There Is Something About a Dame Page 5

  Sir Stewart’s smile was a mirror of the crucifixion.

  “Mr. Zwick remembered distinctly Mr. Morgan crowing about the bard all during the truck ride. Mr. Morgan also seems to have quoted at great length from the pages he so injudiciously lost. He read aloud without once referring to the sheets in his hand. He also admitted to Zwick that he had read Shakespeare from beginning to end and this was like nothing he had ever read before. Mr. Zwick claims he knows play form when he sees it. Although, he can’t recall an author’s byline or signature—” Sir Stewart snorted in digust. “I’d rather have perished with those priceless pages. Think of it!”

  “I am thinking,” I said, not sharing his enthusiasm for flaming lorries. “What did Morgan do after he lost the thing that way?”

  Sir Stewart sighed.

  “Zwick doesn’t remember. When they reached London, they—all three, that is—were placed in replacement depot, and never crossed paths again. Zwick heard of Diaz’s subsequent death through mutual acquaintances. He lost track of Morgan entirely, save when his name cropped up in the limelight with his fabulous feats of memory. Blast it, Mr. Noon, what the devil do you think of the piece? Do you wonder there’s any truth in it at all?”

  “It’s a dilly,” I agreed. “But there are several large holes in the structure that won’t stand up if I lean on them.”

  He was unfriendly with me for the first time. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You just heard this story and you’re going after it tooth and nail. But tell me—1944 was umpteen years ago. Morgan is a well-read guy. He knows who Shakespeare is and what he could mean to the English-speaking world. And the Swahili for that matter. If he’s got a photographic brain, why hasn’t he written that entire play down long ago and given it to mankind?”

  His sigh could have been heard in Westminster Abbey.

  “You are quick, old man. And that is the one gnawing, plaguing, incontrovertible fact that keeps walking before me like Banquo’s ghost. Why hasn’t he? But can’t yon also see that even in the face of such an inconsistency as that, I can’t risk not finding out for myself? Dash it all to hell—you must find the man for me so I can talk to him myself.”

  It was time to draw the battle lines. I liked Sir Stewart St. James. Liked him from the moment he had wandered into my hallway. But he wasn’t dishing out the straight stuff all the way. I had some questions of my own before the ballgame went a score further.

  “Let’s talk turkey, Sir Stewart. I’m working for you and I owe you my allegiance but will you sit still for a few questions? Just to clear the air around us so we can work together in complete confidence.”

  “By all means. What have you to say?”

  “Why haven’t you been able to locate Memo Morgan? He’s in the phone book and lives right here in town. Plus which he’s constantly in and around the theatres. He loves show biz. He’s even got an answering service. Even if he never got any messages you may have left for him, a few words here and there to doormen and bar people and you would have caught up with him sooner or later.”

  “I did all those things you suggest. These last hectic weeks. But to no avail. The fellah seemed to have dropped out of sight. His old haunts had not seen hide nor hair of him. What do you make of that?”

  It figured. Considering what had happened to him tonight, he’d been holed up somewhere, hiding out, but it had caught up with him. I frowned.

  “What made you come to me for help?”

  His smile was friendlier. “Don’t hide your talented light under that flippant bushel, my friend. You’re rather a hotshot out here, you know. The staff at the Broadhurst suggested you when I mentioned my needs.”

  I saluted him softly. “About the Broadhurst—why weren’t you on tonight doing your stuff?”

  “You may not be aware of it but Henry is ruining my throat. I begged off for that reason plus the fact I could not live with this gnawing uncertainty another minute. I’ll do anything to find that man.”

  That man. Suddenly the hospital and the dead phone in my bullet-riddled office came back with a bang. It was time to define the issues. I was on Sir Stewart’s side for the time being. Till I found out different, anyway.

  “Mind if I use your phone for a minute?”

  He waved me to it airily without the faintest idea I had the key to his hopes, his dreams, his bank account, at the other end. This wasn’t going to cost him fifty gees. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I dialed Roosevelt Hospital. Sir Stewart was busy at the bar again, building some more brandy for the both of us. I watched his hands. The long, strong fingers were steady and pliable like the rest of him.

