The savage salome (3 page)

"I guess it's a universal necessity for any guy who wants to produce," I said brightly.

Kasplin withered me with one stare. "About two weeks back he suddenly lost interest and Margot resented it strongly—she still does."

"Like he got tired?" I asked. "Or like he found another sleeping partner?"

"He became vitally interested in Donna Alberta," Kasplin said with no particular inflection in his voice. "Paul's virtually hounded her ever since then."

"With any success?" I asked casually.

"No!" he snapped icily. "To my certain knowledge she has repulsed every advance he's made."

"You figure it could be Kendall who mutilated the pooch?"

"Or more possibly, Margot Lynn," he said quietly. "There are other possibles, too. Rex Tybolt has been trying to make headway with Donna also—^with the same tenacity and the same result as Paul Kendall. We mustn't forget the Httle mouse with the big eyes, either."

"Helen MiUs?"

"Helen is—dedicated—to Donna Alberta," he said, smiUng thinly, "and the man who could get her approval hasn't been born yet!"

Margot Lynn suddenly appeared beside me, putting an abrupt finish to the conversation.

"Hello, Kasplin," she said without any enthusiasm. "I don't suppose you've seen Paul any place?"

"Nowhere," he said.

"I could cheerfully cut his throat!" she said wearily. "It's his party and I'm stuck with it." She looked at me as she remembered her duties as a hostess.

"Have you met everyone, Mr. Boyd?"

"Everybody except Luis Navarre," I told her. "That's a joy that can wait, unless you insist?"

Kasplin twirled his cane irritably. "This is a little too much! Does Paul expect us to stand around all night so he can throw mud in our faces?"

"Don't say that!" Margot shuddered. "What's the time?"

I checked my watch. "Ten of twelve."

"The witching hour approaches," she said listlessly. "I have my instructions—everyone has to be in the dining room by midnight."

"What for?" KaspUn asked suspiciously.

"On the stroke of twelve I have to open a special package which contains our good luck for opening night —Paul says!" She shrugged her shoulders so that even the whispering black crepe held a baffled sound. "Do you two mind leading the way while I gather up the rest of them?"

"Anything to be finished with whatever nonsense Paul's manufactured this time!" Kasplin almost snarled.

"I guess I'd better leave the front door open in case he walks in while we're all waiting," Margot said.

"Can't he use the buzzer Hke anyone else?"

"I'm scared I wouldn't hear it In the dining room, with everyone talking," she answered. "Be nice, Kasplin, take Mr. Boyd in there while I round up the rest of them."

We went into the dining room which was a seducer's dream with soft lights and thick-piled carpet. The dining table was set in an alcove with a two-cornered, simip-tuously upholstered couch surrounding it on three sides, instead of the more conventional chairs. Right in the center of the room stood a large black box around four feet high—it looked more hke a packing crate than a package.

"What the hell is that?" I said nervously.

"I have no wish even to think about it," Kasplin said determinedly. "It could contain anything from a collection of wild monkeys to a compressed heap of mouldering garbage—and probably does!"

Donna Alberta came into the room then with the Mexican tenor close at her side and Helen Mills following determinedly one step in back of them. Margot was next, then came Rex Tybolt with a hunted look in his eyes, and Earl Harvey beside him talking earnestly into his ear—hke a last minute briefing for a summit conference and Earl had just thought of the Russian for a couple of dirty words that hadn't been used yet.

"Good evening, Mr. Boyd," the rich voice of Donna Alberta said graciously. "How nice to see you here."

The silver lame was cut low in front revealing the start of a deep cleavage between the dazzling expanse of firmly rounded whiteness. Like the man says, I had to adjust quickly and reshape my objectives—^remember I needed to talk, not grab.

"My pleasure, Miss Alberta," I said huskily.

"Have you met Luis Navarre?" She turned to the handsome Latin without waiting for an answer. "This is Mr. Boyd, Luis. He's helping me over Niki." Her eyes clouded for a moment. "Mr. Boyd is going to find the fiend who murdered my poor darling!"

Navarre smiled at me and nodded. "Sefior."

"I envy you, friend," I told him. "You're the guy who'll have Donna Alberta perform the dance of the seven veils for him six nights a week—matinees and aU!"

