by Kane, Henry
Which brought me, uncomfortably, to me.
I had accepted a fee, and I had a job to do, and my job was not to be sitting around surrounding a ham and egg sandwich and inhaling coffee while condemning my client. My job was to find out as much as I could about the demise of Jason Touraine and report my findings to my client.
I paid my check and took my first step. I telephoned my friend Detective Lieutenant Louis Parker. My friend the detective lieutenant could, at the least, invest me with the primary information. It was a good notion but it came to naught because a gentlemanly voice informed me that my friend the detective was not in, he was out earning his living. Short cut short-circuited, I embarked upon earning mine. Embarked — where does one go?
To the hub, naturally.
The hub was on lower Fifth Avenue near Eighth Street, a many-storied apartment house with a canopy and a doorman. The hub was now the solitary domicile of the very recent widow of Jason Touraine. One must start somewhere and it is a very good idea to start at scratch. Scratch would be Karen Touraine. My very good idea was verified as being exactly that because, just as I was paying off my cab, Detective Lieutenant Louis Parker, a plain-clothes man, two policemen, and Karen Touraine emerged from the apartment building, entered into an unmarked car and were whisked off, which left me at half-mast in the autumn sunshine facing a grinning doorman.
“Wasn’t that Mrs. Touraine?” I said.
“Yep,” he said. “Also cops.”
“Cripes,” I said.
“Something wrong?”
“Nothing, except I’m here to visit her.”
“She’s awful busy.”
“So I noticed.”
“Don’t get it wrong, mister. That wasn’t no pinch. Her husband got hisself killed yesterday.”
“That’s why I’m here to visit her.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a cop too.”
“Somewhat,” I said and brought out my wallet and showed him my ticket to operate from the State of New York.
“Geez,” he said. “You’re the first one of them guys I ever run into in all my born days. A private dick, no less. You got them all over the teevee tube, but honest, in real life I figured they’re dead like the dodo, you know?”
“Almost extinct but not quite. What’s your name?”
“Freddie.”
“Can we talk, Freddie?”
“We’re talking.”
“Can we talk sort of more private? In the lobby?”
“On teevee there’s always like a shmear when the private eye wants to talk to a doorman. How’s it in real life?”
“When you grease you slide, I always say.”
“Come on into the lobby, man.”
He was a big guy with sleepy eyes and a face as beefy as a butcher’s window. He wore a green uniform with a cap like a general and a cape like a gendarme. He led me into a cool lobby with marble and mirrors and three self-service elevators. As he sat down on a marble bench and removed his cap and wiped his face with a handkerchief, I dug out my wallet again and dug a twenty out of that and donated it to the cause.
“Thanks,” he said, “but I ain’t going to earn this four pounds because I don’t know nothing really worth a damn.”
“Let me be the judge of that, Freddie.” I sat down beside him.
“The cops was here early this morning and went away, and now they come back and take Mrs. Touraine with them. That’s about it, Mr…. Mr….”
“Chambers.”
“That’s about it, Mr. Chambers.”
“What about the Touraines, Freddie? You know. The gossip? The scuttlebutt?”
“She’s a beautiful chick sings in a night club. He was some kind of a author or something, worked in a publishing house.”
“That’s not scuttlebutt, Freddie.”
“Mister, I don’t even know what scuttlebutt means.”
“Well, how’d they get along?”
“The Touraines? Not too good from what Benny told me.”
“Who is Benny?”
“Benny is Benny Benson. Benny’s the night man here on the door. We work a twelve-hour shift each. Benny works from six in the evening to six in the morning.”
“Twelve-hour shift? Somewhat unusual, isn’t it?”
“You bet it is.”
“How come, Freddie?”
“Like this, Mr. Chambers. It used to be a three-man job, eight hours each — me, Benny, and Sam. So Sam gets sick a couple of weeks ago, a little spot on the lung, you know? So me and Benny split the shift between us, like temporary. So Sam is still sick and me and Benny is still shift-splitting. That ain’t scuttlebutt neither, is it?”
