Very Cold for May

Chapter One

Jake Harrison picked up his hat and coat from the cloakroom attendant and was walking across the lobby of the Saxon Club when he heard his name called. He turned as a blue-uniformed page hurried to his side.

“Call for you, Mr. Harrison. A Mr. Noble.”

Jake hesitated and in that fraction of time a good deal of his amiability departed. Finally, he said, “Okay, thanks,” and went over to the bank of phones beside the elevator.

Before lifting the receiver he checked through the events of the day in an attempt to guess what Noble wanted him for; but the day had been without incident, neither more nor less frantic than usual.

Shrugging, he lifted the phone and told the club operator he was on the line. She asked him to wait a moment and he heard a click as the connection was made. Then Gary Noble’s voice blasted into his ear.

“Jake? How soon can you get down to the office?”

“Oh, hell,” Jake said.

“Jake, I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important.”

“Oh, sure. Look, I’ve an eight o’clock date with Sheila at Dave’s. What’s up?”

“I’m sorry about lousing up your plans,” Noble said, with somewhat too much solicitude. “But listen; Riordan, Dan Riordan, called a while ago and wants to see me tonight. He wants us to handle his public relations. You know this is the biggest damn thing that ever happened to me, Jake. Riordan owns mills, mines, factories—”

“Yes, I know,” Jake said. Noble’s enthusiasm was working insidiously, and he began, almost against his will, to fish up the things he knew about Dan Riordan.

War Contractor. Genius of Production. Free Enterprise. Know-How. Money. Married after first wife’s death. To entertainer, show girl, something like that. Son in Air Force. Good war record.

“What’s his trouble?” he asked.

“Well, we didn’t go into the details, but the Hampstead Committee wants a look at his books. You know what that usually means.”

“He’ll need a lot of help, then.”

“You’ve got to get over here,” Noble said.

Outside Jake could see light, picturesque snow falling on Michigan Boulevard and the hazy street lamps lent a pleasant, Dickensian flavor to the scene. He sighed.

“Okay. I can make it in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“One other thing, Jake.” Noble sounded both cautious and puzzled. “He mentioned May. May Laval. Said something about her being in a spot to hurt him. Asked me if I knew her, and so forth.”

Jake said, “That fits in with the rumors, doesn’t it?”

“You mean about that book she’s planning — the expose on high living during the war?”

“Sounds logical,” Jake said. “I’ll get over as quickly as I can.”

He hung up, then called another number. A moment later a quiet voice said, “Dave’s Radio Bar. Dave speaking.”

“Dave, this is Jake. I’d like you to do me a favor. Sheila and I planned to meet at your place at eight. But I’m tied up now and—”

“You want me to tell her you’ll be along soon?”

Jake smiled. “I couldn’t have put it more neatly myself.”

“Well, I’ll tell her, but this kind of stuff is why she left you in the first place. She’s nobody to push around like a call girl.”

“You’re right, Dave,” Jake said. “But take care of her, will you?”

He put the phone down and shrugged. That was the best he could do for the moment. Sheila would probably understand.

Waiting at the curb in the fight snow while the doorman signalled a cruising cab, Jake thought about the news he’d got from Gary Noble and a small frown touched his face. He was a slender, gracefully built man in his late thirties, with graying hair and lean features that were saved from austerity by a normal expression of good humor.

But he wasn’t looking particularly good-humored as he climbed into the cab and gave directions to the driver. He was thinking of what Noble had told him about May Laval. Except for that, the Riordan account would be a routine chore.

But the element of May in the equation made everything else unstable.

The cab made a U-turn in Michigan Boulevard and headed north toward the Executives’ Building. Jake lit a cigarette and glanced out at the dark bulk of Lake Michigan and the traffic that formed a chain of light along its shore.

He had known May Laval quite a few years. Ten, at least, he thought. She was about his own age, thirty-eight. The facts about May were not too mysterious. She had come from California to Chicago as a girl of nineteen, a very beautiful girl with golden hair and large candid eyes that had surveyed everything in the city with delighted astonishment.

She had gotten into a few shows on the merits of her beauty, which was real and fresh, and after her third show closed, had surprised quite a few people by marrying its backer, an elderly meat packer. The marriage hadn’t lasted long, and May had come out of it on the way to being a wealthy woman. She had proved then that there was something behind her big blue eyes, by investing her money shrewdly in South Side real estate that doubled in value within a few years. Jake had met her about that time, which was shortly after her second marriage to an orchestra leader had turned out badly. He had liked her, and they became firm but casual friends.

