Pardon My Body (6 page)

H
IGH
C
ORNERS WAS THE
newest thing in architecture in the Riverside Drive country. It appeared to combine in fairly equal proportions the more striking phenomena of phoney Tudor, crypto-Chinese and American functional design. The final result of the marriage was strictly illegitimate—although the word that sprang to mind began earlier in the alphabet.

There was a paved driveway. I pulled into it and parked outside the main entrance. A whiskered commissionaire dressed in the uniform of an admiral of the fleet held open the door while I stepped out under a long striped awning. I could feel carpet under my feet—and I wasn't inside the place yet.

I hesitated. Something seemed to be missing. Then I knew what it was. They hadn't got a band playing.

“Mr. Lucius Canting's suite,” I said.

“Mr. Canting,” said the aged bell-hop, “has a top-floor penthouse covering the entire area of the
premises. The express elevator will take you there direct. Please follow me.”

He tucked me into the elevator and sped me skywards with a look in which it was hard to tell whether contempt or pity predominated. Either way it put me among the lesser breeds.

The sliding doors of the elevator parted automatically at the ninth storey and I stepped straight out on to an inch-deep pile. I seemed to be walking up to my knees in carpet and all of it was jet black. It was the first hint I got that Mr. Canting might be an unusual character.

I was in a wide hall with doors leading off on either side and there wasn't a handle on one of them. The elevator had gone down and the shaft doors merged and vanished in the rose-colored panelling. The silence was like a clamor. A curious sickly scent hung heavily in the artificially-heated air. For a moment I couldn't identify it. Then I got it. Incense. A tiny alarm bell started jangling way down in my subconscious. I shoved off the panic and walked boldly up to the biggest of the double-doors. I was about a foot away when it slid noiselessly inwards and I found myself walking into a massive room with a domed glass roof under which was strung tiny lights to resemble starlight. This time the carpet was
deep purple. The walls had been painted cream and at intervals were hung with jade green drapes.

The interior lighting came from fixtures of Lalique glass and the furniture was built entirely of glass: red glass sideboards, a blue glass cocktail cabinet, a glass bookcase in shimmering amber, occasional chairs of shining steel and dull, black glass—and at the far end of the room the biggest table in the world, carved in a single massive piece from pure transparent glass.

Mr. Lucius Canting sat behind it wearing a suit of sky-blue linen, a beige silk shirt, a bloodred tie and glass sandals. His beautiful oval toenails bore a high-gloss silver lacquer, and a beaten-gold bracelet graced his left ankle.

“Good evening, Mr. Bogard—so glad you were able to come.” It was the same warm, sticky voice. At first hand even warmer and sticker.

I sat on the edge of the glass wasteland and studied Mr. Lucius Canting. He wore a Palm Beach tan which was so nearly genuine you had to admire its artistry. He was maybe fifty years old and graying but he still had plenty of hair. The face was heavy, with a million little lines spreading out to his temples from the puffy skin which lidded two of the coldest eyes I had seen since Dillinger.

The beautifully-shaven mouth was wide and the lips were too thick and not all the artifice of a skilled
masseuse
could hide the little telltale sagging under the once-square chin. I thought Mr. Lucius Canting was not the kind of man who would be invited to address a meeting of the Women's Purity League.

He lit a long flat cigarette clothed in rose-pink rice paper. The aroma started warring with the incense and I relit my pipe in self-defense. I continued to say nothing. The ball, I thought, could properly be left at Mr. Canting's pedicured feet.

“Mr. Bogard,” he said at length, “you have answered my invitation because we are both interested in a certain subject.”

“I didn't say so,” I told him.

He sighed. “Let us not bandy empty words. I am aware that since your coincidental presence at the Golden Peacock Inn last night you have interested yourself in the circumstances surrounding the deaths of Mr. Grierson and Mr. Banningham—both of whom, I may say, are old acquaintances of mine.”

“You mean you've put a tail on me?”

“I have, shall we say, reliable sources of information? I assure you they are impeccably accurate.” He leaned forward slightly over the glass ocean. “I would like you, Mr. Bogard, to cease taking such an
interest in affairs which cannot remotely be said to concern you.”

“You would?”

Mr. Canting sighed again. “You are being absurdly difficult, my friend. Or is it supposed to be astuteness on your part—such as waiting for the appropriate offer?”

“It could be that,” I said.

