The Topless Tulip Caper ch-4

by Lawrence Block

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Is ten-thirty. He want you velly soon, chop-chop.”

  “Oh, come off it, Wong,” I said. “Nobody talks like that. Not even you.”

  “Is to make innasting character for book you lite,” Wong insisted. “Mistuh Haig, he want it just so.”

  I got out of bed. “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute, will you?”

  “Ah, so.”

  “And Wong?”

  “Mistuh Chip?”

  “Tell him he’s a plick.”

  Six

  AS I APPROACHED the door I heard Haig telling them that it was no use, that he wasn’t going to tell them anything until I was present. Seidenwall sputtered a little at that, and I was tempted to wait out in the hall and let him sputter, but instead I went in and nodded at them and sat down in my chair at the desk. Haig was in his chair across the desk from me and Seidenwall was slumped in the floral wing chair and Gregorio was on his feet. He had changed his suit since I saw him. His partner hadn’t.

  Haig said good morning, which it clearly wasn’t, and I backed him up and wished him a good morning right back. He said he hoped I slept well, and I said it was long on quality if short on quantity, and Seidenwall mentioned a popular organic fertilizer often to be found in stables.

  “Now then,” Haig said. “What seems to be the matter, gentlemen?”

  Seidenwall went purple in the face and squeezed the arms of his chair. Gregorio said, “Look, you silly little butterball, I want some cooperation from you. When I saw this punk who works for you last night I figured you were all wrapped up in this one. I never yet ran into Harrison here without somebody being dead. And what do I get from him? I get a fish story.”

  “Precisely,” Haig said.

  “A whole load of crap about how this Tulip broad is just a good friend of his, and he’s friends with her because she raises fish and you raise fish and you had a cute little conference about your goddamned fish, and on the strength of that he went to see her dance.”

  “But that’s quite true,” Haig said. “Miss Wolinski lost a valuable batch of fish. She wanted me to determine how the fish had perished.”

  “Yeah, fish.” Gregorio looked disgusted. “She even gave me their goddamned names. Scatophagus tetracanthus. For the hell of it I looked it up. You know what Scatophagus means?”

  “Certainly.”

  “It means eater of excrement. In other words they eat shit, and so does your story.”

  “It’s a misappellation,” Haig said dreamily. “The species lives in foul water and subsists on detritus, but I don’t believe they actually consume excrement.”

  “Well, your story does. The fish didn’t just die. They were poisoned.”

  “So it would appear.”

  “Strychnine,” Seidenwall said.

  “Strychnine,” Gregorio said. “Now who in the hell would dump strychnine into a tankful of fish?”

  “An excellent question, Mr. Gregorio. And it was precisely Miss Wolinski’s question, which prompted her to consult me. I have as yet been unable to hit on the answer.”

  Gregorio stared at him. Staring at Leo Haig does you no good whatsoever, but I didn’t point this out to Gregorio. There’s no point in volunteering information to the police. They never really know what to do with it, anyway.

  “Awright,” Seidenwall said. “Where does your little pal Harrison get off keeping this all to himself last night?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Haig said. “Chip? Did the police ask you if Miss Wolinski’s fish were poisoned?”

  “The subject never came up,” I said.

  “Now wait a minute—”

  “Did they mention strychnine? Did they inquire as to whether any professional relationship existed between ourselves and Miss Wolinski?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well then,” Haig said. “Gentlemen, I don’t understand. You accuse my associate of failing to cooperate. Of prevaricating. Yet he has neither lied nor withheld information. Why should he assume that the death of a group of fish bore any relationship to the death of a topless dancer? Had he even suggested this line of inquiry, no doubt you would have accused him of wasting your time.”

  They both started calling Haig names. Seidenwall called him a lump of shit while Gregorio called him a fat dwarf. Haig did not seemed ruffled. He took a pipe apart and put it back together again. This time he didn’t break it.

  Seidenwall said, “The hell, Vinnie. Let’s get to the point.”

