Very Cold for May

Chapter Seven

Avery Meed had lived in a quiet residential hotel on the South Side, about twenty minutes’ drive from the Loop. Riordan explained to Jake on the way out that Meed had maintained the apartment in Chicago, and a place in Washington which he had used when business took him to the capital. Meed had never married and, so far as Riordan knew, had no outside interests.

The hotel lobby was quiet and chaste, with somber green carpeting and straight-backed chairs placed in regular formation against the gray walls. An elderly clerk stood at the reception desk, and behind him were racks of pigeonholes for mail. The only incongruous note in the atmosphere of determined dullness was the presence of the uniformed policeman at the elevators.

Jake told him who they were and he waved them into a car. Lieutenant Martin met them at the door of Meed’s apartment, looking, Jake noticed, tired and stubborn and angry.

“You’re Riordan, I suppose,” he said. “Come on in.” To Jake he said, “What brings you here?”

“I was at Mr. Riordan’s when you called, so I came along. Am I in the way?”

“No, stick around. You got any idea who might have killed Meed, Riordan?”

Riordan hesitated, as if giving the matter careful thought. Then he shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”

“Come on into the bedroom,” Martin said.

They followed him into the bedroom where two lab men were checking for fingerprints. The one off-key note in the spare, ascetic room was the body that lay on the bed, staring sightlessly at the calcimined ceiling.

Meed had been strangled to death with one of his own soberly correct neckties. He had died painfully and messily.

After what seemed a very long time Martin said, “We can talk in the living room,” and led the way back. He closed the bedroom door and nodded to Riordan. “You have anything to suggest?” he asked.

Riordan hesitated, and then said, “Yes,” in a quiet, firm voice.

“Let’s have it,” Martin said.

Riordan sat down in an overstuffed chair by the window, deliberately unwrapped a cigar and lighted it; when it was drawing well he said, “This morning, at my orders, Avery Meed went to May Laval’s home to get her diary. That’s news to you, I’m sure, Lieutenant.”

Martin’s normally pleasant face took on a hard, unfriendly expression. “Yeah, that’s news,” he said. “Supposing you go right on surprising me, Riordan.”

Riordan appeared unimpressed by Martin’s tone and manner.

“First, let me give you some background,” he said. “I knew May Laval during the war. Knew her quite well, as a matter of fact. May’s home was a gathering place for important people then and I spent a good deal of time there. May, it has developed recently, kept a diary during those years, which she intended to publish in the form of an expose.”

“There’s material about you in the diary that wouldn’t look good in print, I suppose,” Martin said.

“That’s right,” Riordan said calmly. “And Lieutenant, remember this: No one can make the money I have without also cutting corners and making enemies. I’m having trouble right now with a Congressional investigation, and this book of May’s could have been very embarrassing. So last night I told Avery Meed to go to her home and get the diary.”

“What time was this?”

“That I told him? About twelve thirty last night I called him. I told him to meet any price she wanted, but to be damn sure he got all references from her diary that related to me.”

“That was twelve thirty, eh?” Martin said. “Where did you spend the night, Riordan?”

“In Gary. I had some production bugs to iron out with my plant manager there, so I went out and spent the night with him.”

“What’s your manager’s name?”

“Devlin. Robert Devlin. You want to check with him that I’m not lying?”

“Go on with your story,” Martin said.

Riordan smiled slightly. “Okay. This morning at seven o’clock Meed called me in Gary. He said he had the diary. He also had something important to discuss with me, but he wouldn’t talk on the phone. He had an appointment with Mr. Harrison here at nine, so I told him to keep that, and then meet me at my hotel at eleven.”

“He didn’t show up, of course,” Martin said.

“No.”

Martin glanced at Jake. “Then you saw Meed this morning?”

“Yes, at nine thirty. We talked until ten. That’s about all I can give you.”

“Did he seem upset?”

“He wasn’t that sort.”

Martin said, “Riordan, do you think Meed murdered May Laval to get the diary?”

Riordan knocked ash from his cigar and shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “I told him to get the diary. Meed was the kind of person who did what he was told. Maybe May wouldn’t go for the cash settlement. Meed’s reaction to that obstacle would have been interesting. Picture him, the perfect automaton, moving ahead under orders from on high. Suddenly, the way is blocked.” Riordan paused and glanced at Jake expressively. “You met Meed, Harrison. What do you think he would have done?”

“No comment,” Jake said drily.

“You think he would have killed her to get the diary?” Martin said, slowly.

“I honestly don’t know,” Riordan said.

There was a silence in the room for a few seconds, while Martin rubbed his jaw and stared moodily out the windows. Finally he shrugged, and said, “Here’s what we know for sure. Meed came in here this morning at about six o’clock. Later, around a quarter of nine, he left, presumably to keep his appointment with you, Jake. He got back here at approximately ten fifteen. He received a call from someone at ten thirty-five, which he answered. Later in the day he got two more calls, which he didn’t answer. Around two thirty the cleaning woman entered his room and found him lying on the bed just as he is now. She called the desk. They called us.”

