Blackmailer

Chapter Six

It felt late.

I was sick and shaky. I was thirsty and needed a shave. My head ached. My hands were dirty. My mouth felt furry. I lit a cigarette and coughed so hard that I threw it away after the first puff.

My watch said it was a quarter of ten.

The room was dust-laden and airless. I pulled up the blind and opened the window and stood in front of it breathing the fresh cold air.

I couldn’t decide whether to have coffee or another drink. To study the situation more thoroughly, I went to the kitchenette. We’d put everything back in place. So coffee was easy enough. Just a matter of filling a pan with water, putting pan of water on stove, finding match, lighting gas, finding cup, finding powdered coffee, finding spoon, getting lid off powdered coffee, getting spoonful of powdered coffee into cup, pouring hot water over coffee, stirring, and drinking. Nothing to it.

So I went back to the couch, found the bottle of bourbon on the floor. It was about one-third full. I unscrewed the cap, tilted it and drank. I did this several times.

Then I shaved. Brushed my teeth. Showered. Tilted the bourbon bottle. Got dressed. Then I was ready to make coffee. By that time the coffee tasted wonderful and I had stopped shaking.

So far I had been moving in a kind of daze. I was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom combing my hair when the comb hit the lump above my temple.

It hurt so much that it brought tears to my eyes. Then the haze began to clear. I went over to my pants. There was a gun in one back pocket. The towel Janis had used was lying on the bed. It was still damp and there were lipstick stains on it. The hell with you, Janis Whitney. The hell with you.

I had two more drinks. I was feeling considerably better. I was actually jaunty. I finished dressing.

I put the gun into my jacket pocket. It made a bulge. But I was getting used to that by now. I read somewhere that detectives, gangsters and other gun-toting types have their suits tailored so that the gun in the shoulder holster won’t show.

I grinned and wondered what the fitter at Brooks Brothers would say if I asked him to fix my next suit so that the rod wouldn’t show.

I blinked at the bright sunlight on the street. I stopped at the newsstand across the street. From the front page of the Daily News a familiar face stared up at me.

Jean Dahl.

I picked up the paper.

“Falls to Death” was the headline on the front page. The story was continued on page three.

“A gay party in a Fifth Avenue mansion ended in tragedy here tonight when a guest, model Jean Dahl, 25, fell to her death down a long flight of stairs. The lights had been extinguished for a party game of hide and seek…”

There was quite a long story. It described Walter’s parties in some detail. It suggested that this particular party had been more of an orgy than the previous ones.

It said two things that interested me.

It said that Jean Dahl had been killed instantly, her skull fractured by the fall.

And it said that her body had been found at the foot of the stairs by Walter Heinemann and a guest, literary agent Max Shriber.

Max Shriber.

The hell with you, Maxie. The hell with you. And Walter, my good friend Walter. A great little fixer, Walter. With nice friends.

It isn’t everyone who can give a party where there are two attempted murders and one completed one and still have the whole thing called an unfortunate accident.

The News story implied that the names of all sorts of celebrated guests were being withheld. It hinted at all sorts of immoral goings-on. But in the end all it could do was call it an accident.

The Tribune story was even shorter and less sensational. It was printed on an inside page and there were no pictures. It simply noted that a girl had been killed falling down a flight of stairs at a party.

I reached into the pocket of my jacket for a dime for the papers.

My hand came upon an unfamiliar object. I pulled it out. It was a lipstick. It was the lipstick that Jean Dahl had dropped into my pocket the night before.

I held the lipstick in my hand.

After a minute or so I realized I was shaking again.

I was shaking because it was all over and settled. It had all been fixed. Jean Dahl had fallen down a flight of stairs in a tragic accident.

I was shaking because the body hadn’t been at the foot of the stairs at all. I had seen it lying by the front door.

Not “it.” She. Jean Dahl. Twenty-five years old. Alive. Pretty. Mixed up in some kind of racket. In over her head. I didn’t exactly know how. But when you said it, it didn’t sound personal. And it was personal.

A human being with memories and hopes, troubles and fears, a person with a life. A person, not an it.

And someone had struck her down, fracturing her skull. Someone had killed her, deliberately.

That’s not the kind of thing you should be able to fix.

Standing there in the blazing sunlight I suddenly realized a basic fact. I’m against killing people.

I suddenly realized that a human being who consciously and deliberately takes the life of another human being is my enemy.

