The Fatal Frails jk-4 Read online

  “Ah-sir?”

  Johnny half turned at the low-voiced inquiry at his elbow, He looked at the skinny, balding little man in rusty blue suit and frayed-collared, pin-striped shirt who stood nervously dry-washing his hands.

  “Talkin' to me, Jack?” Johnny inquired.

  “Please,” the man said softly. He was not looking at Johnny. “I'm the clerk at the cigar counter. If it's Mr. Tremaine you're looking for, follow me over there.” He was moving away before he had completed the sentence, his gait a stiff-kneed trot.

  Johnny watched him as he moved in behind the stand across from the mail desk, picked up a feather duster and energetically attacked a magazine rack. A glance around the lobby disclosed no one taking an interest in the exchange.

  Johnny gave him a couple of moments before he followed. “Couple cigars. Somethin' bigger'n a perfecto.”

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said clearly. His bald head flashed as he stooped to remove boxes from the cigar case. “We have three or four excellent blunts, if you'd just have a look-” Slim white hands opened boxes and displayed cigars. “Tremaine?” the man asked without moving his lips. Six feet away, Johnny thought, the voice must be inaudible.

  “Yeah.” Johnny fingered a well-shaped blunt from a box and held it up to the light. “Where is he?”

  “The police took him away. Two hours ago.” This guy should have been a ventriloquist, Johnny thought. Looking right at him you couldn't see his lips move. “I'll take three of these.” He put the cigars in his jacket pocket and waited for his change. “Thanks, Jack.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The faintest possible stress was on the pronoun. The clerk returned to his dusting.

  Johnny moved away from the stand. Tremaine picked up by the police? Could Tremaine have been the second man the apartment help insisted had gone up to Madeleine Winters' apartment with Jack Arends? Tremaine in Madeleine Winters' apartment? Johnny shook his head. He couldn't see it. Not the way Tremaine felt about her. Unless-

  He headed for the phone booths. Eddie Lake was the man to handle this. In the yellow pages he ran a thick forefinger down the “L's,” then stepped inside a booth and dialed. “Eddie?” He listened impatiently to a voice explaining nasally that it was empowered to deputize for Eddie. “Put Eddie Lake on the line,” Johnny demanded. “Eddie? Johnny Killain.”

  “Well, well, well,” a bright voice chirped. “The bear that walks like a man. How much, bail? What's the charge?”

  Johnny grinned. “You think I'm in trouble, Eddie?”

  “Do I hear from you if you're not?” the tenor piped injuredly. “Six months an' never a word.”

  “I been a little busy. So catch me up. Tell me everything you learned in the six months. It won't take long,” Johnny gibed.

  “I'll tell you everything we both learned,” Eddie Lake said sharply. “That won't take any longer.”

  “Same old Eddie,” Johnny said, laughing. “Quick on th' trigger. Listen.” He turned serious. “Grab one of your shysters an' get over to the precinct an' spring a boy by the name of Jules Tremaine. Residence is the Hotel Alden. He was scooped a couple hours ago.”

  “Is it bailable?”

  “I doubt there's a charge. I think they're goosin' him on general principles.”

  “Anything I should know?”

  “A monied party got dusted off the other night. I think they're tryin' to put this boy close to the scene.”

  “That's a little bit more than general principles. If they do, my money's no good.”

  “You get him out before they do. He's not the type to talk quick an' easy. Bring him up to the Alden. I'll be in the lobby. How long will it take?”

  “Not so very if you didn't keep me hanging on the phone answering foolish questions. If I spring him at all. I'll see you.”

  Johnny smiled as he hung up. He headed for a lobby chair and sank down into one that commanded a full view of the front entrance. By the time he had taken out and lit up one of his recently purchased cigars, the smile had been replaced by a scowl.

  He was remembering the evening he had picked up Gloria Philips at the Spandau office for their dinner date. The redhead had locked up. Jules Tremaine had not been there.

  Johnny frowned down at the wreathed blue smoke curling from the cigar ash. Could it actually have been Tremaine with Arends up in the blonde's apartment?

  He had time to consider another problem that had been tickling at his consciousness for some time. Where could Claude Dechant have hidden a thirty-pound object measuring eighteen by fifteen inches? Hidden it well enough to escape the eager beavers whose sole idea was its recovery?

