The Corpse in the Cabana Read online

  The answer came from George Newberry.

  He stepped inside and switched on the light.

  “You get in all over, Gant,” he said, closing the door behind him. He held out his hand and took the automatic and gave it a quick eyewash. He stuffed it away in his pocket, stepping around me to rummage through Orlik’s suitcase. “But why here?”

  “Her last boyfriend, Newberry. Man named Orlik.”

  “Orlik?” he sniffed, checking it against his memory. “Not the big shot? Last time I read the name, he slugged a guy in a city club. Right?”

  “You’ve got a good head for mayhem.” He was right, of course. Orlik had earned a reputation as a bar brawler, a hot-tempered client of the metropolitan bistros. He slugged when drunk, always managing to pick a celebrity for the slaughter. He had talent in his ham-like fists, enough wallop to fell every target. The last time it was Rory Gargan, the Hollywood pantywaist who rustled horses in the movies but folded against Orlik. The little tycoon floored him with a right cross for insulting his current concubine.

  “You think he figures in this?” Newberry asked.

  “I doubt it. She ran out on him last night.”

  “And? Doesn’t that fix him for this? Maybe he came out to put her away?”

  “Not Orlik. He’s been brushed off by better women.”

  “Better? Maybe he flipped this time? She was quite a piece.”

  “Like I said—he’s had better.”

  “Then why the visit?” He felt smart and keen browbeating me. He felt masterful and mean, the oh-so-clever policeman. It was an old routine for him, a quirk he promoted to tell himself he was mental at times like this. I had seen it often, a long time ago in New York, when he’d have a slob under the lights. He would try for a trap, sweating his man out until he could pull the switch and yell his head off for a confession. It was as corny as his stupid smirk. “What are you doing here, digging for clams?”

  “Checking,” I said, “the way I always check.”

  “Checking what? What, Gant?”

  “His luggage. I’m an old luggage checker.”

  “Very funny. You checked everybody else’s luggage?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Chuck Bond’s, maybe?” he asked.

  “Why Chuck Bond?” He was hitting me over the head with something again. You can read it, sometimes, when a dumb cluck tries to get clever. You can sense it in his lip-licking enjoyment in the tricky questions. You can see it in his open joy, the cat-and-canary grin, the cocky, almost arrogant curve of his smile, the rocking on his heels, the way he tossed the automatic back on the pile of Orlik’s stuff.

  “Don’t tell me you crossed Bond off your list, Gant?”

  “Stop being so subtle, Newberry. What’s on your mind?”

  “Just this—that Chuck Bond looks dirty as hell in this.”

  “You’ve got something?”

  “Plenty.” He toyed with me, letting me taste the words. “We just found a bundle of dirty wash in Bond’s shower.”

  “Wash?”

  “Laundry. Sheets. Bedspreads. All of them prettied up with plenty of blood. Bond dropped them in his shower, probably figured he’d get rid of them later. Or maybe he tried to bury them. Because there was plenty of sand in them.”

  “You mean you’re buying a fairy tale like that, Newberry?”

  “You’re terrific,” he said, snapping the suitcase shut suddenly. “I always said you had moxie, Gant. Why knock yourself out? You forget I know Bond’s story, the whole thing, from away back in Brooklyn. You also forget I happen to know how you and Jim Bond tried to straighten him out. You still at it, Mr. Do-Good?”

  “You should know better than that,” I said. “Chuck Bond’s a big boy now, a big name boy. He doesn’t need me. He’s a smart lad, Newberry. You think he’d be dumb enough to leave dirty wash in his shower? To walk out of his cabana and drop the evidence for you boys? Hell, you saw Chuck on the beach when you arrived. Stop and think a little. Why wouldn’t he run back and take the dirty linens out?”

  “A good question for the Grand Jury, Gant.”

  “You wouldn’t take him in?”

  “I need a pigeon, don’t I? What’s wrong with Bond?”

  “Just that he doesn’t fit.”

