Murder on Location (10 page)

“Chris, don't push me.”

“Benny, it's my warrant card that's pushing. I'm not going to wait around for press releases. Let's have it. Right bloody now.”

“Give me forty-eight hours, Chris. Then I'll tell you anything you want.”

“Are you crazy? What if your client has been following you? Have you thought of that?”

“You honestly think I'm going to get caught in a squeeze that old? If my client was following me …”

“It wouldn't be the first time.”

“Twenty-four hours. Let me have that much time. And if I turn up anything that links what happened here with my business, I'll call you at three in the morning if necessary.
Come on, that isn't asking much. I'm not asking for gold bricks.”

Savas sucked at his teeth for a minute, and as soon as he scowled, I knew I'd won. But I waited for him to say so, and acted surprised, so he wouldn't change his mind.

“What have you got besides Hayes, Chris?” I was taking a chance that he would throw me out of Room 1738, but I thought I'd give him an opportunity to show me how efficient the professionals were.

“Hotel dick found him when he investigated his not answering a wake-up call at 7:30. Looks like he's been dead since about six. It was around then that William Blacklock of Detroit saw a woman wearing big round sunglasses and a tailored suit leaving the scene: dark hair, between thirty-five and forty, five-feet three or four, hundred and twenty, hundred and thirty pounds. I've got a man on that. Sound familiar?” It did, but I decided to let Chris' boy run it down without my help. To make up for that I filled Savas in on all the things I knew about the case that didn't run across my territory and I was back on the street around noon, starving. In a glorified hamburger stand between a wax museum devoted to the history of crime and a parking lot, I ordered French fries, a glass of milk, and vanilla ice cream. The best thing about the place wasn't on the menu: there was a pay telephone in a place where the wind didn't freeze your ankles.

I dialled the number of my client and listened to the electronic buzzing while watching a freight train crawl between the legs of the Pagoda across the street.
The tower straddled the main track of the railway which crossed Clifton Hill at this point.

“Mr. Mason?”

“Yes.” I could imagine a salesman's smile on his face. And I made it go away.

“It's Benny Cooperman. I thought I'd better give you a report about what's been happening around here.”

“Glad to hear from you. Where are you calling from? I've left word with your answering service but …”

“I'm at the Falls. I've managed to trace your wife to a writer-actor fellow from Grantham called Hayes. Name mean anything to you?”

“Not off-hand. Is it important?”

“Important enough for somebody to shoot Hayes this morning. Billie left Grantham with Hayes and came here. Then she ditched him.”

“Mr. Cooperman. This thing has gone too far. I want out, and I want you off the case.”

“Okay, you're calling the tunes. But how is that going to look to a judge? You hire me, I trace Billie to Hayes, and then suddenly Hayes gets dead and you tidy me away telling me to keep the change. It stinks, Mason, and you're smart enough to see it. You're the aggrieved party in this. So far I've managed to keep your name out of it, but I can only stall the cops so long, and then I'll have to come clean. I'd make sure I knew where I was around six this morning if I were you. You've got the oldest motive in the world for shooting Hayes, and the sanctity of the home is no defence.”

“You've already talked to the police?”

“They insisted.”

“And next time you'll have to tell them about Billie and me?”

“I still have a few hours. Meanwhile, I want you to come clean with me about why you were worried about Billie disappearing. The real reason.”

“I don't understand.”

“You understand fine. We don't have time for parlour games. I'm coming to see you at your office around 6:30 tonight. And when I see you, I want to have a real heart-to-heart about lots of things besides Billie's acting career.”

“As for instance?”

“As for instance why you were worried she might have been murdered. As for instance why you're letting me play with less than half a deck. I want you to tell me the whole story when I see you, without skipping any chapters this time.”

“Look, Cooperman …”

“Save it until 6:30. I may even bring you some good news. You never know.”