May’s talent as news copy always astounded Jake, who was doing features for the Express at the time. She had a flair, or rather a passion, for weird and dizzy escapades. Her antics could range from a nude and nocturnal bathing party in Chicago’s Buckingham Fountain, to the successful bidding for a Poe first edition that every bibliophile in the country had wanted. May had color.

She became known over those years as a character’s character. Her plushy Victorian home on Astor Street was crowded with politicians, judges, gamblers, newspapermen and, for variety, there might be a handful of derelicts picked up personally by her from West Side soup lines. May knew everybody; everybody knew May.

During the war she reached her zenith as a colorful personality. She was unofficial hostess to the important men who came to Chicago to buy and sell properties in seven figures, a Girl Friday to the men fighting the war of priorities, allocations, contracts, and logistics.

It was said that a meeting of the Allied Chiefs of Staff might have been held in her parlor on a dozen different occasions. It was said she knew the tastes in women of every general in the army above the rank of brigadier. And it was said she had made a killing in the market with tips from contractors and brokers, who exchanged this information in return for the right word in the right ear at the right time.

The end of the war seemed to bring May’s era of curious importance to a close. The press was slightly weary of her, and there was competition from returning G I’s, from strikes, readjustment, and the other agonies of peace. The days passed when May’s name could be found in three or four columns in every edition of every paper in town.

Jake realized that he had hardly seen May since the end of the war. She had made a few sporadic attempts to recapture the attention that had always been part of her life, and then she’d gone to Sun Valley.

That had been all, until the rumor of her book began to float around. According to the vague but prurient reports, the book would be one to end all books on the war. It was to be an expose, based on her diaries, with names, dates and telephone numbers, of chicanery and fornication on the highest of levels. It was to be Madame Récamier telling all in four-letter words.

Jake tossed his cigarette out the cab window. He couldn’t help but be amused with May’s latest brain storm, even though it was likely to embarrass their prospective client, Dan Riordan.

Jake liked May. He knew that the stories about her, both the good and bad, were exaggerated wildly.

Those who didn’t like May said she was a vulgar exhibitionist, a spoiled and ruthless creature, who had to be pampered and spot-lighted every minute of the day. Friends of hers, and they were many, said she was a generous, amusing woman, quick to help anyone who was down, and dangerous only to stuffed shirts, bullies, and prudes.

The truth lay somewhere in the middle, Jake guessed. May was a good deal of a phony, but amusingly so. Her chatter about art and literature, her first editions and signed paintings, were all cultivated with a frank eye to their publicity value, and her demand for attention, while not always charming, was hardly ruthless.

On the other hand, she had a sharp sense of humor, and her flair for sarcasm was usually reserved for people who deserved it.

The truth was that May was born to be looked at, to be admired, to be discussed and speculated about, and unless all this was happening at the same time, May was apt to be miserable.

Jake gave up his reflections as the cab drew to a stop before the Executives’ Building. He had no idea what May’s interference might mean to the Riordan account. But it was a safe guess that from now on things would be exciting.

Jake stepped from the elevator at the thirty-fourth floor and walked briskly toward the solid glass portals which bore the inscription: Gary Noble and Associates, Public Relations.

The reception room was dark but, upon entering the long, panelled hallway that led past the art and fashion departments, Jake could see light coming through the half-open door of Noble’s office, at the end of the corridor. There were voices and laughter coming from the inside and, also, the aroma of Noble’s twenty-eight-year-old Scotch.

Jake walked down the dark hallway and, after rapping on the half-open door, stepped into Noble’s office. He saw two men and a woman with drinks in their hands, and Gary Noble, who was working behind the bottle-cluttered bar that was normally hidden by a sliding section of the mahogany panelled walls.

“Well, there you are,” Noble said heartily. Gary Noble was not impressive physically, but his energy and enthusiasm were as overwhelming as a tidal wave. He was short, bulky, and fiftyish, with effectively disarranged white hair, and eyes that were startlingly blue against his darkly tanned skin. Gripping Jake’s arm, he pulled him toward the center of the office. “Jake,” he said, “I want you to meet the Riordans.”

