The Mammoth Book Of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits Part 6

"Lots of married men have dames on the side, Mr Balducci," he said to the man. "Where do I come in?"

"Have you heard about this beauty pageant in Atlantic City this weekend?"

"I heard something about it," O'Farrell said. "Is that the one with the new bathing suits?"

"Yes," Balducci said. "One of the major sponsors is the Atlantic City Businessman's League, of which I am a member."

O'Farrell was starting to get the drift, but he let the man go on.

"I've entered Georgie in the pageant."

"You didn't guarantee she'd win, did you?" O'Farrell asked. "You're not going to tell me that the fix is in, are you?"

"Uh, no," Balducci said, "that, uh, that part is not your concern."

So maybe the fix was in. But okay, the client is always right. That wasn't his concern.

"Fine."

"Georgie is very beautiful, and talented, and she has a big career ahead of her."

O'Farrell almost asked, "As what?" but bit his tongue.

"But I think she might be in danger."

"From who?"

"Well . . . an old boyfriend, other contestants . . . my wife . . ."

"Does your wife know about Georgie?"

"Not exactly. She knows that I have . . . friends on the side, but she doesn't know about Georgie . . . specifically."

"All right," O'Farrell said, "go on."

"The contest kicks off with a gala event taking place at the Atlantic City Yacht Club on Friday. Among others, my wife will be there. I want you to escort Georgie."

"Be her date?"

"Er, as it were, yes and protect her."

"We've never met- "

"I will take you to her apartment on Beekman Place for an introduction," Balducci said. "After that it will be up to the two of you to plan your Friday evening."

"Mr Balducci," O'Farrell said, "today is already Wednesday and I haven't got a thing to wear."

"On top of a thousand-dollar fee," Balducci said, taking the comment completely seriously, "I will buy you a new wardrobe and pay all other expenses for the night. I would send you to my tailor, but there's no time, so you can simply shop in the best men's stores available."

O'Farrell was a man who enjoyed good clothes. He knew where to shop. Even while still in the employ of the New York City Police Department he used to dress better than any other detective regardless of rank leading to speculation that he was on the take. It was only the fact that everyone knew how scrupulously honest he was that kept anyone from believing that.

"All right," O'Farrell said. "When and where do I meet the young, uh, lady?"

"Tonight, if you're free," Balducci said. He leaned forward and placed a slip of paper on the desk. "Come to that address at eight p.m. I'll make the introductions."

O'Farrell leaned forward and picked up the paper, glanced at it, then put it in his s.h.i.+rt pocket.

"I'll need an advance."

"Of course," Balducci said. He took a wad of cash out of his pocket. No checks, no paper trail.

"Five hundred now? And a hundred for clothes?"

"Better make it two for clothes," O'Farrell said.

Balducci didn't hesitate. He peeled off seven-one-hundred dollar bills and placed them on O'Farrell's desk.

"Will that do?"

"That's fine." O'Farrell left the cash where it was.

"I'll see you tonight, then."

"I have some more questions."

Balducci stood up. He shot his cuffs and looked at his watch. "I'll answer the rest of your questions tonight. Right now I have another appointment."

O'Farrell walked his new client to the door.

"Eight o'clock, then," Balducci said, and left.

After Balducci was gone O'Farrell picked up the seven one-hundred-dollar bills and rubbed them together. He turned and looked out his second floor window down to Fifth Avenue, where a chauffeur was holding the back door of a Rolls Royce open for Vincent Balducci. He probably should have asked for more money. A guy who rides in a Rolls and is dizzy for a young dame probably wouldn't have squawked about it.

3.

O'Farrell presented himself at the Beekman Place address at seven-fifty-five. He paused out front to look up at the place. It was only five storeys, but Beekman Place was not an inexpensive address. Each apartment was occupied by money or, as in this case, paid for by someone with money.

He was wearing one of the new suits he'd bought that afternoon. It was September and the weather was still mild so he'd bought one brown linen and one blue pinstriped. He was wearing the linen. The pinstriped was for the night at the Yacht Club.

The young doorman announced him and he was allowed up to the third floor. When he rang the doorbell, the door was opened by Balducci, himself. O'Farrell had been expecting a butler, or at least, a maid.

"Come in," the man said. "Georgie is still getting dressed."

O'Farrell entered and closed the door behind him. He followed Balducci down a short hall until they entered a plushly furnished living room.

"I've made a pitcher of martinis," his host said. "Would you like one?"

"Sure."

"Olive or onion?"

"Olive, please."

Balducci poured out two martinis, put olives in both, and then handed one to O'Farrell.

"I was expecting a servant to answer the door," the detective said. "Maid's night off?"

"No servants," Balducci said. "It's bad enough the doorman knows me and see me coming here.

O'Farrell understood.

"Ah," Balducci said, looking past him, "here's Georgie now."

O'Farrell turned. He didn't know what he'd expected to see, but Georgie took his breath away. She was tall and slender, but with a proud thrust of b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her dark hair was piled high atop her head, leaving her pale shoulders bare in a powder blue gown that bared both shoulders, but was high-necked. Since 1919 hems had been rising and, currently, it was not unheard of for them to be six inches from the floor affording a nice view of ankle but Georgie's gown was full length. It was her eyes, however, that really got O'Farrell. They were violet, the most amazing color he'd ever seen, and they were great big eyes. When she blinked he thought he could feel it inside.

