He said, “The boy’s name was Eddie Lang. Made his living as a Hindu dancer in night clubs and television spots. Current booking at The Kismet, 52nd Street. According to the M.E. he was ambushed as he stepped out of the elevator and barely made it to your door.” Nola searched for an ash tray. His habits were meticulous. “Know many people in show business?” he asked me offhandedly.
“A few. Eddie Lang wasn’t one of them. Why?”
“Because he was on his way to see you. Probably recommended. We’d like to know what he wanted.”
I shrugged helplessly. “Have you checked his living quarters?”
“The boys are there now.”
“How about the knife?”
“Not even fingerprints. You saw the type. Cutlery stores all over the city sell them in sets.” He rubbed his forehead. “Eddie Lang knew something and that knowledge killed him. Somebody had to put him in cold storage before he could talk.”
He stopped as the telephone rang and got the handset to his ear. He grunted into the mouthpiece and gave a nod of satisfaction.
“Hold her there,” he said crisply. “I’ll be right down.” He hung up and regained his feet. His eyes met mine. “Gladys Monroe — ever hear the name?”
I thought and shook my head. “Who is she?”
“Eddie Lang’s dancing partner. Sergeant Wienick just picked her up at the Hotel Buxton. She’s down at Headquarters now. Like to sit in?” The idea appealed to me, but I shook my head. “Got a case on the calendar tomorrow morning at ten. I won’t be able to think straight if I don’t get some sleep. Suppose I contact you later?”
He nodded and left.
I saw no profit in a safari to Headquarters at this hour. I didn’t even have a client, but the city was paying Nola. I went back to bed, but I didn’t get any sleep. The event was too recent, the memory too fresh. I couldn’t relax. How insensitive would a man have to be to accept the fact of homicide at his doorstep with equanimity? So I sat up and smoked and rummaged through my memory. Eddie Lang rang no bell.
Dawn was a soiled gray smudge when I wandered swollen-eyed into the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee that was blacker than sin and thick enough to walk on. When the pot was empty I got dressed and went down and headed, without conscious volition, to the Buxton.
It was an ancient hotel, clinging to its air of reserve and quiet respectability. The lobby was deserted. I sat down at a writing desk and scribbled Gladys Monroe across an envelope. I took it over to the desk and handed it to the clerk. He glanced at the name and shoved the envelope into Box 520.
I was on my way to the elevator before he turned around. The operator was half asleep and manipulated the contraption by instinct. I debarked on the fifth floor, found the girl’s door, and knocked.
Apparently she was awake, for she answered at once. “Who is it?” But the voice was small and unsteady.
“A friend of Eddie’s,” I said.
The door opened and I saw a girl who would have rated high on anybody’s list of prospective brides. Small and trim, with luminous eyes in a pale oval face. Right now the eyes were miserable and the face woebegone, yet a wistful, appealing quality came right out at you. The high cheekbones were streaked with moisture, and she wrinkled up her forehead, trying to remember me.
“May I come in, Gladys?” I said.
“But I...”
“The name is Jordan — Scott Jordan.”
Slim articulate fingers flashed to her mouth. She spoke breathlessly between them. “You’re the lawyer Eddie went to see. Where he died. The police told me.”
I nodded gravely.
She sized me up, relying on her intuition, then stepped aside. The room was small, its dominant feature a gorgeously spangled Oriental costume hanging from a hinge on the closet door. She let me have the single straight-backed chair and perched herself on the edge of the bed.
“Sorry to bother you like this,” I said. “The police give you a rough time?”
She managed a tremulous smile. “Not too bad.”
“I imagine you’re weary of questions about Eddie,” I said. “So I won’t keep you long. He was on his way to see me and killed before he could talk. It’s been on my mind. I haven’t been able to sleep. Clues in a murder case cool off fast and I didn’t want to waste time. Will you tell me about Eddie? Some seemingly unimportant detail may have more significance for me than it did for the police.”
She nodded. “I don’t mind. I met Eddie several years ago at a rehearsal hall. I liked his style of dancing and his ideas and I decided to team up with him. We got along fine. He was clever and he taught me a lot. He designed the choreography for our act and handled the business too. Got us most of the bookings. I... I’ll be lost without him.”
“Were you very close?”
“He wasn’t my boy friend, if that’s what you mean.”
Glad to hear it, I almost said, but held my tongue. “Ever hear him mention my name?”
“No. Not that I can recall.”
“Enemies?”
“Not one. Everybody liked him.”
“How about his Emily, his background?”
“I don’t think — wait a minute.” Her expression changed. “I remember something. Eddie was sitting in my dressing room between numbers yesterday, reading a newspaper, the Herald Tribune, I think, and suddenly he gave an exclamation. ‘Look who’s in town!’ He seemed excited. I asked who and he said, ‘Malcolm Parish of the Parish Shipping Lines.’ ” She stopped short. “What is it, Mr. Jordan? Is something wrong?”
“No,” I said. “Go ahead.”
“I’d never heard Eddie mention the man and I asked about him. He said his uncle Victor had met Mr. Parish in Switzerland about fifteen years ago and had become his traveling companion and secretary. They went all over Europe. Eddie said his uncle used to write once in a while, but he hadn’t heard from him in over a year. According to the paper, Mr. Parish was staying at the Waldorf, and Eddie said he was going to call him and find out if his uncle had come back too.”
“Had he?”
“I don’t know. Eddie left and after that we had to do our number.”
“But you saw him later. What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything, only that he was going over to the Waldorf. We usually stop off for coffee after the last show, but Eddie excused himself and went out alone. That was the last time I saw him.” Her mouth was thin and hurt.
I was silent for a moment. “Can you do the act alone?”
“With changes perhaps. I’ll try it tonight.”
“May I come and watch?”
She looked at me seriously. “I think I’d like that.”
I had my link now, though I didn’t know what it meant. I had recently handled a matter for the Parish Shipping Lines that had received considerable publicity. The company’s chief stockholder, inactive in the business, was something of an enigma. On my way to the Waldorf I mulled over some of the facts and rumors Ed heard about him.
Malcolm Parish had inherited his interest from his grandfather, the company’s founder, twenty years ago. At that time, Malcolm was forty years of age, and the older man had had ample opportunity to evaluate his grandson’s business acumen and administrative ability. Having reached the conclusion that these qualities were non-existent he prudently arranged to put his holdings into a trust and leave the firm’s management in more capable hands. These measures proved to be both timely and expedient. He passed on soon afterward and Malcolm wasted no time in confirming his grandfather’s judgment.
He took his insensitive soul to Europe and devoted himself to the nomadic life of a luxurious wanderer. Europe and the Far East had traditions and culture which he felt were sadly lacking in his native America. But never once, during twenty years of expatriation, did he fail to cash those nasty materialistic checks supplied by American enterprise.