EIGHT

At five o'clock I was sitting in the basement coffee shop of the Colonel John Butler Hotel. In a nearby booth an old woman, her red hair covered by a chiffon scarf, shot a disapproving glance at two skinny youngsters in T-shirts who were playing with, rather than eating, large ice cream sundaes. The woman's features were hard and set, her gloved hands rested stiffly on the leather handbag on her lap.

The Colonel John did everything on a bigger scale than the Tudor. Everything looked as though it was expected to be handled by more people and stand up to less discriminating use. The coffee shop was called “The Guard Room.” An attempt had been made to carry a military motif from the cash register to the salt and pepper shakers. On the wall crossed muskets hung benignly. Powder horns, battle prints and campaign maps extended this theme, but the waitresses were a sop to those for whom history was either rough or controversial. In their blue and white checked uniforms, with criss-cross lacing at the waist, they looked less like camp followers and more like Mother Goose's little girls. I sipped a coffee slowly.

Billie Mason walked into the restaurant alone, looking more attractive than her eight-by-ten glossy three-quarter view. I've never seen blue like the blue of her eyes and her neck was like a note held at the end of a song. She wasn't the sort of woman who could kill conversation dead when she walked into a room, but you could hear the level drop for a moment and there wasn't a man in the place who didn't lose the drift of his wife's monologue for a minute. She was about five-feet seven and weighed under 120. There was a confident glide to her walk that made the women look up from their cottage cheese as well as the men. She was obviously looking for Hayes. She hadn't heard, then, unless she was playing some kind of elaborate game that happens only in mystery novels or on television: he knows that she knows that he knows that she knows. She frowned prettily and stood in the aisle wondering what to do next. I got up, crawled over my bunched coat on the padded bench beside me and went over to her.

“Mrs. Mason?” She didn't like the
Mrs
. It was clear warning. “My name's Benny Cooperman. I'm a detective from Grantham. I'm sorry but your husband has asked me to find you. He's very worried about you.” I kept talking but I could see as her face darkened that she'd stopped listening. Her smile went inside the house.

“I knew he'd try to find me,” she said, tilting her head away from me. It looked like a summer squall had hit her features. “The creep. Why doesn't he leave me alone?”

“Let's talk about it. I'm sitting over there.”

“I can't. I'm meeting somebody. You'd better leave me alone. I don't want a scene.”

“That's right. Nobody does. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

“I told you. I'm waiting for someone.”

“I know. He won't be coming. Please sit down, have a cup of coffee and I'll tell you all about it.” I started toward the table and she followed. I pulled out a chair and climbed over my coat again.

She was wearing a fawn-coloured suede jacket and skirt with a soft blue blouse under it. Her hair was ash blonde and as unreal as angels.

“You're not big enough to take me back to Grantham,” she said rather awkwardly, getting used to the face across the table. I checked myself in the mirror behind me. It was a good enough face, the eyes hazel and fairly honest. I made them look sympathetic.

“He's worried,” I said.

“Worried about my commissions. Worried because I'm not there putting out for his friends. Where'd that ever get me? Maybe he'd give me another Salesman of the Month award. He could fix it. He could fix anything.”

“I think he cares about you apart from your sales record.”

“In a doughnut, he cares! Oh, all right. So he cares. I feel sorry for him, but he's
so
… Lowell. I can't describe it. If I told him I'd dreamed of a Spanish castle in the clouds, Lowell would start talking about plumbing and upkeep. Don't get me started on Lowell. There's no way
I'm going back to that.” For a minute I thought the storm was passing over. Her brow smoothed out, and she stopped fidgeting. She then looked up at me suddenly: “Have you told him where I am?”

“How could I? I just found you. You're the first to know.”

“Hell, Mr. Cooperman, I didn't even know I was lost.”

“He thought you'd been killed. That's how worried he is. Why would he think a thing like that? Do they play rough, those real-estate pals of his?” The beginnings of a smile died at the corner of her lips.

“They'd grind my bones to make their bread. They can't find out where I am. I'm finished with all that. In a week I won't even remember any of their names. I'm next door to the biggest break an actress ever had. Don't muck it up for me, Mr. Cooperman.