  I got a businesslike female at the other end and asked about the condition of Memo Morgan. At the bar, Sir Stewart whirled, words starting to bubble from his lips. He didn’t spill a drop though. His eyes goggled at me foolishly. I made a shushing sound with my lips.

  The operator stalled around before answering. I knew full well she was alerting the police in the building to the call. Gunshot cases always get that kind of attention.

  “Condition of William Morgan is still critical, sir,” she sing-songed from long habit. Then she faltered because somebody at her elbow was prompting her with added lines. “Care to leave any messages?” They never ask you that one.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Tell him to put five on Blue Goose at Yonkers. It’s a sure thing.” I hung up quickly.

  Sir Stewart St. James literally pounced on me. I’ve met lots of buffs in my time. Baseball buffs, Civil War buffs and buff buffs but he was my very first Shakespearian buff. He very nearly put a new crease in my lapels as he towered over me.

  “The devil take you! You know where he is? You are in touch with him? What’s this hospital blather—?”

  “Simmer down. You’ll only hurt your throat some more—”

  He collected himself with a noisy wheeze, sensing I wouldn’t open up if he tried bulldozing me. So I told him about my cockeyed adventures of the evening. It was like the talk with Monks all over again. But unlike Monks, the story of what had happened to a man named Memo Morgan outdid the Odyssey for interest. Sir Stewart listened with all the raptness of a child sitting in the lap of a Macy’s Santa Claus. When I had finished, his intelligent face had taken on a dozen more wise lines.

  “Damn me but that certifies it. Every last lingering doubt I’ve had is completely evaporated. What else can it mean but that the man’s priceless knowledge is known to someone else— Come, Mr. Noon. I’ll get your hat. We’ve got to get to that hospital—”

  “Hold on, Sir Knight. The only thing that’s certified is that he might be dead by morning. But I can’t see that it calls for a celebration or flying out into the night. He’s under sedation and will be unconscious anyway. The cops won’t let him talk to anybody.”

  He was too excited for me to sit on his enthusiasm.

  “Yes, but don’t you see, Noon? Why these attempts on his life and all this skullduggery? Why all the hanky panky? He has information obviously that calls for sealing his lips forever. What else could it be but his knowledge of that undiscovered play?”

  I eyed him keenly.

  “If you can tell me why anyone would want to keep a play of Shakespeare’s from the world, I’ll gladly sit here quietly and listen.”

  “I’m not Sherlock Holmes,” he bellowed. “I’ve hired you for that. Just remember that if this play could be proved to have been written by Christopher Marlowe, there is many a Shakespearian scholar who’d be glad to keep it off the record. But enough of that for now—are you coming with me or aren’t you? My offer of the fee still holds if we make some sense out of this. You’ve already earned some of it by locating the fellow for me.”

  “You’re shouting,” I said.

  “Of course,” he roared. “Employers have their privileges. What do you say?”

  It was funny the way he was heading for the dark hall without waiting for my answer. Before I could give him that answer, the phone rang again. Sir Stewart heeled a
round, swept it off the end table impatiently. He listened for a second, frowned, and then indicated it was for me.

  “Yours,” he said softly. “Damnedly odd voice—”

  I took the phone and placed it to my own ear gingerly.

  “This is Noon.”

  There was no mistaking the funeral dirge at the distant end of the wire. The message was short and not very sweet.

  “Get off this thing right now or you’re a dead kipper.” Click. The line went dead. I replaced the receiver on the black base thoughtfully. The Voice sure got around. But what was it about the tone this time that was so familiar? What slight sound was there in the words that echoed of something I knew?

  The Voice. It took bullets, fired machine guns, trailed detectives and handed out threats by the yard.

  Sir Stewart growled. “Who the devil was that and how did they know you’d be here?”

  “We can play Twenty Questions later,” I growled back. “Come on. Let’s go see if we can ask Memo a few questions.”

  But all the way to the hospital all I could think about was the graveyard Voice.

  “How long will a body lie in the ground ere it rot?”

