Part 31 (1/2)

”Probably,” I said. ”It's hardly a sure thing, though. She was a blackmailer, and there's a law against that sort of thing, but she's in a position to turn state's evidence and help them nail the lid on Zucker and his buddies. And, as she said, she never killed anyone. Only tried.”

I shrugged. ”And she's a girl. A pretty one. That still makes a difference in any case where you have trial by jury. The worst she can look forward to is a fairly light sentence. She could even get off clean, if she has an expensive lawyer.”

”Like Phil Carr?”

”Like him, but not Carr. He won't be practicing much law anymore. He'll be in jail for everything the D.A. can make stick. And Zucker will stand trial, too.”

I'D CALLED SHARON A DAY OR TWO after the whole thing was wrapped up, and after she had cooled off from the broken-date routine. And, over our steaks, I had filled her in on most of the story. Not all of it, of course. She got the expurgated version. You never tell one girl about the bedroom games you played with another girl. It's not chivalrous. It's not even especially intelligent. after the whole thing was wrapped up, and after she had cooled off from the broken-date routine. And, over our steaks, I had filled her in on most of the story. Not all of it, of course. She got the expurgated version. You never tell one girl about the bedroom games you played with another girl. It's not chivalrous. It's not even especially intelligent.

”I guess I forgive you,” she said.

”For what?”

”For breaking our date, silly. Brother, was I mad at you! You didn't sound like a man with business on his mind, not when you called me. You sounded like a man who had just crawled out of bed with someone pretty. And I was steaming.”

I looked away. h.e.l.l, I thought. When I called her I had had just crawled out of bed with something pretty. But I didn't know you could tell over the phone. just crawled out of bed with something pretty. But I didn't know you could tell over the phone.

”Ed?”

I looked up.

”Where do you want to go after dinner?”

”A little club somewhere on the East Side,” I said. ”We'll listen to atonal jazz and drink a little too much.”

She said it sounded good. It did. We would listen to atonal jazz and drink a little too much, and then we would go back to her place for a nightcap. She wouldn't be a secretive blackmailer with a closet full of dynamite. She would just be a soft warm girl, and that was enough.

There might be explosions. But dynamite wouldn't cause them, and I wouldn't mind them at all.

STAG PARTY GIRL.

ONE.

Harold Merriman pushed his chair back and stood up, drink in hand. ”Gentlemen,” he said solemnly, ”to all the wives we love so well. May they continue to belong to us body and soul.” He paused theatrically, ”And to their husbands-may they never find out!”

There was scattered laughter, most of it lost in the general hubbub. I had a gla.s.s of cognac on the table in front of me. I took a sip and looked at Mark Donahue. If he was nervous, it didn't show. He looked like any man who was getting married in the morning-which is nervous enough, I suppose. He didn't look like someone threatened with murder.

Phil Abeles-short, intense, brittle-voiced-stood. He started to read a sheaf of fake telegrams. ”Mark,” he intoned, ”don't panic-marriage is the best life for a man. Signed, Tommy Manville”...He read more telegrams. Some funny, some mildly obscene, some dull.

We were in an upstairs dining room at McGraw's, a venerable steakhouse in the East Forties. About a dozen of us. There was Mark Donahue, literally getting married in the morning, Sunday, tying the nuptial knot at 10:30. Also Harold Merriman, Phil Abeles, Ray Powell, Joe Conn, Jack Harris, and a few others whose names I couldn't remember, all fellow wage slaves with Donahue at Darcy & Bates, one of Madison Avenue's rising young ad agencies.

And there was me. Ed London, private cop, the man at the party who didn't belong. I was just a hired hand. It was my job to get Donahue to the church on time, and alive.

On Wednesday, Mark Donahue had come to my apartment. He cabbed over on a long lunch hour that coincided with the time I rolled out of bed. We sat in my living room. I was rumpled and ugly in a moth-eaten bathrobe. He was fresh and trim in a Tripler suit and expensive shoes. I drowned my sorrows with coffee while he told me his problems.

”I think I need a bodyguard,” he said.

In the storybooks and the movies, I show him the door at this point. I explain belligerently that I don't do divorce or bodyguard work or handle corporation investigations-that I only rescue stacked blondes and play modern-day Robin Hood. That's in the storybooks. I don't play that way. I have an apartment in an East Side brownstone and I eat in good restaurants and drink expensive cognac. If you can pay my fee, friend, you can buy me.

I asked him what it was all about.

”I'm getting married Sunday morning,” he said.

”Congratulations.”

”Thanks.” He looked at the floor. ”I'm marrying a...a very fine girl. Her name is Lynn Farwell.”

I waited.

”There was another girl I...used to see. A model, more or less. Karen Price.”

”And?”

”She doesn't want me to get married.”

”So?”

He fumbled for a cigarette. ”She's been calling me,” he said. ”I was...well, fairly deeply involved with her. I never planned to marry her. I'm sure she knew that.”

”But you were sleeping with her?”

”That's right.”

”And now you're marrying someone else.”

He sighed at me. ”It's not as though I ruined the girl,” he said. ”She's...well, not a tramp, exactly, but close to it. She's been around, London.”

”So what's the problem?”

”I've been getting phone calls from her. Unpleasant ones, I'm afraid. She's told me that I'm not going to marry Lynn. That she'll see me dead first.”

”And you think she'll try to kill you?”

”I don't know.”

”That kind of threat is common, you know. It doesn't usually lead to murder.”

He nodded hurriedly. ”I know that,” he said. ”I'm not terribly afraid she'll kill me. I just want to make sure she doesn't throw a monkey wrench into the wedding. Lynn comes from an excellent family. Long Island, society, money. Her parents wouldn't appreciate a scene.”

”Probably not.”