jail, Kramer hired him as a drummer.”
“I see. And you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you officially connected with the band?”
“No, no, I’m a free agent. I just happened to be booked into the same spot.” Her black eyebrows lifted slightly and she asked, “Did you say you’d never seen my act?”
“Sorry,” Ray said.
“You should be sorry. You’re really missing something. The columnists call me Red China—I’m that sizzling. Stop in at the club some time. You’ll see.”
“I will,” Ray promised. He rose. “Thank you, Miss O’Donnell.”
“Not at all,” she answered, walking him to the door. “I’m always happy to meet the press.”
Chapter Sixteen
Things were beginning to unravel a little, he thought. He stood outside the door to Kramer’s apartment, his finger pressed to the pearl circle of the buzzer.
He didn’t move his finger at all, kept leaning on the buzzer with the clamor of the hum sounding loud within the house. He was ready to give up when he heard the soft swish of feet on a thick-pile rug.
The door opened and Kramer exclaimed, “Stone!” He started to push the door shut, but Ray kicked it hard and it flew back.
Dale Kramer was wearing a blue silk dressing gown. His feet were in brown leather sandals. His green eyes were bleary, and the pencil-line mustache under his nose looked somehow awry. His skin was chalk-white, pulled tight over high cheekbones.
Ray slammed the door and leaned back against it. A smile tilted the corners of his mouth.
“Hello, Kramer.”
Kramer was looking at his face. “You got the beating you deserved, I see.” He turned his back on Ray, walked directly to the telephone. Ray was beside him before he could pick up the receiver. He clamped his hand over Kramer’s and said, “Don’t be a damned fool.”
“I’ll give you ten seconds to get the hell out of here,” Kramer said.
Ray shoved Kramer roughly away from the phone. The bandleader clenched his fists, stood glaring at Ray.
“What do you want here, Stone?”
“Information.”
“You came to the wrong place. This isn’t a public library.”
“I didn’t come for corny gags, Kramer. I want to know why your wife left your combo.”
“That’s none of your business.”
Ray grinned. “It is my business, Kramer.” He fished a cigarette from the fresh package in his pocket, hung it on his lip. “I happen to stand accused of her murder.”
Kramer gave a short, grating laugh. “That’s funny, Stone. Very funny.”
Ray lit the cigarette, blowing out smoke. “What?” he asked.
“That ‘accused’ routine. You playing the hurt, innocent child. That’s very funny.”
“Somehow it doesn’t quite gas me,” Ray said.
“Come down,” Kramer snarled, his lip twisting back over his teeth. “I know you killed Eileen, and you’re not fooling anyone with your song and dance.”
“You’re really brilliant, you know?” Ray said. “You’re following the line of reasoning every stupid bastard in the city is following. That’s very smart.”
“I think so.”
“Sure. Did you ever stop to wonder why I’d want to kill your wife? Did that ever enter your empty head?”
“Hopheads don’t need reasons,” Kramer said flatly.
“Ahhh, the secret word. Hophead.” Ray’s features twisted into a grimace. “That explains everything, doesn’t it?”
“I know junkies, Stone. My wife was one, remember? I know how utterly irresponsible they can be.”
“Is that why you tossed her off the band?”
“I did nothing of the kind,” Kramer flared. “She left of her own accord.”
“Why?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“You already said that.”
“I’m saying it again. And I’ll keep right on saying it.”
Ray stepped closer to Kramer. In a conversational tone, he asked, “How would you like to lose a few teeth?”
Kramer snorted. “You don’t scare me, Stone. You’d have to kill me. If you left me alive, I’d call the police the minute you stepped outside that door.”
“I might leave you in no condition to call the police.”
“You’re tough, all right,” Kramer said. “It takes a lot of guts to kill a woman!”
Ray lashed out open-handed, his palm catching Kramer on the side of his face. Kramer’s head rocked back, and he stared at Ray sullenly.
“Don’t say that again,” Ray warned. “Don’t say it ever again.”
“Tough guy,” Kramer muttered.
“Why’d she leave the band?”
Kramer didn’t answer. He kept staring at Ray.
“Was it because of Rusty?”
“What? How—”
“I met the dragon lady,” Ray said. “Is she the reason Eileen took a fast powder?”
“Rusty had nothing to do with it,” Kramer said evenly.
“Then maybe you’d better tell me just what did have something to do with it.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you. The cops’ll pick you up eventually, Stone. You can’t hope to hide from the entire city.”
“I don’t expect to. But when they get me, I’m going to have a lot to tell them. And when they start questioning my motives, it’s not going to look so hot for you.”
Kramer turned away, in exasperation. “Just what the hell are you talking about?”
“The baby.”
