Who He? - (11)

"That's a lie!" Ween roared. "You heard what Cooper just now admitted. That's a dirty, unethical lie, Lennox!"
    "And you're stuck with it. Take us into court and see what happens."
    "I don't want to go into court!" Cooper looked around frantically. "You're right, Jake. All I want is out. Give him his piece of the hit. Give him the whole damned tune. I'm not cut out for this rat race. For God's sake, let me out before I turn into a twitch like Blinky."
    Lennox shut Cooper up with a wave of his hand. He scowled murderously at Ween. "Look what you're doing to him, you lousy leech. You sit on the sidelines waiting for someone to hit, and then you're right in there bloodsucking. Agents! The pimps of the business! This is my boy, understand? He worked for this. He sweated for it. He waited for it, and you're taking nothing from him. Now get the hell out of here and go shove yourself up your property."
    Ween left the wrapping room like a thundercloud. Lennox ignored him and stepped to Cooper's side. "You stood by me," he growled. "Now I'm standing by you. If you sign anything away.... If you give anything away.... If you so much as open your mouth, I'll kill you. Stop whining. D'you think this is another varsity show? You're doing business with professional cut-throats. Get the hell out there and face them."
    He pounded Cooper's slack shoulders with his fists, propelled him to the door and thrust him out. He motioned to Gabby to follow and walked behind Cooper, forcing him back into the crush. Lennox kept muttering: "Smile. Grin. Shove it down their throats. They hate your guts. They hate anybody who gets a break. Well, hate 'em back. Show 'em!"
    Lennox patrolled Cooper for a few minutes, showing his teeth in the icy, cutting smile called The Agency Knife. Then he took Gabby to the bar for a drink. He was sardonic, hostile, unyielding. Gabby had never seen him look more dangerous. Once again she was repelled by that frozen exterior that the business knew so well, but now she knew that this was only a part of Lennox. She took his arm with both hands and tugged gently.
    "You're frightening me," she whispered. "Stop looking like that, Jordan. You're like you were in the taxi Christmas night."
    "Thieves," Lennox growled. "Killers. Poison eaters! All of them. Trying to cut Sam's throat. Mine too. I won't let 'em. We'll hold on to our sanity. All of us. Won't we?" He glared at Gabby.
    "Yes, sir, Captain Hook, sir," she quavered.
    "And we'll give 'em nothing. Nothing! You hear me, Gabby Valentine?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "That's my girl. Now let's go find a place and talk."
    There were only three people in the smaller sound studio, clustered around a piano flanked by microphones on stands. A bass fiddle and two copper-bottomed kettle drums stood in a corner. Still raging, Lennox stalked in with Gabby and flashed The Agency Knife on the strangers.
    "I'd like a word in private with my mother," he said. "Would you mind? Thanks very much."
    The strangers scuttled out and left them alone. Lennox looked through the glass panel into the control booth where a group of people soundlessly shouted and gesticulated. He rapped the microphones with his knuckles.
    "Are these live?" he asked. "Control, can you hear me?"
    There was no response. He took Gabby by the waist and lifted her onto the piano, then leaned against her knees and, halfway between fury and confusion, blurted out the story of the letters. He opened his gimmick book and showed her the message scrawled in by a person named Knott.
    "The Quaker, the blonde and the knot," Lennox said. "It's filled in now. The knot is a person. Mr. Knott ... a murderous lunatic who knows me. Maybe it's like you said this morning in the park ... an enemy for something I don't even remember doing. But he's an enemy all the same. And I was with him the night before Christmas."
    "You don't remember being with him?"
    "No. But we must have been together. He left a line for me in the gimmick book ... a little love note to let me know who to expect Sunday."
    Gabby nodded.
    "It's a charming situation, isn't it?" Lennox said. "There's a man named Knott. I don't know him, but he knows me. First he writes me. Then he sidles up to me Saturday night and leaves a personal message where he knows I'll find it sooner or later. He hates me. He wants my guts cut out. I don't know why, but I don't have to know. He's got his own crazy reasons. All right, I'm going to find him before Sunday."
    "Find him? How?"
    "I'm going to backtrack on my trail. I'm going to start at the bar where I got plastered with Avery Borden Saturday night. I'm going to start remembering and keep going until I find friend Knott. After I've had a few words with him, you can come and bail me out."
    "I don't think you should. It's Sergeant Fink's job."
    "I'll do it myself," Lennox said stubbornly. "If I louse it, I can always go crying to Fink, but I'm not crying yet. I've got Fink to fall back on, and Sam, if he can only remember where he saw that writing. But that comes later. Right now will you let me out of our date tonight? I want to call Borden and start backtracking now."
