Star Light, Star Bright Page 7

  “I don’t have to tell you, John, what he talked about in general; you got a taste of it yourself this morning. But his immediate concern was that the paths of his disciple and myself met at this exact time and place, that our marriage was foreordained, that if we entered into it now, we would find happiness for the rest of our lives.”

  “So you entered into it.”

  “Obviously. Want to know what was in my mind when I debated taking the plunge? First, that we always wind up sorriest for the things we haven’t done. Second, that however it turned out, I could afford it. And if you haven’t already noted the evidence, I can tell you it’s turned out very well indeed.”

  I said, “I’m still trying to zero in on Daskalos. He must have gained something from playing matchmaker, didn’t he?”

  “A payment of some kind?” Quist shook his head. “Nothing at all. He never suggested it. I never offered it.”

  “And Mrs. Quist?”

  “As a matter of fact, she once asked me that same question. It then turned out that neither of us had made any payment to Daskalos. She once used to pay Kondracki very generously for his astrological charts. She’s never given Daskalos a penny. She seemed shocked by the idea.”

  I said, “He must have some source of income.”

  “Possibly. But consider that he needs almost nothing. He’s settled down in San Francisco now. I understand that his quarters there are no improvement over the dismal hole I visited in Acapulco.”

  “On the other hand, he’s living far away from San Francisco now. In very handsome style.”

  “Not all that handsome,” Quist countered. “And only because Mrs. Quist urged this visit on him. She likes him close by on occasion. After all, she regards him as her trusted chaplain and confidant.”

  “With your approval?”

  “With my approval.” Quist eyed me narrowly. Evidently satisfied by whatever he read in my face, he said, “I’ll put it very bluntly, John. My wife is an extremely childlike young woman. She also happens to be a living temptation to any conscienceless goddam male who catches sight of her. So it’s a great comfort to know she has utter faith in a chaplain who demands an old-fashioned morality in his followers.” He smiled thinly. “Need I be more explicit?”

  “Hardly. Why did she want him here now? To help make up her mind about going back into pictures?”

  “Well, the screenplay she’s been offered deals with incest. And in the end no one is penalized for practicing it. Before Mrs. Quist would sign any contract she wanted Daskalos’ judgment of this.”

  “Which was?”

  “That certainly a penalty must be imposed on the sinners. That’s what Kightlinger and company are at work on now. A reframing of the story to meet that requirement.”

  I said, “So all in all it seems that Daskalos is pretty much in charge here,” and Quist frowned. “In what sense?”

  I said, “He’s deciding if the movie’ll be made and how it’ll be made. He’s practically dictating security procedures to Araujo. Most of all, by staying on here despite those threats he’s made you accountable for his safety. I call that being in charge.”

  Quist said stiffly, “On the other hand, remember it’s someone else who’s making the threats. I will admit that if Mr. Daskalos would pack himself off—”

  “Which he can’t do as long as he claims to believe the threats. It would mean blowing his credibility as a messiah itching to be a human sacrifice. Goodby, Believers. Back to the mail-order astrology charts.”

  Quist abstractedly scratched his chest while he weighed this. Then he said abruptly, “Well, he can’t have it all his way. You’re to personally provide him maximum protection under any conditions. That is the bottom line. I want you right there with him tomorrow night no matter how he objects to it.”

  “Or sounds as if he’s objecting to it.”

  Quist said wearily, “Sometimes I’m not sure we’re talking about the same man. Of course, the best solution would be for you to identify the mischief-maker, then close out matters in private. Maybe you ought to let it be known that I don’t plan any action in response to the dog’s being killed. As for my backing the film, that’s Mrs. Quist’s decision to make. In brief, the spirit of amnesty prevails.”

  “Really prevails?” I asked pleasantly. “Or do I come bearing the olive branch while you follow with the shillelagh behind your back?”

  Quist chuckled. “Distrustful bastard, aren’t you?” and there was a heavy banging at the door. It opened without invitation, and the attendant’s head popped in. “The telephone,” he said. “The lady—Miss Riley—wants Mr. Milano to please come quick to the office.”

