The Hour of the Cat

by Peter Quinn

  Oster took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. “We need to find out what Hausser’s mission is. The regime’s official policy is to do all that’s possible to placate American sentiments and encourage their people’s desire for neutrality. Here’s a chance to expose and embarrass the SS.”

  “I have other priorities at the moment. We have no idea what’s involved here. It could be something trivial. One agent isn’t exactly an invasion force. I’ll assign Piekenbrock to look into this.”

  The intercom signaled that he had a phone call. “Line one, Herr Admiral,” Corporal Gresser said. “General Heydrich’s office wishes to know if you’ll be joining him tomorrow on his morning ride in the Tiergarten.”

  “Tell him yes,” Canaris said.

  “You could always ask Heydrich directly about this agent in New York,” Oster said. “Get an answer straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. It will undoubtedly be a lie, but a clever one.”

  “And I’d be alerting him to our distrust.”

  “Ha! As if he’s not already alert to that.” Oster put the lighter back on its stand, the inscription facing Canaris: Wie geht’s?

  NEW YORK

  Whoever tried to follow him from Roberta Dee’s place, Dunne decided, was either an amateur or an out-of-towner. Probably both. He lost him easily switching trains at Atlantic Avenue. Arriving on his block, he scanned his apartment building. There was no sign of surveillance but, taking no chances, he went in through the basement, up the stairs to the roof, climbed down the fire escape, and jimmied the kitchen window open. He added what was on the bed to the pile on a nearby chair, stripped to his underwear, and lay down.

  In the morning, he went to the Records Office of the New York State Supreme Court, on Foley Square, to read the transcript of Grillo’s trial. Sollie Feldman, the chief clerk and a former cop, made sure he had everything he wanted. “Better read quick,” Feldman said. “Grillo made the mistake of being one of the first homicides tried under Tom Dewey. A new district attorney is always a man in a hurry, especially the reformers. Dewey made a show of being in the courtroom to congratulate the assistant D.A. who got the conviction. No secret Dewey’s got his sights set on the governor’s chair. Governor Lehman’s already running scared remembering how Charlie Whitman parlayed the Manhattan D.A.’s job into the governorship. Not a chance in hell Lehman’s gonna stop Grillo from getting juiced.” Dunne spent an hour paging through the transcript. The prosecutor, Assistant D.A. Tom Regan, came across as well organized, efficient, and tough. He rolled over the defense. Walter Grillo hadn’t made it hard.

  Chief Robert I. Brannigan testified that he led the first party of detectives to the crime scene, the apartment of Miss Mary Catherine Lynch, unmarried white female, age fifty-six. A neighbor had seen her door ajar. Knocking and getting no response, she summoned Patrolman Michael J. Rath, who discovered the victim’s body. Brannigan had the apartment sealed, the building searched, and immediately sought out the building’s superintendent, who was nowhere to be found.

  A top-to-bottom search of the building by Brannigan and Detective Matt Terry discovered a pair of shoes beside the boiler. Turned out they belonged to the superintendent, Walter Grillo, who was still in them. Grillo lay in a drunken stupor on the floor. A few feet away, wrapped in a bloody towel that had been taken from Miss Lynch’s bathroom, was the carving knife that was later identified as the murder weapon. Grillo denied the knife was his. The prosecutor established Grillo’s prints were on the handle, although no others showed up in the victim’s apartment.

  Several residents in the building testified that Grillo was often drunk and had a violent temper. The defense brought out that Grillo’s behavior had never gone beyond an occasional verbal outburst, usually in reaction to the non-stop complaints of the building’s congenital gripers. Most of the time, he had done his job to the satisfaction of landlord and tenants alike. There was no evidence that he had ever had any disagreement with Miss Lynch or harbored any sexual interest in her. On the contrary, a neighbor testified that Miss Lynch was one of the few residents in the building for whom Grillo always showed “a gentlemanly regard.”

