For David Prill Avallone
who is full of life
The Cast of Characters
….
according to their wearing apparel
ED
NOON Brooks
Brothers
ALBERTA
CARSTAIRS Gloria,
Inc.
HUGO
ORLANDO A. Sulka
JOHN
FREELING Browning
King
MELISSA
MERCER Ohrbach’s
THE SLIM
SAVIOUR A Bespoke
Tailor
CAPTAIN
MONKS S. Klein
DONNA MARIE
TORRONE Dior
SANDERSON, JAMES
T. Howard Clothes
R. ROBERT
ROBERTS Savile
Row
MAX
FINE Simon
Ackerman
CLARA Henry
Rosenfeld
….
and some of them wind up in shrouds
Prologue to Murder
When
The Fat Death hit New York, lots of things had already happened to grip
the public’s interest. Johnson had finally got tough about civil rights down
South, a rapist killer had gone berserk in one ten-block section of Manhattan
and a Convair airliner out of La Guardia had ploughed up a residential street
in Queens. So it took plenty for The Fat Death to catch on, hold on and
keep on holding. It wasn’t easy. But The Fat Death was handled by
experts.
The
first indication that a giant was walking among us was the leaflet invasion.
One shining fall day, the skies over Manhattan rained a million leaflets. No
one knows who was the first person to see the message on the square, orange
streamers. But after that first one, all of New York that was out walking or
leaning out of windows got the message.
It
was pure Barnum hokum. Grandstand technique applied to mass saturation. Madison
Avenue with wings on. And it worked. God, how it worked. Like babies cried for
milk, like tigers need taming, the obese and the overweight of the city, cried
for the pie in the sky.
Nobody
saw the plane that dropped the leaflets. The Air Patrol had been caught
napping. The Civil Defence, worrying about atomic attacks, couldn’t do a damn
thing about one small plane unloading a ton of propaganda for a smart operator.
Or operators:
BEWARE THE FAT DEATH
DON’T EAT YOURSELF INTO THE GRAVEYARD
WATCH FOR THE SLIM SAVIOUR
Nothing
happened for a whole week. The leaflet air-raid was a four-day sensation. The
wire services and network news organisations tried to track the thing down.
Walter Cronkite said, “This is how it was …” and Douglas Edwards tried to level
the monster with humour. But no one came forth; nobody made their purpose
known. There was no follow-up to BEWARE
THE FAT DEATH.
No Slim Saviour came forth to capitalise on the cutest publicity stunt in
decades. It was as if Heaven had opened up to deliver a message to the Earth
and then forgot about it. But in all the houses on the island of Manhattan,
stretching into the home-from-work kitchens of Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx and
Outer Suburbia, the message was repeated. As a joke, as a curiosity, as a
come-on for some secret movie about to open with a big campaign to invoke the
public interest.
I
found a leaflet on the windowsill at my office on West 46th. Fluttered safe
between the sash and the top of the air conditioner. But I would have heard
about it one way or another. Everybody knew about The Fat Death in New
York that week.
Somewhere
in the middle of all the commotion, I received a telephone call from a Miss
Carstairs of Gloria, Inc., one of the most fashionable dress houses in
town. No matter how interesting and bizarre The Fat Death business was,
I still earn my coffee and cake as a confidential investigator.
Private
Eyes according to Television. Private Detectives according to truth.
Still,
as I took a cab downtown that bright October morning, The Fat Death was
something to think about.
Like
the scared dames in those rich old mansions always say — had I but known.
Still,
there’s no sense in kidding myself. Being the kind of restless clown I am, I
suppose I would have gone anyway.
I
always was a sucker for a mystery.
The Fashion in Flim-Flam
“You
may go right in, Mr. Noon. Miss Carstairs will see you now.”
The
unreal receptionist behind the glass-topped desk at Gloria, Inc. looked
like a movie star. Her smile was porcelain perfection, her beehive a topless
tower, her eyes artfully tilted with mascara. In spite of her million dollar
front, she was a flunky. The type turned out on finishing school and charm
school assembly lines. Nothing she had was what she had been born with.
I
twirled my borsalino hat, smiled and moved through the golden door her
lacquered fingernails indicated. Gloria, Inc. had a lot of golden doors.
High, wide and beautiful. The word handsome just didn’t fit a Broadway layout
aimed directly at rich miladies clawing to wear the latest in dress fashions.
Miss
Carstairs’ office seduced me. Colour without real names; hues and shades which
would take seventeen kinds of paint to produce, invited a visitor to sit down
and dream orgies. A square, low, golden desk looked lonesome on a wasteland of
parquet flooring. There were purplish drapes on the sheer glass windows
overlooking Broadway and 39th.
