by Parnell Hall
“Are you serious?”
“Not about you doing it. But about the way it would need to be done. Now, setting everything aside, can you think of anyone who would want to harm the congressman?”
“Absolutely not.”
I shook my head.
“Too bad.”
23
NEXT ORDER OF BUSINESS WAS THE CONGRESSMAN HIMSELF. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t see me, and there was no way I was getting by his doorman. The son of a bitch knew me from my abortive attempt to get a look at the parking garage security tapes.
On the other hand, the guy couldn’t work all the time. He’d have shifts. All I had to do was find the right shift.
I drove over to the East Side, got a meter on Madison, walked over and checked out his building from across the street.
There was a different doorman on duty.
Excellent.
Now all I needed was the congressman to be home. I had done my research in that department. When Congress wasn’t in session, he often hung out in his apartment. His son was in school. His wife worked. Anyone there would be him.
Unfortunately, his number was unlisted.
I whipped out my cell phone, called MacAullif.
He wasn’t pleased to hear from me. And he was less pleased when he heard why I was calling.
“You want the congressman’s phone number?”
“Well, I know you don’t want me to apologize in person. But the man must feel wronged.”
“Didn’t I give you his number?”
“You gave me his address.”
“And it’s too much trouble to look it up.”
“It’s unlisted.”
“If I give you the number, you gonna blame me for it when you go to jail?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Even if I tip him off to trace the call?”
“That sounds a little hostile, MacAullif.”
He gave me the number to get me off the phone.
I punched it in, hit SEND.
I got a busy signal.
Great. He was home. But he’d never let me by the front desk. I needed to get upstairs and ring his doorbell.
I called Alice. “Can you get me the number of a tenant at 521 Fifth Avenue.”
“Which tenant?”
“I don’t care.”
“Stanley.”
“All right. A female tenant. Get me a woman who lives there.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m trying to stay out of trouble.”
“And this will help you?”
“You have no idea.”
“Hang on.”
Alice set down the phone. I could hear her typing into the computer.
It took her thirty seconds. “Mildred Finnegan.”
“How’d you get that?”
“I Googled the address and searched for news articles. A Mildred Finnegan at that address took second place at some bake fair.”
“Terrific. You’re sure she lives there?”
“Absolutely. I cross-checked it. Once I got the name, I looked it up and came up with the listing.”
“Great. You got the phone number?”
“Sure.”
Alice gave me the number, and I wrote it down.
I hung up with Alice, called the number she gave me. A woman answered and I hung up.
I went over to Madison Avenue, found a flower shop.
“I want to send some flowers.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that look pretty and smell good. I don’t know. A bunch of cut flowers. Can you help me out?”
“Sure.”
The guy looked like he owned the shop, a little old man with avaricious eyes. I could see him calculating the minute I left it up to him.
“Something in the neighborhood of twenty bucks,” I told him.
That dampened his spirits considerably. “Including delivery?”
“No. For the bouquet.”
“Great.”
He grabbed some wrapping papers, picked out a selection of pretty but no doubt inexpensive flowers, added a few greens. “How’s that?”
“What’s that going to run me?”
“Thirty bucks.”
So. Ten bucks for delivery. Seeing as how it was right around the corner, that was a nice bonus.
I handed him the page from my notebook on which I’d written Mildred Finnegan’s name and address.
The florist wrote up the delivery slip, attached it to the bouquet.
“When will this go out?”
“Soon as my boy gets back.”
“When’s that?”
“Shouldn’t be long.”
“On second thought,” I said, “maybe I’ll drop ’em off myself.”
His face hardened. “You wanted delivery. Our price was fixed on delivery.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it. I’ll pay you for delivery. Here’s thirty bucks. I just want it to go out now. I’ll drop it with the doorman myself, you don’t have to send your boy, everybody’s happy.”
“Fine.”
“You got a card?”
“Sure.”
He gave me a little card in an envelope. I think he considered charging me, and thought better of it. I took a pen, wrote, “For Mildred,” on the envelope. On the card I wrote “XXX.” I signed it, “You know who.” I put the card in the envelope and sealed it.
I took the flowers back to the congressman’s apartment building.
“I have a delivery for Mildred Finnegan,” I told the doorman.
“You can leave it with me.”
“I was told to hand deliver.”
“I can sign for it.”
“Yeah. They said to give it to her personally.”
“There’s no reason for that.”
“There is for me. Could you call up and ask her?”
The doorman figured I was hoping for a tip. He smirked, but he made the call. “Mrs. Finnegan, I have some flowers here for you. Can the delivery boy bring them up?” He listened, covered the phone. “Who are they from?”
“I don’t know.” I raised my voice. “There’s a card. You want me to take it out and read it?”
The telephone made squawking noises.
“Yes, yes, of course, Mrs. Finnegan.” The doorman hung up the phone. “You can go on up.”
“What apartment?”