  Dr. Joseph Sparks testified that Miss Lynch worked for him as a nurse during the month before her death. Although in only a temporary position, Sparks said, Miss Lynch impressed him with her professionalism. The day before her murder, she came to his office to pick up her paycheck. They exchanged a few pleasantries. She expressed her appreciation for the chance to work with him and left, he said, “in good spirits.” His chauffeur drove him soon afterwards to a medical appointment. He returned home late and didn’t learn of the murder until the next day. Grillo’s lawyer had no questions.

  Dunne skipped to Grillo’s testimony. His lawyer established that Grillo wasn’t the ordinary kind of super who’d been knocking around the janitor trade since dropping out of grade school. Elba Corado had told the truth about her brother, at least about his professional credentials. He’d been a lawyer and a professor at the University of Havana Law School who fled in 1931 due to an argument with the government. After arriving in New York, Grillo had difficulty finding work. Living in a building that the superintendent left dirty and ill cared for, he took to sweeping the lobby and cleaning up the trash. Finally, the landlord fired the super and offered Grillo the job. Didn’t pay much but the rent was free. Grillo took it.

  Assistant D.A. Regan took Grillo apart on the witness stand. Grillo claimed he was in Riverside Park between 5:00 and 8:30 P.M., the time established for the murder.

  Q. Where exactly did you walk?

  A. Around, in many parts.

  Q. Did you see anyone you knew during that time?

  A. Not that I can bring to my memory.

  Regan asked Grillo if he had ever used the services of a prostitute. The defense objected. The judge directed Grillo to answer. No. Was Grillo ever driven by “uncontrollable sexual urges”? The defense objected again. Sustained. But the point was made. Regan asked about Grillo’s drinking habits.

  Q. You were frequently drunk on the job, isn’t that true?

  A. Sometimes, yes. Mostly, no.

  Q. Were you drunk on the night of Miss Lynch’s murder? Yes or no?

  A. I had drinks that night. How many I don’t know.

  Q. Big drinks or little drinks?

  A. Drinks.

  Q. Big enough to render you into the unconscious position in which the police found you?

  A. My memory is not clear.

  Q. The memory of how you overcame whatever vestiges of decency that might have held you back from using your key to enter Miss Lynch’s apartment?

  Objection. Dunne read on to the end of the transcript. Regan delivered a blistering summation. He asked the jury to send a message to all the murderers, rapists, and hoodlums who’d become accustomed to having their way in New York: Tell them loud and clear that their day is over. Show them that Lady Justice has picked up her sword once again and will wield it with a sure and terrible swiftness. Convince them that the decent, law-abiding citizenry of New York will no longer tolerate the depraved assaults of conscienceless criminals. Grillo should have listened to his lawyer. Maybe he could have wrangled a life sentence by pleading guilty. The jury telegraphed its verdict with a speed that would make Western Union proud. Adios, Wilfredo.

  Feldman wasn’t in his office when Dunne left. He bought a pack of cigarettes at the newsstand in the basement of the court building and got change for the phone. He waited a few minutes before a booth was available. Most murders, no matter how seemingly cut-and-dried, had their peculiarities. Put the puzzle together, and though the picture was clear, there’d be one or two pieces missing or out of place. The defense made a living getting juries to ignore the doughnut and focus on the hole. Most probably there’d be an odd or absent piece in the Grillo case. Wouldn’t know whether it was enough to reopen the case or sustain a reasonable doubt until you found it.

  He entered the booth. A thin-faced man in a
sweat-stained pearl-gray fedora immediately knocked on the glass. It was impossible to tell if he was a lawyer or defendant. Dunne ignored him and dialed the Shack. No use trying to get anything new out of the cops. They’d all be in lockstep. But if the Professor had been on the scene, which seemed likely, he might provide a place to start. No answer. Dunne hung up and dialed again. There was another round of hard rapping on the glass.

  Corrigan finally answered the phone. No, he didn’t know the Professor’s whereabouts but the possibilities were limited, weren’t they? Either the usual gin mills or the disrobing palaces on the Deuce where he was sure to turn up later in the day. Dunne cut the conversation short when Corrigan started to ask about the Babcock case. He grabbed the phone book, suspended in a black metal jacket at the end of a short chain, flopped it open and looked up Doctor Joseph Sparks. There was only one, at an East Side address. A feminine voice, cozy as terry cloth, answered. “Good morning,” the voice cooed, “This is Dr. Sparks’s office. How may I help you?”

