The Big Kiss-Off of 1944: A Jack LeVine Mystery (7 page)

My search of the “master” bedroom, a twelve-by-eighteen box which had once been painted coral, uncovered nothing. There was a rocking chair with a torn undershirt draped across one of its arms. When I touched the arm, it fell right off. An empty condom box—my respect for this guy was steadily increasing—lay under the bed. I opened the closet and found a half-dozen empty wire hangers. Then I went into the kitchen.

On the kitchen floor I found Governor Thomas E. Dewey.

He was neatly clipped and trimmed, and I found him shaking hands with a banker named Eli W. Savage. The newspaper photo was resting under a chair leg and it struck me as the second interesting discovery of the afternoon, the first being “Friend of the Arts’” no show. I couldn’t tell what newspaper it was from, although Philly seemed a good enough bet. There was a fat caption which read: “New York Governor Thomas E. Dewey was greeted at the Philadelphia Bankers Association dinner last night by Quaker National Bank prexy Eli W. Savage, chairman of the association. Savage is being mentioned as a contender for a spot in Dewey’s Cabinet, should the Republican hopeful go to the White House. The governor stressed the invaluable contribution the banking community has made to the war effort.” Amen. If they stopped bothering me about my bum checks, they could all be canonized as saints. Bastards.

I sat down on a kitchen chair and looked the clipping over carefully, checking both sides to see if there were any markings or notes. There weren’t. On the back of the clipping was half an advertisement for a sporting goods store—“Tennis Racket Bazaar”—but I somehow didn’t think that tennis was the clue. It was this picture of Dewey and a banker and it didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense any way you figured it. Except maybe one way, and that meant somebody was playing a very high-stakes blackmail game, maybe with a banker, big enough to pull him away from a ten-grand date with Warren Butler. It didn’t seem like a very satisfactory way for this case to stand right now, but as long as the somebody had his Kerry Lane film stashed away in those cartons of shakedown bait, he could always call us again, on a rainy day.

There was a phone in the kitchen. I picked it up and was delighted to find it was still connected, so I dialed the operator and got her to connect me with Warren Butler’s office.

“Warren Butler Productions,” came eight syllables of careful modulation. Sitting in this Smithtown dump, I felt like I was calling Hollywood.

“Eileen, fire of my loins, tell Mr. Butler that Jack LeVine is on the line.”

“Oh yes, Mr. LeVine. Mr. Butler told me that if you called, I should ask you to come directly to his office. He doesn’t wish to discuss any aspect of this matter over the telephone.”

“Tell him if he doesn’t come to the phone, he’ll never see me in that office again. This isn’t the goddamn movies.”

“You don’t have to berate me, Mr. LeVine. I merely told you what Mr. Butler’s request was.” Eileen sounded a little hurt. Just a little.

“I’m not blaming you, dear. Just put him on.”

There was a pause, while I hung suspended in the limbo of “hold,” on the borderline between communication and extinction. I listened to a dull kind of hum. As long as it was on “Friend of the Arts’” tab, I could wait for a while.

Butler sounded agitated when he broke into the hum. “Jack, for Christ’s sake, I don’t want to handle any of this over the phone.”

“The cameras aren’t rolling yet, Mr. Butler, so calm down. Stop acting like it’s high espionage.”

“This case may be a joke to you, Mr. LeVine, but I don’t like being hounded by blackmailers. I think it’s damned serious.”

“Al Rubine doesn’t think it’s all that serious.”

“Who the hell is Al Rubine?”

“He just might be the ‘Friend of the Arts’ we all know and love. Also, he’s taken a powder.”

I was back on hold and after Butler’s hysterics, I kind of preferred it. The phone hummed to me a little more and when Butler came back about a half-minute later, he was a little more subdued.

“Sorry, Jack. Eileen came in with a telegram and I had to put you off for a bit. Now, exactly what is the story? I’ve had a madhouse of a day, so you’ll have to excuse my snappishness.”

“Don’t worry, you’re always aces in my book, Mr. Butler. The story is this: I showed up in Smithtown, which is a hell of place to be even if it isn’t ninety-five degrees, a little after twelve o’clock. Number fourteen Edgefield looked deserted so I had a little chat with a lady who lives at number twelve.”

“What’s her name?”

“It’s not important. She told me she used to see two pretty unpleasant-looking mugs hanging around number fourteen on an irregular basis. The house doesn’t look too lived in, so it seems to check out. On Monday and Tuesday of this week, there was just one of them around. He came back last night, loaded up his car with cartons, took one suitcase and blew. The lady says he was driving very fast. The house is empty, except for a lot of boxes and newspapers lying around.”

“Did you recover the films?”

“I said the house was empty.”

“Jack, I’ve got to run,” Butler said abruptly. “If you can be here by around six, I’ll pay you the rest of your fee. See you then.” The man was a whiz at getting off the phone. Having nothing better to do, I hung up on my end.