“I'd do a lot to please a lady, Mrs. Mason, but it's your old man that's paying the bills. I'll have to turn you in.”

That didn't please her, but she accepted it as reasonable. And she didn't take it personally. From time to time she looked into the mirror to see if David Hayes had come into the restaurant.

“David won't be coming,” I said flatly. She looked up at me with something of a challenge in her face.

“Is that a clever detective guess? How do you know about David anyway?”

“I was in his room when you called. In fact, you spoke to me, not David.” I let that hang there between us for a few moments before I went on. “David was out.”

“You make me sick. Why don't you get an honest job in a factory or greasing cars? I don't know how you can touch yourself after the things you've done. I'm going. Please don't try to follow me.”

“Sit still. I'll tell you about David. About why he can't come.”

“It's because he's drunk again. Poor David. He's not really a lush. It's just that … Anyway, I have news for him from Ed Noonan. Why are you looking at me that way? Why don't you say anything? You make me nervous.”

“David's dead,” I said simply. I could see that it hit her, but it was a glancing blow; she didn't fully take in the news.

“That's not funny, Mr. Cooperman. What were you doing in his room? He doesn't know where I've been. Where is he, and why didn't he come himself?”

“I told you. I'm sorry. David's dead. He was killed this morning in his room at the hotel.” Her eyes suddenly had bigger whites, and then she looked disappointed, as though David's death was a dirty trick someone was playing on her. She looked cross, almost sulky. By now, though, I think she believed me. She didn't say anything, she just sat there watching me play with the empty cream container. I took my wadded paper napkin, pressed it down inside the fluted plastic and bore down on it with some force. When I removed it, the napkin had taken the shape of the empty container. Billie Mason watched and neither of us said anything.

After about three minutes he hand reached across to mine and took the creamer away from me, as though I was her child. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me, please.”

I told her about Tuesday night, about coming back this morning and finding him dead. “I'm sorry,” I finished.

“I just can't believe it. People like David don't just die.”

“He didn't just die. He was murdered. Can you think of anyone with a reason for killing him?”

“This is a B movie. I can't believe what I'm hearing. Why do you say it was murder?”

“That's what the police are calling it. I saw him, and that's what I'd call it.”

“It's like somebody strangled a teddybear,” she said. There were tears in her eyes now, and she tried wiping them away with a table napkin. It was unequal to the work, so I handed her an almost clean handkerchief. She blew her nose in it like it was her own and I told her to keep it.

“I was so very fond of him,” she explained, trying to smile over the tear tracks on both cheeks.

“I heard.” The smiled went indoors again.

“Lowell. Did Lowell tell you about David?”

“No. As far as I know, he knew nothing about that.”

“It's just as well. Things are complicated enough.”

“He wants you back.”

“I know, I know.” She was nibbling at the end of a long fingernail. “I just need a little more time.”

“Time for what? Time to strike it rich in the movies? Come on. You should know the odds of that.” She held up all ten manicured fingers like redcoats on parade and reviewed them like a stern field marshal. “Where are you staying?” I tried to slip that in.

“I can't tell you that, Mr. Cooperman. Don't be silly.”

“But I can always get to you through Ed Noonan, right?” The redcoats scattered off the parade ground and the field marshal glared at me.

“No! I mean, why do you say that? I hardly know him.”

“But he knows you well enough to cover up for you. Nowhere in your file does it refer to your marital status, but he called you Mrs. Mason when I talked to him. Maybe you know him better than you care to say.” Red-tipped fingers were crawling up over the edge of the table and hiding behind the coffee cup and saucer.

“Ed Noonan? You should make a comedy, Mr. Cooperman. Ed's just a little man with hot coals where his eyes should be. I hate a man that slavers. But, yes, you're right; he will get a message to me if you need me.” Fingers were now on the ramparts of her hair, patting, flattening, reshaping a curl near her left ear. “Are you going to try to find out who killed David?”