“I called him here twice this afternoon,” Riordan said.

“He was dead then. The coroner put the time of death between ten thirty and eleven thirty.” Martin lit a cigarette carefully and studied Riordan. “Now we get to the big question: Where’s the diary now?”

“You didn’t find it here?” Riordan asked thoughtfully.

“We’ve been through this place pretty thoroughly. We didn’t find anything that looked like May’s diary. You got any ideas where it might be?”

“No, I haven’t,” Riordan said, in the same thoughtful voice. He drew slowly on his cigar, then crushed it out in the ash tray with a slow, deliberate gesture. The cigar broke under the pressure. Riordan continued to press downward until the last spark died, the last wisp of smoke disappeared. Then he said, quietly, “Meed got the diary. Somebody killed him and took the diary. That’s the person I want to find.”

“We have an interest in that, too,” Martin said.

Riordan stood and picked up his hat. “You may get him before I do,” he said. “I don’t know. But remember this: I was ready to pay nearly anything for that diary. I’m not going to be stopped now. Frankly, I don’t give much of a damn that Meed was murdered. To me, he was a well-oiled, smoothly-functioning cog that never gave any trouble. He’s no use to me now. But I want the diary.”

“Sure you do,” Martin said, with a humorless smile. “The dirt on you is now in somebody else’s hands, isn’t it?”

“That was my first thought when you called me,” Riordan said. “Now, if you don’t need me any more, I’ll run along.”

“Sure,” Martin said.

Jake said goodbye and left with Riordan. Downstairs Riordan shook hands with him, and then caught a cab to his hotel. Jake hailed the next one and rode back downtown to the office. There were a number of stray thoughts in his mind, but he couldn’t work up enough enthusiasm to fit them into a pattern. He felt tired for no reason at all, and vaguely depressed.

Sheila was typing with a concentrated frown on her face when he walked into her office. She stopped and pulled the paper from her typewriter.

“Ready for our bacchanalian binge?” he said.

“It’s only four thirty, Jake.”

“So?”

“Okay. But what about Meed?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Jake watched her as she touched up her lipstick, and smoothed her dark hair quickly and unnecessarily. She went to the wall mirror and he noticed the unconscious grace of her movements as she adjusted her small green hat. He sighed and looked out the window.

Fog had been rolling in from the lake, and the streets below were hidden in layers of swirling grayness; the towers of the Loop rested on this fog-cloud like the minarets of a ghost city.

Sheila came to his side and put her hand on his arm. “Depressing, isn’t it? Looks like one strong wind could blow it all away.”

“Yes, it does,” Jake said. “And in about five more seconds I’m likely to say something esoteric and mystical. So let’s get the hell out of here.”

They had cocktails and dinner at the Palmer House, and finally wound up at Dave’s on Michigan Boulevard. Jake lit a cigarette and tried to relax. Dave’s was good for that; the decor was stubbornly and restfully old-fashioned. There was a small circular bar, happily free from fancy bottle displays, neon lighting, drink-a-birds, and chromium popcorn bowls; there were also spacious wooden booths in the back, where conversation could flourish without the hamstringing influence of jukeboxes or television.

Dave’s was within three minutes’ walk from the offices of Mutual and Columbia, and was a haven for weary writers and radio directors who liked to drink in an atmosphere that didn’t remind them of the lacquered hysteria of their jobs. Now, Jake saw there were two stand-by announcers from CBS at the bar, having a quick one between station breaks, and two tired copy-writers sat at the opposite rim of the bar, discussing without any genuine interest the relative merits of advertising and tuck-pointing as professions.

Sheila sipped her brandy. “Well, let’s get drunk.”

“Oh, great,” Jake said.

Sheila put her feet up on the opposite seat and crossed her ankles comfortably. “What’s wrong with you? No epigrams, no impish revelry. You make me a little sad.”

Jake sipped his drink. “That’s quite an indictment. What do you suggest?”

“I’d suggest you call Gary Noble right now and tell him you’re turning in your typewriter and hand-painted tie for good. Then find yourself an honest job. Maybe you’d make a good sharecropper. But naturally you won’t do that.”

“Naturally,” Jake said. “But why do you think it would help?

“I think you’re getting fed up with yourself, Jake. I think you’re getting an oh-so-tiny pang of conscience about the Riordan account.”

“Oh, stop it,” Jake said irritably. “Why should I have pangs of conscience about the Riordan account? It’s just a job.”

“Supposing he’s proved to be a war profiteer? Would that make any difference in your thinking?”

“I would suggest to Gary that we double our fee, that’s all. Sheila, honey, I’m not sincere or idealistic. Now let’s talk about something cheerful.”

“Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t want to talk about May, but she’s on my mind. This afternoon I learned that Riordan sent his prim little hatchet man, Avery Meed, to get the diary from her. Meed apparently succeeded. But then somebody killed him. The diary is again missing.”

“What are the details?”

Jake told her what he knew. When he finished Sheila made a little circle with the bottom of her glass on the table. For a moment she was silent. Then she said, “What does Martin think?”

