Brass Rainbow

by Michael Collins

  “I think so,” I said. “Let me check.”

  “You’re working on the murder of Jonathan Radford?”

  “Hold on,” I said. “I’ll be back.”

  I put down the receiver and went into the bathroom. I doused sleep and morphine hangover from my head in cold water. I came out, lighted a cigarette, and picked up the telephone.

  “Who is this?” I asked.

  “My name is Agnes Moore,” she said, low and quiet. “I’d like to talk to you. There could be money in it.”

  “What about Radford?”

  “We’ll talk. Come to 17 West Seventy-sixth Street. Top floor.”

  She hung up. I finished my cigarette. Then I took a shower. I wondered if Sammy Weiss had found a devious way to contact me. Someone had to be hiding him. On the other hand, I’d be careful where I walked. When I was dressed, I went out and to the subway.

  At Seventy-second Street a thin haze hung over the Park like damp smoke, and lights were on in the tall buildings even in the early afternoon. The feel of more snow was in the air, and it was not so cold. Number 17 on Seventy-sixth Street was the usual brownstone. I rang. The door buzzed to let me in.

  The stairs were carpeted and clean, and the wood of the walls shined as I went up. The door of the top apartment was painted black, and had an elegant brass knocker. I used the knocker. She answered at once.

  “Come in, Mr. Fortune.”

  She was just over medium height. She wore a loose red kimono that swept the floor. Her dark hair was cut short in Italian curls, and her round face was pretty in a scrubbed, mannish way. She was around thirty, give or take, and she looked as if she had just stepped from the shower.

  I went inside warily and braced for action.

  “Sit down,” she said.

  The living room was large for the West Side. The furniture was good and expensive, but oddly impersonal. It looked like a matched set bought complete by someone who had said, “Wrap up the room and send it home.” A model room in a good department store with none of the clutter that piles up after a time of living.

  I sat. “How do you know about me, Miss Moore?”

  “I have friends, and you’re easy to spot.” She nodded at my empty sleeve.

  “What friends? Maybe Sammy Weiss?”

  “I don’t know Weiss, and what friends doesn’t matter. I want to talk about the murder, isn’t that enough?”

  Her low voice was strong. It reminded me of someone else: Misty Dawn, or Deirdre Fallon, or Morgana Radford. I was collecting contralto females. Maybe it was the New York winter.

  “How do you fit with Jonathan Radford, Miss Moore?”

  “Close,” she said, and laughed. “I was his girl friend, or lover; you name it how you like.”

  Her diction was good, but an uneducated past lurked behind her voice. She was relaxed, but there was a hardness in her that comes from growing up fast where life was not easy. I knew now why Jonathan Radford had become a night owl, and where the long business trips had taken him—to this apartment.

  “Full time, or do you do something else?”

  “I make my living acting. I support myself, but Jonathan liked me, and I liked him. He set up this place. He made life nicer for me, and I made it nicer for him. Check?”

  “Check. Why the cloak-and-sneak, then? You were both adults.”

  “It wasn’t so undercover. He came on the hush-hush only when he was involved with business and family in town here, and when I wasn’t living here. We’d meet for a few good hours. But when he was freer, or officially out of town, and when I could stay here a while, we’d spend a week or more here.”

  “Why don’t you live here? Husband?”

  She reached for a cigarette from a gold box. She lighted it, stood up, and went to a home bar. She glided in the red kimono. She poured a snifter of Remy Martin cognac and looked at me. I nodded. She poured one for me, handed it down, and sat down again. “I’d say that was my business. I want to hire you to find who killed Jonathan, not tell you my life history.’”

  “A husband is my business if he’s the jealous type.”

  She smoked, drank. “Okay, I buy that. I’ve got no husband and no jealous boy friends. I don’t live here because I have a lot of men friends I need in business. If they had known about Jonathan, it would have scared them off. In show business it helps a woman to be unattached and have a cozy place where men relax.”

  “Was that why Jonathan was discreet, too? To cover you?”

