Fallen Sparrow

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  The train had delayed him enough and he didn’t like Tobin delaying him further, holding out on him. He made cold statement. “You know damn well Louie didn’t kill himself.”

  Tobin pared complacently. “I didn’t say that. I said it was an accident.”

  “You know damn well he didn’t fall out of any window.” Louie’d been raised on New York windows, tenement windows, not guarded like hotel windows.

  The Inspector shrugged.

  Kit took a step forward. “You know damn well he was pushed.”

  Moore asked then, “Do you have any proof of that?”

  “Proof? Proof?” He swung on the copper and then he controlled again. “I knew Louie.”

  Tobin’s voice was flat. “How well’d you know him?”

  His mouth curled. “I knew him from the time we wore diapers.”

  Even Tobin lifted his eyes on that. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He sucked his breath in. “And I know Louie wouldn’t jump out of a window or fall out of one. Not in his right mind.”

  Tobin got up out of the chair and sat on the edge of the desk. “Maybe he wasn’t in his right mind.” His eyes were half-shut. “Maybe you know he’d got mixed up in a pretty fast crowd—your kind of a crowd, Princes and Duchesses and what. Or maybe you don’t know if you’ve been playing cowboy for more, than a couple of months. What do you think of that, Mr. Wise Guy?”

  Kit held on tight to his pockets.

  “Maybe you think you know more than the whole New York homicide squad. Maybe you turned kind of psychic on that dude ranch. Or maybe you just got bored and are trying to drum up a good murder.” He scratched a match on his shoe and blew it out. “Arizona lets you rich kids play cowboy as long as you pay for it but I’ll be damned if New York is going to start letting you play detective even if your name is McKittrick. Run along now. Forget it. You’ll have more fun at the Stork than here.”

  Kit kept holding on tight until Tobin finished his piece. There was a white line around his lips. He said, “Louie Lepetino was murdered. I’m going to find out who did it. And I’m going to find out why you wouldn’t find out who did it.”

  Tobin scratched another match. His voice was sharper and his eyes hard. “Run along, oil can. You stink.”

  Kit took his hands out of his pockets. They clenched again and then he relaxed them. He took his time buttoning his top coat. He spoke softly. “All right, gramps. I’ll twenty-three skidoo. Your patter’s as corny as your ideas.” He cocked his hat. “If you ever get the lead out of your feet and the seat of your pants—and your alleged brains, maybe you’ll think of some of the answers without being psychic.”

  He walked loud on the battered wooden floor. He turned around at the doorway. He was even grinning a little. “Louie got me a permit from the Commissioner to carry a gun. His being in an accident doesn’t rescind that, does it?”

  Tobin said, “Good for a year,” and he asked as an afterthought, “Why do you want to carry a gun?”

  Kit grinned wider but it wasn’t funny. “To shoot people, dope. To shoot people.” He was laughing as he banged out, through the empty second room, into the stuffy lighted front. The cop was still reading the paper. Kit swung up his bag, said, “Thanks for nothing, Sarge,” and went out into the dark of evening.

  He gulped the air thirstily as he walked to Lexington. It seemed hours he’d waited for Tobin but it wasn’t. His wrist said eight-twenty. He hailed a cab, gave the Park Avenue address, and settled against the leather. He might as well go home and make some plans before proceeding. It was even possible that his mother might help out. She’d remembered Louie enough to notice his death. One thing certain she couldn’t be less help than Tobin. And she ought to know that he’d returned so she could double the grocery order. All at once he felt good. He wasn’t at all nervous or depressed. He knew he was going to avenge Louie. Maybe he was psychic after all.

  2.

  The foyer looked just the same, something conceived by Dali. Lemon puffed satin and darker lemon wood. Old Chris would have fled. The maid who admitted him wasn’t the same. It didn’t surprise him any. Second maids came and went with monotonous regularity in the Wilhite apartment. Geoffrey was an old woman about dusting and not dusting and the way a napkin should be folded. Kit put down the bag, handed her his hat and coat, asked, “Anyone at home?”

  She said, “No, sir.”