    "No, I won't," Gabby said. "I'll go with you."
    Lennox shook his head.
    "I'll go with you," Gabby insisted. "I can help."
    "Not in this."
    "You'd be surprised the way ladies can help. Anyway I don't want to bail you out of jail. You need a keeper."
    "Listen," Lennox said. "I was dirty drunk that night. God knows what I did. God knows where I went. I don't want you finding out things about me. This Knott could turn out to be something so filthy that I--"
    The control booth door burst open and banged against the wall. Grabinett stood in the doorway, blinking hideously. Lennox stared at him and then into the booth. The group inside was watching the scene with intense interest. One man was bent over the control panel fiddling with the Gain knobs.
    "So it was you," Grabinett sputtered. "It was you all the time, you Jesus Almighty hypocrite!"
    "Turn off those mikes," Lennox roared at the controls.
    "Leave 'em on," Grabinett shouted. "I want witnesses. I got a moral conduct clause in your contract, Lennox. Remember? I warned you. I warned you at the office less'n two hours ago. All right. Here it is. You're fired. You're off the show."
    "Did you hear everything I told her?"
    "I heard every Almighty thing you told her and you're off the show."
    "You heard me say I don't know who's doing this to me and I don't know why. All I want is a fair shake. Will you stand by me, Mel?"
    "I don't care who's doing what to who or for why. I got a client to consider. I got myself to consider. And I got news for you. If anything happens Sunday ... anything at all, I'll take it out of you. If the network or the client cancels, if I suffer any damages of any kind, I'll take it out of your hide."
    "The hell you will."
    "The hell I won't. Go home and read your contract, Lennox. Clause eight. Then you'll make goddam sure nothing happens Sunday." Grabinett blinked triumphantly. "After you read it you can tear it up, because right now in front of witnesses I'm telling you ... you're off the show and that's final!"
    CHAPTER IX
    Like most agencies, Borden's Oleomargarine was born of treason. In 1940, Borden, Olson and Mardine, the three top account men of Riley & Reeves, mutinied and set up their own agency, taking R&R's best clients with them. The fact that Riley & Reeves had done the same thing to Ansel, Bates & Crown in 1922 in no way mitigated their outraged charges of piracy, sabotage and unfair practice.
    By the fifties, Borden's Oleomargarine owned five floors on the top of a Madison Avenue tower in which all the elevator operators were red-headed women. It handled thirty million dollars worth of billing a year at fifteen percent off the top, and as representative of six of the most powerful American industries (among other clients) was a monolith of agencies. It had offices in Chicago, St. Louis, New Orleans, Hollywood and San Francisco. It employed over five hundred people, among whom were the bright young bandits who would eventually mutiny in their own turn.
    Success did not prevent Avery Borden from having a drink with Jake Lennox and Gabby Valentine in the saloon across the street from the Venice Theater, or from worrying about his train back to Westport where he owned one hundred acres and a twenty-room house. Our business may be cut-throat, but it's democratic. We have the highest percentage of inter-denominational ulcers anywhere.
    "I've got a train to catch," Avery Borden said, "But leave us bleed the lizard again." He caught the bartender's eye. "The same all around and extra special for the lady, please. Extra special."
    "Yes sir, Mr. Borden," the bartender said. "I know just how Miss V. likes it."
    Lennox glanced at Gabby. "They know you here?"
    "I get around," Gabby smiled. "Now, Mr. Borden...."
    "Call me Avery," Borden cooed. "Call me Avery and I'll miss my train." Mr. Agency was turning all his powerful charm on Gabby. He was a remarkably young fifty, tall and slender, and looked so much like Roy Audibon that Lennox glared at him.
    "Please don't," Gabby said in alarm. "I get train fever. My heart's beginning to thump now."
    "Show me."
    "You can feel my pulse."
    "With your permission, Jake?"
    "I could shoot you both and no jury would convict."
    "I'm pleading the unwritten law too." Borden took Gabby's wrist and held it delicately.
    "What law is that?" she asked.
    "Open season on chicks like you."
    "You see?" Gabby said to Lennox. "I'm fatal. Have I got him hypnotized?"
    "He's under your thrall all right. Thrall?"
    "Thpell," Borden said.
    "We want a favor from you," Gabby said, "Will you help us?"
    "Anything short of missing my train."
    "What did Jordan do when he was here with you Saturday evening?"
    "He drank."
    Lennox nodded gloomily. "She knows that, Avery. We're looking for something else."
    "Checking up on him?" Borden asked Gabby.
    "For the parole board."
