A Stone's Throw

by James W. Ziskin

  “Yeah. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Don’t be so quick to judge. The ink on the backside of this page transferred what he wrote to the page beneath it. Like carbon paper.”

  Fadge took his eyes off the road a moment to throw a skeptical glance my way. “I don’t believe it. What’s it say?”

  “The first two letters might be R-O. Then the rest of it is on the page underneath. I can’t decipher with you bouncing all over the road. Pull over a minute, will you?”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to read it when we get back to the store,” he said. “And if I find that little Leon did his business on the floor, I’m gonna dropkick him over the telephone poles across the street.”

  “I’ll never forgive you if you do,” I said and returned to the problem at hand: the handwriting next to the A&P advert, below the double-stamps Wednesday box. I puzzled over the challenge as I might a particularly difficult crossword clue. It was written in a childish hand and was muddled by the newspaper text underneath. I was going to be sick if I continued trying to read in a moving car. Especially one piloted by Fadge, who drove as if you scored points for each pothole and bump you hit.

  “Forget about the dog. Your boy, Zeke, is in charge now. Pull over to the shoulder for a minute, will you?”

  With the car stopped, I concentrated on the scrawl.

  “So?” he asked. “What’s it say?”

  “It looks like . . . ‘ROBINSON S FRIDAY MIDNIGHT.’”

  “Who the hell’s Robinson?”

  “I don’t know. It could be a meeting. Johnny had dinner with Lou Fleischman on Friday night. Do you suppose he met someone else afterward? Someone named Robinson?”

  “Arson,” said Sheriff Pryor over the phone.

  “You’re sure?” I asked with a gulp.

  “As sure as the fire chief. He found three points of origin for the fire inside the barn. That’s pretty much impossible to happen by accident. Someone wanted it to burn and burn fast.”

  “Anything else to indicate arson?” I asked, searching for confirmation as I’d been trained to do.

  “Windows all smashed to let in more air. Every one of them. At least the ones low enough to reach on foot. The higher windows were cracked and smoked. Some were broken but in a different way from the lower windows. It was arson all right.”

  “But if it was arson, that means those two people were murdered.”

  “No doubt about it.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  According to the sheriff, the coroner was surprised to find that the male victim had a small-caliber bullet—.22 or .25—lodged in his skull, right between the eyes.

  “Dead before the fire began,” said Pryor. “The woman, on the other hand, was strangled to death. No smoke in either of their lungs.”

  “Where does that leave us?” I asked.

  “Us?”

  That had been foolish of me. The sheriff surely didn’t consider me part of his investigation. And I doubted he understood the simple rhetorical device I’d employed when asking what would come next. I tried a different tack.

  “Was there evidence of activity elsewhere on the farm?”

  “None. We walked over the eight hundred acres. Pretty forsaken out there.”

  “Have you established the victims’ identities?”

  “Not yet. We’re still checking with local authorities for missing persons.”

  “And Louis Fleischman? Have you spoken to him?” I asked, thinking he might be grateful for the tip. He wasn’t.

  “Who’s that?”

  “He owns Harlequin Stables.”

  “This was Tempesta Farm, miss,” he said with all the condescension he could muster.

  “Yes, I noticed the sign out front. But Harlequin Stables’ livery matches the bit of racing silk tied around the man’s neck.” I waited a few beats, allowing the drama to ripen, and, with it, a healthy dose of my own disdain. “And one of their jockeys has been missing since Friday night. A man by the name of Johnny Dornan.”

  “Anything else for our investigation?” he asked, outdoing his previous personal best for rudeness. Still, I fancied I could hear him scribbling the name into a pad frantically as he spoke.

  I almost didn’t tell him, but in the end I thought he should know. “Do you know anyone named Robinson?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Johnny Dornan’s landlady showed me his room. I saw a note there that suggested a midnight meeting with someone named Robinson S.”

  Pryor wasn’t interested. He told me it sounded like a dead end. “Lots of people named Robinson. Could’ve been anyone.”

