Corpses in the Cellar (3 page)

“That’s for certain. Okay. Who else, eh? Let me see…” He took another swallow of his drink. “No, that’s it.”

“You’re sure? No one else you know who might have done this—even for vindictive reasons?”

“Vindictive…” Grand considered. “Well, all right, you want vindictive, I’ll give you possible vindictives, but I wouldn’t
worry too much about them, if I were you. I fired a couple of people last week.”

“Who? Why?”

Grand laughed, “I’ll bet you’re good at what you do, Mr. Lockwood. You certainly know how to strip things down to their essentials.
Okay, who? A waiter, Len Claypool. Why?. For cheating on the tabs. Who else? Tawny Tourette, the head chorus girl. Why? For
moral reasons.”

“Moral reasons?”

“Beyond that I don’t want to go.”

“Do you know where I can reach them?”

“Sure. They’re in my book. I’ll copy down their addresses. Don’t either of them have a phone, I don’t think.”

“You mentioned your ex-wives as possibilities,” Lockwood said, as Grand took out his fountain pen.

“Just a joke.”

“What about your present wife?”

Grand’s pen stopped in mid-motion. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Just a question.”

“A stupid question.” Grand was getting edgy. “Look, I’ve got things to do…”

“Your wife said you’re normally at the club at three-thirty in the morning, going over the books,” Lockwood continued, voice
level, eyes coolly on Grand, watching him.

Grand glared, and reddened. “So what?” he asked aggressively.

“So where were you at three-thirty yesterday morning?”

“I don’t have to answer all this.”

“My company doesn’t have to pay you, either. Not a single penny of that $100,000 policy,” the detective said. “I’ve already
told you that.”

Grand slumped back onto the couch. “Okay. For no reason at all, I decided to leave early, all right? Life’s full of odd little
coincidences like that.”

Lockwood continued to study Grand. It was hard to tell whether or not he was lying. “What time did you leave?”

“About three. Maybe a little before.”

“Mmm. And what time did you get home?”

Grand looked at him. In the distance, Lockwood could hear the fans whirring. “Three-thirty, maybe a quarter to four.”

“That was a long cab ride.”

“It was-a beautiful evening. I walked.”

“Stop anywhere?”

“No. I’m an old man. I don’t walk fast.”

“No one saw you along the way?”

“I doubt it.”

“How about the doorman?”

“The doorman doesn’t stay on that late. No need.”

Lockwood nodded. “All right, Mr. Grand. I want to thank you for everything.”

“Now do I get the dough?” Grand asked, mostly sarcastic, but with a little bit of hope propped up behind the words.

“Not quite yet,” Lockwood told him. “I’m afraid I’ve just begun.” He finished his drink and rose. “Thanks for the addresses.”

Claypool wasn’t home, so Lockwood drove on to the next suspect’s home. Tawny Tourette lived in one of those new apartment
houses that lined Riverside Drive, and The Hook’s black and silver Cord, he thought as he drew up to the building, fit right
in with the neighborhood environment. One of the tonier areas of the city, Lockwood mused. Tourette couldn’t have been too
happy about suddenly losing the rent money.

The elevator took him to the top floor. Tourette was in 12C, and her apartment door was already open, undoubtedly the result
of his buzzing her apartment to gain entrance through the lobby.

As he stepped out of the elevator, the door opened wider. He saw a tall, red-haired woman whose hardened eyes were filled
with world-weary suspicion. She probably wasn’t even twenty-five, but show business could do that to you.

“Miss Tourette?” he asked.

“Do I know you?” she countered, using the old New York ploy of answering a question with another question.

“My name’s Lockwood. My company had the insurance on the Palms nightclub.”

She made a face. “I don’t work there anymore.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

She stared hard at him, mouth set. This one had a temper, Lockwood decided. Not the kind you want to cross.

Another moment and she apparently made up her mind about him because she shrugged and drew the door all the way open. “Come
in,” she said.

Lockwood looked around as he entered. It was an apartment built with great taste, but furnished at a somewhat lower level
of aesthetic judgment. The couch was covered in a leopard print, the walls blanketed with huge black and white semi-nude blow-ups
of the apartment’s owner, interspersed with cheap, sentimental prints. The rug was something you sank into—like quicksand.

