Strange Embrace (2 page)

His stomach turned over. His cigarette dropped from his fingers to the floor and he ground it into the carpet with his heel.

Elaine James was a lovely girl, she was lovely from the neck down. She was also lovely from the neck up.

But her neck was not lovely at all, because somebody had slashed a hole in it.

There was a telephone on top of the dresser. He used a handkerchief to lift the receiver to his ear. His eyes focused hazily on the dial and he remembered listening to this same telephone ring and ring. And he had cursed the girl for not being there to answer it. She had been there, most likely. But in no condition to answer.

He felt numb. He managed to dial the right number, and he managed to ask the desk sergeant for Lieutenant Haig. Seconds later he heard Haig’s voice. It was flat and tired and it fitted Johnny’s mood.

“Homicide. Haig speaking.”

“Sam, this is Johnny. Johnny Lane.”

“Johnny? Hell, I thought you were getting out of town.”

“Not until tomorrow,” he said. “Well, today, really. Nine o’clock train. Sam, there’s…there’s been a murder. I found a body.”

A low whistle came over the phone.

“Six Sixty-one East Fifth Street. That’s between B and C. Apartment 5-D. You’d better get over here.”

“You there now?”

“I’m here.”

“Stay there, then. I’ll be right up. Who got it, Johnny? Somebody you know?”

“I knew her. A girl named Elaine James. My—uh—my leading lady. You better hurry, Sam.”

He hung up the phone, put his handkerchief back into his pocket and turned around slowly. He saw Elaine again, saw what had been Elaine, and nausea climbed in his throat. Her blood had soaked into the sheet. Some of it had trailed down into the valley between her breasts.

He walked out, closed the door. He sat down on the couch in the living room and waited. He picked up a recent issue of
Variety
and tried to kill a few minutes reading it but the print danced before his eyes. All he could see was Elaine, so nude and so dead, lying in a room where a phone rang again and again.

Theatrical, he thought. A good dramatic touch. Maybe a little too vivid, but loaded with impact.

Haig was on his way. Haig was sharp and thorough, and he would get hold of the bastard who slashed her.

Johnny hoped they caught him fast and killed him dead as hell.

“S
HE MUST HAVE BEEN PRETTY
,” Haig said. “Once, I bet, she must have been pretty.”

“She was,” Johnny said.

They were in the bedroom. Haig’s lab men were being busy, measuring distances, dusting for fingerprints, picking up dirt samples and doing other mysteriously scientific things which Johnny did not pretend to understand. He stood with Haig at the side of the bed. Now a thin white sheet covered Elaine James’ body, stopping an inch or two below the gash across her throat.

Haig cleared his throat. He was a big man, heavy, with gray mixed into his black hair. He was not a pretty man. His nose had been broken twice and he had scar tissue around the eyes. He was a good cop and he and Johnny had been friends for years.

“Some people would say she’s still pretty,” Haig went on. “Maybe she is. I don’t know. Once they’re dead they stop looking good to me. All I can see is the death part of it. The ugliness. There’s nothing pretty about death.”

Johnny assented silently.

“I oughta get used to it,” Haig said. “I see enough of them. Cuttings, stabbings, shootings—the works. You know what we had a week ago? A garroting. Got any idea what a garroting looks like?”

“A fair idea.”

Haig shrugged. “We found this guy in the park. Central Park. Damn fool was walking through Central Park at three in the morning. You got to be a real clown to walk through Central Park at that hour. Pretty when we found him. His head swelled up and turned purple. A purple basketball with the eyes three-quarters out of their sockets. Pretty.”

“No worse than this,” Johnny said. “It couldn’t have been worse than this.”

“Who knows? To me they’re all the same and I never get used to them. Maybe I’m in the wrong business.” He sighed heavily. “We might as well get out of here. The microscope boys can do more than we can. We only get in their way. Amazing guys. They can take the lint from a man’s pants cuffs and tell you who he’s been sleeping with. They’ll turn up something.”

“They’ll turn up a few thousand fingerprints that belong to me,” Johnny said. “I must have handled half the apartment. I didn’t know I was going to find a corpse.” His eyes returned to the wound on the girl’s neck. “You know what killed her?”

