Very Cold for May

Chapter Four

The phone waked him the next morning. He put it against his ear without raising his head from the pillow. “Yes?”

“Jake?” It was Gary Noble’s voice, oddly strained. “Jake, May was killed last night... Can you hear me?”

“Oh, God,” Jake said. He swung his feet from under the covers and came up to a sitting position, fully awake. “What happened?”

“She was killed — in her home early this morning. Jake, what the devil will this mean to us?”

Jake glanced at his bedside clock. Seven thirty. He lit a cigarette. He was conscious of not thinking clearly, or rather, of not thinking at all.

“Jake?”

“I’m still here,” Jake said. “How did you find out?”

“It was on the seven o’clock broadcast. Jake, you’d better run out to her place and see what the police are thinking.”

“Okay,” Jake said.

“And Jake. Don’t mention anything about Riordan and May to the police.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jake said.

“I’m just reminding you.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you in the office later.”

From Jake’s club on Michigan Boulevard to May’s apartment was a ten minute cab ride. When he arrived he saw a small group of men and women on the sidewalk, and two police cars parked before her home. The whispering crowd regarded Jake with speculative curiosity as he went up the stone steps to where a uniformed policeman was on guard at the door.

“Hold it,” the patrolman said.

“Who’s here from Homicide?” Jake asked.

“Lieutenant Martin.”

“Would you tell him Jake Harrison would like to see him? I think it will be okay.”

The policeman shrugged but went inside. Returning a few seconds later he gave Jake a look of grudging respect. “Go on in,” he said.

Lieutenant Martin was standing alone in the foyer. He smiled at Jake and they shook hands.

“What brings you here?” Martin said.

“Nothing, but May was a friend of mine. What happened?”

Lieutenant Martin rested an elbow against the curved bannister and rubbed his chin.

“She was killed sometime this morning, around four, if you want a guess. That’s about all we know.”

Jake realized as he listened to Martin’s flat casual voice, that subconsciously he hadn’t believed Noble; he hadn’t believed that May was dead. Now he felt the shock of Martin’s cold and final words as if he were receiving the news for the first time.

He stood with Martin in the gray morning light remembering that he had stood in the same place with May the day before, after Denise and Brian Riordan had gone. She had been cheerful as they said goodbye.

“She was a good friend, eh?” Martin said.

“I liked her. I hadn’t seen much of her for the last couple of years, but I — she was an honest, likeable person.” He stopped unable to think of words that were not empty or inane.

“Well, it’s a weird case,” Martin said.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on upstairs. You’ll see what I mean.”

Jake had know Martin for fifteen years, dating back to when he had covered police for the Herald-Messenger, and Martin had been a detective working out of the third division in South Chicago. He knew Martin to be patient, painstaking, and thorough, with a passion for orderly police work. Most important, he had imagination. He was not afraid to guess and play his hunches.

Martin stopped at the head of the stairs to let three photographers by, and then turned and went into May’s bedroom.

Jake followed him slowly.

The figure on the bed had nothing to do with May, Jake told himself. May was gone. This sprawled and staring thing with the black sash imbedded deeply in the flesh of its throat was something else.

Rationalizing didn’t help and Jake could feel perspiration starting on his face. She had been wearing a billowing, black lace negligee and high-heeled black mules. One leg was doubled back beneath her body and one slipper had fallen off and was lying on its side on the floor. The black silken sash about her throat was obviously the belt she had worn with the negligee.

“See what I mean?” Martin said.

Jake saw he wasn’t looking at the bed. He was looking beyond the bed. Following his eyes Jake saw that the pink-toned mirror above May’s dressing table had been marked with two large X’s drawn with bright red lipstick. Cologne and perfume bottles had been swept from the dresser top to the floor, and clothes had been pulled from the closets and strewn over the floor and furniture. It looked as if a madman had attacked the place.

“What do you make of that?” Martin said.

Jake shook his head. “You have any ideas?”

