I knew what Duman was thinking, but it didn’t seem possible. If Lanerd had done the butcher job, his clothes would have shown it. It wasn’t reasonable to suppose he’d have waited around the suite after the murder. There were other points, but I didn’t want to go into them then. I went to the phone.
“Hold it! Hold it, godsake!” Lanerd made his stop-sign gesture again. “You don’t want to call the cops!”
“I don’t?” I picked up the handset. “Let me have Mona, honeychile. This’s Mister V.” Mona’s our switchboard super, a very crisp cookie in the headwork department.
Lanerd held out both palms, pleading, “There’s a hell of a lot of things you don’t know about this business. If you’ll wait about ten minutes, Miss Millett will be back and—”
“Millett?”
“That’s right, that’s right!” Lanerd smoothed his carved-marble hair with both hands. “Miss Marino is Tildy Millett.”
Reidy was startled. “The Queen of Skates? Here in the house?”
“Oh, oh!” My surprise wasn’t due to her checking in under a nom de hotel. Plenty of people do, besides the John-Smith-and-wife couples who check in those midtown flea-bags after the niteries close. What jolted me was that I’d seen the Sweetheart of the Silver Skates, that’s the way they usually billed her, half a dozen times at the Music Hall, and she hadn’t looked anything like the lovely señorita with the fancy comb.
Lanerd went on distractedly. “That’s why she wears that eye-patch disguise and keeps out of sight all she can. But—”
Mona murmured, “’Sme, Mister V. What’ll it be?”
“Slight delay,” I told her. “I’ll call back. Sit on this plug, will you?”
She said she would. I racked the phone, turned to Lanerd.
“Your idea she murdered this guy?” I asked.
“No, no.” He groaned. “Stake my life she didn’t. It’s worse than that. The person who did that” — he stared at Roffis in horror — “is trying to kill her, too.”
Chapter five:
D.A. cover-up?
Back when a security officer didn’t resent being called house dick to his face, it was sometimes possible to put the shush on a murder in a hotel. A freemealing district captain would occasionally return past favors by hustling an assistant medical examiner over to certify the corpse before newshounds got wind of the crime. But there’ve been some changes made.
Even in those days, a homicide in the suite of a notable couldn’t have been kept quiet. Especially a nationally known character like Tildy Millett. She was what you might call a famous figure; the simplest silhouette of any trim-limbed femme in a short, flared-out skirt was merely a trade-mark for Tildy. Dame like that would be news if she did nothing more’n switch from one brand of face powder to another.
Tildy Millett, the name was up there in incandescent lights somewhere on the Main Stem practically all the time. The crowds who’d swarmed to see the Icequadrilles, or made Holiday On Ice a six-week holdover, or seen her Skate Mates in Technicolor, they’d have wolfed any gossip about her. Even before this Mystery Miss hodelyo.
So it didn’t seem as if there was any chance to avoid flash-bulbing and scare-headlining in connection with this dead man.
I felt sorry for the poor guy; probably he’d been an all-right joe whose folks and friends would miss him plenty. But I didn’t know Roffis, whereas I did know just how much grief his death would cause around the Plaza Royale. If Dow Lanerd had any good reason for delaying the yapping of the hounds, I was ready to listen.
I asked if he thought she knew something about the murder.
“She was here with Roffis just before I came across from my rooms.” Lanerd was trying to decide how far into his confidence to take us. “He was supposed to escort her over to the studio. But about ten minutes before the three of them were scheduled to start — her maid Nikky goes everywhere with her — Roffis disappeared. Just like that. They looked through the suite for him, couldn’t find any trace, finally got worried, and called me because they were scared to go out without a guard.”
Reidy looked at the blood-prints on the door. “How about this maid?”
“No, no. Nikky might use a knife on a man — to defend herself.” Lanerd waggled his hand to indicate excitability. “Nikky Narian has what you might call a mercurial temperament. But she’d never have done a thing like this.” He squatted beside me, reached toward the dead man.
I pushed him away. “They’ll be checking everything but the ceiling for prints.” He didn’t push easy. I shoved harder.
He didn’t like that. He wasn’t used to it. His neck got red under the golf-links tan. “Roffis had a key to this suite. I wanted to find out if it’s still on him.”
“Don’t.” I went to the phone. “Mona?”
A brusque voice behind me: “Pudda phone down.” I did as requested. The guy in the door was the prissy-mouth with the misfit tuxedo. He had his right hand in the pocket of his dinner jacket just as Lanerd had. But the newcomer had an uglier scowl.
Lanerd burst out, “Where is she, Hacklin?”
Hacklin shifted his eyes from me to Reidy and back again.
“These hotel people?”
“Mister Vine’s the security chief.” Lanerd waved at me. “The other—”
“Duman.” Reidy frowned. “Assistant manager.”
I asked, “And you?”
With his left hand Hacklin reached around to his hip pocket, brought out a wallet, flipped it open, in one smooth, practiced movement.
From his manner I guessed he was flashing a buzzer, one of those gold-plated items which get plain-clothes men through many a door where they aren’t welcome. But it wasn’t that. It was an identification, complete with photo. Fat type across the top said: Office of the District Attorney, City of New York. Typed-in letters said that Hacklin, Byrd A., was a duly-authorized special assistant to the Prosecutor in charge of homicide investigations.
It only took a couple of seconds, that inspection of credentials. But I did some high-speed cerebration in that brief space.
Something a lot bigger than a video guessing-game was going on, for certain. Special assistants to homicide prosecutors don’t go a-squiring beauteous babes just because a choice sum is at stake!
Hacklin stalked to the closet. Standing in the living-room door he could have seen the body, but I hadn’t been sure he had, until I saw there was no change of expression on his wide, stolid face.
“We been workin’ together six years.” Hacklin’s voice was flat, emotionless. He surveyed the body for a long breath. “He stood up for my kid’s christening, last month.”
“Tough.” I meant it.
“Any idea who gave it to him?”
I said, “Somebody with a steak knife. All we know.”
“Who found him?”
I said I had; Hacklin studied me impassively. Lanerd gripped Hacklin’s shoulder. “Didn’t Tildy come back from the studio with you?”
“She gave me the run-around. She and that tricky maid.” Hacklin satisfied himself the gun was still in Roffis’s holster. He slid his hand down to the dead man’s right leg, let his fingers rest there a second, patted the knee several times rapidly. “I can stick with a female most places, but when she begs off to go to the john, lets me out. There’s a corridor outside that new studio, between it and the can. I waited across the hall. After ten minutes I sent one of the actresses in; Miss Millett and the maid had scramoosed.”
Reidy frowned. “Doesn’t mean she killed this man.”
Hacklin eyed him bleakly. “Don’t strain your brain speculating about this. It’s official business. My business. Herb was my partner. I don’t want any theorists mucking around with it. All I want you to do is lock your lip and get out of here. Oh, one thing. Call Spring four nine-one-two-one on a pay phone. Ask for Schneider. Tell him to jump over here fast. Got that? Four nine-one-two-one.”