“Nothin’,” Hambone whined. “We was goin’ to start passin’ the collection plates around after yo’ next number. Then the thunder come a rollin’ down.”
“Unh-unh,” Stanley said. “I ain’t be talkin’ about no collection plates. I be talkin’ ’bout yo’ man Baby Langston. Seem to me and Urby that Baby and Buster be workin’ that ransom on goldilocks’ old man with the help of yo’ eye-talian brothers. So I ax you again, how much you be collectin’ from it?”
“Say what, Stanley? Say what?” Hambone sprang to his feet as if Stanley’s words had stung him to the core. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with it, Stanley. I don’t go around messin’ with no kidnappin’ no rich white women. Sheeit, the Frenchie police catch me doin’ monkeyshines like that, they ship me back to the States and bust up my bidness. And, Stanley, the Alfieris ain’t no eye-talians, they be Corsican Frenchies like that man Napoleon.”
Stanley smiled at that and drank some rye.
“I know that, Bone. Them Corsicans can give you cover from the French police. They do all the dirty work and collect the ransom and can’t nobody pin it on you, Baby, and Buster.”
I had told Stanley what had happened to Buster, so he had decided to play his hand with a bluff, not telling Hambone about Buster’s ransom note or his death.
“I be tellin’ you God’s truth now, Stanley,” Hambone said. “You right about them Corsicans wantin’ us to get a bigger piece of the pie, and we was goin’ to blackmail some cash out of you when you got Urby money from blondie daddy. But Baby ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. Fact is, I be worryin’ about my nephew all day. It ain’t like him not to let me know if he ain’t comin’ in. No way Baby be kidnappin’ nobody. The man a poet, Stanley. You ever seen him wearin’ shoes ain’t scuffed up and with holes in the soles? Anything happen to him, my sister Magnolia Swilley gone kill me. Baby her onliest child.”
Stanley thought long and hard about what Hambone had said, and then he spoke. “Hambone, I’m inclinin’ to believe Baby ain’t in on it, but that still don’t let you and the Corsicans off. You better call in them Alfieris and get some answers to me by tomorrow night. You don’t tell me the fullest truth”—Stanley looked around—“and yo’ nightclub goin’ to have him an accident. Like a four-alarm fire. And that be the last club you ever run, Hambone. No musicianer gone never play for you again. You understand what I’m sayin’?”
Hambone nodded, fear written all over his face.
Stanley gestured to Lonny who stood up, went over to the cash register, rang up a charge, and peered at the money in its drawer. Lonny growled at Hambone, “Stanley and Urby and me deserves to collect for that charity after we done tore up the ‘Tiger Rag.’ Looks to me like you got some serious money in this cash register, somethin’ like two thousand francs.”
“We goin’ to take one thousand nine hundred fifty and let you slide for the rest,” Stanley said. Hambone started to protest but shut up when he looked at Stanley’s hard expression.
He said, “Sound fair to me, Stanley. Wasn’t yo’ fault that ruckus started.”
Stanley had put away the money and held out his palm. “How much you givin’ to our charity, personal-like, Bone?”
Hambone immediately put his hand into his hip pocket, pulled out a big wad of franc notes, and gave them to Stanley. “That be all I can get my hands on tonight, man.”
Stanley riffled the wad. “There must be ’bout the same as in your cash registry.” Everyone in Montmartre knew that Hambone always traveled with a lot of cash on his person. Stanley stood up.
“This here be enough. We thanks you, Bone. Now we gots to be moseyin’ along. ’Member, you got to fill me in on the whole story from A to Z by tomorrow night. I be expectin’ you ’round seven o’clock at my place.”
“I’ll find out what I can. If you see Baby, tell him to get his behind over here, tout de suite.”
“Sure thing,” Stanley said.
We left the club and Stanley passed some cash to Lonny and said, “Catch you later.” Lonny disappeared quickly. It was still early, and with so much money on him, he would be doing some hard partying tonight and the next few days.
