Triple Slay Page 4

  I laughed out loud.

  “Something wrong, Conacher?” Silverton asked.

  “Flato’s landlady,” I said. “A very funny woman with the descriptive prose.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Her account of the mystery man. That would be me, Silverton.”

  “You?”

  “In person. I’m the mysterious stranger.”

  I broke it down for him and he heard me out, not happy with my tale. The shock of Flato’s death had changed him. He was normally a man of great poise, an executive who would show only one face to the world, one of complete calm and control at all times. He had Madison Avenue overtones; lean, alert and crisp-tongued. He would be used to giving commands to menials, issuing interoffice communications, holding forth at the top end of a board table. He would have skipped up from the ranks on the strength of his perpetual smoothness, his almost frigid confidence. But it was all gone this morning. He no longer radiated composure. He was completely unnerved by the terrible news.

  “And your effort was wasted?” he asked. “You found nothing at all?”

  “Crumbs. Dream stuff, Silverton, theory. Flato was knifed and I think the job was done by a professional. Flato would be no easy target for an amateur knifer. He was a wiry man, muscled and energetic. He would have had a better chance against a neophyte stabber.”

  “Incredible,” said Silverton, on his feet now and staring down at the city. “Double trouble, Conacher. It’s my job to handle public relations for this network. This is the ugliest assignment ever to come down the pike for me. People like Jan Flato simply don’t get involved in murders. He was far too usual, too normal. You met him. Didn’t you think so?”

  “Murderers don’t follow rules,” I said. “They’re not a special breed, the way you play them on the television screen. Once, in Brooklyn, I saw the homicide squad prove a case against the sweetest old lady this side of Grandma Moses. She looked as innocent as Whistler’s mother. But she happened to be a handy old girl with a knife.”

  “But why Flato?” he asked impatiently. “The man had no enemies. He was liked, respected, the nicest kind of a guy, really.”

  “How about Haddon? Did Haddon like him?”

  “Arthur? Yes, even Arthur approved of him, Conacher.”

  “Despite the fact that Flato took his job?”

  “Nonsense. Arthur Haddon is a realist. He’s perfectly aware that he can’t direct any more. The strain would kill him. He was replaced because he couldn’t stand the pressure of his work, both physically and mentally. He knows that somebody younger had to fill his spot. The fact that Flato got the job is routine.”

  “That’s hard to believe, Silverton. Haddon doesn’t seem to be that kind of clam. Was he a heavy drinker before the axe fell?”

  “Arthur Haddon always drank,” he smiled. “He’s home today, hung over.”

  “Where can he be reached?”

  “You might try The Coach Bar, on Lexington.”

  “No family?”

  “Haddon’s been divorced four times. He prefers living alone now. You think he’s involved in this?”

  “I met him last night. He was pretty well crocked. But he mentioned Mari Barstow’s name with quite a bit of feeling.”

  “Meaningless,” smiled Silverton. “Mari Barstow has the capacity for making herself remembered.”

  “How about Flato? Did he know her well?”

  “I couldn’t be sure.”

  “He told me he dated her.”

  “Nothing unusual about that,” Silverton said. “In this business, a busy director does quite a bit of socializing if he’s so inclined. Mari would challenge him.”

  “You think he made time with her?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Is she easy?”

  “Easy?” Silverton smiled at me in the manner of a professor listening to a freshman. “I never tried her, Conacher. She may have been a trifle easy for Jan, however. He was an important director, a man who controlled one of the biggest shows on our network. Young women with ambition are reputed to offer their bodies to important people like Jan Flato. This is pretty much a business fact, in the same sense that dress salesmen entertain out-of-town buyers. But the simple seduction of a girl like Mari couldn’t have meant much to Jan Flato. He would consider her a passing night’s amusement and nothing more.”

  “And if he considered her more?”

  “What are you saying?” Silverton sharpened to my idea, more than a little interested now. “You think Flato was serious about her?”

  “He was serious enough to remove her name from his list of phone numbers. He was careful to remove her pictures from his photo album. These may be idle hunches, but I’m sold on them. If Flato purposely removed her from his personal effects at home, he may have known where she was. Unless he had serious enemies, his murder shapes up as a silly piece of business. It couldn’t have been robbery. The police have discounted that thought and I’m with them. City detectives are shrewd, Silverton. Your industry has done them a disservice by painting them as semi-morons in the half-hour shows.”

  “You’re right, of course. There were two of them in to see me this morning, intelligent men, both of them. Cushing and Gahan. Know them?”

  “Both,” I said. “My work rarely brings me into contact with the homicide group, but I’ve met some of them. The private investigator operates in a world of his own most of the time, digging leads in the routine way and rarely bothering with the local police officials, except to check Missing Persons once in a while. We help each other when and where the opportunity offers itself. It’s that cut and dried.”

  “Have you been to see Missing Persons about Mari Barstow?”

  “That would have been pretty stupid,” I said. “You wanted to keep it from the newsmen. You haven’t changed your mind?”

  “Certainly not.” He eyed me with real concern. “It’s more important than ever now to hold the Mari Barstow thing away from any publicity. Is that clear, Conacher?”