His smile broadened. "I am a very lucky man, Senor Boyd."

Margot Lynn clapped her hands together a couple of times, then waited until she had everyone's attention.

"Well, friends and neighbors!" She smiled bleakly. "It's midnight so I guess the best thing is to go ahead and get it over."

"Get what over?" Harvey demanded suspiciously.

"Paul's detailed instructions," she said. "At midnight, with everyone assembled here in the dining room, I press that." She pointed to the shiny button which protruded a quarter-inch from the side of the box just below the lid.

"So what happens then?" Harvey grunted.

"Mr. Harvey," she said coldly, "if I knew the answer I probably wouldn't be here!"

She poised her finger over the button, then closed her eyes tight. In the fraction of a second that followed, someone let loose a herd of elephants in the living room—or that's the way it sounded.

"I guess that's Paul now," Margot said with obvious relief. "So he can push his own damned button!"

The door burst open and a hard-looking character walked quickly into the room, followed by a couple of uniformed cops.

"I'm Lieutenant Chase," he rasped, "from Homicide."

They aU just gaped at him for a few moments until they figured it out as the start of a typical Kendall gag and then they looked cagey.

"You don't want to know me socially, that's fine with me," Chase snarled. "Where's the body?"

"Body?" Margot quavered.

"Somebody called in and reported a homicide," Chase said with slow and immense deliberation. "So where's the corpse?"

"Corpse?" Helen MiUs squeaked breathlessly.

Somewhere inside Margot a conditioned reflex kicked over and her finger stabbed the button. The Ud of the giant box flew open with a whirring sound like a heavy spring had been released, and the grinning face of a clown shot into view as the top half of his body sprang upward from the box.

The startled screams died away as the clown stayed where he was—half out of the box—his arms close to his sides as he swayed gently backward and forward. If Kendall figured a giant-sized jack-in-the-box was his idea of fun, I figured Kasplin was dead right when he said the producer had the mind of a schoolboy, and a backward kid at that.

There were a couple of things that didn't seem right about the clown's face—under the heavily daubed grease paint the face was a chalky color. I stepped closer as his body swayed slowly toward me, and his eyes held mine for a long second in a fixed, unwavering stare.

"My God!" Margot whispered beside me. "It's Paul!" About then I realized the thick red line smeared around

his neck wasn't grease paint at all. Someone had cut his

throat from ear to ear.

Chapter Three

I GOT INTO MY OFFICE AROUND TEN THE

next morning feeling jaded. After the discovery of Kendall's body it had been Chase who'd been the life and soul of the party. He'd asked questions until his face was a mottled purple and it was four a.m. As far as I could figure it the answers hadn't gotten him any place.

Fran Jordan, my redheaded secretary with the gray-green eyes, was minding the store. She wore a new cashmere sweater that molded her superb bosom with a fine attention to detail that looked both elegant and expensive.

"I see you see my new sweater," Fran said cautiously. "Or that's what I prefer to think, anyway, being a pure-minded girl."

"I was figuring maybe I pay you too much salary," I said in a brooding voice. "Cashmere—for the office yet!"

"Well!" She looked up at me blankly. "This is the new model Danny Boyd—one of the compacts with the accent on economy. What's the matter? Ball up the Donna Alberta deal already?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" I asked.

"The morning papers," she said calmly. "They're full of Paul Kendall's murder and if I remember right you told me yesterday you were invited to his party."

"I was there," I agreed. "So who hired me to stop somebody knocking off Kendall?"

"You're right, Danny!" she said warmly. "It made me realize the truth of what you always say—a private investigator is so much smarter than the professional cop. I mean, this puts things into the right perspective—the poUce are trying to find whoever murdered Kendall, and

you're trying to find whoever murdered Donna Alberta's dog!"

I tried hard to ignore the crack by concentrating on her sweater and after a while the scientific researcher inside me got curious.

"You ever do much singing when you were a kid, Fran?" I asked idly.

"You mean like was I ever a stool pigeon?" She thought about it for a moment. "Well, maybe I squealed on my big sister a couple of times—but I never told on the boys."

"Never mind," I told her wearily, and headed into my own office.

