There Is Something About a Dame Read online

  I moved in, flicked on the overhead, pitched my fedora onto the client’s chair and went around the desk, thinking over the unlaughable events of the laughable day. I couldn’t seem to get the Morgan character out of my head. I sprawled into the worn swivel chair and nothing but memory churned around in my thinkbox. Like the light switch going on, the TV show where Morgan had won all that dough flashed before my memory. The office was quieter than Silent Night. I conjured up Memo Morgan as he was a few years ago. Short, dressed like a clown, his homely face shaved close to hide the five o’clock shadows, his eyes squinting furiously in the solitary confines of the Isolation Booth. I could hear his voice again without the battered lips and broken teeth to distort it. It was a thin, adolescent voice. Totally at odds with his robust physique. I also could remember some of the miles-apart questions and answers. General Information had been his category. Specifically, he had a lot of it.

  ANNOUNCER:

  What is the height above sea level of Reno, Nevada?

  MORGAN: 4500 feet.

  ANNOUNCER:

  Where are the Hebrides located?

  MORGAN: Off the coast of Ireland.

  ANNOUNCER:

  What actor won the 1939 Academy Award for best actor, and what was the movie he starred in?

  MORGAN: Robert Donat. The film was Goodbye, Mr. Chips.

  ANNOUNCER:

  Can you name the last batter in National League history to hit .400?

  MORGAN: Bill Terry hit .401 in 1930 for the New York Giants.

  ANNOUNCER:

  Now, for one hundred thousand dollars, will you name each and every member of President Abraham Lincoln’s Cabinet in 1865?

  Memo Morgan not only would and could but did. To the winning ring of better than two hundred grand. For a guy who’d never finished the sixth grade in public school, he was a mental marvel. He knew the chemical composition of mercury, the distance from Nome, Alaska to Delhi, India, who won the Preakness in 1947, where Bumpus Mills was, what round Joe Louis knocked out Primo Carnera and just exactly what cards Wild Bill Hickok was holding when Jack McCall shot him in the back in the Number Ten Saloon in Deadwood, South Dakota in 1876. He even knew how high is up but they never asked him.

  All because he’d read like a fiend ever since he’d been old enough to find the library. He had that unique kind of mind that never forgets what he reads. Winchell dubbed him The Memory Man but Broadway found its own name for him. In the best Runyon tradition, Morgan was a character. His number one idiosyncrasy was memos, scraps of paper and memoranda that loaded his pockets down. There wasn’t a bit of dope he didn’t think worth carrying. Everything from a penciled note about Garbo’s real shoe size to the morning stock market quotation on steel. So Broadway called him Memo Morgan with pride and affection.

  I smiled thinking about him but the smile died when I remembered something. Yes, his pockets were usually bulging with a ton of information. But they hadn’t bulged tonight at seven-thirty. Not when he lay before me on the marble floor of the Ritz. What did that mean? And what was it worth?

  I didn’t know it then but a real big key to a door I didn’t even know existed was staring me in the face. But not having a deal in the game yet, the idea died in my head under several thousand layers of blurry subconscious.

  Nuts. I was tired. I dragged myself out of the chair, trudged over to the leather couch and spread myself out evenly like a rug. All the while part of me was waiting for the phone to ring with word from Roosevelt Hospital.

  I guess I knew I was waiting for the phone to ring. Or for something to make a noise. Even if it wasn’t the phone.

  Now I lay me down to sleep is the way the line goes, isn’t it? Well, it ought to read—Now I lay me down to stay alive.

  Because from somewhere outside my third floor windows, in the still metropolitan hush of a New York night, the air came bursting apart with the chopping rapidity of automatic machine gun fire. With a roaring, violent, staccato throb of murderous lead that raked my windows from left to right, then from right to left. Glass tinkled like a crazy music box, plaster leaped from the walls, the four-drawer file rattled like a dinner gong as slugs thudded home. A literal ton of hot lead chewed the stuffy atmosphere of the office to shreds.

  I shuddered where I lay.

  The Infiltration Course at Camp Campbell, Kentucky had just come hammering back with a vengeance.