  “It’s pretty obvious.”

  “It would damage us severely at this time,” Silverton said. “Of course, we can’t bury it for too long, you understand. Do you think you can find her soon?”

  “There’s no telling.”

  “A week?”

  “No way for me to know.” His tentative deadline amused me. He was an educated man, well read and wise in the ways of the world. He must have read many accounts of the problems involved in tracking down the missing. A man of his intellect should have been familiar with the celebrated Judge Crater case, the fantastic saga of a well-known public citizen who faded into limbo and was never seen again, alive or dead. There were always magazine articles about the fascinating craft of skip-tracing. Every year, hundreds of perfectly normal people left perfectly normal homes and offices to vanish in the mysterious outer world and never return. It often took years to track down a purposeful wanderer. “I can only promise to do my best.”

  “You’ve got to promise more than that, Conacher,” he said firmly. “What does it take to double your efforts?”

  “Double my manpower.”

  “An assistant?”

  “An associate,” I said. “My friend Max Ornstein would hate to be called my assistant. Loss of face.”

  “Get him,” said Silverton. “Right away.”

  “I’ll call him at once.”

  “Anything else you need, Conacher?” His interoffice phone was buzzing violently. The pile-up of appointments, calls and messages could no longer be dammed at Helen Calabrese’s desk. Silverton was beginning to sweat as he barked orders into the phone.

  I said: “You were going to fill me in on what you know about Mari Barstow.”

  “Of course. I’ve attended to that. I’ve dictated a complete summary of my experience with Mari—where I met her, what I know
about her background, and so forth. Miss Calabrese has it all typed up for you, Conacher. If there’s anything else you need just call me.” He shook my hand with a firm but hasty Madison Avenue grip. Then he was back at his papers, digging into his delayed work. “Get going fast, Conacher,” he said without looking up at me. “Speed is essential.”

  I got going right away.

  I went out into a small and empty office and phoned Max Ornstein.

  “Max,” I said, “I need you.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” he said, chuckling the way he always did when warmed by the challenge of his former business. “I’m in no position to go assing around with you, Steve. I’m a Main Street man now, remember?”

  “Money isn’t everything, Max.”

  “It’ll do until something better comes along, this I’m positive.”

  “Can’t the restaurant survive without you?”

  “Survive it can. For how long?”

  “It’s tricky,” I said. “But it’s the kind you like.”

  “You’re twisting my arm. And what kind do I like?”

  “A paying case, Max. Ever hear of Mari Barstow?”

  “Don’t tease me. I’m sitting out here in Lynbrook and I’m running a fancy dogcart with bagels and lox for the local yokels and a terrific trade with the hamburgers of the truck drivers. What do you think I am, the chief cook at Chambord’s? This Mari Barstow is maybe a public figure? The only public figure I know is the goniff cop on the beat out here. You forget who I am now, Steve. You forget you’re talking to Max Ornstein, a small-time member of a small-time chamber of commerce. All I know is what I read in the papers. Which I don’t have time for anyhow.”

  “Listen to me, Max. This one is crazy, a young and pretty television singer walking out of a big money deal and staying there. You curious?”

  “Maybe next week I’ll be curious,” Max said apologetically.

  But I knew he was playing games with me and would come my way eventually. He pretended to assume the air of a simple man, a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker. It was an old habit of his, this Main Street dialogue. He had dreamed for years of settling down somewhere in the suburbs, to own a shoe store, a candy store—or a small restaurant. It was an ambition born of a great weariness with the city. Max had been brought up on the lower east side of New York. He managed to get through part of high school, but eventually abandoned it because of his family’s need of him. He worked at all kinds of things, reading as he worked, soaking up knowledge in spare moments, always seeking new horizons for his thinking. And his nimble brain paid off for him when he finally entered the business of private investigation. He soon became famous for his thoughtful stubbornness in the skip-trace business. You went to Max Ornstein when all hope was gone. You gave Max Ornstein the complete story, the intimate details, the odds and ends, the trivia. And Max would find your man. It might take weeks, or months, or even years—but Max Ornstein almost always made the locate. He had done it for me, a long time ago when I was green in the trade. He had opened up the way for me.

  I could use his brain now, approaching the dead end.

  “Now,” I said. “I need you now, Max.”

  “Now? Now is today and today a painter is coming in here, Steve. He hopes to paint up this place so it should look respectable and maybe I can get some of the mink momsers from Rockville Centre to come in here once in a while they should sample my dinners. I can dream, can’t I?”

  “I can’t use you dreaming,” I said.

  “It can’t wait till, next week?”

  “It can’t even wait until I see you,” I said. “You start when I hang up.”

  “You’re a nudnik, Steve. I got a red-hot meat man coming later today. It’s a steak deal, for the Rockville Centre trade. This man I must see.”

  “Then see him by all means,” I said. “But after you see him, will you come in?”

  “Could I ever say no to you, you little character, you?”

  “I’m getting you full pay plus expenses, Max. And there may be a bonus in it if we come through for my customer.”

  “Sold,” he laughed. “Where do I start?”