“No. Now what about Benny?”
“What about Benny?”
“Benny said the Touraines weren’t getting along too well.”
“Yep. Benny said. Benny said there was a guy stuck on her.”
“Did Benny say who?”
“Yeah. A guy named Johnny Rio.”
I felt myself squint. “Now how would Benny know that?”
“Why not? So happens Benny knows Mr. Rio. Fact, Mr. Rio got Benny the job here.”
“You mean Benny and Rio are friends?”
“Just the opposite.”
“You’re losing me, Freddie.”
“Like this, Mr. Chambers. Benny is a very nice kid, goes to college daytimes. Benny used to be a waiter nights in a spot Mr. Rio owns, Chez Rio, you may have heard of it.”
“I have.”
“Well, Mr. Rio is got a sister, and Benny gets acquainted with this sister, and they like begin to go together, and Mr. Rio, he like gets a slow burn about this.”
“Why?”
“Because Mr. Rio don’t think Benny fits for his sister. She’s some kind of artist, a young gal, a painter, and Mr. Rio thinks the sister — her name is Nancy — can do better than latching with a guy like Benny. So, a couple of months ago, Mr. Rio, he puts his foot down. He gives Benny a talking to, nice-like but sharp, and he fires Benny out of the job in Chez Rio, and gets him the doorman job here. And Benny ain’t supposed to see Nancy no more.”
“And did Benny go along with it?”
“He pretends, but he don’t. He sees her once in a while, like secret meetings, and they correspond, you know, like through the mail, like all hell. Benny figures once he graduates from the college — he’s studying to be a dentist — he can do what the hell he likes, Mr. Rio or no Mr. Rio. Dig?”
“I dig,” I said, “and so much for Benny’s affairs of the heart. What about Mr. Rio’s as concerns Mrs. Touraine?”
“Well, Benny worked in the joint, and so did Mrs. Touraine, and Mr. Rio is the boss, and if a smart kid like Benny comes to a conclusion, I will go along with Benny’s conclusion. Furthermore, he’s seen Mr. Rio take Mrs. Touraine home, while he’s right here on the job. Maybe they ain’t making it, Mr. Rio and Mrs. Touraine, but if they ain’t, this Rio sure is right in there pitching.”
I stood up. “Any idea of this Nancy Rio’s address?”
“Nope.”
“Benny’s address?”
“Lives up in the Bronx. Mosholu Parkway. I been up there. Nice, quiet, shady little street, like living up in the country. You figuring on talking to Benny?”
“Yes.”
“Good idea. He’s a real smart young guy. He may have all kinds of dope about people that I don’t even dream about. Is there anything else I can do for your twenty bucks?”
“Yes. Benny’s number on Mosholu.”
When I’d made a note of it, Benny flagged a cab for me and I had the driver deposit me at my garage, where I changed into my own car and drove up to the Bronx. As Benny had informed me, it was a quiet, long, tree-shaded street. I parked and mine was the only parked car on the street except for a beat-up black sedan parked far up near the corner.
Benny’s pad was in a neat narrow brownstone with about ten neat, narrow, cleanly swept brown stairs leading up to a neat brown entrance door. To the right of the entrance door was
a wide window, raised, with a pillow on its sill and a neat brown-faced gray-haired lady leaning out, placidly smiling, taking the air. As I began to ascend the stairs, the entrance door opened and a slender young man, in slacks and a wool open-necked sports shirt, came out. He was carrying a letter in his right hand. As we passed one another, I smiled at him and he smiled at me, and then I was saying to the gray-haired lady, “Pardon. Could you tell me which apartment is Mr. Benson’s?”
From somewhere there was the sound of a roaring motor but I gave it no heed.
“That’s Benny Benson right there,” said the gray-haired lady. “Right there. The boy who just passed you with the letter in his hand. Oh my God!”