  “I need an appointment.”

  “You’re a patient?”

  “No. This is business.”

  “Please leave your name and number. The Doctor will get back to you.”

  “How about a quick in-and-out? Be up in half an hour.”

  The tone turned abrupt. “Who is this?”

  “I’m on an insurance claim. All I need is a few minutes.”

  “The Doctor is never here on Wednesday afternoons. He leaves at noon.” The warmth came back into her voice. “If you leave a message, I’ll be sure he gets it.”

  “I’ll try some other time.”

  “Thank you for your call.” The receiver slammed into its cradle, the hammer inside the terry cloth.

  The nervous Nelson in the pearl-gray fedora was gone when Dunne hung up, but a globule of spit trailed down the glass. A lawyer, definitely.

  Dr. Sparks’s office was on a quiet, elegant, tree-lined street, just off Park Avenue. Around the corner was one of those silk-stocking clubs where the Social Register types had lunch. Their limousines were lining up along the street like a row of battleships. The chauffeurs leaned against them, smoking and schmoozing. Sparks’s office, on the ground floor of a stately building, had its own entrance, a black door with a well-shined knocker and a brass plaque set into the wall. No one answered when Dunne knocked. The doorman at the building’s main entrance gave him the once-over that every doorknob polisher in the swank districts kept on ice for strangers, a look more of snobbery than suspicion, as if serving the rich made him one of them.

  “I’m suppose to see Doctor Sparks,” Dunne said. “But the office is closed.”

  “Always is, Wednesday afternoons. Musta’ got your days mixed up.” The doorman turned to help a well-to-do-looking woman with fat ankles exit a taxi. She entered the building without bothering even to glance at him. Dunne slipped him a dollar. Frost gave way to spring. “The Doc lives upstairs,” the doorman said. “Plays tennis every Wednesday on Long Island. His car will be here in a few minutes. But do me a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “Wait across the street so he don’t think I’m playin’ tipster on him.”

  After only a minute or two, a racket-carrying man in tennis whites, with a sweater draped over his shoulders, its V-neck outlined in red and blue stripes, exited the building. The doorman nodded casually in his direction.

  Dunne intercepted him at the curb. “Doctor Sparks?”

  He took the racket from beneath his arm, swung it to his shoulder, and smiled at Dunne. He had an open, friendly face, smooth skin, smile right out of a toothpaste advertisement. “Yes,” he said, “how can I help you?”

  Sparks’s tennis whites were crisp and spotless. Trim and fit, brown hair flecked here and there with gray, he looked younger than the forty he probably was, an impression his shortness helped reinforce. He removed the racket from his shoulder and toyed with the iron butterfly nuts on the brace. He seemed ready to start playing, substituting the sidewalk for the courts at Piping Rock or the Creek Club. He went up on the balls of his feet, and Dunne noticed the tennis shoes were thickly padded, a way of adding spring to his game along with a few inches to his height.

  “I need just a minute,” Dunne said.

  Sparks squinted. Webs of small wrinkles radiated next to his blue eyes. “My patient list is full, I’m afraid. Speak with my secretary, she’ll provide you with a referral.” He looked down the street. “Damn,” he said, “I’m going to be late.”

  “It’s about the murder of Miss Lynch.”

  “You’re a reporter, aren’t you? I should have realized such a visit was inevitable given the pending execution of Mr. Gonzalez.” Sparks let the racket drop to his side. “I’m a doctor, not a ghoulish commentator on other men’s crimes, so you’ll forgive me, I trust, if I make no comment whatsoever.” He wasn’t the professional physician type that the guard dog of a secretary led Dunne to expect, eyes encircled by steel frames and thick lenses, as though he were examining you through the lens of a microscope, same bland expression they hand out in medical school for telling you your mother just died or to see the nurse about the bill.

  “Grillo. Walter Grillo, that’s the name of the guy they convicted, and I’m not a reporter. I’m a private investigator.”

