by Kane, Henry
“Mrs. Maloney,” I said, “I hate this. A bringer of bad news is in a miserable position. I could have shirked this—”
“I thank you for not having shirked it, Mr. Chambers.” Her voice remained high, sweet, melodious. There was no tremor of emotion. “Please tell me what happened.”
I pulled in cigarette smoke, killed the cigarette, talked fast. “He was murdered—shot to death this morning in his apartment on 79th Street. The police have no idea who did it.”
She nodded. Her eyes closed again. Some of the blood left her face, putting a yellow complexion on the sunburn. Then she stood up, rubbed her hands together as she paced, came back to the chair, and sat down. “Would you tell me why you’ve come to me, Mr. Chambers?”
“I’m a private detective, Mrs. Maloney, functioning out of New York. I’ve known Henry Martell for a good number of years. I had no idea he was married. I thought he was a bachelor, as, I’m certain, did all of his friends and cronies in New York. Only recently, within the last couple of days, did I learn that his real name was Hector Maloney and that he was married and lived up in Greenwich, Connecticut. I don’t know anything about this marriage—it’s none of my business—but Henry Martell certainly didn’t act like a married man.”
“Indeed he did not.” Now there was emotion in her voice. It was bitterness.
“That kind of murder can blow up into a heck of a lot of scandal. Since I’m one of the few who knows he’s Hector Maloney, I felt … well, the least I could do was come up here and tell you about it.”
“I thank you, sir. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“Now, please …” I began.
She stood up. She said, “I need some advice on this.”
“Well, I don’t think that I—”
“No, not from you, Mr. Chambers. I have a dear friend living nearby, around the corner, as a matter of fact. An attorney. Mr. Edgar Donovan.”
“Edgar Donovan?” I said. “Does he have his New York office at 160 Broadway.”
“Yes, he does. Do you know him?”
“I know him very well. A fine, wonderful man. You certainly ought to ask his advice, Mrs. Maloney. You couldn’t make a smarter move. I recommend it, most heartily.”
She came to me and I rose up from my chair. She took my hand in both of hers and shook it warmly. “I thank you for what you’ve done for me, Mr. Chambers. God bless you.”
“Call Donovan,” I said. “Tuesdays he’s up here in Greenwich, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“His office is right there at his home, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Call him, Mrs. Maloney. Don’t stall a minute on this. Call him right now. Donovan will know how to keep you out of any possible mess.”
She did a peculiar thing. She did not go to the phone. She went to a closet and took out a three-quarter-length coat and put it on. Then she did another peculiar thing. She went up the stairs and came down carrying a sleeping baby in her arms. She went to the screen door and I opened it for her.
“Good-bye,” she said. “God bless you.”
I never saw her again.
In the living room, I walked around, touching objects, examining furniture, smoking, sitting, standing, waiting. Ten minutes passed. I sat down and thought about Edgar Donovan. Edgar Donovan was a Yankee from New Hampshire who had studied law at Harvard, had married and settled in Greenwich, Connecticut, and had practiced law in New York City. He was admitted both to the bar of the State of New York and the State of Connecticut. In his early years he had been a firebrand, practicing criminal law, but he was now far past his early years. Edgar Donovan was at least seventy years of age, rich, solid, and respectable, but as active as ever. He was no longer involved in the kinetics of criminal law—he was now a staid, corporation and real-estate attorney. Three days a week—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—he practiced out of his New York office; twice a week—Tuesday and Thursday—he practiced out of his Greenwich office. Over the years I had frequently been in the employ of Edgar Donovan. I had found him as reliable as rock, as solid as steel, as resourceful as a tiger on the prowl. Over the years, we two—of entirely different breeds—had hacked out for one another a firm platform of mutual respect.
I looked at my watch. Ten more minutes had passed. I got off my seat, found a magazine, and went in to an immaculate kitchen. A percolator of coffee sat on the kitchen range. I put fire beneath it, poured a cupful, sat at the kitchen table, smoked, and read an article on how to reduce by holding your breath. I was up to the part about pulling in your stomach and holding it in while you count up to six as you hold your breath, and I was doing exactly that, when I heard the screen door slam. I let out my breath in a volley, and went to the living room. Edgar Donovan said, “Good to see you, Chambers.”
