Death Paints the Picture

by Lawrence Lariar

  “Ah, there you are, Grace.”

  Grace wiped her eyes quickly and forced a laugh.

  “Hello, honey—where on earth have you been?”

  Trum eyed me with ice. “I thought you were going to your room, Grace.”

  “I came back for my cigarette case,” she breezed, patting a small evening bag. “You worried about me, honey?”

  “I wanted to speak to you,” he said. “Are you finished with MacAndrew?”

  “Why, Duggie,” she cooed, “Mr. MacAndrew and I were only talking about—”

  “Your portrait?” he snapped.

  “But of course!” said Grace, slipping her arm around his.

  I tried to scratch the purpose of Grace’s visit out of my scalp. All I got was dandruff. What could she know? Had she seen the slugger crack me with the poker? Something must have happened to Grace that hit her hard—hard enough to break down her native nonchalance—her icy indifference to Homer and me and all the warmer virtues. Thinking made my head heave.

  And while I meditated, Homer bounced in.

  “Drunk again, Hank? Or just back to normal?”

  “I’m weak as a canary,” I gulped. “But MacAndrew’s canaries live on Bourbon.”

  “Pour one for another canary.”

  I poured one. “Did you get the notes?”

  “No,” he said simply.

  I dropped another pint on the rug, and Homer rescued the bottle.

  “The notes are gone, sonny. And so is your favorite book of pornography.”

  “I’ll be damned!” I muttered, resting my amazement against the cupboard. “I don’t care about those notes—but the dirty crook swiped my book!”

  Homer finished his glass in one full gulp, which was Homer’s way of saying the liquor was good. He shrugged. “It’s just as well this way. Just as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you read the notes?”

  I nodded. “They read like the introduction to a biography of Mike Gavano.”

  Homer refilled his glass and squatted, sighing. “Exactly. And we don’t need Mike Gavano’s biography. We can get it in the Brooklyn police records whenever we need it, Hank. What puzzles me is why anybody should slug us for—” He broke off at the faint sound of a telephone in the next room. They heard Swink answer it. Homer said: “I’ll bet that’s the Shtunk … let’s go see.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Monologue by the Shtunk

  Jesse Swink handed Homer the telephone.

  “Feller named Smith askin’ for you,” he explained. “Sounds tight as a drum.”

  Homer held a hand over the mouthpiece.

  “Any extensions upstairs, Swink?”

  “There’s one up in the main hall.”

  Homer nodded me toward the stairs. “Let’s keep this a person to person call, Hank.”

  Upstairs, the phone sat on a little table, near the right angle hallway that led to the attic. There was a small bay window, neatly decorated with rusty-colored drapes. A long, medieval chest lay under the windows, its broad sides overflowing with rococo scrawls and carvings. I pulled up a spindly chair and grabbed the phone.

  “Okay, Homer,” I said.

  “Go ahead, Shtunk,” said Homer. “Did you get anything?”

  “All day long I been on my pins,” nasaled the Shtunk, “I got plenty to tell Mr. Bull.”

  There was a silence.

  “Spill it, Shtunk!”

  “Excuse me, I am just swallowing my sandwich. I am in a bar—The White Horse.”

  Homer snorted. “I don’t care where you are. Talk fast—this is a toll call!”

  “Haw!! Haw! No it ain’t, Mr. Bull. Like I was saying, I am eating a sandwich in this White Horse place. It is up here, I am up here.”

  “He’s drunk!” I said.

  “Up where?” Homer moaned.

  “I am in this White Horse place, in Kingston.”

  I found Homer buzzing with Swink in the hall.

  “Mind if I come along, Bull?”

  Homer wriggled into his coat.

  “Why not? I think you’ll find my friend Mr. Smith interesting, and you can guide me to an address I must find tonight.” He fumbled in his pockets and produced one of the bills from Shipley’s desk. “Know a Doctor Torrance?”

  “Indeed I do! But I don’t think you’ll find old Torrance in, Bull.” Swink massaged his jaw dubiously. “I think he’s away to Miami this time of year.”

  “Too bad. Is his office in town?”

