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  “Not lately. I was just suggesting the possibility of the tarantula’s being an accident.”

  “Not on your tintype,” he growled. “I’ve made enemies all my life. By the carload. What do we do now?”

  I finished my drink. The tarantula on the desk hadn’t moved. It was still there. Logic wasn’t going to send it on its way.

  “There’re always the law-and-order boys,” I said. “I have to sleep now and then. The cops could watch you around the clock. Be wonderful publicity for the show.”

  Marcus Manton’s eyes glinted.

  “That kind I don’t want. I’ve got my reasons. I want you. You make some sense out of this bug on my desk, you help me get Roses on Broadway, and I’ll buy you a new office. Deal?”

  I smiled. “I was working for you the minute I walked in here. Anything else?”

  He scowled. “You want more yet?”

  I nodded. “One bug wouldn’t bother you this much. I know you too well. You’re the guy who held up the mob when they tried to blackjack a show of yours in the Thirties. You wouldn’t pay, and hired your own imported strong arns to make sure you opened on the proper day. The show was a turkey, but you made your point. Nobody pushes you around. Okay, so I’m saying one tarantula wouldn’t panic you. What else is there?”

  He laughed. The long, loud, Diamond Jim laugh. I waited for him to stop killing himself. But I could hear the thin edge of worry underlining the laugh.

  “It’s a pleasure to do business with people who understand me,” Marcus boomed. “Right again, Mr. Noon. Come over here.” He got up from behind the desk and motioned me to the French windows. He halted before the door on the left and poked a big forefinger at one of the panes of glass. I eased around him and looked.

  There was a dime-sized hole in the glass where a bullet had sped through without shattering the pane. I stepped past the door and looked at the hole from the terrace side. The dime going in had changed to a quarter going out. I grinned. Nothing came out even these days.

  “Tell me about this one, too, Marcus.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing much to tell. I was here late last night. Sitting at my desk, lining up some appointments. Bingo—somebody took a shot at me. From one of the buildings across the street, I guess. Not much of a noise. Just a splat. It sounded like a cough.”

  “Silencers sound like that.”

  “They do, huh?” He wasn’t impressed. “Well, I didn’t pay any attention. No bullet came in here. I saw the hole a little later. I put the sound and the hole together, and I make out target practice. So you see, Ed, somebody is gunning for me, I need a bodyguard, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You do,” I admitted. “But you need a lie! detector test first. Marcus, you’re not leveling with me. You know who fired that shot.”

  His beefy face reddened. Not many men had called him a liar in his lifetime.

  “What the hell are you saying? You calling me a liar?”

  “Look, Marcus. This is Ed the detective. You said it yourself. No bullet came in here. And that window is a lesson in elementary ballistics. Bullet makes small hole coming in, bigger one going out. Confucius say: the small hole is on the inside of the window. Come on, Marcus. Somebody took a shot at you in here and the slug lost itself somewhere in the outside air or against a building. And if someone shot at you in here, five will get me ten you were looking right at him. Or her.”

  Marcus Manton sighed and sat down heavily. Suddenly he looked very, very tired.

  “An ace,” he rumbled. “You are an absolute ace. Well, I only hire the best men, don’t I? Goddamn, you’re right as usual.”

  “Tarantulas are bad enough,” I said, “but shooting people is worse. Who was it?”

  “Ed, there’s no connection. She was just sore, that’s all. Sore that I wasn’t giving her the part. She lost her head. Hell, it was only a .22—.”

  “They can kill you. Don’t worry. This is a private investigation. I can’t work on a dead spider, but people are something else again. Who was it?”

  Marcus spread his hands. “Women. Actresses. Ahhhh—well, you might as well know. It’ll come out sooner or later. It was Lisa de Milo.”

  I was starting to repeat her name in surprise when the door behind me suddenly whipped open violently and a flood of voices washed into the room.

  “Marcus Manton,” an unfeminine female voice roared, “you can’t keep me waiting a whole hour, even if you think you are God! The insult—”

  Marcus and I both turned together, frozen into silence by the whirlwind interruption.

  But it wasn’t a whirlwind. It was the classic joke—a woman scorned.

