Who He? - (13)

Everybody in the business goes to the Baroque for a nightcap. The joint was jumping when Gabby and Lennox entered. It was a piratic crowd, very young and very handsome. Crop-haired boys with hornshell glasses who would become the Audibons and Bordens of the next decade.... Striking young girls who would become their wives and mistresses.... A leavening of the older men and women whom success and good living had kept young.
    Gabby and Lennox went down the bar, past the booths and into the back room. Lennox saw Aimee Driscoll sitting alone at a table behind the telephone booth. Her high fat bosom pushed out over the table. Her wide fat bottom spread over the chair. Through the smoke and haze she looked, at first glance, like a lusty Swede farm girl from Minnesota; but the second glance shamed Lennox.
    "Nope," he said to Gabby. "She's not here. We'll go out the side door."
    They threaded their way between tables and went out the side door. Lennox took a deep breath of the fresh air and looked around for a cab. A small man in a derby, pea-jacket and white duck trousers came around the corner. He spoke to them in a bright voice. "Hi, Joe. H'ar ya? Hi, Sally?" He continued down the street, addressing empty doorways in friendly tones.
    "Ah," Gabby said compassionately. "He's lonesome, poor soul. He wants friends. Do you think he's afraid of people, Jordan?" She came around a corner abruptly. "As afraid as you are of Aimee Driscoll?"
    "W-What?"
    "Listen to me." Gabby backed him against the wall and pointed a finger at him. "I know she's in there. At the table behind the phone booth. You should have seen your face when you saw her. Are you afraid to speak to her?"
    "Yes. I'm ashamed. Revolted."
    "Why?"
    "Gabby, don't be naive. Suppose you picked up a strange man and--Would you want to see him again?"
    "I did," Gabby said. "Last Sunday night."
    "No. No, darling. It's different with us. We.... Did you see her? What she looks like? I could kill her."
    "Have I seen you? What do you really look like? Maybe there'll come a day when I'll really see you and want to kill you."
    "Gabby!"
    "Don't do that to me. Don't shame me now."
    "What do you want me to do?"
    "Don't be angry and hateful. I want you to be honest and kind to everybody. I want you to go in there and speak to her like Jordan Lennox.... Not like Roy Audibon."
    "Gabrielle," he said, "You're a great woman ... but I'm not a great man."
    He kissed her, then turned and re-entered the back room of the Baroque. Gabby followed him. He walked directly to Aimee's table and smiled down at her as pleasantly as he could fake.
    "Good evening, Aimee," he said. "Mind if we join you?"
    "Hi, Clarence," Aimee said. "Your friend deliver that coat and book?"
    "That's why I'm here. Have you got a minute?"
    "Sure."
    Lennox and Gabby sat down. As Lennox held Gabby's chair for her, Aimee darted her a look of hostility. "Taking it from the top," Lennox said. "My name isn't Clarence Fox. It's Lennox. Jordan Lennox."
    "Naughty, naughty!" Aimee said coyly. "Say, are you really the guy which writes that TV show like you said?"
    "Yes."
    "How about me? Popular with the big-shots. I should've asked for your autograph." Aimee glanced at Gabby.
    "This is Miss Gabrielle Valentine ... Aimee Driscoll."
    "Miss Aimee Driscoll," Aimee snapped.
    "Of course. I'm sorry." Lennox hesitated and finally forced himself to meet Aimee's eyes. He saw in them an anger that startled him. He'd been too drunk to notice that photograph of Aimee's father in her apartment, and even if he had noticed it, he wouldn't have seen the connection.
    No one knows what happened between Aimee Driscoll and her father. Anyone can guess, but it doesn't matter. The important result was that the particular chasm over which she walked her tight rope was an inescapable physical attraction for any man who resembled her father plus an uncontrollable hatred for him. Lennox hadn't gone to bed with Aimee that Saturday night. She was relieved, professionally, and infuriated, emotionally. She looked at him now with hatred and at Gabby with venom, completely unaware of what she was feeling or how she was showing it.
    "Sweet guy you are," she said archly. "Sweet guy ... making a sucker out of a poor working girl from the lower classes. You owe me ten bucks."
    "I do? What for?" Lennox was terrified of what the answer would be.
    "The doctor. I had to see him Monday on account of what you done to me. You practical jokers don't know your own strength." Aimee winked at Gabby. "Your boy friend's a funny guy with a Christmas tree, Gabrielle. We had a million laughs. He tell you?"