  I swung the car through the main gate, and we rolled and bumped down the rutty road.

  Swink said: “Not quite. I guess Torrance’s still a country doctor at heart. He’s a poke out of town, Bull.”

  “Anybody in the house?”

  “Well, now—” Swink eyed Homer curiously—”I don’t rightly know. What in blazes you want with Torrance?”

  “Just a straw. I wonder could we—ah—get into the doctor’s house, Swink?”

  “Now?”

  “Why not? It would take me a minute to get, what I want.”

  “And what might that be?”

  There was a long silence.

  “A card, Swink. It might be everything—and nothing. Was Torrance a New York doctor originally?”

  “Up until a few years ago. Famous old gent, he was. He came back to Kingston to retire, but he still has a few patients. Down in New York Torrance was a big man—one of the biggest, they tell me. But he got fed up with them fancy patients of his—decided to retire up here in the place where he was born.”

  I tried to put the information in an important place—to weave it into the chain of events. I failed.

  “You think Shipley went to this old duck when he was in the city, Homer?”

  “Possibly. I could find out, if we—ah—could get into his home for a few minutes.”

  We rode on in silence until the last curve into Kingston.

  “That there’s old Torrance’s place. Now.”

  He pointed to the left of the road where a huge colonial house spread itself among the big pines.

  “Nice low windows,” whispered Homer. “My size.”

  I smiled.

  “Eh?” asked Swink.

  “I was suggesting that MacAndrew slowdown in town,” Homer said brightly. “We don’t want to miss this White Horse Tavern.”

  That was impossible. The White Horse Tavern, festooned in orange and green neon, was neither White nor a Tavern. It was a dog cart, set back from the main street and surrounded by filling stations and the dribs and drabs of railroad station hostelry.

  The Shtunk sat gloomily in the rear, fondling the last gulp in a glass of beer and munching pretzels.

  Homer nodded. “Let’s see the stuff, Shtunk.”

  “There ain’t nothing to see, Mr. Bull,” whined the Shtunk. “This pal of yours Gurney, on this newspaper, he is a stumblebum. He does not allow me to take no clippings. I must read them clippings and remember them, he says. That is why I have come up to Kingston; Mr. Bull. There is so much in my conk, I am afraid I will forget it unless I lam up here and spill quick.”

  “You got something from Gurney’s morgue, then?”

  The waiter doled out the drinks.

  The Shtunk swallowed a long pull at the glass.

  “Plenty. I start in with Nicky English. In Gurney’s dump I find that English is no news up until he is bigtime. That is the time he is beginning this column of his—this “Nicky’s New York” corn. Then I see him a lot in this clip file of Gurney’s. But it is not on account of English only. It is on account of this doll he is going around with steady.”

  “Which doll?”

  “This Marie Parrish dame. There is all kinds of fancy talk. They are keeping company. They are getting married. Gurney has plenty
of snaps of them both.” He blew a kiss to the rafters. “This Parrish doll is a looker.”

  “I seem to remember the name,” said Homer. “She was a chorus girl, wasn’t she?”

  “She was strictly Ziegfeld stuff.”

  “She married him finally?”

  “No, she does not marry the guy. I forget about her. But then a funny thing happens, when I’m starting on the clips about Trum.”

  Homer interrupted. “No more on English?”

  The Shtunk shook his head. “That is all I find on English, just this stuff about him going steady with the Parrish dame. But, like I say, I see more about her when I go into the Trum clips.”

  He waited until Homer looked up from his little black book.

  “This Trum guy is a funny duck. They got all kinds of stuff on him. I wade through a stack of pictures and junk for over an hour. It is mostly about his wives. The guy is lousy with wives—he had all kinds. Anyhow, I pass up all this. It is giving me a pain in the dome just looking at the headlines about this Trum.” He held his head. “They have all kinds of pictures. I see his house, his nags, his boat, his plane. I’m ready to give up, when I find something that makes me sit up and take notice. It is this Parrish dame. She has been killed!”

  “Of course!” snapped Homer. “I remember the case now. Wasn’t she the girl who was drowned on somebody’s yacht back in ’32?”

