The block-long wedding cake that housed Police Headquarters was right across the street, and Blondie, er, Detective Brenner, strode toward it as if he were on a mission. Cabby sighed—get a load of those shoulders! McKenna stayed put in front of Louie’s. Just for a moment, he crossed his hands in back under his overcoat, giving him the appearance of an old-fashioned lady wearing a bustle. He looked right, then left, rocked back on his heels and looked up, his eyes locked on an enormous shiny pistol advertising one of the neighborhood’s many gunsmiths. It struck Cabby that the man didn’t have anywhere in particular to go.
The thought made her feel sad—but just for a second. Then she darted out from her hiding place: it was now or never. “Lieutenant, could you spare a minute?”
McKenna dropped his hands and sighed. “Aw, not you, girlie. Not you—not on top of Louie’s Hungarian pork chops.”
She ignored the unwelcoming frown. “I’m asking for one minute of your time—just one. There’s something urgent you oughta know—it concerns the Shelton case.”
He huffed out a huge beer-fumed breath. “About Fairchild? Yeah. Yeah. I already know.”
Cabby stepped back, jostling the flow of pedestrians heading over to Chink-town for some cheap chop-suey, or to the uptown bus and home. “You can’t possibly know!”
McKenna chuckled. “Your friend, the nurse, got to me first.”
Why, that…“Well,” she continued, “don’t you think Fairchild deserves a look-see? Could be he’s gone vigilante—killing anyone associated with the Japanese.”
The left side of McKenna’s mouth crooked up. He dodged a delivery man with a basket of fish on his shoulder and looked at her with skewed eyes. “So you attended an isolationist meeting?”
“On assignment, yes. America First has shut its doors.” She let a note of pride color her tone. “Read about it in tomorrow’s Times.”
McKenna didn’t respond right away. His eyes, smudged with dark circles, seemed to view something gloomier than the cheery light spilling through Louie’s window. “Hmm,” he finally said.
Cabby felt a sinking sense of disappointment. “You’re not one of those guys ready to swallow Fairchild’s anti-Jap paranoia, are you?”
He gave his head a solemn shake. “Pearl Harbor sent a lot of folks scrambling onto that bandwagon—no surprise. But, no, it’s not that. There’s good and bad in every race—no one knows that better than a guy who’s been on the force twenty-odd years.” He paused to shake a cigarette from his pack, then tipped it toward Cabby. “Miss…Drew?”
“No.” Her shoulders relaxed. At least he was mellowing a bit, getting back to the banter he’d briefly thrown her way at the art gallery.
“Don’t smoke?”
“Tried. Never could inhale.”
“Good for you.” He lit the cigarette and exhaled into the wintry air. “They’ll kill me one of these days.”
The crowd of workers from the surrounding shops and office buildings had thinned, nonetheless Cabby sensed that McKenna felt confined, hemmed in. “Let’s walk,” she proposed.
Nodding, he took her arm. And after a few steps, he took up where she’d left off. “Your roommate said you had a flier for that America First dinner Fairchild was supposed to speak at. The one he didn’t show up for.”
“Yes.”
“Got it on ya?”
She opened her purse and produced the folded paper. She didn’t hand it right over, though—no siree. “You telling me you’ll look into Nigel Fairchild?”
McKenna’s eyes crinkled in that smile that wasn’t quite a smile. “What makes you think I haven’t already been doing just that, Miss Ward? Maybe I also have cause to be interested in the blonde who seems to keep popping up. Mrs. De Forest attended that meeting last night, didn’t she?”
“She sure did.” Wow, I’m finally getting somewhere, Cabby thought as they passed a salumeria with clusters of salami and bologna hanging in the window. “Look, Lieutenant, can you confirm all that for me—on the record?”
But before McKenna could respond, a black-and-white squad car pulled up to the curb. “Hey, Lute!” Dolan leaned out the passenger window. “We got it all set up for tonight.”
The driver of a panel truck behind the black-and-white blocking the lane laid on his horn, starting a chain reaction of honking vehicles. Cabby could barely hear McKenna’s response over the hubbub, but her eyes began to sparkle. As McKenna waved the squadie back into traffic, she burst out, “Tonight? What’s going on tonight?”
