Fallen Sparrow

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Duck peered, said, “Jeeze, that’s purty.”

  “I’d like this set as a pendant with a gold chain and ready by tonight. Know anyone who could do a good job?”

  Jake smoothed it with his thumb. He said, “Sure. And I’ll get you a Tiffany box.”

  Kit said, “Ask me to cut off my right arm for you sometime, Jake.”

  “Sure.” He was already speaking into the mouthpiece.

  Kit followed Duck. He rode behind Duck through cowed traffic to La Guardia Field. The driver pointed. “That one’s Shannon.”

  The pilot had a cherub face, a canary-colored marcel and a green silk polo shirt. He wasn’t any bigger than a jockey. He said, “I ran out the cabin plane. Jake, he don’t like being blowed around.”

  In the sky, Kit opened the letter; the warning from the dead.

  Dear Kit—

  I tried to reach you but you were out. A fellow in the department called me tonight that he has definite proof that our friends are here on false passports. He is bringing some intercepted cables of Andrassy’s to me; he says one deals with you. He didn’t explain that but I wonder if it could be connected with Spain and if perhaps you might be again in danger. This fellow—his name is Prester, I met him this afternoon but I don’t recall which one of Dantone’s clerks he was—stressed the importance of secrecy. You understand that. I wanted to let you know as I may be away longer than I planned. I’ll try to ring you up again later but if that draws a blank, I thought you’d better know this much.

  Yours,

  Ab.

  Kit read, reread until it was mimeographed on his mind. Proof of murder. Here safe in the grandeur of night and space he had time for understanding. Ab had died to let him live. Ab had accepted murder that Kit might be kept safe. He should have been beside Ab, have saved him from this. He, the strong, had left the weak unguarded, even as he had failed Louie before him. Pride in his role of the lone avenger had given Ab into their hands.

  With this letter in his hand, he was without a vestige of pride. Because he realized Ab had not done this for him alone; he had been no more than a symbol. Ab had, without physical courage, dared to go up against them that there might be less viciousness in this world, that the brutal new order should not scar that in which he believed and cherished.

  Too many blood sacrifices to the little man had gone unavenged. This one should not. Kit’s own part was the more difficult but it should not be shirked. He had imported danger because he had been young and heedless and foolhardy. Let him admit that. He had been a wild young ass who in unthinking recklessness had carried off a token which the little man had coveted. It hadn’t been for any of the high-thinking idealistic reasons in which he’d subsequently cloaked it. Let him admit that too. It had been a stunt.

  He had not known it would create death for his friends. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Even after he’d learned reality in Spain, he hadn’t realized that his act threatened anyone but himself. He knew better now.

  The Wobblefoot must die. That was Kit’s appointment. He didn’t want to kill out of hate now; that emotion of yesterday was too decimal to count in this greater pattern. That hate had been engendered by what had been done to him. He knew now that personal suffering could be endured, could be solved outside the realm of murder. But the threat to that for which Louie and Ab had died must be crushed. His friends had taught him. They had suffered for others; to insure, not the negative qualities of freedom, of safety; to insure that a way of life which produced a Content would not go under to that which had broken a Toni. That their sacrifice should not go unnoted, he would kill.

  It would solve but a small part of the danger threatened by the little man and his hosts, but that small part would be rendered null. It would be a beginning. It would remove one of the threats to the right by the wrong. He knew something else then; something he hadn’t known in his anger to Tobin. Sometimes it was necessary to do wrong for the sake of a greater right.

  Old Chris hadn’t been honest. He admitted it now. But his dishonesty had been for what he considered the greater right, to help those who were too small to help themselves. Chris had chosen. And there was, to Kit, greater courage in that choice than if he had remained true to the ideals of honesty he had held as a cop and had always preached to a small son. For his penance, he had not defended himself against the slurs on his name.

  The stigma of murder was greater than that of thief. There were rightful divine and man-made laws against murder. Yet he must kill. He too had chosen. He wasn’t afraid to commit murder. It was a vested privilege handed him by his friends.

