George Axelrod: Blackmailer

“Do you happen to know where I could reach a client of Mr. Shriber’s-Janis Whitney? She’s in from Hollywood.”

The girl was sorry but she did not have that information.

I hung up.

I went into the kitchen and made myself a sandwich. I had some more coffee and another cigarette.

I remembered once, when we were walking through the park, Janis had said, “When I’m a big star and I come to New York on a personal appearance tour, I’m going to stay at the Plaza.”

We used to talk quite a lot about what we would do when she was a big star and I was a successful playwright.

Just on a hunch I dialed the Plaza.

“Is Miss Janis Whitney staying there?”

It was a lousy hunch. Miss Whitney was not registered there.

I was restless. I had nothing better to do. I called the Savoy Plaza. And the Sherry Netherland. And the St. Regis. And the Hampshire House.

Then I began to feel a little ridiculous.

But I was still restless.

I was putting on a clean shirt to go out when the door buzzer sounded. Idiotically, I felt a shock of excitement.

I pressed the buzzer and called, “Who is it?”

A girl’s voice said, “Me.”

I knew it couldn’t possibly be Janis. Still, I was listed in the phone book. If she’d wanted to find me it would have been easy enough.

“Who is it?” I said again.

Then I opened the door and saw Jean Dahl running up the flight of stairs from the ground floor.

She was still wearing the same black dress and the beaver coat.

She smiled a little. “Hello, baby,” she said. “I told you I’d get in touch with you.”

“Come on in,” I said.

She came into the living room, dropped her coat onto a chair, and walked straight to the couch. She sat down and took a cigarette out of her purse. I closed the door very gently behind me.

“Do you have a match?”

I lit her cigarette.

“Well,” she said, “have you thought it over?” I hadn’t really thought about it at all. Janis Whitney had put everything else out of my mind.

“I’m glad you came up,” I said. “I want to know more about this.”

I was stalling, trying to get my mind back on the track again.

She smiled. It was just a smile. It didn’t tell me anything.

“What’s there to know? I have the only copy of a book Charles Anstruther wrote before he died. You publish books. I want to sell it. Now, are you going to offer me a drink?”

I looked at her.

She was very cool and very attractive. Suddenly I began to feel angry. “No,” I said, “I don’t think I am.”

She raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

“Not right this minute, I’m not.” I walked over to where she was sitting. “Not till I find out what this is all about. Fifteen minutes after you walked out of the office this morning, I had a note from a man named Max Shriber offering me a book he said Charles Anstruther wrote before he died. As far as anyone knows, Anstruther didn’t leave an unpublished book. What’s going on here? What kind of racket is this?”

“Take it easy, baby,” Jean Dahl said.

She stood up and very casually walked over to the bar. Very deliberately she poured about two inches of whisky into a glass. She reached into the ice bucket and filled the glass with ice. She stood by the bar for a moment casually swirling the ice and whisky around in her glass.

“You’re a lousy host, baby,” she said. “I don’t think I like you.”

She raised the glass. “Cheers,” she said and took a long sip.

I walked over and stood very close to her.

“I don’t think I like you either,” I said. “But I’m going to find out.”

I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do. But I was going to do something.

I slapped the glass out of her hand. It broke against the bar and shards scattered over the floor.

Then I took her by the shoulders and pulled her to me. She slid unresistingly into my arms. She lifted her head with her lips slightly parted. Her eyes were closed.

I couldn’t decide whether to slap her or kiss her. I kissed her.

The kiss must have lasted thirty seconds, and when we separated we were both breathing hard.

She reached into my breast pocket and took out a handkerchief. She wiped my lips with it.

“That’s better,” she said.

“O.K.,” I said. “Now I’ll fix us both a drink.”

I had my hand in the ice bucket when we heard the knock at the door.

“What the hell?” I said.

There had been no buzzer from downstairs. Just a knock at my apartment door.

I looked at Jean Dahl.

She was standing very tensely, listening. The color had drained out of her face.

“I’ll see who it is,” I said.

“Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t open it.”

“What are you talking about?” I said. I started for the door. “It’s probably the janitor or somebody…”

I unlatched the door.

There were two men standing there, blocking the door.

A short one and a tall one. They were both heavyset, dark, nondescript-looking men. They both wore dark suits. And terrible neckties. Their faces were completely expressionless.

“Yes?” I said. “What is it?”

Neither of them spoke.

The tall one put his hand on my chest and pushed very hard. I was off balance and fell backward.

The two men came into the apartment and closed the door behind them.

“What the hell is this?” I said.

Jean Dahl had control of herself again. You would not have known that a moment before her eyes had been wide with panic.

“So there’s going to be rough stuff,” she said. Her voice was very cool.

“Where is it?” the short one said. “There doesn’t have to be any rough stuff, you know.”

I picked up a whisky bottle from the bar and threw it at the tall one as hard as I could. It hit him on the shoulder, and bounced off onto the carpet. Oddly enough it did not break. He ignored it completely. I didn’t see the short one swing at me. All I knew was that I was on the floor and my mouth felt crushed.

I picked myself up.

The tall one was very casually putting the bottle back on the bar.

“Sit quietly on the couch,” Shorty said.

Jean Dahl and I sat quietly on the couch.

The big one picked up her purse and dumped the contents on the coffee table.

There was the usual junk. Lipstick, compact, cigarettes, keys, letters, Kleenex. There was one unusual item. A small automatic pistol.

Very casually the little one poked around in the pile of junk. Without comment he put the gun in his pocket. He didn’t find anything that interested him in the pile. He nodded toward the tall one.

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.