Mario didn’t finish all the paste-ups on time, but after he realized that Pomeroy wouldn’t be coming in to harass him, he didn’t care anymore. He just plopped the boards that were complete on my desk, telling me to check to see that all the titles, blurbs, captions, copy blocks, and photos were in position, then package the stuff for the messenger and call the printer to arrange for another pickup tomorrow. Then he snapped his fingers at Mike-who jumped to attention like Sergeant Bilko-and the two of them swiped their coats off the tree, waved bye-bye, and left.
Ten seconds later the messenger waltzed in. Slouching in front of my desk and whistling the tune to “Dance with Me, Henry,” the young man waited for me to write a quick note to the printer and seal it, along with the stack of completed boards and marked-up photos, in a large manila envelope. Ten seconds after that, he and the package were gone.
I shouted a silent hooray. I was alone. I could finally do the one thing I’d been aching to do all afternoon: look at Sabrina’s list. Whisking my purse from the bottom drawer, I removed the lavender envelope, ripped it apart, took out the folded sheets of lavender stationery, and smoothed them open on my desk. Then, starting with the first name on the first page of the list- Virginia ’s (I mean, Melody’s) eight o’clock date the night she was killed-I took a deep breath and read Sabrina’s notes about suspect number one:
SAMUEL F. HOGARTH-Manhattan District Attorney. Age 49; married to Winifred; two teenage children, Shirley and Christopher. Graduate of Harvard Law School; son of cosmetics baron Gregory Hogarth; elected DA five years ago; resides on Central Park West. Office address and phone: 100 Centre Street, HAnover 2-4000.
Sam Hogarth?!!! I screeched to myself, shock waves shooting down my spine. Our esteemed district attorney? It can’t possibly be true!
The way I saw it, Sam Hogarth was the least likely man in the whole darn city to use an escort service. He was the brightest, handsomest, most popular DA in Manhattan history, and everybody said he was destined to become a dynamic and respected figure in national politics. Word had it he was going to run for the Senate in ’58. His younger wife, Winifred, was gorgeous (all the gossip photogs loved her), and some thought she’d make a lovely First Lady someday. Had Hogarth really risked his good name, career, and marriage-not to mention his brilliant future-for a few hours of illicit sex?
And could the fear that his indiscretions would be discovered have led the lustful law enforcer to commit murder?
It was a burning question that was much too hot to handle. And when I considered the fact that finding the answer had now become my responsibility, I broke out in a serious sweat. I felt sick. I was dizzy. I had to have a cigarette! Why hadn’t I bought a pack when I was downstairs? Because you didn’t have enough money, you numskull! I vaulted out of my chair, scooted over to Mike’s desk, and started rummaging through the drawers, praying he had a spare pack of Lucky Strikes stashed somewhere.
Bingo. I found a familiar white package with a big red bull’s-eye in the middle right-hand drawer, on top of a Webster’s dictionary I’d never seen Mike use. I ripped the pack open, took out one cigarette, tossed the Luckies back in the drawer, and slammed it closed. Then I tore back to my desk, lit up, inhaled deeply, and-fastening my eyes on the lavender list again-moved on to suspect number two:
TONY CORONA -Singer/Movie Star. Age 37; divorced three times; no children. Engaged to actress Eva Lavonne. Has many hit songs on the charts, including “The Tender Kiss,” “Love on the Rocks,” and “Hearts on Fire,” and two new movies in theaters: Young and Foolish and The Man with the Naked Blonde. Maintains offices and residences in Hollywood, Las Vegas, and in New York at the Plaza Hotel. Phone: PLaza 5-6655.
This name didn’t surprise me nearly as much as the first one, but I still found it hard to believe. Tony Corona was as well-known for being a ladies’ man as he was for his astoundingly successful recording and acting career. His three former wives had been gorgeous young actresses, and his current bride-to-be was the sexiest new starlet on the screen. Corona was fairly good-looking (average height and weight, enormous brown eyes, large head topped with wavy dark brown hair), and he was so rich and famous he could have any woman in the world he wanted.
So why did he need to hire a prostitute? Did he like it better when he paid for it, or was Melody more desirable to him because she was costly? Was he just showing off his wealth- proving to his peers that he could buy and control the most expensive call girl in the city-or was he an insatiable womanizer, so addicted to sex he always had to have an extra bedmate waiting in the wings? Could it be that his lady-killer libido had raged out of control and turned him into a real killer?
There were lots of homicidal possibilities, and it was up to me to sort them all out. But how the hell was I supposed to do that? How was I, a lowly writer for a two-bit detective magazine, ever going to get in to see-much less observe and interrogate!-two such mighty men?
I was in over my head this time. Way over my head. And if the first two names on Sabrina’s list hadn’t totally convinced me of this fact, then the third one made it downright official. Throat so constricted I couldn’t breathe (or even smoke!), I stared at the final entry in utter awe and bewilderment.
OLIVER RICE HARRINGTON-Publishing Magnate. Age 52; married to Katherine; three sons, Clayton, Edgar, and Zachary. Owns over half the country’s newspapers and magazines, plus largest book company in the world. Works out of his New York offices: Harrington House Publishers at Madison and 45th. Private line: MUrrayhill 5-7001.
Get the picture? One of the clients who frequently “met” with Melody-and may even have murdered her-was the man who paid my salary!
Oliver Rice Harrington, if you’ll recall, was the owner of Daring Detective magazine, and also a blood relative of my immediate “superior,” Brandon Pomeroy. So I was in double trouble now. I’d never met Mr. Harrington in person, but I knew from the office grapevine that he knew who I was, and that he’d seen my picture in some of his own newspapers. So how the devil was I going to sniff out the truth about his involvement in the case without attracting both his and Pomeroy’s attention? And without getting myself fired?
I thought I was going to throw up. There were too many shocking details to absorb. Too many questions and crazy complications to consider. My stomach was tied in knots of confusion, fear, curiosity, disgust, and self-doubt.
I needed a stiff drink, and I needed it fast. And I knew right where to get the strongest and (by necessity) cheapest highball in the city. Without even glancing at the second page of the list, or dialing a single phone number on the first, I refolded the two sheets of stationery and jammed them back in my purse. Then I grabbed my hat and coat and took off for Abby’s.
Chapter 7
STRETCHING FROM EIGHTH AVENUE ON THE west side to the Bowery on the east, Bleecker Street cut a narrow, busy, smile-shaped path through the hub of Greenwich Village. Abby Moskowitz and I lived on Bleecker between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, in the very heart of the hub, in a tiny, rundown three-story building that had probably been built before the turn of the century (which one, I couldn’t say).