The Hardboiled Mystery Megapack

by John Roeburt

  Devereaux flattened against a wall to allow a couple to pass in their ascent. A longshoreman whose breath whistled through his nose, and a blonde lady. Much too blonde, the color of straw after too many suns.

  They’d long disappeared into the upstairs, but the odor clung to Devereaux. Cologne and whiskey and the stink of undergarments and unwashed bodies.

  The air in the street increased his feeling of nausea.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Detective Sam Solowey stuffed himself into the narrow dining booth like a man forcing mass into a pressure chamber of volatile gasses. And then, winded from the exercise, he sat waiting for breath. Devereaux was across the table, with food already standing before him.

  The room around was a soda fountain-luncheonette-cigar and candy store, all in one. The sandwich specialties were delicatessen meats. A Chef stood on a raised platform wielding a long, gleaming knife. He wore a high white crown and a small penciled mustache whose upturned ends were arrows pointing into his nostrils. It was three in the afternoon, but there were diners for every high fountain stool and all the booths along the wall. They sat in their hats and coats, overheated and filmy from sweat, sucking air greedily between bites, as if fighting strangulation.

  Solowey said chidingly, “A discriminating choice of rendezvous, Devereaux.”

  Devereaux took one-half of his sandwich and placed it before his companion. “Try to order, you’ll be an hour waiting. This will hold you.” He looked intently at Solowey. “I’ll listen to your report.”

  “Not in this Inferno,” Solowey said protestingly. “I have notes, and papers. Where are my elbows, where is the room!”

  “Orally,” Devereaux said. “I’ll read the paper work myself later.”

  But Solowey looked unconvinced. Bolt upright in the booth, he was a prisoner in the stocks. He shook his head. “The din is too formidable. I can’t hear myself think.”

  “Don’t think, just talk,” Devereaux said impatiently.

  Solowey’s eyes had the subtlest twinkle. “I have earned Civilization’s right to civilized living, Devereaux. A chair equal to my size, so that my knees respect my stomach. And my voice in my own ears too, so that I may enjoy the quality of my thoughts.”

  “Your bovine comforts,” Devereaux said. “Love them! But don’t beat me with them. Now, about The Tiger Man?”

  “Rocky Star, born Rocco Starziani. In 1917.” Solowey’s monotone was that of a Court Bailiff. “He was middleweight boxing champion of the world at the time of his disappearance. Some twelve months after the disappearance, the title was ordered vacated by The New York Boxing Commission. An elimination tournament of likely aspirants was launched to decide the succeeding champion.”

  “Give me only pertinent stuff,” Devereaux said.

  Solowey looked mildly offended. “A man disappears, but totally, everything is pertinent. The least detail, the smallest minutiae. The count of his toes, his vogue in cuff links.” He stopped to smile, but found Devereaux unamused.

  “I’ve already done a spate of research myself,” Devereaux said. “Rocky’s biography, some of it. Names in his life and stuff, and a man named Hobie Grimes. I already know the general scheme of Rocky’s public life.”

  Solowey had a floundering moment. “All right then, chaos before method,” he said finally, in the mildest rebuke. “Many things have impressed me, and I give you two such. The Tiger Man is gone, but a shrine to his memory stands. Consider what I say, Devereaux! A modest apartment whose windows look across the river to the Palisades. A bachelor’s apartment. The Tiger Man’s last known abode.”

  “And it’s a shrine, you say?”

  Solowey-nodded. “Five years, and five-times-twelve is sixty. Sixty notices of rent, and each paid promptly, nothing left in arrears.”

  “Who’s been paying the rent?”

  “A Max Toller. Toller was trainer to The Tiger Man, from Rocky’s first fight to the last. Today Toller is a taxi-driver.” Solowey’s tone made a point. “The apartment rental is two hundred dollars a month.”

  “Heavy tariff for a cab-driver,” Devereaux said. “But he lives in it, huh? Toller moved into the apartment?”

  Solowey shook his head. “No. A shrine, Devereaux. I chose the word for its literal meaning. The faithful do not molest a shrine.”

  Devereaux arched brows. “It’s so crazy?”