Stanley and I left La Belle Princesse and walked through the bustle of a Saturday night in Montmartre. There were a lot of people at the Place Pigalle, and the cafés and bars were thronging with customers. Their week’s work was done, and tomorrow, Sunday, was their day off. Tonight was the first time that people could let off steam since Tuesday night’s riots.
There were organizers at street corners from the Conféderation Générale du Travail Unitaire (CGTU), the powerful Communist-linked trade union. Fist-waving men and women formed in groups around the Place Pigalle, raging for action to prevent another attempt at a Fascist coup d’état against the government. Red banners with the words “General Strike called for Next Monday!” filled the Place Pigalle.
Stanley followed the frenzied action, bemused. It was so different from a normal Saturday night when the prostitutes plied their trade, the pickpockets scythed through the crowds of tourists, and the French and American rich folk combed the area, slumming.
“These people sure gettin’ serious,” Stanley said. “They riotin’ in cold weather, and they be talk of another civil war here in France, like the one they have sixty or so year ago. Don’t these people never get tired of revolutions and riots and such? Shoot, Urby, we only have one revolution and one civil war in America, but these Frenchies seems to need somethin’ like that every fifty year or so.”
Some of the workers recognized Stanley and came up to him. One of them called out for “our black American brother to join us in our fight against Fascism and racism.” Stanley, who could speak Creole French and understood everything they were saying, waved at them good-naturedly.
“We are brothers in arms,” he said to them in French and gave them the clenched-fist salute, winking at me behind his other hand.
We walked through the cheers to Stanley’s limousine, which had returned from dropping Jean off somewhere. His chauffeur, who had been cheering and whooping it up with the CGT people, snapped to attention when Stanley and I appeared and opened the door for us. The clapping and cheering rose to crescendo as we headed to Stanley’s.
CHAPTER 14
Paris, Sunday, February 11, 1934
I arrived at the Coupole restaurant-café a half hour early to scout out the place. I needed a drink before I met up with Robinson III for lunch because I still hadn’t figured out how to play my hand. And I had to force myself to act civil to him.
The rage of the workers that Stanley and I had witnessed at Place Pigalle on the Right Bank last night was small beer compared to what was gearing up on the Left Bank. Bands of angry workers roamed Boulevard Montparnasse outside the Coupole, bundled up in heavy coats with their flat-cloth caps yanked down to their ears. They were men spoiling for a fight with the Fascist-monarchist leagues bent on derailing the General Strike planned for tomorrow. Police patrolled the streets in pairs, making their presence known to the workers but avoiding clashes that might ignite an explosion.
The old-time sounds of the Coupole’s Sunday tea and waltz orchestra filled the vast space, which usually echoed with the hot rhythms of its biguine band made up of French West Indians not subject to the 10 percent limit on foreign musicians that had practically killed off black American jazz in Paris.
The Coupole was a small town where you could run into people and end up drinking and eating with them for hours. My favorite waiter, Honoré, pointed out my reserved table, which was a “good” one in the center of the action. I waved some franc notes at him, told him I needed to be in a more discreet location, and he took me to a grubby corner table in the back near the door to the kitchens, where no one was likely to notice Robinson III and me.
“Parfait,” I said, and he vacuumed up the francs like a Hoover. I told him that I would be back at the table at 1:00 p.m. sharp when my guest arrived. I asked Honoré to serve our table himself because I wa
s being invited to lunch by a very rich American, and I wanted him to profit from the man’s largesse. He thanked me profusely and said that he would fix everything with the reservations waiter.
We arranged that I would head to the bar for a few quick ones, stay on the lookout for my guest, and follow him in through La Coupole’s main entrance. I don’t know what he thought I was up to, but Parisian waiters were used to monkey business from customers, and he took it in stride.
I watched Robinson III enter at five minutes to one. At a high sign from the reservations waiter, Honoré came dashing across the room to escort him to our table. Robinson III was wearing a light gray double-breasted suit, a Burberry trench coat, and an expensive-looking hat. I watched the hatcheck girl take his things, and he strode like a Viking colossus among the tables, guided by Honoré. When he reached our table, I saw him exchange words with Honoré. I figured he was asking him if there was some mistake. He made a move to pass Honoré some money, but the waiter waved him off and sat him down.