“8A.”
Mrs. Finnegan gave me a two-dollar tip.
I felt good I was finally making money on this case until I remembered the flowers had set me back thirty bucks.
No mind. I walked right by the elevator, ducked into the stairwell, climbed the flights to the congressman’s floor
I walked down the hall and rang his bell.
There was no answer.
I waited a while, rang again.
Nothing.
I put my head to the door and listened.
It gave. Thank God I wasn’t really leaning on it or I’d have been flat on the floor. I caught my balance and straightened up as the door swung open.
This was not good. This was never good. I’ve read hundreds of mysteries, and when the door swings open there’s always a dead body on the other side.
I knew that couldn’t be in this case, the congressman was there, the congressman was alive, I’d called and his phone was busy. So there had to be another explanation. He was expecting someone so he left the door open. He hadn’t answered the bell because he was in the john. Or he was in the bedroom with the TV on loud and couldn’t hear it. Or he was on the phone and couldn’t come to the door. Or maybe he didn’t mean to leave the door open, he just didn’t shut it all the way, that happens to me a lot in my apartment, the little whoozit doesn’t engage and it’s still open.
For whatever reason, I’d just solved my number one problem. How I was going to get in the door.
I pushed the door open and walked in, then closed, but didn’t latch it behind me, in case he had left it open for someone.
I found myself in a
rather sumptuous foyer with a bench, an umbrella stand, a coatrack, and two closet doors. There was a painting on the wall in front of me, though whether real or a copy I couldn’t say. I tiptoed in, poked my head around the corner.
Inside was a spacious living room, with couches, coffee tables, a bar, and a grand piano.
“Mr. Blake?” I called. “Congressman?”
There was no answer.
I walked into the room and stopped dead.
There was a fireplace against the side wall. The congressman lay on the hearth. A poker from the fireplace lay next to him.
If it didn’t match the gash in the back of his head, I’d have been quite surprised.
24
OH, MY GOD.
All my worst fears realized. Here’s the dead body I was worried about. It happens to be the one person who could have helped me, but that’s rather minor now.
Okay, so what could I do? I knew I should call the police, but what would I tell ’em? I was in a very embarrassing position, having tricked my way into the building. It wouldn’t take much to make me the number one suspect. Throw in my history with the congressman and I’d look good, even to me.
So, what if I ran? Hightailed it the hell out of there? It would be a while before the body was found. By then I’d be long gone. True, if the cops picked me up and showed me to the doorman, I’d be dead meat, but why would they do that?
Because he’d tell them about the delivery man.
No, he wouldn’t. The delivery wasn’t to the congressman. It was to Mrs. Finnegan. Why the hell would he even think of it? He sent a delivery man up to Mrs. Finnegan. The delivery man went up to Mrs. Finnegan. She got her flowers, I got my tip. All I had to do was walk through the lobby folding the bills and putting them in my pocket, and the doorman would smirk and forget me. By the time the body was found there wouldn’t be any reason to remember a routine flower delivery to another apartment.
Unless the cops connected me with the congressman from the nightclub, and checked up just in case. But would they put me in a lineup for the doorman just on the off chance? Why should they? No one came to see the congressman.
Except the person who killed him. The doorman would be bound to mention them.
But only if the cops knew the time of death. Well, not only, but much more likely. If the cops knew when he died, the person who was with him then would be in the soup.
If they didn’t, whoever found the body could get blamed. Which would totally screw things up. Even if the cops knew that person didn’t do it, whoever found the body would be a whacking good reasonable doubt for the defense attorney to throw at the jury once the cops charged the real killer. Could you say the real killer these days? Has it been enough time? Or would folks still think of O.J.?
Jesus Christ, should I call the cops?
It occurred to me that as long as I was doing my Hamlet impression—to flee, or not to flee—I might as well do something useful.
I searched the body.
The congressman was wearing a lightweight sports jacket. I checked the pockets. I don’t know what I was looking for. Maybe a list of names conveniently titled: CAMPAIGN CONTRIBUTORS. There was no such list.
I took out the congressman’s wallet. Inside were his driver’s license, registration, credit cards, and two hundred and sixty-two dollars in cash. I didn’t steal it. I stuck the wallet back in the congressman’s hip pocket.
It was all wrong. This was the part where the private eye was supposed to find a clue that didn’t mean anything now but would eventually tie in with something completely unrelated and lead to unmasking the killer.
I found diddly-squat.
I’d been stupid long enough. It was time for option B. Which was stupider still.
I stood up, yanked the handkerchief out of my pocket, polished anything I might have touched, from the wallet to the knob on the front door. I closed it behind me but left the latch unengaged, just the way I’d found it.
I slipped into the stairwell, went down to 8, in case the doorman watched what floors the elevator stopped on. Hoped he wouldn’t notice how long I’d been there.
He did.