“Only guesses. The X’s could mean that the murderer was referring to a double-cross.” He glanced at Jake and smiled faintly. “Too pat, I think. Someone might have been looking for something, of course, or it could be that the murderer felt killing her wasn’t enough. You know, a form of mutilation.”

Jake remembered then that May had kept her diary in this room. She had shown it to him the night before last, at her party.

He glanced over to the coffee table and saw that the lacquered box in which she’d kept it was closed. Crossing the room, he opened the box and saw, without much surprise, that it was empty.

The record of May’s wartime gossip, and the activities of quite a few prominent men, including Dan Riordan, had disappeared.

Martin came over, looking interested. “What’re you looking for?”

Jake knew that Martin would eventually learn of the book May had been planning, and of Dan Riordan and other prominent men who weren’t happy about the idea.

So he told Martin everything he knew.

Martin nodded slowly. “We’ll look for that diary now. You’re working for Riordan. Maybe you know where he was this morning about four o’clock.”

“Haven’t any idea. You’re fairly sure of the time?”

“Fairly sure,” Martin said, as they walked to the door. “The body was discovered by a Mrs. Swenson, a cleaning woman who got here at six. She told us that she went out to mail some stuff that was in the hall, and when she came back and went upstairs she found her mistress dead.”

“Did she lock the door when she went out?”

“No, but there’s no chance that someone slipped in and did the job while she was away. The coroner definitely put it before four thirty, and after three.”

Downstairs Jake shook hands with Martin and was turning to leave when he saw two men coming up the steps.

The policeman on guard stopped them, and said, “Nobody goes in now.”

The man in the lead said, “Tell the officer in charge I’d like to see him.”

Martin walked to the doorway. “What can I do for you?” he said.

“Are you in charge?”

“Yes. Martin’s the name. Lieutenant Martin.”

The man said, “My name is Prior, Gregory Prior, chief of the legal staff of the Hampstead Committee. This is my assistant, Gil Coombs. I had an appointment with Miss Laval for ten o’clock this morning. Mr. Coombs heard on the radio that she had been murdered, so we came right out.”

“I see,” Martin said agreeably. “What kind of business did you have with her?”

Jake studied Prior with interest. This was the government agent making the initial investigation into Riordan’s books and contracts. He looked young for the job, about thirty-four or thirty-five, with thick brown hair, and a firm, intelligent face.

Prior said, “I can only tell you this much: Miss Laval called my assistant, Mr. Coombs, last night about twelve and told him that she wanted to get in touch with me. I called her back later. She said she had some information I might be interested in, and we made an appointment for ten this morning.”

“The information was in her diary, I think,” Martin said. “Is that right?”

Prior didn’t look surprised by Martin’s information. He said, “That’s what she told me on the phone.”

“The diary seems to be gone,” Martin said. “Anyway, it’s not in its usual place. I’m going to look around for it now, and you can join me if you like.”

“Thank you,” Prior said.

Two policemen came in with a stretcher and started up the stairs. Martin said, “I’ll be with you in a moment,” and went up after them.

Prior lit a cigarette and then glanced curiously at Jake. Jake said, “We’ll meet eventually, Mr. Prior, so why not now? My name is Jake Harrison.”

“Yes?” Prior said.

“I’m handling Dan Riordan’s public relations,” Jake said, and extended his hand.

“Oh,” Prior said. He didn’t offer to shake hands.

Jake put his hand into his breast pocket and brought out cigarettes. “I’m surprised that May had decided to turn over her dope on Riordan to you,” he said. “You know, she said she was going to use it in a book.”

“Well, she didn’t say anything about turning over the information,” Coombs said. He was a thin, middle-aged man with alert features. “She merely asked me to tell Prior she wanted to talk to him.”

“She didn’t say the information concerned Riordan,” Prior said.

Coombs said, “But we were hoping this might give us a lead to—”

Prior cleared his throat. “Hardly the place for that, Gil.”

Coombs colored and nodded. “Sorry,” he said.

