Flash and Filigree (12 page)

Ralph had seemed ready to say good-bye and turn on his heel. Now that she was looking at him though, he stood firm, and responded with an appreciative gaze of his own. Babs had raised one finger to her cheek and held it there in an attitude of studied curiosity.

“I don’t know,” said Ralph finally, looking hurt again and half turning away, “you seemed pretty interested.”

“Silly!” she cried, touching his arm and moving her head back with a little laugh.

“Well, let’s have a drink,” said Ralph, at a complete loss now, and too, as if looking at her made him thirsty.

“
Coffee
for me, thank you very much!” Babs said archly, and followed it with a knowing smile.

So they began to walk again, though this time, for the moment at least, Ralph carefully avoided touching her, even when they crossed the street. But at the opposite side, he put his hand on her elbow as they stepped up the curb.

“
Thank
you,” said Babs and gave him a mischievous smile, to show she knew perfectly well what he was up to.

B
ACK AT THE CLINIC,
behind the closed door of his consultation room, Dr. Eichner was having a talk with Martin Frost, private detective.

“I’m badly mistaken if there’s a connection between them,” Fred Eichner was saying, “but one thing is certain—however, let me persist in offering you a drink.”

Martin Frost raised a hand. “Not when I’m on the job, thanks, never touch it. You say he’s a
pervert
?”

Dr. Eichner poured himself another brandy, turned the glass thoughtfully in his fingers. “I wouldn’t give the point too much emphasis. The fact is, I brought it out as a . . . a character sidelight, so to speak. These deviations usually have their parallel, social or otherwise, you see.”

Martin Frost was a very large, strong looking man in his late forties, apparently not given to facial expressions of any sort—a trait that may have accounted for the flaccid spread of his great face being, as it was, without a single line or wrinkle. “I see your point,” he said, merely lowering his eyes toward the floor to show the seriousness he felt for the case.

“I want you to get a line on this man,” Dr. Eichner continued grandly. “Get-a-line-on-him. We’ll need to determine the exact nature of his association with that Juror, and so on. Naturally, you’ll want to document any evidence of perversion that may come up. If a slander case is brought, at least we’ll be ready on
that
head!”

The prospect seemed to warm the Doctor all over, and he snuggled comfortably in his chair, gently rolling the crystal glass between four extended fingers.

“By the way, what is your fee, Mr. Frost?”

“I can give you a day-rate if you like, Doctor,” said Martin Frost, clearing his throat and trading the balance of his strapping bulk from one hip to another, “of thirty-five and expenses . . . I’m not handling any other cases right now, so I could give it the full day, which is the way I like to work actually—one case at a time.”

“Good!”

“Keep things straight that way,” Martin Frost looked at his powerful hands. “ . . . and concentrate.”

“Just so! Yes. Tell me, what was your last case, Mr. Frost? If you’re at liberty to say, of course.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m not. Most of my cases are entirely confidential, you see. I don’t mind telling you, though, that I worked on the Beaton-Beaton case—you may have read about it in the papers not long ago.”

“Oh yes. Yes, of course. I was
wondering
who broke that case.”

“Well, naturally, I wasn’t alone in it. The police, I mean. Yes, there were a lot of spoons in the fire on that one all right!”

Dr. Eichner sipped from the glass with contemplative ease before he spoke again.

“Thirty-five a day? And expenses. Now, just what . . .”

Martin Frost sat forward, a white giant, clearing his throat. “By expenses, Doctor, we mean any expense we would not ordinarily, or otherwise, incur—taxi-fares, tips, camera work, tapes, small bribes—which are sometimes necessary—and so forth, depending on the nature of the case, naturally. In this instance, I foresee no undue expense—though, of course, you would get an itemized account of these—and, naturally, we try to keep them at a minimum.”

“We have ten days to break this case,” said Dr. Eichner emphatically, as though he weren’t listening. “That is the interval, you see, between today’s hearing and the next convening of the Jury.”

“Well, Doctor,” Martin Frost began, looking down once more to his hands, which turned slowly above his lap like two heavy, spitted things, “I see no reason why it can’t be done.”

Dr. Eichner stood and walked to the window, arms folded, hugging himself. Then he turned abruptly.

“Will you
take
this case?”

