Where Is Bianca? (10 page)

Jean was looking about the room for her father. But Fran Weatherly was not ready to release her captives.

“Have you heard from Bianca, darlin'?”

“What? Oh. No, not yet. Excuse me.” Jean went off, still looking.

“Can't you find her, Captain Corrigan?”

“We've received no official complaint,” Corrigan said. “The case is in the hands of a private detective.”

“But you do try to keep your eyes open, don't you?” Fran Weatherly said sweetly. “Oops, my mistake. Or is it? Do you wear that patch because you're moonlighting for the Hathaway Shirt ads, or is it legit?”

“I try to keep my eyes open, Miss Weatherly,” Corrigan said.

“Neat. Well you probably won't be needed. I've heard that Mr. Baer is very good at these things. Although if Vincent had asked my advice, he wouldn't have gone to a private detective. At least not right off.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Oh … there are several reasons, Captain.”

“Care to name one?”

Fran Weatherly laughed from her diaphragm. “How clever you are! Here not five minutes, and already I'm on the grill. But hell, no, I don't mind.”

They had drifted over to the drinks table, and now Travers Proehl spotted them. His immense face turned stony at the sight of Corrigan. He stalked away, and Fran took his place and prepared a Scotch on the rocks for Corrigan.

“Firstly,” their hostess said, making a vodka and bitter lemon for herself, “buttons will get you bows that Bianca gets in touch with Vincent one of these days. Without benefit of private eye or the fuzz—begging your pardon, Captain.”

“What makes you think that, Miss Weatherly?”

“Bianca is all feeling. Her blood vessels are on the outside. And nerves. She's just the kind to creep into a hole somewhere and brood over her marital troubles. But with the Biancas of this world that's only a step in the right direction. Eventually she'll plod her way to a decision. When that happens—watch out. She'll either come out blasting, or jump back into bed with Vincent.”

“You talk as if you know her very well.”

“I don't know her—in the social sense—at all. But I have an instinct for characterization. That's why I'm a writer.”

“And what's another reason?”

“Another reason is that this town is crawling with lice. Most of whom write for newspapers.”

“And the Fielding name rates a better fate?” Corrigan murmured. “It's nice of you to care, Miss Weatherly.”

The woman stared at him. Then she threw back her dirty blonde locks and laughed with such energy that even Travers Proehl, nursing a drink in a corner, looked over at her.

“You're wonderful, Captain,” she cried. “I understand now why there's no crime problem in New York City. You think I give a good goddam about the Fieldings?”

“It never entered my mind,” Corrigan said. “I was, in my clumsy way, being satirical. You want to know what I think, Miss Weatherly?”

“Not particularly.”

“I'll tell you anyway. I think you're a lot of horse manure. I think you've built up a brassy front to cover up a lot of mean little egocentricities.”

“A literate fuzz!” Frances Weatherly said. “Will wonders never cease? Do go on, Captain.”

“I think that what concerned you in this Bianca Lessard business was having
your
name booted about the columns. It still concerns you. You're red meat for the journalistic lice, and you know it. And you're scared to death they'll go to work on you.”

She tilted her angular head as she studied Corrigan. It was as if she had just become aware of him. Her far-apart eyes widened disagreeably.

“You're tremendous, Captain. What are you doing in the Police Department? You ought to be hanging out a shingle. Do you always read people so easily?”

“I have an instinct for characterization,” Corrigan said gravely. “That's why I'm a police officer.”

“Touché!” This time she laughed with real appreciation. “Next time I throw a party, I want you to draw up the guest list. It would make an interesting evening. But we were talking about Bianca.”

“Or Noreen Gardner,” Corrigan said. “Whichever you prefer.”

“Bianca is preferable. Noreen is … or should I say was?—Travers tells me a dead girl in the city morgue has been identified as Noreen by little Peggy Simpson—”

“Oh, we've had several people trying to identify the body,” Corrigan said. He had no intention of telling her that a positive identification had been made through her verifiable fingerprints.

“Noreen is … was—which the hell is it?—a disappointment. But I refuse to worry about her, Captain, dead or alive. Whether she comes crawling back or not.”

“If she's alive, you think she'll crawl back?”

