Tall, Dark and Deadly, page 7
Her voice was dispassionate, without rancor.
“Maybe Steve did a lot of bad things when he was alive, but nobody had a right to kill him.”
“What kind of bad things, Laura?”
She wiped her hands with a piece of tissue. “I suppose I ought to let it rest, him being dead and all, but it won’t matter to Steve now, one way or the other. And maybe it’ll help to catch his murderer.”
Her eyes were remote, reaching into the past. Her fists clenched. “Even as a boy, Steve was a problem. He used to drive Mom crazy, always running around with street gangs, acting tough, and getting into trouble with the cops. Once they caught him stealing some stuff from a junk yard and he spent six months in the reformatory. Later there was some trouble about a girl, but the charges were dismissed. Mom took it pretty hard and I kind of blamed Steve when she died.”
She paused, her mouth sour with the bitter taste of self-condemnation, and she rubbed her fingertips across her forehead. “But then he got that job, driving for Vincent Mclver, and I thought maybe he had reformed. But I guess I was mistaken.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He was killed, wasn’t he? Somebody must have a reason. Steve was probably mixed up in something bad.” She set her jaw. “Still and all, nobody had a right to kill him, no matter what he did.”
“Where do I fit into the picture, Laura?”
“I need some legal advice.”
“Well,” I said quizzically, “I don’t mind handling new business, but why me?”
“Because I don’t know any other lawyers. Lieutenant Nola said you were honest. And I checked around with some people I know.”
“What do you want done?”
“The cops found a lot of money in Steve’s room. About four thousand dollars. In cash. It belongs to me, I guess, and I want to know how I can get it.”
“There are no other relatives?”
“Only me.”
“Did Steve have a safe deposit box?”
“I doubt it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because he brought a brief case to my apartment about a month ago and he asked me to keep it for him. ‘Hide it,’ he said. ‘And guard it with your life, baby. That bag is worth a lot of money.’ ” She straightened her shoulders. “He kept it locked. He didn’t even trust his own sister.”
“Did you tell the lieutenant about this?”
“No.”
“Where is the bag now?”
“In my apartment.”
“Did you open it?”
She pulled herself up defensively. “Who had a better right?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Laura. I’m not condemning you. I just want to know if the case held anything that might give the police a clue.”
She relaxed and wet her lips. “I found two things I guess you ought to see.” She opened her purse and brought out a folded slip of paper. “Here’s one of them.”
I unfolded the paper. It was a promissory note for ten thousand dollars, payable on demand, made out to Steve Banton and signed with the name Hugo Ritter.
I felt my pulse accelerate.
“Do you know this man, Hugo Ritter?”
She shook her head.
“Ever hear your brother mention his name?”
“No.”
“This is important evidence, Laura. Ritter owed Steve a lot of money. It may have been a motive for killing him. What’s the other thing you wanted me to see?”
“This.” She handed me a small manila envelope.
The envelope yielded a small piece of cloth, triangular in shape, of navy-blue velveteen, glittering brightly with black sequins. Its edges were ragged, as if torn from a larger piece of fabric. Part of it was smudged with dirt and grease.
I held it up. “Does it mean anything to you, Laura?”
She shrugged and shook her head.
“Why do you think Steve was saving it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Try,” I said. “Dig in.”
But it was useless. She had no explanation.
So I changed the subject. “The rent at the Wickford Arms is pretty steep. Do you know where Steve got his money, or the ten thousand dollars he loaned this Ritter?”
She lifted her shoulders and dropped them. “Steve always boasted about the big deals he had cooking. I never believed him. I was wrong, I guess.”
“Have you been through his apartment yet?”
“Will the police let me?”
“Ask Lieutenant Nola. He’s probably finished with it by now. And give him this piece of cloth. Tell him—No, he should have it as soon as possible. I’ll send it down by messenger.”
“He’ll be angry because I didn’t tell him myself.”
“Yes, but he’ll get over it.”
“Should I call your office if I find anything in Steve’s apartment?”
“You may not be able to reach me. Give me your home address.”
She took a pencil out of her purse and wrote it down. She took something else out of her purse, too. Five twenty-dollar bills.
“What’s this for?”
“A retainer. I like to pay for everything. And I want you to collect the ten thousand dollars from Hugo Ritter.”
“I’ll try.”
Part of my thirty minutes still remained, but I left. I stopped at the reception desk.
“Excellent shampoo,” I said. “How much?”
“Five dollars.”
I paid, happy to quit the place. It reminded me of a paint shop where they disguise a rusty automobile with a glittering Duco finish.
IX
I sent the promissory note and the piece of fabric down to Nola’s office by Western Union, with an explanation on the back of one of my cards. Nola had the facilities for locating Hugo Ritter and learning more about Steve Banton’s recent ventures.
I phoned the district attorney’s office and got through to Bill Postilie, Lohman’s chief assistant.
“Scott!” He sounded waspish. “Where the devil are you?”
“In a phone booth.”