    "No," Gabby said quietly.
    "I guess he wouldn't at that."
    "Do you want to tell me, Aimee?"
    "Me? No." She laughed, concealing her teeth with her hand. "I'm a good kid. I can take a joke. Anyway your boyfriend don't owe me a cent, not after the gorgeous Christmas present he give me."
    Lennox swallowed painfully. "It was a television set, wasn't it, Aimee?"
    "Modest, ain't he? What a sweet guy. What did he give you, Gabrielle?"
    "Something I've always wanted, Aimee."
    "Jesus! Mink?"
    Gabby shook her head and smiled.
    Aimee examined the smile and tried to answer it. "Look at you. Up there on Cloud Nine, ain't you?"
    "Yes."
    "Well, fall easy."
    "Were you hurt when you fell?"
    "Me? I never was up." Aimee laughed and covered her mouth. "Strictly the subway type."
    "Listen, Aimee," Lennox smiled painfully. "I'd like to sit here yakking it up, but I'm in a jam and I need help."
    "You're our last hope," Gabby added.
    "Me? No." Aimee looked from one to the other and the archness peeled away from her malice. "Don't tell me a big-shot which can afford two names and two girls needs help."
    "I do," Lennox said. "Look, we met here Saturday night. What time was it?"
    "What are you checking up on?"
    "It couldn't have been too late because a store must have been open. We were able to buy you that set."
    "Strictly your idea, Clarence. You kept on running off at the mouth about bull fiddles."
    "Yes. I found out. So we went to a music store and ended up buying you a television set. Where?"
    "Who can remember?" Aimee answered, enjoying Jake's misery.
    "Please, Aimee," Gabby said. "This is very important."
    "Why is it important? I had enough trouble with your boy friend Saturday night. I don't want no more."
    "He's been getting threatening letters from a man he met some time Saturday night.... A man named Knott. Dreadful letters. We're trying to find Knott."
    "Did you go to the cops?" Aimee asked sharply.
    "Yes, I did."
    "You mention me?"
    "No. I'm working this out on my own. Let's see if we can't put it together, Aimee. I left Harlem and wandered down here. We met and went to a music store and bought the set. Right?"
    "It was around half past one," Aimee said grudgingly. "That place on Forty-second and Third. They was closed and doing up their accounts. You banged on the door until they let us in."
    "Thanks. Then what happened? We took the set up to your place?"
    "You got a hack and put it in. We must of hit a dozen joints on the way. Then we ate. We didn't get home until light."
    "Did we meet anybody named Knott? Did I talk to anybody named Knott? Did you see anybody write anything in this notebook of mine?" Lennox pulled the book out of his pocket and displayed it.
    "You're really leveling with this, huh?" Aimee said slowly. "You're really suffering, huh?"
    "Yes."
    "This Knott wrote something in your book?"
    "He did."
    "And you got to locate him or else?"
    "I do. Before Sunday."
    "Why before Sunday?"
    "Because that's the day he lowers the boom."
    "So you're going to have a tough couple of days sweating it out, ain't you, Clarence?" Aimee stared at him with delight. "Ain't it a shame I can't help you out? Tsk-Tsk! No. We never come across nobody named Knott."
    "In this place?"
    "Nope."
    "In the music store?"
    "Nope."
    "Afterwards? In the bars? Where we ate?"
    "Nope."
    Lennox opened his mouth to ask another question, then faltered. Gabby asked it for him. "And in your apartment, Aimee?"
    "He couldn't talk to nobody," Aimee snapped. "He passed out soon as we come in. Big shot! And when he come to he ran right out." She intercepted the look of salvation and relief that passed between Lennox and Gabby and began to shake with rage.
    "And afterwards?" Gabby asked.
    "What about afterwards?"
    "The notebook was there for twelve hours after Jordan left. Did anybody named Knott have a chance to leave a message in it?"
    "The only body in that apartment is named Driscoll."
    "Your friends?" Gabby persisted.
    "I got no friends."
    "Your ... clients?"
    "What's that crack supposed to mean?"
    "Look, Aimee--" Lennox began.
    "Shut up, big shot. I asked her. Leave her answer."
    "It wasn't a crack," Gabby said composedly. "I wouldn't dream of insulting you, Aimee. I simply meant--"
    "Not now!" Lennox interrupted in alarm. "Don't be honest now, dear."
