One Night Stands and Lost Weekends

One Night Stands and Lost Weekends Page 56

“Miss, uh—”

“Baron. Jacqueline Baron.”

“Yes,” he said. She told him the number of the box. He got a card from a drawer, wrote the time and date on it, and gave it to her. I held my breath while Jill signed her sister’s name. He glanced at the signature, set the card aside, walked around the desk, and unlocked a swinging iron gate. Jill turned, smiled sweetly, and entered the restricted area.

I watched her go into the vault room and hand her keys to the guard. He fitted his key into the double lock, then used her key. He withdrew the box and pointed toward a row of cubbyholes. She went into one of them and closed the door.

THE DOOR OF THE CUBBYHOLE OPENED. Jill came out with her purse over her arm and the metal box in one hand. The guard hurried back with her and locked the box away, going through the two-key ritual a second time. He led her to the gate, unlocked it, stood aside to let her pass. She winked quickly at me and I took her arm. We climbed the stairs, broke the electric eye beam once more.

On the street she said, “I have to believe it now. Jackie was a blackmailer!”

“What did you find?”

“I’ll show you. But not here. Can we go someplace?”

We walked over to Sixth Avenue and up a few blocks. There was a small, run-down tavern at the corner, with one man behind the bar and two drunks in front of it. Otherwise the place was empty. We took a booth in the back and sat together, facing the door.

I pointed to her purse. “Well, what did you find?”

She reached into the purse and pulled out a long white envelope, a short fat manila envelope, and a thick roll of bills. The bills were secured by a doubled-up rubber band. I riffled them. There were thirty or forty, most of them hundreds with a sprinkling of fifties.

“Three or four thousand here,” I said.

“Three thousand. I counted.” I reached for the white envelope. “That’s the insurance.”

I opened it. The policy had been written by the Ohio Mutual Insurance Company. It had been drawn about a year and a half ago and the face amount was $50,000.

“You come into a lot of money,” I said.

“If I live to collect it.”

I opened the manila envelope. There were a dozen pictures inside, black and white glossies. The precise scenes varied in form but the game was the same in each. There were two persons in each photograph, a man and a woman. Both were nude and busy; and this photographic record of their activities would have sold well in the back room of a 42nd Street pornography shop. The prints were good and clear, the composition fine.

The girl was Jackie, and a look at her showed that the resemblance between the Baron sisters was just as striking when the girls were unclad. She was a dead ringer for her sister. A very dead ringer, now.

And the man was no stranger, either. When I had seen him he had clothes on, which constituted an improvement. He wasn’t beautiful. When I had seen him, for that matter, he had a sap in his hand and had been swinging it at my skull.

“The man,” I said, feeling my scalp. “I recognize him.”

“So do I,” Jill murmured.

EIGHT

I picked up my glass and drank the brandy. They do not stock fine cognac in the Sixth Avenue joints. But it went down anyway and the warmth spread.

“His name is Ralph,” Jill said. “That’s all I know.”

“A customer of Jackie’s?”

“Not a customer.” She lowered her eyes. “I think I told you she was seeing somebody. I couldn’t remember his name then. Seeing his picture, I remembered. His name is Ralph. I saw him with her…oh, maybe three times altogether. I never talked with him but I saw him. He came over to take her out. Where they went, I never knew.”

“When was this?”

“The first time was maybe two months ago, and then again two or three weeks after that.”

“Did she talk about him?”

“Not much. Jackie wasn’t that much of a talker.”

“What did she say?”

“That she had started seeing him. That he wasn’t a customer but a friend. The first time I got a little bitchy, I think. I don’t remember it very well. I was slightly stoned and I’m not too good at remembering things that happen when I drink.”

“Give it a try. It’s important.”

“I asked her if she was taking a pimp,” Jill said suddenly. “I remember now. And Jackie…slapped me. Not hard, but slapped me.”

“Did she say anything?”

“She said she was thinking about marrying him, but I don’t believe she really meant it.”

“Was this the first time you met him?”

“Yes.”

“Did she ever say anything about it again?”

“No. Maybe she felt I disapproved of the whole thing, I don’t know. I met him one more time, but we just said hello and passed like ships at night. She never mentioned him again, or marriage.” She paused. “He was the man in the apartment?”

I nodded.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “She might blackmail a customer. But her boyfriend—”

I thought about that and it started to make more sense than she thought it did. Jackie met Ralph, then either fell in love with him or pictured him as a good prospect for marriage and a way out of her debt-ridden state and call girl routine. She was in hock up to her eyeballs and she needed an out in the worst way—this made more sense than the love bit, which sounded out of character. So she played him hard, and she gave away something she usually sold at a good price.