  Darlene Donegan had come on stage with an entrance that Tallulah would have sold her soul for. Darlene Donegan, the number-one Broadway musical-comedy star. She’d been in more hit shows than Musial has base hits.

  Darlene Donegan was a star. Lisa de Milo was Marcus Manton’s titled mistress, with a yen to outshine Dietrich and the Gabors. But Donegan was a star. And you don’t keep stars waiting in outer offices.

  They might take a shot at you, too.

  I got out of the way as Darlene Donegan hurled herself toward Marcus Manton, talons to the fore.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Marcus Manton is a big man. Not afraid of anything. But he tried as best he could to hide behind me. I got hold of myself and caught Darlene Donegan before she could scratch his eyes out with her four-inch painted nails. She squirmed in my arms, hissing like a lovely snake.

  “Now, Darlene …” Marcus began soothingly, from the protection of my back.

  Darlene stopped wrestling with me, flung my arms away from her contemptuously and drew her fur stole about her neck with royal tightness.

  “Don’t Darlene me, you faker!” she snarled. “And tell your strong arm to keep his filthy fingers off me. I’m a lady and I expect to be treated like one!”

  “Now, Darlene …” Marcus stalled again. I read somewhere that he had once cleaned out a press room of nosey photographers all by his lonesome, but it was awfully hard to believe it just then. I lit a cigarette and looked at her. Peacemakers are dead ducks, but a disinterested third party is something else again.

  “What seems to be the trouble, Miss Donegan?”

  She shot me surprise in two blazing eyes. She sneered. “When did you graduate, you goon? First you’re a musclehead—now you’re talking like a policeman.”

  “I am a policeman.”

  Her sneer widened. “Is this a rib? First you keep me waiting like the rankest amateur, and now you pull—” She whirled on Marcus to hurl some verbal ammunition at him directly.

  But Marcus had recovered and was ready for her. He was his own man again.

  “That’s right, Darlene. Noon is a detective. I’m sorry you had to wait. Somebody is trying to kill me. Trying to sabotage this show. You can see why I’ve been so upset. Ed’s working on the case now. Be reasonable, Darlene. I’ve got my hands full.”

  Show business. Miss Darlene Donegan’s whole demeanor shifted visibly, but easily, into second gear. Marcus had given her disjointed facts but she’d only heard the things she’d wanted to hear.

  Suddenly her tigerish body, with the hips that drove first-night audiences—and the audiences thereafter—wild, moved smoothly and she planted a wet kiss on Marcus’ perspiring cheek. She stepped away from him and, unless I’m crazy, her full breasts jiggled like things alive—with separate, distinct movements.

  “Marcus,” she cooed in a final-curtain register. “Of course I know you have your troubles. But, Marcus, I am the only actress alive who could play Annalee. You know that. Send all those bleached blondes in the outer office home. I am Annalee. Look at me.” On cue, she stalked away from us, turned, swept her fancy fur to the floor, put her hands on her hips and glared at us both. I would have laughed out loud, but there were things burning in Darlene Donegan’s eyes that told me it would be the worst thing in the world to do.

  Marcus had slumped wearily behind his desk, grop
ing for a pocket handkerchief. He had forgotten all about the tarantula, Lisa de Milo’s target practice, and his dying bank account. He was all showman now.

  His keen little eyes beaded in on Darlene and her body that had been There and Back.

  “Darlene.” I was amazed at the deadly evenness of his voice. “You are the greatest musical-comedy star in America. You’ve made millions, and you’ll make millions more. You’re the greatest there ever was. I’ve seen every one of your shows twice, because you were in them. But you’re the wrongest actress alive to play Annalee in Roses in the Rain. The girl is eighteen, virginal, just getting off the farm and meeting life in the big city. Roses is a musical, but it winds up spiritual, beautiful and clean—like a fresh breeze over a steaming city dump. Just like the title says: roses in the rain. For God’s sake, Darlene—starring you in that show would be like putting Jayne Mansfield in Romeo and Juliet. Be reasonable, will you? It just can’t be done!”