Honoré flicked a quick look my way, and I gave him a thumbs-up sign. He went away and brought Robinson III a glass of champagne “on the house” and his bowing and scraping, and the champagne put the semblance of a smile on Robinson III’s face.
I finished my drink, sauntered outside, and then re-entered to make a beeline for our table. Robinson III was looking around, his ruddy complexion redder than usual. He looked worried, and his hand shook as he sipped the champagne. I had no idea how to break it to him that I had nothing further to report, except that his daughter was still at large.
Robinson III got to his feet when he saw me coming, a broad smile on his face. That threw me off balance because I expected him to start pounding on the table, demanding immediate results or else.
“Good day, Mr. Brown,” he said heartily, extending his hand. While we were shaking hands, Honoré appeared with my glass of champagne. I felt like throwing it into Robinson’s cheating mug.
“Sorry about the table,” I said to Robinson through the din, “but it’s discreet.”
“Good thinking,” he said. “It’s fine.”
We started scanning through the menu, and I said, “I guess you want to get right down to business.”
“This one’s on me. Eat what you want. Any suggestions?”
“The steak with pepper sauce and dauphine potatoes is really good. Rare will do it for me.”
“I’ll have the same.” Honoré hovered over us, pouring out more champagne while we ordered, asking us how we wanted our steaks cooked. He had a great memory and never wrote anything down. Robinson gave me free rein with the wine list, so I ordered a bottle of 1917 Château Léoville Barton St. Julien, one of the priciest. I figured it would even the score a little for those gold certificates he had foisted on me.
Robinson III was smiling at me so friendly-like that I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I didn’t have any news that would keep that sunny smile on his face. We finished our champagne as Honoré brought our food. Robinson III asked me to taste the wine.
“Très bien,” I said to Honoré, and he poured out the blood- red Bordeaux respectfully, not spilling a drop.
“I want to toast you, Mr. Brown.” He clinked his glass against mine before I could stop him.
“I don’t think . . . ”
He reached into his pocket and handed me a note. It had been drafted on Hôtel Crillon letterhead by the star of the penmanship class, who wrote,
Daddy,
Buster Thigpen and a black fellow called Baby Langston have me prisoner. They say a private eye named Urby Brown’s hot on their trail, and they’re really panicking. Buster’s a big pal of Count d’Uribé-Lebrun’s and has asked the Count to act as a go-between. If you pay the ransom—one hundred thousand dollars! —Buster swears he will release me unharmed. Please pay it fast, ’cause Buster and this Baby Langston are scared of Mr. Brown and want to scram from France soonest. I really don’t want to go with them.
Your loving Daphne, XOXO.
“Where . . . ?” I wondered exactly when Daphne wrote her note.
“A cleaning woman found it in the ladies’ room at the Hôtel Crillon and took it to the manager. Luckily, the fellow understands English and, aftah he read it, he had it taken to Count Lebrun. Lebrun had one of his men bring it to me two hours ago. How did you get onto Thigpen’s trail so fast?” Robinson asked.
I didn’t understand the timing; I was getting worried.
“I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere in this city,” I said.
Robinson patted me on the shoulder chummily and said, “I knew I had the best man for the job! Thanks to Mr. O’Toole.”
“You got the first ransom note from Buster yesterday morning and this note about twenty-four hours later, right?” I asked.
“That’s right, and this one was written by Daphne herself. She’s alive. I was beginning to feel she had been murdered . . . like Chahlie Jr.” “I don’t understand why the Count’s gotten involved in this,” I said.
Robinson III looked irritated. “I don’t give a damn who helps me get Daphne back. And the Count told me he knows you, right?” I nodded yes and he went on, “The important thing is that she’s alive. And the kidnappers ah panicking because of you!” he said.
“Did the Count’s man say anything else?”
“He wanted Daphne’s photograph and gave me the Count’s telephone number; that’s all,” he said.
“Her photograph?” I asked, puzzled.