“That worm?” Fran Weatherly said contemptuously. “You can bet your old man's straw benny on it, brother. As soon as this new man she's hooked onto is through with her. Stupid little pot! Big-Man-in-Theater-Going-to-Make-Star-out-of-Her. Imagine falling for a line like that in this day and age!”

“Any idea who the man is?”

“No, and I don't give a four-letter word. Alive or dead, Noreen Gardner no longer exists in my
dramatis personae
. I'm sick of the little tart—of the pleading, the demanding, the scenes. She'll have to find somebody else to hammer a sense of dedication into her. When I think of all the talent lurking behind that vaginal mind … it infuriates me!”

“When did you see her last?”

“Two Sundays ago, I think it was. I tried to show her that the man was just looking for an easy tumble. I saw soon enough that she couldn't see beyond the end of his genitals. So I told her to get the hell out and forget to come back. She's apparently taken me at my word—unless the Simpson creature was right and she's lying in your morgue.”

Fran glanced past Corrigan as new arrivals joined the party. She patted his hand. “Don't go 'way, Captain.” She left him.

Travers Proehl had captured Jean Ainsley. He was talking to her and glancing over at Corrigan now and then.

Corrigan moved aside as several people came up to the bottle-littered table. He found himself beside the fireplace. There were fire tools—poker, tongs, shovel, brush, a screen—but the fireplace itself was naked. Apparently Fran Weatherly's taste for the romantic did not run to cuddling before an open fire. Corrigan wondered where her tastes did run. Something far-out, he was sure.

He edged his way toward Jean. Proehl saw him coming and abruptly left her to join Frances Weatherly, who was chatting with a pair of beatniks near the door.

Jean failed to notice Corrigan. She was moving toward the other side of the room. From the tension in her figure, he was sure she had found her father.

10

Corrigan managed to intercept her by shoving some people aside. Jean threw him a look of despair and apology for what was taking place near the French doors.

The argument going on was between Carlton Ainsley and a powerfully built, shag-blond young man wearing a black turtleneck knit shirt and tight cotton pants. Ainsley was gripping his walking stick. The hero of innumerable TV late shows was purple-faced with alcohol and fury.

“You rutting old goat,” the young man was saying. “You don't know modern theater from your own fossilized rear end. Why don't you totter back to the Old Folks' Home?”

Ainsley raised the stick. “How do you dare,” he said thickly. “How do you dare! I've forgotten more about the theater than you'll ever know. You deserve a thrashing, by heaven, and if you don't think I'm man enough to give it to you—”

“Cool it, dad,” the young man sneered. “You hit me with that cane and I'll cram it up you know where.”

Ainsley cursed and struck. But the blow never reached its target. Corrigan caught the stick in mid-descent and twitched it out of the actor's hand. Ainsley staggered and almost fell. Corrigan grabbed him.

“Release me, sir! I'm going to teach this degenerate some manners!”

“Ah, let him go, man,” the blond boy said. “We'll see like who'll teach who what.”

“Let—me—
go!
”

“Old Man History,” the boy laughed. “You can't turn the clock back, dad. If this one-eyed do-gooder will turn you loose, I'll rub your nose in your own drool.”

Corrigan thought that Ainsley was going to have a stroke. He shoved the blond young man back without turning around; the boy staggered against the people crowding around and slid to the floor, where he sat with a foolish look on his face.

“You
could
use a lesson in manners, at that,” Corrigan said to the boy. “It's all over, Mr. Ainsley.… Would some of you people please get Strong Boy out of here? Hold his hand or something. Mr. Ainsley?”

Ainsley went limp in his arms. “No man can talk to me that way—humiliate me—and get away with it,” he muttered. “There must be some respect left in this world. Jean, what are you doing here?”

Jean had managed to push through. “Daddy, look at you.”

“Jeanie.”

She took the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped the spittle off his lips. He made a feeble attempt to get out of Corrigan's grip. “Remove your hands, sir!”

“Dad, this is Captain Tim Corrigan of the Police Department. He's been helping you. Daddy?”

“He's a gendarme?” Carlton Ainsley said. He blinked at Corrigan. “They're making them altogether different these days. You don't look like one, Captain—what was it?”

