Murderers Row

NINE

SFIE WAS A pajama girl, which, if I'd come for pleasure instead of business, I'd have found disappointing: nighties are much nicer. With her short, blonde hair, in her loose blue-flowered silk coat and tapering blue trousers, she looked like a small, sleepy, barefoot boy.

"Well, get inside before somebody sees you, stupid," she snapped when I didn't move at once. I moved past her. She closed the door and locked it, saying, "I hope you had sense enough to make sure you weren't followed."

The room had unpleasant associations for me. It was almost an exact duplicate of Jean's, a few doors down. There was the same beige wall-to-wall carpet, the same blond furniture, and the same TV set on the same revolving stand. Only the feminine debris was different; Teddy Michaelis would never take any prizes for immaculate housekeeping, either.

I walked to the closet and looked inside. I inspected the bathroom and found it empty. I turned to look at the small, boyish figure standing by the door, watching me warily. Despite the aggressive attitude with which she'd greeted me, she was obviously scared. I could hardly blame her. From her point of view, it must have been kind of like inviting a man-eating tiger to tea.

"Let's not play cowboys and Indians, doll," I said. "Every cop in the state knows my car after the alarm that went out. What was I supposed to do, take it out in the woods and paint it pink, just for you?" She looked disconcerted, and I went on, "As far as I know, I came here clean. But I'm not guaranteeing how long it will last."

"Now," I said, "say something that makes it worth my trouble." I glanced around once more, and decided to take a chance on a mike. It didn't seem likely, under the circumstances, that she was in league with the police; and if anybody else was setting traps for me, I might as well take the bait and see what happened next. "Let's start with why you lied to the cops for me, doll," I said.

"Don't call me that."

I made her a sweeping bow. "I humbly apologize for the familiarity, Miss Michaelis, ma'am."

"Papa used to call me doll," she said, still standing there watching me, unmoving. "That's why-" She stopped.

"That's why you don't want to hear it from my degenerate lips?"

She smiled slowly. She was gaining confidence, I saw. She hadn't known just what to expect when I first came in: a hoodlum, a murderer. Now she was realizing that, depraved and wicked though Petroni might be, he was fundamentally just another male.

"You said that," she murmured. "I didn't."

"Your meaning got through, honey," I said. "Loud and clear. Any objection to honey?"

Her smile remained. "If you have to call me something, why not try Teddy?"

"Teddy," I said. "Like in bear. Okay, Teddy." I frowned at her. "So Papa used to call you doll?" She nodded. I said, "And Papa is Dr. Norman Michaelis, scientist, electronics expert, and Washington bigshot. Widower. One daughter and a private income from his inventions. I like that private income, Teddy. Folks with private incomes can afford to pay for their notions, even the crazy ones. What's your notion in getting me out of jail and asking me here?"

She didn't answer the direct question. She was frowning right back at me. "You checked up on me?"

"Did you think I wouldn't? A mouse I've never seen before saves me from the cops and asks me to a conference in her motel room. Would I walk in cold?"

She hesitated, and asked curiously, "What's a mouse, Jim?"

"Don't act dumb. A mouse is a broad."

"I mean," she persisted, "is it good or bad? Like dream-boat? Or like bitch?"

"A mouse," I said, "is something small and cuddly. Like a doll, which is what your daddy used to call you. Let's stick with that. Let's brush it hard and see where the dandruff falls. Used to? What made him stop?" She looked at me and didn't answer. I said, as if quoting from memory, which I was, "Dr. Norman Michaelis is currently resting and relaxing aboard a seagoing yacht belonging to friends. That's the official scoop. Don't ask me how I got it. I've got connections."

Actually, I'd got it from the dope given me by Mac during the preliminary briefing. Michaelis' disappearance had been temporarily covered up, to avoid embarrassing questions while the search was in progress.

The little girl said quickly, "It isn't true. I suppose they mean the Freya, but she's anchored up a creek not twenty miles from here, where she can't be seen unless you're right on top of her. Nobody's aboard except Nick, the paid hand. They've painted out the name and home port, but how many jib-headed, eighty-foot schooners are there on the Bay? I got that much for my money, anyway, before somebody got to the man I'd hired and bought him off. Or scared him off. Anyway, he turned in one report and quit."

I said, "You're throwing it at me fast. Is it supposed to make sense? What's a jib-headed schooner?"

"A schooner is a two-masted sailing vessel, fore-and-aft rigged, with the taller mast aft. If it has a Marconi mainsail, it's jib-headed. Because it comes to a point at the top like a jib, get it? Or do I have to tell you what a jib is, Jim?"

I hadn't reacted the first time she used my name, so this time she called attention to it with a little smile; she was treating me just like a human being. She wasn't scared a bit, even if I did go around killing people, her smile said. She found a cigarette on the dresser, lit it, and sat down on the bed facing me, smoking bravely.

"The jib's the little triangular sail up front. I know that much," I said. "And Freya was the Norse goddess of love and beauty. And an eighty-footer is a lot of boat, for a private yacht. And who did you hire to do what, Teddy?"

"A private detective from a New York agency. I've been working in New York. When Papa disappeared-"

"Disappeared?"

"His letters stopped coming. I called his lab in Washington and they said he was taking a vacation, but he hadn't written me anything about it. They said he'd come down here. They sounded-well, funny. So I called her long distance-"

"Who?"

"You know. You met her. The horsy aristocratic lady with the sharp, sharp eye."

"Mrs. Rosten?"

Teddy nodded. "And she said he was off cruising somewhere, like you just told me. She'd lent him the schooner, she said."

