A Song In The Dark (22 page)

They wouldn't, not without making more noise. Bobbi usually said hello to Myrna. Escott would have called out to me by now.

So who was here? Kroun? He could have picked the lock to get in. I reached out, thinking whoever it was would soon have to move or complain about the cold, and I could identify the voice. Only that didn't happen. The person stayed put.

So
I
moved. I floated into the hall through the door and re-formed, then stepped back in the office again.

I fully expected to see someone
sitting
on that couch.

Nothing. I was seeing nothing. A lot of it.

But I had
sensed
 . . . uh-oh. Mouth dry again. I cleared my throat.

“Myrna?”

No reply. But I
knew.

In taking a breath to speak I was overwhelmed by the scent of roses.

W
OKE
up on the dot of sunset, about one minute later than the previous evening. The year was turning, the days getting longer. Shorter nights. Lucky me. Less time to be in oblivion.

The rose scent was much faded by now. That had been . . . spooky. Okay, it had thrown me, but I could figure that Myrna had again been trying to give comfort, that's why I chose to remain on the office couch rather than retreat to my other bolt-hole under the tiers in the main room. How I'd actually been able to
feel
her as a physical presence was something else again. Maybe it was because I was on her side of the veil half the time. Dead.

I'd have given a shiver, but wasn't cold. Now
that
was good news. The radiator had been chugging away for hours; the place must be jungle-hot by now.

I got up to turn it back to normal and listened to
familiar activity going on below. Lady Crymsyn was waking, too. She'd started the process earlier, but for her it took more time. A dame's privilege.

Someone had been and gone. Escott, probably. A stack of newspapers lay on the desk like a no-nonsense message. He'd have made a connection between my uncharacteristically spending all evening at another nightclub that was now violently minus its star act. Certainly he'd want to know the real story. The papers sure didn't have it.

The evening headlines were big and harsh, their theme murder-suicide. Apparently after Caine's body was found the cops went to question his ex-wife and in turn found her. Facts were thin, with no mention of Evie Montana or gambling debts. There was no official verdict yet, but Jewel was getting the blame for Caine's death.

My heart sank. Jewel deserved better than that. How the hell could they be so stupid? If Kroun and I could figure out she'd not killed herself—and how could they screw up so badly about the faked crime scene in Caine's flat? Was this some kind of misdirection to throw off the killer, make him think he was safe?

I phoned the Nightcrawler and got Derner. Mindful that the line could be wired, I was as vague as could be managed. “How did things go today?”

“A little rough, but it turned out all right,” he cautiously told me. “Everything's fine here.”

“What about our guest and his pal?”

“Haven't seen either of them today.”

“What about that party I want found?”

“Nothing yet. They're being scarce.”

Damn.
“Is my car ready?”

“Not yet, Boss.”

“What d'ya mean? It's just changing tires.”

“Uhh, well, the tow truck guy didn't understand exactly and took your car to Cicero.”

I considered that one a minute before asking, in what I was certain was a very reasonable tone: “Why?”

“Uhh, they're gonna fix it up for you.”

“In what way?”

“Like the way the Caddy's fixed up.”

“
What?
” I had visions of my humble Buick outfitted with steel armor, thick glass, and a motor that should be driving a battleship, not a car. “Call it off! I just want new tires!”

“They're doin' them, too, Boss.”

“Don't give me a ‘too,' just get my car ba—
what
are they doing?”

“Well, seein's how your tires were cut up like that, they're puttin' on the solid rubber kind. No more flats. You'll love 'em.”

“Derner.”

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Get my car
back
. No fancy stuff like the Caddy, nothing special. Just put on some
tires
and get it back to me.”

He almost sounded hurt. “Okay . . . I'll talk to 'em.”

“Good. If you need me over there tonight, you'll have to send a driver to pick me up.”

“You mean you don't have the Caddy?” His voice went up a little.

“Our guest has it. Seems to like it a lot.”

“Oh, well, that's okay, then. You still want some extra muscle for your place?”

“Yeah, send 'em over. Just find that other party.” As soon as I cradled the receiver the phone rang.

“Fleming!” It was Kroun, sounding cheerful.