I whirled about. Benny Benson was in the gutter crossing the street and the beat-up black sedan was bearing down upon him at a terrific rate of speed. The boy hesitated, stopped, tried to jump out of the way, but the car, hurtling directly at him, struck him with tremendous impact, hurling him high into the air. Without slackening, the car screeched onward.
The woman screamed, endlessly, rendingly.
I ran down the stairs.
The car, on two wheels, was turning the corner.
“Get the number! Get the number!” screamed the woman.
It was too late to get the number but there was no need. I had recognized the driver. The driver was Johnny Rio.
Chapter Five
WHEN I reached him the boy was dead, mangled body twisted and broken, blood rapidly staining the wool sports shirt, blood gushing thickly from nose and ears and mouth. His shoes had been snapped off, but his right hand clung to the letter. I kneeled and took it out of his hand. He had intended it for Miss Nancy Rio, and she lived on East 32nd, Manhattan. I pocketed it and stood up and the gray-haired lady was beside me, sobbing.
“Is he …? Is he …?”
“He’s dead.”
“It was intentional! I saw it with my own eyes! That car run him down, just run him down! Did you get it? The number? The license number?”
“No. I couldn’t.”
“I’ll go call the police.”
“Yes, do that.”
We left the boy, untouched, lying as he was, and I went back with her. She scurried up the stairs and I went into my car and drove off. There was nothing I could do. At the moment, there was nothing I could do.
I drove slowly, stopped at the first saloon that loomed, parked, entered, ordered, and swallowed a needed noontime double Scotch, paid, walked back to the car, and headed for Manhattan, driving slowly.
Johnny Rio had committed murder in front of my eyes and there was nothing I could do; at the moment, there was nothing I could do. I knew Johnny Rio: shrewd, wise, skillful, and malevolent. The beat-up sedan was not his: Johnny owned a Jaguar; Johnny was the Jaguar type; the beat-up sedan had probably been stolen for the purpose to which it had been put. The sedan would be found, blood-splattered and dented but fingerprint-clean, and the time element would have been arranged — Johnny would have a competent alibi. If I went to the cops, the hand would be tipped, and Johnny would play it close and cozy. And if I went to the cops — what would I have for them? A fleeting identification — alledged identification — of a blurred guy in a speeding sedan going at a rate of at least seventy miles an hour — not much, not enough, balanced against a well-constructed alibi, and leave it to Johnny Rio for a well-constructed alibi. And if I went to the cops, I myself would be in a spot, two spots.
There was no question that Johnny had seen me: I had been in full view and perfectly visible. The big question — for me — was whether Johnny believed that I had seen him. He figured to answer that question in the negative — I hoped. As the car had come down the street, my back had been turned. Had he noted, at that moment, that my back had been turned? After that he had been intent upon his quarry; he could not know that I had turned instantly upon the woman’s scream and that in that split second I had recognized him. Johnny Rio was too wise to stack murder upon murder, unless it was necessary. If I played it cool while he played it cozy, I would not be a target for Johnny Rio. I was not a college boy going to dental school — I was Peter Chambers — and Johnny knew me as well as I knew him and there was a mutuality of respect, if respect is the word. Johnny Rio gunning for Peter Chambers would himself be placed in uncomfortable jeopardy: he would not gun unless it was absolutely necessary. Self-protection is absolutely necessary. If I went to the cops, I would leave myself open. Johnny had connections and the word would drift through: thereafter it would be self-protection and I would be a target. Being a target, aside from the nuisance of possible lethal complications, is bad for business: it is difficult to concentrate upon your work while constantly looking over your shoulder. That was spot Number One.
Spot Number Two involved my client. If I went to the cops, they would properly inquire, and press their inquiry, as to why I was in the Bronx asking about Benny Benson. Even if I refused to answer, police inquiry has many ramifications; Madeline McCormick might be dragged in ass-back-wards, and a richard who permits his client dragged in no matter how undignified the position, is violating the cardinal rule of his profession — that of not breaching the confidence of his client — and would therefore himself be delinquent.
