by Mike Ashley
“How many doormen are there, Henry?”
“Three, sir,” Henry said, “but only one other – Leslie –” he said the name with a wry grin “ – has been on duty since you were here. He worked yesterday afternoon and evening as well as the, uh, evening you arrived.”
“I’d like to find out what he knows, Henry,” O’Farrell said.
“I could ask him when I see him.”
“No,” O’Farrell said, “I’d like to find out as soon as possible. Could you call him? There’d be ten in it for him, and a second ten for you.”
The promise of twenty bucks sent Henry to the phone to call Leslie. He asked the second doorman the same questions O’Farrell had asked him, and hung up shaking his head.
“Leslie says he never saw anyone go up to Miss Taylor’s apartment, and he never saw her leave.”
O’Farrell went over it in his head. So she’d only been out once all day Thursday, didn’t go out at all anymore on Wednesday when he left her, or any time Friday morning until now. Balducci was the only person seen going up.
“Is there a back door, Henry?”
“Yes, sir,” the doorman said. “It’s kept locked. Tenants don’t use it, and don’t have a key. It’s access to an alley where we throw out the trash, sometimes take deliveries.”
“So you have a key, in case of deliveries.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any deliveries since I left here Wednesday morning?”
O’Farrell asked.
“No, sir.”
O’Farrell gave Henry the twenty dollars and then took out another twenty.
“Henry, have you got a key to Miss Taylor’s apartment?”
“Yes, sir,” the doorman said. “Do you think something’s happened to her?”
“Let’s just say I have a bad feeling.”
Henry waved away the second twenty and got the key . . .
“We found her like this,” he told McKeever.
“Well, you’ve got each other to vouch for that,” the detective said. “Is there anything you haven’t told me?”
There was. He’d left out the part about having sex with his client’s girl, and spending the night. He only hoped Henry had left that part out, too.
“No, that’s it.”
“That pretty much jibes with what the doorman told us. Well, you better scram, Val. The Lieutenant’s gonna show up soon and he ain’t gonna like it if—”
“Too late,” the police officer on the door said.
O’Farrell and McKeever both turned in to see Lieutenant Mike Turico enter the room.
“Well, well,” Turico said when he saw O’Farrell. “Guess you musta forgot you ain’t a cop no more, O’Farrell.”
“Hello, Mike.”
Turico approached O’Farrell and felt the texture of wide lapel of the private detective’s blue pinstriped suit . . .
“Turnin’ private musta really paid off for you, Val,” he said. He looked down at the matching Fedora O’Farrell was holding.
“I’m doin’ okay, Mike,” O’Farrell said, “Thanks for askin’.”
“Bet the swells really like you in this outfit.” He touched O’Farrell’s red silk tie, straightening it. Without looking at McKeever he asked, “Who let him in here?”
“He just walked in, boss,” the detective said. “You know how Val is.”
“Yeah,” Turico said, “I do.” He stepped back from O’Farrell, jerked his thumb at the door and said, “Blow.”
“Nice to see you again, too, Mike,” O’Farrell said. The two had not gotten along when they were both police detectives, and it was no different now. Turico had always resented how O’Farrell got the high profile cases, but O’Farrell had a reputation for getting results, and Turico didn’t. Naturally, Turico had risen to the rank of Lieutenant, since rank had more to do with who you knew than getting results.
Turico moved to inspect the body and McKeever followed O’Farrell to the door.
“Sam, sorry to bust in on you like this.”
McKeever waved his apology off.
“Forget it. If the boss is gonna chew me out it’s gonna be over this or somethin’ else. But just between you and me, Val, you got a personal interest in this?”
“My client pays the bills for this place,” O’Farrell said. “I met the girl. I liked her.”
“Ah,” McKeever said, “the sugar daddy. You got an idea where I can find him?”
“You can get his address from the manager of the building,” O’Farrell said. “I don’t have it on me. And he’s got an office downtown somewhere. If the manager can’t help you, let me know.”
