“ ‘-and their coalescing in an American system of policy,’ ” Jeremy finished.
“You a history professor?” Forbes asked.
“A poet,” answered Jeremy.
“A poet,” Forbes said with a smile, looking at his wife who ignored him and continued to do knee bends, and then at Fred Astaire who sighed, folded his arms, and leaned against the wall. “You’re Battering Butler, the Human Cannonball. I saw you wrestle six, seven times, once against Kudlap Singh here.”
“That was long ago,” said Jeremy.
“I’d like to see a rematch,” Forbes said with a grin.
“In 1808, Thomas Jefferson refused a third term and retired forever from politics to Monticello,” said Jeremy. “He knew when to move to new endeavors. Much like you and me.”
“Whatever,” Forbes said, rising and draping the towel around his neck. “Now, what do you want?”
I turned to Astaire and said, “Did you tell him?”
Astaire shook his head.
“A man named Willie Talbott was murdered today,” I said. “Luna Martin worked for him as a dance instructor before-”
Mrs. Forbes had stopped her knee bends and was facing us with her hands on her hips.
“Go on,” said Forbes, “Carlotta knows all about Luna. We’re working it out. Just have a point when you get to the end.”
I looked at Carlotta Forbes. Judging from the look she gave her husband, if they were working it out, they had a lot of work left to do.
“Talbott had some information that might have helped us and the cops find her murderer,” I said.
“Information?”
“Talbott was blackmailing her. I think it had something to do with one of Luna’s clients when she was teaching at the On Your Toes ballroom. I went with Talbott to his apartment to get Luna’s client list. Talbott tried to run with it. Someone put a hole in his chest and took the book.”
“Sounds like a valuable book,” Forbes said.
“You wouldn’t have any idea where we might find it?” I asked.
Forbes suddenly did not look happy. “What are you sayin’?”
“I’m trying to find out who killed Luna Martin,” I said. “That’s what you said you wanted me to do.”
Forbes strode toward me, throwing the towel in the general direction of the chair. When his nose was inches from mine, he whispered, “You want to watch us dance?”
“Sure,” I said.
“You sit there and watch and in ten minutes you say, ‘Good night, Mr. Forbes, Good night, Mrs. Forbes, Good night, Mr. Astaire,’ and then you and your friend leave. You want to ask me questions, you call the hotel and leave a message and I’ll get back to you. You understand?”
“Well-” I started, but Astaire was out of the corner and between us.
“Mr. Forbes and I have worked out a deal,” Astaire said. “I give him and Mrs. Forbes five hours of lessons free of charge and my obligation to him is finished.”
“What obligation?” I asked.
“Let’s say it’s in honor of the memory of Luna Martin,” said Astaire.
“Arthur,” Carlotta Forbes called. “Let’s go. Who cares if some hoofer from the On Your Toes Dance Studio got tattooed with lead?”
“The glow of one warm thought is worth more to me than money,” said Jeremy at my side.
“Jefferson?” I asked.
“Jefferson,” Forbes said, moving away from me and across the room to his impatiently waiting wife.
“Toby, go,” Astaire ordered. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
Astaire nodded to Kudlap Singh, who went to the phonograph and put on a scratchy version of a Horace Heidt fox-trot-at least I think it was a fox-trot.
I went to the chair Forbes had vacated and sat. Jeremy followed me, sat stiffly. Astaire walked to the waiting couple.
“Thomas Jefferson?” I whispered.
“A great president,” Jeremy answered, his eyes fixed on the dancers before him.
“But why would a finger clipper from Detroit have a thing about Jefferson?”
“Thomas Jefferson was a brilliant statesman, inventor, businessman, and architect, admired by all. He also had an almost uncontrollable need for sex. A myriad of mistresses, including his own former slaves.”
“You got a book about him I could read?” I said.
“Several,” said Jeremy, and the couple were swirling around the floor.
Well,
After a long pause between records while Astaire quietly but animatedly huddled with the happy couple, he motioned for Singh to change the record. A Xavier Cugat rumba rattled through the room and the Forbeses tried to look like Volez and Yolanda and came out like Wheeler and Woolsey. When the song was mercifully over and Astaire had said-amazingly-“Good. We’re getting somewhere,” Forbes turned to me and Jeremy.
“You want a drink, Singh will get you one in the other room. Then I want you gone.”
“A few more questions,” I said. “How did you meet Luna Martin?”
“I said
Singh dropped the needle on a fresh record and advanced on us accompanied by Guy Lombardo and the Royal Canadians.
Jeremy looked at me. I got up and said, “Did someone introduce you to Luna Martin?”
“Get them the hell out of here,” Carlotta Forbes screamed.
The rest was fast. Singh reached for me. Jeremy grabbed his outstretched hand. Singh twisted away and threw an elbow at Jeremy’s head. Jeremy sagged back over two of the blue chairs. I got out of the way fast. Singh stepped up on the blue chair and leaped at Jeremy, who had tumbled against the wall.
I looked at Forbes and his wife. They were smiling for the first time since we’d entered. Astaire stood, arms folded, watching with interest.
Jeremy and Singh were on the floor now. Jeremy threw Singh to one side and got him in a headlock. Singh broke loose, reversed, and got Jeremy in a full nelson. Jeremy’s face and head were bright red and I thought of Alice Pallis Butler’s warning to me about getting Jeremy in trouble. I moved in to help. Jeremy waved me away.
The two giants bounced around the room as the voice of Carmen Lombardo told us that love makes the world go ’round, Jeremy trying to break the hold, Singh holding tight. Flying past Carlotta Forbes, the two former wrestlers hit the mirror. It quivered but didn’t break. Stunned, Singh released his prey. Jeremy gasped for air and then turned to face the massive Indian. They circled each other, breathing heavily, and then Jeremy lunged and the two men locked arms, head to head. They let out pained noises and Jeremy sank to one knee and then went over on his back, panting in defeat.
The record was over. It began to click as the needle repeated nothing.
Singh helped Jeremy up, grabbed my arm, and led both the staggering Jeremy and me to the door and into the hall past the Jefferson paintings. When we got to the front door, Singh let go of my arm, opened the door, and guided us out. We were greeted by the steady thumping of the derricks on the beach. Singh pushed the door closed behind us and said, “Once again I owe you, my friend.”
Jeremy was no longer staggering or bent over in pain and defeat. He was upright, serious. Singh offered a hand. Jeremy took it.
“What the hell is this?”
“What you witnessed in there,” Jeremy said, “was a slight variation on a routine Singh and I used on more than one occasion.”
“Except for the chairs,” said Singh. “I’m sorry about that.”