  He showed the girl he was no salesman by walking into the living-room without her suggestion. It hadn’t changed either; he felt about it as he always had, that he had wandered into a beautiful and priceless wing of the Metropolitan Museum. The Wilhites had a wing there but it had nothing on this room. Kit removed the cover from a bit of Chaucerian china, selected a violent pink from Geoffrey’s French gum drops, and ate it happily.

  “Where is Mrs. Wilhite?” he asked.

  The maid had followed him. She said with stupid eyes on his gum drop, “Mr. and Mrs. Wilhite are in Florida, sir.”

  He should have known. Geoffrey Wilhite’s perfect inherited taste hadn’t gone wrong when he’d convinced Beatrice McKittrick she should marry him. No one would ever guess she’d come up the hard way. She’d forgotten it herself. Neither she nor the upper crust she’d cavorted with for twelve years would ever have a picture of a young bride hanging diapers out a tenement window. Maybe she’d laughed more when she and Chris were courting at Tammany’s Fourth of July picnic; hearty laughter didn’t exactly fit in a Wilhite drawing-room; but she had more fun now. And part of it was Palm Beach in season.

  He walked to the window, looked out, looked fourteen stories down to the street. He’d never liked living on Park, nothing but the tops of taxicabs to see. On Riverside there was the river, the smoky little tugs. But Riverside wasn’t smart enough for the Geoffrey Wilhites. To Chris it had been an achievement. He turned back to the dumb girl.

  “Is Lotte here?” Cooks didn’t come and go; not when they could cook like Charlotte. Someone should welcome him.

  “Cook’s night out?” No, that wouldn’t be until Thursday.

  “She’s gone to her niece’s in New Jersey. To help with the twins.”

  That was that. He said, “I’m Kit McKittrick.”

  She didn’t blink an eye to show she understood. “Yes, sir.”

  He explained, “Mrs. Wilhite’s son.” There wasn’t a picture of him less than ten years old in the apartment. She couldn’t know. But she wasn’t surprised.

  “Yes, sir. I’m Elise. Anything I can do, sir.”

  She didn’t look up to a meal. He said, “Bring me a double brandy and soda.” She certainly wasn’t too smart and he warned, “Don’t mix it, just bring me the tray. Never mind about food. I’ll be going out.” He’d known it as soon as he’d learned his mother was away. He was going to see Barby.

  He didn’t have to apologize to himself as the shower rained down on his dark head. It was necessary to see Barby, to tell her that he wouldn’t be seeing her for a while. God damn rationalization. It was necessary to see Barby because she was an itch, and she’d been an itch ever since Ab Hamilton had her down for Junior Week six years come spring. He must be under her skin some way too or she’d be married by now. She was twenty-four, three years younger than he. There wouldn’t be a lack of offers. The combination of looking like a model for top hat illustrations and being the daughter of the Burr Tavitons wouldn’t leave her unasked. And she wasn’t like some, take marriage without the ceremony. He might have been married to her himself, not that the Dowager Taviton made any pretense about Chris McKittrick’s son being good enough for a Taviton heiress, but Geoffrey Wilhite’s stepson was a horse of another hue. He and Barby married—that was what he’d wanted for six years. But no, he’d gone junketing off four years ago with an idealistic yen to save Spaniards from other Spaniards. He spat the shower water out of his mouth; definite end to that kind of thinking. But it was healthy that he could think about it again. He dug at his shoulders with the rough towel. When he’d docked last year he couldn
’t have. When they’d shipped him out to Arizona five months ago he couldn’t have. But now he didn’t hear deformed footsteps any more.

  That was another reason to see Barby. He poured a second drink from the tray load which the dumb girl had left on his desk. One thing about Geoffrey, he bought the best brandy. The girl hadn’t brought in his bag but he didn’t need it. Plenty of clean stuff in the drawers and he’d shaved closely before arriving. It had helped to pass the hitching time of those final hours. He had to show Barby that he was a man again. He could stand up straight and his knees didn’t flap; his waistline might be thin and his stomach flat but it wasn’t the thin and flat of weakness; it was the shape of a man who’d been in the saddle under a summer sky for months. “Heigh ho, Silver,” he yodeled. The toast brown tweed his mother had ordered after his return didn’t hang like a shroud now; his shoulders filled it.

