Hard Case Crime: Blackmailer Page 3

  The tall one went into the bathroom. I could hear him opening the medicine chest and dumping things out.

  “What’s going on here?” I said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The little one ignored my question and kept watching us.

  “These friends of yours?” I said to Jean.

  She didn’t answer.

  After a while, the tall one came out of the bathroom. He had taken off his coat and had rolled up his shirt sleeves. His arm was wet. He shook his head.

  “Nothing doing,” he said. “I even checked inside the can.”

  Then he went into the kitchenette. All three of us—Jean Dahl, the short man and I—watched him. He dumped out cans, ripped up the oilcloth from shelves, emptied the cabinets. He opened the refrigerator and emptied every container and jar. He took his time. He did a very thorough job.

  “What are you looking for?” I said.

  Neither of them paid the slightest attention to me.

  I jumped up and dove for the telephone. The short one knocked the phone out of my hand and hit me again. And, very casually, he picked up the phone and replaced it on the table.

  When the big one had finished in the kitchen he went into the bedroom. He dumped out all the bureau drawers. Went through all my clothes. He ripped up the mattress with a long, ugly razor blade in a holder. He rolled back the rug and searched under it.

  He shredded the curtains, and took down the pictures. He broke open the picture frames and examined the backs. He cut up my three suitcases into ribbons.

  He was in no hurry at all.

  I could feel the pulse pounding in my head. I watched the whole thing as if it were a dream or a movie or something that I was in no way involved in. I felt like a spectator. And my mouth hurt.

  At one point the telephone rang. Nobody said anything. The tall one did not even stop his methodical searching. I made no move to answer it. It rang seven times. Finally it stopped.

  When the tall one had finished with the bedroom, they both went to work on the living room. They took down every book on the shelves, dumping each one on the floor when they had finished with it. They went through every cupboard. They tore up the upholstery, and ripped the back off the TV set, and tore the radio phonograph apart. They held the whisky bottles up to the light but they didn’t break them.

  They were suspicious of one table. They broke the legs off it and examined them for secret hiding places.

  The blinds were drawn, but they examined them without actually opening them or tearing them down. They broke the big mirror that had hung above the fireplace and examined the wall behind it. They smashed three pottery lamps.

  They did it all with no unnecessary noise.

  Very methodically.

  Completely impersonally and without emotion.

  They went through all the papers on my desk. They examined every paper in my file. They went back to the kitchenette and ripped the electric clock off the wall.

  When they had finished, everything breakable in the apartment was broken, every movable object was piled on the floor, and every piece of fabric had been ripped open. Cushions on the couch and the two easy chairs were foam rubber, so they did not pull them apart.

  The search took them over two hours.

  And they still had not found what they wanted.

  There was no conversation between the two men. They seemed to know exactly what they were doing. The tall one picked Jean Dahl’s beaver coat up from the chair, went through the two pockets and then, very carefully, starting with the lining, cut it to shreds with his razor. Then the short one sighed and motioned to Jean Dahl.

  “Shoes,” he said.

  She did not speak, but she made no move to give him her shoes.

  He reached down and slapped her face very hard. He did not do it as if he enjoyed doing it. He did it in the same way that he had wrecked the apartment. Coolly, professionally.

  Then he said, “Shoes.”

  “Go to hell,” Jean Dahl said.

  He slapped her face again, even harder. He slapped her so hard her head snapped back. His hand left a bright red welt on her face. She did not make a sound.

  “Shoes,” he said.

  Jean Dahl leaned down and took off her shoes.

  They were black pumps with high heels. He broke off the heels, examined them, ripped out the lining with his razor. He cut the shoes to pieces. Then he threw them on the floor.

  “Get up,” he said.

  There was no expression at all on Jean Dahl’s face. Her eyes told you nothing. Slowly, she stood up.

  “Dress,” he said.

  For a moment I thought she was going to resist and he was going to slap her again.

  I tried to speak but no words came out. My hands were icy cold and my shirt was soaked with sweat.

  Very slowly Jean Dahl took off her dress and handed it to him.

  Under it she was wearing a brassiere and half slip.

