Laurel and Hardy Murders (12 page)

8:45
P.M.

“If there is no further business,” O. J. began, but he didn’t finish his sentence. Hilary stood up and stared from one to the other of us with great displeasure.

“I don’t believe you people!”

O. J. looked at her blankly. “What’s the matter?”

“In spite of your adolescent membership policy,” she replied, “there is a deal of good in the Sons, I must admit. I enjoyed the banquet. So I came here to help, even though I despise your chauvinistic exclusion of women. But—”

“What’s she talkin’ about?” Dutchy grumbled, vainly trying to follow the proceedings.

“Yeah, lady, what the hell
are
you talking about?” Phil asked, his face a mass of downturned wrinkles. “Who asked for your help, and what’d we do with it if we had it?”

“I assumed,” she said, “you would need suggestions concerning the murder of Wayne Poe. I’ve been waiting for the question to be brought up, but hardly a word has been mentioned about Saturday night.”

“We’re sending out the flyers,” Hal said, palms up in an attitude of perplexity. “What else should we do?”

“I imagined—it appears wrongly—that you would worry about the scandal and suspicion the killing would bring upon the entire organization (and perhaps certain members in particular). Surely you have all been harassed by the police by now.”

Which showed Hilary didn’t understand how to hold the attention at a Sons committee meeting. Her comment touched off a rash of simultaneous personal grievances concerning the police. They all spoke at once, and it was impossible for Hilary to keep the floor. She finally sat down, disgusted.

O. J. brought everyone in line. “That’s enough communal griping,” he said severely, turning to address Hilary. “I don’t see what you expected us to do. The murder of Wayne Poe is the police’s responsibility, not ours.”

“But has it occurred to you,” she countered, “that your members may not like harboring a murderer?”

“What’s that mean?” Phil growled. “You accusing somebody here—?”

“I’m only suggesting what others might think. For all
I
know, a Lambs waiter hid in the kitchen and threw a knife because of some ancient grudge.”

“This whole discussion is irrelevant,” O. J. stated. “It’s time to adjourn.”

“No, hold on, O. J.,” said Natie. “Maybe she’s right. We don’t know what’ll happen if the police don’t catch the killer. It might hurt membership.”

“Well, what do you propose we do about it?”

Natie shrugged. “I dunno. Hire Nero Wolfe?”

“We could conduct a private inquiry,” Toby suggested, speaking up for the first time that night.

“You’re out of order,” O. J. told him.

“Why?”

“Because we can’t go prying into the affairs of our members. We have no official status to do so and it would make us very unpopular.”

“So hire a detective, it’s not such a bad idea after all,” Phil said.

“We can’t afford one,” Natie objected.

Hilary looked at me, waiting for me to suggest her for the job, but I kept my mouth shut. We were already in enough financial difficulty at the office without dissipating more client time by sleuthing, for which we never seemed to earn a penny.

“Hey, you dummies,” Butler rasped, lighting a stogie from the butt of the previous one, “don’t you know I’m a detective? Gimme expenses in gas and stuff, I’ll catch this character and give ’im a goddamn medal!”

Most of the committee thought the proposal a good one, and all spoke again at once, thanking Butler for the offer. But when the talk died down, O. J. protested.

“Investigating our members is not a proper pursuit of this committee! And furthermore, Frank is a Pennsylvania operative. He has no license for this state.”

“So?” the Old Man shrugged. “Gene here has a New York license. Right, boy?”

“How do you know that? Did
I
tell you?”

“Saw it on your wall that time I was over. How’s about it, boy, you and me can work together, huh?”

I glanced fearfully at Hilary. She sat erect, looking pale, but said nothing.

“I don’t think,” I murmured, “that I’d better do that.”

9:08
P.M.

O. J. had Hilary at the bar, buying her a drink and talking earnestly to her, presumably asking her to mind her own business, not the Sons’.

Natie approached me. “Gene, you’d better think about things a little better next time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, bringing women to closed committee meetings.”

“I didn’t bring her. She came by herself.”

“You came in together.” Phil waggled a finger at me. “You try this again, we’ll blackball you outta the Sons.”

“Phil, we don’t have a blackballing procedure,” Natie said.