“In that case…”

“—but it isn't,” I finished. “Look, Mr. Canting, I didn't ask to come here, I don't like it now I am here, and I don't like you personally. Do I make myself clear?”

“Painfully.”

I went on, “I don't pretend to know what your connection is with the deaths of Banningham and Grierson, but…”

Mr. Canting cut in on me. “My dear Mr. Bogard, I have explained that these gentlemen were both well known to me. I have the well-being of their families very much at heart and I do not wish to see anything done which may wound them. Because your peculiar interest in the matter seems to have led to some rather unorthodox inquiries I decided to ask you to bear with me and not to proceed further.”

“You mean you think I may have uncovered something you'd prefer to see left decently interred?”

“How admirably you express it! That is the general idea.” He leaned back, getting ready to purr again. “I should naturally wish to reimburse you generously for any trouble you have taken so far. But, first, let me offer you a cocktail.”

He touched one of a small battery of colored brass knobs on the table immediately in front of him.

“I don't want a drink,” I said shortly.

“Oh come—let us not be churlish.”

“How much?” I asked bluntly.

“I think we can sign an expenses and
ex gratia
chit for five thousand dollars,” said Canting levelly.

The thing was becoming fabulous. All I had to do was to go home, forget the whole business and winter in Florida on five grand while I looked around for a new plot. And I
like
money. But not on those kind of terms. I could have laid off jobs for a cash deal when I was a reporter but I never did. I like to earn my bucks the hard way. Which is probably why I never have many to toss around. But that's how it's always been. And if ever I fell, Mr. Lucius Canting wouldn't be the successful tempter.

Just the same, it would be an idea to string Mr. Canting along for a little way.

“How do I know I get out of here with…” I broke off because another sliding door opened and I was getting a fresh line on Mr. Canting. A girl was bringing in a tray of drinks. She was about twenty years old and as near beautiful as makes no difference, and barely dressed. She set the drinks on the table while Mr. Canting stroked her bottom. Then she gave a little curtsy with the scrap of fabric acting as her skirt and was gone.

“You like them that way?” I asked.

“I find it wholly agreeable.” A flicker passed over his face. “That was Marie. She is on duty this evening. But I have a number of other amenable nymphs. Perhaps you…”

“Let's talk about money,” I said brutally.

“Ah, yes. You are interested?”

“I'm interested in the implications which arise when men start bidding at five grand.”

The cold eyes snapped. “I did not make you a bid, Mr. Bogard. It was an offer. What exactly have you in mind as an appropriate sum?”

I tapped the dottle from my pipe onto a magnificent cut-glass and solid silver letter tray. I had had just about too much of Mr. Lucius Canting.

“You could make it a half-million dollars,” I said
genially. “Or maybe you could make it a million. I wouldn't know and I wouldn't give a damn.”

Canting eyed me in silence for a moment. When he spoke his voice was as gentle as a maiden's whisper. But not so pleasant.

“There are others ways open to me. I hope you will not force me to adopt them.”

“Such as?”

“I could have you beaten up. A distressingly vulgar procedure. I do not care for the uncouth and illiterate men you would compel me to employ. But they would be efficient. It would be very difficult for you to identify your face for a considerable time and walking would be quite impossible for at least six weeks.”

I stood up. “Mr. Canting,” I said, “as a plotter of violence you could take a correspondence course. You will not have me beaten up because I could have a nice long chat with Detective-lieutenant O'Cassidy at homicide about your curious proposition. O' Cassidy is a very persistent policeman indeed and if he came along here he would be likely to arrest you just on general principles. He doesn't like your kind. To take care of me you would have to get someone to bump me off—and I don't think you want a murder on your hands.”

Suddenly, his face was livid. “Don't try me too far,” were the words he managed to grate out.

I went on, easily, “And even if you got a loogan to squib me off you couldn't be sure I hadn't left a letter about you in my safety deposit. No, Mr. Canting, you will just sit tight in your obscene little private world and do nothing.”

“And you?” By an effort he had wiped the hate and the fear from his face.

I thrust my hat on the back of my head and picked up my gloves. “I don't ordinarily make pacts with your sort—but as long as you don't try to get out of line it will suit me not to have that talk with O'Cassidy. Now you can press one of those comic-opera buttons and let me out of here.”

He reached out a heavily-ringed hand.

“Goodbye, Mr. Canting,” I said. Then a thought struck me. “I think I will give myself a little vacation. Maybe a little trip to the Adirondacks—or, could it be, to Falls City…”

There was a silence as I walked out of that long disgusting room.