She was pretty enough to be a Ziegfeld girl. O'Farrell wondered why Balducci didn't just use his pull to get her that job, rather than put her in some silly pageant?

"Georgie, this is Val O'Farrell, the private detective I hired to protect you."

"To hide me, you mean," she said, tightly. She was smoking a cigarette, took a moment to remove a bit of tobacco from her tongue with her thumb and pinky while appraising O'Farrell. Flashes of light on her fingers attested to the fact that Balducci didn't mind sharing his love of diamonds. He still had his rings on. "Well, he's big enough for me to hide behind."

"I just want him to protect you, darling," Balducci said.

O'Farrell suddenly realized how dressed up the two of them were and what it meant. Balducci's suit easily cost five times what his own new suit cost.

"Are you folks going out to dinner?" he asked.

"We all are," Balducci said. "I thought it would be a good opportunity for us to get acquainted."

"Don't let him fool you, Mr Detective," Georgie said. "He just wants to use you as a beard, that way if anyone sees us together he can say I was your date. He's become an expert at hiding me."

"Georgie . . ."

"Oh, all right," she said, "I'll be a nice girl. Mr O'Farrell, would you care to join us for dinner?"

"Well, I don't-"

"Please," she said. "Vincent will be paying the bill."

"Well," O'Farrell agreed, "when you put it that way . . ."

The only c.h.i.n.k in Georgie Taylor's beautiful armor was her voice. It was high pitched, almost a whine, and marred what was otherwise a perfect picture. O'Farrell knew nothing about how this beauty pageant was supposed to be run. He wondered if it called for the girls to actually speak?

Dinner was a tense affair at a nearby restaurant that O'Farrell suspected was below Balducci's usual dining standards. Even Georgie had lifted one side of her lips and sniffed when they entered. For his part, O'Farrell found his steak delicious.

For a dinner where they were supposed to be getting acquainted actually, he and Georgie Vincent Balducci did most of the talking. O'Farrell spent more time looking at Georgie than listening to his client.

Later, when they returned to the apartment house on Beekman Place, Balducci stopped in the lobby and said, "I'm not coming up."

"Why not?" Georgie asked.

"Because you two need to talk," Balducci said. "I want you to spend some time together and really talk, this time." He turned to face O'Farrell. "Georgie has all the details about the party at the Yacht Club Friday night. I won't see you again until then. I'll, uh, have my wife with me, so if we come face to face we will just be meeting. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly."

"My dear," Balducci said. He leaned over to kiss Georgie but she imperiously presented him with nothing but a cheek. "I'll see you soon."

"Yes," she said, quietly. Then she looked at O'Farrell. "Well, come on, then."

The building had an elevator, but Georgie preferred to walk, which O'Farrell had discovered on their way down. He, in fact, had a distrust of elevators and had walked up when he first arrived. This was something he had shared with his friend, the great Bat Masterson. Masterson, a legend of the old west, now lived in New York and not only had a column in The Morning Telegraph, but was a Vice-President of the newspaper. In his mid-sixties, the old western lawman still had more faith in a horse than an elevator, and almost never used a telephone if he didn't have to. O'Farrell liked to think of himself as someone who had been born too late. He should have been with Bat on the streets of Dodge City, with a gun on his hip.

Georgie opened her door with her key and marched right to the sideboard. She was dragging her mink stole behind her and just let it drop to the floor. O'Farrell bent, picked it up and deposited it on a chair.

"I need a drink," she said. "Join me?"

"Why not, but if you don't mind I'll have bourbon."

"A man after my own heart," she said. She poured bourbon over some ice cubes in two gla.s.ses and handed him one. She sipped herself, clunked the gla.s.s against her teeth and eyed him over the rim.

"After this we could go to the bedroom and f.u.c.k our brains out," she offered. "Or we could take the drinks with us and go in now."

"Somehow," O'Farrell said, "I don't think that's what your boyfriend had in mind when he said he wanted us to get better acquainted."

"You don't think so?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "Why else do you think he sent us up here alone? Come on, I saw the way you were lookin' at me in the restaurant."

"We're supposed to talk about Friday night," he said, "about the beauty pageant."

"Beauty pageant," she said. She held her gla.s.s tightly and let her other arm swing loosely about. He didn't remember how many drinks she'd had at dinner, but she certainly seemed drunk now. "What a crock! What a stupid idea. Marching around in bathing suits while a bunch of lecherous old men decide who the winner will be."

"I wasn't aware that the contest would be judged by a panel of old men?"

"Oh, it's not, but you know what I mean." She finished her drink and poured herself another.

"You don't think you can win?"

She turned around quickly, slos.h.i.+ng some bourbon onto her wrist. She took a moment to lick it off, a move O'Farrell found particularly erotic, especially since she kept those violet eyes on him the whole time. He s.h.i.+fted his legs, his position in his chair, but it didn't help.

"Of course I can win," she said. "I've got the looks, don't you think?"

"Oh, definitely."

"I just don't have the voice," she said, candidly. "I'm no dummy, I just sound like one. I know that when the contestants start to speak to answer questions my voice is going to be a liability."