He was a tall, strong man, with thick shoulders, a weather-seamed brown face, frost-white hair, remote grey eyes, and a frost-white, impressive, military mustache.
“Hi,” I said.
“Sit down,” he said.
I sat and he sat opposite me, knees high, gnarled brown hands on knees. He was wearing a black, wrinkled suit, black shoes, a white shirt, and a long black tie.
“You’ve done a good person a good turn this day,” he said. “Whether or not you know it.”
“Have I?” I said.
“You’re entitled to the facts,” he said.
“Am I?” I said.
“Now don’t pretend to be a hipster with me, Mr. Chambers. I happen to know you for what you are—an incurable romantic, a Don Quixote in a custom-tailored suit, and essentially and forever, and admirably, a softie.”
“Your opinion, Mr. Donovan,” I said, “but don’t spread it about, or in my profession I’m dead.”
“You’re entitled to the facts,” he said.
“All right, counselor. So spill.”
The grey eyes disappeared in the wrinkles of a smile. “Three years ago a kid came to New York, a sweet little gal by name of Ellen O’Brien. She was twenty-one, and she had persuaded her parents that she wanted to be an actress. She was full of motion-picture dreams and moxie. She registered in a good dramatic school, took a little one-room apartment on the West Side, got a check each week from her folks, and settled down to being a New Yorker who would conquer the world.”
“What’s her name now?” I said.
“Mrs. Hector Maloney.”
“Figures,” I said.
“She was pretty and shapely and charming. She came from Toledo, Ohio. Her father was a good church-going Catholic, a rich man, a fine citizen, a tool-and-die manufacturer with a big factory and a prosperous business. Originally, he was from New Hampshire, and we had grown up together. When his daughter came to New York, he had communicated with me. I had looked in on her now and then, often had her up here to my home for dinner, and my wife and I were sort of her foster parents.”
“Solid,” I said.
“But we were old and she was young. She was pretty and shapely and spirited—and young. Occasionally, she got modeling jobs, and upon one such occasion she had the vast misfortune of meeting one Henry Martell, nee Hector Maloney. Naturally, she flopped for this slimily smooth operator.”
“Naturally,” I said.
“He talked her into posing for nude art photos which eventually showed up in the filth magazines. He probably had her—how could an innocent like that resist one like Martell? He was probably ready to dispense with her, when her father died. That was two years ago. The remaining family consisted of another sister, older, married, Mrs. Sara Farnsworth, living in London, and a mother, an invalid in a wheel chair. Each daughter received a hundred thousand dollars; the remainder of the estate went to the mother. I know because I was the executor of Mr. O’Brien’s will. Of course, Martell snapped up little Ellen and married her, and almost at once she was pregnant. I purchased this house for her for twenty-five thousand dollars, and I insisted upon holding another twenty-five thousand for her—but Martell grabbed up the other fifty tho
usand and, of course, eventually dissipated it. Little Ellen, a good, church-going, religious child, learned her horrors the hard way.”
“Did he ever show up here?”
“Occasionally, on infrequent week ends. She saw some of the filth magazines, couldn’t believe what she saw, but in time, too late, understood what she had got herself into. She was ashamed, terribly ashamed, but she took her medicine like the fine little person she is. She went home to visit her mother three or four times a year, but she never took him with her; she did not want to involve her family with this indescribable rotter. Luckily, this house is near ours, and my wife and I have been of help and support to her.”
“Financial support?”
“That wasn’t necessary. I doled out her own twenty-five thousand in small installments. The house is paid up.”
“He didn’t contribute?”
“Of course not, the damned rotter.”
“What about the neighbors? I mean, the guy hardly ever showing up.”
“We worked out the white lie that he was a travelling man, a travelling salesman, long trips, Europe, that sort of thing.”