“Yes. The Count arranged for a search to be made in the Crillon. No one identified Daphne from the photograph, and no negroes have been spotted inside the hotel for ages, thank goodness.” He paused, red in the face. “Sorry I said that.” I waved it away, and he went on, “But the note’s definitely from her. I don’t know how Daphne got it into the ladies’ room, and I don’t care. The important thing is that she’s alive and the kidnappers ah frightened of you.”
“Have you met the Count?” I asked.
“No. But I phoned him immediately. He said to tell you that he’s had word from Thigpen—he calls him ‘Bartholomew’ of all things—about the place to leave the money. He’ll make the arrangements with you in his office, when we finish lunch. You have full authority to act for me. He says that if things follow his plan, I should have my Daphne back by tomorrow!” He looked sheepish and then went on, “I’ve raised the ransom and given it to the Count’s agent.”
“You’ve what?” I was floored.
“Given it to the Count’s agent. Just the way that Thigpen asked for it, in untraceable banknotes and gold bullion.”
His ability to get his hands on so much dough and gold so fast astounded me almost as much as his casualness at doling it out to strangers.
“You’re telling me that you turned over a hundred grand to this ‘agent,’just like that?”
He wasn’t happy to have me questioning his judgment.
“Mr. Brown, all you have to do is make sure that the Count gets the ransom into that monster Thigpen’s hands. You don’t have to bring Thigpen to me. I just want to get Daphne out of his . . . grip . . . as soon as possible. I want my Daphne back before our lives ah ruined for good. Is that so tough to comprehend?”
I didn’t like the sudden turn of events, with the Count and me acting as go-betweens for Robinson III to turn over one hundred grand’s worth of bullion and banknotes to a corpse lying on the floor of the Seine.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll deal with the Count. It’s true that he’s got close ties to Buster Thigpen.”
“Yeah, he told me that he feels deeply responsible for what Thigpen’s done, and that’s why he wants to put things right. I know that I should’ve told you beforehand, Mr. Brown, but the Count gave me his oath as a gentleman that he’ll get Daphne back. He’ll hand her over to you, and then he promises to get back every penny of the ransom money from Thigpen and Langston.” He looked imploringly at me. “Will you help me? Please. You’re the only soul that I can trust in this affair.”
/>
Remembering Tex O’Toole, I said, “I’ll get in touch with him as soon as we’ve finished lunch. We have to move fast on this one.”
I wanted to make sure that Daphne got out of this business unharmed, whoever was behind the ransom deal. My feelings for her made me ready to risk big if it meant that she’d be back with Robinson tomorrow.
“I feel our luck has changed, Mr. Brown,” he said.
What he didn’t know was that Buster was out of it. Baby Langston was missing, but I had doubts that the gentle poet was in on it.
Ruling out Buster and Baby left two possibilities: either Hambone and the Corsicans were behind the caper—despite Hambone’s denials last night with Lonny Jones’s razor against his throat—or the Count was playing some sinister role as the puppet master, pulling all the strings.
“Thanks for the lunch, Mr. Robinson,” I said, as we finished the last drops of the great red Bordeaux, from the vintage of the year after the Battle of Verdun. “But I think I’d better look in on the Count right away.”
He beamed. “That’s the spirit! I like men who put business before play.” Then, turning somber, he said, “Please bring her back to me, Mr. Brown. You have my complete confidence. Do whatever you’ve got to do to get her back.”
I stood up and we shook hands. He reached into his pocket and brought out a wad of dollar bills. He handed me greenbacks this time, not gold certificates. If he had, I would have decked him then and there.
“You haven’t put the bite on me for extra money to cover your expenses, and I appreciate that. But I want you to have enough to wrap up the negotiations with the kidnappers,just in case. I’m giving you five hundred now and a substantial bonus when Daphne’s back. Dollahs still OK with you?”
I pocketed the money but couldn’t resist asking, “Have you run out of those gold certificates? These aren’t as nice.”
He smiled, one financial wizard to another. “I need them for another operation,” he said. We shook hands.
As we parted, I said, “By the way, it’s not my place to ask it, but would you mind being extra generous to the waiter? He’s one of my . . . agents.”
Rage in Paris Page 13