  He’d pick up Barby and they’d do the town. He would take one night off and she’d be patient until he could repeat. She hadn’t been exactly patient when he was sick last year but she would be now. He could tell her now what he’d been unable to talk of then. He could say what she had meant to him in those torturous unending days; how buried in uncleanness, he had fastened to the memory of her cleanness; how strangled by all that was ugly in spirit and flesh, remembrance of her beauty had been a talisman. He wouldn’t say it like that to her; it would sound too corny; but he could make her see it. He was cured now; he could think of Spain, mention it. Now she could know that it was only by holding fast to her that he had retained sanity and the will to live. Now she could know that he couldn’t die because he must return to her.

  He’d ask her tonight to marry him and he’d explain that he couldn’t see her for a week, maybe two. He wouldn’t tell her why; no one would know that. But she’d realize it was something important. She might even be able to give him a hint. If Louie had been playing around with a real society crowd, he’d have run into Barby Taviton. Kit had introduced them at his sickbed last year.

  He took his top coat and hat again from the foyer closet, let himself out of the apartment. The elevator man was new; elevator men were as changeable as second maids, but the same red-faced doorman of five months ago exchanged welcome with him after whistling a cab.

  The overhead sky had a look of snow above the mist red skyline. He gave the number on Fifth. The Tavitons were even too good to live on Park.

  The Taviton butler nosed him as if he were Chris McKittrick’s son. It wasn’t a personal insult; he gave everyone a glint as if they’d come up from the gutter.

  Kit didn’t want to ram the man’s teeth down his throat tonight. He was too satisfied over the nearness of Barby.

  He said, “Good evening, Johns,” just as if it hadn’t been years. “Miss Barbara?”

  “In the library, Mr. McKittrick.”

  He evaded the man’s intent to announce him; he wanted this to be surprise. He had the library door open before Johns could lay away his coat and hat. His spirits went down as fast as they’d gone up. He’d been a dope to think she’d be alone, to think he could gallop over to her apartment like a cowboy to his girl’s ranch and find her waiting around for him. Barby didn’t know she was all he had left, that she must fill the hole of friendship as well as love now; she couldn’t know how he particularly needed her tonight after Tobin’s slap-down. The room was too filled with extraneous matter of Hamiltons and Montefierrows and Benedicts and Van Rensselaers. And strangers. There were too many dress uniforms, too many white ties and fragrant shoulders, roses in winter, mixed drinks in priceless fragile glass.

  Barby cried, “Kit?” She was by the open fireplace and she was beautiful as remembered. Her corn colored hair was blown as if the wind stirred in it; her silver eyes had ebon lashes sticking out an inch; her body that a man could dream of was sheathed in furry velvet. She came across to him and the others turned at her voice. “Kit!”

  “I’m real,” he assured her.

  She had his shoulders, her chin tilted, the line of her throat not ending until the deep slash of the velvet ended, between her breasts. “Kit, darling, you’re looking marvelous!” She kissed him. He didn’t kiss her the way he wanted to, not with everyone cramming around, even the Dowager Taviton and Burr.

  There were two who didn’t join the welcomers, two men, and it was they he saw, not his friends. He saw them and he smelled the charnel house of Spain. The old one with the bald head, the shawled knees, the winter-ravaged face, didn’t move from the chair. The young one, arrogant yellow head glistening, didn’t move from his lounge on the mantelpiece. They were strangers; they watched, the old one sad; the young one amused; while Kit answered questions and kissed and clasped hands. And he watched too, over the white shoulders, around the white ties; watched until his black eyes met the bright blue eyes of the young one. He laughed louder, gayer than need be, at one of Benedict’s heavy witticisms. Because his stomach was queasy meeting those eyes; but his knees were solid and his hand firm. He’d seen Blue Eyes before or plenty of his brothers. They were piloting Messerschmitts and they were quite as daring and much more accurate than an idealistic Black Irishman in the International Brigade. He laughed loud to know that he could see one face to face without bolting in panic.