  “Right.” Gregorio walked over to the desk. He planted himself next to me so that he could glower down at Haig. I was tempted to check out the material of his suit but I restrained myself. “All right,” he said. “We could go round and round with this but it’s a waste of time. You’re too damn cute. You sit on your fat ass and play with your pipes and your fish and talk your way out of everything. But you’re covering for a client, dammit, and you’re withholding evidence and I want it.”

  Haig looked at him.

  “You know what I’m talking about. Or didn’t your little chum tell you? He was sitting right next to the Wolinski broad when she put the dart in her roommate. I’d make it twenty-to-one he saw her do it, but I don’t suppose we could ever prove it.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then he was on the stage before the body stopped twitching. That’s when he picked up the murder weapon.” Haig didn’t tell him he meant projectile. “And you can’t deny he was on the stage, damn it. A dozen people saw him hop over the bar and onto the stage.”

  “Why deny it?” I put in. “I told you all that last night. I might have looked around for a murder weapon if I knew she’d been murdered, but how was I supposed to know that? I didn’t even know she was dead. That’s what I went up onto the stage to find out, and she was. What does that prove?”

  “It proves you’re a fucking liar,” Seidenwall said.

  “Harrison has the murder weapon,” Gregorio went on. “He’s got it and I know he’s got it and, damn it, you know he’s got it. Some dumb broad raises tropical fish and that makes her okay in your book and you’re covering for her. Well, I’ve got her locked up and I’m going to nail her on Murder One, and if you don’t come up with the dart or whatever it was I’ll have you and Harrison in the dock on an accessory charge.”

  “Indeed,” Haig said. He heaved a sigh. “Your thesis seems to be that Miss Wolinski murdered Miss Abramowicz.”

  “You know damned well she did.”

  “It’s curious. First Miss Wolinski poisoned her own fish with strychnine for reasons we cannot begin to explain. Then, no doubt wracked by guilt over what she had done, she hired me to find her out And, unbalanced at the thought of discovery, she pumped more I strychnine into her roommate while my associate sat beside her. Ingenious reasoning, Mr. Gregorio. I applaud you.”

  “It wasn’t strychnine.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “It was curare. The stuff South American Indians put on their arrows.”

  “I know what curare is,” Haig said. “So she didn’t poison her own fish. The two girls hated each other. One of them took a boyfriend away from the other one, so the Abramowicz one got hold of some strychnine—”

  “How?” Haig demanded. “Where?”

  Gregorio ignored the demands. “—and poisoned Wolinski’s fish. Wolinski hired you and you found out Abramowicz did the job. So Wolinski got ahold of some curare and gave Abramowicz the needle, and now you’re trying to cover for her.”

  Haig stood up. This didn’t increase his height all that much, but he has a way of getting to his feet that is pretty theatrical. Maybe it’s because he stands as infrequently as possible, so that when he finally gets around to it you’re really ready for something spectacular.

  “Mr. Gregorio. Mr. Seidenwall. I have intimated in the past that I regard you as witlings. I cannot imagine that you are sufficiently mindless to believe the story you have just propounded. It is enough of a mark of your lack of
intellect to recognize that you expect me to believe you believe it.”

  (I don’t think they got the gist of that. If you have to read it over a few times yourself, don’t feel like an idiot. It’s a complicated paragraph. Haig might think you’re a witling if you don’t get it first time out of the box, but I won’t hold it against you.)

  “I will not dignify your conjecture with rebuttal,” he went on. “Why refute something you already know to be absurd? We have already wasted enough time. Have you taken my client into custody?”

  “You’re damn right.”

  “Have you indeed. Mr. Gregorio, there is a blind man who operates a newsstand at the corner of Sixth Avenue and 42nd Street. Perhaps you know him.”

  “So?”

