The savage salome (4 page)

"Please!" she said. "I'm serious. Could you come over to my apartment?"

"O.K.," I agreed. "Give me an hour."

"Thank you," she said gratefully and gave me an address in the East Fifties near Third Avenue.

I took a shower, shaved the profile, and got dressed in the almost new, muted-stripe suit made by a tailor who was so goddamned exclusive that you needed a letter of introduction to get through his door. The buzzer sounded while I was knotting the tie of an exclusive club that excluded me a long time back.

Only seven-thirty and I got my second surprise of the night when I opened the door. Helen Mills stood there with a nervous smile on her face and worry in her magnified eyes.

"You must excuse me calling on you like this, Mr. Boyd," she said breathlessly. "I called your office this afternoon and your secretary said you wouldn't be back and I told her it was urgent and then she gave me this address and said maybe I'd find you here after seven—"

"Sure," I said quickly before she burst a lung. "Come right in."

She walked into the living rom and looked around carefully in a series of jerky head movements, like she figured every bachelor apartment is loaded with booby traps for the unwary virgin. Finally she sat on the edge of an armchair, pulling her skirt down carefully over her knees and looking at me furtively at the same time.

"Would you like a drink?" I asked her.

"1 don't drink, Mr. Boyd," she said curtly.

"Cigarette?"

"I don't smoke, either."

I figured I already knew the answer to the next question in that routine, so I sat down opposite her and waited.

Her tongue flicked nervously across her pale Ups for a moment, then she took a deep breath. "Wasn't it horrible, Mr. Boyd?"

"What?" I said blankly.

"Mr. Kendall's murder last night!" The heavy lenses glittered at me reproachfully.

"Sure," I said. "But maybe Kendall would have appreciated that jack-in-the-box bit."

"Do you think it was the same person who killed him and Donna's little Pekingese?"

"Could be," I said. "You think so?"

"I don't know." She chewed on her lower lip reflectively for a while. "I had to talk to someone about it, Mr. Boyd, and since Donna hired you to fijQd little Niki's killer— I'm sure I know who it is!"

"Who?" I asked.

"That woman, of course!" she said bitterly. "Margot Lynn—who else?"

"Why Margot Lynn?"

"She's an insanely jealous woman," Helen Mills said firmly. "She's always been jealous of Donna's success and it was common knowledge in the opera company that she and Kendall were—well—you know." "Sleeping together?"

Her face flushed painfully. "Yes! Then Kendall suddenly lost interest in her and tried thrusting his attention upon Donna Alberta—not that she encouraged him in any way, naturally! But Margot being what she is automatically assumed the worst had happened." "Did it?" I asked mildly.

"It most definitely did not!" Her eyes wished me dead and she held first option on the autopsy. "Margot is a fanatically jealous woman—I told you that before—and in her own mind she was convinced they were—well— lovers!" She blushed again.

"So you figure she killed the dog out of spite?" "Then sent back its mutilated body to Donna as a warning," Helen Mills snapped. "You have any proof of this?"

"It's up to you to find the proof, Mr. Boyd!" she said tartly. "That's what you were hired for, isn't it?"

"That was yesterday," I said. "This morning I was fired."

"What?" She stared at me, disbelievingly. "Kasplin told me Kendall's murder had taken Donna Alberta's mind off the dog," I said. "So he didn't need me any more." "Why didn't you tell me this before?" "You didn't give me a chance, honey," I told her. "And anyway I was too busy admiring those gorgeous legs of yours!"

She jumped to her feet, her whole body rigid with fury. "I guess you think this is very amusing, Mr. Boyd," she said in a strangled voice. "Making a fool of me in this way!"

"I didn't know you'd come here to talk about the dog and Margot Lynn," I said. "I figured you must be hooked by my fatal charm."

For a moment she just stared at me, then hissed something under her breath which I couldn't hear and maybe it was just as well. I stood up and walked toward her,

which was a mistake because it brought me within reaching distance. She raised her right hand suddenly and slammed the open palm down across the side of my face—by the sound and feel of it my head had cracked neatly into two separate halves. Then she turned and ran for the door while I was still dizzy. By the time my head stopped buzzing she was long gone.