  I looked at Darlene Donegan. Saw her thirty-six, twenty-four; thirty-six howling beauty, saw the burlesque-queen-gone-legit look that stamped her whole personality, saw the ashes in her eyes burning real low. She set her lush red mouth in a bitter pinch, then reached down and picked her fur stole off Marcus’ fancy floor. I didn’t like the way she picked up the stole. She might have been reaching for a bullwhip with which to beat us both to bloody shreds.

  She stared at Marcus for what seemed like a century.

  “That’s your last word, Marcus?”

  He couldn’t look at her. Just stared down at his broad, sweaty hands.

  “Sorry, Darlene. That’s the way this cookie crumbles.”

  “You’ll regret this, Marcus. You’ll regret this as long as you live!”

  That was all. One violent hiss of threat and cold ruthlessness, and she had whirled and stalked out of the million-dollar office with five-million-dollars’ worth of hatred. I could see Marcus’ polished secretary falling all over herself to get out of the way of the star who had turned into a juggernaut. The door slammed and bounced and vibrated like a wild drum behind the shapely Donegan derrière.

  Marcus groaned. “That’s show business. Ugh!”

  I put my cigarette out in the foot-square ash tray.

  “You really do need a bodyguard,” I said. “At least we won’t have to worry about the tarantula. He’s dead. But Donegan and your Lisa do bear watching.”

  “Women.” Marcus spat, then groped for a fresh cigar. Suddenly he changed his mind and thumbed the inter-com box. “Miss Carmody,” he bellowed, “send those four young sweethearts in. Mr. Noon and I are ready now.”

  I blinked at him. “That sounds better than it really is. Ready for what?”

  Marcus relaxed in his swivel chair and smiled—really smiled—for the first time in an hour.

  “One of these young hopefuls is Annalee. The Annalee I need for Roses. They can all sing like birds, they’re all panting like young Cornells and they all got that necessary X-plus. But I can only use one of them. Annalee isn’t quads, thank God. And you, Eddie boy, are the deciding vote. So hold on to your hat and go sit in the corner by the window. I’ll talk to them and you tell me which one hits you just right. Got that? Or do you want a diagram, like in football?”

  I sighed and moved over to the window.

  “Go ahead, Rockne. Cut your own throat. What I don’t know about plays—”

  “Over by the window,” he ordered. “You got the best goddamn eye for girls, and I know it. You’re an ace.”

  I sat down on the wide, wide world of Marcus Manton’s window.

  “An absolute ace,” I agreed. “But you’re nuts.”

  We both sat back and looked at the door. It opened and the young ladies trooped in.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  There were four of them. I only remember their first names: Polly, Sally, Vera and Irene. Polly was a brunette, the other three were blondes. Four lovely kids all anxious to make the big time. Eager, expectant, nervous, breathless. Wanting to be Annalee in Marcus Manton’s million-dollar epic, Roses in the Rain. Willing to do anything and everything to grab the part. And every one of them would be in a jam before the watch on my wrist hit the next hour—which was only thirty-five minutes away.

  It was an informal, easy interview. Marcus asked pleasant questions about the weather, moved easily into a simple discussion about the story of Annalee and what the girls thought she meant in terms of universality. It was fun watching the old smoothie do his stuff. In two minutes flat he had them all laughing and enjoying themselves and not worrying about what they would do if they didn’t get the part. I sat on the windowsill and watched quietly. I saw each of the four girls under the best possible conditions. If they had candor and charm, now was the time to see it. I’m no play-picker or Monroe discoverer, but I think I know the real thing when I see it.

  It might have been the black hair, but the girl named Polly won my vote. She was fresh, beautiful and alive. Vibrant was the word for Polly. Vera, Sally and Irene were just a shade too professionally blonde.

  Marcus caught my eye, saw in my expression the decision I had reached, and closed shop with one of his laughs.

  “Well, ladies, that about winds it up. Miss Carmody has your telephone numbers. And remember one thing—one of you will be Annalee and the remaining three will get parts in the show. That’s a promise. And not just chorus-girl junk either. I mean features, at least.”

  The ooh’s and ah’s of approval swept around the office like confetti in a hailstorm. Marcus ushered the four girls out like the gentleman he wasn’t. I smelled the dainty perfumes, the clean, sweet-smelling young bodies, and then they were all gone. The door closed and silence moved in. Marcus came back to his desk with a decisive grunt.