  “Light a cigar and listen. Did you read today’s paper? The murder of a man named Jan Flato? You start there, Max—with Cushing.”

  “Cushing, for God’s sake? What am I asking him?”

  “You’re playing it from left field,” I said. “This Flato was tied up in some way with the girl we want—with Mari Barstow. No, not Mary—Mari. She was laying around with him from time to time. You making notes? She lived at The Ridge Apartments, midtown on the East Side. Sure, I’ve been there. But I want a double check. Go to Cushing first. Make it a social visit. Then check The Ridge Apartments. Nose around there. When you finish, call my office. If I’m not there the telephone service will tell you where to reach me tonight. Reach me.”

  “I’ll reach you.”

  “See you later, you old bagel-hound.”

  I hung up and walked into Helen Calabrese’s office. She was primping, readying herself for lunch.

  I took her to lunch with me.

  Silverton’s information on Mari Barstow was typed up like an official office document:

  MEMO: to S. Conacher

  FROM: Oliver Silverton

  Mark: PERSONAL-CONFIDENTIAL

  RE: MARI BARSTOW

  My work as head of Public Relations involves me in all types of activity, both during office hours and afterwards. My experience in show business includes a stint as talent scout for Westerly Films and I often visit small clubs, shows and entertainments on the prowl for fresh and interesting faces. When Tony Granada opened in The Palms last year, I made it my business to visit him. Granada has the ability of gathering talented youngsters around him, and I wanted to be on hand for a first look at his people before other talent-grabbers might make an important find. Accordingly, I visited Tony the afternoon before he opened at The Palms. His vocalist was Mari Barstow and from the moment she began to sing I knew that she had a rare and wonderful talent, plus the provocative beauty of face and figure, to make the grade in television.

  I invited her out to my place on Fire Island along with Tony Granada. But I also signed her to a tentative contract which secured her as a network property should I decide that she was good enough to promote. I had gone out on a limb because I felt that Mari must become an important new find. The breaks were with me because I had discovered her as she was about to make her first important step into big money. What I mean is, she was completely unencumbered, so green that she had no representation, no agent. She looked to Tony Granada for important advice. Tony, of course, advised her to sign with me since he knew that any step into a network deal must prove helpful to her. I was able to offer her five times the money Granada paid her, and since she had no contract with him the negotiations were fairly simple.

  I arranged my Fire Island party so that I could avail myself of a reasonable check on my conclusions. Sometimes you can go off the deep end when estimating talent. Sometimes the personal point of view is affected by an emotional reaction that may be unimportant when assessing talent. What I mean is, Mari Barstow undoubtedly appealed to me on other levels. She was obviously one of the most beautiful young women I had ever seen. I hesitated to allow her physical appeal to influence me on a company level. For this reason I staged the Fire Island soiree very carefully. It is part of my business to think this way.

  I invited several people whose opinions I valued to attend the Fire Island party; among these, Arthur Haddon, Jan Flato, and my secretary Helen Calabrese. All agreed that Mari Barstow would be a great star. I booked her at once for a guest spot on the “Sunday Shindig” variety show. She was an immediate success. Tony Granada wanted her to finish her engagement with his band at The Palms and Mari consented. After that, I saw her occasionally in the office and at a party in Greenwich Village. S
he was being escorted that night by a man named Jeff Masterson, whose name I knew vaguely as an avant-garde writer.

  Tony Granada and his band left for Chicago and Mari was busy making arrangements to furnish her new apartment. She stopped by for an occasional chat with me about the type of songs she intended to sing for the Flato show.

  I saw her last two months ago, on a Friday afternoon. She seemed quite happy, perhaps a little drunk. She talked only of her apartment, feminine talk about furnishings and the like.

  That was the last I saw of Mari.

  Oliver Silverton

  os/hc

  CHAPTER 4

  “He dictated this to you?”

  “Pretty slick, isn’t it?” Helen Calabrese smiled. She was one up on me with the cocktails, sipping her second martini, smoking her third cigarette and nibbling her eighth canape at the bar. The liquor had loosened her a bit, but it would take a lot to fog her deep wise eyes. “I don’t mean slick in the obvious sense, Steve. I mean he’s thorough, smooth and statistical in the head. All good points for a man in his position. He’s a great one for the documents. He puts everything down in the record, files, and saves. He’d issue an interoffice memo if he stayed too long in the little boys’ room.”

  “Methodical,” I said. “You don’t like methodical men?”

  “Don’t egg me on,” she smiled. “I’m happy in my work.”

  “You seem pretty happy.”

  “I do my job and keep my little nose clean and out of other people’s affairs.”

  “Of course you do, Helen.”

  She was the commercial type, but upper-echelon material, smooth and well-groomed and fussy with the way she mouthed ideas. She belonged in the top bracket of secretarial girls, the sort you see on Madison Avenue and in the still, well-decorated offices of the moneyed moguls. They are of a breed, these females, all of them possessing a certain cold beauty, a trimness, a chic that sets them apart from the hack middle-class secretary so often found in other lines of endeavor. They know their way around and about the executive desks. They sleep only with the important males.