  “Simply this. Were that blind man my client of the moment instead of Miss Wolinski, and had Mr. Harrison been present last night when Miss Abramowicz was murdered, you would have arrested the newsdealer and let Miss Wolinski go. You are trying to put pressure upon me, sir. You are trying to coax me to solve a case which baffles you, and you are trying to force me to do so on your own terms instead of my own. Have you formally charged my client?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet and not ever, as you well know. You have put her through a profound indignity in order to obtain from me information which I do not have and would not be obliged to give you if I did. You do not know by whom Miss Abramowicz was killed. You do not know the motive. Do you at least know what weapon was employed?”

  “Something small and sharp with curare on the tip.”

  “So you do not know that either. You do not know anything except, I am sorry to say, my address. My inclination is to close up like a clam. First I will volunteer certain information to you. Negative information. Neither I nor Mr. Harrison knows who poisoned Miss Wolinski’s fish. Neither of us knows who murdered Miss Abramowicz. Neither of us possesses any factual knowledge not in your own possession. And, finally, neither of us intends to respond further to accusations, charges, questions, or such other irritation as you might be inclined to visit upon us. I have previously merely intimated that you are witlings. I now state it categorically. You are witlings, gentlemen. Your behavior defines the term to perfection. I would urge you to leave my house.”

  “Now wait a minute—”

  “I will wait for eternity if I must. Having admitted you, I cannot legally order you to leave. In the future you shall not be admitted without a warrant. Since you are inside, you may wait here until hell freezes. Such a course of action would be futile for you, but not inconsistent with your character and mental agility. You will excuse me if I do not offer you refreshment.”

  He rang the bell. Wong came in with his tray. There were two cups of coffee on it. Not four. Just two. Wong gave one to Haig and one to me. He always knows.

  They didn’t wait for hell to freeze. They tried a couple of questions and bright lines, concentrating on me. “I don’t like it,” Seidenwall said. “Whenever there’s drugs in the picture, this punk turns up.”

  Gregorio told me to roll up my sleeves.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I said. “Drugs? Because somebody put strychnine in a fish tank? And what do you mean I turn up when there’s drugs involved? What drugs?”

  “That hippie chick who took an overdose a while back.

  I stared at him, and I started to say something, and Haig said, “Chip. I don’t think it’s incumbent upon you to play a role in this farce. You need not reply to questions.”

  “I think you’re right,” I said. “Do I have to roll up my sleeves?”

  “Yes,” Seidenwall said.

  “No,” Leo Haig said.

  I took Haig’s word for it and sat there sipping coffee. They asked some more questions and got no replies from either of us, so they made some threats and left. I bolted the door after them, and when I got back into the office Haig was already on the phone to Addison Shivers, making arrangements for Tulip’s release from custody. Since Addison Shivers is around a hundred and ten years old, I didn’t figure he would run around from precinct to precinct himself. But he would make sure someone did it and did it right.

  When the phone was cradled again Haig leaned back in his chair. I said, “They’re terrific, those two.”

  “Mmmmm,” he said. “I wonder what they meant about drugs.”

  “Oh, it’s just their way of being playful. The first time I met them they asked me to roll up my sleeves and I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, for Pete’s sake.”

  “I wonder.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Everything means something,” Haig said sleepily. He leaned back and put his feet up and closed his eyes. I didn’t object to the gesture now because he was thinking, and a genius is fully entitled to think in whatever position suits him best. He thought for a long time, and when it was questionable whether he was thinking or sleeping I gave up and got some brine shrimp and wheat germ and Tetramin and went around feeding the downstairs fish. I did the other rooms first, then came back to the office. Haig was still leaning back with his feet up and his eyes closed, but at my approach he opened his eyes and fixed them on me.

  The unadulterated nerve,” he said. “As if we would willingly shield a murderer. Chip.”

  “Sir?”

  “Could she have done it?”

  “Yes, sir. Easily. She made a point of urging me to watch Cherry go into the finale of her act. She could have had a little blowpipe palmed out of sight, and she could have plinked Cherry’s tit while I wasn’t looking, and Bob’s your uncle. There’s not a chance in hell that that’s what happened, but she could have done it. It would have been a cinch.”

