His parties made it possible for people who were interested in doing business with each other to meet on neutral territory. For instance, I know for a fact that Tim Wales’ last book was sold to Hollywood over cocktails at Walter’s.
Everyone came to Walter’s. People from the publishing houses. Picture people. Radio people. Television people. Actors of a certain standing. And pretty girls in incredible numbers.
Walter gave a cocktail party at least once a month. They began at six and ended when the last guest had gone home.
Walter’s house on upper Fifth Avenue was a perfect setting. It was a tremendous, old-fashioned town house, with libraries, picture galleries, billiard rooms, and even a gymnasium.
I want to be careful not to make Walter Heinemann sound like the great Gatsby. There was nothing in the least sinister or mysterious about him.
He was a skinny, bald, smiling little man who gave marvelous parties. He himself did not hover in the background, an untasted drink in his hand, looking inscrutable.
He was usually in the middle of things, organizing parlor games and putting on women’s hats. Far from being sinister, he was inclined to giggle and he made everyone write something in his guest book.
I left the hotel Friday evening, still shaky but feeling better, and arrived at Walter’s party a few minutes after six.
Two serving bars and a tremendous buffet had been set up in the second floor dining room. Although it was still very early there were at least a hundred people there already, and I knew that the last few guests would wind up having eggs benedict and champagne as they watched the sunrise from Walter’s roof.
I picked my way across the dining room to the serving bar. While doing so, I rubbed shoulders with an internationally famous motion picture actress, recognized a young man whose humorous book about his war experiences had earned him half a million dollars before he was twenty-one-a fact that had so astonished and bewildered him that he had not drawn a sober breath since-and I had bowed politely to an attractive young woman with a double martini in each hand whose divorce I had read about in Miss Dennison’s copy of the Daily News that morning.
A white-coated barman gave me a martini with a twist of lemon peel, and during my second sip I heard Walter’s high-pitched giggle at my shoulder.
“Richard! How are you? How good of you to drag your poor, pain-racked body so far uptown!”
“I’m whole again, Walter,” I said. “I want to thank you for the flowers and champagne. It was very kind and thoughtful of you.”
“Don’t speak of it,” Walter said. “You know me well enough to know that I am neither kind nor thoughtful.” He was holding a glass of champagne in his hand and his bald head was damp with sweat. He took my hand, giggled nervously again and said, “Richard, I confess I had an ulterior motive. There’s something I want from you.”
“What’s that, Walter?”
“You’ll hear about it in good time,” Walter said. “Good God, I do believe Myrna is drinking two double martinis at once. Mark my words, she’ll try to take off all her clothes again in a very few minutes.”
I had something I wanted to ask Walter. I wanted to ask him if he had ever made the acquaintance of a big agent named Max Shriber. But I never got a chance to do so.
I suddenly became aware of the fact that Jean Dahl was standing across the room.
I waved to her but she didn’t see me. I tried to edge past Walter. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’ve got to see someone for a minute.”
As I watched her, she seemed to sway a little. “I’ll see you in a little while, Walter,” I said. I began walking slowly across the smoky room. Jean Dahl was walking rapidly out of the dining room toward the hall.
I followed her, moving as fast as possible now, snaking my way against the stream of new arrivals.
I caught up with her at the end of the corridor. I took her arm and she looked up blankly. Her eyes were glassy and she was pale under her healthy coat of tan.
“Hey,” I said, “I’d like to talk to you.”
She tried to jerk away from me, and lost her balance. She would have fallen if I hadn’t caught her.
“Lady,” I said, “you don’t look so good. Maybe you better rest for a while.”
I looked around, spotted the elevator, and guided her to it. “I’m going to park you on a bed someplace,” I said, “and then we’re going to talk.”
Jean Dahl muttered something unintelligible.
I pushed a button and the elevator began to rise. We rode up to the third floor.
Her legs seemed to be completely limp.
“Lady,” I said, “you’ve sure got a load on.”
I picked her up and carried her out of the elevator and down the carpeted hall. The first door I tried was a linen closet. The second was a lavatory, and the third was an empty bedroom. It was a very cheery bedroom. A log fire burned in a handsome marble fireplace. I put her down on the bed, went back to close the door and decided to lock it. My last conversation with Miss Dahl had been interrupted by an unlocked door. I wanted this one to be private.
I went to the window and opened it wide. She looked like a little cold air might revive her.
Then I went back to the bed.
Jean Dahl was lying very still. She was very pale. I didn’t like the way she looked at all.
I shook her, but she was completely limp.
I slapped her. I talked to her, softly at first. “Hey, come on,” I said, “Snap out of it, lady.”
Then I started to panic.
I slapped her twice more. She made a gasping sound.
I looked around. The bedroom we were in had an adjoining bathroom. I went into the bathroom and filled a glass with cold water. I carried it back and splashed a little on her temples and cheeks.
I picked her up and carried her into the bathroom. Supporting her body against the wall with one hand, I turned the cold water in the shower all the way on. Then I took off my coat.
I struggled with the zipper on her dress. It zipped down the back from neck to waist. I was able to work her arms and shoulders out of it, and it dropped to the floor as I lifted her to her feet. Holding her from behind, under her armpits, I eased her under the shower. She was dead weight, and to hold her under the shower I had to get under it with her.
She coughed and gasped as the cold water hit her. After a second or two I was as wet as she was. I stood holding her under the shower, slapping her face as gently as possible and talking to her. We were both gasping and once I lost my footing and fell heavily, pulling her down on top of me on the wet tile floor.
When I let her out of the shower her breath was coming in short heavy gasps. Her knees buckled and I let her sink to the floor. I held her there with her head between her knees.
I went to the medicine cabinet and found, among the aspirin and toothpaste, a tin of bicarbonate. I dumped some into a glass and filled the glass with warm water.
I got down on the floor beside her, cradled her head in my left arm, and forced about two swallows of the warm soda water down her throat. When she began to gag I leaned her head into the tub and held it there. After it was over I got her back under the shower again.
When she finally spoke her first words were, “My hair’s all wet.” She ran her hand weakly through her wet, matted hair. Then she swore, gasped and was sick again.
This time I left her alone.
In the bedroom I went through her purse. I wasn’t looking for anything but cigarettes.
I hate a man who snoops but I couldn’t help noticing that she had acquired a new automatic.
I took the gun and the cigarettes and matches out of her purse. I put the gun in my pocket and lit two cigarettes. Then I went back into the bathroom.
She was sitting on the edge of the bathtub drying herself with a towel. She had taken off her wet underwear. She spread the towel across her lap and said, “What the hell happened, baby?”
“I think maybe you got yourself plastered, baby,” I said. “I think maybe you kind of passed out.”