  “Bird turd,” said Newberry arrogantly. “The coroner phoned in that Gloria was killed about four-thirty, four forty-five. I got too few sitting ducks around here at that time. I got Pazow, Orlik, Ziggi, some of the help, and Chuck Bond. The way it stands now, he’s my boy, Gant. Unless you can dig me somebody better.”

  “You won’t take him until tomorrow? You’ll keep your promise?”

  “Hell, tomorrow’s good enough,” he said. “You know something, I never saw Bond in person. On teevee, Sullivan’s show, once, but never in person. Like to see him work. Like to see him make me laugh tonight.”

  I had an answer to his line, but I swallowed it. He stalked off toward the restaurant, pausing at the end of the row to make small talk with one of his men. He must have been through all the cabanas before he found me in Orlik’s. Despite his crusty disposition, I couldn’t help admiring his methods. Newberry would be on the ball in a caper like this, the beagle with the sensitive snout. He would move without imagination, but move thoroughly, covering all the angles. It occurred to me that he must have visited Gloria’s dressing room before I got there. He would be the crude fumbler in her luggage. He would be gaining ground on me, using his men to cover twice my yardage.

  I stood there in the wash of the sea breeze, airing out my head. Chuck was in trouble now, real trouble. Somebody had him pegged to take the rap on this one. Somebody had seen us bury the sheets, dug them up and planted them neatly where they would damage him. Who? I counted the cast, running down the list and arrived at the usual dead-end.

  Then I went to see Pazow.

  CHAPTER 5

  10:12 P.M.

  “Jean Russicoff,” Pazow said, thoughtfully. “The woman most likely to succeed with Chuck. Not that there aren’t others around here with a yen for him.”

  “Others? Give me the hot ones, Pazow.”

  “Why don’t you ask Chuck, for God’s sake?”

  “Maybe I will—later.”

  “What can I tell you?” He got off his larded tail and stepped around his desk. He was restless again, a bug up his ear. He squatted on the edge of the desk and cracked his knuckles. “Chuck could make time with any girl on my payroll. Hell, why not? He’s a young girl’s dream, isn’t he? Jean Russicoff, a college kid earning summer dough here, a pretty little thing, ripe as a melon. You know something—she almost cries when she looks at him. Her eyes fill with water and get that glassy look. Yet, maybe Chuck hasn’t even tried her, seriously, I mean.”

  “You’ve seen them together?”

  “Lots. Early this week, around the pool. Once, out on the beach, at night.” He squirmed, uncomfortable as he told his story. “Hell, ask him, Gant.”

  “You said that before, Pazow. I’ll ask him. But right now, I’m asking you. What about the others? Linda Purcell?”

  “About the same.”

  “Intimate?”

  “Possibly. Linda’s got what it takes. But, you want the truth? Chuck was hot only about Gloria. You know the rumble, Gant—we boys always stick out our necks for the hard-to-get-gals. The others? Hell, who wants it when they throw it at you?”

  “And you?” I asked. “Didn’t you want it, Pazow?”

  The sudden shot caught him off guard, taking him off the edge of his butt, sliding him off the desk top. He was flushing, balking; his classic face tight and tense. The evidence was all around him, on the newly decorated walls of his office. Up over his desk, featured among the photographs of celebrities, Gloria’s picture snapped at your eyes. She was especially framed in a broad gold border, a standout against the narrow black
frames around the other pictures. This was no ordinary press release photo. It was a studio shot, snapped by Silvera, one of the biggest names in portrait photography. Her thin and precise handwriting read: With all my love to Roger, a real darling—Gloria. On the right wall, two other pictures of Gloria, each with a celebrity, each autographed to Pazow. And on his desk, under the pile of debris, were the other photos beneath the stack also Gloria? I moved the office dross aside, causally. The top photo was Gloria again, this one snapped on a beach, alone under an umbrella. Last year in Florida?

  “Last year in Florida?” I asked, holding up the picture.

  Pazow danced across the room, burning. He grabbed the photo from my fist, slapped it down on the blotter. “What in hell are you trying to prove, Gant?” he snapped.