    "I meant that we know you're a prostitute," Gabby continued candidly, "And one of your clients might have been Knott."
    "Suffering Jesus on echo!" Lennox groaned. "Listen, Aimee, she's just kidding. She--"
    "Yeah. She's a sweet little kidder. And what price does she put on her sweet little ass that makes her so high and mighty?"
    "What are you ashamed of, Aimee?" Gabby asked quietly. "I'm not ashamed of you."
    Aimee turned on her in fury. "The come-on's your racket, huh? The tickle and tease. You save your ass for the big price and after you're married it turns out nothing. But nothing!"
    "You're old-fashioned," Gabby smiled. "We aren't amateurs any more."
    "And they come crying to me and taking it out on me, like Clarence.... Because you save it so hard you don't know what to do with it but lay on it."
    "Shut up," Lennox growled.
    "You must of got him plenty hot Saturday night, sister. You're so God damned glad he never touched me. You want to see how he touched me? I'll show you." Aimee stood up so violently that her chair toppled. She yanked up her skirt and displayed her naked behind, criss-crossed with black and blue welts. Then she dropped her skirt and burst into hysterical laughter, covering her teeth with her hand. "It was like old times when my old man took a strap to me after he.... I felt like a kid again. We had a million laughs."
    Lennox grunted in anguish. Gabby looked at him, then stood up impulsively and took Aimee's hands. "He did a dreadful thing, Aimee. He's ashamed and so am I. Please let us make it up to you. We'll do anything."
    "You can suffer," Aimee spat, jerking away from Gabby's touch. "You can sweat. You can fry in hell until Sunday. Because I know who Knott is. This guy you're looking for. I know him. Sure he left a message in your book. I saw him."
    "Aimee! For God's sake, who is he?"
    "I ain't going to tell you. Suffer, you son of a bitch! God knows you made me suffer with your God damned morals and your God damned strap. Suffer!"
    "What strap? Make sense. Who is he?"
    "Go on. Ask a little. Beg a little."
    "What do you want?" Lennox demanded roughly. "Money? How much?"
    "I want you to suffer, big shot with your comical Christmas tree. We had a million laughs. Now sweat it out, Mr. Lennox." She pushed past Lennox and Gabby and waddled across the back room of the Baroque, honking with laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. The crowd gaped at her.
    At the side door she turned and screamed: "I know him and I ain't going to tell. Never. But I'll be up to the show Sunday, watching. And when Knott catches up with you ... remember my ass!"
    CHAPTER X
    Nine o'clock the next morning, Roy Audibon left Gracie Hospital and took a cab down to the network. His ribs were taped, his face was bruised, his teeth were clenched in a dazzling smile that was sure to hurt someone else worse than it hurt him.
    He rode the exclusive executives' elevator up to the twentieth floor, strode through the three anterooms guarding the holy of holies, and entered his office. It was rather ascetic compared to the conventional top-level decor. It contained a very large English desk paneled with gold-tooled leather, three Queen Anne armchairs covered with brocade, two red leather library chairs, a walnut breakfront displaying Dresden China and a brass microscope, a French stick barometer, a framed illuminated transparency of M-31, the Andromeda Nebula, and a constrained water color of Fire Island Beach signed: Valentine.
    Audibon examined the picture for a moment, then went to his desk, thrust aside the mountain of predigested mail, and picked up the phone. To his secretary he said: "Get me Grabinett and Bleutcher."
    "Yes, Mr. Audibon. What Bleutcher is that, please?"
    "Tom Bleutcher of Mode Shoes. Brockton, Mass. Check the 'Who He?' file." Audibon licked his lips. "Everybody on my team is expected to know the name and number of every player. This advice will be of value to you in your next job which will start at the end of this week."
    The secretary gasped. "I'm sorry, Mr. Audibon. I--"
    "Accounting will arrange your severance pay," Audibon interrupted and hung up. He examined the water color again, remembering a dark girl in striped clam-diggers and an old shirt knotted under her bosom, sitting cross-legged on a blazing dune ... a drawing board before her, tilted on the bleached remains of a driftwood chair ... the tinkle of a brush washed in a jar of water.
    "Never," Audibon said.
    The phone rang. He picked it up. "Yes?"
    "Mr. Grabinett cannot be reached in his office," the secretary reported in a suppressed voice that soothed Audibon. "Mr. Bleutcher cannot be contacted in Brockton. I left word that you called."