  Knowing Dechant, he probably wouldn't trust it too far away from him, yet Max Stitt, who should have known Dechant and his ways better than any of them, had been unable to find it.

  If you believe him, Killain. If you believe him.

  Johnny sighed, stretched out his legs and settled down to wait grimly for part of the answer, at least, to be delivered to him.

  If Tremaine had been in Madeleine Winters' apartment with Jack Arends, Johnny wanted a few words with Jules Tremaine.

  Dan Marlowe

  The Fatal Frails

  CHAPTER VIII

  JOHNNY ROSE TO HIS FEET as Jules Tremaine entered the Alden lobby, a fat man in a flamboyant green suit on his heels. “Eddie!” Johnny called as Tremaine headed for the elevators.

  “Ho, there, Big Bear,” the fat man returned in a high, piping voice. “Here's your boy. Good thing I went over there.” He glanced sardonically at the big man, who had stopped and was listening with every indication of impatience. The handsome face looked angry, Johnny thought. “No one was happy to see me, strangely enough. Not Dameron. Not your boy here, either.”

  “When I need help, I'll ask for it.” Jules Tremaine bit off the words viciously.

  “You needed it when I got there, son,” Eddie Lake told him unruffledly. “Dameron's boys were leanin' all over the apartment help to get a positive identification,” he explained to Johnny. “The first go-round the help had said well, now, we're not sure. After some pullin' an' haulin' the police had one of 'em teeterin' on the verge of sayin' positively. When I got my lawyer in there he broke it up.”

  “When I need help-” the big man began again in his clipped, British accent, and looked at Johnny as though a new thought had just occurred to him. “How the devil did you know where to find me? They let me speak to no one.”

  Johnny nodded at the cigar counter. “Your friend there.”

  “Friend?” Tremaine looked in the direction Johnny indicated. “What friend?”

  “The clerk,” Johnny said impatiently. “I don't know his name.”

  Jules Tremaine's smile was mirthless. “I'm quite sure I don't, either.”

  “What's the gag?” Johnny inquired. “Very hush-hush he told me you'd been picked up. He's not a friend of yours?”

  “He'd like to be a friend of mine.”

  Eddie Lake chuckled appreciatively and jabbed Johnny in the ribs. “Big Bear, your unsophisticated nature's showing. Don't you know that when a man looks like Tremaine here it's not only the women he has to fight off?”

  Johnny looked at the cigar counter again. “I'll be damned. I never had one go to bat for me.”

  “With your face?” the fat man snorted. He thrust out a hand. “Drop around sometime when you run out of friends. We'll warm up the pinochle deck.”

  “Thanks, Eddie,” Johnny told him, shaking the hand.

  “Odd type, that, for a professional bondsman,” Jules Tremaine observed when Eddie Lake had departed. “Cocky beggar. Fairly took over when he walked in down there.”

  “You've met so many bondsmen you know the type,” Johnny suggested.

  “They're quite of a piece, actually. Come along upstairs.” In the elevator the Frenchman was silent, but he continued in the corridor. “This sending a lawyer and bondsman. I wouldn't have you consider me ungrateful, but I feel quite capable of managing my own affairs. And I frankly
don't get the point.”

  “Easy,” Johnny said. “I wanted you obligated to me.”

  “Indeed?” Jules Tremaine led the way into his apartment. “Why?”

  “They asked you over there if you had an alibi for the time the shot came through Madeleine Winters' door?” Johnny countered.

  The Frenchman smiled. “It was because they established that I did that your friend had so little difficulty in effecting my release. It quite took the starch out of them. They weren't nearly so assertive then about my alleged presence with Arends.”

  “But you actually were there?”

  It was Tremaine's turn to ignore a question. From a wall closet he took down a bottle and two brandy ponies. He filled each a third full and handed one to Johnny. “Did you luck into this thing of Hegel's, Killain? Or did you have something regular going with Claude?”

  “Nothin' regular,” Johnny said promptly. “Why?” He sniffed at his glass, looked at the Frenchman above the rim and sniffed again. He sipped, and waited. “Man!” he said reverently. He set down his glass, picked up the bottle and revolved it between his palms. “Annagnac. Only the best. Goes down like velvet, an' the glow comes from the inside out.” He picked up his glass and sipped again.