  NINE

  The sick room of Memo Morgan didn’t surprise me. We couldn’t get in. Not only because there were two bluecoats posted on the door but the long, quiet corridor was closed to Visitors and all the inquiries were forwarded to another sick room just around the bend of the hallway. Once I and my English colleague had stuck our necks out asking about Memo Morgan’s condition, we were bum’s rushed into room 22. Normally, it was occupied by a patient, I imagined, but this time it was serving as a temporary office for Guess Who?

  He was sitting on the corner of a big white cot that had been cranked to a sitting position. He’d been chain-smoking like a maniac and when he caught sight of me he nearly swallowed the last link. He completely ignored Sir Stewart St. James. Monks doesn’t go to movies or plays anyway. After Theda Bara, he had forgotten Hollywood and fallen in love with the police force.

  “Why the hell don’t you answer your phone? Or haven’t you paid your bill yet?”

  It was obvious the report hadn’t come in about the shooting gallery bit in the mouse auditorium. I let it ride and indicated Sir Stewart who was maintaining a cordial, gentlemanly silence.

  “Sorry, Mike. Old friend dropped by and we went out for a meal. Ever heard of Sir Stewart St. James, world-famous actor? Elizabeth knighted him two years ago.”

  Monks had never met a Sir before but he proved equal to the occasion. He creaked off the bed and extended a beefy paw.

  “How are you, Sir?” he grunted. “Sorry to blow off steam like that but Ed here has a funny way of doing business.”

  “Charmed,” said Sir Stewart, pouring on his best Lord of the Manor stuff. “Hope you don’t mind my being underfoot like this. Edward’s business has always fascinated me. When he told me about this Morgan fellah, I just had to hear the rest. How is he, bye the bye?”

  I shot Sir Stewart a well-done. Monks was too upset to notice.

  “The doc says he has less than a fifty-fifty chance to pull through. Luckily, the slug went clear through his belly and out the back, missing most of the important stuff. Main problem is he’s lost so much blood and he’s over fifty. We won’t know for sure until morning.”

  “Poor duck,” I said. “I’m dying to hear what he has to say about the shooting.”

  “He’s dying to recover,” Monks said sarcastically. “No dice. When he comes to and I talk to him, I’ll let you know.”

  Sir Stewart St. James coughed and looked unconcernedly at the tip of his walking stick. I knew him real well now. He was ready to unload something and about to make it look like just a passing thought.

  “Tell me—Captain Monks, is it?—I read so many of the thrillers when I’m between plays, and the detective, be it Gideon Fell or Poirot—has ever been greatly agitated by what the victim had on him at the time.”

  I grinned. “How about it, Mike? Memo’s pockets unearth anything at all?”

  Monks made a face but he seemed interested in the second amateur who had just wandered into his bailiwick. Maybe, Sir Stewart was just a break in the mahogany of my wisecracks.

  “That’s a point that really jumps out at us. Zero. His pockets were as clean as if he’d just emptied them on the bureau the way a man will when he’s ready for sleep and going to wear a different pair of trousers the next day. Absolutely blank. No keys, chains, book matches or change. And no scraps of paper like you’d expect with him. Since he was in the street, that leaves us only two conclusions. He either had to rush out of the house suddenly or was frisked thoroughly by the man who gunned him.”

  “I say,” said Sir Stewart, hiding his obvious disappointment. “That jolly well seems like the ticket.”

  “It’ll do until we punch it a couple more times,” Monks growled.

  “Find out where Morgan lives?” I said idly, wondering about Monk’s sudden flare for repartee.

  He nodded. “Uh-huh. West Fifty-first Street. Rooming house. We cased it already. Clean as a whistle too. No blood. Looks lived in. Cigarettes in the ashtray. Laundry tickets on the bureau mirror dated two weeks ago. We figure he got plugged elsewhere.”

  I agreed. “It’s a cinch he didn’t stagger seven blocks to the Ritz with a .45 in his gut. Make any inquiries about a pistol shot in that vicinity?”

  Monks grimaced. “Half the precinct is on it now. Fat chance there. So many cars and people, coming and going. Horns, all the usual racket—”

  Sir Stewart sniffed and transferred the walking stick to his left hand. “You seem to have a tiger by the tail, Captain. There is also the possibility that your gunner used a silencer, isn’t there?”

