Many other things occurred to him as he hesitated, but he made no mention of them now, nor did he suggest any possible Communist complications. Instead he said: ‘Maybe they just wanted to be sure it was destroyed.’
For he was thinking beyond the list now, and he knew there were things to be done. He stood up. He said there was no point in worrying about what had happened, that since they both had run out of luck they might as well forget it.
‘Unless,’ he said, ‘you want to tell the police about this.’
She shook her head. She said, with some emphasis, that the less she had to do with the police, the better she liked it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WHEN LARRY PALMER left the Flynn apartment he had no more than a vague idea as to what he should do next. His stomach told him it was time for lunch, and he obeyed the summons by stopping in the nearest place for a bowl of soup and a sandwich. Not until he was eating did he correlate the information he had, and having considered it in various lights, he recognized certain possibilities and decided on a line of inquiry.
His first stop was the office of the clerk of the United States District Court. What he wanted was a matter of public record, and he spent half an hour checking his source of information and making notes. From there he went to the Department of Immigration and Naturalization, where he talked with one of the assistants and made additional notes on certain rules and regulations. He spent another fifteen minutes at the Bureau of Records at City Hall, and by three o’clock he was ready for the next step. This took him to the Bond Hotel, where he asked the desk clerk if Waldo Banton was in. The clerk said he thought so.
‘In his suite?’
‘In his office’, the clerk said. ‘You’ll find it on the mezzanine. You can take the lift or those stairs over there.’
Palmer used the stairs and went past the lounge and writing-room to a hall on the left. The office he presently entered was plainly furnished with a typewriter desk, some filing cabinets, and three or four chairs. A young man in a blue suit sat behind the desk reading a paper. A second man, older but in a similar suit, sat in one of the chairs, a paper-backed book in his lap.
They looked nothing alike, these two—the younger one was lean-muscled and rangy, with a shock of thick black hair, while the other was chunkier and balding—but they had the same kind of eyes—bold, inquisitive, and quickly observant, their inspection of Palmer undisguised even though they neither spoke nor moved until he stopped in the centre of the room.
‘Something we can do for you?’ the chunky one asked.
‘Banton in?’
‘What do you want to see him about?’
‘A personal matter.’
‘Who shall we say?’
‘Larry Palmer, of the Bulletin.’
The man behind the desk stood up and put his newspaper aside. A glance at his companion seemed to confirm some private area of agreement, and as he turned from the desk a bulge at one hip suggested a holstered gun. When he left the room he closed the door behind him, and his companion continued to watch Palmer until the door was reopened. This time it stayed open and Banton appeared behind the rangy one, who now went back to the desk.
‘Come in, Palmer’, Banton said, standing aside for Larry to enter and then closing the door.
This office, about the size of the outer one, was furnished in walnut and leather, all of it in good taste and looking expensive. Except for a humidor and two telephones, the flat-topped desk was bare, and when Banton had seated himself he opened the humidor and selected a cigar, which he rolled between thick fingers as he leaned back and considered his visitor.
‘What’s on your mind?’
Palmer was impressed, not only by the office but by the two men outside who apparently were serving as watchdogs, at least for the time being. He examined the blue-jowled, muscular face and found it as expressionless as ever, and though it occurred to him that here, as with the two waiters who had come to his apartment earlier, he might be overmatching himself, he nevertheless proceeded to have his say.
‘The other night I showed you a picture of Ethel Kovalik. A waiter named Henkel was also in the picture.’
‘I remember.’
‘I’ve done some checking since then. Henkel and his pal Muller gave me some trouble this afternoon. They also got a little rough with Gladys Flynn.’
Banton clipped the end off the cigar with a tiny gold knife. He rolled the cigar between his lips without lighting it or making any reply. Because his attitude had begun to annoy Palmer, he elaborated on Henkel and Muller, giving what background he could, adding his suspicions, and finally bringing his account of what had happened right up to date.
‘Why tell me?’ Banton said when the story was finished.
‘Because you hired them and insisted they stay hired even though they made trouble.’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘Gladys thinks it’s because Leo Flynn had something on you.’
Banton lit the cigar and examined the end to make sure it was burning evenly. ‘What’s the rest of it?’
‘There’s a lot more.’
‘Okay. So I’d like to hear it.’
Palmer thought it over, aware that he had a lot to say but not quite sure how he should go about it. In the end he decided to start with the birth-certificate racket.
‘I know Flynn was blackmailing some of those people in a small way’, he said.
‘You think,’ Banton said, ‘or you know he was?’
‘I know’, Palmer said, recalling what Janet Evans had told him. ‘Some of them came to see John Destler last week and complained. Flynn had kept a list. I’ve seen it. A lot of names are blocked out and I think that’s because these people have moved to other parts of the country. The other names are from around here, and Flynn’s racket was to take a small cut of their earnings. Gladys says he got Henkel and Muller their jobs, and that figures because if they weren’t working he couldn’t collect.’
Banton did not argue. ‘Did Gladys tell you what it is Leo was supposed to have had on me?’
‘You’re going to get married, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘To a Mrs. Hardy. From what I hear, she’s wealthy, from a respectable family—’
‘That’s beside the point. I happen to be in love with her.’