The tall, powerfully built man standing at Noble’s desk, Jake recognized as Dan Riordan, clubman, industrialist and tycoon. Now Riordan looked tired and anxious; his thick black hair needed combing and his hard, strangely pale face was lined with worry. Standing together at the windows were a slender brunette of perhaps thirty-five, and a sandy-haired young man in a dinner jacket. They had been studying the world globe which, for some reason, Noble considered necessary to his office.

“Our senior account executive, Jake Harrison,” Noble said.

Riordan shook Jake’s hand with a quick, powerful grip, and smiled briefly. He seemed to be controlling his nerves, or his patience, with difficulty.

Noble led Jake to the couple at the window and made the introductions with a nice deference to the lady, who was Denise, Mrs. Riordan. The young man was Riordan’s son, Brian.

Denise Riordan murmured something and smiled at Jake. She was attractive in a smooth, polished fashion, and nearing forty, but her deeply tanned skin and slim figure made her appear younger. Underneath her excellently styled black faille suit, her body had the relaxed suppleness of a dancer, and her bare legs were evenly tanned and beautifully shaped.

Brian Riordan was tall, thin, with sandy hair and light gray eyes. He wore his dinner jacket with grace and was in the process of getting thoroughly drunk.

He beamed at Jake good-naturedly. “Now, I suppose we’ll have to get down to business. Probably means the drinking is over.”

“Not on your life,” Noble said, with a bellow of Rotarian cheer. “Let me fix that glass of yours. There are some things more important than business, damn it”

Jake knew that not even the sight of his mother lying under the wheels of a truck would slow Noble down on the way to a lucrative business appointment; but Noble had the gift of infusing his banalities with a desperate conviction that made people unconscious of their pointlessness.

Dan Riordan cleared his throat, and said, “I think we’d better talk about business, Noble.” He added drily, “I hate to spoil the party, but I’m rushed for time.”

“Right,” Noble said. “Let’s pitch right in.”

Jake lit a cigarette to cover his smile.

Denise Riordan walked to the brown leather sofa that extended along one wall and sat down, crossing her legs. Brian took a seat in a chair on the other side of the room and yawned comfortably.

“City air gets me,” he said, to no one in particular.

Noble was refilling glasses, so Jake said, “You don’t live in town then?”

“No. I live in Wisconsin, at Dad’s lodge. I come into Chicago once every week or so to get sociably drunk.”

Denise glanced at Riordan, who was leaning against Noble’s desk, and frowning at the floor, obviously not listening to the conversation. “When do I get to see the lodge?” she asked him, smiling. “I’ve seen the patio in Palm Springs and the hut in the Everglades, but no lodge.”

Riordan glanced at her, and his face cleared as he smiled. “It’s not a very exciting place. Perhaps Brian will have us up some weekend if you’re curious.”

“Delighted,” Brian said.

Noble distributed the filled glasses, then pulled the leather chair from his desk and pushed it over to Riordan; but Riordan shook his head.

“I can talk better standing,” he said. He took a sip from his drink, then faced Noble, his feet spread wide apart and his shoulders squared.

“Here it is,” he said. “Last week the manager of my Washington office called me, and told me that the Hampstead Committee had come across some deals of ours that they wanted explained. Two days later they sent a preliminary investigating team to Chicago headed by a fellow named Gregory Prior. Prior is in town now, and has sealed my books and is getting ready to go through them with a fine tooth comb. When he completes that end of the investigation he’ll report to Washington and, if they think they have a case against me, I’ll be called before the committee for a hearing.”

Noble had been nodding sympathetically. He said, “The government has a mania for investigating people. However, what’s Prior likely to find when he looks into your books?”

“He’ll find I cut corners,” Riordan said. “Hell, the Nazis and the Japs were cutting corners, weren’t they?” He tapped a thick blunt forefinger into the palm of his hand. “Here was the situation I faced: I had a contract to make barrels for the U.S. Army, and our boys needed those barrels bad. This was the winter of 1944, remember. Rundstedt had driven a wedge between our troops in the Ardennes, and the whole damn First Army was ready to crack. Goebbels was shouting that they’d have Antwerp by Christmas, Paris by the first of the year. Things were bad. I couldn’t beg or borrow the quality of steel that was specified in my contract, so I went ahead and made barrels with a cheaper grade of steel. I made the barrels, by God, and they were a damn sight better than no barrels at all.”

