My Business is Murder

by Kane, Henry

  “And …?”

  “He did that, and he left. I remember that last moment so distinctly. He went to Fred and patted Fred’s face and said, ‘Wish me luck.’ Then, gravely, he shook hands with me … and I never saw Henry Moore again in my life.”

  “What?”

  “The next we knew is what we read in the papers.”

  I dragged my eyes away from her. I sipped my iced tea which was now warm. I lit a cigarette. I said, “Whom did he go to for that loan? What was the man’s name?”

  “Edward Adams.”

  I shoved out of my chair and went to her. I said as kindly as I could: “You knew that that was the man’s house which, allegedly, he had attempted to rob and where, allegedly, he had committed a murder. Edward Adams. You must have known that from the newspapers. That’s a fact, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “How do you know I didn’t?”

  “Because I’ve seen the police files. There’s absolutely no mention of you or your husband.”

  She turned, patted Fred’s face with the handkerchief, then put a corner beneath her glasses and wiped her eye. “You want to know why I didn’t go to the police. Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “There were two reasons, one personal, one practical. I talked it over with Fred and Fred agreed with me.” She turned toward him, smiled, turned back to me, unsmiling. “Oh, Fred and I can talk. He can blink his eyes—one for yes, and two for no. We talk all the time.”

  “What were the reasons, Mrs. Davis?”

  “The first, as I said, was personal. If I went to the police, our whole story would come out. Henry Moore was our friend for eighteen years. We ended any possible gossip when we decided to tell people he was my brother. Now it would all come out. That he was not my brother at all. How would it look? What would people think? What would they say? And he was dead, dead … we couldn’t bring him back. And his son was dead. What purpose would be served? We couldn’t help him. All we could do … would be further harm.”

  “How so, Mrs. Davis?”

  “If we could have helped, of course I would have gone to the police, despite myself and Fred and any scandal. But how could we help? All we could do was add fuel to the fire. We could give them motive, that we could do and nothing else. Between us we know that in his desperation, he had just gone crazy. We felt that once the loan had been turned down, he had decided to … to …”

  Casey said, “Of course, of course, Auntie.”

  “We felt he had just gone crazy, that he had decided to get that money one way or another … and then when the woman had appeared, the man’s wife, Henry in his panic …”

  Casey came to me and said, “Thanks, fella.”

  “For what?”

  “For tracking it down, and getting it over with. At least now I can understand it. At least now it’s not … not impossible. Okay. Finished. You’ll get a bill to me and you’ll be paid for your work.”

  I looked for an ashtray, and flattened my cigarette. I said, “I’m not so sure.”

  “Not so sure … of what?”

  “That’s it’s finished.”

  “But why?”

  “That’s what I’d like to ask … why? According to Captain Weaver and all the statements in the police file, Henry Moore was a stranger to every one of the parties involved, from the murdered woman to the witness, Matthew Bennett, to the husband Edward Adams. Eddie Adams denied knowing Henry Moore, said he was a complete stranger. Why?”

  Hope flickered in his old eyes. “Yes. Why?”

  “If Eddie Adams had told the police the story Mrs. Davis just old us—or that part of the story with which he was involved—it would have been perfect. A man comes for a loan, he’s turned down, he’s desperate, he decides to steal. That linked with what Mrs. Davis just told us, and I would have agreed with you—it would be finished. But not one word of any of this turns up in the police files, plus Eddie Adams flatly denies any knowledge of Henry Moore, and that’s also in the police files …”

  “What do we do, Pete?”

  “We keep punching, that’s what we do. What’ve we got to lose? Mrs. Davis.”

  “Yes?”

  “You said that he’d taken a shower and changed his clothes.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Which means that one set of clothing remained. Do you have these clothes?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve disposed of them?”

  “No. I mean I don’t have them here. My sister, when she learned of my eye trouble, insisted that we move down here. When we decided to do that, I packed the things we didn’t need into a little trunk and left it up there.”

  “In the Bronx?”

  “Yes. In the basement storage room of the house in which we had our apartment. The superintendent took care of it. If ever we thought we wanted it, we would send for it.”

  “What was your address in the Bronx?”

  “12 Horner Avenue.”

  “And the super’s name?”

  “Mr. Gilbert.”

  “And is there a key to the trunk?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I have it?”

  She looked toward Casey and Casey nodded. She said, “Just a moment,” left the room, returned with the key, and gave it to me.

  “Thank you. And now I think it’s time I ran along.”

  “Please. Won’t you stay and have a bite with us?”

  “No, thank you. I’m sure Casey’d like that, though.”

  Casey grinned. “You kiddin’? I’m already committed. Why don’t you stick around too?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll see you back at the hotel later. Goodbye Mr. Davis, Mrs. Davis, my respects to your sister. And Case, I’ll take care of the reservations so that we fly back this evening.”

  But weather set in. Paradise blew up. Rain came down like the seas had turned over and the planes were grounded. We were holed up at the Empress overnight, no reduction in prices, and we got off the ground bright and early next morning, sun shining bravely and natives walking around with faces that said that any unfortunate mention of rain was distinctly a fraud. We landed at La Guardia at one o’clock and at two o’clock I was back in the cubicle of the tailor shop waiting for my one suit to be pressed and freshened.