    "He raped the cashier, murdered the boss, kidnapped their child and sold it to Procter & Gamble," Borden said promptly. "Obviously not the man for you. But I'm noble."
    "I can see the blood royal in your eyes. Did Jordan talk to anybody except you?"
    "Are you kids serious?"
    Gabby nodded and melted Borden with her dark, candid gaze.
    "We're looking for a man named Knott," Lennox explained. "I met him somewhere Saturday night and he's been giving me a hard time with threatening letters. I've got to find him and square it off."
    "Did Jordan talk to anybody except you?" Gabby repeated.
    "No, Miss V. He didn't," the bartender put in. "It wasn't crowded that night. I remember."
    "Thank you. You're very kind. Does anybody named Knott ever come in here?"
    "Not that I know of, Miss V."
    "Do you know any characters named Knott?" Lennox asked Borden.
    Borden was confused. "I thought you knew him."
    "I don't. I'm trying to trace him."
    "Try the phone book."
    "I already. There's twelve Knotts on The Rock alone. None of the names look familiar. God knows how many more there are outside."
    "Maybe this Knott don't have a phone, Miss V.," the bartender suggested. "Lots of people don't."
    "Thank you," Gabby smiled. "Can I buy you a drink?"
    "Oh no, Miss V." The bartender looked at her fondly.
    Lennox glared at him and then asked Borden: "Did I mention the name after I got plastered?"
    "Man, you started plastered. No, you didn't mention the name."
    "What happened Saturday? Take it from the top."
    "Well.... We left rehearsal around five. Came over here. Cut up the show. Had a few drinks to celebrate. Cut up the business. Had a few more. Cut up Christmas...."
    "I deny that."
    "Who's remembering this?"
    "I'm a wholesome American boy. I never said a word against Santa Claus."
    "Cut up Christmas," Borden continued firmly. "Had a few more to celebrate.... And then I caught my train."
    "Didn't I ask you to have dinner with me? I've got a fuzzy recollection of that foolish, headstrong invitation. Did I mention where?"
    "Have a heart, Jake. I was celebrating myself."
    "Please help us, Avery," Gabby pleaded.
    Borden looked at her affectionately. "What do you do, love? Come and work for me."
    "First show me you're worth an office pinch."
    "I will now display my giant intellect." Borden considered earnestly. "Let's see.... We were in the cab."
    "What cab?"
    "To the station. I gave you a lift."
    "Wait a minute. Hold the phone. To the library?"
    "That was your story."
    "I think I remember. I wanted to check Americana scores for a production number. John Brown's ever-lovin' Body or something. Did I say where I was going to eat?"
    "Some ungodly place like Chinatown."
    "At The Yellow Sea?"
    "It rings a bell."
    "So...." Lennox nodded slowly. "First the library and then The Yellow Sea. Elementary, my dear Watson. No you don't, Avery. I'll take the check, please."
    "I'll take my reward," Borden said, reaching for Gabby.
    "And I'll pay it," Gabby said. "This time I'll give you the lift to the station."
    After they dropped Borden at Grand Central, Gabby turned to Lennox.
    "Am I helping?" she asked.
    "I couldn't be doing it without you."
    "Are you still afraid of what you're going to find out?"
    "Yes, but it doesn't make any difference any more. I'm so damned mad at Grabinett and myself that--Were you ever at a corrida?"
    "What's that?"
    "A bullfight."
    "Good Heavens! No!"
    "I used to wonder how the bull felt. Now I know."
    They entered the library from the 42nd Street side, and as they passed through the turnstile the guard nodded fondly to Gabby who smiled back.
    "What the hell.... Do they know you here too?" Lennox asked in surprise.
    "I told you. I get around. He's a nice man but a terrible reactionary."
    "Looks like the hedonistic type to me."
    "No, he's too eclectic."
    "Sweetheart, sometimes you talk just like a pamphlet."
    "I know. Isn't it awful? My father used to make me study the dictionary. But I practice slang whenever I remember."
    They turned right through a short corridor lined with illuminated display cases and went into the music room. It was nearly closing time for this department. The bookboys were slamming volumes back into the shelves. There were half a dozen readers at the tables. One librarian minded the desk.
    "Put him under your thpell," Lennox whispered.
    Gabby at once walked up to the librarian and gazed candidly into his eyes. "Please.... Do you have any music about John Brown's ever-lovin' Body?"
    "I beg your--" The librarian was startled, then he recovered. "I'll look, Miss. Please sign the register."