I was going through the big doors when I caught a whisper. “I wouldn't go there, Mr. Bogard, if I were you….”

Then the doors swung soundlessly to behind me and I was knee-deep in carpet again.

I
WANTED TO DRIVE HARD
and fast when I got back to the Buick, but most of the way it was a slow drag with the pile-up getting steadily worse at every intersection. Finally, I detoured to a little saloon off lower Broadway. I felt like a long cold lager after Mr. Canting's hothouse eroticisms—though maybe I should have settled for a pint of mouthwash.

The barkeep, a wiry little half-Italian who lived in the Bronx, slid a bottle and a tall glass over the polished counter. I think he picked the trick up through too many William S. Hart Westerns when he was a kid. I drank three-quarters of the measure without stopping for breath. Then I noticed the hands of the clock and I moved into the telephone booth at the far end of the little bar. I didn't want O'Cassidy to get any messages about me—yet.

I dropped a coin in the slot and said, “It's okay, Bella—it's me. You can throw that note away.”

She sounded relieved. “I was just starting to worry about you. As a matter of fact, Mr. O'Cassidy is here now….”

I caught my breath. “Did you tell him?” I tried to make my voice sound offhand.

“No—it's not quite the deadline. I won't need to, now…”

“Bella,” I told her, “you're a smart girl. When I become famous I shall appoint you as my secretary.”

“I shall hold you to it,” she said gaily, adding, “Mr. O'Cassidy is waiting in your apartment. He said he was sure you wouldn't mind and that he'd be mixing a drink for you.”

I said, “That's fine. Just give him a call and tell him I'll be there in ten minutes—if I can get out of this traffic.”

It was exactly twelve and a half minutes later when I walked into my apartment. O'Cassidy had looted four bottles of Budweiser from the icebox.

“Don't you have no whisky in this dump of yours?” he asked.

“Cass,” I said, “I'm a poor man. And, besides, I was in England during the war, I acquired the Englishman's fondness for beer. There's a fine old inn in Cheshire where I…”

“Yeah,” said Cass, “I remember. You used to eat there Saturday nights. You told me.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah, you did.” He brooded for a moment. “I don't want to hear no more boosts for England. When I think of Cromwell…”

I sailed my hat onto a chair. “All right,” I said, “let it ride. Suppose you tell me what you're doing here opening my booze.”

O'Cassidy pushed his hat back. He said, very slowly, “A guy who calls himself George Clark was found in a bed at Mike Hannigan's place with a Task Force dagger sticking out of his chest.”

I didn't know what the comeback was to that, so I didn't try to improvise one.

“Hannigan buzzed us at headquarters. Sounded like he was in a panic. I went with a couple of uniformed men. Mike says he gets uneasy when this bird don't come down for no meals or even ring for sumpin'. So up goes Mike and there is the paying guest as cold as last Sunday's roast. Another nice, neat job. The way it looks to me, Mr. George Clark—” O'Cassidy pronounced the name with sardonic emphasis “—never knew what was coming to him.”

I thought Mike has kept me out of this for some reason. Aloud I said, “Better to collect it that way, huh?”

Cass gave me one of those unwinking homicide bureau stares which mean you'd better watch yourself, bub, or the wagon will be taking you to the Tombs so fast you'll think you're an odds-on bet for the Kentucky Derby.

“Was that the way you figured it when you found the body?” he asked.

I looked right back. “Did I find it?”

“Look,” he said, “I don't have to tell you, but I will go out of my way to say Mike didn't come across with a thing. Maybe he thought life was getting complicated enough without bringing you into it.”

“So you complicated it for him?”

“No, I let Mike kid himself along for the time being.”

There didn't seem to be anything to say.

O'Cassidy went on, “You showed me a nice bland face when I moved in on you this morning and I didn't like the look of it one little bit. So I put a tail on you.”

I fetched out one of those rueful grins. “Seems I'm only half as smart as I think.”

Suddenly, Cass let his voice crackle. “I told you to keep outa the police's hair, but I knew damn well you'd go right ahead sticking your chin out. Okay, if that's the way you want to play it. You've been a personal friend of mine ever since you came here, Dale—but I'm here to tell you that it won't stop me
taking you in for a grilling with no punches pulled if I think that's what I have to do. And a third degree session ain't no picnic.”