  “Hell, no. That was for his family and business associates. We made nice music, but we had different lives. We agreed on no strings and no public hand-holding. He never asked me what I did away from him, and I respected his problems. I didn’t fit into his public life. I’d have told some Senator he was a crook, and asked an ambassador if his wife was as frigid as she looked.”

  “Why do you want to hire me?”

  “His family will read the will, bury him, and forget him. They won’t care who killed him, the family goes on. Well, I care who killed him. I want the killer to take a big fall. For your record, I’m not in his will. He left me plenty, but in cash in my hands, so I didn’t have to kill him. I was in my other place all Monday morning. I can’t prove it; I was alone.”

  “Okay,” I said. “The cops have Weiss convicted. If you want to rent me, you must have some other ideas.”

  “One. A man named Paul Baron was trying to extort money from Jonathan over something Jonathan’s nephew had done.”

  “Extort? Not collect a debt?”

  “Extort is what Jonathan said.” She drained her brandy. “The nephew was mixed up in a racket with some B-girls. He set up dates between rich guys he knew and the girls. He got paid. Baron had pictures, checks, witnesses.”

  It makes a man feel good to have guessed right. I hadn’t liked the gambling debt all along. Maybe there had been a debt, but only as a wedge for some kind of setup. It sounded like some cute variation on the badger game. That fitted Baron’s M.O.

  “Jonathan pays, or Baron goes to the cops,” she said. “Jonathan was purple. He said he wouldn’t even talk to Baron. The last time I saw him, Saturday, he said Walter could rot.”

  “He must have changed his mind, at least about talking to Paul Baron,” I said. “How did you meet him in the first place?”

  “I worked a TV show with George Ames. I met Jonathan. Bang!”

  “Did Jonathan mention anyone else in the blackmail besides Baron?”

  “No, but there had to be some girls, right? And it sure looks to me like the nephew and his girl had plenty to lose.”

  “Did Jonathan ever mention a Carmine Costa?”

  “The guy he had closed up in North Chester? Sure. That was another of Walter’s little games.”

  “Did he say anything else about Costa? Was there trouble?”

  “Just that he closed him down.”

  “All right,” I said. “Now do you want to tell me who told you about me?”

  “No one. I’ve been sort of watching Jonathan’s apartment. I saw you. You’re easy to describe. I found out.”

  “I’m still working for Sammy Weiss, too.”

  “Just find that killer. That’s all I want.”

  She became silent. I watched her stare at a big chair to my right. His chair, I figured. It was the first hint of sentiment I had seen in her. She came out of it:

  “How much will you want now?”

  Jonathan had left her plenty, according to her. I said, “A hundred a day and expenses. Three days now.”

  She gave me a stare. I saw that she knew it was steep for a small-timer like me. But she went to her desk and came back with three hundred-dollar bills. She wanted the killer bad. She also wanted something else.

  “Keep me out of it, right?” she said.

  “If I can,” I said.

  I left her drinking more brandy and looking at that big chair.

  On the subway I felt a lot better. I had three hundred dollars, a client, and some real motives
for murder. Money had been a thin motive for the Radford crowd, but the threat of dirty publicity, a messy trial, and jail wasn’t so thin. Only the Radfords still all had alibis.

  I liked Paul Baron more, and now he had a solid motive. Maybe Jonathan had changed his mind about seeing or talking to Baron because he intended to blow the whistle. Costa was right: Jonathan Radford had been real power. Paul Baron might have realized that he had bitten off more than he could handle, and had needed to cover up. Baron’s alibi was pure smog. Both his witnesses were probably involved in the blackmail up to their girlish smiles.

  All the way to my office I thought about calling Gazzo with my new information, but I wasn’t sure I had enough, so when I got to my desk I called my answering service first.

  It was my day. When a case begins to crack, it sometimes opens up everywhere at once. My service had a message this time. Sammy Weiss had called at last. He wanted to see me now. He had given the service an address.

  12

  THE HOUSE WAS the last in a row of ten that lined a short dead-end street a mile off the Belt Parkway at the edge of Jamaica Bay. There were no other streets near. The houses, all frame and old, were set like a single island in the bare salt marsh and bulrushes.