There
was also a woman behind the desk. A golden woman to match the decor. She didn’t
get up when I walked in.
“Thank
you for being prompt. I appreciate punctuality.”
I
nodded, waiting for her to ask me to sit down. I was looking while I waited.
What the receptionist was copying from Hollywood blueprints, Miss Carstairs had
by natural design. They had broken the mould to make her.
“Oh,
do sit down. The butterfly is comfortable.”
The
butterfly was. I hung on to my hat and crossed my legs. You always do in
butterfly chairs.
“Miss
Carstairs,” I said. “I hope you haven’t been misled by my business card.”
Violet
eyes frowned beneath a smooth forehead capped by a waterfall of gleaming honey.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well,
I handle all sorts of private investigations but you intimated on the telephone
this morning that the work had something to do with Gloria, Inc. It’s only fair
to tell you, skip tracing is out of my line.”
A
complexion that didn’t come out of a bottle dimpled faintly.
“Good
Lord, what an idea. Are you aware of how exclusive our patrons are?” Her eyes
narrowed. “You had no qualms about the fee I mentioned.”
I
shrugged. “Who would? Five hundred dollars for one day’s work is not alfalfa,
hay or peanuts. But I’m ready to hear your offer.”
She
sat back in her chair. Miss Carstairs’ face was something out of the
four-colour advertising section of the Sunday Times. But it was really
her nose that got me. It was ruler straight with the barest pinch of reality in
the nostrils. The one touch of irregularity in all her perfection that made her
surpassingly female. Like Gene Tierney’s buck teeth.
“I
see.” She sounded annoyed.
“Do
you? Fine. So please tell me what an outfit like this needs a private detective
for?”
She
sighed. I lost interest in her nose and concentrated on the swell graduating
from the base of her throat. She was a great argument for open neck dresses.
“Mr.
Noon, are you familiar with the fashion business at all? Perhaps if you
understood the amount of money and scheming that go into a dress line you would
appreciate the pitfalls and dangers that come with the operation.”
“I’m
willing to learn,” I suggested. I liked the way her voice caressed my short
name.
Her
smile was so faint I almost missed it.
“All
right. We have such occupational hazards. Something’s come up that warrants a
man like you.”
“I
have heard somewhere in my travels, Miss Carstairs, how you folks have to
protect your designs from falling into the competition’s hands —” I let it
trail off, wanting her to spell it out.
“Exactly.”
She sounded a little relieved I wasn’t an immigrant. “Then you will know what I
mean when I say that next week, the fifteenth to be precise, Gloria is
presenting its Winter Line.”
“Where?”
“In
our showroom. There will be buyers from all over the country on hand to make
selections.”
“So?”
“We
feel we have something that may revolutionise the field. The programme has cost
a fortune but we may inaugurate a trend in women’s wear that will sweep the
nation. So our experts tell us.”
“So?”
She
controlled her annoyance with my talky answers by toying with a long golden
ballpoint pen between her slender figures. But the nice nostrils fumed and the
golden flesh of her bosom rose slightly.
“We
keep our designs in a bank vault. They have to be protected at all costs. A
leak of the material would ruin Gloria. Do we understand each other on that
score?”
“We
do. Go on.”
She
nodded briskly. “Only two people have access to that vault. Myself and Hugo
Orlando. Orlando is the designer. His designs can just not be seen by anyone
until the Show. You have already indicated you understand that much at least.
Surprise, novelty and the newness and daring of revolutionary design is all the
advantage one wants. Anyone. Therefore, if the designs were stolen and duplicated
by another company, it could ruin us —”
I
took out my cigarettes. “Stop stalling, Miss Carstairs.”
“I
beg your pardon?” shot out of her again. Her voice was no less exquisite than
the rest of her. Bright, shining and polished.
“You’re
a chooser not a beggar, Miss Carstairs. Will you please get to the point?
You’ve been trying to be polite since I walked in here but it isn’t necessary.
Say what you want to say.”
Sudden
rage made her beauty vulnerable. Her red mouth showed some white teeth. “What
do you mean by that?”
I
smiled and showed her my teeth. “Have the designs been stolen?”
“Of
course not.”
“You
have your own Security People? Special Guards and stuff like that?”
“Yes,
but —”
“And
the show is next week and the designs are in the vault and only you and this
Orlando have the key?”
“This
is ridiculous,” she snapped. “Now what are you driving at, Mr. Noon?”
“The
simple truth, Miss Carstairs. Why don’t you just tell me that you want to check
on Orlando — have him followed or something — and stop beating around the
designs? Don’t be embarrassed. You’d be surprised how many business people have
their colleagues-investigated.”