"I see. Well, I wish I had a handsome lady friend who lent me eighty-foot yachts. So your daddy used to call you doll, but he doesn't any more, because he's off cruising the seven seas in a schooner that's tied up in a creek twenty miles from here with the name painted out. An4 you sent a New York private eye to investigate, and he came back with his tail between his legs. And just where the hell does this Rosten dame come into the act, anyway?"

Teddy hesitated. "Papa-well, Papa was crazy about her," she said reluctantly.

"Tsk, tsk," I said. "A married woman? How did she feel about it?"

"Feel?" There was sudden viciousness in the little girl's voice. "What makes you think she's got feelings, that female vampire? Don't flatter her, Jim!"

"In other words," I said, "you don't like her very much."

"She's a monster!" the girl said fiercely. "Who was that ancient character who turned men into swine?"

"Circe, I think," I said. "She wasn't ancient at the time, as I recall."

"Well, this one is," Teddy said. "God, she must be almost forty, and she had Papa making a fool of himself like they were both kids in their teens!"

"Think of it," I said, "an old hag like that. Almost forty!"

She glanced up quickly. I don't exactly qualify as a dewy juvenile myself. She had the grace to look embarrassed.

"I didn't mean-anyway, it's different with a man."

"Sure. Men age better."

"Well, they do. I-I just couldn't understand it. What he saw in her, I mean. It wasn't as if she were pretty or anything, or even very bright. I mean, all she can talk about is horses and dogs and boats, real sexy conversation. The only thing I can figure is, she must be good in bed, but she doesn't look it."

I said, "And you don't like the idea of her being good in bed with your papa, anyway."

"Well, should I?" she snapped. "I tried to tell him, to warn him. Somebody had to tell him he was making himself utterly ridiculous! We had a terrible fight about it, and I packed my things and moved to New York and said I wasn't going to set foot in the house again until he'd made a clean break with that woman."

"That's known as polite blackmail," I said. "Impolite blackmail is when you ask for money."

She flushed. "I had to do something! I couldn't just stand by and let him ruin everything. I didn't even answer his letters. He made me so mad! He kept writing to me as if I were a child who just didn't understand. I understood, all right. I just thought it was disgusting!" She drew a long, ragged breath. "And now-and now he's gone." She paused. "I think he's dead, Jim. Murdered!"

"Murdered?"

"Yes, and it's her fault. I know it is!"

"Mrs. Rosten? Why would she kill him?"

"I didn't say she killed him. I said it was her fault." Teddy glanced at me, somewhat hesitantly, and went on, "I think-I think her husband killed him in a fit of jealousy. Don't laugh. That's the way it must have happened!" She drew on her cigarette defiantly.

I studied her for a moment. I was realizing, rather belatedly, that I was dealing with a screwball. It changed the situation somewhat.

"I'm not laughing," I said. "I'm just panting, trying to catch up. You're leaving me way behind."

She said, "Well, it's logical, isn't it? She's beat on that poor man for years. He's definitely unstable, anyway. Anybody can see that. She's flaunted her lovers in his face, time and again. Everybody knows it around here. I think it finally just got too much for him and he went off his trolley."

"Have you got any evidence for all this?" I asked. "Or are you making it up as you go along? Half freshman psychology and half TV?"

She said, "Well, if Papa isn't dead, where is he? I think there was a dreadful scene of some kind, and Louis Rosten went haywire and killed him. Then she helped her husband cover up to avoid the scandal of a murder trial that would have crucified her. Why is the Freya hidden in that creek? Why is Louis absolutely terrified of his wife? Why did that private detective drop the case after coming down here? She either bought him off or threatened him with political influence; her family's been big stuff in this state since Lord Calvert founded Baltimore."

"Lord who?" I asked.

"Calvert," she said. "They pronounce it Caulvert around here."

"So you came down to get the goods on her?"

"What else could I do?" Teddy shrugged her small shoulders under the silk pajama coat. "1 hoped they'd invite me to stay at the house out on Long Point, but I guess they knew I meant trouble. They gave me some story about remodeling the guest wing and got me a room here. Then they had me to dinner with this creepy Thunderbird character. One of them was watching me every minute I was in the house, either Louis or her, and I wasn't too sure about Thunderbird. He's some kind of relative. And then we came back here to go swimming- swimming, with the temperature nudging absolute zero! They just had to dream up some excuse to get me out of there and back to the motel."

"And you saw me," I said, "and after you'd learned who I was, it came to you in a flash that I was just what you needed, even if you had to lie like a trooper to get me."

"Yes," she said. "Of course. There wasn't any point in trying another private detective; she'd have got to him, too."

"So what can Lash Petroni do for you that a private dick can't?"

"The police said you were a hoodlum, a gangster. You don't talk like a hoodlum. Not all the time, anyway."

I chided myself for being careless, and put on a grin. "What's the matter, small stuff? Just because I happen to know that Freya was the goddess of love and Circe turned men into swine-ain't it allowed for us criminal classes to read a book between hits?"

She flushed. "I didn't mean-what's a hit?"

"A hit," I said, "is like when you're sent to take care of somebody who's bothering somebody, and that's enough stalling around, pint-size. You pried me loose from the fuzz; you got me here. Now tell me what the hell you want and what's in it for me, or I'll be on my way."

She hesitated, still watching me closely. Then she crushed out her cigarette, got to her feet and came forward, taking my lapels between her thumbs and forefingers. She looked up. Her eyes were very blue and bright in her small face. When she spoke, her voice sounded kind of shaky and breathless.

"I want-" She paused, then went on, "How much. would you charge to make a hit for me, Jim Petroni?"