He was only halfway in when she wheeled toward him.

“Okay. I did it,” she said.

“What?”

“I did it. Isn’t that what you’re after? I’m just trying to simplify your job for you.”

“You burned down the Palms.”

“Sure, killed everyone. Thought Mack was in the place. He was the one I was trying to kill. It’s driving me nuts that I slipped
up on the old bastard.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it’s what you want to hear. I’m a woman. I’ve been around. I know the only way a woman can get anywhere in this world
is to give men what they want to hear. Whether it’s true or not.”

“You’re telling me what you just said isn’t true.”

“Of course it isn’t! But if it’ll make you happy, I’ll say it all over again. Tawny Tourctte. Always accommodating.”

This looked as if it might take some time. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked her.

“Hell, no.”

He picked a chair upholstered in floating cupids, and pulled out the Camels. “Smoke?” he asked.

“That crap? You’re talking to a dame with class!” she said, picked up an ivory cigarette holder, snapped open a brass case,
and grabbed a Herbert Tareyton. “I sing too, you know,” she explained. “Got to protect my throat.”

She eyed the black and silver Dunhill lighter appreciatively as he lit her cigarette. “Nice,” she offered. “Looks as if you
may have a little class yourself.”

“I’ve got enough class to recognize class when I see it,” he said, smiling, running his eyes up and down her.

“Thanks,” she said. “Quite a build, huh? I even excite myself sometimes. Stick me in front of a mirror, and I start breathing
hard.”

“You don’t take things too seriously, do you, Miss Tourette?”

“Tawny. Don’t take them seriously? Christ, I take them
too
seriously. That’s why I’ve got to joke about them.”

Lockwood considered her. “Why did you tell me you did it? What makes you think
anyone
did it?”

“Why else would you be here?”

“You’re a sharp one, Tawny.”

“Have to be in my business. How can I help you?”

“Mack Grand fired you last week.”

“The bastard.”

“Why?”

“None of your beeswax.”

“Mack said it was for moral reasons.”

“Moral reasons!” Her eyes flashed fire. “That cheap little…”

“You disagree?”

“Yeah, I disagree!”

“Care to say why?”

She stared at him. “Jesus, you’re a cheeky bastard!”

“They pay me to be.”

Her eyes went wild, and then suddenly she laughed. “You’re okay, Lockwood. I like a fella with balls.”

“It’s not an unusual condition, Tawny.”

She went helpless at this, eyes squinching up, tears coming out of the corners, laughing soundlessly, stomach drawn all the
way in. “Oh, gee!” she said, finally. “That’s telling me! I swear, Lockwood, they oughta bottle you. You’re a tonic.”

“Good. Why did he fire you?”

She went stockstill for a moment, regarding him with amusement. “I’ll bet you get everything you go after.”

“Sometimes. More often than not.”

“A few minutes more, and I may want you to go after me.”

“I’d still like to know why he fired you.”

She looked at him and sighed. “Nothing like you might have been hoping. Nothing immoral, as far as I’m concerned. He just
didn’t approve of the guy I’m seeing.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“If you have any respect for the truth, I do.” She was heating up again.

“All right, who’s your boyfriend?”

“I’ve told you all I’m gonna tell you about that.”

He could see she wasn’t kidding. Stubborn, too. No use prodding her. “All right,” he said, “tell me about Mack.”

“A first class bastard.”

“First class?”

“No. The lowest. That bastard conned me for three years, telling me he was gonna make me a star. Said he had Hollywood connections.
I’ll say he had! The cashier at the Roxy.
That’s
his Hollywood connection!”

“He made you the head chorus girl.”

“Head chorus girl. Real hot stuff! Head chorus girl means nothing. Five bucks a week extra, that’s all it means! Head chorus
girl isn’t an
MGM
contract!”

“So he strung you, and you went along with it.”

“I never said I was smart.”

“And then he fired you.”

“That makes me sound even dumber than I’d like to admit.”

“You must be pretty angry with Grand.”

“Angry? I’d like to burn his eyes out with a red-hot poker. That’s how angry.”

“Where were you at three-thirty
A.M.
?”

She stared at him. “That’s when the fire started, huh?”

“They think so.”

“I was—out.”

“Out?”