Riordan stopped talking, took a cigar wrapped in tin foil from his vest pocket and began to unwrap it quickly. There were patches of angry color in his cheeks, and he was breathing harder.

Brian Riordan opened his eyes and smiled at his father. “You’ve got an interesting point there,” he said. “I wonder if some G I who got blown up with one of those barrels would agree with you that they were better than none at all?”

Riordan turned on his son with a bull-like twist of his shoulders. “There is no proof my barrels blew up,” he said, in a hard, precise voice.

“Well, somebody’s did,” Brian said, yawning.

Riordan took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “Yes, there were cases of premature detonation, and of barrels cracking after heavy use. They happened in Ordnance testing grounds, too, under ideal circumstances, and with guns made to exact specifications. But that isn’t the point. I made barrels when they were needed overseas, and the only crime I committed was in violating the letter of a government contract, which was stupid and unreasonable in the first place.”

“Hear, hear,” Brian murmured.

Riordan ignored him and continued talking. “Now, Noble, I don’t want to be pilloried in the newspapers by this damned committee. Senator Hampstead is an ignorant, suspicious hillbilly who hates the thought that any man in the world has an extra pair of shoes or a second dime in his pocket. He’s a sour neurotic who thinks he’s God Almighty. I want you to get my story across to the papers, and see that they treat me right. Can you do that?”

“Well,” Noble said, expansively. “I don’t see any difficulty so far. You acted in a sensible manner, and it shouldn’t be too hard to get that fact over to the public. However, I do think we should have a few more facts at our disposal.”

“All right,” Riordan said. “I’m no good at details, but I’ll send my executive secretary, Avery Meed, over tomorrow morning with all the dope on the deals the government is worrying about. That okay?”

Brian Riordan got languidly to his feet and walked toward the door yawning. “I’m going to run along, I think,” he said. He opened the door, a smile on his face. “I sympathize with you two gentlemen, you know,” he said. “You’ve got a tough job. You’re supposed to put my father’s wartime activities in a rosy light. Well, maybe I can help you.” He paused and glanced at his father. “The old man, in a sentence, is a liar, a thief, and a murderer.”

“Brian!” Riordan snapped. “I want no more of that talk,” he said, but underneath the hard surface of his voice Jake sensed a note of defeat; and he had the feeling that this was not the first time that Riordan and his son had been through this thing.

Brian seemed undisturbed by his father’s reaction. He said to Noble, “He’s sensitive, too. You’ll have to handle him carefully.” With a mock salute at his

father, he walked out of the room.

Riordan jammed both hands in the side pocket of his coat and was staring at the rug with a bitter frown on his face. Denise came quickly to his side. She said gently, “Don’t you worry about him, Danny Boy. You know he’s been upset since the war.”

“Brian had a hard time in the war,” Riordan said, a defensive tone in his voice. “He — he’s not to be blamed for his attitude. He had a tough time, and now he’s having trouble settling down.”

“That’s childish,” Denise said. “He had it tough, but so did a million other guys.”

Riordan said slowly, “I don’t think it’s fair of us to criticize him for not behaving as we’d like him to. Now, let’s get back to our work.”

There was a knock on the door and Dean Niccolo, the agency’s top copy writer, walked in. He nodded to Noble, and said, “Sorry if I’m late, Gary.”

“Not at all,” Noble said, obviously relieved by the interruption. He introduced Niccolo to Riordan and his wife. “I asked Dean to come in tonight after you called, Mr. Riordan. He’ll be working on the copy we turn out for you, so I wanted him briefed from the start.”

Dean Niccolo nodded to the Riordans and smiled at Jake. “Funny thing,” he said, getting out cigarettes. “I met a young crackpot getting on the elevator.” Niccolo laughed, failing to notice Noble’s desperately signalling eyes. “He was carrying quite a load. He saluted me, said, ‘4-F, I presume,’ and staggered into the elevator.”

Riordan made an impatient gesture with his hand. “That young idiot, Mr. Niccolo, was my son. Don’t bother saying you’re sorry. He’s drunk tonight and acting like a damn fool. Now, we’ve had enough interruptions. Noble, I’d like some details on what you can do for me before I sign the contract.”