  “On the nose,” said the Shtunk. “But the boat belong to Trum! That is what gets me, Mr. Bull.”

  Homer poked him in the ribs. “That’s worth another drink, Shtunk!”

  “That is nothing, Mr. Bull,” he blinked. “What I got next is better, even.” He paused dramatically, grinning around the table. “There is a big smell in the papers, but it don’t last. The clip file shows me only three days on the case. Then it is hushed.”

  “How did she drown?”

  “It is all a blank. Nobody knows. There is a big story about suicide.”

  “Was Nicky on the boat?”

  “There ain’t a mention of English. But I see another guy on the boat. You know who I see?”

  He waited until the waiter had gone.

  “Who?” asked Homer.

  “I see Shipley!”

  “Are you sure? Are you sure it was Hugo Shipley?”

  The Shtunk looked hurt. “It is Hugo Shipley, I say. The clip mentions this fact. It says the guy is an artist. It says his name is Shipley—Hugo Shipley!”

  I said: “He’s right, Homer. I remember the story. It always mystified me—I mean the way a heel illustrator like Shipley mixed with big business on yachts and things.”

  Homer was delighted.

  “Anybody else we know on that boat?”

  “Yeah. Cunningham.”

  Homer whistled tunelessly through his teeth.

  “Cunningham is on with his wife, but they only rate a line. Most of the stuff is on Trum. Trum is heart-broke on account of this. Trum is going to sell his yacht. Trum is a nervous wreck. That is the last clip I see.”

  “Did you check other files for the story?”

  “I go back to Gurney. I ask for more, on account of I know it is important. Gurney sniffs. He says: ‘That stink was a phoney. The story died after three days. It smelled like a fix at the time, on account of Trum’s dough.’ There is no more dope, even in the front page stuff Gurney pulls out for me.”

  Swink shook his head. “I don’t get it, Bull. What in tarnation you trying to prove?”

  “I sent the Shtunk out to ferret information,” said Homer. “That was because there seemed to be something incongruous about the guests at this last weekend party.”

  “But that stuff’s all dead.”

  “I wonder. Unfinished police cases have always interested me, Swink. There’s usually a pretty good reason for whitewash.”

  “That’s what I don’t see,” Swink said. “You don’t believe the girl was drowned?”

  Homer smiled patiently. “I must believe she drowned. But could she swim?”

  The Shtunk broke in. “The doll can’t swim, Mr. Bull. It is in the clip that she can’t.”

  “Interesting,” said Homer. “That’s a good reason for her drowning.”

  “Then, what do you figure, Bull?”

  “I figure this. She may have been pushed overboard!”

  The sheriff gawked and pulled at his mustache. “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  “Who’s next, Shtunk?”

  “Next I look for this Deming doll. I find two snaps of her pan in the files. She is a model. I see her in a white bathing suit. I also see her in an evening gown. Not bad, that dame.”

  “No news clippings?”

  “No. These is just pictures, like snaps, on shiny paper.”

  “Good enough.”

  There was a pause.

  The Shtunk dug into his jacket and handed Homer a small picture.

  “Here, Mr. Bull. The one in the evening dress.”

  Swink joined us in the belly laugh that followed.

  “Gurney’ll have your head,” said Homer. “He’s sure to miss that picture someday.”

  “No, he ain’t—I got the other one, too.”

  “Why Mr. Smith.” I wagged a finger at him. “That’s stealing!”

  “Nuts you lug—you’re just jealous. Just for that I ain’t showin’ you the one in the bathing suit!”

  Homer examined the back of the photograph.

  “Olympe has told us a few truths, at any rate. This photograph has the stamp of the John Powers Model Agency on its back.”

  I toyed with the picture after Homer had finished with It. Olympe certainly had a classy chassis, and the picture was planned to merchandise it.

  The Shtunk continued: “I next go after Grace Lawrence. I find nothing you don’t know about the dame, Mr. Bull.”

  “Are you sure?” Homer eyed the Shtunk seriously. “Her recent activities may prove interesting, and I haven’t followed them. Any late clippings on Miss Lawrence?”