  He could kill. In cold blood he could kill. The power was in his hand, the greater power was in his spirit. Let him not confuse the issue with regrets for other men who died. His ideals had been left behind in a prison in Spain. They were buried there with the idiot youth who believed he could conquer windmills because his heart was high.

  He could kill because he had learned well the credo of the little man and his apostles. He had learned the unimportance of a life that stood in your way. Might was right; by the strong alone was victory deserved. Only by accepting the validity of the methods of the new order could the prophets of the new order be conquered. In his own small way, he could conquer them because he accepted whole their ways. It was from what they had taught him that they would take hold of the cold stone of death. He wanted to kill.

  His fingers uncrumpled the letter. It was too valuable as evidence to destroy; it was dynamite to retain on his person. He didn’t know exactly what to do with it; he could enclose it in an envelope on arrival, post it to Tobin. On the other hand he should have it to present when he called on Dantone. He could not risk that; for the present Sidney would have to accept his rendition of the contents. But not to Tobin. Not have Ab’s final work lost in the maw of police indifference and general skepticism. He’d send it to Jake.

  Shannon was circling the airport preparatory to descent. It wasn’t quite one-thirty. Kit buttoned the letter into his vest pocket. No one knew he was on his way but someone could dream it up. And if Elise had managed a report, it might not be considered an idle dream.

  Shannon asked, “How long you gonna be here?”

  “I’ll try to make it by six.”

  Not long, not long enough, but he could return again. He wasn’t sleeping in a hotel bed. “Why don’t you meet me at the Wardman Park bar about then? Have one before we set out.” It wasn’t that he wanted a bodyguard; there wasn’t a false nerve in his body and he carried his best defense. It was only a way to get together without wasting time on calls. It was a friendly gesture.

  They stretched in the damp cold. Kit said, “Wonder if you could bum me an envelope in there?” Together they walked towards the terminal. It wasn’t that he wanted company until the sheets were off his person; an airport wasn’t a stationer’s; Shannon would have better luck than he. “I want to get an airmail off to Jake.”

  “Well, f’gossakes what for?” Shannon’s angel mug spat. “We can fly that mail quicker ourselves.”

  It hadn’t occurred to him. He laughed. “I don’t want it to go that fast.”

  It didn’t make sense but Shannon performed. He wangled the envelope. “See you’t six.”

  Kit halted him. “Wait a second. You might as well share my cab going in.” He wasn’t afraid but he’d said it, and the kid agreed, “Sure, Mike.”

  He stood there, careless as a squirrel, while Kit addressed the envelope, sealed and thumped it, coined the stamp machine, and with sure heavy footsteps clanked it into the mailbox. More than one watched him. A navy blue mother-and-daughter team, two tweed men, a crew-cropped youth—once it had been called a German haircut. They could watch; they couldn’t rob the U.S. mail.

  He wore his shoulders jauntily again. “Come on, Shannon. Know any of the cabbies?”

  Shannon might have caught on. Maybe he himself realized that Washington was webbed with spies. He didn’t wait for the question before yelling, “Hi, Joe
. Give us a lift wi’you?”

  Joe wasn’t first in the ranks.

  2.

  A blank. A miserable empty ticket. Dantone, tempered to grayness not alone from years; the gravity of the alien world pressing him. Regretful of Ab Hamilton’s suicide; determined it was a suicide.

  He said, “I don’t doubt the letter, Kit. But I doubt its genuineness. If Hamilton mailed it Wednesday night, why didn’t you have it Thursday morning?”

  He didn’t know. He hadn’t even wondered.

  “Could it not be the cheese to bait you to Washington?”

  It could be; the marrow in his bones trickled. Maybe it had been a lucky hunch he’d detained Shannon, that Joe would cruise and return for him.

  There was a Prester in the office, owl-eyed, blue-serged, beyond suspicion. Dantone was willing to check. Prester was in command of a Home Guard detachment from seven to ten on the night in question. His superior officers and members of his company approached, all vouched that he was never out of sight of fifty and more men. Not long enough to phone Ab.

  There was a leak somewhere. Ab’s purpose at the office had been known. Prester’s name borrowed.