  “Now is the winter of our discontent … ”

  SIX

  There was only one thing to do. I did it. The same thing I did the night the Top Kick took us all out for the Course. I rolled off the leather divan and hit the dirt and hugged it and wrapped myself in it until the terrible, hammering sounds overhead ended. The whine and pound of the deadly lead rattled the office like a clumsy tambourine.

  Then just like the commercial on an absorbing TV drama, it stopped. The sudden silence put my teeth together in a painful clinch. But I just lay where I was, hardly breathing, heart kicking like a mule against my ribs, In the darkness where all sounds seem larger than a breadbox, my imagination was leapfrogging over the unbelievabilities. What a way to get rid of the opposition. Machine-gun them down from a rooftop across the street.

  The Chop Suey Palace with the big neon sign that was now an abandoned building waiting for a new owner seemed to be the only possible direction where the gunner could have set himself up in business. Some business. Murdering people.

  The night and a million sounds took over. Windows started riding up with that unmistakable grating sound that indicates nosiness and fear. A woman screamed in Puerto Rican and kids started bawling all at once as if there were a milk strike in the nursery. Down the hall, I could hear old man Nakoomian bellowing like an Armenian steer about throwing the gangster out. He never could understand my profession or the clients or the noise. I always gave the old rug dealer a pretty rugged time.

  When I’d decided that the gunner had decided it wasn’t safe enough to hang around—a police siren wailing on Ninth Avenue galvanized me too—I got off the floor and staggered for the light switch. Turning it on gave me the internal shudders. The mouse auditorium would never be the same.

  Somebody had gone loco with a shoemaker’s awl. The walls were so much Swiss cheese. Perforations and quarter-size holes had raked the office north, south, east and west. It looked like a bunch of boy vandals had had a ball when the owner was away. A lot of things would never be the same. Even Marilyn Monroe on the calendar had a bullet hole in her right breast. Custer, as if the Sioux hadn’t been enough, was riddled where he stood heroically under Old Glory. But they were only paper corpses. A couple of other corpses interested me much more. The telephone box had been blown side-saddle from the wall and a seeing-eye bullet had managed to sever the cord as neatly as a pair of scissors. I surveyed the desk and the four-drawer file with a sharp pang. I had just gone out of business. Even the Salvation Army would charge me to come down and pick up this junk.

  I swore. Swore violently and unprintably. I don’t curse much as a rule but they’d just hit my exception level. I assessed the ruin of the mouse auditorium for longer than I like to admit. My pet dog had just died.

  The windows didn’t tell me much. Air-conditioning I now had whether I wanted it or not. Through the shards of glass poking out at right angles from the battered framework, I could see the roof of the out-of-business chop suey joint. The roof parapet was bare of shadows or suspicious outlines. But I’d bet my license and permit there was a boxful of expended .45 brass littering the tar surface. I sighed and ignored the dozens of shocked faces dangling out of the other windows. I also tried not to hear the damn wail of that police siren drawing closer. I’d had enough sirens and questions and trouble for one day. I grabbed my hat which happily had not bought a bullet hole and ran for the door. The cops could ask me about this tomorrow. I was up-to-here with disgust.

  I left the door open, the lights on and headed for the elevator. It was funny though. I could hear Nakoomian barricading his office door aga
in with every rolled rug and carpet in his stock, muttering fierce Armenian oaths about how he was damned if he didn’t move in the morning. I was getting Armenian language instruction the hard way.

  There was no time for thinking. I wanted out fast. I decided to skip the elevator so I wouldn’t run into the law. Once they started to ask some neighborhood questions, they’d know quick enough where to go. I raced down the stairs, four at a time, checking my .45 as I went. The Gunner was playing rough. The Gunner, the Voice and whoever the hell was plaguing Memo Morgan and private detectives. I’d never run into a caper like this. One I didn’t even have a stake in. It didn’t make sense.

  Nothing did.

  Before I could hit the first door, I ran pell-mell into somebody coming up. A very special somebody who’d also decided not to use the elevator. He was swinging jauntily around the newel post, one gloved hand poised for balance when I practically catapulted into his arms.