“Here in Manhattan?”
“Yes.”
“You must be daft. Our boys are scouring the town.”
“I know. I’ve got to see you, Bill.”
“When?”
“Right away.”
“You don’t care what happens to my job. Where?”
“Murphy’s.”
There was an adenoidal gasp. “Now I know you’ve flipped your lid. That’s right across the street from our office.”
“Just the place nobody would think of looking.”
He sighed. “I’m an officer of the law. I shouldn’t be hobnobbing with a fugitive from justice. Can you be there in fifteen minutes?”
I told him yes and hung up.
Murphy’s was a dim oasis on Foley Square, opposite the courthouse, where lawyers lubricated their vocal cords during recess. The floors were covered with sawdust, but the beer pipes were clean.
Bill Postilie was waiting in the back room, his attenuated figure hunched over a stein of ale, his long face solemnly perpendicular. He looked at me morosely. “I should have my head examined. What are you drinking?”
“Same as you.”
“Stay here. I’ll get it.” A moment later he was back, carrying another stein. “Give me one good reason why I should stick my neck out.”
“Class loyalty,” I said. “Brotherly love. Alumni tradition. The conviction that I’m innocent. Take your pick.”
“I can’t figure it,” he said wonderingly. “You were such a mild and studious guy at law school. What happened? Where did you get this affinity for trouble?”
“It’s a gift.”
“And you’re welcome to it. Now, what’s on your alleged mind?”
“Are you acquainted with the Banton case?”
“Acquainted with it? I’m practically married to it. Lohman assigned me to handle the indictment. I’m going before the grand jury this week. You’re practically dead, boy. We’ve got witnesses, plus motive, plus means, plus opportunity.”
“Opportunity, I concede. Maybe even motive. But how do you figure means?”
“Banton was shot.”
“Exactly. How about the gun?”
“We found it.”
“Where?”
“In your apartment.”
“What!” I catapulted to my feet, goggling at him.
He nodded soberly. “When you didn’t sleep home last night, Lohman got doubly suspicious. He applied for a warrant and had your apartment searched. They found the gun at the bottom of your laundry hamper, hidden under some shirts.”
I reached across the table and gripped his lapel. My throat was dry as ashes. “What kind of gun?”
“German pocket automatic, manufactured by J. P. Sauer, caliber .32, unregistered.”
“It’s not mine, Bill.”
“Naturally.” No intonation in his voice.
“Are you sure it’s the murder weapon?”
“Positive. Ballistics checked it against the slug that finished Banton. They match perfectly.”
“Sweet Jesus!” I breathed. “They’re drawing the noose tighter every minute. I didn’t kill Banton, you know that, Bill.”
“Let go the lapel. This is a new suit.”
“It’s a frame, Bill. Planting that gun is all part of the same caper.”
“Can you convince a jury?”
“It mustn’t go to a jury. We’ve got to stop it first. What other evidence have you got?”
“Just a minute, Scott. I work for the People of New York. What do you think they pay me for?”
“They don’t pay you to railroad an innocent man.”
“You have a point. Ask specific questions.”
I sat down again. “Look, Bill, this whole thing came to a head when Lohman got that snapshot. Who sent it?”
“We don’t know. It was delivered by a messenger service, with a typewritten note, unsigned, explaining its significance.”
“Weren’t they questioned?”
“Yes. But they had no information. Somebody brought it to their office, paid the fee, got a receipt, and walked out.”
“Male or female.”
“Male. That much they remembered.”
“What messenger service?”
He thought a moment, then brightened. “Arrow. The name was stamped on the envelope, framed by a long green arrow.” He paused because I was on my feet, moving.
“Thanks, Bill. If I clear myself on this I’ll send you a case of Scotch.”
“And if you fail?”
“I’ll leave you my office furniture. It may come in handy if you decide to break away from Lohman.”
It was colder, the sky murky and overcast. I had no trouble locating the Arrow Messenger Service. A small office, containing only bare essentials, a hardwood bench supporting two youths, and a stenographer behind a desk with three telephones. She looked up as I approached.
“I’d like some information,” I said.
“Certainly. Our minimum rate is one dollar in the metropolitan area and if you want the boy to take a cab it will cost—”
I broke in. “I’m sorry. What I’d like is some information about one of your customers.”
Her smile faded. “I’m sorry too. We never divulge confidential information.”
Apparently she fancied herself in the same position as a priest or a lawyer. I exerted charm, flashing a manly smile.
“Nothing confidential about this. All I want is a description of a man who left an envelope here earlier this week to be delivered to the district attorney’s office.”
She seemed more respectful. “Are you from the police?”
“I’m investigating the case.”
“We’ve been questioned already.”
“I understand. All I want is a description.”
She was tapping a thumbnail against her teeth, recallingly. “Not many people come here. I’m trying to think…”
I knew what would refresh her recollection. It came out of my wallet. She fielded the bill as expertly as Willy Mays, and pegged it behind the neckline of her dress. She pretended to think some more and then smiled brightly.
