The Big Kiss-Off of 1944: A Jack LeVine Mystery (14 page)

“M’am,” I said politely.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” Miss Durham bit her thin lip so hard it turned white under her teeth. “There’s one on the other side that runs outside the offices of Mr. Miller and Mr. Davies. Over here you follow the outside corridor all the way to a window marked: ‘Emergency exit.’ There’s a fire escape that runs along the west side of the building and runs past …” she could just nod her head.

“Past the president’s office?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” I shut the notebook. “I’ll do my work and let you get back to yours. Thanks so much.”

I left her office, winked at the blonde and walked to the outer corridor, then turned so I could sec into Miss Durham’s office again. A door at the rear of her office was closing and I could see a flash of heel as she ran down the private corridor to her chief’s office. She was a hell of a secretary.

Since I couldn’t dash out to Savage’s fire escape without maybe someone wanting to take another look at my credentials, I had to do twenty minutes of inspectorial pantomime. I tapped walls, took fibers off rugs and chairs and put them into a little envelope, went into the executive crapper and flushed, crawled around on my knees, and was in every way the dutiful, buglike man from downtown. No one spoke to me, except Miss Durham, who offered a cup of coffee, hovered nervously for a few minutes, and then faded away.

I knocked on Miller’s office and was permitted to bounce around on his fire escape, then I hit my knees again and looked over some wiring. Five minutes of that and I returned to the reception area, to examine the fire hose and take copious notes. Inventing functions for myself while appearing to follow a routine list of checks and double checks began to become very disorienting so I went out to the stairwell, locked the fire door, and killed five minutes sitting on the stairs. I emerged jotting down some more notes and began the long walk to the fire escape, the presidential fire escape.

Which is where all the fun began.

Happily, I could get to the escape without directly passing the nervous glance of Miss Durham; if she followed me out there, the whole deal was queered. But the outer corridor ran past the large outer office and then took a right angle which brought it parallel to the west wall of Savage’s office. Miss Durham’s office was in the rear left of the outer office, with her private corridor running west to the president’s office. She couldn’t see me unless she meant to; as I stepped quickly past the outer office, her door was closed.

The long corridor, like she said, ended up at a window with a red light over it and a rusted sign that said “Emergency Fire Exit Only.” The window was pebbled and faced a rear courtyard, so no light was refracted, only grayness. I pushed at it and the window slid easily upward, almost too easily, as if the runners had been freshly oiled. I leaned out and immediately caught a huge cinder, the size of a snow-flake, in my left eye. Dabbing at the eye with a handkerchief, I swung my right foot over the ledge, sat straddled, then turned facing the window from the outside and pulled my left foot over. The window slid shut and LeVinc was on the presidential fire escape, forty feet from Savage’s window.

I was now at the back of the Quaker National Building, all grimy exposed brick. There was that hollow roar you get in the courtyards of office buildings: a dull din and vibration of ventilation, updraft, and late afternoon traffic hum. Plus the inevitable smell of coffee-shop grease: this afternoon’s hamburgers and fries wallowing in this morning’s fat. I found myself gagging, getting the backwash of that fried egg sandwich supreme, and tried to concentrate hard on the role of building inspector. I took out a little file and chipped away at some rust, then stood up to test the weight by sort of jumping up and down without leaving my feet, like a fat man having a tantrum. The metal rattled a bit and I broke out in a cold sweat before taking out my little book and jotting down some notes like: “FE, test weight. OK.” Whoever might be watching would be convinced and impressed. Correction:
was
convinced and impressed. Impressed enough to try and kill me.

