“Danke.” Otten looked over at the rough bed made up on the sofa and raised his eyebrows. Living in the office wasn’t in their original agreement, but Morelli had lost his apartment in the East Village and couldn’t afford another one until he got more clients. Thankfully, Otten said nothing, but Morelli knew if he didn’t find more clients soon, he was going to be out on his ear.
“Give my best to Marlena,” Morelli called as Otten left. Otten’s wife was a nice girl and always had a kind word for Morelli. Her ample curves didn’t hurt his opinion of her, either.
Morelli put the pillow and blanket into an old trunk that served as both coffee table and closet, then finished dressing, and decided to shine his shoes. His father always said that a man wasn’t properly dressed unless his shoes were shined. In the Army and later as a cop, Morelli felt that well-shined shoes were a positive reflection of his intentions. Seventeen months standing in mud in the French trenches had made him appreciate it even more as a symbol of civilization. By now it was a daily habit, and one that helped calm him. He pulled a rag and polish out of the bottom desk drawer and placed his shoes on top of a sheet of yellowing newspaper.
“FIRPO READIES FOR BIG BOUT.” Tomorrow night was the Dempsey heavyweight title fight. The Manassa Mauler was going to defend his title at the Polo grounds against the South American, Luis Firpo. Morelli wasn’t a big boxing fan, but you had to be dead in this town not to have heard about the fight. They said the promoters expected almost a hundred thousand people to be on hand. The tickets were selling for double and triple their cost. It was going to be an enormous crowd. Every off-duty cop in the city had gotten himself hired as security. Morelli had tried to sign on, but the hiring man was a friend of Frank Townsend’s, the detective who’d gotten him sacked. So, he was going to miss the fight of the century.
Morelli finished with his shoes, folded the paper, and added it to the pile in the box. The morning passed slowly. Eventually, he gave up staring out the window and went around the corner for a bowl of soup and a hard roll. Today, the soup was tomato. It tasted burnt around the edges but he was hungry and barely noticed.
Back at the office after the meager lunch, he put his feet up for a while and caught some shuteye. The sounds of an argument down the hall woke him; the lawyer must have some new customers. They sounded pretty angry with each other, but that usually meant good news for the lawyer. Contentious clients always made the man happy.
Morelli kept some loose tobacco in the top drawer of his desk. Rolling a fresh cigarette, he lit up, and took a puff. The clank and hiss of the radiator bounced around inside his head, making it ache. He opened another desk drawer and looked at the rye for a long moment, and then brought it out and poured himself a drink. He started to take a sip, but stopped. He’d been down this road before and it wasn’t pretty. Setting the glass aside for the time being, he picked up his cigarette instead.
Morelli noticed a shadow moving across the frosted glass front of the tiny office. The shape of it suggested a woman. He didn’t get many female visitors, but the shadow looked to be working its way toward his door. Maybe she was the dame from the lawyer’s office, looking for help with her problems. Usually clients worked the other way around: PI first, then lawyer after.
He watched her remove her coat, then stand very still where she was. Perhaps she was reading the hand-lettered sign that read: MORELLI’S PRIVATE INQUIRIES. Finally, there was a single knock at the door.
Morelli looked at the glass on his desk. He didn’t want to look like a boozer in front of a new client, but it would be a shame to waste the drink now that he’d poured it. He tossed it back, replaced the glass and bottle in the desk, took a last puff of his cigarette and snuffed the butt out in the ashtray. There was another knock, this time a little less hesitant.
“Coming,” he called out, as he paused to check out his reflection in the mirror against the far wall. Collar smoothed, tie tightened, he reached out and opened the door just as she was about to knock again.
She was dazzling — a real doll — and dressed to the nines. Her golden bobbed hair peeked out of from under a hat he seemed to remember was called a cloche. She had a small cleft in her chin and red, pouting lips. But it was her eyes that held him. There was something unusual about them. They sparkled in the sunlight, but seemed to be on the point of tears. He hoped she wouldn’t cry. He hated that; he didn’t know what to do with a crying woman.
