Murder on the Aisle

17

11:47 A.M.

There was a screening in the Brill building at one o’clock, so Tobin decided, in the meantime, to call on Michael Dailey, whose office was only a few blocks away from the Brill.

A decorator from the low-profile school had done Dailey’s office. Despite his flamboyant personal style, Dailey was otherwise one of those men who went out of their way to impress clients with their conservatism. He drove a gray Mercedes. He always kept a copy of The Wall Street Journal (instead of Variety or Hollywood Reporter) on his desk. He lived in a Tudor-style house. And his office was such a discreet blend of earth tones it had the effect equivalent to popping a few Valiums. The only striking thing in the expensive but bland office was a Chagall print.

“Yes?” The receptionist wore — what else? — brown. She was one of those prim middle-aged women whose mouths give just a teasing hint of eroticism but nothing you could prove in court. Then she recognized him, her earth-tone eyes showing a hint of anger. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first.” Her tone had changed now she recognized him — Benito Mussolini’s brother.

“I’d like to see Michael.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“Oh, it’s possible all right.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I say it’s possible because if he’s anywhere in the office, then I’m going to find him.” His angry edge surprised even himself. It happened this way sometimes. He’d be standing talking to somebody who irritated him and then he’d just lose it. Really start to get nasty. “Yosemite Sam” was back in action.

“I see.”

“Apparently you don’t see because you’re not getting him on the intercom.”

“He’s talking to the Coast.”

“Is the Coast talking back?”

She said, “There was a Detective Huggins here earlier this morning. He gave the impression that you’re going to be arrested.”

“That would probably make you pretty unhappy, wouldn’t it?”

She smiled. “Oh yes, extremely unhappy.”

He sighed. “I don’t mean to take this out on you.”

“Very noble.”

“I just want to see Michael.”

“I told you he’s talking to the Coast.”

“Fuck the Coast.”

So he went down a narrow hallway and right up to the double doors that always indicated the office of the Big Cheese and he kept right on going, right on through the doors. What he saw then startled him.

Michael Dailey stood in the middle of his office with Jane Dunphy in his arms.

“Jesus!” Dailey snapped.

But Tobin could say nothing. Only stare. Jane broke from Dailey’s embrace. Tobin had never seen her look lovelier or more alien. He could not imagine her kissing somebody like Dailey. Could not fucking fathom it.

“Just what the hell are you doing?” Dailey said. He wore a gray pinstripe suit so smartly tailored it resembled a dinner outfit.

“I need to talk to you.” But he couldn’t keep his eyes from Jane’s face. He felt so confused and angry and despairing.

“Then make an appointment.”

“I don’t have time for an appointment.”

Finally, finally she spoke. Her soft voice both soothed and chilled Tobin. It was over between them and he had acknowledged that months ago, but — Michael Dailey? “I really should be going anyway.”

“I’m sorry this happened,” Dailey said.

“It’s all right.” She glanced at him and wrinkled her mouth in a little smile and then she glanced at Tobin and he thought for a moment he saw something like shame move across her face, but then she put on a smile identical to the one she’d just given Dailey and started out of the office. Today she wore a blue jumper with a white blouse and her hair was pinned up with a sweet little pink barrette. She belonged in the suburbs, for Christ’s sake, not here in the clutches of a leading theatrical vampire. What was going on?

“I’ll call you,” Dailey said and he made it sound proprietary, husband-to-wife.

“All right,” she said, and was gone.

In the ensuing silence — Dailey obviously taking pleasure in Tobin’s shock — Tobin looked dully around the office. A window half as wide as the wall showed the windows of nearby office buildings. From the street below came the distant sounds of Christmas music.

Dailey went around behind his desk, neat and tidy as Forbes would recommend, and said, “I’m giving you exactly two minutes.”

“I have a list.”

“Good for you. So do I. It’s Christmas time. A lot of people have lists at Christmas time.”

“I have a list of people who might be considered serious suspects in Richard’s death.”

“Perhaps you haven’t heard, Tobin. The police consider you suspect number one.”

“That’s strange, Michael. Suspect number one on my list is you.”

“Me?”

“You were cheating him.”

Dailey surprised him by laughing. While he unconsciously played with his solid-gold cufflinks (which were big enough to clog up drains), he also put on his best Cesar Romero smile and said, “You’ve been talking to Starrett.”

“He says he has proof.”

“He doesn’t have a damn thing except a bad case of envy. He wanted to be Richard’s exclusive representative for the screenplay. He’s just angry that Richard let me handle all the details.”

“Why didn’t I hear about this screenplay until yesterday?”

“Gosh, Tobin, I wasn’t aware that either Richard or I had to keep you informed of our activities.”

“Richard and I used to be good friends. The best friends.”

“Until you started mooching a free ride.”

“Bullshit. We each brought things to the show.”

“Richard sold a novel. You didn’t. Richard, thanks in part to my own talents as a publicist, had very high visibility — you didn’t. Now there’s a screenplay. Some very big names on the Coast are interested in starring in it.” He smirked. “How’s your career been going lately?”

Tobin couldn’t stop himself. “Are you sure Richard wrote that screenplay?”

For the first time that morning, Dailey seemed uncertain of himself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said.”

“Of course he wrote it.”

“Do you know anything about a man named Ebsen?”

This time Dailey tried to laugh but couldn’t quite manage to make the sound. “That creep.”

“So you know him?”

“Richard told me about him. He was a student of Richard’s.”

“He seems to be hinting that he had something to do with writing the screenplay.”

“He’s a liar.”

Tobin smiled. “I’d like to see you call him that to his face, Michael. You’d keep that plastic surgeon you represent busy for several weeks in the operating room.”

“Richard wrote the screenplay.”

“Ebsen says he’s going to the press unless he’s paid a certain sum of money.”

“I know. He’s been pestering Jane.”

Again Tobin couldn’t help himself. “You don’t have any right to be with her. The man is only one day dead.”

“Her being married didn’t seem to bother you any when you were having your affair.”

Tobin knew he was blushing.

“For shit’s sake, Tobin, do you think it was a secret? Richard knew all along. He thought it would be good for Jane. She hadn’t taken his fame very well — felt very much left behind. Especially when she began to sense that Richard was seeing a lot of other women, which happened to be the case. Did her good to have somebody pay special attention to her. Even if it had to be you.”

There was nothing to say, of course. He felt embarrassed and hollowed out and betrayed by everybody involved, including Jane herself, who now had some indeterminate relationship with Dailey here.

Tobin went back to the reason he’d come here. “Starrett will demand an audit of the books.”

“He can demand anything he wants. It doesn’t mean he’ll get it.”

A buzz on the intercom. Discreet as the earth tones. “Mr. Dailey, it’s the Coast.”

“The Coast. Good.” Dailey nodded to the phone. “That concludes the interview part of our show,” he said to Tobin. “Don’t think it hasn’t been fun.”

“Let me give you a word of advice. If you’re playing games with Harold Ebsen, you’d better be careful. He’s a very dangerous guy.”

Dailey smiled. “Thanks so much, Tobin. You know how much I value advice coming from you.”

Tobin left.