“Yes. Yes, I’d like to do this one.”

Martin Frost showed no hesitation in his acceptance, nor any emotion, save a deliberate twist of one rope-thick finger across his foremost right-hand knuckle, which cracked then like the split of a great hollow nut.

B
ABS AND
R
ALPH
got back into the convertible and drove two blocks to a big fashionable Drive-In, where Ralph, with his right arm stretched along the back of the seat above Babs’ shoulders, ordered beer, and Babs, as she had threatened she might, a cup of coffee.

“Do you like Boston Coffee?” she asked the young man brightly.

“You mean coffee with a lot of cream?”

“Half cream, half coffee,” she informed him.

“Yes, I guess so. Do you?”

“Love it!” She spoke with worldly defiance, as though they had been talking about hashish or heroin.

“You could have had some now,” observed Ralph, too dryly.

“Why, how do you mean?”

“Well,” he explained, “you could have ordered that instead of plain coffee.”

“Oh, not in the mood,” said Babs. “I forgot to tell you,” she confided smartly, “I’m moody!” And she beamed at him, her blue eyes all wet sparkles of starry promise.

“Listen, Babs,” he suddenly began, a plaintive softness to his voice, while her own look turned to wide-eyed surprise, as if a girl never knew what to expect, and as he was about to let his arm down to touch her shoulder, the waitress appeared with their tray, and they both seemed to withdraw slightly with little sighs of relief.

“I’ll have half of it and then make it Boston,” Babs announced a minute later as she gazed up over her cup at the boy. Ralph smiled awkwardly but said nothing, drinking his beer in well spaced gulps, glancing at his wrist-watch once or twice. When he passed the cream to Babs, she let their fingers touch lingeringly, though without seeming to notice it herself, all the while maintaining a spritely commentary on things at hand. It was as though she had religiously drawn her idea of conversation from the radio commercials, and now feared anathema if dead-air were allowed. “You’re a funny boy,” she said, not unkindly.

“How do you mean?” asked Ralph, trying to show some surprise.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Babs, looking serious to gain time, “you’re so—quiet.” Then she laughed animatedly, touching his arm to reassure him. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that! I mean, good night, the way
I
rattle on so it isn’t funny! And here
I
should be listening to
you
!”

“Well—” Ralph began uneasily.

“Eleanor Thorne—you know Eleanor, don’t you?
Excuse me!
I mean
Miss
Thorne—she says I’m just too
precocious
!”

“Oh?” said Ralph, replacing his arm on the seat behind her.

“Yes. You know Eleanor, don’t you?” asked Babs with a puzzled expression.

“She’s the Head Nurse, isn’t she?”

“Yes, and she’s really a wonderful person. So many of the girls don’t like her—they say she’s a holy-terror—but, oh, she’s just absolu—”

Ralph had lowered his arm stealthily, and he leaned forward now in a half-hearted attempt to kiss the girl, exerting some pressure to bring her toward him. But Babs pulled away quickly, flushing and looking cross.
“Oh, no,”
she said, glancing furtively around at the other cars to see if she were being observed, then turning to look at Ralph as one bewildered and forlorn. “I’m afraid I’m not the kind of a girl you think,” she said and waited.

“I only wanted to kiss you, Babs. You’re so—
so
beautiful,” he explained miserably.

“Really!” said Babs, turning away to stare out the window like a sullen princess, actually quite pleased.

“But it’s only natural, isn’t it, Babs? I mean, what’s wrong with it?”

“Well, I like
that
!” she said, looking at him again. “I mean, it isn’t as though we’re on a
date,
is it?”

“Well, let’s
have
a date,” suggested Ralph. “Tonight.”

“What, so you can kiss me? Hmph! No thanks! Thanks a lot, but no than—”

“No, I wouldn’t kiss you if you didn’t want to,” promised Ralph. “It’s just that I’d like to be
with
you and, well—I mean, we could have a lot of
fun
together.”

“Tonight!” said Babs. “Honestly! Isn’t that pretty short notice?”

“Not when two people like each other, Babs,” said Ralph, sounding wretched.

“Yes, I suppose that’s how you do with your blonde girl friend, call her up the same day you want a date!” She eyed him keenly, then turned to stare out the window again. “Well, not everyone is like that, thank you,” she said and seemed about to cry.