“I hope you won’t think of me as the guy on the other team,” Jake said. He lit the cigarette he held in his hand and wondered to what extent he could soften up Prior. The man seemed sincere and earnest, and there was a chance he might be reasonable.

“Actually our jobs are pretty similar,” he went on. “You want to get the facts, and my job is to pass those facts along to the public, and to see that they don’t become distorted on the way. I’ll be glad to help you any way I can in regard to Riordan’s background, activities, and so forth. Frankly, I want your confidence and cooperation, because my job is not to defend Riordan, but to keep him from being libeled by the implications of this investigation.”

“We aren’t sensation mongers, Mr. Harrison,” Prior said. “We aren’t interested in anything but cold facts.”

“That makes me feel better,” Jake said, and did his best to appear ingenuously relieved. “And, off the record, I think you’ll find that Riordan did just about what any other business man would have done, and what hundreds of them did, as a matter of fact. After all, we were at war and the pressure was on everyone to get stuff out of the factories and overseas. Cutting corners was a national pastime.”

“Perhaps,” Prior said, noncommittally; and seemed to withdraw into his shell, so Jake stopped pressing. He shook hands with both men and left.

He got to the office twenty minutes later, at about eight forty-five, and went in to see Noble. He related briefly what had happened; and added that he’d told Martin that Riordan was probably featured in May’s diary.

Noble ran a hand through his disarranged hair and peered reproachfully at Jake. “Why the devil did you do that?”

“He’d have found it out anyway.”

“I suppose.” Noble went to the bar for a drink.

Jake lit a cigarette. “Big night?” he asked.

Noble nodded. He came back to his desk and Jake noted that he hadn’t shaved, and his collar was wrinkled and soiled.

Jake said, “How do you know that Riordan had nothing to do with May’s death?”

“I’m just hoping he didn’t. The account wouldn’t be worth a dime if Riordan went to the chair.”

“That’s a very objective way to look at it,” Jake said. “You haven’t heard from him by any chance?”

“Not a word. I talked to his wife, and she didn’t know where he was.”

Jake shrugged and walked to the door with Noble at his heels. “One thing, Jake,” Noble said. “I–I’m going to need your help. I didn’t go home last night. I–I’d appreciate it a lot if you’d back me up on a story that I spent the night with you.”

“That’s a great idea,” Jake said. He saw that Noble was actually shaky, that his normally bronzed complexion had an undercast of green. “Where were you last night?”

“I told my wife I was tied up in a business meeting,” Noble said, lowering his voice. “Actually I dropped in to see a friend of mine at the Regis Hotel. She’s a grand girl, Jake, a grand girl, and if you knew her you’d know what I mean.”

“Thank God I don’t. What’s her name?”

“Bebe Passione. That’s a stage name, of course.”

“Really? Gary, you’re beyond me, at times. There’s a murder investigation under way and you, along with quite a few other people, may have to explain where you were at four o’clock this morning. Do you understand that?”

“I know, I know,” Noble said hastily. “That’s just it. If I tell the police I was with Bebe, then my wife will go melodramatically berserk. Don’t you get it?”

“Sure, but I’m afraid I’ll get it right in the neck.” Jake patted Gary on the shoulder. “The answer, in a word, is ‘No.’ I’d like to help, but this isn’t some collegiate prank, this is murder.”

“Well, all right,” Noble sighed. “Maybe the police won’t be interested in where I was this morning. Maybe it will all blow over.”

“Very likely,” Jake said.

Jake walked down to his office and sat down at his desk; but after fiddling idly with a letter opener, he propped his feet on the desk and tried to think.

From his position he could look through the open door into the adjoining office, which was occupied by a girl named Toni Ryerson who had come to Noble’s fresh from a night school course in public relations. Now he could see that she had her feet on her desk, too, giving him a nice view of her silken ankles. He got up and went into her office. Toni was reading a page of copy and holding a carton of coffee in her free hand. She was a thin, intense girl, with straight black hair, and an expression of brooding concentration.