  “Whoever you are, you’ve heard all I have to say on the matter.” He turned to the doorman. “Johnny, do you know what’s keeping Bill?” The words were barely out of his mouth when a big handsome Buick pulled around the corner. “At last,” he said.

  “I just want to go over Miss Lynch’s movements the day of the murder.”

  “I barely knew her. She worked for me for a few weeks while my regular nurse was away. What happened to her was despicable. But I told everything I know to the police and repeated it at the trial.” The racket moved back and forth, rhythmically. “There’s nothing to add.”

  “I’m checking facts for the insurance company that has to pay on Miss Lynch’s policy. Routine stuff.” He handed his card to Sparks, who studied it intently.

  “This says ‘Matrimonial and Divorce,’ Mr. Dunne. You seem somewhat afield.”

  “These days I grab whatever it takes to stay afloat.”

  The Buick pulled up in front of Sparks. “I wish you luck.” His handshake was prep-school firm; his smile, softer. Maybe close to snide.

  Broad-shouldered with an outsized jaw, the chauffeur came around the front of the car, opened the rear door with one hand, put the other on Dunne’s chest, and gave a sudden shove. “Beat it,” he said.

  Caught off balance, Dunne stumbled backwards. He grabbed one of the metal poles that supported the canopy and steadied himself.

  Bill closed the car door behind Sparks and walked back to the driver’s side. The spread of his shoulders was accented by the double rows of buttons on his black tunic. Unfastening the top buttons, he stood with his hands on hips.

  Sparks leaned through the window. “I apologize, Mr. Dunne. Bill’s a bit over protective. Happy hunting.” He rolled the window up. Bill climbed into the driver’s seat. Dunne came around and stood next to him. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you knew the Doctor,” Bill said. “I thought you were a pan handler or an organ grinder.”

  “If I was an organ grinder,” Dunne said, “I’d use you for the monkey.”

  “Stand back, unless you want to start a pushing contest with this car.” Bill leaned forward and shifted into first. The flap of his tunic fell open. The butt of a pistol, cradled beneath his armpit, poked through.

  “I should’ve warned you,” the doorman said. “Bill’s got a tiny fuse.”

  “And a brain to match. I’m half-tempted to stick around and continue our conversation when he gets back.”

  “Please, buddy, have it somewhere other than here. Any trouble like that and I’ll be lookin’ for another job.”

  “Better tell Bill that.”

  “I already did.”

  At the head of the car, the conductor yelled, “Next
stop, Sing Sing!” The train arrived on time. The spring morning, ripe with summer, had spoiled into a humid, sunless afternoon. The walls of the prison blended into a sky the color of wet concrete. The machine guns in the turrets pointed east and west, as though to stop civilians from breaking in as well as convicts from breaking out. A guard led Dunne through a series of bare rooms, each with a metal gate. They stopped in a closet-sized cubicle, where Dunne was frisked and the contents of his pockets examined. A small black truck took them a short distance to a squat unmarked building. The acrid smell of burnt rubber hung in the air. Maybe it was from the truck’s brakes; or maybe it was a permanent part of the place.

  Although Dunne had expected it might take a while before he was allowed to see Walter Grillo, the prison official on the phone said he could come up that afternoon. As long as his name was on the appointment list and Grillo didn’t object, he’d be admitted. Padding ahead on felt-soled shoes, the guard led the way through another series of hallways, checkpoints, and steel doors, until they reached a door marked VISITOR CENTER. There was a set of rules posted on the door, but the guard opened it before Dunne could read them. He directed Dunne to sit at a large oak table on the side opposite the door. A single light hung over it. The room was cool and quiet as a morgue. “Be a few minutes,” the guard said.

  Two guards escorted Walter Grillo. Taller than Dunne imagined, older too, with hair that shaded from ash gray to white, he wore a capacious white shirt, with embroidery on the front, that obviously wasn’t standard prison garb. It hung off him like a shroud. The guards bookended Grillo as he sat in a chair across from Dunne. “Got fifteen minutes,” one of them said. Grillo nodded. The concave creases in his cheeks made his nose as prominent as a beak. “You know me, Joe, I never go over.”