  Monks grinned. “Those books again, huh? There is but they’re not so commonly used on .45s. Well, what else can I do for you, boys? I’ve got to camp here so if that’s all you have to say, suppose we get together some other time.”

  I could see we had just about worn out our welcome. Knowing Monks, I didn’t push it. Besides, Memo Morgan was on ice at least until tomorrow and as safe as he’d ever be from further trouble. I gently nudged Sir Stewart. He took my cue and shook hands with Monks. The interview was over. We closed the door on a tired captain and walked quietly down the stairs out to the street. Interested bluecoats watched us all the way but nobody stopped us.

  Out on the sidewalk, Sir Stewart twirled the walking stick and let it rest on his shoulder like a rifle. He regarded the dark night sky and a handful of stars that were trying to shine through.

  “Damned business this,” he said without looking at me. “One would think the world had gone insane and directed all its machinations against one more unfortunate.”

  “One would. But whether Memo Morgan is weary of breath, rashly importunate and gone to his death and all that jazz, we won’t know until tomorrow.”

  Sir Stewart chuckled and looked at me.

  “The most refreshing thing about you, Edward, is the fact that you seem to have done some reading in your time. It speaks well for your mind.”

  “And a ton of posies for you, too. What do you want to do now?”

  His shrug was pure royalty.

  “Home, I imagine. We’ll have to sit on this. Though how I shall get any sleep—shall I give you a lift, old man?”

  “I’m only two blocks away, remember? Thanks—I’ll need some cigarettes before I walk back to that messy office. My phone is out so don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

  He paused with his free hand on the door of the Fiat.

  “Look, old man, if you haven’t caught Henry yet, why not be my guest tomorrow evening? I’ve choice ducats in the first row. Bring a lady if you like. I’ll leave them for you at the box office. Afterward, you can meet me in my dressing room, pot my performance and we can discuss this Morgan affair further. Now, what do you say to that?”

  “Sounds fun.” I shook hands with him as he scrunched into the low Fiat. “
See you tomorrow.”

  He slammed the door and the motor whirred. “Till tomorrow then. Good evening, Mr. Noon.” I waved goodbye and started back for the office as the Fiat sprang forward and spurred up the street like a mechanized bug. Soon it was out of sight but Sir Stewart wasn’t out of mind.

  Crazy case, all right. It promised to get crazier unless Memo Morgan came to and made some sense out of everything. I wouldn’t know where to start until he started spilling something else besides blood.

  Like I’d said, it was two short blocks back to the auditorium and home. But a lot of things can happen in two blocks. You could drop dead from a heart attack, get hit by a car, meet a man you haven’t seen in ten years or run into the girl of your dreams.

  Well, none of those things happened. But something else did.

  I went into the candy store just before Fifty-seventh and bought a pack of Camels. I came out of the store, ripping the top open, digging out the first of twenty and striking a match.

  The clock on the wall of the store was edging toward 11 p.m. A hidden radio had been sounding off with a new rendition of an old favorite in rock and roll tempo.

  Then it happened. Something I should have expected after hearing that voice on the telephone. The voice that never bluffed.

  For the second time that day, something hard moved into my spine and stayed there as if it wanted to go clear on through. I stopped in my size nines, dropped the cigarettes, and started to raise my arms.

  “Stop it. Leave them down,” the voice grated in my ear. “Walk into that alley next to the store. Open your mouth once and I’ll shoot you right here.”

  The alley. The dark alley. This must be the place.

  The place where I was going to die. The voice hadn’t come for a gab session.

  “Avaunt! And quit my sight.

  Let the earth hide thee … ”

  TEN

  The alley was darker than the inside of a bottle of drawing ink. No light streamed in from the street save a pale glare from passing cars. The hardness in my back guided me toward the end of the short cul de sac. It looked like the Voice would remain anonymous to my dying minute. I could hear his short heavy breathing, could feel his hot breath on my neck. The tangled chaos of the whole evening was drawing to a close.