‘You had a record on the West Coast.’
‘A long time ago—yes.’
‘Gladys knows all about that because she was married to you. She told Leo. She has the idea that you were doing favours for Leo because if he told Mrs. Hardy about your record it might break up the marriage.’
‘And what do you think?’
Palmer slid down in the leather chair, elbows on the arms and hands folded across his chest. He regarded the tips of his oxfords a moment, his brown gaze moody but undisturbed. When he looked up at Banton, his eyes were steady and intent.
‘I think Leo had a lot more than that.’
‘Oh?’
‘You were in the army, weren’t you? … In Germany?’
‘That’s right.’
‘When did you leave?’
‘Late ’46.’
‘After that you were naturalized … Leo knew that, didn’t he?’
‘A lot of people know it.’
‘But Leo knew about the record of a man named Bantonowycz out on the coast a long time ago. And Leo was cagey about a lot of things.’ He paused and said: ‘What I think happened is that Leo found out the same thing I found out a little while ago from the clerk of the U.S. District Court.’
Palmer knew he was right because he had watched the muscles harden in the broad face as the dark gaze became narrow and fixed.
‘You became a citizen by fraud’, he said. ‘You lied about your record and so did the witnesses who stood up for you. I don’t know if you could be deported, but all Leo had to do was tip your hand and you’d lose your citizenship … You still can’, he added flatly.
Banton put down his
cigar and pushed a button behind the desk. When the door opened he said: ‘Get Mike.’
The stocky man joined the younger one. Palmer sat where he was, conscious now of a strange uncertainty that was akin to nervousness. He looked over at the two men and they looked back at him.
‘This is Larry Palmer from the Bulletin’, Banton said. ‘Take a good look at him because I might want you to look him up some day.’ He paused five seconds, in which time nothing moved in the room. ‘Okay’, he said and dismissed the pair with a nod.
Palmer sat up. A muscle tightened in the angle of his jaw and his eyes were cold and resentful.
‘All right, Banton’, he said. ‘I’m impressed. They look like two very tough boys, but I doubt if they’re as tough as Henkel and Muller.’
Banton seemed not to hear this. He said: ‘I can’t stop you from writing a story—’
‘It doesn’t have to be a story’, Palmer said. ‘Just a word to the immigration authorities.’
‘I can’t stop that either,’ Banton said, ‘but I can make sure you’re taken care of.’
‘Physically?’
‘Never mind.’
‘I’m interested’, Palmer said with studied irony. ‘I’d like to know what to expect … Lacerations and contusions?’ he said.
Banton’s neck grew red.
‘Or compound fractures? Or maybe a slug in the back? Is that what you had in mind?’
Banton controlled himself with an obvious effort. When he replied, his voice was tight.
‘Don’t grandstand with me, Palmer. Don’t kid yourself.’
‘I’m not’, Palmer said, angered by the threat. ‘You were a hoodlum twelve or fourteen years ago, so why not now?’
The flush spread upward into Banton’s cheeks. He leaned forward and Palmer waited, dark gaze steady. Then the other sat back and let his breath out.
‘You’re wrong there’, he said, suddenly quiet.
‘Because you’ve got two bodyguards to do the rough stuff for you?’
‘There’s a reason for them’, Banton said. ‘In the past few years I’ve done pretty well. I still like to gamble and I usually carry quite a roll. There are a lot of smart lads who’d like to tip me over, and it’s just good sense to have someone around to handle them—just in case.’
He pointed the cigar toward the outer room. ‘Those two are employed as house dicks’, he said and smiled thinly. ‘It’s a legitimate business deduction. Sometimes one or both of them go along with me. They like their jobs. They do as they’re told.’
‘I believe you.’
‘Then let’s get back to cases. What the hell do you want?’
‘For one thing,’ Palmer said, ‘I’m not interested in writing the story of your life.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I’m interested in finding out who killed Ethel Kovalik and, probably, Leo Flynn. I need answers to a lot of things, and I wanted to know why you should keep on fronting for Henkel and Muller.’
‘Well, you know now. You had it figured. I kept them working. It was a small thing Leo wanted. I was pretty sure he was afraid to crowd me, but he knew that Gladys also knew about that record.’ He sighed and spread his hands, his tone more moderate. ‘It’s a hell of a thing to have hanging over you. I knew something had to give sometime. Henkel and Muller were bad ones and I knew they couldn’t keep on working here forever.’
He leaned back again and distance grew in his gaze. ‘I came over here from Königsberg in 1936’, he said. ‘Legitimately. I didn’t know my way around and I got in with a mob on the Coast and I made a lot of mistakes. I also paid for them. I’m clean on the books out there, but after the war I began to get smart. I wanted a clean break. I wanted to be a citizen. I tried the regular way, but two convictions involving—I think they call it moral turpitude—bar you. I did it the only way I knew how. If Gladys hadn’t turned up here, I’d still be all right.’
He gestured emptily and said: ‘I don’t think they’d deport me. They don’t put people behind the iron curtain any more. But you’re right about losing my citizenship. I could stay, but I’d be an alien, with only an alien’s rights, and the two people who swore to the excellence of my character and background would be liable to prosecution. I even looked up the penalty—five grand or five years, or both.’