“And divorce?”
“Impossible. Ellen is a deeply religious girl. There had been a formal church wedding.”
“Annullment?”
“There were no proper grounds, and she is not the type to fabricate. This child lived her hell for these two years. Now you’ve arrived with this story, and in a sense it’s her release. She has told us what you told her, and she and the child are now staying at my house, under the protective wing of my wife. Plans have already formulated in my mind. I dropped some hints and she has acquiesced. I shall sell this house for her and she shall go home with her baby to her mother. The husband is dead, and that is that. But by all means, we must prevent any scandal from attaching to her. This child has suffered sufficiently. Who is in charge of the matter?”
“Detective-Lieutenant Parker.”
“Louis Parker?”
“Yes.”
“A fine man, Lieutenant Parker.”
I nodded. “And a staunch Catholic in his own right.”
“A kind man and a compassionate man. I’m certain he’ll co-operate.”
“So am I.”
“Will you give me the facts, please, Mr. Chambers?”
I gave him the facts as the police had the facts, including the involvement and death of Barry Miller. I said, “Once you show him that Mrs. Maloney was up here and had nothing to do with these murders, I’m sure he’ll work along with you to keep her from being hurt.”
“You drove up here, Mr. Chambers?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re driving back into town?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go along with you. I’ll stay over for a couple of days, if necessary. I had her sign a power of attorney, and I have it with me. I’ll represent her interests. I’ll talk to Parker, I’ll make the funeral arrangements, and I’ll do whatever possible to avoid messy publicity for her.”
“I don’t think that’ll be too tough, Mr. Donovan. The whole town believes Martell is a bachelor, and there’s no reason to have it believe otherwise, and there’s no reason in the world for Parker to blast this to the press.”
He slapped his knees and stood up. “Chambers, I don’t know how to thank you adequately. If there’s a fee, please bill me directly, and I shall be happy to pay it.”
“No, no, no fee, but I can’t say that I’m entirely the good Samaritan.”
“Ulterior motive?” he said, and smiled his crinkling smile.
“Yes,” I said, “and it may work out, tangentially, to further your purpose of preventing Martell’s filth from accumulating about your Ellen.”
“Speak your piece, Mr. Chambers.”
“Henry Martell was involved in all sorts of nefarious dealings.”
“I have some small idea,” said Edgar Donovan.
“Dirt magazines, obscene films …”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.
“Well, sir, he was blackmailing a client of mine. By use of a hidden camera, he had acquired some interesting film, two spools of same, duplicates. I’ve been on the hunt for them. He didn’t have them in his New York apartment—as a matter of fact, his apartment was strangely clean of any of that sort of stuff. When I learned that he was Hector Maloney with a house on shady Maple Street way up in Connecticut, it hit me that this would be the natural spot to cache the spoils of his unnatural way of life. Who knew about Hector Maloney? Who could associate Henry Martell with a Hector Maloney, a married man, living with wife and child on shady Maple Street up in Connecticut? Now, Mr. Donovan, do you have any idea of any hidden spot in this house where this guy could have stored this kind of stuff?”
“I have a very good idea, Mr. Chambers.”
“I’m breathing hard, Mr. Donovan.”
He moved about, his snub-nosed shoes creaking, and he stretched the fingers of his thick old hands. “There’s a small attic upstairs,” he said, “which, early, he transformed to his office. He kept it locked, and although Ellen also had a key, he requested that she keep it undisturbed, not even to clean it. Parenthetically, she does her own cleaning—she does not hire a cleaning woman. Well, I know that once—being a tidy little person—she did go up to do some cleaning, and I know that she never returned to that room. She didn’t elaborate when she mentioned that experience; she merely told us, and dropped it, and wouldn’t discuss it any further, and, noting the expression on her face, we simply didn’t press it.”
“What are we waiting for?” I said.
“I can go over and get her key,” he said.
“Mr. Donovan,” I said, “you’re going to sell this house anyway. So one door will have a busted lock.”