  At the Montero, I watched Casey’s reflection in the mirror as he shaved and I voiced admiration of his dexterity. Lips ringed with lather, he said: “When do we go to the Bronx?”

  “Let you know in a minute.”

  I used the phone for Jane Rawlings. Jane was home and I told her I was home. “Good,” she said. “Cocktails?”

  “But what else? Where?”

  “The Drake. And the sooner the better.”

  “I’m ready now, Janie m’love. Half hour?”

  “You talked me into it.”

  I hung up and I embraced Casey, then I looked at my watch. “About four-thirty all right for the Bronx?”

  “Sure. Where you heading for now?”

  “Cocktails. With a lady.”

  “Same lady you interviewed the other night?”

  “Yep.” I kissed him on the forehead. “I’m in love.”

  “Real quick.”

  “That’s me. Quick. Both ways. Fall in, fall out.” I rubbed a hand through his hair. “Keep loose, kid. I’ll pick you up later.”

  The lounge of the Drake was lovely with wallpaper and romantic with music piped by wire. My lady was wrapped within a charcoal-grey man-tailored suit with a high-necked pink blouse, but man-tailoring or no, my lady was all woman, and every man in the near-enough vicinity was acutely conscious of that. Her hair was combed in a tousled upsweep, and she said, almost breathlessly, as soon as I’d sat down beside her: “How’s with the tuxedo?”

  “No.” I groaned. “We don’t start that again.”

  She turned down the corners of her mouth. “It’ll keep. Talk. Today I’m completely cooperative.”

&
nbsp; I hesitated a moment. “About your father … I’m sorry about the other night …”

  “Just a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  Her black eyes turned on me, and dropped. “We all try so hard to be modern, and zippy, and new-fashioned, but sometimes … we just don’t make it.”

  “Sure.”

  The eyes came up again. “My father died as all people must. He lived a full, long life. Miss him? I miss him like all hell. But I don’t believe in public displays of grief. And I don’t believe in widow’s weeds and protracted weepings. I was taught to live life and live it quick and live it full. So I think I acted up a little bit the other night, and I’m sorry. I’ve said my piece and I hope it makes a mite of sense to you. Now what do you want to know about my Dad?”

  “You know I’m a private detective.”

  She smiled. “Sounds absolutely detestable.”

  “I’m working on a thing that involves a former partner of your father’s. Eddie Adams. Know him?”

  “I’ve met him. Several times.”

  “May I ask some questions? Part of business?”

  “Ask away, detective.”

  “Were you acquainted at all with your father’s business affairs?”

  “More than ‘acquainted at all.’ My dad was a great guy. And I was an only child and my mother’s been dead for many years. He always talked to me, sounded me out on things.”

  “Know anything about the Stardust Room?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’d your father and Adams get together on that deal?”

  The waiter came and I ordered Scotch and water and Jane wanted green créme de menthe on shaved ice. The waiter made his notations on his pad and went away. Jane said, “My father had been in the restaurant business all his life, owned chains in almost every big city in the country. As he grew older, the active management got to be a little too much for him and he believed in active, personal management.”

  “So?”

  “Bit by bit, he disposed of his holdings and after a while he was virtually retired—but it didn’t take.”

  “Rarely does, unless you’re sick or senile.”

  “He wasn’t senile, but there was a complication. His heart was kicking up. Yet, he was sort of casting about for a one-shot deal that would interest him, keep him occupied, but wouldn’t overload him. That’s when Mr. Adams got to him.”

  “About the Stardust?”

  “It was in its vague talking stage at the time. Adams conceived the idea of a night club on a grand scale over in Jersey. What with Dad’s experience in the restaurant business and Adams’ in the night club business, they were a natural combination. The Diamond Circle was on its last legs at the time. My father investigated the Jersey proposition.”

  “Were they supposed to go in as partners?”

  “No. Adams wanted Dad to make the full investment.”

  “So?”

  “Experts delivered their estimates, there was a lot of chatter but it boiled down to a half million bucks. Dad could afford it but he didn’t want to bear the brunt of exclusive ownership with Adams having a goodly chunk as active manager and idea man. Dad made him a counter proposition—that they go in as full partners. each investing half the money, and each putting in full time as active managers.”

  “Was that during the time Adams was winding up the Diamond Circle?”

  “Exactly that time. He was worth, oh perhaps a hundred thousand dollars in cash which wasn’t enough, but he was digging up the rest—he needed a quarter of a million to go in as full partner. Then he got into his own personal troubles, what with the death of his wife up there, but they finally straightened out their deal as full partners and the Stardust Room was born.”

  “But after a while your father backed out, didn’t he?”

  “He didn’t back out. He was bought out. The gambling thing began, and Dad wouldn’t take any of that. As soon as the conferences were set up with the hoodlums and the pseudo-politicos—Dad insisted on out, and, as a matter of fact, Adams was glad to get rid of him. Once the gambling entered into it, the thing was virtually a gold mine, so what did he need Dad for? Adams paid him off, honestly, to the penny and in quick time. Anything else, Mr. Detective?”