Margot Lynn opened the door of her apartment and invited me in. She wore a short-cut tunic of black silk, with matching narrow trousers. The over-all effect was startling, like an intimate close-up of the top product in an upper-bracket slave market. In one corner of the living room, next to the gleaming cellaret, the hi-fi was playing mood music maybe entitled "Theme For Leisurely Lovers."

"Drink?" she asked in that vibrant voice which gave me a nervous feeling just listening to it.

"Bourbon on the rocks," I said.

"Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Boyd." She gestured toward the large couch.

"Danny," I corrected her.

She made the drinks and brought them back to the couch, then sat down beside me but not real close.

"You're a private detective, Danny," she said easily. "I heard all about you this afternoon from Kasplin—he used very short words mostly."

"He's a very short guy," I murmured.

Margot grinned, then drank some of her bourbon. "You never did get around to finding out who carved up the pooch?"

"I never did," I agreed. "You could've found that out on the phone and saved your bourbon."

"The way Kasplin tells it," she said slowly, "you come real high."

"You could qualify for fringe benefits," I told her.

"That Lieutenant Chase," she said softly. "He's a hard man to convince—^he figures I killed Paul Kendall."

"Did you?"

Her big dark eyes studied my face for a moment before she shook her head. "No, but it doesn't make any difference—he's got it all figured out with the background dirt

given him by people like Helen Mills and our glorious prima donna."

"He needs more than that."

"I don't have an alibi, either—I guess that helps?"

Her fingers squeezed my arm gently. "I asked around about you, Danny. You have quite a reputation here and there. Maybe I need you right now."

"To get you off the hook with Chase?"

"The only way you can do that is find the real murderer," she said almost casually. "How about that?"

"There's a minor detail," I said, "like money."

"How much?"

"How much is it worth to get off Lieutenant Chase's hook?"

She smiled ruefully. "You're a tough man to do business with, Danny Boyd. Say a thousand now and another thousand when you deliver?"

"That gives you four days of my time—^based on Kas-plin's rates," I said and grinned. "But like I said, you qualify for fringe benefits."

"Maybe you do, too," she said softly.

"Cozy," I said and drank some of the bourbon. "So if you didn't murder Kendall, someone else did. They call that deduction in the private eye set."

"Paul asked me along to his apartment earlier in the evening to help set it up for the party," she said. "I arrived around seven, I guess. He was in a very good humor—like always when he was planning one of his crazy practical jokes. After I'd finished setting up the liquor and glasses and stuff, he showed me the box and told me what I had to do—have everyone in the dining room by midnight, then press the button. I left him just before eight-thirty and came here to get dressed."

"What time did you get back there?"

"A little after ten," Margot said. "I had to be early to greet the guests—Paul had told me he had to go out someplace so he wouldn't be there until much later on. That's why I wasn't at aU surprised not to see him. I guess you know the rest of it."

"It's not real hard to see how the lieutenant's got it all figured," I said. "Kendall had to have someone to help him close the lid. He would've been a sitting duck wedged

into that box with maybe just his head and shoulders showing. So the assistant could cut his throat with no trouble and take his time about it."

Margot shuddered. "It's horrible!"

"Somebody with a macabre sense of humor," I agreed. "First the disemboweled dog and then Kendall. You know anyone with that idea of fun?"

"Not that I can think of," she said doubtfully. "But couldn't it be someone with a sense of the dramatic?"

"I guess it could, at that," I admitted.

"There we have a field overloaded with talent," she said, sighing gently. "If you don't have an artistic temperament you just don't rate in an opera company!"

"Who wanted Paul Kendall dead?"

"I wish I knew," she said soberly, "but I don't have any idea. I guess it's no help at all but I figure the reason he was killed has nothing to do with jealousy or emotion at all. My hunch is the murderer had a very practical motive."

"But you can't thmk of one?"

"That's right," she smiled wistfully. "If I could I'd have told Chase about it and saved myself all that money hiring you!"

I finished my drink and put the glass down on the floor in front of me. "Donna Alberta," I said slowly, "Margot Lynn, Rex Tybolt—^they're all big names in the opera game, huh?"

"The biggest," Margot said complacently. "So what?"