  “Everything in the exact arrangement it was on the day Rocky disappeared. The furnishings so, the bed linens fresh, The Tiger Man’s clothes still in the closets. The pictures on the wall, where the pugilist liked them. His favorite bourbon stocked in his private bar, his favorite scent in the air, and his monograms everywhere the eye can see. Toller, Max Toller, merely comes to oversee the maid in her weekly visit. He is the caretaker of the shrine.”

  “Where did you dig up all this?” Devereaux asked. “From the landlord’s agents, Newberry and Newberry. Having ascertained The Tiger Man’s last home address…” Solowey didn’t complete the obvious. Soon he added, “My description of the interior of the apartment is of course secondhand.”

  “Who’d you get it from?”

  “The domestic. A sedate Scandinavian lady with a great wart on her nose. Aune Aho, her name.” Solowey chuckled reminiscently. “The shrine is the great drama of her otherwise drab life. She did not need to be coaxed into revelation.”

  Devereaux’s eyes followed a sharp animation in the room. A race for a stool, between the genders, and the epithetical fury of the loser.

  “Sounds twice as obscene, coming from a woman,” Devereaux said.

  “From a man, it’s earthy talk. From a woman, it is blasphemy,” Solowey said.

  Devereaux looked critically at his friend. Knowing Solowey, he knew there was a sly intent. He knew too, in some approximation, Solowey’s obscure and analytical vogue in observation.

  “It’s because I saw my Mother as a Saint,” Devereaux said wryly. “Now I’m a man with a halo in search of some female head it might fit.”

  “There are better styles in ladies’ hats. Far more attractive. Look into shop windows. A halo can only attract another angel, never a man. Women feel their flesh, Devereaux, as a man feels his. The spirit can wait, and the disembodiment. And Heaven can wait too. It has no calendar.”

  Devereaux said, “We get into these hassles! But back to Max Toller and the shrine to The Tiger Man. Did any of this come up in the original police investigation?”

  Solowey nodded. “The police knew about the shrine. There was a detail stationed outside the apartment for a whole year after The Tiger Man’s disappearance. Another detail was assigned to Max Toller. He was watched, a ceaseless surveillance, day and night.”

  “Toller was of course questioned.”

  “Questioned, and even remanded to Bellevue for psychiatric examination for a time. Toller suffered the slings in the best style of a martyr.”

  “No police result at all?”

  “Not the smallest spray of illumination from Toller. The Tiger Man had disappeared and that was all. Toller was woeful, sick with bereavement, mystified, and exasperatingly dumb. He had no knowledge, or information. Only the sorrow in his heart!”

  “And the shrine,” Devereaux added somberly. After a moment he said, “Necrophilia, sentiment, or a piece of artifice with a shrewd reason behind it—Which? I’d be interested in reading the report on that psychiatric examination of Toller. To know what species of nut we’re dealing with.”

  “I have made the proper overtures,” Solowey said. “A transcript of the psychiatric opinion. We can, however, expect some delay.”

  Devereaux nodded understanding, “Channels, I know. Is there a word I detest more! There were two findings that impressed you so far, you said before. What’s the second one?”

  “Aldo Starziani. Rocco’s brother. Younger, one year younger. I have his address in my notes.”

  “What about Aldo Starziani?”

  “Aldo lives with the father. There was a situation between the brothers. The tr
ue nature of it, I can only speculate. Sibling rivalry, the traumas of boyhood, Aldo’s jealousy of his brother’s achievement…”

  “You’re all over the landscape again,” Devereaux said. “Don’t speculate. Report.”

  “There was bad blood,” Solowey said durably. “Estrangement, and hatred. I am not afield now, Devereaux. What I say is an extract from the record in our Magistrate’s Court, the Special Sessions Term.”

  Solowey continued, “Aldo Starziani was convicted of assault with a deadly weapon. A kitchen knife. The Complainant was The City of New York in concert with the victim.”

  “Rocco Starziani.”

  “Yes. Rocky Star, our Tiger Man.”

  “What outcome?”

  “A ten month sentence in the Workhouse for Aldo Starziani.”

  “Stiff, sounds to me,” Devereaux said.

  “The Public Defender assigned to the penniless Aldo pleaded for a suspension of sentence. On the basis of the very minor wound inflicted on Rocky, and the moral premise of undue cruelty and hardship to an innocent party.”

  “What innocent party?”

  “The father. Onofrio Starziani, an indigent and invalid. A wheelchair case. The father was dependent on Aldo for care and support.”