  Quist said apprehensively to me, “John—” and I said, “I’m on my way.”

  And was.

  Maggie, looking furious, was alone in her office She burst out: “Sid Kightlinger—” then took me in wonderingly. “You’re dripping wet.”

  “And I tore my shirt getting it on, and I’m not wearing socks. Never mind that. What about Kightlinger?”

  “First go upstairs and change those clothes. No, I’ll get you one of Andrew’s robes.” She was almost out of the room when I thought to call after her, “And a drink. Emergency-sized.”

  She came back with a heavy terrycloth robe and a balloon glass half full of what turned out to be cognac. A very fine cognac. I took a hefty ungourmetlike belt of it, and while getting into the robe I said, “You’d better call the boss and tell him you’re still in one piece. Right now he has his doubts about it.”

  She made the call, and when she put down the phone was on the way back to her original mood. “It was Sid Kightlinger,” she said between her teeth. She pointed accusingly at the typewriter.

  I looked at the typewriter. “What about him?”

  “He wrote those notes. I’m sure of it.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Look, I go to the museum on business twice a week. I’m usually back by two. Today I cleared up my work fast, and I got back about fifteen minutes ago.” She glanced at her watch. “That’s right. Eleven-thirty.”

  I said, “At the rate you’re telling it, I’ll finish this whole crock of brandy before you’re done. Then I won’t remember a word of it.”

  “All right. Sid knows about my museum trips and when I’m usually back from them.”

  “And this time, since he wasn’t prepared for your early return, he was caught redhanded at that typewriter.”

  “How’d you guess that?”

  “There wasn’t much else to guess. Did he ever use the machine before that you know of?”

  “No.”

  “So you caught him in the act. What happened then?”

  “Well, he looked stupefied—it’s the only way to put it—then very angry. That’s the paper he was using, by the way. My paper. The drawer’s still open. And that envelope must have been the one he was going to use.”

  I said, “Interesting. He’s never been in here before, but he certainly seems to know his way around.”

  “He has been in here. I once typed a letter for him. What I said was I never knew him to use the machine before. Anyhow, before I could get a look at what he was typing he snatched it out of the machine and started crumpling it up. I said: ‘Kindly let me see that.’”

  “In those words?”

  “More or less. And he stood up and said, ‘Kindly mind your own fucking business.’ That’s when I saw a typewriter ribbon in the wastepaper basket. I hadn’t changed ribbons, so he must have. Which meant he wanted to use a fresh one just like those notes were done with. So I grabbed for the paper in his hand. And he hit me.”

  “Really hit you?”

  “Slapped me. Full force. It hurt like hell.” Like a kid inviting sympathy, she pulled aside some of that waterfall of hair to display the reddened imprint on her cheek. I also found that, freckles, snubnose and all, this was a highly pleasing girl-next-door face I was regarding close up.

  I said, “So he slapped you. Then wh
at?”

  “I socked him. Hard. He’ll remember it.”

  I said with admiration, “That’s my girl,” and she waited for more than that. “Well?” she finally said.

  “Well, what?”

  “What are you going to do about him, that’s what.”

  I said, “You know, this kind of repartee is what helped kill vaudeville. Exactly what do you expect me to do about him?”

  Maggie said in outrage, “Find out what he was writing. Give him the Frankie Kurtz treatment if you have to.”

  “But there was no chance Frankie Kurtz would sue me. There’s every chance Kightlinger would. Along with you and Quist. And here come all those newspaper reporters Quist hates. Right?”

  “Oh, is it?” Maggie said with elaborate sarcasm. “And would that worry you so much if it wasn’t Kalos who was being threatened with murder?”

  I said, “Hold it, tiger. Let’s stick to Kightlinger. Now, what reason would he have for being our mystery man?”

  “Him? Plenty of reason. From what I’ve heard, he’s produced two losers in a row, and he needs a winner bad. And he thought he had one until Kalos came along.”