So I could not go to the cops. I would have to play it alone and play it by ear. I drove slowly, thinking fast, or as fast as I could think. Was the guy crazy enough to kill a man because he disapproved of the man as a suitor for the affections of his sister? Possible. Even probable, with the ilk of the Johnny Rios, if his dictates had been contravened. That sat me up straight. Johnny had laid down the law to Benny Benson real gentlemanly; he had fired him out of his job as waiter, but he had found him another job. That would make Johnny feel like a benevolent potentate who had handed out kindly advice and had then dispensed a regal favor — he could turn ugly if his benevolence were thrown in his face. Had this happened? Had Benny Benson untruckled and spit away his caution? Had this matter come to the point of emergency which had spurred Johnny into typical action? So there was something I could do. I could find out. I could, for the future, not only provide identification, but I could establish motive.
I pressed on the accelerator and picked up speed.
The apartment building on East 32nd Street was a walk-up, and N. Rio lived on the fourth floor. Gasping, I pushed the button of 4A.
“Yes? Who is it?” came a clear voice.
“I have a message from Mr. Benson.”
The metal slide of a round peephole was moved away and was replaced by a round eye. I held up Benny Benson’s letter and let the eye study it. The metal slide fell back into place and the door was opened by a tall young woman with dark round eyes and a firm square jaw. She was barefoot, her hair was disheveled, she was slightly sweaty, she wore a shapeless smock, and her fingers were paint-stained.
“I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” I said.
“You have,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“What is it, please?” she said.
We were in an immense studio room with a slanted glass ceiling. There was no carpet, there were a few rickety chairs, there was a faded couch, there was a narrow unmade bed, there was a telephone, and there was a large easel on which there was a large oil and there was a table with tubes of paint and brushes and there was, of course, the reek of turpentine.
“My name is Freddie,” I said. “Frederick Finster.”
“Yes?” she said in about as encouraging a tone as a devout Catholic might use toward a devoutly militant atheist. “I’m a friend of Benny.”
“So?” she said.
“I teach sociology up at Fordham and on the side I’m a marriage counselor. Benny has talked to me about you, Miss Rio, and about his problem — ”
“Benny has no problem.”
“Look, Miss Rio, I’m on your side, I’m a friend.”
“Mr. Finster,” she said, “if you’re here to plead Benny’s cause …”
I made a face. “Benny has
a cause to plead?”
“Mr. Finster, Benny and I are through, and we’ve been through for quite some time now….”
“Does your brother know about this?”
“Why bring my brother in?”
“Well, Benny told me …”
“My brother intervened, but my brother intervened because I asked him to, because Benny was becoming a nuisance.”
“But Benny has told his friends that you see each other on the sly and such — ”
“Mr. Finster, as a sociologist and marriage counselor, you must know about male ego, and male pride, and male fantasy, and the reluctance of a male to realize when an affair is over — ”
“But does your brother realize?”
“Why do you keep bringing my brother into this?”
“Well, Benny said — ”
“Honest, I don’t give a damn what Benny said.”
“Benny said your brother — ”
“Now stop it with my brother, will you?”
“But Benny keeps writing you letters….”
“Oh yes! That Benny does!”
“Well, maybe your brother knows about these letters, if he checks.”
“So he knows. So who cares?”
“Maybe your brother thinks it’s still going on hot and heavy.”
“But why do you keep on about my brother?”
“Please, Miss Rio, I’m a friend. You don’t have to simulate with me.”
“Who’s simulating?”
“I mean I’m not a spy for Johnny Rio….”
She took the letter from my hand, tore it open, and while she was reading it, I was saying, “You see, Benny was going to mail this. But when I told him I was going to be downtown this afternoon, he asked me to bring it, like it would save time….”