  “But don’t you want to check into it?”

  “I think I can take it from here,” he said. “But, uh, tell me. Where was this Johnny Dornan fellow staying?”

  Fadge’s promise to stand me to dinner had evaporated along with his winnings, so I had to make do by myself. For an hors d’oeuvre, I scrounged some gin-soaked olives that I kept in the icebox, washed them down with a glass of whiskey—not a combination made in heaven—then dined on deviled ham straight from the can. I peeled and quartered an apple for dessert. Frank Olney was next on my list. I phoned him as I sat down with paper and pencil and my second drink.

  “What’s the update?” he asked.

  I relayed the details of my conversation with the Saratoga County sheriff, and Frank listened patiently.

  “I spoke to him, too,” he said once I’d finished. “He didn’t share everything with you.”

  “He’s holding out on me? Why?”

  “He’s friendly with the Saratoga paper. Always hunting for votes, and you’re in the wrong county.”

  “Is he up for reelection this year?”

  “Not till sixty-four. But he’s always running.”

  Given his winning personality, Pryor needed the head start.

  “So what didn’t he tell me?”

  “Don’t cite me as your source, or he’ll never tell me anything else.”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “He said they turned up an empty pint bottle not far from the bodies. Near where one of the walls used to be.”

  “What kind of pint bottle?” I asked, suspecting the answer. “Milk?”

  “Brandy. Blackberry. But remember this is off the record.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll say that I saw the bottle myself when I was on the scene.”

  “That’ll work. He also said there was the remains of a campfire. Same area of the building.”

  “A hobo’s hotel.”

  “Looks that way.”

  I remembered having seen other outbuildings at Tempesta, including a dormitory formerly used by grooms, farmhands, and assorted workers. And a large caretaker’s house about four hundred yards from the foaling barn, on the far side of the training track. Why wouldn’t the hobos have set up housekeeping there? Surely it would have been more comfortable than a musty barn. Or was it the killer or killers who’d been camping out there? I asked Frank what he thought.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, at least until someone identifies the bodies.”

  “Have you ever heard of anyone named Robinson? Robinson S. something. Maybe a gambler? Or someone in the horse-racing industry?”

  “I’m sure I know someone named Robinson. Nobody comes to mind off the top of my head, though. Why do you ask? Who’s Robinson?”

  “I had the opportunity to poke around inside Johnny Dornan’s room at the boarding house where he’s staying. He’d scribbled an appointment for midnight Friday on his newspaper. It seems he was meeting someone named Robinson. Robinson S.”

  “Can’t help you on that,” he said. “I trust you informed Sheriff Pryor about the name.”

  “Of course. But he wasn’t interested. Told me he’d run his own investigation without my help.”

  Frank was quiet, surely trying to gauge the veracity of my statement. At least that was how it felt to me. Sometimes he was strictly by the book. Other times, he’d bend a rule—or some criminal�
�s arm till it broke—if that got him what he wanted. I changed the subject and asked if he’d had any reports of missing persons.

  “None in Montgomery County.”

  “What about Lucky Chuck Lenoir? Is he around?”

  “Yeah. In Greenwood Cemetery. I made some inquiries. He died peacefully in his sleep last Christmas.”

  “So he’s not our charred corpse.”

  “Maybe he was a little lucky after all.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 12, 1962

  Lou Fleischman had given me a phone number for Micheline, the treat he’d arranged for Johnny Dornan on Friday night. He didn’t know her last name. It was a Schenectady exchange, and nobody answered when I dialed. Either Micheline was in a church pew early that Sunday morning or she was still out from the night before. I wasn’t ready to commit to a third, more sinister possibility. To wit, her lying on a slab in the morgue, burned beyond recognition except for a patch of red hair and an earring.