Palmer considered the statements, and the man himself. Here, he knew, was a motive for murder, in spite of this confession and the convincing way it was given. For the confession had been forced by knowledge of the facts and denial now could serve no purpose. Only murder could prevent him from exposing Banton if he so desired, and he knew that Banton was aware of this. Last night, however, only Leo Flynn was any threat to Banton’s security—Leo and perhaps his wife. As he considered the alternatives, Banton continued.
‘I made a threat a few minutes ago’, he said. ‘It’s probably silly to think that it would scare off a good newspaperman. But I made it, and I meant it. I like what I’ve got and I’ve worked for it. If I have to lose out after all these years, I can take it, but not standing still. When somebody pushes me too hard, I push back. It’s my nature and I can’t change that.’
Palmer accepted the statement and changed the subject.
‘Gladys says you’re the one who tried to get in the apartment last night after Leo was shot’, he said. ‘She says it was your voice.’
Banton peered at him through narrowed lids. ‘That’s not what she told the cops.’
‘She doesn’t like cops. She told me this morning she though it was you, and I saw your car. That much I know.’
Banton examined his cigar, found it was out, and put it aside. ‘I’ll tell you something Palmer’, he said. ‘Between you and me—and I can always deny it—she’s right. Leo wasn’t around last night when we closed up downstairs, and I wanted to see him—why doesn’t matter—so I thought I’d drive by his place. I was maybe two blocks away when I saw this car cut crazy-like out of the side street in front of me.
‘I speeded up a little, but I couldn’t catch it because it pulled into the kerb—almost ran over it—and this guy gets out and lurches into Leo’s apartment house. By the time I got there the lift was already on the way up, so I had to wait. I was pretty sure it was Leo. I thought he was drunk, but I still wanted to see him. I went up and knocked.’
Palmer waited, trying to estimate the time it had taken for Gladys Flynn to run to his place, and for him to reach the mouth of the alley before the grey convertible rounded the corner.
‘You must have knocked for quite a while.’
‘Why not? I knew he was in there. How would I know he’d been shot?’ Then, as though that ended the matter, Banton said: ‘So what about you and me and the Immigration Department? I’d like to know how I stand.’
Aware now that he had gone as far as he could, Palmer stood up. There had never, even in the begining, been any thought of exposing Banton in his mind. It was not a story that could be written, and he had run down his hunch to use it as a threat and nothing more. What he said then was the truth as he saw it at the moment.
‘I’m concerned with murder’, he said. ‘I’m on a special assignment that to me is important as hell.’
‘Okay.’
‘Maybe you’re the one I want and maybe not, but if you killed Leo Flynn the Immigration Department won’t be very important, will it?’
‘No.’
‘If you didn’t kill him—and don’t know who did—then you’ve got nothing to worry about from me. I can’t speak for Gladys Flynn.’
‘That’s good enough for me.’
Banton smiled and stood up. He came round the corner of the desk and from the corner of his eye Palmer saw him start to put out his hand. Pretending he was not aware of the gesture, he moved quickly to the door and left the room.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LARRY PALMER KNEW that to be certain of his facts he would have to find and interview the four names he had copied from the top of Leo Flynn’s refugee list. The very thoug
ht of doing so filled him with a certain repugnance, but when he understood that there was no other way if he was to do a proper job, he accepted the task as part of his assignment and concentrated on procedures.
It was four o’clock when he left the Bond Hotel, and because he thought it unlikely that the people he sought would be home until after working hours, he went to his apartment and spent some time reconstructing and typing that portion of his notes that had been taken by Henkel and Muller. Now, at twenty minutes after five, he parked his car close to the corner of a shabby block not far from Columbus Avenue.
It was a dingy street with an aura of incurable decay, where most of the four- and six-family frame houses stood in some state of disrepair and all of them needed paint. The number he sought proved to be on the ground floor of a six-family house with a common entrance at the top of three steps. There was no centre hall, but doors opened on each side of the entrance, and an enclosed stairway led straight ahead to lose itself in gloom after the first few steps. There was no doorbell or knocker, but a card tacked there told him this was the place he sought. The printed words said: Henry Antoya.
The man who presently opened that door in response to Palmer’s knock was a tall Negro who merely stood there and looked at him in open-eyed surprise. Beyond, Palmer had a glimpse of a cluttered room and the handle of a baby carriage. Somewhere in the rear a child whimpered while a woman sang softly and a thin haze of smoke from the kitchen brought an odour of frying meat.
‘Mr. Antoya?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m from the Bulletin. I’d like to talk to you a minute.’
‘We subscribe to the Bulletin’, the man replied in a soft, deep voice. ‘Get it every morning.’
‘I’m a reporter’, Palmer said, and then, because he could see no point in prolonging the interview, he put down his feeling of revulsion and approached the subject directly. ‘I’m checking on some birth certificates that were improperly made out’, he said. ‘I think you have one.’
Antoya shook his head. ‘Must be some mistake. I’ve been livin’ here two, three years.’
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