He took off his hat and ran a hand over his thinning hair. “I’ll make ya a deal, okay? Hand that paper over and, tomorrow morning, you’ll get an exclusive on whatever goes down tonight.” He replaced his hat and glanced around. Though the trio of passing secretaries in cheap, pretty hats appeared oblivious, he lowered his voice still further. Cabby, still not committing herself, tilted her head to hear every word.
“Ever since we got the word on that dust-up the night of the Fumi gala, we’ve had Fairchild in our sights. So far, he’s one cool customer—every time I run him down, he finds urgent business somewhere else. But, now, if I have him cornered and can throw this in his face—” McKenna grasped the paper and gave a tug.
“Uh, uh.” Cabby held on tight. “Only if I can go with you.”
“Not on your life, girlie.” McKenna dropped his hold to shake a finger in her face. “You’re going nowhere but straight home.”
Cabby flared, cheeks suddenly hot in the cold breeze. “I’m a reporter. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Maybe not.” McKenna’s shoulders broadened; he seemed to grow two inches. “But if you set one foot in the Stork Club tonight, I can have you arrested for interference. Last thing I need is an eager beaver like you in my way.”
The Stork! Of course, that’s where all those Fifth Avenue types hung out. Cabby felt fizzy and excited, as if her veins were pumping with Nehi soda. “Is there going to be a raid?”
“A raid? At that swanky joint? Just try it!” McKenna shook his head. “No. We’re having a little talk with the gentleman is all.”
He reached for the paper again. This time Cabby let go. What was it they said about losing the battle to win the war? She would plan a flank attack.
“Well…” She crossed her arms, ducked her head, and said meekly, “I guess you need to go on, then. I’ll just stop by headquarters tomorrow morning.”
At her sudden docility, McKenna narrowed his eyes. “Where do you live, Miss Ward?”
“Brooklyn. Near Prospect Park.”
“You take the BMT?”
“That’s right.”
“The station’s right over there.” He took her arm again and began weaving between the oncoming pedestrians. “I’ll walk ya.”
“There’s really no need.” She tried not to speak too sharply.
“Yeah. There is. I won’t rest easy until I see the doors close behind you on that train heading straight out of town.”
Chapter Sixty
“You’re with me, Pats.” McKenna kept his eyes on the manila folder he’d been reviewing by the dim glow of the unmarked car’s ceiling light.
A grainy copy of a full-length Life magazine photo stared up at him: Helen “Tiffy” De Forest at some bash that required a slinky gown. Tall. Blonde. This could be the lady who’d hired Herman Rupp to picket the Shelton Gallery.
Under Nigel Fairchild’s direction?
They were driving up Fifth Avenue now, just passing the brightly lit Christmas windows of B. Altman’s. “Brenner, you’ll stay out front. Keep the motor running in case someone decides to take a powder.”
Patsy Dolan had been shifting back and forth on the slick backseat, fidgeting. “How’s this gonna play out, Lute?”
“Do I look like I got a crystal ball? It’s gonna play out by ear, of course.” Mc
Kenna turned the photo over and rifled through the rest of the folder’s contents one last time. Newspaper clippings and typed notes described Tiffy’s student days at Miss Porter’s, debut at the Ritz-Carlton, and a short stint at Vogue as an editorial assistant. That was before marriage to Gregory De Forest, investment broker at Daddy’s firm and well-known drunken sot.
Dolan shrugged shoulders that were already up around his ears. “Naw, it’s just…well…the Stork ain’t our beat. And on the phone, Hannigan from the local precinct was razzing me. Braggin’ about the favors he’s gonna call in for this one. How’d you get us in there, anyhow?”
The big sedan turned the corner and slid to the curb in front of the famous nightspot. Though Dolan didn’t push the question, and Brenner kept his eyes on the approaching doorman, their curiosity hung in the air like a rancid fart. Okay. McKenna slapped the folder shut. He’d clue them in. Since the favors to Hannigan would surely involve them, his boys deserved to know.
