“It’s the American way, Mike,” Hy said with a grin.
I shook my head. “If only I could find a rich, talented, beautiful woman.”
Velda kicked me under the table.
“Well,” I said, wincing just a little, “it all sounds vaguely sleazy to me, but we can use the bread. Velda, first thing tomorrow, set up a meeting for me with our esteemed social-climbing producer. I think we’ll let him produce a thousand dollars for Hammer Investigations.”
Chapter Four
The apartment building was one of those old stately places on Park Avenue in the East Sixties. Central Park nestled outside of it like a huge countryside estate behind its endless stone fence. From the rows of windows, the park’s rolling slopes would make a pretty sight sometimes, traffic flowing through the greenery, people strolling the pathways. After dark it wouldn’t seem so pretty any more, but nobody in the stately building would give a damn, because they couldn’t see what went on down there anyway, among the lesser classes.
The day had a nice Indian summer feel to it and I’d left my coat and hat behind. I looked very modern, all hatless and decked out in my one Brooks Brothers suit, a nice shade of gray with black flecks.
I told the doorman Mr. Borensen was expecting me and cooled my heels while he confirmed it over the interphone, and when he told me twelve D, I said thanks and trooped across a marble-floored lobby no fancier or larger than a hotel ballroom to a bank of elevators and punched the button.
To supplement Hy filling me in last night, Velda had done a good job this morning of running a further check on our prospective client. It wasn’t a necessity, but if there was anything shaky in his background, we’d know what angles needed covering. A source at the LAPD and another at the recently formed Producers Guild of America backed up Hy’s briefing and filled in a few blanks.
Apparently the motion picture business had dominated Borensen’s time in the sunshine state, but not with the kind of success that really made you somebody in Movieland. He had stayed on the outer fringes of that money game until he lucked into his land development scheme and parlayed his modest inheritance into the kind of loot that could attract more. Add that to his upcoming nuptials to a very rich young woman, and he was ready to go into major production.
Leif Borensen was rich now and there sure as hell wasn’t anything wrong with being rich, even if it meant hiring somebody like me to keep the poor people at bay.
The elevator hissed to a stop and I stepped off into that wonderful world where money could rent digs with a huge private foyer complete with running waterfall and a hidden electronic system that announced you to a beautiful blonde who bounced out and asked, “Mr. Hammer?”
She was a stunning, lightly tanned thing in a white ribbed sleeveless sweater and cherry-red slacks with matching wide big-buckled belt and a rather silly-looking, oversize puffy cap. A little slimmer than I like them, but I understood how a guy could overlook that. And she had the kind of delicately feminine features that made Audrey Hepburn look like she just wasn’t trying.
Before I could answer, she held out her hand and her red lipsticked kiss of a mouth said, “I’m Gwen Foster, Mr. Hammer — Mr. Borensen’s fiancée.”
I took the hand and kept it as long as I could get away with. “Nice to see you, Miss Foster. Of course, I’ve seen you before.”
Light blue, blue-eye-shadowed eyes got big and bright, framed by large individually separated lashes. “Oh?”
“On stage. Dames at Sea last year. You made quite an impression.”
Okay, it never hurts to butter up the client’s wife, even the “almost” variety.
“Very kind of you, Mr. Hammer. Please come in. Leif is waiting for you inside.”
Not right inside, though, because she walked me into and through a high-ceilinged foyer bigger than my apartment, with more marble flooring, a crystal chandelier looming, and a staircase at left sweeping up like it was on its way to have Loretta Young come down.
“We’re so pleased you’ve agreed to provide some protection at my shower,” she said, leading the way briskly. The red trousers revealed a nicely shaped, full bottom despite her slender frame. Detectives notice these things.
“I haven’t actually said yes, Miss Foster. I need to speak to your fiancé first.”
She came to an abrupt stop and I almost bumped into her, which would have been fun but embarrassing.
We were in the midst of a hallway that was like an airport runway with an Oriental carpet. Several more chandeliers hovered and the paintings around us in their gilt-edged or sometimes modern frames were an eclectic array, everything from Renoir to Picasso. The baroque furnishings hugging the walls seemed expensively antique.
She faced me and retrieved my hand and held it in two of hers. “Oh, I hope you will say yes to the job. I’m counting on it. I’d be so disappointed if you said no.”
Those blue eyes were the color of a waterfall-fed pool that I wouldn’t have minded jumping into.
“Are you expecting trouble, Miss Foster?”
Her smile made her peach-blushed apple cheeks go even bigger and her teeth were perfect and white, God and a dentist collaborating beautifully.
“No, not at all. I don’t expect a daylight robbery at the Waldorf, for pity sake. Leif seems a little paranoid about that, but... it’s just that I’ve told my girl friends you’ll be guarding the festivities, and they are very excited. Especially the older ones.”
I winced. “I was going to guess I was a little before your time. You’ve confirmed it.”
Red blush worked its way up under the peach. “No, I’m sorry, so sorry... it’s just — they told me some wild things about you. Way-out things. They said when you were a young man... younger man... you used to fill the headlines with the most outrageous escapades. Like something out of an old Bogart movie.”
I smiled. “All Bogart movies are old, Miss Foster.”
Still, that was a kind of nice compliment, a little left-handed but nice. Of course, Bogart never racked up my body count.
She deposited me at a doorway. She had never let go of my hand. Her touch was the damnedest thing — warm and cool at once.
“Leif’s just inside,” she said.
“Are you joining us?”
“No. I’m a modern girl, but I know when it’s man-talk time.”
Maybe there was hope for this new generation after all.
But I pressed: “I’m a little surprised you’re not going to be part of the meeting, Gwen. And it’s Mike.”
“Hi Mike. Why’s that?”
“Well, why meet at your place, if you’re not going to be part of the discussion?”
“Oh. I see. I hope you won’t be shocked, but after Daddy’s death, I asked Leif to move in here with me, and he said yes.”
If she got to know me better, she’d learn I didn’t shock quite so easily.
“You know, I knew your father,” I said.
The eyes widened again. Were those spaced-apart lashes fake? I didn’t care. They made blue sunflowers out of those eyes.
Very interested, she asked, “Were you friends with Daddy?”
“That overstates it. Friendly acquaintances even overstates it. But we each knew who the other was, and if we were in the same place would at least say hello and sometimes chat. Very charming guy. I admire his success. Nice man.”
She gave me half a smirk. “Not everyone who did business with Daddy would agree. He gave his stars fits, directors, too. Do you know what Anthony Newley said about Daddy?”
“No.”
“’Will Rogers said he never met a man he didn’t like. Well, Will Rogers never met Martin Foster.’”
We both laughed a little at that.