Бретт Холлидей: Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

As in the past, Eddie dialed the newspaper and put in the familiar classified ad: ESKIMO NEEDS ICE. CALL 954-3344.

Shortly after the evening edition hit the streets, the phone rang.

“I’m calling about the ad,” said a muffled voice.

“Iceman,” said a well-controlled Eddie, “the client is Richard Gregory, Unicorn Enterprises.”

Eddie thought he detected a slight chuckle.

“The usual terms. $20,000. Same P.O. box, in advance.”

The phone went dead.

Two days later so did Eddie’s adversary.

“Hurry up, Edward,” Helen called, checking her makeup in the hallway mirror. “We don’t want to be the last ones there.”

Fumbling with his French cuffs, Eddie slowly descended the staircase.

“What are you so nervous about? I thought the paper would help you relax.” She gestured to the foyer table where an open newspaper revealed: SUSPECTED GANG LEADER COMMITS SUICIDE. “Your Iceman has a certain class the way he made Gregory appear to have hanged himself.”

Eddie said vacantly, “He’s never failed to fulfill a contract.”

“You don’t seem too happy about this turn of events. After all, tomorrow you’ll be taking over the reins of Unicorn.”

“You don’t understand, Helen. That attempt on me two nights ago — it was the Iceman. Tampa told me the word on the streets was that Gregory hired the Iceman to get rid of me.”

“But Gregory’s dead.”

“That doesn’t matter to the Iceman. He’s a pro. He took the money up front — he’ll make the hit.”

Helen shivered. “Can’t you stop him?”

“How? Nobody knows who he is. That’s why he’s so effective.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t go out then.”

He kissed her cheek lightly. “I know how important tonight is for you. Not everybody gets an invitation to dinner with the professor. Besides I’ve kept my promise for thirty-five years — I’m not going to break it tonight.”

Eddie was more impressed with Hardy’s restored Tudor mansion than he had been with the professor. Of course Helen was in heaven amongst the oil paintings, sculptures, and leather-bound books.

“I’m sorry,” Hardy said, leading them to his study, “that you misunderstood my invitation. It was for tomorrow night.”

“Oh,” said Eddie with a tinge of embarrassment, “that’s why nobody else is here.”

“No matter. We’ll have some more sherry and talk.” The professor emptied the crystal decanter into Helen’s glass. “Mr. Willis impresses me as a man who appreciates things other than the arts, things like a beautiful woman and a fine wine. Speaking of the latter, I see our well’s run dry. Perhaps, Mr. Willis, you’d like to select the next bottle from my wine cellar.”

Eddie rose. “Sounds good to me.”

“Feel free to browse through my library, Mrs. Willis,” said Hardy departing. “I have a splendid collection of first editions.”

She worked her way through the centuries, admiring a Shakespeare folio, pausing to examine an original Alice In Wonderland , until she came to the professor’s walnut desk. Stacked in the corner were the books from the lecture series — Oedipus Rex, An American Tragedy, For Whom the Bell Tolls, The Stranger...

Suddenly Helen felt cold. “Oh, no!” she uttered. It was the books!

They toasted each other with the pale dry Amontillado.

“How did you figure it out?” he asked, wiping the last of the white powder from his hands.

“All the books for the lecture series were about death. Don’t you see, in Macbeth the king was stabbed — that’s exactly what happened to that prosecuter. Like Oedipus’s wife, Richard Gregory was hanged. And the machine gun the other night was right out of For Whom the Bell Tolls. ”

“So that’s where The Iceman got his ideas.”

“And he was planning to kill you tonight using Poe’s ‘Cask of Amontillado’ as his model.”

“If you hadn’t come down when you did, it’d be me walled up in the wine cellar.”

He poured them another sherry.

“To Unicom Enterprises and its new boss,” she toasted.

Eddie raised his glass. “To culture.”

She was a legend of the screen. How could she have killed anyone? And why?

I parked my car in the circular driveway of Charlotte Page’s Oceanfront mansion at ten-fifteen on a bright, cloudless morning. As I walked to the front door, I drew in a deep breath to ease the knot in my stomach. I glanced up and noticed that the section of the house damaged by the fire had been restored. Only the darkened bricks around the white window frames offered any evidence that flames had recently gutted three rooms on the second story.

I hesitated briefly, then jabbed the doorbell. Despite my uneasiness, I was eager to learn the answer to one of the most baffling problems I’d ever encountered in over twenty-five years of police work. Seconds later, Joan Kenwood, Miss Page’s personal secretary, opened the heavy oak door. She was a slim, efficient-looking woman, and her brown eyes betrayed her startled surprise at the sight of me.

“Why, hello, Lieutenant Dawkins,” she said with a weak smile. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak with Miss Page, please.”

“About the fire?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I thought that was all settled a month ago.”

“So did I. Something has come up though.”

“Oh,” Miss Kenwood said in a tone inviting further explanation. I stared at her without speaking.

“I don’t mean to be nosy, Lieutenant, but part of my job is to filter all visitors to Miss Page. Even though she hasn’t made a film in almost thirty years, many fans still attempt to invade her privacy. And she doesn’t like to be caught... off guard, shall I say?”

“This isn’t a fan call, Miss Kenwood. Now will you please tell Miss Page that I’m here.”

The secretary nodded. “Come in, Lieutenant.”

I followed her through a huge foyer into a living room filled with gleaming glass and chrome furnishings.

“I’ll let Miss Page know that you’re here,” Miss Kenwood said, “but you won’t be able to see her until eleven o’clock. No one ever sees her before then. After thirteen years with Miss Page, I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I myself have seen her before eleven.”

“Is that when she wakes up?”

“No, she’s always up much earlier than that, but she uses the time to prepare herself to face the day.”

“How do you communicate with her before then?”

“Over the phone for the most part. Sometimes simply through the door to her bedroom.”

For a moment, I considered using my legal weight to summon Charlotte Page immediately, then decided against it. “If you’re a famous actress, I suppose you’re entitled to be a bit eccentric,” I said.

Miss Kenwood gave me a wry smile that suggested her employer’s eccentricities went well beyond not appearing until eleven. “Can I get you something while you wait, Lieutenant? Coffee, perhaps?”

“No, thanks. I think I’ll take a stroll along the beach until she’s ready.”

“Fine. That doorwall leads to the terrace and the beach. Miss Page will be down promptly at eleven, I promise you.”

“I’ll be back,” I said. I walked across the room, opened the sliding glass door, and stepped out onto the terrace.

Over forty yards of spotless beach separated Charlotte Page’s mansion from the Pacific. Not a soul was in sight. As I plodded toward the churning waves, my black shoes sank into the sand with each step. It gave me a strange, unsteady sensation after years of treading hard pavement.