“Yeah, out. Just out.”

“Why not just say you were here? I imagine it’d be impossible to disprove.”

“Because, Mr. Lockwood, whatever else I do, I don’t lie.”

“I may need to know exactly where you were.”

“You may not find out.”

“What if you’re brought into court on an arson charge?”

“I’ll take my chances.”

He leaned back and stretched. It had been a long day. “Okay. Who do you think might have done it?”

“Who else? Mack Grand.”

“Why?”

“
Why
. Why do half the store owners in New York start their own fires? For the insurance. But hell, you know that.”

He nodded. “Grand is of course a suspect. But I wonder if there are any others. That waiter who got fired with you…”

“What waiter?”

“Didn’t you and Len Claypool get the pink slip the same night?”

“Len? He fired Len?” Her surprise seemed genuine. “Why the hell would he do that?”

“Grand said he’d been cheating on the checks.”

“Len? Christ, I don’t believe it.” She shot erect. “You know what? I’ll bet that damn Grand engineered it!”

“I don’t follow.”

“The goddamn union. It’s hard to fire help. But if you get ’em on a charge of stealing…”

“Why would he want to fire Claypool?”

“Not Claypool. Any one of the guys. Business has been bad lately. Not that they make much of a goddamn salary, but I’ve never
known anyone like Mack for cutting corners.”

“So Claypool could have a real beef against Grand.”

“Beef, and a coupla tons of pork, too. I wouldn’t put it past that old weasel.”

“What about Mack’s wife?”

“What about her?”

“What can you tell me?”

She looked at him, eyes like granite. “No talent.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. She’s a no-talent goody-goody bitch. People gasping and gawking about the two of them, a pretty little thing like
her, an old geezer like him. I say they deserve each other.”

“She’s done things to hurt you.”

“Nah. Not me, and not no one else, either. Just—ah, Christ, to be honest, it drives me crazy, seein’ a nobody like that fall
into the soft life she did. Two weeks in a Broadway turkey, and she’s set up for life. Me, I’ve been hoofing since I looked
like Shirley Temple, and what has it got me?”

Lockwood stretched again. “A better figure than Shirley Temple.”

“Yeah, that’s for goddamn sure.” She considered him a moment. “
Your
figure ain’t that bad, either, when you get right down to it.” Her eyes softened a bit. “You look tired,” she said. “Why
not loosen your tie, relax a little? Maybe some booze?”

She had risen, and for the first time he caught a breath of her perfume. It wasn’t like the rest of her, hard and brassy.
It was elusive, and sensual, seductive with promise. He loosened his tie.

“What’s your pleasure?” she asked, body poised, almost halfway into the kitchen. She certainly was in sensational shape.

“Canadian, if you’ve got it.” He checked his black-dialed silver Longines. The workday was over.

“I’ve got it.”

She disappeared into the kitchen, and a few moments later came in carrying a tray with two drinks. She was wearing a negligee.
“And that ain’t all I’ve got, Lockwood,” she grinned.

She wasn’t wearing anything under the negligee. His appreciation was double as he sipped and looked. “About your boyfriend,”
he said.

Her eyes crinkled. “What boyfriend?”

“Cheers,” he said.

“Cheers,” she answered, and then as her lips reached the glass, she added, voice husky, “To us.”

He reached out to her, and she came to him, jamming her body tight against his. “You’re a sexy guy,” she told him. “You don’t
notice it at first, but after a while it kinda sneaks up on you.”

“And you’re a sexy girl. It hits you right between the eyes. From the first instant on.”

She laughed throatily, and slid her body up, and then down, his. “Mmm. Nice,” she said.

Her eyes were green, flecked with gold, and he saw now that she was close, a faint dusting of freckles across her nose. Her
lips were red, and full, and pursed. He pressed his own against them.

They were also warm, and moist, and soft. And yielding.

He pulled back from her. “You’re not as tough as you act,” he told her.

Her eyes had gone misty. “What tough?” she shrugged, and pulled him back to her.

Her head made small movements as he kissed her, pushing in at him, pulling back, softly restless, exploring.

When his hand touched her back, she stiffened, then sighed, then crooned as his fingers ran up her spine, across her shoulders,
and back down again. Her body, through the flimsy material, was warm, almost hot.