“McKeever,” Lieutenant Turico yelled, “get your ass over here.”
“Gotta go, Val. You gonna look into this?”
“I’m not sure, Sam.”
“Well, let me know, huh?” McKeever said. “Turico might be here, but this is my case.”
“I’ll stay in touch.” As he went out past the uniformed policeman he patted his arm and said, “See you, Ed.”
Did he have a personal interest? Goddamn right, he did.
6
O’Farrell was still dressed for the Yacht Club party when he approached Bat Masterson at his desk at The Morning Telegraph. The old lawman turned newspaperman made a show of covering his eyes.
“I’m blind! I’m blind!” he cried, then dropped his hands. “Damned if you ain’t the prettiest man I ever did see, O’Farrell.”
“Cut it, Bat,” O’Farrell said. “You’re not the only one who can get all duded up.”
“‘All duded up’?” Bat asked. “I don’t think I’ve heard anyone say that since Wyatt Earp back in ninety-nine.”
O’Farrell rushed on, afraid that his friend would start telling one of his stories which would end with him taking a replica of his old gun out of his desk drawer. O’Farrell usually enjoyed Bat’s stories, but he had no time for them today.
“Bat,” O’Farrell said, sitting down across from his friend, “what’s the skinny on the beauty pageant out in Atlantic City?”
Bat sat back and smiled broadly. Approaching his late sixties, both his waist and his face had filled out some, but when he smiled like that it took years off him.
“I know I’m one of the judges,” he said.
“How’d you get that job?”
“Hell, they just up and asked me,” the old gunman said. “Who am I to say no to judging a bevy of beauties?”
“Who asked you?”
“Some fella from the – what’s it called – Atlantic City something—”
“ – Businessman’s League?”
“That’s it. Said they needed artists to judge and I qualified ’cause I’m a writer. You believe that? I never been called an artist before.”
“Or a writer.”
“You want me to shoot you?”
“Sorry.”
“What’s your interest?”
“I’ll tell you,” O’Farrell said, “but you’ve got to keep it under your hat for a while.”
“That’s a hard thing to ask a newspaperman to do, Val, but okay. For you I’ll do it.”
O’Farrell fed him the whole story, and Bat listened in complete silence . . .
“What do you want me to do?” Bat asked.
“I wanted to find out what you knew about Balducci, and about the pageant.”
“Like what?”
“Like are they on the up-and-up, both of them?”
“As far as I know the pageant is,” Bat said.
“Does that mean that Balducci isn’t?”
“There’s been talk that Balducci is in bed with a, uh, certain criminal element.”
“Like what?”
“Well, some of the crime reporters have been wondering if he’s in with this new Mafia,” Bat said. “They wonder if he’s not involved with the giggle juice trade and other illegal activities.”
“You sound like you’re being real careful with your language. Why would a rich man like him want to run liq
uor with the mob?”
“Well,” Bat said, “this new breed of – what do they call ’em – gangsters is a lot different from the bad guys of my day. You can’t tell by white hats and black hats anymore, Val. And who knows why rich men do what rich men do?”
“Okay, so Balducci might be in bed with the Mafia,” O’Farrell said, “but the pageant is on the level?”
“As far as I can tell,” Bat said. “I wouldn’t have agreed to be a judge if I thought different.”
“How are you getting out there?”
“They’re sending a car for me.”
“What time?”
“Around five, I think. Do you want to ride with me?” Bat asked.
“Yes, I would,” O’Farrell said. “I think if I walk in with you I’ll be able to get around easier.”
“Fine,” Bat said, “meet me here around quarter to five and we’ll go look at some girls. What will you be doing until then?”
O’Farrell stood up. “Trying to find my client before the police do.”