  “I've a hundred fifty cases,” Jules Tremaine said casually. Their eyes met above Johnny's glass. Johnny picked up the bottle and looked at it again. “Exactly,” the Frenchman said smoothly. “A deficiency of excise tax stamps.”

  “You an' Dechant were bringin' this in duty-free a hundred fifty cases at a crack?” Johnny asked incredulously. “That's a nice piece of pocket change.”

  “I supplied the source and the transport,” Tremaine said modestly. “Claude supplied the buyers. With Claude gone, I've a hundred fifty cases and no buyer.”

  “Very simple solution, Tremaine.”

  “Really? You'll forgive my ignorance?”

  “Simple,” Johnny repeated. “Drink it. I'll help.” He held out his glass again.

  Jules Tremaine's smile was meager as he poured. “Esthetically I'd agree, but unfortunately it's left me cut off at the pockets. I need the money.”

  Johnny sipped thoughtfully at his replenished glass. “You must've had a reason for tellin' me this.”

  “You seem an ingenious sort. Since I'm rather at a dead end myself, I'll admit I'm not above taking suggestions where I find them. Or perhaps we might take it a step further.” The liquid dark eye, so feminine in appearance even in so masculine a man, considered Johnny. “You mentioned a desire to have me obligated to you. Why?”

  “Maybe I was thinkin' of double-harness.”

  “A full partnership?” The Frenchman nodded slowly.

  “It had occurred to me.”

  “'Course, it'd have to be on shares,” Johnny said. “My contribution is worth a hell of a lot more than yours.”

  “But yours is a one-time thing,” Tremaine pointed out.

  “Mine is a steady, assured income. And there is the question of relative risk.” He smiled. “However, if we're in general agreement, there's no pressing need for fine print in the clauses right this moment, is there? Let's say that we'll- all-consult on the matter of the Armagnac. I've a couple cases in the closet here. I'll be glad to drop one off at your hotel to aid in your mental processes.”

  “You just acquired a consultant,” Johnny said. “Long term.” He pointed at the bottle of Armagnac. “Nobody knows about this, Tremaine?”

  “Nobody.” The big man was emphatic. “It was one of Claude's more prominent virtues that his little deals were private. I'm sure he had others-certainly with Stitt-but, as well as I knew Claude, he never dropped a syllable.”

  “I was out to see Stitt,” Johnny said. “He's a half owner in the business now. Signed a contract with Arends' widow. He says he's retired from the old game.”

  “Has he, now?” Jules Tremaine asked softly. “It would be a shame in a way to permit that source of manipulation to dry up, wouldn't it?”

  “He sounded like he meant it.” Johnny rose to his feet. “How quick can you deliver this stuff if I find a buyer?”

  “Two hours.” Tremaine looked at him curiously. “Is it that easy? Kindly have the grace to make it look a bit difficult, or you'll have me doubting my own intelligence.”

  “It's just an idea.” Johnny moved to the door. “It may not work. Don't forget that consultin' fee.”

  Whether it worked or not, he thought on the way down to the street, he had an idea that it could be fun.

  Late afternoon sunlight was filtering through the slatted Venetian blinds as Johnny, hearing the sound of a key in the lock, roused himself in the armchair in which he had been dozing. Madeleine Winters entered her apartment with Ernest Faulkner in tow. Her blonde head turned and she addressed him over her shoulder as she closed the door. ”-appreciate it if you would take just a quick look around, Ernest. Ever since the other-” The appealing smile with which she was favoring the lawyer froze grotesquely as she turned and saw Johnny in the chair. “How did you get in here, Killain?” she demanded in a tone that would cut glass.

  “You make it sound like it was hard to do,” Johnny said. “That's not much of a lock you've got on that door.”

  “There'll be a different one tomorrow,” the blonde promised grimly.

  “It may be different, but will it be any better? You'd be lockin' the barn door then after the mare'd eloped, anyway. I already took a pretty good look around.”

  The furious green eyes left his face to dart rapidly about the room. Ernest Faulkner spoke for the first time. “Really, Killain,” he said with distaste. “Breaking and entering?”

  “You see anything broken an' entered?” Johnny asked him. “I think the lady just forgot to lock her door.” He grinned at them both. “What the hell, Ernest, you're lucky I'm a gentleman by instinct. I could've hidden under the bed.”

