The Yankee Club (13 page)

Dashiell Hammett, in a blue pin-striped suit and black Italian shoes, leaned over the deck railing. With a smoldering cigarette in his hand, he peered through opera glasses into a topiary garden below.

I shook my head. “Someone who beat tuberculosis shouldn’t smoke.”

“I know, right?” She lit another cigarette. “He hasn’t been a Pinkerton or carried a gun in more than ten years. He wants to help you find the killer.” She grabbed my wrist. “Don’t let him. I don’t want him to end up like …”

“Like me.”

“Or Mickey.”

Lillian wasn’t angry with me. Her behavior reflected concern over Dashiell Hammett, her love for as long as I’d known them.

During our Pinkerton days in the Omaha office, Dashiell became an inspiration to me—as a detective, a writer, a man who cared about people less fortunate. “I’ll do my best.”

Her expressive doe eyes softened. “I’m sorry about Mickey and you getting shot.” She gazed around at the Dalrymple mansion opulence. “I’m also sorry about Laura.”

So was I. Outside, flecks of gray shone in Dashiell’s thick hair and stylish thin mustache. He stared intently through the opera glasses.

I stopped beside him. “Shakespeare in the park?”

“Droll. Very droll.” He held the glasses to his side. “I thought I recognized your voice.” He pointed to the garden where guests, mostly couples, strolled along a redbrick path lit with flickering torches. “See the guy in the tan suit? Who wears tan to a cocktail party?”

The man stood in the shadows of the topiary garden gazing up at the house. Shadows hid his face. “You going to bust him for lack of fashion?”

“He’s casing the joint.”

I took another look. “Are you sure?”

“What do you mean, am I sure? If it wasn’t for me, you’d probably still be locked in that Omaha grain elevator. Trust me on this. Once a Pinkerton, always a Pinkerton.”

Dashiell was right. The man was as inconspicuous as garters on a racehorse.

When the man disappeared behind an elaborately trimmed green elephant, Dashiell set the opera glasses next to a half-full martini on a table behind him. “Wait here.” Taking a long drag on the cigarette, he hurried down the stairway to the topiary garden.

He dashed from shrub to shrub, drawing closer to the man in tan. Dashiell hid behind a bush shaped like a monkey. Cigarette smoke curled from behind the tail, drawing attention to his presence.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. He’d lost his touch since Omaha.

The man in the tan suit crossed the path, torchlight flickering across his face. I grabbed the opera glasses, focused on his face, and stopped breathing. It was Laura’s stalker, the same man who followed us from the bus station to The Diamond House. This guy was no security guard or party guest. He certainly appeared to be casing the Dalrymple mansion, but why had he
followed Laura?

I limped down the stairway, one difficult step at a time. I made my way down the walkway with growing concern. Beside a thick hedge trimmed in the shape of a hippopotamus, I looked up and down the path. Where was Dashiell?

“Pssst.” With one foot on a wrought-iron bench, Dashiell crouched behind a green turtle bush and waved me over.

I ducked beside him, determined not to register concern over Laura’s stalker. I thought about reporting him to the plentiful supply of guards mingling with guests. They’d call the cops, who’d toss him in jail. I wouldn’t find out if he was a threat to Laura. “Maybe he’s one of the guards,” I whispered. I didn’t believe that for a minute.

“You think I was born yesterday?” He climbed onto the bench. His unbuttoned suit coat displayed a holstered pistol with an ivory handle, like the one he carried in Omaha. “Get back. He’ll walk by, and I’ll grab him.”

Before I could stop him, Dashiell jumped down. He lunged past the bush and grabbed the arm of a man twice the size of Laura’s stalker. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you …”

The flickering torchlight revealed boxer scars similar to my father’s. This guy, who wasn’t Laura’s stalker, was a heavyweight, Dashiell a middleweight at best.

The angry man jerked his arm from Dashiell’s grip and turned to a pretty girl in a white dress behind him. “I’ll handle this, dollface.”

Dashiell held up both hands. “I’m terribly sorry. I thought you were … someone else. Let me buy you and the young lady a drink.”

“It’s an open bar.” He took a menacing step toward Dashiell.

I stuck the end of my cane against the center of the man’s chest and stopped his advance. “Back off, friend.”

The girl tugged on his arm. “Let’s get back to the party, Bernie. That guy’s drunk.”

Dashiell nodded. “She’s right. I am drunk.”