“We’re just lucky the owner has union troubles. Sherman Billingsley has been fighting to keep the organizers out of his kitchen for years. It’s not a pretty scene. He has three daughters who’ve been targeted by the union’s goon squad. Hannigan and his boys keep a good watch on ’em”
Dolan cleared his throat. “I get it, boss. Billingsley’s appreciative, so Hannigan touched him for a favor…”
“And now I get to kiss Hannigan’s butt. It’s the way of the world.” McKenna levered the door open just as the doorman reached the car. Though it was obviously killing him to cater to cops, the short Italian in the gold-trimmed livery escorted McKenna and Dolan the length of the green canopy. He couldn’t resist a subtle sneer as he passed them in to the Greek maitre d’, who lifted the Stork Club’s golden chain with a rakish twinkle in his eye.
At least this guy’s having a ball, McKenna thought, then wondered why. Maybe Fairchild stiffs on tips.
“Your party is already seated, gentlemen. Right this way.” He grinned.
“The camera girl know the drill?” McKenna asked in a whispery growl.
“Like the back of her lily-white hand,” the square-jawed maitre d’ also whispered, then asked in a louder tone, “Will you check your coats?”
McKenna shook his head; they had to be ready for anything. He and Dolan followed the Greek past the barroom entrance and through a thick glass door into the main dining area. Mirrored panels reflected soft light that played over the closely spaced tables. On the crowded dance floor, women in ankle-length gowns and men in evening dress or service uniforms dipped and swayed to a rumba beat. The actual melody could barely be heard over laughter, conversation, and the tinkling sound of cash registers at the bar. Several famous faces stood out as the two cops dodged waiters to wend their way toward the far end of the room. Was that Orson Welles smoking the long cigar? And that woman in black sequins—Claudette Colbert?
McKenna swiveled his head to see if Dolan was suitably impressed, but his sergeant was staring past him, eyes bulging like a toad’s. McKenna followed his gaze. Mother of god! It was Rita Hayworth—just ahead, holding court at a big round table with boys from the Army, Navy, Coast Guard and Marines. Her red curls cascaded over white shoulders bared by a gown cut low in both back and front. As they went past, she threw her head back in a raucous laugh, and McKenna got an eyeful. Whew!
As they reached the Fairchild table in a shadowy corner, a crooner launched into an old tune and the room quieted. Cigarette smoke swirled in the spotlight. McKenna paused, ambushed by a sudden memory. Bing Crosby’s “June in January” had been one of Gayle’s favorites. They’d danced to it many a time—but never again. Never again. Damn he missed—
The maitre d’ bumped McKenna’s shoulder, breaking the moment. Nightclub noise engulfed him once more. And angry words. Nigel Fairchild had jumped to his feet and was berating the retreating Greek in tones of stalwart indignation. “How dare you? Come back and remove these…persons. They are not my guests.”
Uh-uh, McKenna thought as he removed his hat, so Pats and I are “persons.” Fairchild doesn’t want to announce that we’re cops. Behind all that bluster, he must be scared shitless.
Mrs. Fairchild, a deep-bosomed matron whose doughy cheeks were pinked with rouge, appeared puzzled by the newcomers. Her lips couldn’t decide on a haughty smile or a censuring frown. Beside her a fair man with narrow shoulders and a premature paunch sagging over his cummerbund also rose to his feet. His expression mirrored Fairchild’s, but he swayed ever so slightly. McKenna had him pegged immediately—Gregory De Forest, under the influence of one too many of the martinis whose empty glasses were strewn across the table top.
And Tiffy herself? Where McKenna expected to see wariness or bewilderment was only an unfocused stare, tiny pupils surrounded by cornflower blue. Ohhh, boy!
McKenna turned to Gregory De Forest. “I’m glad to see you’re on your feet, Mr. D. Mrs. Fairchild looks like she could use a spin around the dance floor.”
The broker bridled, in the manner of a man more accustomed to giving orders than taking them. But at Fairchild’s stern nod, he escorted the lady away, meek as a lamb. McKenna pulled out a vacant chair for Dolan, then one for himself. Fairchild smiled a shade too brightly as he, too, sank into a seat.
So far, so good, McKenna thought. Their corner was attracting curious glances, and the Stork’s camera girl hovered a few yards away. A froth of petticoats flashed under a tap-dancer’s skirt that barely covered silky thighs. She sent McKenna a wink.