  “Get very far?”

  “Watch your dirty mind.”

  “Why? Everybody knows what she was like.”

  “You little louse!” He came in at me, pulled back his arm. But he didn’t throw the punch. Caution held his muscles. He froze in the gesture. Then he shook his head sadly and sat down.

  “You had it bad too?” I said.

  “All right. All right. She knew how to do it to a man.”

  “And? You didn’t make it with her?”

  “Never.” He looked up seriously, adjusting his face for complete honesty. “I won’t deny I tried. I went all out.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. She was here, swimming.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Ziggi. She insisted Ziggi was permanent for her.”

  “No mention of Orlik?” I asked.

  “Never.” He buried his head in his hands, a close-up of misery. “Oh, God, was she working Orlik, too?”

  “Up until last night.”

  “Incredible,” Pazow whispered. “An impossible woman. I thought that Ziggi was my only competition. Incredible.”

  The intercom buzzed on his desk and he flipped it on and spoke sharply to somebody out in the restaurant. They had rearranged the program, substituting Helen Gallagher, a wren from a local bistro on the South Shore. She had already started a quick rehearsal and would be ready for her spot on time. Pazow sighed and hung up.

  “I’ve got to get in there,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “Linda Purcell. Where do I find her?”

  He took me down the alley to a cabana where the lights burned brightly and a typewriter pecked at the stillness. He left me there and ran back toward the restaurant, a little man with a big worry. It was 9:15—forty-five minutes to show time. The minutes were skipping by. My mind was clogged, jammed with things to do, people to see. The parade would carry me far into the night. Was Linda Purcell the logical next? I stood there, staring out at the black sea, making up my mind.

  Then a voice threw the dice for me.

  “Are you coming in, or do you want me out there?”

  She was framed in the doorway, a rounded silhouette against the bright lights of her office. She had poured herself into something special for opening night, a dress that promoted her girlish charms. The glow played up her red hair, a meticulously waved cascade on her big shoulders. She had a young face, pert in the features, the type of prettiness promoted in Playboy. The rest of her was Playboy, too, with hips like something out of an Italian movie. She held a highball glass in one hand, raised it to her lips as I watched.

  “What pretty ears you have,” I said. “You heard us out here?”

  “I can locate Pazow in a thick fog,” she said. “Maybe it’s his flat feet. Coming in?”

  “What have I got to lose?”

  “You’ve lost it,” she laughed, running her eyes over me. “A long time ago, Gant.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I hear everything. Pazow said it.” She gave me her pear-shaped rear, turning away suddenly, moving inside. “A few minutes ago.”

  I held her elbow. She didn’t mind the contact. Her eyes were high with alcoholic humor when she faced me. She sipped her drink.

  “You lie like hell,” I said. “Pazow didn’t say my name at all.”

  “He must have. How would I know it?”

  “That’s my question.”

  “You’re famous, little man.” She gave me the side of an underplayed smile, not nasty, not mean, but heavy with sarcasm. “I remembered your face from a news story. You’ve got a tabloid face, that’s what it is.”

  “Thanks, for nothing. I still think you’re a liar, baby.”

  “A fine way to make friends,” she pouted.

  “Why don’t you level with me?”

  “That would be fun.” She leaned against the files, loose and light, batting her mattress eyes at me, challenging me. “I like guessing games, Gant.”

  “Chuck Bond? Chuck told you?”

  “Wonderful.” She clapped her hands and closed her eyes and laughed a Bourbon laugh.

  “Chuck thinks you’re the greatest. He talks about you all the time.”

  She paused reflectively. She shifted her emotional gears, pricked by some disturbing idea that angered her a bit. “Chuck,” she sighed, “does a hell of a lot of talking, doesn’t he? A real talkative type. All talk with the girls.”

  “You don’t like his talk?”