  “But Aldo went to jail.”

  “Rocky was relentless. He wanted full measure of justice.”

  “Full measure of revenge,” Devereaux said.

  Solowey nodded. “The cut on his arm required six small stitches. The bruise to his ego was undoubtedly infinitely more painful.” He stopped and smiled. “But I am speculating again.”

  “Assault with a deadly weapon. We can construe it as Intent To Kill. The kind of passion it takes to do murder was there.” Devereaux lapsed into a small, thoughtful silence. “And ten months in the Workhouse, Solowey. Sometimes it calms a man down, drives a lesson home…”

  “Or it adds fuel,” Solowey said. “Now Intent To Kill becomes an absolute need to kill. The cruelty of the sentence raises passion from its depths to the more lofty level of Creed. Now Murder is more than an act of anger, it is an act of honor. An injustice has been done. The victim-to-be is more than a hated enemy. He is a Persecutor, and a Symbol.”

  “Whatever wound you up today?” Devereaux said.

  Solowey smiled. “You have, Devereaux. By your insistence on the humdrum and the factual only. That I am to compress myself into a clerical recital of memorized research. Too confining, my good friend. You perversely undervalue my size, even as you did in choosing this confounded dining booth.”

  “We’ll weigh your ego and you on separate scales someday,” Devereaux said unsmilingly. “To find out which is heavier.”

  A pause fell, then Devereaux returned to the matter on hand. “Aldo Starziani. He could have murdered his brother finally. Murdered Rocky, like an obliteration. Corpse done away with.”

  “As suspects go, you have a suspect,” Solowey agreed.

  “Max Toller, and Hobie Grimes. Add two more pathological personalities,” Devereaux said.

  “Hobie Grimes?” Solowey’s brows raised slightly. “What is his disorder?”

  “Sudden spasms and seizures, like an epileptic. Bony and emaciated; more than a man can be and live. Something’s eating him alive, Solowey. Guilt, or plain misery, or the medical complaints he claims, I don’t know.” Devereaux looked closely at Solowey. “Describe the Hobie Grimes you remember around town.”

  Solowey thought briefly. “A man of nervous agility. A hellion on wheels. Vibrant, astute, extroverted, colorful, tireless. I can tell you anecdotes…”

  “Don’t bother to. But there’s my point, in your description. The change in Hobie, the shocking deterioration. Why? What did it?”

  “You questioned him?”

  “He didn’t tell me a thing.” A corner of Devereaux’s mouth turned up. “The Tiger Man is on an island, and on a mountain top. Places without a name; call them Shangri-La! He’s gone antisocial and native. Hobie’s trotted out the same cute ad fibs with a hundred detectives. To cover up, laugh at us behind his palm.” The detective’s tone hardened. “To cover up Murder. I’m a dunderhead who calls it Murder, until I’m corrected in my mistake. Corrected by facts, and not ad libs and whimsicalities!” Now Devereaux nodded almost surely. “Murder, Solowey. I’m not really looking for The Tiger Man. I’m looking for his corpse.”

  Solowey said, “You think Hobie Grimes could murder his own champion?”

  Devereaux said equivocally, “Murder brings everybody into suspicion. Particularly when I’m in the dark, in murky waters like now, and reaching at straws. Something in the Manager-Fighter relationship could have produced a killing. Let’s sift that relationship, go to the heart of it, and see if what we find acquits Hobie or condemns him.” He looked significantly to Solowey.

  “I’m making due note of the directive,” Solowey said wryly.

  “And assign an operative to Hobie. Tell the man to camp on Hobie’s doorstep. And nothing subtle. I want Hobie to know he’ll never know a private moment.” Devereaux looked suddenly fretful. “That’s if Hobie hasn’t bolted already!”

  Solowey looked questioningly, and Devereaux said, “I left Hobie three hours ago. I—gave him a rough time.”

  The euphemism wasn’t lost on Solowey. “A rough time in the classical Devereaux manner,” he said, and there was reproof in his tone.

  “Hobie doesn’t handle with gloves,” Devereaux said.

  Solowey shook his head dolefully, as if some image of the battered Hobie was vivid in his mind’s eye.