    "Word is too little and too late. Keep trying for both."
    "Yes, Mr. Audibon. John Macro is waiting to see you."
    "Macro? By appointment?"
    "Yes, Mr. Audibon. You told me to--"
    "Send him in."
    For a man who was not in the business, John Macro was the most hated man in the business. He was a Maryland manufacturer who had taken it upon himself to cleanse radio and television of subversive artists. To this he devoted his patriotic heart and ample bank account. Once a month Mr. Macro came to The Rock and purged. He was in no way equipped for the job, intellectually or otherwise. In normal times his impertinent intrusions would have been brushed as contemptuously as Mr. Macro himself would have brushed any unqualified intruder attempting to tell him how to do his own thinking; but these were not normal times.
    Honest John came to The Rock and studied the reports of his researchers who were mostly free-lance trade journal writers playing detective. He learned that so-and-so had once signed a petition. He ferreted out the fact that a certain man was known to have supported a particular drive; that this woman had lent her name to such-and-such a cause. Mr. Macro judged and accused, and such was the hysteria of the times that mere accusation was enough to make the world draw aside the hem of its garment in terror and hound the victim out of the business.
    Mr. Macro was a good man and a sincere man. Unfortunately he was also a Square. He believed he was doing his duty as a citizen. Actually, he was a child playing with a gun. He entered Audibon's office with the air of a Roman Tribune. He was very bald, very handsome, with a leaden complexion and kindly features. He carried an alligator portfolio which he unlocked ceremoniously after he shook hands with Audibon. He withdrew a short list of names.
    "For these," he said melodiously, "I have proof positive." He produced a dossier of stapled sheets, handed it to Audibon and then seated himself in a Queen Anne chair and waited majestically.
    Audibon read the list of names and then the proof positive. He smiled at Macro without liking.
    "This isn't proof," he said, "and it isn't positive."
    "Every organization cited there has been listed by the Attorney General's office, Mr. Audibon."
    Audibon shook his head. "But it's not prima facie-type evidence."
    "Straws show how the wind blows."
    "God help us if we're judged by straws like this."
    "Good Heavens! I'm not judging, Mr. Audibon. Far be it from me to judge my fellow citizens. Let the evidence speak for itself. If I'm wrong, as I sincerely hope I am, these persons can easily clear themselves."
    "Your frame of reference is unrealistic, Mr. Macro. It's impossible for any man to clear himself today. These things are chain-reactive." Audibon flung down the dossier and began to pace energetically. "Touch the American pulse and what do you find? The systole and diastole of paranoia. Do you know cybernetics ... the science of minds and machines? There's a cybernetic feed-back in the American nervous system today. The average American is synaptically inhibited. He can't believe in the innocence of a man once he's been accused. He can't believe in guiltlessness even after acquittal."
    Macro stared at Audibon.
    "Apart from the issue of freedom of conscience," Audibon went on passionately, "there's the quanta of Popular Villainism. Literature went through an Industrial Revolution in this country and was transformed from an art-form into a story business. The political thinking was metamorphised the same way. You don't find people weighing political factors and extrapolating for valued judgements. Savanarola died in vain. No, our people turn every political issue into Cops And Robbers ... Boy Meets Girl ... Peter And The Wolf, you should excuse the expression."
    "I'm afraid I don't follow you, Mr. Audibon."
    "Peter And The Wolf. Written by a Russian composer named Tchaikovsky," Audibon explained patiently. "A musico-political joke."
    "But this isn't a question of Russian aliens, Mr. Audibon. It's simply--"
    "It's a question of the write-in habit," Audibon interrupted. "The basic mistake radio made. Radio tried to bring entertainment into the home. Then the problem of audience response arose and we had to encourage the write-in habit for purposes of analysis on a broad consumer basis. From writing in about products, the public has taken to writing in about politics. This is one mistake television will not make. We're not going to bring the show into the home. We're going to bring the home to the show."
    "About these people, Mr. Audibon...."
    "I know them all, Mr. Macro. They're artists, all of them; not necessarily talentwise, but because they have magic. Talent died with Goethe. These people have theatricality and mesmerization, not intelligence. Three quarters of them probably did what they did out of Gestalt ... out of emotions. How can we judge them on the cybernetic level?"