Ralph squeezed her shoulder gently. “Babs, please,” he begged. “I want to be with you so much—but listen, I have to go back to school now, for an exam, and, well, couldn’t I pick you up later and we could go somewhere?”

“Honestly,” exclaimed Babs, “I think it’s simply terrible, asking girls to break dates. How would you feel if I broke a date on you?”

“Oh, you already have a date then?”

“Well, really!” said Babs, truly insulted at last.

Ralph paid, and they silently drove away, after Babs, in seeming reluctance, had given him her address. A few minutes later she began to make bright conversation again, which Ralph interrupted, saying sullenly: “You just don’t like me.”

“I
do
like you,” said Babs matter-of-factly, and then, with resentment, “but you’d think I was terrible, giving you a date on such short notice. I know how boys think!”

“But I wouldn’t!” said Ralph, “I wouldn’t!”

“Hmph!” said Babs.

“Listen. Look at it this way. There’s a film I have to see in connection with a paper I’m doing in English Lit and, well, you could go along with me. That’s all. I mean, it wouldn’t have to be like an official date—just something we happen to do together, you know, like coming down to the Court House today? That wasn’t a real date, but still we were together, and it was nice. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes, it was nice,” Babs admitted wistfully. “I mean, it was so nice of you to do it. Oh, I
hope
everything is all right for Fred—Dr. Eichner. Wasn’t it terrible?”

“Please Babs,” Ralph pleaded, “just this once, and from now on I’ll ask you weeks ahead of time.”

“Well,” said Babs, sighing in surrender, “I just hope you don’t get any wrong ideas about it.”

Ralph beamed, and Babs continued, seriously emphasizing the understatement of it. “I mean, it’s
not
exactly something I’m in the habit of
doing
!”

A
T 6:30, NOT MORE
than four hours since their first meeting, Martin Frost was again talking to Dr. Eichner, this time by phone. His voice sounded thick.

“I don’t like it, Doc,” he admitted. “I
don’t
like the looks-of-it.”

“Where are you now, Frost?”

“Mayfair Room . . . Why don’t you come on down?”

“I see. Good. Now, what’s he doing—at this minute? You can see him, of course, from where you are?”

“
He’s
at the bar, sipping his martini as pretty as you please—with his
friend
!” There was a bitter edge in Frost’s thick mimicry, and an almost vindictive effeminacy. “Say, why don’t you come on down?” he added in a more normal tone.

“You
can
see him from where you’re phoning?”

“Well, I can’t actually see him from here, but he’s there all right. He’s at the bar.”

“Bad business! Listen, I’m coming down there. Now, you cover him. Get a line on him. If he leaves before I arrive, stay with him—
tail
him, eh? Contact me, at first opportunity, there at the bar. I’ll wait there for your call. Do you have it?”

“Right.”

“Get yourself a vantage point—as unobtrusive as possible. When I arrive, I’ll sit beside you, but we won’t exchange any sign of recognition. Do you understand?”

“Okay, when are you coming?”

“I’ll leave at once. I’ll be there within the quarter-hour.”

“Okay.”

“Very well then . . . Now, you’re doing a good job, Frost. Things are looking up. We may break this case sooner than you think.”

“I’ll see you here then,” said Frost in a heavy swallow. He had evidently taken his drink with him into the phone booth.

“Right you are,” said Fred Eichner.

The Mayfair Room is an off-the-dining-room lounge in one of the large, downtown hotels. A dark kidney-shaped bar spreads heavy and gleaming in a softly lit attempt at British respectability, with booths and very small tables bordering the three prominent sides. Most of these booths have little doors, which may be fastened—and several were, presenting now a sort of paneled wall, exuding through its openings at the top the flickering glow of candlelight that often patterned the ceiling with wavering, fragmentary shadows of those inside the booths.

Beneath the gradually burdening echo of music from the farther dining room, a current of treble and breathless laughter fled around the bar, flippantly spurred by the tinkles of stirring rods on icy glass.

There was a formal uneasiness about the carefully dressed people at the bar. From all appearances, about half of them were pretending to be smugly sinister, and the other half, desperately, not to notice. It was transparent, however, that the men were there through a deep, innocent nervousness, and the women, too, because of it.