I was not exactly sure what I wanted to do.

But if I was going to do anything at all, there was only one logical place to start.

I went into the phone booth in the newspaper store and dialed Walter Heinemann’s number.

The butler answered. I told him I wanted to talk to Mr. Heinemann. He asked who was calling. I told him. He said Mr. Heinemann was not at home.

I said thanks, hung up and got into a cab. I gave the driver Walter’s address.

“I want to see Mr. Heinemann,” I said.

The butler’s face was completely expressionless.

“Mr. Heinemann is not at home.”

“When do you expect him back?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“I’ll just come in and wait, if you don’t mind.”

But he minded.

He was very polite. But very firm. The household was very upset. Mr. Heinemann had left orders that no one was to be admitted. And so on. And so forth. And all the time he stood there, very effectively blocking the door.

“O.K.,” I said. “I’ll try him again later.”

I turned and went back down the marble steps.

I could feel his eyes on my back all the way down. He didn’t close the door until I had turned the corner and headed for Madison.

I walked about twenty yards toward Madison Avenue and without hesitating, turned in at the delivery entrance through which Janis Whitney and I had left last night.

I pushed the button for the elevator and stood there, humming nervously to myself.

The elevator seemed to take hours.

When it finally came, I got in quickly and pushed the button for the top floor.

I had no idea where to find Walter. It was a big house. He could be anywhere. It was even possible that he had gone out.

I didn’t think so, though.

I decided to start at the top and work my way down.

I got off at the fourth floor and began to walk quietly down the corridor. I was not sure now where to start or even why I was there. I didn’t know what I was going to say to Walter when I did find him.

I stopped, and was about to turn back to the elevator when I heard Walter’s silly, high-pitched giggle. A door, a little way up the corridor, was ajar. I moved toward it, listening.

Walter was talking and laughing. There was someone with him in the room.

Then I heard the voice.

The nasty, derisive, unmistakable voice that I had heard twice before.

I swung the door open and stepped dramatically into the room.

Walter was sitting in an armchair balancing a cup of coffee on his knee. He was wearing pajamas and a white silk robe with black and gold Chinese figures. Across from him, on the small sofa, sat a thin, slightly built young man with blond crew-cut hair and hornrimmed glasses.

I stepped into the room, slamming the door loudly behind me. Walter looked up, startled. An expression of surprise and alarm crossed his face, but he had superb control and it was gone almost before it had appeared. In its place came a bland, friendly, half-amused smile.

“Why, Richard!” Walter said. “This is a genuine surprise! Have you had breakfast yet? Jimmie, get Richard a cup of coffee.”

“Listen, Walter, I want to talk to you,” I said.

“To be sure,” Walter said. “Sugar and cream, or would you prefer it black? Sit down, Richard. You know Jimmie, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “The voice is familiar but I can’t recall the face.”

Walter giggled foolishly.

Jimmie turned from the serving table where he was pouring coffee and looked at me inquiringly.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jimmie said. His voice was soft and somewhat high-pitched. By no stretch of the imagination could it be confused with the heavy, guttural voice I had heard through the door a moment before.

I looked around.

“Who else is in here?” I said. “I heard someone else through the door.”

“Richard,” Walter said, “what is the matter with you this morning?”

“I was coming down the hall,” I said, “and I heard a voice. A real ugly, nasty voice. I heard that same voice last night. I’d recognize it anywhere. It belongs to the man who murdered Jean Dahl.”

Walter did not seem to hear me.

“Jimmie,” he said, “I won’t be needing you for anything else at this moment.”

Jimmie rose noiselessly, gathered up some papers on the serving table, nodded, and disappeared.

“Isn’t he charming?” Walter said. “And such a talented boy. He writes, you know, and I try to help him every way I can. Staying here with me as my secretary is such a fabulous experience for him…”

I interrupted with a short, obscene reference to Jimmie.

“Listen, Walter,” I said. “Who else was in here? Where is he? I want to talk to him.”

Walter looked at me. His face was serious but his wide, watery-blue eyes were twinkling.

“Wise guy,” he said. “You know so much. Sherlock Holmes. What makes you think someone else is here?”

It was the voice, all right. Every intonation.

Abruptly, Walter stopped and began to giggle.

“Is that what you mean?” he said. “Is that the voice you heard?”

I nodded. I was too bewildered to speak.