  He examined the black dress with his usual care. There was no hiding place where anything could possibly be hidden. Except the shields. He tore them out and ripped them open.

  “The rest of it,” he snapped.

  She took off her half slip. She reached back and unfastened the brassiere. Then she stepped out of her pants.

  She let them fall to the floor. He reached down and picked them up. He examined them briefly and dropped them.

  She had a beautiful body, with full high breasts and slim hips. Neither of them seemed to notice.

  The big one ran his hands quickly through her hair. They opened her mouth and the little one ran his finger around her teeth and gums. Their hands went over every inch of her body. Very impersonally. Very coolly.

  They bent her over and the little one finished the examination using a small flashlight.

  They did not find what they were looking for.

  She bent down and put on her dress. She didn’t bother with the underwear.

  As methodical as they had been, she picked up the junk on the table and put everything back in her purse. She picked up her underwear and rolled it into a small ball and put it in her purse too.

  The little one sighed and then he turned to me.

  “Shoes,” he said.

  I don’t know quite what happened. I hadn’t known I was going to do it when I bent down to untie my shoes. It all seemed to be happening to someone else.

  I bent down and came up again like a spring uncoiling, with my knee hitting the little one squarely in the groin. He screamed in agony and lay rolling on the floor. I picked up the coffee table and threw it at the big one.

  I was screaming hysterically myself. I felt like I’d suddenly gone insane.

  I saw Jean racing for the door. She was standing fumbling with the lock when the big one caught her. I hit him four or five times with a chair. I kicked him and threw myself at him when the chair finally broke. Jean darted out the door. I slammed the door hard as Jean started running down the corridor. I stood with my back to it kicking and swinging while he tried to drag me away. When he finally got the door open Jean had disappeared.

  Now, suddenly, I was over my insanity.

  I watched him come back into the room and very quietly lock the door.

  I was sick with terror.

  The little one had picked himself up off the floor. His face was still contorted with pain. The two of them moved in on me. I started to scream, but the fist stopped the sound in my throat.

  It happened very fast and I’m not sure exactly what they did. They kept me conscious for a good part of it. I remember lying on the floor being kicked. That’s the last I remembered. Being kicked.

  I must have been hit in the stomach, too, because I was covered with bruises and I had vomited.

  I was unconscious for several hours.

  And after I came to, it was another hour before I could get off the floor and to the telephone.

  Chapter Four

  I described the two men to the police as well as I could. I d
escribed everything that had happened. But I did not mention Jean Dahl. And I did not mention the Anstruther book.

  The police were under the impression that the place had been ransacked by hoodlums under the influence of dope. “They get coked up,” the detective said, “and they don’t know what they’re doing.”

  He was under the impression that the two men had been searching my apartment for narcotics and had become enraged at not finding any. I allowed them to keep that impression.

  They wanted to take me to Bellevue for an examination but I talked them out of that. My own doctor had arrived by then, and about five in the morning I checked into a hotel. I didn’t do anything about straightening up the wreckage in my place. I just moved out.

  I was all right after a couple of days in bed. But it was almost a week before my face no longer scared little children.

  I did not go in to the office for the rest of the week. My first public appearance was Walter Heinemann’s cocktail party Friday night.

  There had been a small item about the “robbery,” as it was called in several of the papers, and an enormous basket of fruit, a large bouquet of flowers, and six bottles of champagne arrived at the hotel the second day. Walter’s card was attached to the gifts.

  There was also an invitation to his cocktail party, and a note suggesting that the whole thing was the work of disgruntled authors, unhappy about their advertising allotments.

  As I said, I went to Walter’s party.

  It would be hard to tell you much about Walter Heinemann. The only thing I can tell you is that he gave parties. Big parties.

  That was his profession. He was a professional host.

  And his cocktail parties were an important part of the book publishing business.

  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.”

  I handed her the other cigarette. She took it, inhaled deeply, coughed, then recovered and inhaled again.

  “Thanks, baby,” she said.

  I realized suddenly that I was staring at her body, at her slim shoulders and firm, full breasts.

  I picked up my coat and handed it to her. She put it on.

  “Listen,” I said, “what were you drinking, anyway?”