“Let’s go,” he said.
Upstairs, I laid a rampant shoulder against an imperturbable door and forced a lock. It was one airless room with one closed window, blind drawn. I clicked on illumination, and we saw the light dust that lay across the room like a shroud. There was a desk and a desk lamp, three wooden chairs, four grey, steel cabinets—and that was it. On the un-carpeted hardwood floor lay two glossy photos, unglossed by the thin layer of dust, each of a nude man and woman entwined in an act of unnatural sex. I pointed. He nodded. “That’s what Ellen could not talk about,” he said.
“Boy, that little gal sure had it good,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said.
Everything was locked. Donovan touched a hand to my elbow, winked, raised the hand in a gesture of “have patience,” ambled out, and returned bearing an olive-green, rectangular, tool kit. We forced the drawers of the desk and the steel cabinets, and we were treated to a monographic peep show that would have developed nausea in an embalmer. I found my two spools of film, each in a separate round tin. “For the rest,” I said, “if you don’t want your little Ellen trapped in a worse mess than she’s already trapped in, you’d better burn this stuff, down to the last particle.”
“First things first,” he said. “I’ll attend to it. She’s never coming back to this house. My wife will have to come here for Ellen’s clothes and the baby’s things, and I’ll have her lock the house each time she leaves it. When I’m through in New York, I’ll come back and burn this filth. I’ll also fix the lock on the door.” He chuckled. “I’m not a man to sell a house with a defect of which I’m aware. Now please let’s get out of this horrible little room.”
In the garage we found a little corrugated box into which my tins fit neatly. I wrapped it in brown paper and tied it with cord, and had a pleasant little package. We drove through the oncoming night to New York, chatting amiably. Lieutenant Parker was alone when we were ushered into his cordial presence. Donovan and Parker greeted one another effusively as I laid my package away. I said, “You two are going to have a lot to talk about, so I’m going to blow. One question, please, Lieutenant. Have you fixed a time of death for Henry Martell?”
“He got it between eleven and eleven
-thirty, the best we can figure,” he said.
“Thanks. Good-bye.” I went for the door.
“Hey!” he called.
“Something?” I inquired.
“Nothing,” he said, “except you left your little package.”
“Oh, my innocuous little package. Thank you again, Lieutenant.”
I grabbed up my little package and hurried home.
SIXTEEN
I kept working on my silly little wall safe as though I were practicing to be a burglar. This time I inserted a flat round tin of ebullient film, slammed the safe door, and twirled the knob in the peculiar high glee of planned-for, postponed anticipation. I tore up the corrugated box, tore up the brown paper and, carrying refuse and cord to the incinerator, got rid of all. I thought of calling Sophia Patri, then thought the better of it. We had a date—she would have to wait. I thought of calling Jeff Clayton, and thought the better of that. He was in trouble and he had said he would be home—he had better be home. I thought of showering, shaving, and changing my clothes, and thought the better of that—it could hold. I brushed my teeth, did a fast mouth gargle, grabbed up the other tin of film, and scooted. My car was parked in the only available place, near a fire hydrant, and it wore a ticket which proclaimed that I owed the city fifteen dollars. I shrugged it off. Fifteen is a pittance in prospect of affluence, and I was on my way to earn five thousand dollars.
Clayton lived at 535 Park Avenue, and, of course, the curb was clotted with cars. I double-parked and hoped for the best. The doorman bowed, the lobby man smiled, the elevator man was all bright chatter, but Jeff Clayton opened his door wearing a dark scowl, light trousers, and an open shirt.
“About time,” he said, bourbon-reekingly, and escorted me into his lavish drawing room. He had company—in the person of the ravishing Greco. She was imbibing a tall drink, teeth clamped to the rim as though she were going to bite through the glass.
“Council of war?” I inquired.
“Go to hell,” said Jeff Clayton.
Sherry put down her glass and stood up, and Sherry, standing up, was always the focus of all eyes. She was cool and remote in a grey suit with a short jacket and a short skirt tight about the practiced hips.