As I came through the lobby, making a show of shoving the tip in my pocket, he gave me more than a casual smirk. I was so rattled that it took me a moment to get it. He figured I’d had a matinee with Mrs. Finnegan. I felt bad if I’d sullied her reputation. I wondered if I should send her some flowers.
The doorman seemed inclined to chat. Luckily, a guy came in just then, and I slipped away while the doorman dealt with him.
I went out to the street, hunted up a pay phone. Not as easy as it used to be. Now that everyone has a cell phone, who needs ’em? I had to walk four blocks to find one that worked.
I dropped in a quarter, called 911.
The phone asked for fifty cents.
I cursed it, dug in my pocket for another quarter.
At least they answered right away. “What is your emergency?”
“I want to report a break-in at 521 Fifth Avenue, apartment 12B. The intruder was armed, and there may be injuries.”
“And who are you?”
I hung up, went back to my car.
The meter had run out, but I hadn’t gotten a ticket. Small consolation. I’d still blown thirty bucks for flowers.
That and finding a dead body made it a pretty bad day.
25
WENDY WAS SURPRISED TO SEE ME. THAT’S RICHARD’S secretary, Wendy, one half of the Wendy/Janet team. I can tell ’em apart in person. In fact, they don’t look at all alike. It’s just their voices I can’t distinguish.
“What are you doing here?” Wendy said. “I thought you were off the clock.”
“I am.”
“I don’t understand. Haven’t you turned in all your cases?”
“Yes.”
“And we mail you your checks.”
“I came to see Richard.”
“He’s rather busy. Preparing for court.”
“Just tell him I’m here.”
“I hate to disturb him.”
“I’ll make sure he knows it wasn’t your fault.”
“How you gonna do that if he won’t see you?”
Wendy/Janet had the IQ of a badly pruned parsnip, but it was all directed toward self-preservation. If either of them expended as much energy toward doing their jobs as they did toward trying to keep them, they’d be ten times as competent.
“Fine. Don’t tell Richard I want to see him. Just give him a message. Tell him MacAullif gave me his message, and I’m complying with it to the letter.”
She sighed, picked up the phone, relayed my message.
Moments later, Richard flung open the door. “Stanley. Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re not just yanking my chain?”
“Would I do that?”
“Or pissing me off with some technically correct interpretation of what I said?”
I shook my head. “Nope. It’s the real deal.”
“Come in.”
Richard ushered me into his inner office, shut the door on Wendy’s eavesdropping ears.
I brought him up to speed on the congressman’s demise.
Richard was incredulous. “You found the body and left it?”
“If I’d reported it, I’d be calling you from the police station.”
“Yeah, but the charges would be less. We wouldn’t have compounding a felony and conspiring to conceal a crime.”
“We’d still have murder,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but I can probably get you off on murder. The other charges are more difficult, since you’re actually guilty.”
“That’s a rather negative attitude, Richard.”
“So, why are you here? I said murder, not obstruction of justice.”
“It’s a murder.”
“You’re not accused of it.”
“Well, I will be, if the police find out. Isn’t that good enough?”
“No. It’s absolutely horrible. You left the scene of the crime. Flight is an indication of guilt. I don’t want a murder case I can’t win. Where’s the fun in that?”
“You’re giving up? You can’t get me off? You want me to hire another lawyer?”
“Another lawyer won’t work for you. Lawyers have licenses. Some of them have ethics. None of them wants to mess with the Bar Association. Which is where a lawyer for you is apt to wind up. I’m the only one stupid enough to mess around with you, and that’s just because I’m such a softie.”
“I know, I know. You’re a prince. So what do I do?”
“All right. How bad is it? Let’s see. The doorman can identify you as going into the building, but not to that floor. Did he have any reason to remember you particularly?”
“He thought I was shtupping Mrs. Finnegan.”
“The doorman’s Jewish?”
“He’s Hispanic.”
“And he thought you were doing the tenant? Okay, that’s a reason to remember you. When they can’t find anyone else who went to the apartment, they’ll come up with that.”
“But they have to find someone who went to that apartment.”
“Why?”
“Because someone killed him.”
“You mean besides you.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“I never thought you did. The police may feel differently.”
“That doesn’t mean they’ll stop looking for someone else.”
“I suppose,” Richard said.
“You’re not convinced.”
“Well, think about it. If the cops pick you for this, it’s because they got a lead from the doorman. If the doorman fingers you as going up, it’s because he couldn’t name anybody else. Because anybody known to be going to the congressman’s apartment would be such a better suspect, they wouldn’t even be looking for you.”
I frowned.
“That doesn’t make sense?”
“No. It does.”
“You better pray the cops solve this damn thing. That’s your only hope now. That the police figure out who did it before they decide it’s you.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then you better figure out who did it.”
“How the hell do I do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m just the lawyer on the case. You’re the detective.”
“Basically, you’d like me to solve the case so you don’t have to do any work.”