“Excuse me. Are you Mr. Morelli?” Her voice was high and breathless.
“Yes, I am. Can I help you?” Morelli stood looking at her, trapped by her eyes. He realized what was so odd about them. They were a rich, chocolate brown, a color that you didn’t often see with blondes. But maybe the hair color came out of a bottle.
She startled him out of his reverie. “Could I speak to you?”
“Yeah, sure.” He opened the door wider for her. “Come in… ”
She squeezed past him, leaving him holding on to the door with both hands and staring after her. She walked toward his desk and then paused, looking around and taking in the shabbiness of his office. He closed the door and went to take her coat, motioning to the lone chair.
“Sit. Please. Sit down.”
The dress she was wearing was one of those modern, straight ones. You couldn’t tell if the woman had breasts or not from the way it fell, but it was obvious that she wasn’t wearing a corset. The dress was mint green and the shoes matched her cream-colored stockings, which were rolled down to her knees. Ma would’ve called her a “tart” for sure, but these days, she was just another flapper.
He hung her coat on the rack, next to his own greatcoat. By force of habit he checked the pockets, but didn’t feel anything.
“Could I offer you a drink, Miss…?”
She smiled and the sparkle dazzled him. “No, thank you. And it’s Mrs. Hart, Gladys Hart.” She held out her hand. Her nails were the color of blood.
“How do you do, Mrs. Hart?” He gave her soft hand a brief squeeze.
He looked at her more closely. She couldn’t be married. She looked too young, like she should still be in school, giggling with her friends over the boys in the hall. She crossed her legs, drawing his attention with a flash of ivory flesh. She had awful good gams under those silk stockings, and he imagined her toenails might be painted the same “blood” color as her fingernails.
Morelli went around the desk and sat down. The old desk chair squeaked as he leaned forward and rested his folded hands on the blotter. Just as he was about to speak, the radiator made another loud clanking sound. He opened another drawer of his desk and removed a hammer that he kept for just such situations. Crossing the room to the radiator, he struck it one good blow. Mrs. Hart shrieked, but the radiator stopped clanking.
“Sorry about that.” He dropped the hammer back in the drawer as he sat down and she laughed, her shock forgotten. It was a charming sound, like birdsong.
“Now, what can I do for you, Mrs. Hart?”
“I need your help, Mr. Morelli. I’m looking for a private investigator and you were recommended to me.”
Morelli was surprised. He didn’t know any of her sort of young women personally, but he had seen plenty on the streets of New York. They traveled in very different circles and he certainly hadn’t had any as clients.
“Who recommended me?” he asked.
“A reporter. Sally Benson.”
Morelli was even more surprised at the name. He and Sally went way back, but there was no love lost between them these days. He wondered how Mrs. Hart knew Sally; more to the point, why Sally would recommend his services. While he watched, she took something out of her bag and laid it on the desk. It was one of his worn business cards with the old phone number neatly crossed out and the downstairs jewelry store phone number typed just below that. Then she took a cigarette case out of the bag.
“So, how can I help?” he asked again, dragging his eyes up to her sweet face.
“I… I believe that Aaron… my husband, Mr.
Aaron Hart…” Her voice quivered. She paused to open the case and take out a cigarette. Fitting it into a long black holder, she leaned forward. Morelli realized she was waiting for him to provide her with a light. He picked up a box of matches and struck one, leaning across the desk. She inhaled and then blew out a small cloud of smoke before continuing.
“I believe he’s seeing someone. A woman. I want you to find out for me.”
“What makes you believe that? Have you seen them together?”
“Yes, I saw them walking together, but they didn’t see me.”
“Can you give me any more information about this woman? Do you know her name?”
“No, I don’t know her name.” Gladys paused and took a puff of her cigarette, sending a cloud of smoke spiraling into the air. “She’s probably some redheaded vamp he met at his club.” She said the word with a certain disdain.
