Part 25 (1/2)
”Gordy was sleeping a lot. Dr. Clarson is supervising and seems to think that is quite the best thing.”
What a relief. Something was going right.
”Was any undue influence applied to a.s.sure Gordy's cooperation?”
”It was only for his own best good, I swear.”
”And how are you doing?” It wasn't a casual health query.
”No shakes tonight. So far.”
Escott was giving me a look. One of those kind of looks.
”I'm fine!” For a while I'd almost felt like my regular self. I resented the reminder that he still saw me as ailing. It had the effect of dragging me back into the sickroom.
He made an innocent ”hands off” gesture and quit the chair. ”Shall we open, then?”
We divvied money up between the tills, ten bucks and change for each, more than enough for the night. We carried them down. Escott took one to the main room, I gave mine to Wilton. ”Got what you need?” I asked.
”A little short on lemons. Hard to get this time of year.”
”Then we do without. It's time.”
The extra bouncers from the Nightcrawler were smoking in the lobby and greeted me with respectful nods. Derner must have handpicked them to avoid sending anyone who was personally hostile toward me. They knew who they were to look out for and would be hanging around front and back, two to a door, inside and out, eyes open for trouble.
My regular staff seemed a little walleyed about the tough newcomers, or so Wilton confided when he motioned me over to the side.
”Ain't the people we got enough?” he asked.
”You read the papers today?” I countered. ”That club singer who got b.u.mped?”
”Yeah...”
”These guys are to make sure that doesn't happen here.”
He gave an exaggerated nod of understanding and flashed a welcoming smile toward the toughs. ”Gentlemen! If you need coffee, just ask!”
That's what I liked to see. Cooperation. I ascertained that the doorman had his fancy red coat b.u.t.toned and that the hatcheck girl was ready for business, then turned on the open sign and the outside lights of the canopied entrance. No crowds were waiting to flood in just yet, but soon. Before leaving I said, addressing them all, ”There's a guy turning up later tonight, forties, lean, has a white streak of hair on one side-”
”That movie star?” chirped the girl, eyes bright. ”He was cute!”
Not my word for Kroun, but she'd obviously responded to his brand of charm in a big way. ”He's no movie star, but he is important. Give him the royal treatment when he shows and take him up to my table. He gets whatever he wants.”
”And how!” she agreed. The men merely nodded, and I went on to the main room.
The band was running late, still more drifting in and tuning up. When the leader spotted me he snapped at the others to put some hustle in it, knowing we were officially open. Just over half came to attention and began playing at his signal. The music was thin at first, then gradually surged and filled out as more of the guys joined in on their usual warm-up number. By the time I was seated at my third tier table they were in full swing.
Opening was always a little sweat-making with them playing to an empty house. The worry was that it would remain empty for the evening, but usually within half an hour we'd have enough of a crowd to justify the endeavor. I sat well back in the shadows of my booth, watching, going over details in my head in case I missed anything.
Once I finally admitted to myself that all was well I started chewing over Jewel Caine's murder. Whatever reason someone had had to kill Alan Caine, I couldn't think why they'd go after Jewel, too.
Unless she'd seen them. She'd been smoking out in the alley. It was very possible. If the killer had left by that route-the fastest exit was the stage door-she could have been right there. She might have said or done something to set him off, or maybe it was enough for her to be in the wrong place just then. He'd have to shut her up as a witness; he lured or kidnapped her away, then staged the fake suicide. And as great good fortune would have it, the cops, or at least the papers, had fallen for the sham.
I wasn't going to leave it like that for her. The right person would take the rap for this. All I needed was five minutes with him.
But was I up to doing hypnosis yet or in for another crippling migraine leading to a seizure? The constant chill that had plagued me last night was somewhat mitigated. I wasn't s.h.i.+vering in my overcoat and hat. My day sleep had accomplished some healing after all, but did it extend that far? I wouldn't know for sure unless I tried, and I wasn't inclined to try.
Escott had been backstage and now emerged from the side exit door on the left. He had a word with the bartender, got a brandy, then began the climb up to my table. Several couples had come in, and the tables were gradually filling up. It was early, but looked like we'd have a good crowd.
”May I?” he asked, ever polite, even when there was no need.
I waved him in on the opposite side, and he took a load off. ”Charles, I know you're curious about Kroun coming in, but you've been doing two jobs. It's okay if you head home and rest.”
”Rest? My dear fellow, gadding about here is rest for me. I always look forward to abandoning my office to enjoy this glad escape.” He lifted his snifter. ”And a free drink.”
”Okay, if you're sure.” That was my way of being polite. ”But where he's concerned I think you should be invisible.”
”That shan't be a problem. I agree with you on the anonymity point. I'd rather not be anyone he knows.”
”Did you look up more on him today?”
”Oh, absolutely.”
”And ...?”
”There is a remarkable lack of material on him. Now and then his name popped up in the New York papers in connection to certain acts of violence, but he's avoided any arrest and prosecution. One day he's the focus of someone's official attention, the next they've never heard of him.”
”He must bribe or threaten them away, then.” Another half dozen customers came in. Good. Kroun wasn't one of them. Better.
”What's odd is that reporters seem to lose interest in him. Walter Winch.e.l.l had the start of what promised to be a very juicy piece connecting him to a murder, then it simply never happened.”
”You think he bribed Winch.e.l.l? He'd have boasted about turning it down.”
Escott shook his head. ”You'd have to ask Winch.e.l.l that. You're former colleagues. Write him a letter.”
I almost laughed. Sure I'd been a reporter, but so far down the journalistic totem pole as not even to exist when compared to Winch.e.l.l. ”Why don't you write Helen Hayes, and ask if she'll put you in her next play?”
”Because I prefer Chicago over New York,” he replied.
”Don't tell me you know...”
He bounced one eyebrow, very deadpan.
”Ah, never mind.”
The band went into a fanfare, and Teddy Parris launched onto the stage, taking charge of it as easily an experienced trouper twice his years. He introduced himself, welcomed everyone, and promised them all a great evening. It was almost how I glad-handed people in the lobby, but without the whammy-work.
He swung his way into ”Christopher Columbus” with enthusiastic help from the band. It was a great song; people responded, cl.u.s.tering on the dance floor. During an instrumental interlude Teddy bounded from the stage, cut in on a couple in a comic way, and took the lady around some fast turns. He deftly handed her back to her date and continued to spin, making like he'd gone dizzy, artfully ending up at a table sitting on a guy's lap. Wide-eyed Teddy tickled the guy's chin, then mimed mortified horror and switched laps to flirt with the girlfriend instead. Fortunately they thought he was funny. I'd seen that gag not work in many a spectacular way.
He dropped to one knee, gave the lady the red carnation from his lapel, then made a fast exit, cartwheeling back to the dance floor, managing not to hit anyone. Up onstage again, he was in perfect time to resume singing, but breathless, so he made a business out of that, mopping his brow and purposely wheezing out the words. He miraculously recovered enough to deliver a strong finish. It went over well, with laughs and applause.