“Okay,” I said, “I'll give. But what the hell does it add up to? I ride the subway express and walk a few more blocks to Mike Hannigan's place because I am playing a hunch…”

“What hunch?” Cass cracked the word like he was chewing on steel filings.

“I remembered that guys sometimes use Mike's place as an hotel when it isn't convenient to stay someplace else. Maybe I
should
keep my nose out of things, but I got the idea that the man who knifed Grierson was likely to hide out in New York and that there was a chance he might have an introduction to Mike Hannigan. I was right both times—that's all.”

O'Cassidy was about to speak when I thought of something else. “I'm sure Mike knew nothing about this guy,” I said.

“Yeah—you checked on that, didn't you?” said Cass.

I let that one drift with the tide, but Cass fetched it back.

“The dick who tailed you followed you into that roominghouse in the Fifties. Or rather, he went in
when you come out. He had words with the girl behind the desk.”

“You seem to know it all,” I told him.

“You went into th' Longmoor to see a guy named Harry Bule, a two-bit bookmaker who runs a cigar stand on Broadway.” He paused while he picked up his drink. “That icebox of yours keeps the beer real cool,” he said.

“How else would it keep it?” I asked.

“That's right,” he said. “How else would it? And how else would George Clark get into Mike Hannigan's place if Harry Bule didn't speak up for him?”

I let that one go, too, but I might as well not have tried.

“Who gives Bule his orders?” he repeated.

“Bule told me these things were fixed by phone. He said he had never met the man who buzzed him. He got paid in dollar bills which were mailed to him.” I started filling my pipe. “Why don't you take Bule in and ask him yourself?”

O'Cassidy set his drink down and said clearly, “Because Bule has taken it on the lam. The man who tailed you came down to Center Street to report. He hadn't any reason to pull Bule in—and when we sent two bluecoats back up to th' Longmoor later, Bule had blown. He ain't been seen since.”

He handed me another of those long, flat stares. “We didn't have a tail on you after you quit the Longmoor. Maybe we should have had. Care to say where you've been tonight?”

“No,” I said “I wouldn't care.”

O'Cassidy reached for his old raincoat. “I'm going to let you have a little more rope. It ain't going to ball my end up.” He paused at the door and said over his shoulder, “Only it won't do you no good to squawk if you gets tied up in a knot. You'd better keep that in mind.”

Then he was gone again.

I picked up the phone and got the Skyline number. Mr. Canting purred into the mouthpiece.

“Yes, Mr. Bogard?”

I grinned into my end. “It's getting cold nights,” I said. “Maybe you should put some warm clothes on Marie.”

“Indeed, is that all…”

“No,” I said. “Not quite. Detective-lieutenant O'Cassidy is getting all set to take the town apart.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, indeed. He has a tail on me.” I didn't think it necessary to tell him that Cass had taken the tail off because it suited him.

Mr. Canting made a small noise into the instrument.

“So it will be just too bad if the police tail ends up tailing the Canting tail, won't it?”

“It could be embarrassing,” he admitted. “Thank you for telling me. I shall see that your movements are unhampered, Mr. Bogard. By the way, you…er…”

“That's right,” I said, “I kept my part of the bargain.”

“Excellent. Goodbye, Mr. Bogard.”

“Au revoir,” I said.

I walked whistling into my little bedroom and switched on the center light. The room had a French window opening onto a verandah which gives access to a fire escape leading down to the alleyway at the back of the block. I was suddenly aware that the drapes across the window were slightly parted. I hadn't left them like that. I frowned. O'Cassidy must have been snooping. Somehow, I hadn't thought he would do that.

Then I knew he hadn't. The drapes lifted just a little as though there was a draught blowing. I moved over and wrenched them aside. The windows were ajar. I stepped out onto the verandah. Nothing. I closed the windows, pulled the drapes and went back into the room. I stood quite still letting my eyes take it all in.

I quit when I looked at the floor immediately in front of my clothes closet. Those icy fingers were running up and down my spine again. There was a
trickle of dull brownish-red fluid seeping under the closet door and soaking into the carpet.

If my knees were knocking I wouldn't be surprised. But I managed to make it. I got hold of the knobs on each of the closet doors and swung them wide open.

Next moment I was struggling with a body. It fell out into my arms. It was the body of a sallow-faced man wearing a flashy suit. His jacket was flapping open and there was a lot of congealed blood around the two small holes in the middle of his shirt. His eyes were wide open and his features were twisted in the last expression they ever had. Not a nice expression. But I knew who the man was.

It was Harry Bule.