Now what? “Yeah?”

“You finally warmed up yet?”

“Mostly. What's going on?”

“Thought I'd come by your club, see if you turned up anything interesting on that business last night.”

“Not really, no. Been sleeping all day.”

“All day? You lazy bum! Your place open tonight?”

“Yeah, in about half an hour.”

“Save me a good table, I'll be coming by sometime later.”

“No problem. Have you seen Mitchell?”

“He's been out gallivanting with old friends. Still is.”

Mitchell had friends? “Shouldn't he be watching your back?”

“I'm safe enough. Besides, he always turns up.” Kroun rang off. Wonderful. Why come and hang around my club? I'd have to stop giving away booze.

As I walked downstairs Wilton was getting bowls of matches, ashtrays, and cocktail napkins ready on the lobby bar.

“Hey, Mr. Fleming. Come in early?”

“Yeah. You seen Bobbi or Charles?”

“They're both here. Main room.”

“I'll bring the tills down in a minute.”

“Sure, Boss.”

Somehow, when he called me that, it was perfectly fine. “Myrna around?”

“Not that I've noticed.”

I went into the main room. A few early-arrived waiters were there talking with the bartender. Everyone straightened and found something to do as soon as I showed. I liked that and continued on to the backstage area.

Someone banged loudly on the stage door that opened to the back alley. I unlocked and let in the first band
members. Five of them barged past out of the cold, smoking like farm trucks and talking a mile a minute and paying me no mind, I was only the boss. I yelled at them to douse their cigarettes, and most of them heard, dropping the stubs into a sand-filled fire bucket hanging next to one of the many extinguishers.

From the corner of my eye I saw Bobbi flit from the number three dressing room, rushing toward the stage like she forgot something. She wore a long silk dressing gown that flapped alarmingly wide as she moved. I caught up with her at the master lighting box stage right.

“Anything wrong?” I asked.

“Hi, sweetheart! Just checking.” She absently went tiptoe and pecked my cheek, as normal as could be. But then she didn't know about the fit I'd had in my car after leaving her the other evening or any of what I'd been into last night. That was good. We both had enough worries.

“I'll do this, you go finish getting ready.”

“Okay-thanks.” She shot off. Her feet were bare, and she scuffed along in quick little steps back to her dressing-room haven. She would be fully occupied putting herself together for the show, and I knew better than to follow after she slammed the door shut. The door didn't exactly slam so much as make a subdued
whump
; they were all fitted out with special rubber stripping on the inside edges to be less noisy. That had been Bobbi's idea when the place was being built. She maintained there was nothing more distracting for a performance than having unscheduled noises coming from backstage.

I looked over the settings for the light box and all seemed normal and unchanged. With Myrna around checking it was an ongoing chore we'd all learned to do. Of course, sometimes the lights played up while the switches
were correctly in place, so we tried not to mind too much when that happened.

Roland and Faustine arrived next through the alley entry and seemed pleased with themselves. Maybe things were smoothing out in their marriage. He called a friendly hello; she gave me a regal nod, and said, “Zo pleeeezed” at me. At first I didn't think her Russian accent was real, but I'd come to change my mind. The way she looked she was a knockout in any language.

As the purposeful bustle seemed under control, I got out of the area so the showbiz juggernaut could continue bowling along without interruption from an outsider. The bartender and waiters were getting the main room ready. Most of the chairs were properly on the floor again, and the table lights on. Chatter was up, everyone anticipating a better night for tips since we were one day closer to the weekend.

I returned to the front lobby, half-expecting to see Kroun walk in early just to be annoying.

“Tills, Boss?” Wilton reminded.

“Getting them.”

Everything was so
normal
it gave me the creeps, as though last night's deaths had not happened. The papers with their headlines hadn't changed, though, as I saw when I returned to my office.

Escott was seated at the desk, hunched over the phone. He glanced up, nodded at me, then refocused on listening. He seemed intent, but not in a bad way, so I walked around and swung open the false door front that hid the desk's safe. I had to try to ignore his conversation while spinning the combination, and it was hard. The guy was actually
chuckling
at something, and not the dry, sometimes ironic sound I was used to; this one was warm, sincere amusement. It
matched his low tone of voice, which at one point dipped even lower into something like a purr.