7
O’Farrell knew more about the Mafia and Johnny Torrio – which were natural offshoots of Paul Kelly and his Five Points Gang – then he wanted to let on to Bat Masterson. Friend or no friend, it wasn’t wise to let a newspaperman know all that you knew. However, he’d met Vincent Balducci and didn’t see him as a gangster. It was more likely he had some connections – crooked and lucrative – to Tammany Hall.
O’Farrell was unable to locate Balducci that morning and into the afternoon. He wondered if the police were having the same problem? At least he knew that the man was supposed to be at the Yacht Club in Jersey that evening.
He decided to make one more stop before meeting Bat Masterson to go to New Jersey. There were still some things he needed to know, and his buddy Sam McKeever would have the answers.
O’Farrell had decided not to change his clothes after leaving Bat Masterson, so when he returned to the offices of The Morning Telegraph he was still dressed for the Yacht Club party.
He met Bat in front of the building as a boxy, yellow Pierce Arrow Roadster pulled up. He and Bat got in and the driver pulled away and headed for New Jersey.
“Find your man?’ Bat asked.
“No.”
“Think he’s in hidin’?”
“I doubt it,” O’Farrell said. “Men with his money – and his connections – rarely go into hiding, even if they are suspected of murder.”
“And is he?”
“He’s on the list,” the detective said, “since he was paying the bills for the girl.”
“And what’s your interest in this, Val, other than him bein’ your client?”
“I met the girl and liked her, Bat,” O’Farrell said. “She shouldn’t have died like that.”
“Like what?” Bat asked. “If you told me how she died I forgot.”
“She was shot, once, in the temple.”
“Any chance of suicide?”
“The word I got from the cops was that she was shot from close range, but there was no gun at the scene.”
“Well, that rules out suicide – unless someone removed the gun.”
“Too complicated,” O’Farrell said. “I’ve found, in my experience, that the simplest answer is usually the right one. Once you start factoring in ‘what ifs’ you just complicate things, and muddy the waters.”
“What about the gangster angle?”
“That muddies the waters,” O’Farrell said, as if it was a perfect example of what he had been talking about. “I’m looking for a clean, simple solution.”
“You’re gonna solve this thing?”
“Bat,” O’Farrell said, “I think I already have.”
When they pulled up in front of the Yacht Club there were many other vehicles arriving, as well as those which had already arrived. More Pierce Arrows, Rolls Royces, even some sporty Stutz Roadsters.
O’Farrell and Bat were dropped right in front of the Club. A tent had been erected nearby to accommodate all the guests for party, and there were plenty of boats in the water to be involved, as well.
In fact, festivities seemed to have already begun, as not only were the contestants delivered to the docks by boat, but a man dressed as King Neptune, as well. Neptune arrived on a barge surrounded by twenty women in costume, and twenty black men dressed as Nubian slaves.
Once King Neptune and his subjects were on the docks the second barge brought the beauty queens in. There were eleven of them, O’Farrell knew, because Georgie Taylor would have been the twelfth. Apparently, her death had gone unreported to pageant officials, who had not had time to replace her, or they’d been surprised when she hadn’t arrived and had gone ahead with eleven.
The contestants were allowed to wear their new risqué bathing suits on the barge, showing lots of skin, but were then whisked away to don something more appropriate for the party.
“Well,” Bat said, when the girls were gone, “it won’t be easy judging the most beautiful out of that lot, tomorrow night. I’d better find the officials and ask them what they want me to do.”
“I’ll see you inside the tent, then,” Val O’Farrell said.
“Better stick with me, Val,” Bat said, “at least until I get you introduced to someone in the know.”
That was wise, O’Farrell knew. On his own he might end up being kicked out before he could find Vincent Balducci.
“Good idea.”
8
The pageant officials pinned a button on Bat’s lapel that identified him as a judge, and agreed to give O’Farrell some sort of a guest button. So armed, both O’Farrell and Bat joined the party in the tent.