“That,” Walter said, “is one of my more famous imitations. I have an incredible ear. I can reproduce any sound the human throat can make. With a little practice.”

“Who is it supposed to be?” I said. “Who are you imitating?”

“Max Shriber!” Walter said. “Max is really too easy. It’s simply a matter of gargling and grunting at the same time.”

“Max Shriber?” I said. “That’s his voice?”

Walter nodded. “Of course,” he said.

“Then he’s the one,” I said. “He killed her.”

“What are you talking about?” Walter said.

“Jean Dahl,” I said. “I’m talking about Jean Dahl, the girl who fell down the flight of stairs in the dark. Only she was jet-propelled. Because she landed on the far side of the hall. Over by the door. Look, Walter, I happen to know that Jean Dahl was murdered.”

“Oh, no,” Walter said. “You must be mistaken. It was a tragic thing. A terrible thing. But it was an accident. As I told the police, last night, I feel that it was my fault. I was supposed to have been guarding the stairs. To prevent just such a thing.”

“Look, Walter,” I said. “I saw her as the lights went on. She was lying across the hall by the door.”

“Impossible,” Walter said. “Utterly impossible. I found her myself a moment or two after the lights went on. She was lying at the foot of the stairs.” Then Walter turned sternly toward me. “If you had any information you should have given it to the police last night. Where were you last night?”

“I did a very foolish thing,” I said. “I saw the body. I got panicky and I left without saying anything to anyone.”

“That was a foolish thing to do. But I assure you that in your panic you were entirely mistaken. The body was at the foot of the stairs.”

I got up and walked over to Walter’s chair.

“You’re lying,” I said. “I wasn’t the only one who saw the body. Someone was with me. She saw the body too. She’ll tell you it was by the door.”

“Who was with you?”

“Janis Whitney.”

Walter sighed. “Now, really, Richard,” he said. “This is very awkward. You see, in a manner of speaking I did exaggerate just a teeny bit to the police. I told them that Max Shriber and I had discovered the body jointly, as it were. With the two of us together it sounded so much more convincing.”

“What?”

“Actually,” Walter said, “Max Shriber found the poor child’s body. Then he called to me. I came as quickly as I could. When I got downstairs the body was lying exactly where I said it was. At the foot of the stairs. I assure you, Richard, I never dreamed that it could have been moved there.”

“But it could have been. This character Shriber could have dragged her to the foot of the stairs and then called you, couldn’t he?”

“He could have, I suppose,” Walter said, “but I never dreamed that…” His voice petered out in a nervous giggle.

“Who is he, anyway?” I asked.

“An agent,” Walter said. “He handles some very top people.”

“How well do you know him?”

“I know him only slightly,” Walter said. “At the moment we are associated in a business way. He is more or less a partner of mine in a small transaction.”

Walter stood up and lit a cigarette. “Richard, there is something I want to talk to you about very seriously. But first I simply must shower and dress.”

I started to protest, but Walter interrupted me.

“I won’t be ten minutes,” he said. “And I promise you that what I have to say to you will be well worth your time. I had intended to talk to you about this in any case. Your coming here this morning of your own accord was practically telepathy.”

“What did you want to talk to me about, Walter? What’s on your mind?”

Walter stood up. “I wanted to talk to you about a book.”

“You’ve written a book?” I said.

“No, I have a book. I thought perhaps you might be interested in publishing it.”

I felt as if I had heard this conversation before.

“What is the book?” I asked.

I stood tensely, waiting for him to answer, knowing what he was going to say.

“A novel,” Walter said, “that was completed by Charles Anstruther, just before his death.”

Suddenly my head began to ache.

“Listen, Walter,” I said weakly. “Have you got a drink around this place?”

Walter opened a cabinet and took out a bottle of brandy. He poured several inches into a glass and handed it to me.

I sank into the armchair. I felt tired. My hangover had returned with full force. I did not seem to be able to follow what was going on.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Walter said. “If you look around you’ll find all sorts of amusing things. Books, magazines, pictures. Or, if you like, there’s the radio or records. Or the television. The switches are right there by your arm. If you press the red switch at the end you might provide yourself with some live entertainment. I’ll be out of the shower in less than ten minutes. Cigarettes in the box. Liquor in the cabinet.”

He turned and disappeared into the bedroom. In a moment or two I could hear the faint sound of a shower.