Bernie slapped the end of the cane away then pointed a thick gnarled finger at Dashiell. “If you ever lay your paws on me again, I’ll rip off your mustache and jam it down your throat.” He slipped a protective arm around the girl and escorted her back to the stairway.

Dashiell dropped down on the bench and buried his head in his hands.

In all the commotion, Laura’s stalker had disappeared. I wanted to find out whether he was a threat to Laura, but I wouldn’t let Dashiell see my interest in the guy.

Knowing Dashiell used real-life people, from his Pinkerton days, as characters in his novels, I sat beside him. “Bernie might make a nice villain in your next novel.”

Dashiell grumbled a response. He rose, jammed both hands into his trouser pockets, and headed for the stairs.

I limped after him. By the time I made it back to the deck, Dashiell was at a table smoking a cigarette and sipping a martini. He was a million miles away. I sat across from him, trying to think of something comforting to say.

He blew a plume of smoke and watched it drift into the night air. “Lillian talked to you, didn’t she?”

“She’s worried, that’s all.”

“She thinks I can’t handle myself anymore. Now you do as well.”

“Lillian doesn’t think that. I don’t either.” I thought back to the day we met. “You once told me something I’ll never forget. You said carrying a gun and solving crimes doesn’t make you a man. You’re one of the country’s most successful writers. You don’t need to be a detective.”

He took a sip of the martini. “You close to finding out what happened to Mickey?”

“The papers got it wrong. I’m not investigating Mickey’s murder. I’m just waiting for my leg to heal before I head back to Florida.”

His scowl revealed he didn’t believe me. I felt guilty lying to my old friend, but I was keeping what I learned to myself. Only Laura had seen pieces to the puzzle of Mickey’s last case.

“Lillian thinks I’m trying to recapture my youth. Truth is, I’m a crime novelist who hasn’t solved a crime in more than a decade.” He crushed the cigarette in an ashtray. “I could use another drink.”

“If I had two bits for every time I heard you say that, I’d be a rich man.”

Lillian set martinis on the table in front of Dashiell and me. “You
are
a rich man, Jake.” She sat and held his hand. “What are you boys up to?”

I took a sip. “Admiring the Dalrymple topiary garden.”

Lillian laughed. “You never were a good liar, Jake Donovan.”

She was right. I needed to find the stalker before Laura arrived. I left the martini and slid back the chair. “I’m staying at the Carlyle. Give me a call. Maybe we can get together for dinner.”

Lillian kissed my cheek. “That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, Dash?”

“A delight.” He finished my drink.

I left my two friends, hoping I’d convinced Dashiell to ignore his longing to return to detective work. Inside the large hall, I mingled, searching for the man in the tan suit. In spite of his attire, he proved to be surprisingly elusive. At the door to the music room I nearly collided with a woman with red curly hair.

“Jake Donovan.” A snug purple gown made the big-boned woman resemble a ripe eggplant. She wrapped me in a bear hug like we were long-lost cousins. She took my arm and
practically dragged me into the music room. “I know you’re friends with Cole Porter. Introduce me. Please! I’d be perfect for the new song he sang earlier.”

“ ‘Anything Goes’?”

“You rascal.” A bawdy grin crossed her face. “I’ll be grateful, but not that grateful, Slim.” She clapped me on the back and let out a head-turning laugh.

Now I remembered where we met. She appeared in a play with Laura several years ago and always called me Slim. In spite of her flaming red hair and booming voice, her name escaped me. I didn’t want her hanging on my arm all night. “I’d be happy to introduce you.” I hoped her name came to me by the time we reached the piano. I took my time limping across the room.

Cole laughed at something Frankie had just said. He looked up and applauded. “Jake. I almost sent out a search party.”

The woman looked ready to burst, but I still couldn’t remember her name. “I’d like you to meet … a wonderful actress—”

“Ethel Merman.” Cole rose and kissed her hand. “Why haven’t we ever worked together? Tell Jake what the press said about your voice.”

“That I can hold a note longer than Chase National Bank.” Her laughter drowned out Cole’s. “Scuttlebutt says you’re working on a new play.”

Cole stepped back and framed Ethel with both hands. “You’d be perfect for the lead.”

Applause came from the lobby. I excused myself and left Cole and Ethel Merman discussing his new play.