“Corrigan,” said Corrigan. “I think you'd better call it a day, Mr. Ainsley. What do you say?”

“That foul creature is fortunate,” the actor said, glowering owlishly at the blond boy, who was being assisted to his feet by two cronies with identical long blond hair and apparel. “How does it feel to be saved by the law for a change, scum gullion?” he shouted to the youth. “Actor? You disgrace a noble profession!”

“Dad, you're making a spectacle of yourself.” Jean was pulling at his arm. “Please. Let's get out of here.”

Corrigan sensed the trio closing in on him. He let go of Ainsley's arm, feeling himself go quite cold. He did not turn around. A voice in his ear said softly, “Do yourself a favor, fuzz. Turn the old square loose, take a walk, and I'll forget the shove. You hear me?”

Strong Arm pushed him. Without turning around, Corrigan said, “One more contact and I'll run you in for assault.”

He was struck from behind. But he was ready for it. As he ducked, the blow glanced off his head. He staggered deliberately and went down on one knee. The blow had been delivered by the youth he had felled. The trio were standing shoulder to shoulder, grinning. In the right fist of the troublemaker gleamed a switchblade knife. His two companions took a half step forward.

Corrigan came up whirling, like a discus thrower. The discus was the edge of his left hand. It performed double duty on the throats of Strong Boy's two friends. They flew over backward, each clutching his throat as if it had been cut. Then Corrigan was facing the troublemaker.

A hush had come over the long room. The only sound came from the other end of the room, where Frances Weatherly was calmly lifting the telephone from its cradle.

“Come on, Strong Boy,” Corrigan said. “Let's see how good you are against a one-eyed do-gooder nearer your own age.”

The youth was quite pale. His lips were curled back from his strong white teeth. He held the switchblade in the classic fighting position, blade up.

He lunged.

Corrigan felt sorry for him. He always felt sorry when he had to go into action. That was because he had long ago recognized the icy blood lust in himself at such times, a clear joy of combat. He had to watch himself closely, exercise a discipline that came hard to him.

He swiveled his hips like a dancer and caught the powerful young wrist in his two hands and broke it across his knee. The youth screamed and went down, and the switchblade fell to the floor, making music.

“If you're calling the police,” Corrigan said to Frances Weatherly in the silence, “you'd better make a second call to a hospital.”

After the patrol car and the ambulance took off, Fran Weatherly followed them into the hall. “I'm sorry about those three, Captain Corrigan. They crashed the party. I'd never seen them before in my life.”

“And
I'm
sorry, Miss Weatherly,” Jean said to the playwright. She looked about to cry, and Corrigan felt a glow in his chest. A hint of tears, and he was ready to melt! He was amused and irritated with himself. “My father doesn't act this way when he's sober.”

Carlton Ainsley made a sweeping bow and almost fell on his face. Corrigan caught him. “Her father's keeper,” Ainsley said. “My little Jeanie. What an albatross I am.…”

“She ought to spit in your albatross eye, Carlton,” the Weatherly woman said. “Don't hold this against me, Captain. My parties aren't all this wild. Try another one some time.”

“I'll do that, Miss Weatherly.”

When they reached the street Ainsley began to pout. “I'm in the doghouse, I see. Well, daughter, deliver your lecture and get it over with.”

“Would it do any good?” Jean said, almost inaudibly. “Has anything ever done any good?”

The note of old sadness in Jean's voice pierced Ainsley's haze. His broad shoulders sagged. He made a groping gesture, like a child reaching for a strong hand. “Jeanie.…” he said, and tried to say more; but he did not, and lapsed into silence.

“We'd better get into the car,” Jean said. “We can't monopolize Captain Corrigan all night.”

Ainsley slumped in the rear seat and fell asleep. Jean got in beside Corrigan.

“Where's he staying?” Corrigan asked her.

“At an apartment on East Seventy-first Street.”

The drive uptown was made without talk. Jean looked so grimly miserable that Corrigan ached for her, and again wondered at himself. If this was the way liking a girl affected a man, what was all the shooting about? Or, he thought, am I too damned case-hardened to open myself up to what other men accept as natural? For one of the rare occasions of his life he felt confused.