  No, I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. There was no proof that the hired girl from Montreal was dead or, for that matter, that Johnny Dornan was the short male found in the ashes. If forced to wager, I’d have put my money on them, of course, but I needed something concrete before I could put it in any story of mine. The next edition of the Republic wouldn’t be out till Monday afternoon, which meant I had about twelve hours to come up with more than a roll of Tri-X film of two volunteer firemen swamping a razed barn with a hose.

  At a little past ten, I joined Fadge across the street for a coffee and a hard roll. Deep in study of the Daily Racing Form again, he ignored me. I read the papers in my usual booth at the rear of the shop. The Soviets had launched two different cosmonauts into space twenty-four hours apart, and they were at that very moment orbiting Earth in something resembling a couple of dented Volkswagens. Putting aside my worries that we would never catch the Russians in the space race, I set about plotting my day. First up I intended to locate Micheline. I rose, made my way over to the phone booth, and dialed the number Fleischman had provided. Still no answer. I got an operator on the line and asked for the address and the subscriber’s name: Burgh, Jas. on Steuben Street in downtown Schenectady. Micheline was from Montreal, so I’d expected a French name. Maybe Burgh was her husband or a boyfriend. More likely, he was her, ahem, business manager.

  I returned to my table to review my notes. Since Sheriff Pryor was dispensing information with an eyedropper, I needed to do some of the legwork for myself. Next on my list was to confirm the identities of the two bodies inside the barn. And while the police in the neighboring localities had received no missing person reports, it seemed obvious that the dead woman—like Johnny Dornan—had failed to return to her room Friday night. That is if she weren’t a local with her own place. Still, I figured a roundup of the motels and hotels in the area might provide a lead on her identity. I had a list of the more reputable boarding houses and hotels from a Saratoga Springs Chamber of Commerce brochure. That would keep me busy for a while. Finally, I had to be home before six to write up my story for Monday’s edition and drop it off with the typesetter downtown at the office.

  “Why are you poring over the Racing Form?” I called across the room to Fadge. “Aren’t you working today?”

  He lifted his head and regarded me as if I’d just walked through the door. “I’m handicapping tomorrow’s races.”

  “You should put the same effort and attention into running your business.”

  He went back to his Racing Form. “This is my business.”

  And I returned to my notes. After a while, Fadge appeared above me with a glass of Coke. He shoved it under my nose.

  “Buy something or get out.”

  “Thanks but no thanks,” I said. “I was just leaving. Got a full plate today.”

  “Maybe we can meet up later and grab a bite to eat?”

  “You still owe me dinner from yesterday. Remember? You promised before your picks went south.”

  He frowned. “That’s right. You were the big winner. Maybe you should pick up the tab.”

  The house on Steuben near Emmett Street was a simple brick apartment building, with six units on three floors. Burgh occupied 3A, according to the mailbox in the entrance. I let myself in and climbed the stairs.

  “Yeah?” asked the man who answered the door. About forty or forty-five, he was dressed in shirtsleeves and a pair of brown slacks held up by suspenders. He wore a fancy watch and a large ring of some kind. His aftershave screamed Aqua Velva, or a reasonable facsimile, and he’d slapped on plenty of it. From beneath two bushy black eyebrows, he glared at me with a suspicion bordering on menace.

  “Mr. Burgh?” I asked, questioning the wisdom of visiting the place without my muscle. He didn’t answer, but I concluded I’d reached my party. “I’m trying to find Micheline.”

  “Who are you?” His voice was reedy and coarse.

  “My name is Ellie.” I didn’t want to say anything more, at least not until I had to.

  “She ain’t here,” he said after considering me for a moment in the dim light of the landing. “In fact, she don’t live here. Who gave you this address anyway?”

  I gulped. “Bell Telephone.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Lou Fleischman gave me your number. I got the address from Information.”

  He chuckled. “I thought you were selling something.”

  “Avon calling.”

  He ignored my crack. “Lou gave you my number? What business does a girl like you got with Micheline?”

  “I understand that Mr. Fleischman engaged her services Friday night for one of his jockeys. A man named Johnny Dornan.”

  “Maybe. What of it?”