  “Well?” he barked, stoking up one of his dark-brown destroyers.

  “Polly,” I said. “Though I must admit the choice wasn’t too easy to make. They’re all pretty good-looking kids—”

  Marcus leaned back in his chair and howled. And I mean howled. His laughter rolled around the walls of the room. It’s not a nice feeling, having someone practically laugh in your face.

  “If you’re finished fracturing yourself,” I said coldly, “you might let me in on the joke.”

  He pawed at his eyes and put his cigar down.

  “Don’t be a chump, Ed. Think I’d cast one of those hags in my baby? Sure, they’re pips, but there isn’t stardom in any one of them. You poor sap, they’re just giving me newspaper space! I’m running a contest. Let the public think it’s picking Annalee for me. Just like Miss Rheingold. That’s the way to pre-sell a show. Meantime, I’m getting a million dollars’ worth of free publicity.”

  You couldn’t stay mad at Marcus Manton. But he saw he had to make it up to me in some way.

  “Forget it, Ed. You know what I need you for. Now how about some lunch? I’ve still got credit at Sardi’s.”

  “Sardi’s will be fine.” I shrugged. “You got a gun to protect yourself with while I’m not around?”

  He winked broadly, palmed open a drawer of his desk and showed me a man-killer of the first caliber. Luger, .9 mm, with a wicked snout.

  I grinned. “Souvenir?”

  He slammed the drawer on it. “USO tour, 1945. A general gave it to me. An American general.”

  “As long as it’s loaded and you know how to use it.”

  “I know how to use it.”

  We were in the hall, heading toward Sardi’s, when the elevator door closed behind Sally, Vera, Irene and Polly. Marcus waved at them grandly, all the while shouting some instructions to Miss Carmody. I walked to his private car and punched the down button. We waited for the car.

  Then came the noise. The frightening, tear-at-your-heart noise that, having heard once, you never forget. There was a twisting and screeching of cable somewhere in the other elevator shaft, followed by the terrified yells of hysterical females.

  The cable screeching stopped. But the screaming didn’t. To add to everything, an alarm
bell pierced the Manton Building with a clanging, shrieking violence.

  I flung a quick glance at the indicator over the door through which the four girls had stepped. The arrow was irregularly poised between “14” and “15.” My skin crawled.

  Marcus Manton’s four contestants were trapped in an elevator fourteen floors above the street.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next two hours were a nightmare. Full of sound and furious phone calls and cries of anguish. Plus the keening whine of ambulances, with police sirens thrown in. Like death in hi-fi. The Marcus Manton Building went completely nuts. A bright sunny morning had turned into a circus, just like that.

  Marcus was beside himself. And as the bad joke goes: two more upset people I’ve never seen. He chewed countless cigars to shreds during the mess. His four girls were stuck in an elevator that had suddenly gone haywire. The Broadway mobs outside the Manton Building surged forward, milled around and crowded things up, while the police and emergency squads went through their grim paces. The newspapermen and TV camera trucks didn’t help things either. Cameras ground away, flashlight bulbs went off like strings of firecrackers, and the air was alive with questions hammered by the gentlemen of the press. Miss Carmody couldn’t barricade the office, so the sixteenth floor was a madhouse.

  It took two hours to get the elevator running properly. The police emergency boys and the Manton maintenance men worked that long to solve the trouble. It was awful for the girls, and for the rest of us too. One of the girls must have had claustrophobia, because the tiny elevator car poised high up in the middle of nowhere had completely unnerved her. She never seemed to stop yelling and whimpering.

  I was at Marcus’ elbow on the ground floor when the machinery got going again. I’m telling you, when that elevator door popped open and those four lovely girls scrambled out in mortal terror and collapsed into the waiting arms of the squads of nurses and attendants, the din in the lobby was something out of the Colosseum in Rome. What a side show! I couldn’t help thinking that Marcus had gotten some publicity even he hadn’t bargained for. When the madness was over and everybody was all right, I took him back up to his office. He’d been a bouncing, vital businessman when I first saw him that day. I took back upstairs a man who had aged ten years.