“What sort of club is that, Mrs. Hart?” Morelli watched her smoke. It was mesmerizing, her chin rising with each puff and her pursed lips releasing a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. He didn’t see women smoke very often these days. It seemed to be a completely different activity from what he did with his hand-rolled cigarettes.
“It’s a place called the Golden Ruby, somewhere in the Village. I’ve never been there, myself.”
“All right. Can you tell me anything else about her?”
“What do you think, that I carry around a picture of her?” Gladys pulled the cigarette out of the holder and stubbed it out. “I do have one of him, however.” She extracted a photo from her purse and handed it to him. “This is my husband Aaron, Mr. Morelli.”
Morelli took the picture from her. The guy in it looked too old for this dish. He had one of those thin, brush-like mustaches that Morelli could never seem to grow. He was dressed in a tuxedo, with a bow tie and a stiff shirt, like he was going somewhere important, with Gladys on his arm. Behind them was some kind of a long white touring sedan; he couldn’t see enough of it to identify the make. The picture was the essence of the good life. Morelli hated the son of a bitch instantly. He wondered briefly if she’d married him for his money.
“Do you know where I can find this woman? Can you tell me where you saw them together?”
“I have an address.” Mrs. Hart handed Morelli a slip of paper.
He wrote down their names — Gladys Hart, Aaron Hart, then copied down the address she’d given him: 39 Bleecker Street. That was on the edge of the Village.
“What about Mr. Hart? Where does he work?”
“He works for our family bank. But I don’t think that has anything to do with this.”
“It would be easier for me to do my job if I have all the information. Can I keep this?” He held up the photo. Gladys nodded.
Morelli put the picture with his notes. “I work for $15.00 a day or any portion of the regular day, and there’s no overtime unless I go over ten hours. Then, well, then you pay double time for that.”
Gladys reached into her purse again and pulled out a wallet. She opened it and took out a wad of bills. Morelli eyed the money in her hand. It was a bigger roll of bills than he’d ever seen.
“You know, Mrs. Hart. Finding this redhead may be difficult and finding them together may be quite expensive, if he doesn’t want to be found out. Can you give me the address of the bank?”
She looked at him for an extraordinarily long moment and her eyes hardened. “Trust my judgment, Mr. Morelli. It wouldn’t be useful for you to go to his place of business.” She opened the roll and began to count out twenty-dollar bills, one at a time. It was hard to keep his mind on business with her peeling off those twenties.
“Oh? Why’s that?” He tried to get back to his question.
She looked up at him. “He would never bring her there. I might be there. It’s my bank, you see.”
“Oh… ” She had a point there.
“Will two hundred be enough of a retainer?” She handed him ten twenty-dollar bills.
Morelli hadn’t seen two hundred dollars in a month of Sundays, but he didn’t want her to know it. With that much dough, he could get an apartment and go back to having a regular life. He took it, nodding as straight-faced as possible under the circumstances. Then he wrote “$200.00 retainer” in his notes.
She replaced the remaining wad of bills in the wallet, putting it back into her purse. Morelli stood, causing a dissonant symphony of squeaks from his desk chair, removed his wallet and placed the twenties inside. Smiling at her, he sat down to another discordance of sound.
“So, all you want me to do is find out if he has a relationship with this woman? Do you want me to follow him, take pictures of them together?”
“Just find out for me, Mr. Morelli. I’m worried… about where this might go.” She stood up and handed him a small calling card containing just a phone number and an address. “You can reach me at this number.” Their business apparently finished, she got up to leave.
Morelli took the card and stuck it in his pocket along with the money. He walked over to the coatrack and collected her coat. He held it open as she slipped a slender arm into a sleeve. The top of her head came up to his chin and as she stepped into the coat, he caught the scent of her. Memories of his mother’s vanilla-scented zabaglione came to mind. He had to stand very still to keep from putting his arms around her and drawing her back against his chest. She had that kind of charm. He wanted to protect her and ravish her at the same time.