    Gabby signed the desk register, then followed the librarian to the file cabinets, moving with her lazy, square-shouldered carriage. Lennox turned the pages of the desk register back to December 24th. He went through the signatures and addresses one by one. He found his own, third from the end, written in his heavy Gothic hand. There was no Knott. There was no name vaguely resembling Knott. To the best of his knowledge there was no handwriting resembling the hysterical scrawl in the letters.
    He motioned to Gabby who returned to the desk.
    "Nothing here," Lennox murmured. "Leave us take a powder."
    "Oh, that wouldn't be kind. Let's wait a moment."
    The librarian came scurrying up with a list of references which he presented to Gabby gallantly. She thanked him, folded the list and handed it to Lennox.
    "What for?" he asked as they left.
    "You wanted a production number, didn't you? Here it is."
    "That was last week. I'm off the show now. Remember?"
    "You'll be on it again," Gabby said confidently.
    "Who taught you to say the right thing at the right time?"
    "Nobody. I just tell the truth and shame the devil--Don't you dare touch me. Ouch! Oh quick! There's a taxi."
    The Yellow Sea was packed with the early dinner crowd. The waiters ran and shouted. The managers darted from table to table, scribbling orders. The swinging doors of the kitchen banged open and shut giving flashing glimpses of a giant smoky room from which came the crackle of hot oil and excited chefs.
    "This is impossible," Lennox grunted. "I'll never get a chance to ask anything in this mad-house."
    "Will it always be crowded?"
    "No. They'll clear out in an hour or so."
    "Then let's have dinner first. I want to show off. I know how to use chop-sticks."
    Lennox looked at her. "Taught to you by an eclectic Chinaman?"
    "No, by a Hawaiian. He was very nice, but terribly hasty."
    "Gabrielle, I swear you're a great woman. We'll have to wait for a table. Let's go to the bar."
    The Yellow Sea had expanded twice in its rise to prosperity. In the forties it had added a tourist-type dining room to the original teakwood and silk-screen restaurant which now catered exclusively to the Chinese locals. In the fifties it added a chrome and neon bar. Lennox and Gabby went up a flight of stairs, down another, and entered the bar where they were unexpectedly greeted by a stranger.
    "Ah!" he cried. He spoke with the explosive Chinatown diction. "Missa Hu-li Lennox. Dissa g'eat pleasuh an' honauh." He came forward, shook Jake's hand, and said: "Lon' time no see. Yes? Ha-ha."
    He was short, very stout, and either an old young man or a young old man, as is so often the confusing appearance of the Chinese. His round, boyish face was perpetually wreathed in a sunny smile to which a wall-eye lent a distracting quality. You never could be sure whether he was beaming at you or at some faraway recollection.
    "You 'membuh me, Missa Lennox? Stanley Fu, the Sh'off?"
    "The Shoff?"
    "No. Ha-ha. Sh'off. S.H.O.Ah.F.F. Sh'off."
    "Shroff?"
    "Yes. Yes. Whiskey?" The Shroff led them to the bar, snapped his fingers at the bartender, then rapidly undid his immaculate tie and collar and opened his shirt. He displayed a livid bruise on his shoulder. "Las' Satuhday night," he beamed. "Me'y Kissmus p'esent f'om Hu-li."
    Lennox stared at the stout gentleman in amazement. "Hu-li?" he repeated. "Who he?"
    "You," the Shroff beamed.
    "Did he do that to you Saturday night?" Gabby asked.
    "Oh yes. Yes. Ha-ha."
    "Shame on you, Jordan," Gabby said reproachfully.
    "I swear I don't remember. I--Gabby, this, apparently, is my good friend, Mr. Stanley Fu, the Shroff. Mr. Fu, this, positively, is Miss Gabrielle Valentine."
    "G'eat pleasuh an' honnuh," the Shroff beamed. He shook hands with Gabby, then redid his shirt.
    "What's a Shroff, please?" Gabby asked. "Is it something I should know?"
    "Oh no. No, Issa Chinese p'ofesshun. Bankuh. Yes? Money changuh."
    "How do you mean?"
    "Oh yes. Silvuh into dolluh. 'Me'ican dolluh into Chinese dolluh. Papuh dolluh into silvuh." The Shroff transferred his attention to Lennox. "You put it all down. Inna liddy ole book when I te'l you Satuhday."
    "In this?" Lennox took out his gimmick book.
    "Yes. Yes."
    "I don't remember," Lennox said. "To tell the truth, Mr. Fu, I hardly remember Saturday night at all. That's why I'm here. It's a wonderful break meeting you again. Can you help me remember?"
    "Oh-ho?" The Shroff made a drinking gesture. "Yes?"
    "Yes."