Niccolo sat down and winked quickly at Jake, as Noble began talking. He was a large young man, with broad shoulders and blunt strong hands. His hair was black and thick, worn in a trim crew cut. There was intelligence in his dark features, and stubborn strength in his solid jaw. Jake realized that he wasn’t at all affected by what most people would consider an embarrassing situation.

Noble was saying, “Naturally, we can’t give you a detailed program as yet, Mr. Riordan, but when we know the facts you can rest assured...”

“I can’t rest assured until I know what you’re going to do,” Riordan said, with a touch of temper. “Can’t you give me an idea in plain words? I like things put out clearly where I can examine them without using a dictionary.”

Noble flashed a distress signal at Jake and said, “Jake, perhaps you can give Mr. Riordan a fill-in on our plans.”

“Okay,” Jake said. He had been studying Riordan and he guessed the man could stand honesty. “Frankly, I don’t know what the hell we can do for you, because I don’t have any facts. After we talk with your man, Meed, tomorrow, we may know enough to make plans. There’s nothing mysterious about public relations. The techniques of the business are fundamental, but each account requires a specific application of those techniques. Part of your problem, of course, is Senator Hampstead. He’s remorseless, ruthless, full of joyless reform ideas, but the country is in back of him, after the job he’s done on five per centers, contract jockeys, and some of the other termites that did business during the war. His committee has standing and character. And the fact that he’s teeing off on you may look bad at first. That’s why I repeat, we need all the facts before we attempt to set up a program.”

Riordan nodded reluctantly, and said, “All right. But I’ll want a report by tomorrow night, after you’ve talked to Meed. And there’s one other thing. I asked you about May Laval, Noble. She’s writing a book, I’m told. There’s a chance she may drag me into it. Right now with this damn investigation pending, she can do a lot of harm.”

“Are you sure she’s using you in the book?” Jake said.

“No, I’m not. That’s what I’m expecting you to find out, for one thing.”

Jake nodded and thought a moment. Then he said, “I know her fairly well, Riordan. Ill talk to her and see what’s on her mind.”

“This May Laval intrigues me,” Denise said coolly. “She seems to have you men upset. What sort of a person is she?”

Riordan ran a hand through his black hair, then shook his head. “Hell, it’s not that easy. She can be wonderful. And she can be a bitch. I knew her during the war. She helped me a lot, entertaining army and navy brass, government inspectors, and so forth. You know how it was. Most of the men working for the government then were a lot of tomcatting incompetents who were having a big time away from their wives. They wanted fun, excitement and to be treated like big shots. May was great at that. And she was cheerful and fun to be with, until she’d get burned up about something and she’d let loose at anyone in sight.” Riordan shook his head and smiled slightly. Jake watched Denise and saw the tightness that came to her mouth.

“There was one time I remember especially,” Riordan said.

“You can save it for your next stag,” Denise said sweetly.

Riordan looked at her, then cleared his throat. “Well, it’s beside the point, anyway. You’ll see her then, Jake?”

“Sure. It’s probably nothing to worry about.”

Riordan studied Jake thoughtfully. Then he said, “Remember this, Harrison. I worry about everything. I don’t take chances on things turning out all right. I make damn sure they do. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I worry from ten till five, myself,” Jake said, easily. “But I see what you mean.”

“Okay, then let’s not assume that May is harmless. If she’s intending to take a crack at me, 111 make damn sure she changes her mind.”

Riordan nodded good night then and Noble escorted him and Denise to the elevator. Jake made himself a drink and grinned at Niccolo. “You can take your foot out of your mouth now,” he said.

“How the hell was I to know the damned idiot was Riordan’s son?” Niccolo said, good-naturedly.

Noble came back and glared at Niccolo. “You might have ruined everything,” he said.

“Oh, hell,” Jake said.

“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Noble said. “The old man took it pretty well. Let’s forget it and get down to work. Any ideas, Jake?”

“We don’t have anything to go on yet,” Jake said. “Ill get on it tomorrow. Now I’m going to try to find Sheila.”

“What do you think about May?” Noble asked, as Jake went to the door.

“Hard to say,” Jake shrugged. “I want to talk with her first. However, I’d make a guess and say she’s liable to work herself into a nasty corner if she goes ahead with her book.”

He waved goodbye to Niccolo and walked down to the elevators.