"How come you're all associated with a crummy operator like Earl Harvey and working in a theater on Second Avenue?"

She shrugged listlessly. "A little thing called money, I guess."

"You need money?" I gulped. A client talking that way always makes me real nervous.

"Don't we all?" she said. "What brought this on?"

"You did," I said. "That jazz about the killer having a practical motive—^Earl Harvey is a very practical boy."

"It's his show, and his money in back of it." Margot laughed and it came out with a brittle sound. "Make sense, Danny—why would Harvey kill his own producer and risk his own show?"

"It sounds like a good question," I admitted. "Maybe I should go ask him."

Something close to fear showed Ln her eyes for a moment as her fingers tightened on my forearm again. "Don't do that—it would embarrass me!"

"Why?"

"Right now I'm working for the man, remember?" She stood up suddenly, then saw my empty glass on the carpet. "How about another drink?"

"It can wait," I said. "Let's talk some more about Earl Harvey."

"I don't want to talk about him," she said petulantly. "I'm sick to death of talking about murder and motives and mezzo-sopranos! I want to relax for awhile."

"That's fine by me," I said. "How about I make both of us another drink?"

"That's better." She smiled again, and the gamin look was back on her face. "It's much nicer if we can relax together, don't you think?"

I took the glasses over to the cellaret and by the time I'd finished making fresh drinks, Margot had vanished. I could think of a couple of good reasons why she might, so I didn't worry.

Back on the couch, with the glasses placed neatly on a small table beside me, I relaxed in well-upholstered comfort and closed my eyes. The hi-fi machine must have been stacked with long-playing records. The theme stiU sounded the same although the tempo had jazzed up a litde— maybe the lover's had gotten from leisurely to impatient.

Sometime later I heard a faint rustling sound and opened my eyes. Margot stood in front of me wearing a shortie pajama outfit in blue satin—a two-piece with skintight pants that ended with a neatly turned cufl[ at mid-thigh, and a wrap-around jacket knotted tight at the waist with a broad sash.

"I've been busy," she said softly. "You know—all those Uttle domestic touches which mean so much in a girl's life —hke choosing the right outfit to please a special guest, locking the front door, and taking the phone off the hook."

She bounced onto the couch beside me and this time it was real close.

"I'm glad you made the drinks," she murmured. "Right

now I can't think of anything else we might need. How about you, Danny boy?"

I traced the taut curve of her thigh slowly with my index finger underneath the satin cuff. "Your kind of grief is the kind I go for, honey," I told her. "The kind that doesn't last any time at all!"

She smiled easily. "You mean Paul? There's a simple explanation, lover, if it worries you."

"I got respect for any simple explanation, honey," I said sincerely, "so give!"

The couch was an island in the center of the dimly lit room where we were marooned in comfortable intimacy. My finger still slowly traced the warm curve of her thigh and gently explored the sensuous, heavy smoothness of the tight satin. Her fingers unbuttoned my shirt and slid inside, then the palm of her hand pressed flat against my chest.

"A girl like me has a choice, lover," she said in a low-pitched voice. "She can be a mezzo-soprano or a wife —^but if she tries to be both at the same time it never works out."

"This, I dig," I said like I was impressed. "The tragic dilemma of the singer's life—as told to, and serialized in a big, glossy magazine."

"It's true," she said coldly and yanked a hair out of my chest to emphasize the point.

"You couldn't marry Paul Kendall," I said politely because a guy only has so much hair on his chest, "so you did the next best thing and gathered rosebuds—"

"K you want to teU it, I'll shut up and listen," Margot snapped.

"Sorry," I apologized. "Go right ahead!"

"Sex is important in my life the same as in most other people's," she continued. "So is my singing. That's why I make a habit of sleeping with a producer—^unless he's physically repulsive, of course."

"Hell!" I said admiringly. "That's what they mean by having the best of two worlds?"

"I have to admit I was a little miffed when Paul lost interest so fast and started leering at the Alberta edifice," she said casually. "Maybe he had a thing about over-

developed prima donnas—maybe that's why he died. I'm sorry he's dead, lover, but grief is something you keep for the important things like when you get laryngitis on opening night!"