“Really!”
That was the last shot out of her. She dropped the golden ball point pen on the
desk and pyramided her tapering fingers. Her eyebrows arched.
“Was
I that obvious?” she asked in a low voice. “I don’t mean to be disloyal to Hugo
but —”
I
blew a small smoke ring. “Why don’t you just tell me what he’s been up to that
has you imagining all sorts of terrible things?”
She
smiled wanly. “Are you always so direct, Mr. Noon? That technique would get you
nowhere in this business. You have to learn how to lead up to your point.”
“Forget
about me. What about Hugo?”
“Talking
to you has made me feel slightly foolish. It may mean nothing at all but this
show means so much to Gloria, Inc.”
“Just
tell me what you suspect, huh?”
She
sighed. “Yesterday I went to Cartier’s to price a ring. While I was waiting for
a cab on Fifth Avenue to come back here, I spied Hugo on the other side of the
street. He was with someone I had rather not have seen him with.”
“The
competition?”
“Exactly.
John Freeling of Freeling’s. They’re our biggest competitor. It may have been
merely social. It’s a free country, of course, and Hugo may talk to whomever he
likes but seeing him with Freeling a mere five days before the Show upset me.
It’s like — well —”
“Macy’s
telling Gimbels?”
That
made her laugh. A low, polite chuckle. “Quite. I may be being foolish, as I say
but I owe it to Gloria to cover every possibility of trouble. You understand?”
“Perfectly.
What do you want me to do?”
“Check
on Hugo.” Now that she had committed herself, she was as briskly efficient as
though she were ordering sample swatches. “Between now and the Show. Or until
you prove something I could confront him with. I haven’t the nerve to tell him
I saw him with John Freeling.”
“Why
not?”
She
shuddered. “You don’t know these passionate Latins. He’s as gentle as a baby or
as violent as a thunderstorm. Moody, talented, perverse. I just couldn’t. Not
without proof of some kind.”
I
walked over to her desk to put out my cigarette. I stared down the front of her
dress. Everything about Miss Carstairs was real. “Young guy?”
Her
eyes looked surprised. “Why, yes. They all are now you know. Dior turned them
out in droves after the war. St. Laurents, Le Maine, Beauchamp — Hugo can’t be
more than twenty-nine.”
“How
does he feel about you or more importantly, how do you feel about him?”
Miss
Carstairs stood up behind the desk. What her face and neckline had promised,
the rest of her delivered. Her hips tapered smartly and sexually in a
powder-blue chiffon something or other.
“I’m
sure these questions are necessary though I’m not quite sure why. But I asked
you to come here so I’ll put up with your bluntness. Hugo Orlando eats women
alive. All weights, all shapes, all sizes. He’s God’s gift to women. Black wavy
hair, perfect teeth and a body like an Olympic athlete. Fortunately, we are
merely business associates. I like him but he is not my cup of tea. Nor did I
make the mistake of falling in love with him. A woman would go crazy with
jealousy if she really cared for him. Understood?”
“Understood.”
We were checking each other back like invoices. I looked into the violet eyes.
“You’ll have to point him out to me and I’ll take it from there —”
The
golden door behind me suddenly clicked open. I turned easily. Miss Carstairs
lost some of her executive stability. I could see she wasn’t going to have to
finger Hugo Orlando for me. He came as advertised. He was standing in the
doorway with loads of charm spilling from a pure Roman face, replete with
bronze, dimples and dreamy eyes. With a slight bow of door-wide shoulders
encased in Ivy League-Continental charcoal grey, he began a Pinza-loaded
apology.
“Oh.
I am so sorry. I did not know. Forgive me. Alberta, I come back later —”
“Come
in, Hugo. Come in. We’re all through here. Mr. Noon, meet our Mr. Orlando.
Hugo, Mr. Noon is with Sloane-Regis. Guests of our Show next week —”
She
handled the lie so easily, Hugo Orlando and I briefly nodded to each other in
passing. Our eyes met, found nothing, and Hugo Orlando swept by me in to the
office. I said a meaningless good-bye to Miss Carstairs, promised to keep in
touch and closed the door behind me. I had two fast impressions before I
cleared out.
Hugo
Orlando was very worried about something. His hands were anchored into the
pistol pockets of his grey trousers, throwing back the tails of his form-fitting
jacket. Also, Miss Carstairs — forgive me, Alberta — was the jealous
type.
I
walked past the unreal receptionist at the desk and found another golden door
leading out. I had to plan my campaign for Hugo Orlando, kicking myself for not
grabbing a retainer from Miss Alberta Carstairs first crack out of the box.