Fairchild caught it, too. “Okay, Officer, you’ve made your point. I’ll be glad to stop by headquarters tomorrow. We can discuss whatever you like then.”
“Too late then, Fairchild.” McKenna shook his head. “You and your girlfriend will answer questions right now—or Toots over there will get some nice shots of you being grilled by homicide. I’m sure Winchell would love them for his column.”
Fairchild ground his teeth, nostrils splayed. “I don’t know how you got to Sherm, Lieutenant. But goddamn—he’s going to pay hell for this.”
His infuriated tone finally pierced Tiffy’s haze. A fall of golden hair rippled as she shook her head and touched Fairchild’s sleeve. Her words were slightly slurred. “Whas going on, Nigel? Where’d Marge and Gregory go?”
The older man clasped a hand over hers. “It’s nothing, darling. Don’t worry your pretty little head. We’re just going to chat with these nice policemen for a minute.”
Some light came into the woman’s eyes then, letting McKenna know his presence struck a nerve. He shook his head. How had a classy dame come to this—sleeping with this political blowhard under both their spouses’ noses, doping to the point she hardly knew where she was? What made a gal like this tick?
Checking that Dolan had his notebook at the ready, he asked, “Mrs. De Forest, do you know a man by the name of Herman Rupp?”
“I don’t believe so.” She spoke softly, but carefully, puzzled gaze peeking out from under her swooping hair. “Why?”
“A woman of your description hired him to picket the Masako Fumi show at the Shelton Gallery.”
She frowned, and Nigel Fairchild drew his eyebrows up. “Picket? Like union strikers?”
“Yeah. Signs and chants—‘No Go Jap Show.’” McKenna looked back and forth between the two. “Sound familiar?”
Fairchild shook his head and looked puzzled.
“How very amusing.” Tiffy’s tone displayed marginally more energy.
“You saying you didn’t arrange the demonstration?” McKenna made it sound just a little skeptical.
She looked bemused. “I actually wish I’d thought of it.”
“You didn’t hire him?” He reached for Dolan’s notebook, turned back a few pages, pretended to read, scowled, and handed the notebook back to his partner.
“No, I didn’t,” the socialite said, staring at the girl
singer who had just taken the microphone, “but I have to hand it to whoever did. That jerk Shelton deserved to be picketed.” She pushed a strand of hair off her cheek and sat up straighter. “He had some gall—mounting a Jap show at the very moment those Nips were plotting to blow our ships out of the water. Little monkey bastards.” Her face contorted—vapidly pretty to frankly ugly in one second flat.
“Did he also deserve to be murdered?” McKenna shot back.
Dolan’s pencil hovered in mid air. The girl at the microphone was singing “Take the A Train.” Her sultry voice cut through the cigarette haze and drunken babble. McKenna briefly thrilled at the sound. He wished he could really listen.
Before Tiffy could speak, Fairchild tightened his hold on her fingers. He answered, “Of course not, Lieutenant. It wouldn’t be civilized to kill people because they don’t agree with you. But we do have the right to express our opinions.”
Tiffy nodded, clutching a gold-beaded evening bag with her free hand. “Why are you bothering us, anyway? All the papers say the Jap killed Shelton because he was taking her paintings down.” Her bright-red lips were set in a prim pout. “She ought to be behind bars.”
Fairchild locked eyes with McKenna for a moment, then smiled like the cat at the cream. “But you can’t lock her up, can you? The federal government beat you to her. She’s on Ellis Island with the other Nips—beyond your jurisdiction.”
Jeez, McKenna thought, pressing his lips together. How did this asshole know anything about jurisdiction?
Fairchild continued, “You just want to find someone you can pin the murder on. Well, scratch us off your list. America First may be a thing of the past, but I have highly placed friends who won’t take kindly to Tiffy and me being harassed over nothing.”
McKenna leaned across the white tablecloth. “Over nothing?” His voice dipped a threatening octave. “Mr. Fairchild, I have a ton of witnesses to your little stunt at the opening of the Fumi show—Mrs. De Forest threatening Shelton and tossing wine all over one of his priciest canvasses.”
Face of the Enemy Page 24