“Something sharp, most likely.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Hell,” Sam Haig said. “Who knows? Maybe a big knife, a long one. Maybe a razor. The lab boys will study it and find out it’s a Malayan kris stolen from the British Museum in eighteen-fourteen. They’re amazing.”

“If they’re so good, why do they keep you on the force?”

The big cop grinned. “They need a rough son-of-a-bitch to beat up suspects. And to crash through doors with a gun in his fist. Like in the movies. Let’s get out of here, huh? I have to keep you up all night answering questions. You might miss your train.”

Ito answered the phone almost at once. “Honorable Mister Lane’s residence,” he intoned. “Humble servant speaking.”

“Can it,” Johnny said “It’s only me.”

“I was wondering where you were.”

“I’m in Haig’s office, Ito. Somebody found Elaine James before I did. Somebody slit her throat.” He stopped to catch his breath. “Ito, there’s a list of people connected with the show in the top drawer of my desk. Call everybody on the list, tell them to miss the train and wait for further instructions. We’ll be delayed a few days at least, maybe more.”

“Do I tell them why?”

“No. Just that I said so. They’ll find out soon enough anyway, but in the meantime they might as well stay in the dark. Call them and tell them no train, period. And don’t wait up for me. I’ll be a while.”

“I’ll be up,” Ito said.

“Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Only in the winter,” Ito said.

Johnny laughed and hung up, then looked across the desk at Haig. “That’s out of the way,” he said. “Now you’re supposed to ask me probing questions.”

Haig nodded sleepily. “You kill her, Johnny?”

“What!”

“Well, I had to ask. It says so in the book. Any idea who did it?”

“None.”

“It wasn’t robbery,” Haig said. “She had a pearl ring on one finger and we found a few bucks in plain sight in a dresser drawer.”

“Is it still there?”

“Naturally. Cops only rob the living. Anyway, it wasn’t a burglar. Nothing ransacked. So it was sex or some personal-type motive.”

Johnny nodded. “I can’t think of anybody who would have any reason to kill her,” he said. “Not offhand.”

“Know much about her?”

“Not too much.”

“Let’s have what you know.”

Johnny lit a cigarette. “Her name’s Elaine James,” he said. “It is now, anyway. She may have changed it somewhere along the line. She’s been in New York for two, three years looking for a break. The usual routine—temporary office help to pay the rent, a round of auditions that didn’t pan out. An occasional bit off-Broadway but never with a show that caught on. When I held open auditions for
A Touch of Squalor
she stood in line with a few hundred other girls. I took one look at her and saw that she’d be perfect for the lead if she could act worth a damn. So she read for it and she was perfect. A hell of a fine actress.”

“So she could act. That all you know about her?”

“Almost all,” Johnny admitted. “She came from a little town upstate. She was too young to have graduated from college and still spend two or three years in New York and die at twenty-two. Maybe she went to a junior college, I don’t know.”

“We’ll find out.”

“That’s the point—I don’t think there’s much I can tell you that you couldn’t turn up anyway. She lived alone. She was friendly enough with everybody in the show but none of them were close friends by any means. She hadn’t known them long enough for that.”

“Was she sleeping with anybody?”

“Not that I know of. I had a feeling she might be a virgin.”

“Any reason to think so?”

“Just a hunch.”

“I didn’t think there were any virgins left in the world,” Haig said. “Well, we’ll find that out by morning when the Medical Examiner’s report comes in. That and other things. If she was raped. If she was pregnant. Anything like that, we’ll find out. You get yourself murdered and you don’t have any privacy at all. It’s one hell of a thing.”

The big cop picked up a letter opener and began to clean his nails with it. “Let’s take the rest of the cast,” he suggested. “Maybe one of them had it in for her.”

Johnny frowned. “That’s pretty hard to believe.”

“Is it? If you know as much about them as you know about the James girl, they could all be orangutans and you wouldn’t know the difference. Who’s in the show?”

“Carter Tracy is her co-star. Was her co-star. Hell, it’s wrong either way. How do you say it when it’s like this?”

“Death fouls up tenses,” Haig said.

“He’s the leading man. That does it. You know who he is?”

“I’ve seen him in the movies, if that’s what you mean. Mostly late movies on television. Isn’t he a little old for our girl?”