  We both recovered on our own five-yard lines and I felt foolish because I’d gone for my hardware without even thinking. I was getting jumpy.

  But the Somebody was carrying nothing more dangerous-looking than an English walking stick. I got a flash of a Professor Higgins-Rex Harrison hat, expensive charcoal-grey tweeds and a face that was browner than a fig packer’s. Something else flashed too. Big, horsey, impossibly white teeth.

  “Dear me,” the Somebody said in a voice that rang the welkin with Shakespearian relish. “Either you are running for the bobbies or you are eluding the self-same servitors of justice. In any case, you cannot fail to be the man I am looking for. Mr. Noon, I take it?”

  I grinned in spite of my troubles. But my bewilderment took on a couple of new glands.

  “Taken correctly.” I grabbed his Oxford elbow. “Look, if you have a car, we can keep this up all night. Otherwise, the bobbies will run me in for questioning. Come on. I’m in a hurry.”

  He was a Somebody all right. But he must have needed me for something because he let me lead him the rest of the way. He was quite a guy because he was enjoying the hell out of the situation.

  His deep chuckle was controlled, mirthful and full tilt.

  “I haven’t had so much of a boot since Sidney Box let me play Sherlock Holmes at Ealing.”

  “Do tell,” I snapped. “Where’s the buggy?”

  He stopped chuckling. A bit of surprise washed his smile away. “Double-parked. Directly front. The Fiat.”

  “Let’s make it.”

  We hurried down the stone steps. People across the street were yelling. Somebody screamed, “That’s him! The troublemaker! Here come the cops—”

  The Fiat was where he said it was. Small smooth and screaming of money. We reached it just as the police siren came blasting up from Tenth Avenue. “Dear me,” intoned my new client. But he moved well for a big man. Walking stick and all. He had the Fiat in gear and moving just seconds ahead of the oncoming prowl car. The Fiat took the corner like a horse breaking from the barrier and merged easily with downtown traffic. I didn’t even give a second thought to the mess I’d left behind.

  I drew a deep breath.

  “Well, Sir Stewart St. James. Don’t tell me you need a private detective on this impossible day too?”

  His profile at the wheel was classic. He was every English acting great there ever was. Large gobs of Leslie Howard, some Olivier, plenty of Donat, with enough Richardson, Gielgud and individuality of his own to make himself unique. The foremost man in his field. He knew it, too, because the self-confidence he wore hung from his body like a blazing shield. When a man has mastered Shakespeare, he’s got a right to think he’s good.

  “Right, of course, Mr. Noon. I want you to find a missing bloke for me,” he said without preamble.

  I was still thinking about other things so my protective flipness was still at work. A glance in the rear-view showed no cop car in pursuit. I relaxed. “I can’t prove that Bacon was really William. They’re both dead, you know.”

  He shot me a startled look that evaporated as quickly as a light turned off. A smile threw his horsey teeth into focus again.

  “And so is that lamentable controversy insofar as I’m concerned. ’Fraid not. We’ll discuss it at a later date if you prefer. Fact is I’m devilish keen to locate a man who has given me no end of difficulties. I’ll pay you extraordinarily well.”

  “No doubt. Who’s the man?”

  St. James swung the car neatly crosstown, heading east. Broadway lights and marquees made a fitting backdrop for his world-famous head.

  “You being such a top chap at your job, Mr. Noon, it should be a piece of cake for you. The man is a local legend. But I’ve been unable to track him down for two weeks. It’s as if the bugger were playing hounds-and-hares with me. His name is Morgan. William James Morgan, to complete the family escutcheon.”

  I’d been keeping my eye on the rear-view mirror. We had company. A red ’63 Dodge coupe that hadn’t left us since Ninth Avenue.

  “Memo Morgan, you mean,” I said, without doing anything about the dizzying pile of absurdities.

  “Of course,” said Sir Stewart St. James.

  “Of course,” I agreed. There was a slight significant pause as we waited for a red light. The ’63 Dodge waited too, three cars back.

  “Why do you want to find him, Sir?” St. James’ head jerked slightly at the faint sarcasm in my use of his title. But he ignored the warning bell.