Don’t ask me who it was—I’ve never met the guy—but someone was paying him royally to develop a strong distaste for me. I had just turned aside when the first explosion of gunfire did a fine job on some brick two inches to my left—approximately the spot where my generous and forgiving heart had been patiently beating a split second before. Right off, I figured the guy was trying to get my attention. To signal him that he had it, I hit the floor, in this case rusted metal slats which scraped my knuckles raw and jarred my bones to a fine powder. A second and third shot ripped into the brick a foot over my head. I stood up, ran two feet and crashed to the floor again, shaking the whole fire escape, as a fourth shot missed by so little as to put a buzz in my ear that stayed there a week. I was a sitting duck, crawling desperately toward Savage’s window. He must’ve heard all this by now. The shots echoed cavernously off the three walls of the courtyard and I could hear the first confused shouts of bored office workers suddenly slammed awake. I lay still for a second, then leaped wildly forward—a bald Jewish bullfrog—as a shot flew over my ankles and creased some more brick. Three feet from Savage’s window, I saw the great man himself for the first time, a gray eminence, alert and startled, looking out the window, absolutely fearless. He was opening the window as I bellowed, “Watch out,” and a sixth shot shattered the top pane, missing the banker. I dove through the open half and landed on top of Savage, sending both of us to the floor.

“Who the hell are you?” he grunted.

“Stay down,” I said. “There’s a sniper out there.” Our hearts were beating together like conga drums; under other circumstances, it might have been romantic. I heard the first sirens, then another shot ripped through Savage’s window, spraying us with fragments of glass.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” Savage roared. He was very angry and goddamn impressive sounding. We lay waiting, breathing hard, and he finally said, “Please get off me,” so I rolled over.

Which is when I first noticed Kerry Lane.

She was cowering behind a couch when she recognized me and gasped. I just had to smile. At least I wasn’t getting shot at for a bum hunch.

“Hi, Kerry.”

She smiled wanly. “You found me.”

Savage looked incredulously from me to Kerry. “Anne, you know this man?”

She came crawling out from under the couch as the door flew open and Madge Durham came bursting in.

“There were shots … Oh my God!” She saw broken glass and three people on the floor. “Are you all right, Mr. President?”

“Yes, yes,” Savage said testily, dusting off his pants. “Madge, get those curtains shut and watch yourself. Stay out of window range.”

“We’re probably all right now,” I said.

Madge tiptoed around and pushed a button on Savage’s desk. The curtains silently came together.

“Should I call the police?” she asked. Savage looked at me and I shook my head no.

“No, Madge. Get maintenance to replace those panes immediately. If the police ask for me, tell them it’s absolutely impossible today. Perhaps tomorrow.” He looked at me. I smiled and nodded. We were in business.

Madge looked at me. “You’re not a building inspector.”

“That’s right.” She looked desolate.

“Madge,” Savage said slowly and evenly, each syllable rounded by a lifetime of giving orders, “you must speak to no one of this. And the panes must be replaced in the next five minutes. This is of the highest urgency.”

“Yes, sir,” she nodded and left.

Savage got up and went to the couch, sitting down on it heavily. The girl I knew as Kerry got up and sat beside him. I wanted a little distance, so I took a chair across the room.

“Anne, how do you know this man?”

“He’s a private investigator I hired in New York when it started.”

“What does he know?” They were having a private chat. The detective as cleaning lady.

“Not much.”

“Plenty,” I said pleasantly.

Kerry stared at me. “Mr. LeVine, what’s happened?”

“Well, as you might have guessed from my entrance, this case is pretty important to some people. But you knew that already, right?”

“All right,” Savage growled, “let’s cut all the crap and find out what the story is. First, I’d like to thank you for saving my life. Thank you. Second, what is your precise involvement in and knowledge of this matter? Third, what were you doing crawling around on my fire escape?”

I took a good long look at Eli Whitney Savage, a spectacular product of the good life. If the
Mayflower
slept with Mount Rushmore, Savage would have been the result. His eyes were the deep blue of a Greek sea, his hair going white over the temples but otherwise bluish-gray. His skin was flawless, never touched by a blemish; he had the nose and chin of Jack Armstrong. Beneath the three-hundred-dollar suit, monogrammed DePinna shirt, and dark blue Sulka tie, Savage’s body looked taut and trim. An American beauty rose, every inch of him: stem to stern, ass to elbow. When he looked at you, it was clear that you were being measured by a banker’s yardstick: was this chump good for a thousand bills at nine percent?