I sank back in the chair and sipped the brandy. I didn’t think. I didn’t move. I sat there and let the warmth of the brandy spread through my body.

Then, for the first time, I looked around the room, taking notice of my surroundings.

Walter’s sitting room was dominated by a gigantic picture on the wall opposite the bedroom door. Walter claimed it was a Titian and worth a quarter of a million dollars. I guess it was.

The room also included a small piano, an entire wall of bookshelves, and a fireplace. Inside a glass cabinet was Walter’s famous collection of antique dueling pistols, all very deadly-looking.

I slumped in the chair, admiring the Titian and listening to the sound of Walter’s shower.

Beside the arm of the chair was the amplifier for Walter’s record player and radio. On top of it was a complex row of buttons and gadgets. It looked like the instrument panel on a B-29.

Even if I wanted to play records, I thought, it would take me a week to figure out how.

Experimentally, I pushed a button. Just at random, to see what would happen.

I waited.

Across the room, at eye level, a section of bookcase slid noiselessly to one side, revealing the largest television screen I’d ever seen outside a saloon.

Very neat. Very mechanical.

I pushed the button again and the bookshelves slid back into place.

Then I noticed the red button at the end.

The brandy, on top of an empty stomach on top of half a bottle of bourbon from the night before, was beginning to have a strange effect.

I felt light-headed.

I felt cool and detached and whimsical.

I drained the rest of the brandy in my glass.

Then, for the second time, I noticed the red button on the end. I leaned over and pushed it.

I sat expectantly, waiting to see what would happen.

I half expected the floor to open up and half a dozen dancing girls to appear.

Or a symphony orchestra to slide out from under the couch.

Even so, I was caught off guard.

Silently, moving on oiled hinges or ball bearings or whatever they were, the enormous two hundred and fifty thousand dollar Titian began to slide along the wall.

I watched it, fascinated.

Behind the picture was a glass window about eight feet high and five feet wide.

On the other side of the window, about six feet from the tip of my nose, was Janis Whitney.

She was wearing only the bottom half of what I think they call a bikini bathing suit. She was looking straight at me, brushing her hair.

I waited for a startled expression to appear on her face, but her expression did not change. She continued to stare directly at me. Her lips moved as she counted strokes.

I am not very quick about things like this.

It took me about that long to figure out why her expression did not change. As far as she was concerned she was all alone in the next room, brushing her hair before a large, conveniently placed mirror.

I’d read about one-way glass.

They use it at places like the Yale Nursery when they want to study the behavior of the infant and child in the culture of today without the infant and child tumbling to the fact that the culture is watching him.

They use it at Klein’s to keep an eye on shoplifters.

And Walter used it.

I wondered how many of Hollywood’s most beautiful female stars had, at one time or another, admired themselves in the mirror of Walter’s number one guest room.

Janis Whitney reached one hundred and stopped brushing.

She looked down and examined the fastenings of her swimming suit. They were held in place by a knot on her right hip. She began to loosen the knot.

I reached for the red button. I reached for it, but I didn’t push it.

Janis Whitney stood for a long time admiring herself in the mirror.

She was something to admire. Soft dark hair, cut short, framing her head. Green eyes and a wide mouth with perfect teeth.

Her skin was very white. She had firm, full breasts, and her body, while it was slim, was not a boyish, dancer’s body. It was softer, and more feminine. Her hands and feet, I noticed, were extremely small.

She smiled at her reflection in the mirror.

So did I.

Then, abruptly, she turned and in a second was out of range of the mirror.

When she returned she was wearing a green linen dress.

She stood close to the mirror with her mouth open, examining her perfect teeth. Then, using her little finger and a brush, she began to put on her lipstick.

I’d had enough.

I pushed the red button again and watched as the picture slid back into place.

I got up out of the chair.

There were no push buttons on Walter’s liquor cabinet. It worked manually. What you did was reach in, pull out a brandy bottle, pour the brandy into a glass and drink.

I did all those things.

Walter was still in the shower. I could hear the sound of spraying water.

Suddenly a recurrence of the feeling I’d had when I read about Jean Dahl’s accident swept over me.

Someone had killed her here in Walter’s house not twelve hours before.

And no one seemed to give a damn.

Least of all Walter.

Suddenly, Walter’s dawdling in the shower offended me.

I stood listening to the sound of the shower and the sound drove me into a frenzy.

I turned and almost ran through the bedroom and toward the bathroom.