  Jamaica Bay stretched bleak and frozen in the darkening afternoon as I parked the rental car in front of the isolated house. In the distance there were a few shacks on stilts, and a shiny new tract development that looked like an outpost in the desolate landscape of the moon. I was glad I had come alone, as instructed. No one could have approached the house unseen.

  I went up the cleared path to the house and knocked. After a time the door was opened by an old man. He smoked a pipe.

  “Can I help you, young man?” he said in a shaky voice.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Weiss.”

  “Weiss? An old fellow? Tall and thin?”

  “Short, fat and forty-odd. He sent for me. I’m alone.”

  The old man dropped the act. “Inside.”

  I went into a dim hallway, and a young man appeared with a gun. He frisked me. He led me through the house into a kitchen. An old woman sat at the kitchen table. My escort nodded to her that I was okay, and she waved him out. She looked motherly. Her gnarled hand gripped the neck of a bottle of straight rye. She had two cold brown eyes.

  “I don’t like visitors. I run a safe place. Seventeen years and no cop knows me.”

  “You must come expensive.”

  “No drunks, no hopheads, no women. In once and out once. No one comes back for a year if he’s hot.”

  “And most of your guests are hot?”

  “Flaming. They pay me to be safe. You’re here because Weiss paid high. When you leave, you never heard of the place. I’ve got friends.”

  “Where’s Sammy?”

  “Second floor rear. You’ll be watched, inside and out.”

  As I went up, I thought about the old woman. She probably made a fortune. Every day of the year she sat in this house getting rich and stewed. She wouldn’t dare leave the place unwatched. She risked prison every day and slept with one eye open for money she would never spend because there was nothing she really wanted. Only the money.

  Weiss opened the door to my knock. I felt like Stanley meeting Livingstone. He wore the same tie with the same stickpin. He hadn’t been out of his clothes since Monday. He tried to give me a tough sneer—the big man.

  “So now you come? You must of heard I got a roll.”

  “I’ve got a paying client,” I said.

  He smelled of fear. From the look of the room he had been lying on the bed sweating ever since he had arrived here.

  “What client?” he croaked.

  “Agnes Moore.”

  “Never heard of her. She in the Radford thing?”

  “She is, and so are you.”

  He grabbed my sleeve. “I’m not, Danny! I hit the guy! How could I kill a guy with one punch?”

  “He was knifed, Sammy. Stabbed.”

  He had my sleeve in both hands. “Knife? What knife? Paul never said nothing about no knife.”

  I watched him. “This place comes high, Sammy.”

  He sat down on the bed. “Five hundred a day, but it’s safe, and tomorrow I get out, right? You’re gonna help, right?”

  “Did Paul Baron give you the money, Sammy?”

  He grinned. “Paul don’t give it to me, he made a good bet.” He beamed at me. “It’s a sign, you know? My luck’s changed.”

  “A bet? What kind of bet?”

  “With Cassel,” he said. Cassel was a big horse-room owner. “The Baron laid the thousand he owed me for going up to Radford. A 25-1 shot at Caliente, and it came in!”

  I suppose I stared. “Baron gave you $25,000? Cash?”

  His dark eyes looked everywhere except at me. “It’s my break, the sign. I’m okay now.”

  He knew it was all wrong, but he didn’t want to know. We all dream of our rainbow. The gambler and petty crook can’t wait for the dream to be real. They want it now, today, without the wait of working. They are hungry, and they are never bright, and they will believe that almost any impossibility will work out fine. They are sure the most stupid robbery will succeed, the slowest horse will win, the most impossible stroke of fortune will happen for them. Weiss had lived his life against the odds, and he had to believe a long-shot had come home for him. If Baron had tried to give him $25,000 he would have been suspicious. A bet that won on an inside tip was about the only way Baron could have gotten him to take the money. But a pretty sure way.

  “Tell me the whole story now, Sammy,” I said. “From the start. How did he happen to send you for the money at all?”

  “I know The Baron a while, you know? I hang around. So he calls me Monday at the steam baths. Around noon; I always takes the steam before lunch, good for the blood. He says go up to Radford after one o’clock and collect. There’s a grand in it for me. A thousand bucks, you know? So I goes, and then it all busts loose like I told you. That Radford was nuts.”