“Hello, Jake,” she said. “Did you hear the news?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it the damnedest thing you ever heard of? I’ve worked ten weeks on the Grant account, and this morning Noble sends me a memo that I’m being taken off it and put in the fashion department.”

“Oh, that news,” Jake said. “No, I hadn’t heard about it. A memo, eh? That’s pretty rough. You’d think he’d have called you in and given you a last cigarette and a blindfold before the coup de grâce. Did he say why?”

“I guess he just had a brainstorm.”

“Well, you’ve got to expect things like that. This is the fabulous business world, you know. There’s no point in calling Gary a fathead. That’s obvious, because if he had any brains he’d get out and start an agency of his own instead of working for us.”

Toni smiled. “I guess everything does happen for the best.”

Jake wondered without any real curiosity what Toni would do without her stock of protective aphorisms. She was one of that happy breed who pad their egos with a thick coating of clichés, apothegms, quotations and saws to serve as a buffer between themselves and reality. There was no failure, no humiliation, no circumstance, that Toni could not hopefully reassess in the light of what someone had said, more or less truthfully, in the distant past.

Dean Niccolo came in through the other door wearing tweeds and a pipe, and Jake noticed that Toni brightened up immediately.

Niccolo said to Jake, “Too bad about May. I just saw the news.”

“What’s all this?” Toni said.

“May Laval, a friend of ours, was killed this morning,” Jake said.

“Good gosh,” Toni said. “You know, when I saw the kind of weather we had this morning, I said, ‘What a day for a murder.’ Isn’t that odd?”

“Not really,” Jake said, and Toni looked at him blankly.

Niccolo sat down in the chair beside Toni’s desk and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. His features were moody as he stared at the tips of his heavy brogues. “I didn’t know her very well, just bumped into her a few times around town. But she was a good egg. The police have any ideas yet?”

Jake said no, and then excused himself and returned to his own office. He guessed from the happy glow on Toni’s face that she’d appreciate an interlude alone with Niccolo, so he closed the connecting door between their offices.

Jake’s phone buzzed. Picking it up he learned that Mr. Avery Meed, from Mr. Riordan’s office, was waiting to see him. Jake told the receptionist to send him right in. When he put the phone down he saw that Sheila was standing in the doorway. She smiled and came to his side and put the back of her hand against his cheek.

“I heard about May,” she said. “I’m sorry, Jake.”

He squeezed her hand. “Thanks. I feel pretty low about it.”

She picked up his desk lighter and held a flame to the cigarette he put in his mouth. “Would you like to go out and get drunk?”

“No, I’ve got work to do. But it’s the best offer I’ve had all morning.”

“Jake, I’m sorry for the things I said about her the other night.”

“I know. You were mad at me, not her.”

There was a dry cough from the doorway. Jake glanced up and saw a neatly dressed man standing there, a brief case under his arm, and a politely expressionless look on his face.

“I am Avery Meed,” he said.

“Oh, come in,” Jake said. He introduced Avery Meed to Sheila, who excused herself and left.

Meed sat down in the leather arm chair beside Jake’s desk, his feet planted squarely together on the floor, the brief case resting on his lap. He was past fifty, Jake judged, but his small body was firm and his eyes were alert. He wore a suit of banker’s gray that bore the expensively dowdy stamp of Brooks Brothers, and a high starched collar with a black knit tie. There was an air of attentiveness about him, as if he were waiting for a command.

Jake said, “Mr. Riordan told us you could give us a picture of what we’re going to be up against in this investigation. I’m an ignoramus about figures, so don’t expect too much from me.”

Meed smiled mechanically. “I will try to clarify any points you find confusing.” Zippering open his brief case he placed two manila folders before Jake. “These statements cover the operations of the Riordan Mills and the Riordan Casting Company through 1943–1945.”

Jake leafed through the two folders and saw that each contained summations of the various transactions, liabilities, assets, and balances of the two companies. The statement of net profit in each case was impressive.

“You did okay during the war,” he said.

“Yes,” Meed said.

Jake closed the folders. “Frankly, these things don’t help much. Riordan told us the other night he had arbitrarily ignored certain government specifications in casting gun barrels. Is that all he did?”