Johnny nodded. “He’s about fifty, I think. Admits to forty-two, which is impossible. See, the age difference was the point of it. The plot of the play spins around an ingenue type who falls for a smooth old bastard. Tracy plays the bastard and Elaine was supposed to play the sweet young thing.”

“Sounds like typecasting. Tracy really is a bastard, isn’t he?”

“He’s all wrapped up in his own ego,” Johnny said. “It amounts to almost the same thing. But he’s one hell of a good actor, and good actors are all egotistical. It’s an occupational disease. Besides, his ego hasn’t been up so high lately. He’s slumped. Hollywood doesn’t seem to think he’s a leading man anymore. He was ready to crawl for this part, figuring that it could make all the difference in the world to him. It’s an older part and a romantic role all at once, a handy bridge between two camps.”

“Who else?”

Johnny looked at Haig. He was taking brief but careful notes on a legal-sized pad of ruled yellow paper. “I suppose Jan Vernon is next,” Johnny said. “Know her?”

“Name rings a bell.”

“She hasn’t made any movies recently. She was a starlet in Hollywood for a while, then switched to Broadway. She had the lead in
The Levantine Factor
and good supporting roles in
Under Black Skies
and
Last Thursday.”

“What is she? The prim and proper type?”

Johnny laughed. He pictured Jan in his mind, thought of the sleepily voluptuous figure, the pouting mouth, the lay-me look that never left her eyes, not even when she was doing something as prosaic as counting her lines.

“Not exactly,” he said. “Not quite prim and proper. In our play she’s cast as Elaine’s older cousin. The one who’s been around until she’s a little frayed at the edges. Carter Tracy bangs her while he’s making the pitch for Elaine. Get the picture?”

“Uh-huh. Tracy banging her off-stage as well as on?”

“Damned if I know. If he isn’t, he can’t be trying.”

“Another case of typecasting?”

Johnny shrugged. “Who knows? You never know what to believe in this business. Everything is a rumor. She’s supposed to have figured in a few choice parties out on the Coast. The orgy set, you know. A little marijuana and a little juice and away we go. There was an arrest, according to this rumor, but she was under contract at the time and her studio managed to put the lid on it. The rumor routine may be so much nonsense, but if she’s got more morals than an alley cat then I’m Jack the Ripper.”

“That leaves the question open, friend. Keep going.”

“Reuben Flood is the lead’s father. The name won’t even ring a bell, but you’d recognize the face. He’s been in a few hundred movies and God knows how many plays. A trouper all the way, one of the best damn character actors in the business. Stan Harris plays the lead’s older brother. He’s a young kid, just starting out. The part is a small one and he’s right for it and that’s about all I know about him. Tony Foy has a bit part—he’s another young hopeful—and there are maybe five or six walk-ons. That takes care of the cast.”

“Understudies?”

“Uh-huh. But don’t ask me who they are, because I’d have to look them up to tell you. And don’t think that Elaine’s understudy killed her to inherit the part. She wouldn’t get it. The understudies are just insurance in case one of the cast comes down with a bad hangover or something. They wouldn’t serve as permanent replacements.”

Johnny drummed his fingers on the desktop, pausing to think things out. The little recitation he’d given was fine for Haig’s notebook—it filled up plenty of yellow paper. But it wasn’t going to nail any killer to the wall.

Hell, it was just a matter of form. In the morning the Medical Examiner would establish that Elaine had been raped and then murdered and the killing would be designated a pointless sex slaying. That would make fine copy for the tabloids, but it would also mean that there would be no way he could help. If the killer were caught at all, it would be police procedure that did the trick—not one Johnny Lane.

“The director is Ernest Buell,” Johnny continued. “A temperamental guy maybe a little bit nuts. He’s been in one rest home or another off and on for fifteen years. He isn’t a complete nut, though. It’s just that he gets depressed. It seems to be an occupational disease. A few weeks away from Broadway and he’s all right again.”

“What they ought to have,” Haig said, “is a rest home for cops. Lieutenants in particular. For days when I get depressed.”

Johnny laughed. Then he thought about the girl, Elaine, and about the fiend who had killed her. The laughter died.

“To hell with it,” he said. “I could tell you what color cat our assistant stage manager has and who planned the lighting and a million other damn fool things and it wouldn’t get us anywhere. What it boils down to is that I don’t know anything. Somebody killed her. I wish he hadn’t. Period.”