“We don’t? How ’bout when we threw out Brad Chelsea?”

“Naah, naah,” Dutchy joined in, leaning on Phil’s shoulder for support, “we blabbed for four hours about how to get rid of ’im, but the only reason he stopped coming is he moved out of the city. We could never figure how to throw out one member and not set a precedent.” He turned to me. “How come we’re talking about blackballing?”

“Phil says I should be blackballed for bringing Hilary.”

“See?” Phil crowed. “You admit you brought her!”

“No, I didn’t, dammit! I didn’t want Hilary to come, but she’s so pigheaded stubborn—”

I stopped.

Across the room, Hilary was listening to every word.

9:12
P.M.

It was a short argument, but bitter. Hilary walked out by herself. O. J. bought me a boilermaker and I gloomily downed it while Frank Butler sat by me, keeping pace, swig for swig.

“If you’re pissed off at Hilary,” he said, “show her you can do what you damn well please.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I saw how she looked when they wanted you and me to team up. She stared daggers.”

“That she did.”

“So if that idea bugs her, then c’mon, give the Old Man a hand, and I’ll show you how to be a
real
detective!” He puffed out his chest like a child of my generation playing Mussolini.

“Sure, sure,” I kidded, “why not? Call me Watson from now on.”

But Butler didn’t understand irony. He immediately told O. J. and the others that I’d decided to help him investigate Poe’s murder. O. J. launched into a tirade against the plan, and the rest of the committee wrangled with the president.

I gave up and headed for the door. Butler chugged behind me.

“I’ll give ya a lift, boy, and we can discuss strategy.”

My head was aching as usual after a committee meeting, and I was in too much discomfort to argue with the Old Man. I even let him pile me into his decrepit Packard because I wanted to get home and talk to Hilary.

9:23
P.M.

In the car, I asked him where on earth he’d ever come up with a portmanteau word like crocogator.

“Aw, ain’t you never hearda one? The crocogator’s the meanest critter in the world. Got the head of a alligator on one end and the head of a crocodile on the other.”

“Which means he can’t—”

“Kee-rect, boy,” he interrupted. “That’s what makes ’im so fierce...”

B
UTLER DOUBLE-PARKED IN FRONT
of the building and came in to use the bathroom.

Hilary wasn’t home. I found a note from her on my typewriter.

Gene, we’ve quarreled before, but this is entirely different. My father used his connections to prevent me from securing a state detective license. Yet I tried to win his approval. What did I get out of it? He doesn’t even like to admit I’m his daughter. Tonight reminded me of that situation. The Sons is important to you, so I made an effort—like a damn fool. I’ve been worried about money lately. Maybe it makes sense for us to end our business and personal relationships at the same time. What do you think?

Hilary

Also on my desk was a phone message in Hilary’s handwriting, a note to call Penny Saxon.

Salt on the wound.

“What’s the matter, boy?” Butler asked, wiping his water-moist hands on his vest. “You look like you’ve been sucking a sump pump.”

I handed him the letter.

“Oh, hell, I’m sorry, boy,” he said after he’d finished reading. “Y’know what Shakespeare says, though—hell hath no fury like a woman!”

Couldn’t he ever attribute a quote correctly?

Dear Hilary,

Maybe we’d better stay out of each other’s hair a few days till we cool off and think things over. Frank Butler has invited me to spend some time in Philly, and I’ve accepted. If you want me for any reason, the phone number is on my Wheeldex.

I put the note on her bed so she’d spot it first thing. Then, hefting my suitcase, I told the Old Man I was ready to leave. He put down the bottle, wiped his lips, and started for the front door.

The phone rang.

After six, I say “Ms. Quayle’s residence,” but the caller wanted me. I identified myself, wondering where I’d heard the grating voice before.

“I hear,” he said, “that you and that old futz think you can catch me...”

“Who is this?”

Silence.

“
Who is this
?”

A low, unctuous chuckle.

“Who I am is none of your friggin’ business, buster. But stay out of this, or you might wind up like Poe, you and that fat clown.”

He hung up.

I told Butler what I’d heard.