He wound his call up as I pulled out the cash bag for making change and relocked the safe. “Well, Vivian's sure got your head turned.”

“How did you—oh, never mind.”

“Hey, you don't talk like that to our booze supplier. If you did, we might get it for free.”

His ears went red. When it came to Vivian, he turned into a schoolboy. “Was your evening out as horrendous as these seem to indicate?” He gestured at the papers.

“Yeah, it was tough.”

“You didn't call me?”

“I thought you should stay clear. Kroun was all over this one, and he doesn't need to know what you look like. We had to do stuff; none of it made the papers, though.”

“And what is the real story?”

I sighed and sat on the couch. “Someone strangled Alan Caine backstage between shows. We had to hide it, then move him to his hotel to take the heat off the club.”

“Was it a murder-suicide, as the papers said?”

“No.” I gave Escott got the short version of events, and it still was too much bad news.

“You and Mr. Kroun seem to be getting on, then.”

“That or he's just responding extra well to my telling him we're friends. He's coming by here soon. I think he wants to talk about this mess. I don't trust him, though.”

“Very wise. He could be protecting his man, Mitchell.”

“Thought of that, though why Mitchell would want to bump Caine is anyone's guess. My money's on Hoyle. He's a guy who holds a grudge.”

“You put him as being behind the flat tires, too?”

“Him or Ruzzo. It wasn't just about trying to make a
flat; someone did a real Jack the Ripper job front and back. Rubber ribbons. Lot of anger there.”

“Dear me. What about Ruzzo strangling Caine? A possibility?”

“Ruzzo don't have the brains to act on their own, though they might have been put up to it. They're good at anything to do with intimidation, have a natural instinct for it, but need direction and specific simple instructions. They could have gotten away clean on blind luck.”

“And Miss Montana?”

“Have to find her.” I shrugged. “Women. Who can figure?”

“Indeed. Well, Shoe called me today and passed on the news he was looking after Gordy at your instigation.”

“Yeah, he'll kill himself if he doesn't get some rest. I figured Shoe was the right man to keep him safe for it. Any news?”

“Gordy was sleeping a lot. Dr. Clarson is supervising and seems to think that is quite the best thing.”

What a relief. Something was going right.

“Was any undue influence applied to assure Gordy's cooperation?”

“It was only for his own best good, I swear.”

“And how are you doing?” It wasn't a casual health query.

“No shakes tonight. So far.”

Escott was giving me a look. One of
those
kind of looks.

“I'm
fine!
” For a while I'd almost felt like my regular self. I resented the reminder that he still saw me as ailing. It had the effect of dragging me back into the sickroom.

He made an innocent “hands off” gesture and quit the chair. “Shall we open, then?”

We divvied money up between the tills, ten bucks and change for each, more than enough for the night. We carried
them down. Escott took one to the main room, I gave mine to Wilton. “Got what you need?” I asked.

“A little short on lemons. Hard to get this time of year.”

“Then we do without. It's time.”

The extra bouncers from the Nightcrawler were smoking in the lobby and greeted me with respectful nods. Derner must have handpicked them to avoid sending anyone who was personally hostile toward me. They knew who they were to look out for and would be hanging around front and back, two to a door, inside and out, eyes open for trouble.

My regular staff seemed a little walleyed about the tough newcomers, or so Wilton confided when he motioned me over to the side.

“Ain't the people we got enough?” he asked.

“You read the papers today?” I countered. “That club singer who got bumped?”

“Yeah . . .”

“These guys are to make sure that doesn't happen here.”

He gave an exaggerated nod of understanding and flashed a welcoming smile toward the toughs. “Gentlemen! If you need coffee, just ask!”

That's what I liked to see. Cooperation. I ascertained that the doorman had his fancy red coat buttoned and that the hatcheck girl was ready for business, then turned on the
OPEN
sign and the outside lights of the canopied entrance. No crowds were waiting to flood in just yet, but soon.

Before leaving I said, addressing them all, “There's a guy turning up later tonight, forties, lean, has a white streak of hair on one side—”