  “You haven’t said you’ll undertake the assignment.”

  “I haven’t said I wouldn’t.”

  “Quite so. But will you and do you?”

  I was in no bargaining mood. “How much is it worth to you?”

  “Fifty thousand American dollars.” He threw the line away with all the magic of his craft. I laughed.

  “I’d work all year for a fee like that. But before we get down to particulars and conditions, we’ll have to do something about that ’63 Dodge coupe that’s been following us since we left the office. Anybody you might know?”

  Sir Stewart frowned. “Mightn’t it be the Law?”

  “Not lately. They have to ride regulation cars and they would have stopped us long before this. Where were you taking me?”

  “My digs on Sutton Place. It’s comfy and has an excellent bar.”

  “Okay. When we get there, you stay put. I’ll hop out and see what the Dodge is up to.”

  “Roger.” For a man who could roll iambic pentameter with the best of them, he was obviously fond of using slang and idiomatic speech.

  Sutton Place was minutes away. The towering apartment buildings and fancy residences facing the East River were a world apart from the noisy insides of the city. Sir Stewart wheeled the Fiat easily through the quiet, sleeping streets. His destination was a four-story rich man’s fantasy set off with a trellised gate, a garden, and protective trees that made a picture postcard. I scanned the vicinity. Not many lights, a park across the street with a playground for accommodating the nurses with the rich kids to be watched over while Daddy made his millions. Halfway up the block, a supermarket of some kind gleamed in the metropolitan wilderness.

  When we parked, the red Dodge didn’t stall around. It slid to a stop on the other side of the street, about thirty yards behind us. The headlights winked off. But nobody got out of the dark interior.

  “Well,” St. James said lightly, “do we sit here or shall we invite the blighter in for tea? He might be pleasant company.”

  I unholstered my .45 and placed it in my belt buckle, buttoning my coat over it.

  “That I doubt.” I got out of the car and closed the door. “I’ll go talk to him. Meantime, you sit here and think up a good reason why you weren’t onstage tonight at the Broadhurst doing Henry the Fifth. I’m a very suspicious guy.”

  With that I left him and walked diagonally toward the red ’63 Dodge. Behind me, I could hear the world’s foremost English-speaking actor break out into an uproarious laugh.

  Up ahead, I could see someone waiting for me in the D
odge.

  I could only hope I wasn’t walking into a machine gun like a clay pigeon.

  “What’s in a name? A rose by any other name… ”

  SEVEN

  It’s a mistake to approach a darkened car without your gun out front. I’ve often thought state troopers and traffic cops were at a definite disadvantage when halting a speeding motorist. It could always be an escaping hood or just somebody who didn’t want to be questioned. But I based my actions on the behavior of the red Dodge. It had just tagged along behind us without making a violent move. If I were wrong, it was going to cost me. But just like state troopers and traffic cops, it was my job. An occupational hazard I was stuck with.

  I was partly right. The hidden motor under the Dodge hood started throbbing with life. I quickened my pace until I reached the driver’s side. My right hand caressed the butt of my .45.

  “Don’t go,” I said. “We haven’t been introduced and I’m in the mood for new acquaintances.”

  The car motor died. The glass on the door ran down quickly and a cultured female voice said, “I beg your pardon?”

  I hadn’t expected a woman. The Dodge wasn’t a woman’s type car. Not this model. But what the hell is a woman’s type car anyway? I stopped but kept my hand closed on the .45.

  “Why have you been following us, lady? If you want an autograph, I’m sure Sir Stewart would gladly oblige.”

  “The idea!” A plaid-coated arm rested on the inner part of the car door. A woman’s head raised in view above it, looking up at me with outrage written all over the face. It was quite a face. Bright eyes snapped angrily. Culture wasn’t through with me yet. “If you’re quite done with this nonsense, my man, I’d like to shove off!”

  “No dice, sister.” I hung onto the door. “You’ve played tag with us and I want to know why.”

  “My dear fellow—” she began in that peculiar custom that shouts to the rooftops that she had been treating people like subordinates for years. “If you persist in the foolishness, I’ll call a policeman.”