“He seems to be in the dark. But I wouldn’t like to be the boy he’s after.”

“You look harried enough to fit the role. Jake, this may be a far-fetched idea, but could Riordan have killed Meed?”

Jake looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Supposing Meed murdered May and got the diary. And supposing Meed suddenly decided then that he could blackmail Riordan very profitably. That’s a possibility, at least. Riordan might have had to kill him to get the diary. He has no alibi for the time Meed was killed, remember.”

“That’s right,“ Jake said. Then he shrugged. „But I can’t let you hang a murder rap on my client. If Riordan’s a murderer I don’t want it to get bruited about.“

“Naturally,“ Sheila said drily. She sipped her drink, and said, „Mind if I ask you a personal question, Jake?”

“Why, no. Go ahead.”

“Maybe I should know the answer, having shared your bed and board for two years. But just what do you believe in?”

Jake waved to Dave for another round. “We’re going to be here a long time,” he said. “I don’t know why it is, dear, but that question always makes people excited and garrulous. They will worry it around all night until someone gets glassy-eyed and belligerent because he can’t convince everyone else that the only thing to believe in is sex rampant or the dictatorship of the proletariat.”

“Oh, stop being so utterly, utterly clever,” Sheila said. “I asked you a serious question. Do you want to answer it or not?”

“Okay, I’ll try,” Jake said resignedly. “Dear, a man can believe in anything at all if he tries hard enough and gets some satisfaction out of it. The world is full of apothegms, slogans, religious proverbs and old saws, that are more or less true, and which can be adapted to any temperament and situation. There are a thousand to choose from, and they’re all shining and beautiful. Honesty is the best policy! Hamilton is a fine watch! Every cloud must have a silver lining! It’s the rich what gets the pleasure! Take your pick. They’re all wonderful, I believe in them all, though I’ve lately been toying with the heretical notion that possibly there may be other watches almost as fine as Hamilton.”

“Let’s forget I asked,” Sheila said. “That mood of brittle elfishness you affect is quite a bore. I gather though that Riordan’s innocence or guilt doesn’t make any difference to you?”

“Well, why should it? I’m not his confessor.”

“How long are you going to kid yourself? Eventually, Jake, you’re going to wind up with Noble’s attitude, that a dollar is its own reward, and that decency is a droll superstition for peasants.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Jake said. He felt uncomfortable. He didn’t enjoy self-examination. “Supposing Riordan’s guilty? I don’t see that it’s my concern. As a press agent I’m retained to make him look good. Hell, we’ll create a bumper demand for lousy barrels, and Riordan can corner the market in the next war.”

Sheila looked at him for a moment in silence; then she picked up her purse and gloves and slid from the booth.

“I’m going to run along.”

“Oh, don’t go off in a pout,” Jake said. “I know you’re disgusted. I am, too. My mother must have been scared by a corny gag before I was born. Don’t leave me tonight, Sheila.”

“Sorry, Jake. You’re just not very funny.”

He watched her walk through the bar, and let herself out the door. Sighing, he picked up his drink...

Two hours later Dave came back and sat down in the opposite seat, his homely face sympathetic. “What’s the matter?”

Jake finished his drink. “I’m not funny, Dave,” he said.

“Ah, who says that?”

“Sheila. She told me in a simple declarative sentence that I am not funny.”

“Ah, women,” Dave said. “They got no sense of humor. They laugh because they seen men doing it. But take it easy on the booze, Jake. You can’t drink it all yourself.”

“Don’t worry. I’m running along.”

Dave came with him to the door, and helped him into his topcoat.

“She was right, of course,” Jake said.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m very unfunny,” Jake said, and went out the door.

He lay awake that night for what seemed a long time. The liquor wore away slowly, leaving him tired and depressed. Why did he always behave like such a sophomoric idiot with Sheila? Why did he delight in trying to shock her, like some nasty little boy scribbling four-letter words where the nice little girl across the street would be sure to see them? Lighting another cigarette, he tried to get his mind on something else. The only alternative was the murders of May and Avery Meed, and thinking of them led him to a frustrating dead end. There was nothing in either death that could be checked on, investigated or speculated about. May had been murdered. Avery Meed had been murdered. And so far there was nothing but these brute facts to consider.

But as he put out the cigarette a few minutes later, he remembered something. Noble had told him he’d spent the night with Bebe Passione at the Regis; he had wanted Jake to cover up for the sake of his wife.

Thinking about Noble’s story, Jake began to wonder whether it wasn’t too pat and plausible. Anyone knowing Noble would immediately believe it, of course. Noble was bom to be involved with a chorus girl on the night of a murder for which he would need an alibi. But if Noble was lying, he had been at least smart enough to type-cast himself in a preposterous, and hence believable, situation.

Jake grinned and picked up his phone. He asked the club operator to get him the Regis Hotel.

He talked to the hotel clerk very briefly. And when he put the phone slowly back into its cradle he was no longer smiling.

Bebe Passione had left for Miami ten days ago.