“Got careless up at the Brockhurst Theater. Doesn’t hurt, to speak of—”
“I know you, Ben. You wouldn’t pay any attention to a broken leg, if you were hot on a case.”
He emerged, buttoning his shirt. “You act as if I liked this kind of life!”
“You’d be miserable—” she rattled ice into tall tumblers — “in any other sort of existence!”
“Hell I would! Why do you think I bought that acreage up on Lake Candlewood!”
“You can dream, can’t you?” She knew all about the plans for the little stone cottage up in the Connecticut hills, the big stone fireplace and the picture window overlooking the lake, the wharf for the knockabout sailboat, and the special freezer for the fish he expected to catch. Olive had listened to those dreams more than once and filed them away for reference in some future that seemed to be forever receding into the distance.
“I’d quit this job tomorrow morning—” he began.
“Only the bureau’s undermanned as it is,” she recited with the manner of one who knew the answers by heart. “If you could only get caught up once, so you wouldn’t leave such a mess of unfinished business for someone else to take over—” Olive went to one of the record cabinets, pulled open a drawer labeled SCHUBERT, SIBELIUS, extracted one of the fifths hidden behind the brown disc-envelopes.
“Well, it’s a fact. I certainly couldn’t quit now, with this Brockhurst thing.”
“That wasn’t a self-starter, I take it.” She poured bourbon over the ice, fizzed club soda.
“No. Coverup for a killing, seems as if.” He told her about it. “Worst of it is,” he concluded, “an amateur torch like this is scared to begin with — and he’s likely to get more rattled as he goes along.
“He set fire to the theater because he was afraid of being found out as a murderer. Minute he begins to be scared of being discovered as a firebug — with his right pant-leg slit up to the knee as an end result — he’s going to light up the town again. To eliminate any witnesses who might know the wrong things about him. So — problem is to catch up with him fast, before he can bonfire some other building.”
Olive offered him his drink. “Which suspect do you want me to ensnare with my female charms?”
“You see right through me, don’t you?” He didn’t seem surprised.
“Um—” noncommittally.
“I’ve got Shaner tailing Ross and Maginn covering the Lownes apartment. Levinson’s looking up Gaydel’s background. I thought you might see if Wes Toleman could be induced to unbosom himself to you—”
“As long as you don’t insist on its being the other way round, darling.”
“My guess is, this announcer knows something. You can’t put him in the chair for that, unless it’s guilty knowledge. But there’s no law says you can’t try to rope him, find out what he does know.”
“Is he attractive, Ben?”
“No great big hunk of male, exactly. One of these pretty-boys. Maybe you’ll make a man out of him.”
“I’ll do my damnedest.” Olive regarded him slyly. “My personal preference isn’t for the shy, retiring type.” She picked up the Third Movement of the Shostakovich, turned to the big phonograph.
Pedley set his glass down carefully, came up behind her, slipped his hands beneath her armpits, around her breasts.
She set the needle in place, waited until the low voices of the violas and violins filled the room before she moved.
The high-pitched discord of a buzzer cut into the symphony. They both turned to the smaller of the “official” phones, Pedley swearing softly.
He lifted the receiver off the rack.
Barney spoke into his ear. “I’m down in the lobby, boss. Something with a rush priority has come up, suddenlike.”
“Does it have to come up to my rooms?”
“I’d better discuss this matter with you in persona grata.”
“Trouble?”
“I’d as leave not go into it via the Bell System, boss.”
“Okay. Come on up.”
By the time Barney rapped, Olive had gone; there was only one tumbler with ice in it on the center table.
“We had a call from the commish, boss.”
The marshal indicated the bourbon bottle. “Help yourself. The call wouldn’t be about the Brockhurst blaze?” The commissioner had been a pretty smart politician in his day; he’d not go at it as crudely as that!
“In a sort of backhanded way, it would.” Barney poured himself four fingers, raised it to the light. “The Big Boy wants you should drop everything else and give him a personal report on the work of the bureau for the past twelvemonth.”
Pedley poured a dollop of straight whisky in his own glass. “Drop everything else.” He sniffed at the liquor. “Personal report on the bureau.” He lifted his glass in toast. “They got to him, Barnabus. They had him in a corner and he couldn’t get out. But he’s a right guy at heart. Here’s to the commissioner.”
Barney stared at him, stopped midway of a refill. “It’s the first time I ever hear of the Hall mucking up the Fire Department.” He set the whisky bottle down, swirled the liquor in his glass dejectedly.
“It’s happened before.” The marshal drained his glass. “It’ll probably happen again. But it won’t happen this time.”
Barney peered at him. “You’re not taking it lyin’ down?”
“I’m not leaving it.”
“Supposin’ His Nibs suspends you!”
“He can. He might. But that’ll take time. Filing of charges. A hearing. The commissioner knows that. He knows I know it.”
“I catch. He’s telling you to lay off — but he won’t be sore if you don’t.”
“Providing we can get fast enough action to keep the higher-ups from bearing down too hard.”
“I know what that means!” Barney applied himself to the bottle again. “Where’ll you be when the commish desires me to forward the bad news?”
“You’re slipping, Barney.” Pedley went to the table, took a shoulder holster out of the drawer, began to strap it on. “You haven’t been seeing your quota of double features lately.”
“Huh?”
“When these slap-happy screen dicks come up against a dead end, what do they always do — along about reel six?”
Barney’s mouth formed a silent “O.” He nodded slowly. “Sashay la femme.”
“You’ve won four silver dollars. Would you care to try for eight?”
“The Lownes femme?”
“Can you think of a better one to sashay?”
Chapter Ten
Leila The Luscious
The maid who opened the apartment door for Pedley at Riveredge House wore a crisp white cap and a starched white apron. But there was no starch in her manner. She drooped; even her voice was depressed.
“Miz Lownes ain’t in, sir.”
“She’s in. I checked, downstairs.”
“She ain’t seein’ nobody.” The Negro woman started to close the door.
“She’ll see me.” He pushed past.
“You cain’t come in, mister!”
A brisk feminine voice called, “Who is it, Netta?”
“’Nother one them reporters, way he shoves himself in where he ain’t wanted. I told him Miz Lownes wasn’t to home.”
A stout, chesty brunette appeared at the other end of the little lobby. She had a bland moon-face with a pert, uptilted nose; she wore a tight-fitting vermilion suit that could have been seen a mile on a dark night.
“Maybe I can help you.” She smiled pleasantly.
“I doubt it.” Pedley kept on toward the sunken living-room. “I want a minute with Miss Lownes.”
She stepped in front of him quickly. “I’m Kim Wasson. Her arranger. Secretary, sort of. If there’s any way I can help—?”