There
was a coffee shop on the ground floor of 1407 Broadway. I took a booth, ordered
lunch, and mulled over some notions. I had a couple but they could wait until I
fed the inner man.
The
outer man was the one who was going to have to act like a detective for the
next couple of days.
Nothing
unusual happened in the coffee shop except that it was my day for meeting new
people. I had just finished my last coffee and was reaching for my cigarettes
when I felt a sudden weight against my shoe. The next thing I knew was a stream
of Italian invective close to my ear. The dame who had nearly stumbled across
my ankle foolishly poked into the aisle was fuming attractively above me. She
must have been in a hurry. I’m sure she had lots more to tell me. In a flashing
glance, I saw an amazingly shapely, pint-sized female with startling dark eyes
and a bust right out of Vesuvius. A butch haircut flounced angrily at me before
its owner flounced off, disappearing behind me towards the booths at the rear.
I never did have time to see what she was wearing, let alone apologise.
“Bestia!”
she hissed, the frost of the word settling over my defenceless head before she
was gone. A powerful aroma of exotic perfumes went with the chill, charging my
nostrils with tingling memories.
She
was gone before I could even make a snappy comeback. All men are animals but
they don’t like to be called one. Not to their faces, at any rate.
I
forgot all about her and got on with my thinking about Miss Carstairs and the
new assignment.
Dear
Miss Alberta Carstairs. Even though the price was right, she very easily
brought out the beast in me. Something about those pinched nostrils and that
icy reserve.
But
all of this, of course, was before The Fat Death threw a shroud over my
private affairs.
Does She or Doesn’t She
After
lunch, which was uninspiring, I phoned Gloria, Inc. from a phone booth
in the coffee shop. I was connected with the brittle voice of the unreal
receptionist.
She
sounded even phonier, courtesy of Alexander Graham Bell. But she got Miss
Carstairs on the wire for me.
“Mr.
Noon? I’m glad you called back —”
“So
am I,” I admitted. “Look. I forgot to get my retainer from you. By the way, I
take it Rudolph Valentino left again?”
“Oh
— Hugo? Yes. He’s in the Showroom.”
“Good.
I’ll tell you where to mail the cheque. And while you’re taking notes, you
might give me his home address. And yours. I think I shouldn’t come to the
office again. I can scout around the rest of the afternoon and see you
tonight.”
She
thought about that for a second. “Yes. I agree. Now that Hugo has seen you. Go
ahead. I have my datebook before me.”
I
pictured that unforgettable face and those long fingers curled around the
golden ball point pen. We talked no longer than was necessary. She found out
where I slept and I learned that she called Sutton Place home. Hugo Orlando was
bivouacked on West End in the Eighties. It figured. I was dealing with fancy
clients.
“How
about eight o’clock, Miss Carstairs? I ought to have some poop by then.”
“Eight
will be fine. Till then, Mr. Noon.”
Something
about the way she sounded her “n’s” set a bell off in my head when she hung up.
Fine. Noon. Fine — When it came to me it was a logical sequence of
thought. Fine. Max Fine. Good old Max with his Ready-to Wear business just a
few short blocks away. Max, with his stubby finger on the very pulse of the
Garment Industry, could tell me all I might want to know about Gloria, Inc.
Max could get information for me wholesale. The more I thought about it the
better the notion seemed. Why go tracking down Hugo Orlando in a hurry without
some other parts of the picture in focus?
Max
Fine was in at two o’clock. I found him sandwiched between two mountainous
piles of swatch books, his spectacles sitting on his furrowed forehead. He’d
been located on East 36th for as long as I’d known him. He was fat then and he
was fatter now. And just as busy. When you had a conversation with Max Fine, it
was as if you had opened a window in the Tower of Babel. He must have been born
talking. Not even two marriages and seven children had interrupted the zest and
zeal that operated Max Fine, Sportswear.
“My
friend the detective,” he bellowed in his horse-trading voice when his
secretary, a plump blonde named Shelly, ushered me into his inner office.
“Sit
down, Eddie baby. Shelly, get the port. This is a drinker. And keep me off the
telephone, you hear? Or nobody gets paid around here. Go on, go on. Go, go,
go.”
That
was Max. His handshake across the swatch book pile was crushing. I made room
for myself in a chair and made small small talk to clear away the debris of the
eighteen months since I’d seen him. Shelly giggled, disappeared, came back with
a bottle and two glasses and disappeared again.
Some years back I had the great pleasure of working with two former Kennedy Secret Service Agents. It was quite amazing really.
ENCOUNTER WITH A MASTER STORYTELLER 