“Yes. I remember the man. He was rather large, with a heavy face, and he kept his mouth puckered as if he had to kiss someone he didn’t like.”
The description rang a bell.
“How was he dressed?”
“In a gray tweed coat with a velvet collar, and one of those foreign hats.”
That clinched it. Arnold Parish. The husband of Amy Van Dorn’s niece. My investment had brought a boom dividend. I almost gave her a bonus, but I swallowed the impulse and gave her a smile instead. The boys on the bench regarded me incuriously as I walked past them.
Arnold Parish. A new wrinkle entirely. I walked along the street, oblivious to traffic, questions gnawing at my brain. How did Parish know about the picture? Who told him? Where did he get a print? And why did he send it anonymously to the D.A.? What was the man after?
An interview was clearly indicated. But Parish wanted to stay in the background. That was obvious. So I couldn’t expect him to open up and talk frankly.
I decided to improvise when the time came.
X
According to the law of averages I was about due for a break, and this time I got one, although I did not at the moment realize its significance. I had just checked the number of Parish’s office on the directory and was turning toward the elevators when a door slid open and there he was, emerging. He was in a hurry, headed for the street.
I followed.
He did not see me and I kept a discreet distance to the rear. He did not go far. Less than two blocks away he swung into a bar. I gave him a few minutes to get settled and then glanced through the window. Parish was not in sight. He had probably got himself installed in one of the booths that lined the wall.
I entered and perched on a bar stool. The place was humming with activity. Regardless of the hour or the temperature, it seems that a large number of citizens continuously suffers from parched throats. In order to accommodate this drought the city has spawned a thousand watering holes that serve no water. This one was indistinguishable from its cousins.
I ordered Canadian ale and got a glass of Milwaukee stout.
I looked through the mirror, checking the booths. Parish was almost directly opposite, visible in profile, his heavy jowls vibrating as he spoke. He was leaning forward, delivering an earnest monologue and my eyes widened at the sight of his audience.
Whatever his wife, Irene, lacked, this girl owned in abundance. Most of her assets were disconcertingly crowded into a simple cocktail dress. Its design or color are not important; nobody would notice them anyway. Her hair was a molten flame and she had knowing eyes and a capricious mouth. Her full attention was focused on Parish’s words.
All right, I thought, if Arnold Parish wants to indulge in a little extracurricular homework, it’s no skin off my nose. The automobile companies are constantly waging a multi-million-dollar advertising campaign that inveigles men into buying a nice new shiny car every year. Under such conditioning, their desires may carry over to new models in other fields.
Was it business? Did a cocktail break in the afternoon with a stimulating, palpitating companion improve his ability to analyze the intricacies of corporate finance? I don’t know.
None of which was very enlightening. What I needed was information about the picture and where he got it. I thought of eavesdropping on his conversation, but the booths on either side were occupied. So I changed my plan. The picture had come from Milo’s office. I had to devise some method of loosening his tongue.
Averting my face, I abandoned the bar.
The sky was clearing slightly and a faint chill was in the air. I thought of all the loose ends and tried to pull them together, but they had a tendency to fly off in all directions at once. My brain rebelled under the pressure. And that wasn’t the only part of me with a complaint. My stomach had its own lament. No food to work on since breakfast, and without fuel the engine might stall.
There was a sign across the street—Walt’s Chop House. The mere thought of a steak caused excessive salivation. I crossed over and deposited myself at a table.
“Sirloin,” I told the waiter, “baked Idaho, chef’s salad. Put it close to the fire. I’m in a hurry.”
It came to me, charred on top and pink in the center, and I wasted no time, striking sparks from the knife and fork. Two cups of black coffee made me feel more human.
The waiter brought a check. I gave him a twenty-dollar bill and sat back, loosening my belt. The process of digestion seemed to drain most of the blood from my head, precluding cerebration. I felt sleepy and roused myself with an effort. Everything came to me in a double vision and I thought of buying some Benzedrine. Instead I fit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. This was no time for fatigue. A large slice of my forty-eight hours grace had vanished.
I stirred uneasily. Where was the waiter with my change? What took him so long? I rubbed out the cigarette and started to rise and at that moment two men loomed over the table.
One was the manager, carrying an armful of menus. The other was a cop, carrying a night stick. His uniform was too new to have acquired a shine. It covered a lean and buoyant body, topped off by a young determined face. He pointed the night stick in my direction.
“This the man?”
“That’s him.” The manager nodded excitedly.
“We’d like to ask you some questions, mister.”
“Please,” the manager said. “Not here. In my office.”
I started to remonstrate. “Wait a minute. What’s this all about?”
“Just come along.” The cop took a firm grip on his night stick. “Don’t start any trouble, mister.”
I had been expecting something like this, I suppose. Even in a city the size of New York, with its teeming and preoccupied millions, somebody was bound to recognize me sooner or later. After all, the morning papers had carried my picture.