I breathed deeply and went into the soft-shoe.

“First off, you’re welcome, but the chances are good that if I wasn’t out on the escape, your life wouldn’t have been in danger; not just yet, that is, if I’m figuring things right. Second, my name is Jack LeVine, born Jacob Levine on Orchard Street in 1906, and I’m a private investigator operating out of New York City. In that capacity, I was hired by your daughter.…” I looked at the two of them and smiled. “I’m correct? She is your daughter?”

“Yes, yes. Anne Brooke Savage,” the banker said impatiently.

“Just wanted to confirm it. I was hired by your daughter to scare off some blackmailers. She was afraid they’d blow the whistle on her to the producer of
GI Canteen
, a Mr. Warren Butler. Now, I’d guess she was afraid they’d tell you and I’d guess, furthermore, that they have. Hence her visit to Philadelphia, after a lengthy absence?”

Anne Brooke Savage, chorus girl, nodded.

“Finally, I was on the fire escape because I was unable to get in the front door. Miss Durham serves you very, very well, Mr. Savage.”

He allowed himself a smile. “She’s been with me for a long time. A very loyal and courageous woman.”

“Aces,” I agreed.

“How did you find out I was here, Mr. LeVine?” asked Kerry. Dark circles were smeared beneath her eyes. Coming home to Philly must’ve been murder on her.

There was a knock at the door and Savage put a finger to his lips; two maintenance men came in respectfully, carrying panes of glass. Miss Durham followed.

Savage stood up. “Let’s go to the dining room. Madge, some coffee, please.”

“They called,” she said obliquely.

“And?” he asked.

“A man with a rifle was spotted on the roof of Prudential. He got away.”

Savage looked at me, then gestured to a side door which led into a small but elegant room with a beautiful walnut table and a crystal chandelier. The four of us walked inside.

“The Ritz,” I said, ever the commoner. We took seats near the end; Miss Durham walked into the adjacent kitchen.

“Anne had asked you something, LeVine,” Savage said evenly.

“She asked me how I found out. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t hard. It was lucky. An assistant stage manager at the Booth told me the girl had been skittish about the possibility that
GI Canteen
might play in Philadelphia. I connected that fact and her going home, wherever that might be—probably Philly, I thought—with this picture.” I unfolded the news clipping and slid it across the table. “I found this in the blackmailers’ hideout on Long Island. I couldn’t believe that two people had gotten murdered over a simple shakedown of a chorus girl.”

“Two people?” Kerry asked.

“Very early Saturday morning, a fella by the name of Al Rubine came to my apartment, very scared, and told me where the films were stashed. Not only was it a bum steer, but Rubine was dead five hours after he told me.”

“Rubine?” Savage said contemplatively, asking himself a quiet question.

“You know him?” I asked.

“A man by that name, or something very close to it, contacted me about four days ago.”

“In connection with the blackmail of your daughter?”

Savage looked at Anne. Anne looked at me. I looked at Savage.

“Tell him, father. He’s very trustworthy …”

“Like your other friends, Anne?” His tone made you reach for a fur coat.

“I think we’ve covered all that ground, father,” she said unawed. “I don’t think we have to squabble in front of Mr. LeVine.” Suddenly I thought of Katie Hepburn in
The Philadelphia Story
, and it all seemed very right, and I wanted things to turn out just great for Miss Anne Savage.

“Prodigal daughter,” I said, the cool professional. “I see it every day. Your daughter’s a fine girl, Mr. Savage, and in my business you learn to judge character. If you can’t, your life expectancy tops out at about thirty-five. She got caught in a mistake, not an uncommon one for rich girls who want to experience the world a little, who get bored with having everything done for them. What’s uncommon is the way she stuck up for you, protected you every step of the way, until I had to crawl around on a fire escape and take more flak than the Fifth Army to find out she was your daughter.” Anne was sniffling. “You ought to be proud of Annie, Mr. Savage, very proud.” Curtain. When I’m good, I’m very good.