Then she turned away and the feeling was gone. He finished helping her into the coat and opened the door. She paused in the doorway, and offered her hand again.
“Call me when you’ve got something, Mr. Morelli.” With a light squeeze, she gently withdrew her hand.
Morelli nodded. The door closed behind her and he was left standing there, watching her shadow move down the hall and out of sight. He could hear her footsteps on the stairs. He crossed to the window and looked down. People moved in all directions down below, but he couldn’t pick her out of the crowd. The emptiness seemed to close around him while the smell of vanilla lingered in his mind. Then he remembered the ten crisp twenties, and the scented card she had left behind. Morelli crossed back to his desk and rolled a fresh cigarette. Things were definitely looking up. He pulled the bottle of rye out of the drawer. It was too late to go looking for the redhead tonight, but he had something to celebrate now.
Chapter Seven
The Hart Mansion
Thursday Afternoon
Gladys closed her appointment book and rubbed her eyes with a sigh. She needed to consult with the cook about tomorrow’s tea; half a dozen society ladies were coming to discuss the fund-raising ball for the museum at four and she wanted to make sure that everything was ready. Really, her day was too full already with letters to be answered and details to be overseen. On top of that, she worried about Angel and now Aaron.
She considered once again getting a secretary to help her, but the last one had been such a disaster. Aaron couldn’t stop staring at the girl’s ankles and once he’d noticed them, Gladys couldn’t help but think of that look in his eyes every time the girl sat across from her and crossed her legs. It wasn’t ladylike, either.
Maybe she could find a suitable young man. After all, the war was over and there were plenty of men who needed work; even someone with a minor war wound might make a suitable secretary for her. She would speak to Harmon about it as soon as she’d seen the cook. She lifted the phone and dialed the kitchen.
Harmon stood in the back of her study as the cook conferred with Gladys, going over all details for the tea. The fishmonger hadn’t had any fresh crab since the previous Tuesday, and they’d had to make do with Scottish smoked salmon for the sandwiches. It couldn’t be helped at this late date, but Gladys made a mental note that this was just the sort of thing her new secretary would need to keep abreast of.
As soon as the cook left, off to make sure a cake came out of the oven on time, Gladys motioned Harmon forward.
“
Harmon, I have decided that I need to engage a new secretary.”
His eyes tightened, but he said nothing. He remembered the last one.
“I’d like you to find a young man for me this time, one who types. I don’t mind if he’s got some minor war wound, but please nothing too disfiguring. I’m not sure I could bear to look at that every day.”
“Yes, ma’am. How soon would you like to engage someone, ma’am?”
“Oh, as soon as possible, but I realize that it might take a few days. However, do be prudent about it. You know how important this is.”
Harmon nodded and murmured his assent. Just then, a bell rang out from the front hall. Someone was at the door. Gladys released him to go and answer it while she focused back on her appointment book.
***
Sean O’Brien stood nervously at the front door of the Eldridge mansion. It was a crisp fall day and Sean could smell the sharp scent of burning leaves mixed with the usual smell of coal fires. This far uptown, there were plenty of cars and not as many horses, so the rich, underlying smell of horse manure was replaced by the stink of gasoline. He glanced out at the street and then back again, as the door was opened by the Hart family butler.
“Sean O’Brien to see Mr. Hart, please.” Sean took off his hat and crushed it between his hands. The butler looked at him suspiciously, but let him in.
“Is Mr. Hart expecting you, Mr. O’Brien?”
“Yeah, I mean, yes, he asked me to come see him.”
The butler turned without a word and led Sean to the library. Aaron Hart was sitting behind his desk as Sean entered.
“Sean, good of you to come uptown again this morning.” Aaron looked up, but didn’t make a move to shake Sean’s hand or offer a seat, so Sean remained standing in front of the desk.
Shattered Angel Page 4