“I told you Rusty had nothing to—”
“I’m not talking about your baby doll, Kramer. I’m talking about Eileen’s baby. The baby she was carrying.”
Kramer’s face seemed to crumble. His eyebrows climbed onto his forehead, and his eyes seemed to glaze over. “Wh—what?” he stammered.
“Didn’t you know?” Ray asked. “Your wife was three months pregnant.”
“You’re a liar.”
“She was pregnant, Kramer.”
Kramer lunged across the room, his hands reaching for Ray’s throat. Ray sidestepped quickly, shoved Kramer past him. Kramer turned, his teeth bared, his eyes blazing hatred.
“You’re a liar!” he bellowed.
His fingers found Ray’s throat, strong pianist’s fingers that tightened around the Adam’s apple.
“Let go!” Ray gasped.
“Take it back,” Kramer shouted, strength pouring through his arms with maniacal intensity. “You lousy hophead, take it—”
Ray’s hands flew up inside Kramer’s extended arms. He brought them apart suddenly, his knuckles crashing against Kramer’s wrists, breaking the lock on his throat. He bunched the fist of his left hand, brought it down in a hard chopping motion that caught Kramer on the side of his neck. Kramer clutched at Ray’s jacket, and Ray slammed his right fist into the bandleader’s gut. Kramer dropped to the rug.
“Liar,” he muttered. “Dirty, hopped-up liar. Lousy son-of-a-bitch liar.”
“You can check with a Dr. Leo Simms,” Ray said. “You’ll find him in the phone book.”
“You’re lying,” Kramer said. This time his voice didn’t carry as much conviction.
“Call the doctor, go ahead. I’m telling the truth, Kramer.”
Kramer stared at Ray for a long time, as if trying to digest what he’d just said. He began to nod his head slowly then, up and down.
“I should have known,” he mumbled. “I should have known from the beginning.”
“What?” Ray asked.
“That fat, filthy bastard,” Kramer said vehemently. “That’s why she wanted to leave the band. So she could be near him all the time. That’s why. I should have known.”
“Who the hell are you talking about?”
“Lewis, that’s who. Scat Lewis.” Kramer got to his feet rapidly, moved up close to Ray. “He did it, Stone. That lousy bastard did it.”
“You’re dreaming,” Ray said.
“It was Lewis,” Kramer shouted. He clutched Ray’s chest. “Go after him, Stone. Go after him and kill the bastard. He’s the one who shot her. He got her in trouble and then killed her. You’ve got to get him, Stone.”
Ray moved away from Kramer. “I thought you said I killed her.”
“No, no,” Kramer said hastily. “It was Lewis.” He shook his head. “Can you picture that fat bastard touching Eileen? With those fat fingers? That fat, greasy—”
“I can’t picture it,” Ray said flatly.
“I should have known,” Kramer went on. “How could she do this to me, Stone? With him? Of all people, with him? A fat, rotten—”
“You’re making me sick, Kramer. Stop ranting like an outraged male. You were playing around, too.”
Kramer pawed at Ray’s jacket again. “But Lewis?” he said. “Can’t you understand, Stone? A man like Lewis, with Eileen!”
“You’re on the wrong track. Lewis couldn’t—”
“Then why else would she leave the band?” Kramer asked. “Tell me that. Why else would she leave my band?”
“I can think of a few good reasons,” Ray said.
“Why? Why would she?”
Ray pulled away from Kramer’s grip, turned his back and started for the door. “Maybe she didn’t like you very much,” he said. He paused. “Maybe she realized you were nothing but a spineless cockroach.” He opened the door, and threw a withering glance at Kramer. “Maybe that’s why she left you.”
* * *
Scat Lewis threw back his head and laughed, and the fat under his neck quivered like jello.
“Me? Me? Why, man, that’s the laugh of the century.” He let out another loud guffaw. “That’s the greatest since the Pyramids.”
He wore a white shirt, open at the throat, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Behind him, the record player threw a hot trumpet solo into the small room. Record albums were stacked high behind Lewis’s easy chair. Magazines were scattered over the floor, old copies of
DownBeat
, a few current issues of
Show Business
and, incongruously, a battered copy of
Étude.
The cigarette tray on the arm of the chair was overflowing with half-smoked butts, and an inch-long butt hung from Lewis’s puffy lips.
“Her husband seems to think you were making it together,” Ray repeated.
“He’s blown his wig, man. Me and Eileen? Now, does that sound sensible?” Lewis shook his head and leaned back. A tenor sax picked up the melody, and Lewis cocked his head to one side. “Dig this ride, man. Listen to the sound he gets.”
“Did you know Eileen was pregnant?” Ray asked. He studied the trumpet player’s face. Lewis’s lips parted slightly, and he widened his eyes as if it were a great effort.