  Devereaux said, “Anyhow, I might have only defeated myself. The scare I threw into Hobie, and then these three hours he’s had in which to react, consider, and do. We may have a second disappearance on our hands.”

  Devereaux got to his feet and eased deftly out of the narrow aisle between the booth seat and table. “That hospitalized sportswriter what’s-his-name. You keep in touch with his situation, Solowey. Keep me advised. When he’s up to it, I want a long talk with him.”

  Solowey nodded to it, and Devereaux flashed a grateful smile, as if atoning for his contrary manner through their talk. “It’s all still a little new to me after my two-year lay-off, old friend. I’m rough around the edges. Anxious to go, afraid I’ll fail. I’ve got to learn the detective’s trade all over again.”

  But Solowey didn’t seem to hear it. He rose, only to fall back. “Get me out of the stocks,” he said in a rare flash of irritation.

  CHAPTER SIX

  There was a sharp odor of cooking in the tenement hallway. Devereaux conquered a momentary nausea, then resumed his vertical climb. On the third landing, he stepped around a fallen figure whose face was a gray mask of death. The man was shoeless and his trousers were open. The breathing was spasmodic; there were pauses between the sucking gasps as if the heart had stopped pumping its fuel. Devereaux noted the belly swell. The symptoms were unmistakable even without the telltale pint bottle. A wino.

  On the fourth landing, a girl with young legs and thickly rouged lips flew past him. He watched the schoolgirl braids disappear down the stairs.

  On the fifth landing, Devereaux studied the neat hand-lettered name plate. It was on the door, on the wood below an oblong of beaded glass, and secured by two red thumb tacks. There were two names on separate lines: Onofrio Starziani, and Aldo Starziani. There was no answer to his repeated knocks. Devereaux tried the knob experimentally. The door was unlatched, and it opened to his touch.

  He stood just over the threshold, looking into a large, irregularly shaped kitchen. There was linoleum on the floor with a freshly waxed look, and a long bathtub with an enamel cover. There were strong shafts of lights centrally in the room like bars of shimmering gray dust. In a corner of the room, where the natural light was spare, a goose-necked lamp shone over a worktable. A man sat bowed over the table, his back to Devereaux, and oblivious to the detective’s entrance and presence. He was an elderly invalid, a paralytic possibly. He was seated in an invalid’s chair. T
he upper half of him had the slightest movement; the lower half looked wooden and useless.

  Devereaux moved to a position where he could watch the elder’s activity at the worktable. There were toothpicks in a heaping mound to one side of the man. Before him was a structure made of toothpicks; a scale model of some architecture that covered more than half the worktable.

  The detective looked for the glue pot, but found none. He looked at the structure again, with new appreciation.

  A gust of air was Devereaux’s first awareness of a new presence in the kitchen. A youth in a faded wool bathrobe held secure in front with a length of rope. He was freshly bathed and shaved. His coal-black hair was tousled, and the sweet smell of toilet water clung closely to his skin. Handsome, Devereaux thought. But too delicately; there was too much symmetry to the face, the skin tone was too silken. A handsome face, but for a man an unfortunate one.

  The youth had a self-conscious moment. He drew the flaps of his robe into a more careful cover and added a knot to the length of rope.

  Devereaux said things to excuse his intrusion, and introduced himself. He watched the youth’s brow darken, and then as if in quick, futile consultation with himself, the youth shrugged and motioned the detective to follow him.

  The new room took Devereaux by surprise. The neat drab kitchen they had quitted seemed more remote than the short corridor dividing the two rooms. Here there was color and wood and upholstery, in bizarre and tumultuous scheme. There was no focus or unity; the eye could only absorb it in sequences. The effect, if the eye could estimate it, was of bits and scraps abstracted from one hundred Decorator Showrooms and pressed into a single, savage arrangement.

  There were pastels, magenta, and casein white. Fabrics were Pacifica, Regency, and burlap. Woods were hand-rubbed, and bleached; there were gleaming lacquers and the somber grain of mahogany. A plaster figure of a boy, buttocks and genitals and face delicately modeled, was balanced in an agile dancer’s pose on a thick onyx pedestal. The pedestal was cracked, with missing fragments of onyx, and these breaks had been crudely repaired.

  The youth eyed Devereaux, as if waiting for the compliment due his decorator’s art. And then, not finding favor, the bare look of pride dropped.