  He retained Barby’s hand. “Of course I’ll have a drink.” He followed Ab Hamilton to the table. It was Mrs. Taviton who made the introductions. “Kit—Dr. Skaas.” The old one let his lashless chocolate eyes droop in resignation. “And Otto Skaas.”

  Kit’s eyes were level with Blue Eyes, his shoulders as broad, his muscles as hard and lean. They were equals now. More than Blue Eyes could possibly know. They were equals not only because he was strong again, but because he was no longer a passionate idealist; he wasn’t even what had been a civilized man. He’d learned from them; he’d kissed the new civilization too. They could never hurt him again. He’d held out on them and he’d won.

  He didn’t know if he’d ever seen this one before. But he didn’t shake hands with him. He held the iced glass in his right hand and Barby’s fingers in his left, and he said, “How d’y do,” without turning a hair. He managed to say it pleasantly, carelessly. What was a yellow-haired, blue-eyed Bavarian doing in Barby’s library? His tails and tie were no disguise, not if you knew them as Kit had. He should have worn the oak leaf, not a blood-colored carnation.

  Barby said, “Why didn’t you phone, Kit? I could have told you to dress. We’re all on our way to the Refugee Benefit. You could join us.”

  He forgot the birdman behind them. He said, “I didn’t think to dress. Only got in this evening. I’m out of the habit—ranches aren’t fancy.” Nor prison camps.

  Everyone was talking at once but he heard only Blue Eyes’ so-British accents. Someone was explaining, “Geoffrey Wilhite is Kit’s stepfather, y’know—”

  So Geoff had met the Skaases. Geoff was another innocent like Burr Taviton; they wouldn’t recognize. More cluttering and chattering. Otto Skaas bowing over Barby. Kit didn’t have her fingers now but their remembered touch was spice against his palm and she was near enough for him to be drunk on black velvet perfume. And then Vera was saying, “Why shouldn’t Kit come with us? What if he isn’t dressed? You aren’t expected to dress when you’re traveling. The refugees certainly don’t care.” She was saying a lot of things, mostly that the Tavitons and the Benedicts and the Wilhites could go to the opening of the opera in overalls if they chose. And he was agreeing to go because he couldn’t run out the whole pack of them no matter how much he wanted solitude and Barby. It was better to join for the evening than not to see her at all. He would segregate her from this later.

  The current was twisted as they crowded into the foyer for wraps, leaving the old Skaas and the elder Tavitons to follow. He found himself swept into the Hamilton town car on Jane’s arm while Otto Skaas with insolent and lone assurance escorted Barby into the Taviton brougham beyond. He didn’t like it but he didn’t mind as much as he should. That was the drinks and
the warmth and the perfume; winter and reality were shut away decisively from these people. Besides he wasn’t worried about the stranger; he knew Barby too well for that. He did ask as if he didn’t care very much, “Who the hell is Otto Skaas?”

  Everyone answered him and it didn’t matter much who said it or what was said for they were all telling him the same thing and they all thought the question was funny and that he was asking it because Barby was his girl. But he dropped back by Ab as they stood in the first silver trickle of snow, waiting for the women to precede them under the canopy into the jewel box of the shining towered hotel. And he asked Ab, “Who the hell is Otto Skaas?”

  Ab said, “Yes, he’s too interested in Barby.” Ab didn’t like the birdman either. Ab was Kit’s friend even if Kit had fallen in love with his girl six years ago during Junior Week. Ab hadn’t changed in the years; he was still shy and serious; he still had that small apprehensive dart between his brows as if waiting a blow he knew would fall but not when. And his voice still had that hopeless warmth when he uttered Barby’s name.

  Kit said, “I want to know more than that.”

  Ab laughed but it wasn’t in amusement. There was bitterness in it as there would always be something disharmonic in his laughter. “He’s a refugee. Where have you been that you don’t know about our refugees? Have you a little refugee in your home? No? You’re not in the swim, my friend. No home complete without one. But you can’t have the Skaases. They’re the Tavitons’.”