Frankie snatched a drink from a tray as a waiter passed by. He followed me, slurring his words. “Turned out to be a ssswell party.”

In his condition, Frankie wouldn’t be much help confronting Laura’s stalker. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself. Why don’t you stay here? Just don’t overdo the booze. You’re my driver, after all.”

Frankie held up the glass. “My last one.”

Sure. Outside the music room I glimpsed Laura and her leading man, followed by Dalrymple, Karl Friedman, and several security guards. As they drifted through the guests and fellow celebrities, Laura caught my eye. She weaved through the crowd, accepting best wishes from dozens of friends and admirers. To my dismay, her fiancé came with her.

She squeezed my hand with the tenderness of an older sister. “We’re so glad you made it, aren’t we, Spencer?”

The charm Dalrymple displayed in my hospital room dripped from his voice. “Of course, darling.”

She let go of my hand. “Have you seen Cole? Rumor has it he’s working on a fabulous
play for next year. I always dreamed of landing the lead in a Cole Porter musical.”

I hoped my face didn’t reveal my guilt over introducing Ethel Merman to Cole. “I think he’s inside.” I gestured toward the music room.

Dalrymple smiled. “She’s been wanting to work with Cole Porter forever. It’s the only reason I invited him. He can be such a windbag.”

“He’s a delight.” Laura pulled opened her black purse, checked her look in a small mirror, and fluffed her hair. “Will you two excuse me for a few minutes? I want to talk to Cole before Ethel Merman gets her mitts on him.” She slipped into the music room.

Dalrymple’s face regained the arrogant scowl he displayed in the limo. He stared at me, and I stared back. Like two boxers in the center of a ring before a title fight. Neither of us blinked.

Eyes narrowed, he spoke so only the two of us could hear. “Jealous ex-lovers are such bores.” He checked his watch. “I’m sorry you have to leave so early, but with a train to catch—”

“I’m not going anywhere.” From the corner of my eye, I spotted the man in the tan suit climbing the stairs. He reached the landing, glancing back down the stairs as if checking to see whether he’d been followed. “Tell Laura I’ll talk to her later.”

Dalrymple grabbed my arm in a surprisingly strong grip for a limp-wristed weasel. “I’ll do no such thing.”

I shook off his grasp, maneuvered through the crowd, and limped up the stairs.

On the landing, a handful of guests peered down over the railing, but not Laura’s stalker. I headed down a hallway and listened at the first closed door. Something. The sound of drawers opening. I reached for the knob and pushed open the door. The room, dimly lit from a single desk lamp, smelled of leather and cigars. This had to be Dalrymple’s study.

I entered the room and caught a glimpse of tan behind the door. I slammed the door against the wall. A man’s muffled grunt. Using my shoulder, I rammed the man again and peered behind the door.

Sucking in a gulp of air, Laura’s stalker slipped a hand inside his suit coat.

I shoved the end of my cane against his chest. Before I could blink, he drew a pistol. I smashed his hand with the cane. The gun dropped and clattered on the wood floor. Snarling, he scrambled to pick it up.

My years as a detective returned in a flash. I twisted the cane’s handle and pressed the dagger against his throat. “Unless you want me to carve you a second mouth, drop the gun.”

The man set the pistol at his feet. I kept the dagger against his neck as he rose. A bead of sweat slid down his brow. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You’re making a mistake. A big one, Donovan.”

“So you know who I am.” His Boston accent sounded familiar. I recognized the voice as
the man on the phone who’d called Mickey’s office the night he was killed. “Who are you?”

He didn’t answer. With the blade at his throat, I slid a hand inside his suit coat and removed his wallet. I flipped it open and glanced down at a federal brass badge. I lowered the dagger. “Secret Service?”

He blew out a breath, grabbed the wallet, and stuffed it into his pocket.

I didn’t care if he was a fed. I needed to know who he was and why the Secret Service wanted Laura followed. “What’s your name?”

Before he could answer, Laura slipped into the room and flipped on a light. She closed the door behind her and caught her breath. “His name is Landon Stoddard.”

“This is the guy who followed you from the bus station.”

Stoddard stuffed the gun inside his suit coat. “We don’t have time for this. Go back to the party, Donovan, and forget you ever saw me.”

With her back to the door, Laura bit her lip, her gaze darting between Stoddard and me. “He’s right. Spencer doesn’t let me out of his sight for long.”

I reassembled the cane. “I caught this guy—”