There was a stage with a big band on it, playing their hearts out while a male and female singer alternated songs. Guests in various stages of dress were filling a dance floor, or milling about holding champagne glasses or martinis or wine, all of which was being circulated by uniformed waiters. Money had been paid out, whether it was for a license, or just a bribe, but the giggle juice was flowing freely.
The men were wearing expensive suits and, in some cases, tuxedoes. The women flaunted jewelry – rings, bracelets, even tiaras – and the fashions of the day, in some cases their six-inch hems flying even higher while they danced the Charleston, the Shimmy, the Fox Trot or even the Black Bottom. It seemed as if many of the women who were young enough to care thought they had to do something to compete with the bathing beauties. Indeed, O’Farrell realized that some of the women on the dance floor were the contestants, themselves. He could imagine Georgie out there dancing among them, and it made him angry – angrier than he’d been since he first discovered her body.
A male singer started to sing “My Time is Your Time,” and couples moved in closer to dance together.
“See him?” Bat asked.
“Who?”
“Your client?”
“Not yet.”
“I see somebody you know,” Bat said, pointing to Detective Sam McKeever of the New York Police Department, who was fast approaching with another man in a suit and some uniformed New Jersey police in tow. Right on time.
“Val,” McKeever said, “this is Detective Willoughby, of the Atlantic City Police.”
“What did you find out?” O’Farrell asked McKeever, after tossing Willoughby a nod.
“She was killed sometime Thursday night. Both doormen have alibis,” McKeever said. “They were both seen on duty by other tenants.”
“They could have slipped away long enough to kill her,” Bat offered.
“You’re muddying the waters again, Bat,” O’Farrell said. “There are three logical suspects for this crime.”
“And you’ve cleared the doormen?” Bat asked, looking at McKeever.
“Yeah,” McKeever said, then, “Hey, you’re Bat Masterson.”
“At your service,” Bat said.
One of the uniformed police said to the others, “That’s Bat Masterson.”
O’Farrell saw Bat’s chest inflate until another offic
er said, “Who’s he?” and a third said, “Newspaperman, I think.’
“Did you manage to keep this from Lieutenant Turico?” O’Farrell asked.
“Yeah, but he ain’t gonna like it.”
“I wanted you to get the collar,” O’Farrell said.
“Wait a minute,” Bat said. “You said there were three logical suspects—”
“Well,” McKeever said, “four, but I’m clearin’ Val, here.”
“Okay,” Bat said, “so if you’ve cleared Val, and the two doormen, that leaves—”
“There he is,” O’Farrell said cutting Bat off. He started to push through the crowd, causing several people to spill their drinks.
“Follow ’im,” McKeever said to the other cops, and Bat followed them.
O’Farrell was faster than they were, though, and was not being careful about who he bumped. As he got closer Vincent Balducci turned and saw him coming towards him. The millionaire was impeccably turned out in a black tuxedo, and was holding a champagne glass. He was chatting with some people – one of whom was a matronly lady covered in jewels that did nothing to hide the fact that she was not one of the contestants. He frowned when he saw O’Farrell coming towards him, then saw something in the detective’s face he didn’t like. He turned and started pushing through the crowd. O’Farrell increased his speed, leaving McKeever and Bat and the other police to struggle through the crowd behind him.
The band started playing an up tempo number and people started doing the Charleston, again. Balducci was trying to run, now, and as he burst out onto the dance floor a heavyset woman trying to keep up with the music slammed into him with her hip and sent him flying across the floor. He bumped into a man whose arms and legs were flailing about in an obscene caricature of the dance and they both fell to the floor. The man shouted, but Balducci – in excellent physical condition – jumped up and began running again. He got a few steps when a slender but energetic girl in a flapper’s dress banged into him with a sharp-boned hip and knocked him off balance. He managed to stay on his feet and finally made his way across the dance floor to the exit next to the bandstand.
O’Farrell, following in his wake, managed to avoid all the traffic Balducci had encountered and was right behind him.