  “But then why would she have come here?” He sighed. “No. Impossible. Our client is innocent. Someone else committed the murder.”

  “The same person who dosed the fish with strychnine.”

  “No. I believe I know who killed the fish. And someone else killed Miss Abramowicz.”

  “What? You know who killed the fish?”

  “I believe so. It would be premature to offer conjecture at this point in time. Chip.”

  “Sir?”

  “I never said ‘At this point in time’ before Watergate. It is a cumbersome clich. I don’t like it. Should I use it in the future, please call it to my attention.”

  “Sure thing. All part of my job. Feed the fish, clean out the filter traps, change the glass wool and charcoal, chase the murderers, and correct your English. Who killed the fish and how does it tie in with everything?”

  He shook his head. “Not now. It would be premature. And we have more pressing concerns. You are going to have to see a great many people and learn as much as you possibly can. Your notebook, please.”

  Seven

  HASKELL HENDERSON OWNED SIX health food stores, all of them in Manhattan, all located between 72nd Street and Eighth Street. I called one of them and established that he wasn’t there, but that he was most likely at the store on Lexington and 38th. I called that one, and they said he was there, and I hung up before he could come to the phone and went out and got a cab.

  The store was called Doctor Ecology, and it was a lot larger than the usual watering holes for health nuts. It was the size of a small supermarket, with about half a dozen aisles and shopping carts that you could wheel up and down them while stocking up on gluten bread and soy flour and raw sugar and jerusalem artichokes and tiger’s milk and other gourmet treats. At the back there was a lunch counter for people who probably weren’t all that hungry in the first place. I hadn’t really eaten anything yet that day, and it was close to noon, so I took a stool at the counter and looked at a menu. If only I’d been a rabbit I could have had a hell of a time. I decided that I didn’t want anything they had, so I settled for a cup of coffee. Only it wasn’t coffee. It was a coffee substitute made by grinding up dandelion roots. The idea was that it wouldn’t keep you awake; and it’s always seemed to me that the only thing coffee really has going for it is
that it will keep you awake.

  You probably think you can imagine what that dandelion coffee tasted like. Don’t bet on it.

  I sipped enough of it to know that it was never going to be one of my all-time favorites. I paid for it and left the waiter a large tip because I felt sorry for him. Then I looked around to see if I could pick Haskell Henderson out of the crowd. When that didn’t work I asked a cashier if he was around, and she told me he was in his office and pointed out the door that led to it I knocked on the door and a voice told me to come in.

  I walked into a tiny office. Haskell Henderson was standing behind a desk piled so full of invoices and pamphlets and correspondence that the desk top didn’t show through anywhere. He was talking on the phone, and the conversation seemed to involve just which brand of brown rice was the most yang, which has something important to do with the macrobiotic diet. I was sort of familiar with the macrobiotic diet because there was a time when I lived with some people in the East Village who were very into it. They ate nothing but brown rice. They also did a lot of speed, which I don’t believe is a standard part of the macrobiotic diet, and they talked about all the sensational things they were going to accomplish once they got their heads together. Sure.

  While he talked I looked at him. I didn’t see anything marvelous, but the fact that he was Tulip’s current boyfriend probably prejudiced me against him. He was maybe thirty-five, and he had his hair combed to hide the fact that his hairline was ebbing, and he had a scraggly little goatee to hide the fact that he didn’t have much of a chin. He was wearing white jeans and a tee-shirt with “Doctor Ecology” in white letters on a blue background. All the employees wore tee-shirts like that.

  He finished his conversation, told the person at the other end of the line to stay healthy, and scuttled out from behind the desk. He thrust out his hand, which I shook, and he gave me a smile designed to show me what great shape his teeth were in.

  “Well now,” he said. “Haskell Henderson. What can I do for you?”