“Basically, that is what happened.”

“Then the government is likely to call him a crook, I imagine.”

Meed smiled. “The government has to prove that. You know what happened because Mr. Riordan was frank with you; but we don’t need to be so frank with the government.”

“How about the companies’ books? Won’t they tell the story?”

Meed’s smile was pleased. “Books, Mr. Harrison, can tell many stories. You see, a set of books, kept with diligence and imagination, is in some respects like a dense, unmapped forest — quite impassable unless one knows where to look for trail markings.”

“I see. Now check me if I’m wrong. Riordan deliberately used a cheaper grade of steel than specified in his contract, but the government men aren’t likely to find that out from your official records. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Then how did the Hampstead Committee get on Riordan’s trail in the first place?”

Meed shrugged his neat shoulders.

“There were several cases of premature detonation in barrels cast by our firm. I believe some personnel were killed in at least two of the accidents. Reports made out by company commanders and ordnance inspectors took a long time to reach a level where they could be examined with any effect, but inevitably that happened, and the Riordan Casting Company was discovered to be the maker of the defective barrels. Hence this investigation.”

Jake leaned back in his chair and fiddled with a pencil. Then he glanced at Meed. “What’s your personal idea about this? I mean, do you think Riordan was justified in using cheap steel considering that men were killed as a result of that action?”

Meed appeared surprised. “I have no opinions on the subject,” he said. “Perhaps,” he added, smiling, “I’m an unemotional man. The unnecessary death of American soldiers was an unhappy development, of course, but I see little point in applying moral terminology to the situation. The facts exist in a different light for everyone. Take the soldiers, for example— the fact of their death means one thing to their families; to me, it means a complication in the running of an industrial concern. I would be called heartless for that attitude, but that wouldn’t change my feelings, you see.”

“I see,” Jake said drily. “No one could accuse you of letting your heart guide your head. But tell me this: Do you know a woman named May Laval?”

Meed paused. Then he said, “No, I never had that pleasure. I understand from this morning’s papers that I never will.”

“Maybe you know she had a diary supposed to contain information about Riordan.”

“Yes, I knew that.”

“Well, the diary has disappeared. Supposing it turns up. What then?”

“I see what you mean. Yes, the information in the diary might provide a clue to this investigating committee. That is a chance we must take, since there’s nothing else we can do about it.”

Jake realized that he had learned little from Meed. But it was encouraging to know that the facts of Riordan’s manipulations were safely buried in labyrinthine records. The harder the body was to find the longer they could insist that there wasn’t one in the first place.

As Meed was replacing the folders in his brief case, Jake said, “By the way, do you know where Riordan was this morning — early, I mean? About four, say.”

Meed looked directly at Jake and smiled. “Oh, yes. Mr. Riordan was called to Gary, Indiana, last night. He stayed over until this morning with his plant manager.”

Noble could relax now, Jake thought.

Niccolo walked in as Meed was preparing to leave. Jake introduced them, and Meed smiled impersonally, then excused himself and left.

“Who was that?” Niccolo said.

“One of Riordan’s smooth little cogs,” Jake said. “Avery Meed. Very sharp.”

“That’s good,” Niccolo said. “We need brains on our side. I’ll see you around.”

When he left, Jake strolled to the windows and stared down at the magnificent panorama of the city, unreal and mysterious in the smoky fall weather. From the height of his office he could see the clean sweep of the Outer Drive and its six lanes of hurtling traffic, and the iron-gray background of the lake spreading and merging indistinguishably into the somber horizon. He watched the microscopic movement of people hurrying along the sidewalks, massing momentarily at stop lights like ants meeting an unexpected obstacle, and then spilling onward again when the signals changed.

Jake sighed and went back to his desk. He worked for a few hours, accomplishing little. He was glad when his phone rang. It was Noble.

“Jake, get down to my office right away. Damn it, all hell has broken loose.”

The crisis tone was in his voice.

Jake said okay.