“That son-of-a-bitch!” he howled. “Think he can scare the Old Man?” Butler yanked out his rusty .45, and waved it wildly in the air. “I’ll blow so many holes in the bastard he’ll look like a puzzle without all the pieces!”

“Put the gun away, for God’s sake! Don’t you know better than to point that thing?”

He stuck it back in its holster. “You say you recognized the voice, boy? Who the hell was it?”

“I only said it sounded like someone I’d heard before.”

“Who?”

“Wayne Poe.”

THURSDAY, JUNE 21

BY THE
time I woke up on Butler’s lumpy couch, he was already back in the office working on a case. Of Colt 45.

“Morning,” I grunted. “She call?”

“Nope.” He gestured in the direction of the refrigerator. “Help yourself to some breakfast.”

I opened it. There was nothing inside but beer.

At half past one, Butler folded his issue of the
National Enquirer,
rose and locked the office door, though I couldn’t imagine why, since no one had come in all morning.

He lifted a small rabbit-eared TV set from behind a file cabinet, set it on his desk, and switched it on to NBC.

“You watch ‘Days of Our Lives’?” I asked, astonished.

“Yep.”

“
Why
?”

“Because it’s got the best goddamn broads on the tube!” he said, stretching his feet onto a dilapidated hassock and clasping his hands over his ample belly. He sighed contentedly.

I started to ask him how long he’d been hooked, but he waved me down impatiently. “Shaddap, Amanda’s sick!”

It was obvious he was as caught up in the plot as any housewife. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I sat down and watched with him, wondering who the hell everyone was and how they were related. He tried to fill me in during the commercials, but the complications made me giddy.

I had to admit he was right, though, about the women. They were stunningly lovely. One of them gave me a jolt when she appeared on the screen.

She looked almost exactly like Hilary.

Friday, June 22

Butler spent the previous evening at a Two Tars board meeting and I took a ride over to visit my old friend, Marty Gold, whom I knew in New York, but who now worked at the Einstein medical facilities in northern Philly.

Friday morning some work came in for the Old Man. His business, such as it was, consisted mainly of trailing erring spouses and getting their indiscretions on Polaroid.

“I always make two pix of each exposure,” he explained. “One for the client, one for the files.” He winked at me broadly.

I warned him about the possible consequences of blackmail, but he vigorously shook his head.

“I just like t’look at the pitchers.”

The phone rang. I almost reached for it, then remembered it wasn’t my office. Butler took it. As soon as he heard the voice on the other end, his face converted into one immense frown.

“Yeah, I’m busy,” he complained, and had to repeat the same phrase in a variety of variant wordings for the next ten minutes. At length, he hung up, shaking his head.

“Who was that?”

“My old lady.”

“Your wife?”

He shook his head. “My maw.”

Butler tramped over to the refrigerator, opened the door, and took out a Colt 45. Popping the tab, he took a long swig and then gestured around the room with the can. “This whole place is her money,” he said glumly. “Never lets me forget it.” He stared distastefully at the malt beverage. “That’s why I can’t drink during working hours. She won’t let me.”

“But you’re drinking, Old Man.”

“You call this drinking? This just keeps my tonsils from drying up.” He shook his head. “Like the guy says, ‘Booze does more than Milton Berle,’ only the old lady don’t believe it!”

“She doesn’t have to know, does she?”

He sat, looking tired. “She sends the damn clan to spy on me. ‘Good old Uncle Frank,’ like I was some damn clown! Cripes, what a tribe! If they see any hard stuff around while I’m workin’, the old lady storms in, pours out all my special-blend gin—”

“Special-blend
gin
?”

“—and fills the bottles with water, which she makes me drink! Gaah!” He spit out the end of a twist cigar and set a match to the other end. Butler puffed on it, a sour look on his face.

I cheered him up when I pointed out it was time to tune in on Julie and Doug.

Saturday, June 23

Still no call. I was sure I’d hear from her by the weekend.

Butler was busy till noon with a succession of seedy, shady-looking clients, so I took a long walk on Chestnut, Broad, and Walnut streets trying to sort out my feelings.

A little after twelve, I returned and offered to take him to lunch.

“Swell,” he said, “but I’m paying. You’re unemployed.”