    "Please tell us what happened Saturday night," Gabby said. "I'm worried about your bruise."
    The Shroff beamed at her. "Oh yes. Happen like this. My f'iend, Hu-li, come. Stan' next to me heah." The Shroff made the drinking gesture three times. "Mahtini." He made the gesture three times again and pointed to himself. "Scotch an' soda."
    "Shame on you both," Gabby said.
    The Shroff patted her arm fondly.
    "Wait a minute," Lennox said. "Some of it's coming back. Wasn't there a calendar up over the bar? Last year's with a fencing girl on it?"
    "Yes. Yes." The Shroff nodded quickly. "We talk about pictuh of liddy young lady with fff...." He looked helplessly at Lennox.
    "Foil?"
    "Yes. You te'l me you ah 'Me'ican fencuh." The Shroff pointed a finger and waggled it. "I te'l you I am Chinese fencuh." The Shroff suddenly crouched and lifted both arms as though poising a baseball bat. "We go togethuh an' fence."
    "We did?"
    "Yes. Like Chinese." The Shroff executed a lightning swipe with both hands, then chopped at his shoulder with the side of his palm. "You give me this. Ha-ha. You 'membuh?"
    Lennox shook his head. "Did I talk to anybody else at the bar before we left? A man named Knott?"
    "No. No othuh man."
    "Did you see anybody write in this notebook when I wasn't looking? Did I leave it around on the bar?"
    "Ah? Excuse me?"
    "We're trying to find someone who wrote something bad in that book, Mr. Fu," Gabby explained. "It happened last Saturday."
    "So?" The Shroff's eyes became shrewd. "Man named Knott, yes? That why you ask?"
    "Exactly."
    "You ah only one who use book, Missa Lennox. I know."
    "Well, that's that," Lennox muttered.
    "Could it have happened where you fenced?" Gabby asked.
    "Oh no. No. Owuh 'Sociashun foh Chinese people only. I show you if you like." Suddenly the Shroff beamed again. "Owuh 'Sociashun ve'y happy to see Hu-li again."
    "Why do you call me Hu-li?"
    "Ah? Because how you fence. Ha-ha. Ve'y quick. Ve'y clevuh. Hu-li in Chinese issa liddy ole animal.... Issa fox."
    "Fox!" Lennox exclaimed. "So that's where the Quaker's name came from."
    "Excuse me?"
    "Nothing, Mr. Fu. Just the pieces crashing into place with a dull sickening thud. Show us where we fenced, please."
    The Shroff led them down Mott Street, around a corner, up an alley and into a crumbling brick building from which an incredible uproar came. It sounded as though a giant were methodically beating an iron water tank to pieces. They mounted the stairs to a wooden door on which Chinese characters were painted and the Shroff ushered them into a large room.
    "Dissowuh 'Sociashun," he shouted. "Foh Chinese people only. No Knott heah Satuhday night."
    "What plays?" Lennox roared. "What's going on?"
    "We p'epauh foh Chinese New Yeah next month."
    Three saturnine Chinese in black overcoats and pearl grey hats were seated in a corner, calmly hammering a drum, a brass gong and a wooden duck. In the center of the room, an athletic young Chinese in jeans and leather jacket wielded a bamboo staff in the fantastic attitudes of the medieval Chinese warrior. Three small boys with broomsticks were following his instructions.
    At the far end of the room was the giant head of a Chinese dragon to which a long accordion-pleated tail was attached. A young man in a sweat suit was doing calisthenics before the head. Then he got inside and the head came to life, jerking and swaying to the deafening percussion. The head spoke. Two boys ducked under the tail, and the entire dragon began moving across the floor.
    Gabby had a small pad and pencil out of her purse and was sketching quickly, moistening her finger to smear the lines into broad patches of shadow. The Shroff opened a closet and took out two bamboo staves, two quilted masks and two quilted cotton aprons. He offered a brass-bound staff to Lennox.
    "Yes?" he beamed.
    "No thanks, Mr. Fu. I don't feel like a fox tonight. You're sure there was nobody named Knott here last Saturday?"
    "Oh yes." The Shroff examined Jake's face for a moment. "Ve'y impohtant to find thissa Knott, eh?"
    "Very. Where did I go from here, Mr. Fu? Do you know?"
    "Oh yes. You ve'y intox'ated. I took you. I take you now."
    The Shroff returned the fencing equipment to the closet, waited politely for Gabby to finish her sketching, and then conducted them downstairs. He led them to Chatham Square where three cabs were parked behind a hack sign.
    "I take you to taxi," he beamed. "You ve'y intox'ated."