"Hey, Danny!" she called after me. "I almost forgot— a guy called Kasplin has been trying to reach you since nine-thirty—wants you to call him right away."

"Fine," I said hopefully. "He's got a redheaded secretary, too. Only she's got more of it than you have."

"You mean she's taller than I am?" Fran asked coldly.

"I guess that's part of it," I admitted. "When I have the time I'm going to write a thesis on why mothers should give their litde girls singing lessons."

"Oh, that kind of singing!" Her face cleared, "Sure I sang in the choir right through high school—^why?"

"It figures," I said happily. "Size 38, C cup—right?"

I closed the office door behind me quickly before Fran had a chance to argue. Then I sat down at the big executive desk I keep hoping will make me a big executive sometime, and Ufted the phone.

The sUghtly husky contralto voice identified the statuesque redhead right away when she answered.

"This is Danny Boyd," I said. "Do you hear violins?"

"Only adenoids," she answered crisply. "Mr. Kasplin is out!"

"Are you sure?" I asked reproachfully. "Have you looked under his desk?"

"For the second and last time," she grated. "Mr. Kasplin is out!"

"He should make up his mind," I told her plaintively. "He calls me and I'm out so he says for me to call him back—and now he's out. We could spend the rest of our lives being out together—and you know I'd rather be out with you anytime."

"That's right," she said in a voice that was now neutral if not friendly. "He did want to speak to you for some peculiar reason—^hold the line."

There were a couple of clicks and then the bird-like voice of Kasplin warbled in my ear.

"Glad you called, Boyd," he said briskly. "Paul Kendall's dreadful death last night has caused some chaos to the production, as you can imagine."

"So Fm busy imagining," I said cautiously.

"But, oddly enough, it's had one positive result," he went on much too smoothly. "This morning. Miss Alberta has completely forgotten her grief over the Pekingese. The last thing I want to do is to revive it, naturally. I know you'll understand, Boyd—under the circumstances I think it's best if we drop the matter."

"Donna Alberta hired me," I said gently. "To keep the record straight I'd prefer her to fire me."

"I'm her manager," he said icily. "I hired you, Boyd, and if you insist, I don't mind firing you at all."

"Fine," I said bleakly. "I'll bill you for my time involved."

"No need," he snapped. "Tell me the cost now and I'll write a check—^you can pick it up from Maxine any time you want."

"Maxine?" I asked.

"My girl Friday," he said impatiently. "How much do I owe you?"

"Five hundred dollars," I said.

There was a stunned silence.

"Five hundred . . ." His voice trailed away for a moment. "For twelve hours work at most?"

"Little man," I said coldly, "I had a busy day!" Then I hung up on him before he thought of it first.

I lit a cigarette and figured it was time to take a coffee break and give a little thought to overhead economy again. If I took Fran with me, maybe she'd pay the tab and that way I'd get coffee and a reduction of the overhead at the same time.

With a frank grin of appreciation pasted onto the profile, I stepped out into the closet known as the reception area, but Fran beat me to the punch.

"I want a raise!" she said quickly. "On a payment per hour basis you can afford to triple my salary!'*

"You listened?" I said accusingly.

"What else is there to do?" She saw the gleam in my eye and reacted fast. "Not that."

"Well—" I put the smile back into place. "I figured we could go have some coffee."

"Then what?"

"Fm going back to my pad and sleep the rest of the day—it was five in the morning when I got home from Kendall's place. Want to come along?"

"A girl wouldn't dare close her eyes in your pad," she said firmly. "And this is the voice of experience. You go on home and make your own coffee and I'll mind the store. You want me to call you if anything interesting shows up?"

"Only if—"

"—It's female, blonde, and stacked in the right places," she finished up the sentence.

The phone woke me. I looked out the window as I reached for it and saw Central Park was only a square patch of darkness outside, so I'd slept into the evening.

"Boyd," I yawned into the phone.

"Mr. Boyd," a vibrant, feminine voice said, "this is Margot Lynn."

"Yeah?" I said vaguely.

"I wondered if I could see you," she said urgently, "maybe tonight?"

"What did you have in mind?" I grunted. "Another surprise party with the corpse in the icebox this time?"