  “All right, now what happened after you left me?”

  “I run into Misty at the corner. She told me Baron knew I was in a fix and he’d take care of me. She said to move around, but keep in touch, until Baron had a safe place to hide me.”

  “Baron could have contacted you at any time?”

  “Sure. I called him every hour that night. He sent Leo Zar to pick me up about three-fifteen A.M. Leo’s Baron’s muscleman.”

  “Did you know then that Radford was dead?”

  “No, I swear. I’d been ducking Freedman too hard.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  Sammy wiped his face. “Leo took me to a dump up on 115th Street. I laid low all next day. Leo come up that night with a bottle and told me the guy was dead. He said Baron was short, but he had a hot tip and was gonna bet for me. Wednesday Leo moved me over to Brooklyn. About one A.M. Leo shows up again and tells me the horse come in! We sneaked over to Baron’s pad. Baron paid me $25,000 and told me he’d got me in out here, and with all that dough he could get me out to Mexico. We go out for Mexico tomorrow, right?”

  “We?” I said.

  “You’re gonna help, right? The Baron told me to get in touch with you.”

  “Baron told you to contact me? When? How?”

  “A couple of hours ago. He sent a message out here.”

  I just watched him for a time. Maybe a minute. A minute of silence is an eternity. Weiss fidgeted, twisted, sweated. I let him sweat. I was going to hit him as hard as I could.

  “You know that bet was a lie,” I said. “You know that the money is exactly what Radford was supposed to have, and it’s missing, Sammy. It’s a frame-up! Baron told everyone you got the $25,000 and held out on him. He told the police that. The knife Radford was killed with is missing. You’ve got the money; you’ll get the knife next! You’re not going to Mexico; you’re going to be found with the money and the knife. You’ll probably be found dead.”

  “No!” His eyes were
glazed with terror.

  “Damn it, Baron killed Radford! That’s where he got the $25,000. But you’ll take the fall. Your only chance is to come with me, find Baron, and take him and your story to the police. It wasn’t a gambling debt, Sammy; it was blackmail! They’ll listen.”

  His fat quivered. “Get out! Get out!”

  I don’t know if I could have talked him out of his hole, out of the hope of all weak men that everything will blow over as long as they do nothing. But I didn’t have to. The old woman and her gunman appeared at the door. The gunman had his gun.

  “Out,” the old woman snapped.

  I should have known the room would be bugged.

  “A frame-up is trouble,” the old witch said. “I got no room for guys who think they’re innocent. Out, both of you, fast!”

  I thought for a moment that Weiss was going to faint. He didn’t. I think he was afraid that if he passed out, he might never wake up. He stumbled for the door. I went behind him. We were herded down the stairs. The old man held the front door open. An icy blast greeted us. The woman gave us a parting message:

  “One word and you’re both dead! Don’t come back.”

  The door closed. It was dark now, and the wind off the bay chewed at our faces. Weiss walked like a drunk. I got him into the car. I remembered the money.

  “Where’s the money, Sammy?”

  He patted his suit coat. He had it in the lining.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Let’s get Baron.”

  13

  I PARKED IN FRONT of my office and herded Weiss up. I called Mort Fenner at Cassel’s horse room. I asked Mort to check on any bets made by Paul Baron on Wednesday that came in at 25-1. Mort didn’t have to check. No 25-1 shot had come in all week.

  “All you had to do was check the results,” I said to Weiss.

  Weiss said nothing. He had been too busy to check. He had been too scared. He might have learned the truth.

  “Baron lives on East Sixteenth Street?” I said.

  “He got a couple of pads,” Weiss said reluctantly. “He paid me at the Fifth Street place, above the club.”

  I took my ancient .45 caliber service revolver out of the file. There is an exception to every rule. I hate the touch of a gun, it feels degrading, but there was a chance I was going to meet Paul Baron’s gunman, Leo Zar, again, and the old cannon would stop a buffalo if I got close enough to hit.