  “Like it? What’s to dislike?” She ambled erratically to the bottle on her desk, fixing a drink for me. She took one for herself, sniffed it and set it down, making a face at it. “Why is it a comic likes to talk so much, Gant? You’d think he’d have enough of it up on the stage. But not Chuck. All the time, talk, talk, talk. He’s a real bore, that boy, sometimes.”

  “For you, maybe. Jean Russicoff doesn’t think so.”

  “Aaaaah.” Her eyes flamed.

  “Jealous?”

  “Who needs it? Do I look jealous? Really, darling?” She went through the primitive motions of complete disgust with Jean Russicoff. She ravished her drink, gulping it down. She walked to the mirror behind her desk, fluffed her hair; tongued her crimson lips. It fell flat, over-played and jerky. “He deserves Jean Russicoff,” she laughed, high and off-key. “Chuck Bond and a college kid, for God’s sake. He’ll look good with her, a jug of wine, a book of verse and creeping paralysis. She can have him, Gant. I give him to her.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want her,” I suggested. “Maybe it’s Gloria he wants?”

  “Gloria?”

  She barely whispered the name. She put a hand to her throat, heated by a reaction that seemed out of key. It was as though somebody had slapped her, suddenly, her eyes no longer sleepy, her whole face lit with shock. There was enough liquor in her to let these things through to me. She came back fast, building a bridge of laughter to normalcy. But her gestures were a lot jerkier now. She had flipped—and she knew it.

  “You don’t think he can make the grade with Gloria?” I asked.

  “Not a chance.” She cued herself to my line, now frivolous and frothy. “Gloria has different tastes. I’ve seen her operate. She’s after the big money, mostly, after characters like Pazow, or Ziggi. She’d crush Chuck. She’d kill him off quickly.”

  “You know her pretty well?”

  “I don’t know her at all. But I’ve seen her in action.”

  “Here?”

  “Where else?” her troubled eyes questioned. “She’s been swimming here afternoons, this past week. And once in a while she stayed for the evening. I work here, right in queer alley. And I have good eyes—and better ears.”

  “And a wonderful mouth,” I added. She didn’t catch the implication. Instead, it came through just as a compliment. And brought her my way. I was sitting on the divan opposite her desk. She sat beside me, letting me breathe her personal perfume. She would be an eager partner for any male she favored. She put a hand on my arm.

  “I like you
, little man,” she said. “But not when you talk in riddles. What in God’s name are you getting at?”

  “You.”

  “You can do better,” she complained. “If you’ll only stop talking.”

  “I’ll be finished,” I said, “after I tell you that Gloria’s been murdered.”

  The bomb dropped and she reacted. Her hands pinched deep enough into my arm to sting, her nails sharp as spikes. She was a primitive type, not at all like Mari Beranville. She sucked in a horrified gasp, shivering as she breathed, completely out of whack.

  “No,” she whispered, “No. When? Murdered? But who’d do it? Who’d do a thing like that?”

  “Some people think Chuck did it.”

  “That’s crazy,” she gasped. “Not Chuck, of all people.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I warned him. I told him to stay away from her,” she sobbed, all doubled up with confusion. “Pazow went wild when he saw them together, the other night, on the beach. Ziggi didn’t like the idea either. Chuck was making all kinds of enemies because of his silly lech for her. But—murder? Chuck Bond wouldn’t murder a flounder. It doesn’t make sense, Gant. Does it? Does it?”

  “Stop selling,” I told her, pushing her back and away from me. I got off the couch and she looked up at me, worried. I grabbed her shoulders and shook her, gently but firmly. “I’ll buy your pitch, Linda—all the way. But I want you to fill me in a little more. Where were you late this afternoon?”

  “At what time?”

  “From three to five.”

  “That’s easy.” Her answer was immediate. “I was down in East Beach, making arrangements for extra help in the kitchen. Some of our meshugenah bus boys and dishwashers conked out at the last minute. I was at the Ace Employment Agency, on Tremont Lane, that’s right near the railroad station. I had to wait until after three. But I was a hero. I drove back with three bus boys and two dishwashers.”

  “And then?”