  “Nothin’. Not since your divorce.”

  “Go on.”

  “I find some junk on Cunningham. But it is mostly from the business page of the Times. It is advertising stuff. He gets new business, so they give him space.”

  “Any mention of Trum, in the line of new business?”

  “I don’t see none. So I try for this Stanley Nevin.” The Shtunk shrugged. “This guy Nevin is a blank. He don’t rate even a line.”

  “I didn’t think he would. Did you try for him any other way? The phone book?”

  “That was later. After I leave the clip file, I decide to work on Gavano.”

  Homer interrupted again. “Hold on! You mean there wasn’t anything on Gavano in that file?”

  “Too much, Mr. Bull. But it is all junk. It is stuff on the big pinch in Brooklyn that time when the D. A. got hot all of a sudden on Mike’s pinball racket. I know you don’t want this corn, on account of it is stale stuff. I get a better idea. I decide to see an old pal. I look up my big shot chum from Red Hook—Pants Bader.”

  “Who’s Pants Bader?”

  “I know Pants from old. We are kids together in Bensonhurst. Pants is a smart guy—he is a fancy stool, sort of, doing terrific business in Brooklyn. He’s got two brothers in the bail bond line and he operates with uptown lawyers. I know Pants can dish plenty of dirt on Gavano on account of he is plenty mad at Mike, since Mike rubbed out a relative one time in a beer brawl on Rogers Avenue. That is why I go right to Bader.”

  He finished his drink and backhanded his lips dry.

  “Bader is hard to reach—but I find him. He is glad to see me. It is easy to make him talk—all I got to do is mention Gavano, offhand. That starts him pitchin’. He tells me plenty of stuff, but it takes time and it’s all mixed up.”

  “Unmix it slowly,” sai
d Homer.

  “It ain’t easy, Mr. Bull. Right off the bat I tell Pants like this: I say I hear Gavano is mixing with the big dough. Society. I mention Shipley. Nothing happens excepting Pants calls Gavano a few dirty names. But he gives me no angle. Then I ask Pants what Mike is doing these days in Brooklyn. Pants nearly busts a gut. He says something like: ‘Since that big ape hooked up with Tina Pindo he went yellow.’”

  He watched Homer scribble, in puzzled silence.

  “That mean anything, Mr. Bull?”

  “It’s a lead. What else about Tina?”

  I said: “I remember a news story about Tina Pindo. She’s Pindo’s daughter. There was a small yarn about her in the papers, after the pinball racket expose. Something about the innocent gal who didn’t know her father was the biggest louse in Brooklyn. She ran away from home when she found out. They got her later, about to leave the country. Old Pindo disappeared from the rackets after that. Father and daughter stuff.”

  “That is correct, Mr. Bull. That is almost exactly like what Pants tells me. But Pants tells me more, later. He tells me he thinks Mike and Tina have got hooked. He has got the cockeyed idea that Gavano is going straight on account of a skirt.”

  “Did you check his story?”

  “Right away. I go to a phone booth and look for Gavano. I find a Gavano address, but it is out of town. This Gavano lives in a joint called Malverne, which is a small town dump on Long Island. I hop a train and go out there. Then I got to take a taxi to find the place—on account of it is a long walk, they tell me at the station. Sure enough, I catch the dame at home.”

  “Mrs. Gavano?”

  “Correct. She is a nice little mouse, I find. I ask her where is her husband Mike. She gives a little heave like she is scared of me. She tells me I have got the wrong Gavano, on account of her husband’s name is Thomas. I see she is covering for Mike, but I can’t get nowhere fast with her on account of she is still scared. So I act nice, tip my hat and leave.”

  Homer was about to say something, but the Shtunk held up his hand.

  “Maybe first I better finish with Gavano, Mr. Bull. I find out why it is absolutely a fact that Mike is living in this dump.”

  “How?”

  “I ask the cab driver if he knows the gink who lives in this house. He tells me he has seen him sometimes but does not know him. The cabby says he is a guy with a flock of gold in his mouth.”