  “That’s something to know when I talk to him. Now, I want some accurate information about what happened in Quist’s office after the dog was found dead. You told me that pretty soon everyone showed up to take a look. Are you sure that included Kightlinger?”

  Brow furrowed, she turned this over in her mind. “I honestly can’t remember.”

  “Then let’s view the scene of the crime. That might help.”

  In Quist’s office I told her to stand where she had been standing when the company started to arrive, and she moved behind the desk, a fair distance from the bleached portion of the carpet. She pointed at the discoloration. “Andrew was there. And Holly Lee and Lou Hoffman and the Rountrees were across the room there. And Sharon and Mike Calderon were by that window.”

  “Definitely Calderon?”

  “Yes. He had his arms around Sharon and was making a big thing of comforting her. I’ll admit she was in a bad way.”

  “What about Kightlinger? Do you remember seeing him here?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”

  “Then we’ll assume he wasn’t. One more question. You mentioned a pool of blood around the dog. Was any of it spattered on the furniture or walls?”

  She looked repelled by the idea. “No. When I had the help in to clean up, that part of the carpet was the only thing that needed cleaning. What are you getting at anyway?”

  “I’m doing some heavy detecting. Cut the throat of any large, active animal, and odds are you’ll wind up with a roomful of blood before it gives up struggling and dies. Unless it was heavily sedated in advance. So there’s every chance Rufus was close to dead before the throat-cutting.”

  Maggie frowned at me. “Is that why you asked about hypodermics last night? Because someone might have used one on Rufus?”

  “Yes. Now I’d say someone definitely used one. That wrecks the theory that Kightlinger didn’t show up for the post mortem because he was busy getting rid of bloodstained clothing. Fact is, he could have had a dozen valid reasons for not showing up. By the way, where was Araujo at the time? You didn’t number him among those present.”

  “Because Friday’s his day at the museum setting up weekend security.” She motioned toward the phone on the desk. “That’s why I was standing here. Andrew told me to call him as soon as we saw what had happened. Virgilio was here about twenty minutes later. But what do you plan to do about Sid and whatever he was writing? You can’t just brush that aside, can you? It could have been one of those notes.”

  I said, “It’s almost noon. What’s the lunch schedule here?” and Maggie answered, “Buffet, noon to two. Dinner’s at eight. Irish linen napkins and wear a jacket.”

  “I have the jacket but I’m starting to run out of shirts. Anyhow, I’d like to catch Kightlinger before he comes down to lunch. If he comes down. How’s the cheek, by the way? Cooling a little?”

  “A little.”

  I said on mischievous impulse, “Suppose I offer to kiss it and make it better?”

  She actually backed away a step, looking panicky. “Wrong room, doctor,” she said. “Wrong patient.”

  So far.

  Following the sound old rule of waste not, want not, I took the balloon glass back to my apartment—there was enough left to easily see me through the next thirty-six hours—and once again got myself ready to meet company. When I knocked on Kightlinger’s door, however, there was no answer, and when I looked into the apartment, a duplicate of mine down to the lingering smell of wood smoke in the air, there was no one at home.

  I went back to my quarters, checked through the Hesperides phone directory and called valet service. Eventually, the beautiful Pablo showed up. He looked over yesterday’s wilted shirt and this morning’s shirt minus a button and assured me that both would be made ready for me to wear in a couple of hours. Anything else?

  I said, “Just a question. Is there an automated switchboard for the phones here, or is somebody supposed to be sitting at it?”

  “Somebody’s supposed to be at it all the time.”

  “One more question. How do I borrow or rent a car if I want to do a little sightseeing?”

  “The garage’ll fix you up.” Pablo picked up the phone. “Chauffeur or plain?”

  “Plain,” I said, and Pablo, after making the call, reported: “It’ll be around in five minutes. Only thing is, when you get back, park it at the garage. A sharp right inside the gate and just keep going. They’ll drive you to the house here.”