  “Johnny Dornan is missing. So I thought I’d try to track down Micheline to see if she knows where he might be.”

  “Friday night? That’s barely thirty-six hours ago,” he said. “Don’t you think he might just be on a bender somewhere? Or maybe him and Micheline hit it off better than expected and are holed up somewheres.”

  “That’s possible, of course. But my urgency is prompted by a fire that killed two people in the early hours of yesterday morning. A man and a woman.”

  “No kidding? Where?”

  “At Tempesta Farm in Saratoga County.”

  Burgh chewed on that for a moment. “Are you a friend of Dornan’s?”

  “Never met him.”

  “No chance it was an accident?”

  “Sheriff says murder. Bullet between the eyes.”

  He drew a fatalistic sigh. “Probably deserved what he got.”

  The man in the doorway—I still had no verbal confirmation of his identity—stared me down, seemingly trying to figure out what my game was. I was sure he didn’t think I was a cop or some kind of investigator.

  “I haven’t talked to Micheline since Friday when we set things up. She’s not one of my regulars. She only works when she needs extra money and likes the guy. Kind of picky in that way.”

  “Does she have a . . . a day job?”

  “How would I know? All I see is a pretty young brunette with a shapely caboose, if you’ll excuse the palindrome.”

  What the actual word he’d been aiming for might have been, I couldn’t say. But I had little interest in dissecting his malapropism. “If you don’t mind, may I ask what you do, Mr. . . . Burgh, is it?”

  “Jimmy Burgh,” he said. “And I’m kind of private about my business. You can always ask around, of course. People know me.”

  “I see. Could you at least tell me Micheline’s last name? Maybe her address?”

  Burgh smiled at me, revealing a gold incisor on the upper-right side. It wasn’t a friendly expression. He came across as nicer when he scowled. “How about you give me your full name and tell me what you do before we go any further? Tit for tat.” He glanced at my chest, and I surely blushed.

  I would have preferred to remain just Ellie, but I didn’t exactly have a choice. I told him.
/>   He nodded. “Which paper do you work for?”

  “The New Holland Republic,” I croaked.

  He seemed relieved. I felt embarrassed and insulted for my paper.

  “Her name is Charbonneau,” he said, and then he spelled it. “Lives in Rensselaer.”

  “A phone number?” I may have been pushing it.

  “You never heard of a phone book?” he asked.

  “Thank you, Mr. Burgh. I’ll look it up myself, shall I?”

  He nodded his approval. I turned to slip back down the stairs.

  “Miss Stone,” he called, and I stopped. “You’re not going to mention my name in your newspaper. You got that?”

  “Who’s Jimmy Burgh?” I asked Frank Olney. I was seated in a phone booth outside a furniture shop on Central Avenue.

  “Who?”

  “Jimmy Burgh. I met him in Schenectady a little while ago. Some kind of small-time hoodlum. He provided the girl for Johnny Dornan on Friday night. A pretty young thing named Micheline Charbonneau.”

  “I can check with Schenectady police,” said Frank. “Did he tell you anything useful?”

  “Besides a threat not to mention him in my article? No.”

  “Ellie, are you taking care not to go sniffing around where you shouldn’t?” He sounded alarmed. “You don’t know who these people are.”

  “I’m a big girl, Sheriff.”

  Frank wasn’t satisfied. “Where are you?”

  “In a phone booth halfway between Schenectady and Albany.”

  He wanted the number so he could call me back after he’d spoken to the Schenectady police. I appreciated the worry but insisted I could take care of myself. As I waited, I found “Charbonneau, M.” in the Albany phone book at an address on Second Avenue in Rensselaer. I wanted to try the number right away but had to cool my heels until Frank called back. A few minutes later, the phone finally rang.

  “How do you get yourself mixed up in these things?” he asked without preamble. “This Jimmy Burgh is a real bad character. Gambling, prostitution, fencing goods, running numbers. A real prince. Steer clear of him, Ellie.”