    "Mr. Audibon," Macro said in exasperation. "I'm a business man. Let's get down to cases. Is your network prepared to suspend the employment of these subversives, or must I call the attention of our sponsors' organization to your--"
    "This network has never approved of a blacklist, Mr. Macro, and it never will. If you've come here looking for an official blacklist, you don't know the temper of our organization. However ... I see no reason why the artists investigated by you shouldn't be given plenty of free time to prepare their defense."
    Macro looked hard at Audibon. "Then you're prepared to--"
    "As good citizens, Mr. Macro, we're not prepared to endorse an official blacklist. That's final. However, I suggest you monitor our network shows. If, in the future, you see any of the people on this list associated in any capacity with any of our shows, you can start a rhubarb. But until then, as good citizens, we very politely tell you to go to hell."
    Macro flushed and stared at Audibon. Then, as abruptly, he smiled and nodded. "I think I understand. You have no official blacklist, of course."
    "Of course."
    Macro stood up. As he closed his portfolio and was about to lock it, he hesitated. Then he withdrew a small slip of paper and consulted it.
    "Is there a person named Valentine connected with your network?" he asked.
    "Valentine?" Audibon stiffened. "What Valentine?"
    "A Miss Gabrielle Valentine. A note here says she might be working in your art department."
    "What about Gabrielle Valentine?"
    "My researchers have come across the name quite often. A suspiciously active person. If she's connected with your organization I should advise you to have her--"
    "She doesn't work for us," Audibon said emphatically. "But we'd hire her at any time. I happen to know the young woman rather well."
    "Oh?"
    "I know for a fact that she has clean hands."
    "There seems to be evidence to the contrary, Mr. Audibon." Macro waggled the slip of paper.
    "You know I don't spitball off the cuff, Mr. Macro. Take my word for it. You'll be making a great mistake if you mother-hen any ideas about Gabrielle Valentine."
    Macro looked dubious.
    Audibon smiled dazzlingly. "The lady is my wife," he said.
    "Good Heavens, Mr. Audibon! I never--The idea is ridiculous, of course." Macro crumpled the slip and tossed it into a gilt wastepaper basket.
    Audibon took a breath. "But here's a replacement for the name," he said. "I suggest you touch a piece of litmus paper to a writer named Lennox, Jordan Lennox. My hunch is it'll turn a bright red."
    "Jordan Lennox," Macro repeated, carefully printing the name on a small pad. He locked the portfolio, shook hands and departed. Audibon picked the crumpled wad of paper out of the basket, smoothed it and tried to decipher the symbols and abbreviations following Gabby's name. Then he placed it inside his wallet. His day was made. He picked up his phone.
    "You're back on the payroll, love," he told his secretary. "Keep trying for Grabinett and Bleutcher. Call Program and notify them we're cancelling 'Who He?' as of the first of the year."
    *       *       *       *       *
    On the way home from Gabby's studio, Lennox took a wide detour and stopped off at the Precinct where he found Fink in a small office that smelled of disinfectant. Fink was doing paper work at a scarred desk and looked more like a bank clerk than ever. Lennox sat down and told his story from Cooper's recognition of the handwriting to Aimee Driscoll's last words the night before. He handed over the page from his gimmick book that contained the hysterical scrawled message. Fink was neither impressed nor unimpressed. He listened carefully, smiling at the wrong times, then bobbed his head.
    "I was pretty sure it was you getting the letters," he said.
    "How?" Lennox blinked. "I didn't know myself."
    "You make the big fuss. You must have known somewhere inside your head."
    "You're quite a psychologist."
    "No. Strictly statistics. I wish I had a nickel for every guy in a jam who won't admit it. They make the big fuss and claim they're worried about somebody else. Turns out they're really stewing about theirselves."
    "I hate like hell to be a statistic, Bob."
    "We all are. There's hundreds of laws in the statute books, but cops depend on one law most of all. The law of averages."
    "Is this an average case?"
    "It's tough."
    "Does any of this stuff I gave you help?"
    "Maybe. We'll check. I like what this Cooper said best."
    "About having seen the writing before?"
    Fink nodded and smiled.
    "Why?"
    "I'm pretty sure someone on your program is writing the letters. That's why I like what this Cooper said best."
    "Someone on the show?"
    "Yeah. Ninety-nine out of a hundred it turns out like that. Someone in the office. Someone in the factory. Someone in the department store. We've been going over payroll vouchers and check endorsements on your program."
    "Law of averages again. And?"
    "We'll see." Fink smiled. "This Cooper is a good friend of yours, huh?"