And then some roof fell in on her. Maybe he had a wife somewhere. Maybe he wasn’t interested in marrying her. One way or another, she turned out to be the sucker and she had the money worries without any help from Ralph in the offing. So she decided to make him pay through the nose for the free samples. She set up a date, rigged a camera or hired a cameraman, and took a flock of pictures. Then she used them to put the squeeze on Ralph.

That was a mistake. It changed everything, turned the whole world upside down. Ralph paid her off—this was what the three grand in the safe-deposit box represented. But he didn’t pay her enough and she kept squeezing, and he was willing to take only so much. He shot her, turned her apartment upside down looking for the pictures, and would kill Jill if he got a chance, since she was the only possible link to him and Jackie.

I knew the killer now. I had his picture and his first name. The rest would take some finding, but the police were the ones who could pull it off.

“I have to make a phone call, Ed,” Jill said. “My answering service. And I want to use the little girl’s room.” She started to leave, then called back. “Ed, I could use a drink now. Will you order me a highball?”

She scooped up her purse and left the table. I sat there with an insurance policy, a roll of bills, and a stack of dirty pictures. I looked at the pics again—solely for investigational purposes, of course—and put them in their envelope and tucked the envelope into my jacket pocket. I put the policy in its envelope and pocketed the roll of bills. Then I went to the bar and got myself a fresh brandy and a rye and ginger ale for Jill.

When she came back to the table, she sipped her drink and smiled at me. We talked some more until we finished our drinks. Then we rose to leave. I gave her the insurance policy and the money. She didn’t ask for the pictures.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Call the police.”

“Why?”

“Why not? They can run down Ralph a lot faster than we can. And the sooner we level with them, the easier it will go. Do you know how many laws we’ve broken in the past twenty hours?”

“I’m used to breaking laws,” she said.

So was I, but I never felt too secure about it.

“Ed, wouldn’t it be better if we could give them Ralph’s full name? Wouldn’t that make it simpler all around?”

“Sure it would.”

“Jackie had a little black book,” she said. “It’s one of the tools of the trade, along with a bottle of Enovid and a strong stomach. I know where she kept hers.”

“Where?”

“In the apartment, and in a place where Ralph probably couldn’t find it.”

“Would his name be in it?”

“Of course. And if I could go there—”

“We could go to the police first,” I said. “Then we could hunt down the little black book.”

Jill made a face. “Let’s do this my way,” she said. “Please, Ed? Please?”

The cab stopped outside her building. Her key opened the outer door. Then she turned toward me and said, “Wait here for me, Ed. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“I’ll come up with you.”

“No. Wait here. If the police are there, Ed, it’s sensible for me to come walking in; it’s my home. But if you’re with me and they find out you’re a private detective, they’ll start asking a lot of questions we can’t answer.”

She had a point, but I said, “What about our friend Ralph?”

“He’s already been here and searched the place,” she said. “Why would he come back?”

I shrugged. “All right.”

Her feet led her hurriedly up the flight of carpeted stairs. I stayed in the hallway at the foot of the stairs, poised to ward off imaginary intruders. No intruders appeared. I reached for a pipe and listened as her key entered the lock upstairs and the door opened. I hauled out a pouch of tobacco and her door swung shut. I opened the pouch and started to fill the pipe and Jill screamed, “Ed…”

The scream was shrill and brittle. I dropped the pipe and the tobacco and dug my .38 out of the shoulder rig, simultaneously charging up the staircase. I was halfway up when a gun went off. The apartment had thick walls and a heavy door but that shot echoed loud and long through the building, and another scream followed its shattering concussion.

Her door was locked. I put the mouth of the .38 to the lock and shot it to hell and gone, gave the door a kick, and watched it fly open.

Jill was standing in the center of the room. She had a little gun in her little hand. Her dress was torn, her hair messed up. She was through screaming and she stood staring downward with wild and stricken eyes.

He was on the floor. Ralph, the mystery man, he of the bulldog jaw and the descending blackjack. He was on his back with his legs tangled awkwardly under him and his hands clutching out at nothing and a fountain of blood still gushing from the raw red wound in his throat.

She turned, saw me. I went to her and the gun spilled from her fingers and clattered on the floor. She put her head against my chest and wailed. I held her and her wailing stopped. After a while, she pushed me away, sucking in gulps of air. She looked ready to keel over. I led her to a chair and she sagged into it.

She said, “I should have…I should have let you…come with me. I didn’t think—”

“He was waiting for you.”

She managed to nod. “I came in. I closed the door…turned around and…he was pointing a gun at me. I tried to grab it and he grabbed at me and he tore my dress and—”