  He departed with my shirts and ten tax-free dollars, and I made a close study of the Miami area map. Then I went outside to find that plain meant a neat little Toyota wagon. I stopped at the main gate for inspection, turned south on Old Cutler Road, which led me to U.S. 1, where I turned north. Just as the map had indicated, I passed the Serpentarium, and just as I had estimated, I came to a shopping center not far beyond it.

  In a drug and sundries store plus lunch counter were phone booths. I charged the call to the agency, and Shirley Glass cut short my friendly hello by remarking with satisfaction: “The weatherman said this morning you were having a real bad cold wave down there.” She clicked her tongue in false sympathy.

  I said, “I don’t know where those guys get their ideas. It’s eighty degrees and not a cloud in the sky. Any significant messages?”

  “Your sister Angie, bright and early. And that Elphinstone from the insurance company. I turned him over to Willie.”

  “What’d Mr. Elphinstone have on his well-bred mind?”

  “According to Willie, he thinks there’s a leak somewhere in his office. He wants a plant in there to track it down.”

  “I figured he’d get around to that. Now I want you to do a job for me. Top priority. There’s that movie gossip female on TV. Her leg man—you know who I mean—owes us a big one.”

  “McNulty. Owen McNulty.”

  “Right. Get through to him on the Coast. Tell him I want whatever he’s got on any connection between Michael Calderon and somebody who calls himself Kalos Daskalos. Also known as Walter Kondracki.” I spelled out the names for her. “And don’t let Willie in on this because he’ll start arguing price with McNulty. You handle it yourself.”

  Shirley said, “Can do. Say, that’s the movie Mike Calderon, isn’t it? Is he there with you?”

  “Not me exclusively. Now, understand this. I want that information, if any, by five this afternoon. I’ll phone you then.”

  “Okay. And getting to the interesting part, how is the divine Mrs. Quist?”

  I said, “Right here in bed with me. Want to say hello to her?” and Shirley, after a quick count, said, “You think I think you’re kidding, Johnny, but I’m not so sure.” She hung up on that.

  I went over to the lunch counter and had a b.l.t. on soggy toast and an earful of talk about the weather from some unhappy locals. Then,
reversing my course, I drove to the Serpentarium and put in time there, making the rounds of the reptile world and winding up watching the man in charge extract venom from several edgy snakes.

  It struck me on the way out that he and I had a lot more in common than anyone might suspect at first glance.

  As requested, I returned the car to the garage, and considering the dimensions of everything else here at the top of the beanstalk it was no surprise to find that the garage was a block long, two-story fieldstone capable of servicing a couple of dozen cars.

  Araujo was outside, clipboard in hand, laying down the law to some uniformed men. I surrendered the wagon to a mechanic and walked over to him. He introduced me to his second-in-command, didn’t bother about an introduction to the others. Then, a hand planted between my shoulder blades, he steered me toward the building. “I’ve been waiting to show you around,” he said. Out of earshot of the others, he confided, “I just had a talk with the boss. It seems you weren’t too happy about the security here.”

  “Well, that may have been a snap judgment.”

  “Mr. Quist didn’t think so.” Araujo was surprisingly full of good cheer about it. “You managed to convince him we’re shorthanded in our security. Up to now, I couldn’t.”

  When I asked why not he held out a hand and rubbed thumb and fingers together meaningfully. “Call it economy. But now we’ll be doing it the way it should be done. Including around-the-clock patrols. And closed-circuit monitoring by next week.”

  He led me up a flight of narrow stairs to show me his command post, a small room with a man at a desk on which were a couple of phones and walkie-talkie. On the wall were a large map of the estate, divided into grids, and a blowup of Maggie’s plan of the main building. The rest of these rooms above the garage, Araujo said, waving in their direction, were bedrooms, sixteen of them. Two for the family’s chauffeurs, the rest for the chauffeurs of visitors. He explained: “We do some stylish entertaining now and then. Last Christmas there were eighty guests here for the week.”