  “When I want a comedian I'll turn on the television set,” Madeleine Winters said frigidly as Faulkner flushed. “Exactly what do you think you're doing here?”

  “Tell you the truth, I come over to see how you stack up in the daylight, Madeleine.” Johnny rose deliberately from his chair, took the blonde by the arm and with two fingers tipped up her chin into a ray of sunlight. “You're givin' it a hell of a battle, kid,” he told her. Eyes flashing, she raised a hand to slap him. Johnny slightly increased the two-finger pressure under the firm chin, and Madeleine Winters tilted backward on her high heels. Her hand dropped to her side as Johnny eased up just before she went completely over. “I also come over to talk a little business, sugar.”

  The green eyes raked him angrily. “I want nothing to do with you. Nothing!”

  “This is money I'm talkin' about,” Johnny said reasonably. “Dinero. Mucho moolah bux. You allergic to it?”

  Her eyes went from him to Faulkner, calculatingly. Her manner underwent a transformation nothing short of miraculous. “Ernest,” she cooed. “I'm sure that I can handle him now. Why don't you run along? You can call me later if you like.”

  “Do you think it's wise?” he asked doubtfully. “The man's obviously a ruffian.” He scowled at Johnny, if the weak face could ever be said to scowl, Johnny thought.

  “I can handle him, Ernest,” she repeated rapidly. She put a placating hand on his arm. “I appreciate your concern, believe me.” The hand on his arm had the lawyer on his way to the door before he even realized it. “Be sure and call me this evening, Ernest. And thank you very much.” With a brilliant smile she patted his arm and ushered him through the door.

  Johnny congratulated her. “Very efficient removal job. What's that boy got that I haven't that he gets invited in?”

  “An L.L.D. after his name. Now what were you looking for in here?” she demanded in a no-nonsense tone.

  “That was just propaganda for Ernest,” Johnny said comfortably. “You know the only reason I'm here is to road-test those black silk sheets.”

  She stared at him, her lower lip lightly pinched between even whi
te teeth. “Sometimes I think you're mad. You said you had business to discuss!”

  “Oh, if you got to talk business-” Johnny waved a negligent hand. “Can you find a buyer for a hundred fifty cases of Armagnac under the market? Ten dollars a case finder's fee if you produce one. Fifteen hundred gefilte fish to line your girdle with.”

  “You're serious?” She sat down on the couch opposite and smoothed her dress down over her knees. “Under the market? What's the price? It's smuggled, isn't it?” she asked shrewdly.

  “Now don't you worry your little blonde head about that, sugar, or about the price, either. That's between me an' the buyer, if an' when you find one. Just you concentrate on findin' me a live one for little Johnny. A live one's worth ten clams per case.”

  “I might know someone,” she said meditatively. “Yes, I think I might. I'm almost sure of it.”

  “Okay.” Johnny stood up quickly. “That takes care of the business.” He extended a hand to Madeleine Winters on the couch. “Let's adjourn the meetin' to the playground.” He pushed the hand at her insistently when she tried to ignore it. When it was in her face she took it in self-defense, and he drew her slowly to her feet.

  “You are crazy,” she said calmly. “You don't feel there's something a little cold-blooded about your approach?”

  “We're adults, sugar. Who needs the moonlight an' roses?” He led her into the bedroom. She watched with amusement tinged with wariness as he turned down the bed and ran a hand lightly over the exposed ebony glossiness. “Nice,” he approved, and sat down in a boudoir chair and removed his shoes and socks.

  Madeleine Winters stood at the foot of the bed and eyed him, the corners of her mouth twitching, as he shed clothing in a rainbowed shower. He climbed naked onto the bed, bounced on it twice, experimentally, and rolled onto his back, grunting pleasurably. He sat up immediately to look at her. “Well, come on. Let's roll the wagons.”

  “If you aren't the damnedest-” the blonde said between her teeth. She stepped back to the wall and flicked a switch. A motor purred, the Venetian blinds slatted together and darkness rushed in upon the bedroom. There was another click, and rows of tiny lights came on at baseboard height all around the room. Two brighter ones appeared at either side of the large boudoir mirror, and Johnny looked up to find himself portrayed as Nude on Bearskin. “And I supply technique, not calisthenics,” Madeleine Winters continued. A third click produced a whirring noise, and a flash of light directed Johnny's attention upward, where he saw himself in a ceiling mirror.