  “Nope. That’s about it.”

  “Have I helped?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She looked at me curiously. “You people always work like that?”

  “We’ve got all kinds of systems.”

  “Well, now, about that tuxedo …”

  The waiter brought our drinks. I sipped Scotch but Jane Rawlings grinned over the green glass. “About that tuxedo …”

  “What’s the production this time?”

  “Real fancy ball tonight. Charity affair at the Waldorf. Tickets all paid for. The nicest people. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “But I’ve got work to do, Sweetie.”

  “I hate people who call me Sweetie.”

  “So do I. But … I’ve got work this evening.”

  “Work. Work your head off. We don’t start till late. I don’t want you to call for me before midnight. Things don’t begin to come to life before then.”

  “You’re for me.”

  “And then there’s going to be a party at Ichabod Rally’s place. You know Rally?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you know his parties. All right, Peter?” She looked at her watch. “Got to go now. I’ve an appointment at the dressmaker’s. Let’s have dinner together and talk more. Dinner, early. Six or seven. Can you make it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll try. I’ll call you.”

  “And try and do something about a tuxedo.” She slanted a glance at me, up-long. “You allowed to go home yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  I signalled the waiter for my check, fumbled in my wallet, and just about made it. Now I grabbed a glance at my watch and I pushed back my chair. Jane said, “What’s your hurry?”

  “Got to make the bank.”

  “Well, wait for me.”

  “Come on.”

  Outside, she clung to my arm, turned me toward her and widened her black eyes. “Try and make it for dinner.”

  “You be at your phone.”

  I broke for a cab and she wailed after me, prompting a large and knowing wink from the cab driver:

  “And do something about the tuxedo.”

  The cab waited, while I made the bank at the usual split second before the doors ground closed. I cashed a check, bemoaned the fact as to how money flies, came out into the street, got locked into my cab again and was driven uptown to my car. I gassed up and oiled up and watered up and aired up, and then I pulled up in front of the Montero and went in and used the house phone for Casey. I was early but he was ready and minutes later we were wheeling up the West Side Highway en route to the Bronx. We swung off at 181st, went East along Featherbed Lane, across to Tremont, and on toward Horner Avenue. I made a sharp left turn and Casey’s body leaned against me. I said, “What’s the lump?”

  “Lump?” All innocence.

  I tapped him. There was steel inside his jacket pocket.

  “No lump?” I said.

  “Oh that? It’s the Luger.”

  “What for? We’re going up to look at a trunk. What do you expect to find in it?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going melodramatic on me.”

  “Happens. When you buddy up with a detective.”

  Horner Avenue was in a crowded section of the Bronx, contiguous tenements alive with activity, garbage cans lining the edges of the sidewalks, cars double-parked, stoops a forum for housewives, streets teeming with kids, and open windows filled with mamas half-hanging out with their crossed arms as cushions.

  I parked the car and we walked to 12 Horner Avenue. An alley running along the side of the house bore a rusted metal sign stating
: SUPER. The alley opened to a narrow court with two doors. One door had small stencilled printing: SUPERINTENDENT. The other door had a handprinted-amateur sign tacked to it: BASEMENT. KEEP OUT. The superintendent’s door had a push button and I pushed it. We could hear a bell ringing inside and the answering wild barking of a dog but nobody opened the door. I tried the basement door and it gave on the turn of the knob.

  “Let’s look,” I said.

  The place was littered with baby carriages, bicycles, broken washing machines, old stoves, rotting cabinets and ancient refrigerators. Whatever was moveable was chained down. But there were no trunks. There was another door in the rear, half open, with a stairway leading down. I said, “I’ll take a gander down there. You’d better hang around outside.”

  “Why?”

  “In case the super shows. I don’t want him to think he’s had an attack of marauders. You explain it. Do you know him?”

  “Never saw him in my life but you’re the boss.” He went out and I could hear his heels resounding along the stone of the alley.

  I pushed open the door of the subcellar. The stairway had a steep angle and it ended in complete blackness. There was no bannister. I went down carefully, feeling my way, holding one hand against the damp roughness of the side wall. When I reached bottom I couldn’t see in front of me. It was cool, almost cold, and a thin veil of cobweb brushed against my face. I turned my head and looked up the stairway. The upper door had swung back to its half open position, a silver of dim light palely illuminating the top portion of the stairway. I turned back to blackness. I ran my hand along the inner wall for a light switch and finally I found it and clicked it. High up, a naked yellow bulb was a candle in the distance.

  It was an enormous subcellar, jagged blocks of stone making up the ceiling and the walls. It was damp, damp-odorous, cobwebby and silent, no sound from the street filtering through. The single bulb, strung on a wire and hanging from the middle, threw an eerie lemon light amongst the shadows. Most of the sub-cellar was empty, meters and fuse boxes along the walls. The uneven stone floor was wet and a large red-brown water beetle, antennae glinting, scurried from the light into the periphery of darkness. Toward the rear, tarpaulins covered a serried hill of bulky objects. I shuddered once and I went to work.