T
HE DRIVE BACK
to New York wasn’t all that interesting: weeds, gas tanks, and sun-baked concrete. I suffer in the heat and it was well over ninety. I also suffer from ignorance and what I didn’t know about this case was enough to fill up a library wall. If “Friend of the Arts” was leaving this line alone because he had a bigger sucker caught on the other, there wasn’t much to do but wait. Maybe not even that. Kerry and Butler might just say the hell with it and go to the police, but that was a long shot. I could be a sweet guy and tell Kerry that the producer knew someone in his show was being shaken down, yet I had a feeling that that wouldn’t change anything.

Maybe the case was just beginning.

I reached home by a little after four, giving me time enough to stand in a cold shower, knock off some Blatz and a salami sandwich, and lie down to stare at the ceiling and ponder nothing more profound than getting in a good Friday night of poker. It didn’t take a long time to figure out my needs. I was a basic model 1944 prole. Given plenty of beer and cigarettes, a sympathetic woman, the Yankees on a winning streak and poker at the end of my week, LeVine could be made happy. A simple man. I was very content working straights and full houses in my brain; when I realized that I had to go see Butler again at six, it was like awaking to discover that I had wet the bed.

Halfway into dressing, I heard the phone ring and hopped into the living room with my pants around my knees, like a guy in a potato race. I was pretty sure that Kerry Lane would be at the other end and wasn’t disappointed.

“Mr. LeVine, am I disturbing you?”

“No, I was just hopping around the house.”

“I see.” She didn’t know how to take it, so she didn’t take it all. “You sound jovial. I hope that’s a good sign.”

“It’s not a good sign or a bad sign, Miss Lane. When I got to Smithtown, there was nobody home. Fenton’s pal had taken off the night before.”

“With the films, of course?”

“With all kinds of things. This guy plays in the big leagues and I have a strong feeling that you and me are pretty small potatoes to him.”

“Perhaps. Did you get his name?”

“Maybe. You ever hear the name Al Rubine?”

“No.” There was a longish pause, so I held the phone with my neck and took the opportunity to pull my pants on.

“Do you think we should just tell the police?”

“Tell them what?”

“Well … that Fenton had a partner who probably killed him, and that the man is on the loose and dangerous.”

“Miss Lane, a blackmailer knows fifty people with perfectly good and honorable reasons for killing him. Fenton probably shared that house in Smithtown with a partner. Once Fenton was killed, it made sense for his partner to get out with the firm’s assets intact. It’s not inconceivable that the partner killed him, but I’m sure as hell not going to the police about it with zero evidence. They’re going to want to know why I’m interested. And my interest—and here’s the ironic part—is that I was hired by you to keep the matter from going to the police. You want their help, be my guest. But that’s where I get off.”

“So you’re writing me off?”

“I’m not doing anything of the kind. All I’m saying is Rubine, or whoever, seems to have bigger fish to fry. We’ll give him a few weeks. In the meantime, there’s nothing much to do but sit and hope he gets hit by a truck.”

“But what if he goes to Butler?”

What the hell. If I didn’t trust her now, I might as well drop the case. She was holding out on me, that was for sure, but I didn’t think she was doing so to harm me. If I explained things right, maybe she wouldn’t get hysterical.

“Miss Lane, he
has
gone to Butler.”

I heard a kind of “fffft” on the other end, a constricted kind of gasp.

“Good God.”

“Now look, Miss Lane, you’re still in good shape. All Butler knows is that somebody in his show made some films, but he doesn’t know who.”

“But he will know.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. By funny coincidence, Butler called me to get the films back for him.”

“You’re working for him?”

“I’m working for me, Miss Lane. He paid me real money to get those movies, but all he wants is to get this guy off his back. And that’s all you want, or do you want something else?”

“No.” Her voice was very, very small.

“Okay. Now you and Butler want the films back. If I pick up the films, there’s a very good chance nobody will ever see them. If you want I can destroy the prints and screw up the negatives so badly that Butler couldn’t tell you from Minnie Mouse, if he wanted to make prints from them. If he does want prints, then I don’t know what the hell kind of a deal he’s pulling. As far as I know, he wants to pay somebody off and keep his good name as a gentleman of Broadway.”

“God, you’re so rational, Mr. LeVine.”

“Private dicks aren’t known for being great abstract thinkers, Miss Lane, but we can get around town without a map. Now I’ll try and speak to you on Monday. Spend the weekend with your boyfriend; go boating in the park or something. Just don’t drive yourself nuts over this. We’ll find a way out.”

“Thanks for everything, Mr. LeVine.”

“I haven’t done anything but walk into some empty rooms.”

“No,” and she still sounded very scared, “you’ve been a real comfort.”

“That’s very kind. Good night, and take it easy.”

B
UTLER’S RECEPTIONIST
waved me right into the main office. “He’s expecting you.”

I knocked once and walked in. Butler was at his little wall safe.

“Here for your winnings, Jack?” I got the marquee smile.

“Something like that.” I settled myself into one of those burgundy chairs and lit up a cigarette. “Mr. Butler, do you know a Philadelphia banker named Eli W. Savage?”

Butler had his back to me, reaching deep into the safe.

“Excuse me, Jack. One second.” He pulled out some bills and closed the safe and pushed the Gershwin picture back to the wall. When he walked back to the desk, I realized that he had a slight twitch in his eyelid. I hadn’t noticed that the first time.