Фредерик Браун - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 37, No. 6. Whole No. 211, June 1961

He hung up and massaged the back of his neck. His glasses were on the desk and his eyes were red and squinting. He looked like a petulant child.

“Suddenly nobody’s got a singer,” he said. “All my life singers are breaking down my door and suddenly, no singers. Leaves me nowhere. Well, Lieutenant,” he put on his glasses and became a shrewd, watchful businessman again. “What’s the dope on Madeleine?”

“She was murdered.”

“But who’d murder her?” demanded Fisher. “She was a good kid. Had her faults but who doesn’t?”

“What faults did she have?”

“Wanted more money. Wanted a special accompanist — our guy had no feel for her stuff. Wanted more mystery around her act. Didn’t want to have to go through the kitchen to get to her dressing room. You know, stuff like that.”

The Lieutenant guessed it was the plaint of night club managers all over the country — performers who refused to go through the kitchen like the rest of the help.

“So you think this important looking character’s the guy?” said Fisher. “You think he sets it up, sitting there like a king with that glass that he’s put something in and that sweet kid waltzes over with a big smile and drinks it and — Lieutenant, if that’s true, y’know what they ought to do with that guy?”

As Fisher detailed the procedure, slowly, venomously, and with relish, the Lieutenant realized he was hungry. He’d have a bite before going down to the station.

“You never saw the man before?”

Fisher reluctantly left his narrative and said, “Nah. His type don’t come in. We don’t have that kind of reputation. Our club’s for people who’re sick of television but can’t afford much else.”

The Lieutenant couldn’t agree. He had asked about the prices of drinks and a steak sandwich at the Bon Voyage and he knew one thing: he’d never have a steak or drink here. Maybe Fisher wasn’t to blame, what with taxes and rental and cost of entertainment, but that still didn’t explain why a steak sandwich was four-fifty.

“You got a look at this man?”

“Naturally. I spotted him immediately. I think to myself, ‘Good, maybe we’re starting a trend. Maybe Madeleine’s bringing the better element down here.’ Hah,” he muttered. “I’d like to get my hands on that better clement. Kills a sweet kid and leaves me standing high and dry...”

The Lieutenant had had enough of Fisher’s problems and left. It was getting warm outside, as the sun got down to business, and he told Rooney, his driver, to go some place that was air-conditioned. Rooney, looking tired and rumpled, gave him a look that showed he agreed completely.

Over his coffee and egg sandwich the Lieutenant tried to piece things together. Madeleine had been led to her death by someone with more than a little imagination. Someone she had rejected? Someone who had hired this Congressman-type to sit up there, his glass pushed to the edge of the table. The way he’d gulped those whiskies smacked of an expense account; he was a hired man, the Lieutenant was sure of it. And Madeleine had shown no particular recognition, according to the violinist who followed in her wake. She drank from the stranger’s glass and looked into his eyes and cradled his chin, but she did that with everybody. It was Routine 3B.

Back in the station he rounded up a squad and told them what he wanted. An affluent-looking man who had entered the Bon Voyage, who looked as if he’d just stepped out of an expensive men’s shop. The man had been hired for a job and he’d had to dress for it. A secretary was typing up a description of this bird, as accurate and complete as they could make it, and they were to scour the town.

Privately the Lieutenant hoped he was right about the expensive shop. There were only hundreds of them. If they got to the inexpensive shops... but he was trusting Joe the bartender. Joe had said it was a two hundred dollar suit and Joe, with his own quietly flashy attire, seemed to know what he was talking about. Anyway it was a start.

He took a nap in the duty room and when he got back to his office several hours later, messages were coming in over the telephones. The boys had covered quite a few shops and rounded up several characters who might have filled the bill. But discreet inquiries had crossed them off. The Lieutenant had warned them to be discreet. None of this bouncing a citizen into a car and hustling him over to the Bon Voyage for the unshaved waiters to have a look. They were dealing with important people, people who patronized expensive shops. They had to be careful or they’d catch hell from downtown.

The club was empty and silent at noon as his heels clacked on the hard wood of the floor. Somewhere a squeegee was operating and a fan blew a strong whiff of disinfectant his way. Nothing was quite so depressing as a cheap night club in the daytime. He found a waiter in the kitchen and asked where was everybody. Asleep, said the waiter. People had to go on sleeping, he intimated, no matter who died.

As the Lieutenant came back through the corridor he noticed a light in Allie Parks’s room. The door was slightly open and he put his head in. Parks was stretched out on a trunk, his arms folded, his eyes closed. He looked peaceful, dead really, but he was only taking a sun bath. A portable sun lamp was hooked over the back of the chair. So that’s how Allie kept his Miami tan. Where else could a man who slept days get it?

“Parks?”

“Um.”

“I thought you might tell me a little more about Madeleine. In the old days.”

“You mean Sophie. Look, Sheriff—”

“Lieutenant.”

“Sorry. I thought I was farther west. These bookings.” Parks shook his head. “All I know is she was a nice girl that couldn’t sing and wasn’t French. And piled the charm on with a trowel. Trowel? A shovel.”

“Did Madeleine have a yen for any particular kind of man? To pull that gay charmer stuff with?”

“Any man who looked like he’d be embarrassed.” Parks barely moved his lips, and his eyes were still closed. “If they were with their wives, you couldn’t keep her away. And characters like this character.”

“The man at the table?”

“Yuh.” Parks opened a jaundiced eye. “You found who killed my pal Sophie?”

“Not yet.”

“Wait’ll the other chanteuses hear about this. It’s taking your life in your hands to move around the tables and be popular. They’re gonna demand hazard pay like paratroops.”

The Lieutenant watched him curiously. Maybe Allie Parks was afraid to show his true feelings. Maybe he was grieving inside and passing it off with a gag. Or he might be nursing a massive hurt that the world or somebody had inflicted on him — by not recognizing his talent, perhaps, and consigning him to dingy basements like this Bon Voyage. Whatever it was, it was an unpleasant mask.

“You think it was something from one of the tables?” Parks said. “That’s what finished her?”

“Looks that way.”

“Well, that’s the tab for freeloading drinks.”

The Lieutenant wasn’t finding him funny this morning. Maybe it was because he hadn’t had much sleep and the nap at the station had left a metallic taste in his mouth. When a waiter came to tell him he was wanted on the phone, he left Parks under the lamp and went out into the dingy corridor again.

The call was from Regan. They had a hot tip. Foster Bentley’s on the East Side had rigged up a gent two days ago. A rush job. The guy’d come in looking like a prospector from Death Valley and they’d fitted him out in everything. From hat to shoes. He was a tall man, corpulent, white hair, red face. In his fifties...

He got over to Foster Bentley’s fast. They gave him the same information there, only with an Ivy League accent. At first they’d had doubts about doing business with the man but he’d pulled out a roll and they’d decided to go ahead. Gave his name as Smith. Said he was passing through. Looked like he was passing through on a freight. But they weren’t moralists and his money was good and...