  Dantone said, “Possibly. We can never be certain in these times. But I doubt it. My inner force isn’t large; I know my men rather well personally. They have all been with me long before Munich. But possibly.” His face was graven. “More likely a friend of a friend. If we were able to trace it that far, through casual remarks.” His eyes studied Kit’s height and breadth. “You’d get further inside the service than out. We could use a man like you in our intelligence. As you say, you possibly know more of the new order’s technique than most. Why don’t you join us, Kit?”

  Kit decided, “I will.” He wasn’t fit for service requirements; some playful things that had been done to him betrayed his nerves. Perhaps the intelligence would not be so physically adamant, not with Dantone, and Geoffrey’s intimates in Cabinet, Senate and O.P.M., vouching. He said, “Get me an application, Sidney. But you’ll have to delay action on it—for perhaps a week or so.”

  That much had come out of the interview; the application would go through with Dantone’s endorsement. One thing more had come from it.

  He had explained, “I can’t go into service until I’ve cleaned up a private matter. Ab’s murder is part of it. I expect to be able to cancel it soon, very soon. And then I want a seat on the Yankee Clipper.”

  He’d bullied; he’d coaxed. He knew Sidney Dantone, Department of Justice, could arrange it. Dantone, officially, wouldn’t care about Kit’s one small life. Dantone, officially, at a time like this couldn’t be interested in obtaining any number of fabulous treasures for the Wilhite wing. But one argument could count. If the successful termination of a Lisbon trip by Kit would likewise mean the termination of the careers of certain dangerous foreign agents, it could be arranged. The seat could be held in another name for last minute exchange, a diplomatic passport issued under a new name. It would be. It would be arranged for Wednesday’s flight, for later ones if he were not ready by then. It would be a miracle if he were able to leave that soon.

  But no path had opened towards the solution of two violent deaths, no clue that could interest the New York police or the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A blank. Kirk waited at the bar for Shannon. No elevator man, no clerk had memory of a man who wobbled when he walked.

  He saw the pilot approaching. The green shirt under the dirty leathern jacket hadn’t any idea it clashed with the interior design. The bridge of Shannon’s nose was high. Kit said, “You’ll have one?”

  “Jake don’t care if I do. Just so it’s one. Shot of Irish and a beer chaser.” He said, “Looks like you got the runaround.”

  “I did.”

  A page boy was muttering with disinterest, “Mr. McKittrick. Mr. McKittrick.”

  He beckoned. A telephone call. He frowned. Sidney could be calling the bars; he doubted it. No one else knew he was here. He put one hand on Shannon’s shoulder, one thumb in his pocket. “I’ll be right back. And don’t take any other answers.”

  “Sure, Mike. Want I should go with you?”

  Kit made a slight shake of his head. He wouldn’t be killed. He might be trapped, but not in a Wardman Park phone booth.

  He didn’t know the voice. It was young, quiet, unaccented. “My name is Southey. You don’t know me, Mr. McKittrick. I’m in Mr. Dantone’s department.”

  Were they attempting to repeat the same plan? But they didn’t know he had knowledge of the plan; they didn’t know of Ab’s letter, or if they did, they had no knowledge of its contents. Perhaps it was that; they were attempting to find out those contents, to ascertain if Ab had spilled those plans. If Kit was wary, he had knowledge. Or it could be mere unimaginative repetition.

  He asked with the right interest, “Yes?”

  “I understand you were making inquiries today about Abner Hamilton. I think I have some information that would interest you. Mr. Hamilton and I had a long conference Wednesday afternoon.”

  There would be a Mr. Southey in the Department of Justice and he would have been closeted at the White House from five to midnight.

  “Could I drop around to see you after dinner?”

  Kit said, “I’m awfully sorry. I’ve planned to spend the evening at Senator Truesdale’s in conference with him and Mr. Dantone. Why don’t you phone me here in the morning? We might make lunch.”

  He didn’t think the fellow suspected. Even if Kit had been spotted at the airport with the canary and re-identified at the hotel now by Shannon’s entrance, his excuse reeked his sincere regrets. He returned to the bar. Shannon was observing a blue-haired, blue-white-diamonded dowager as if she were an auk. Kit said, “Let’s find Joe. Better to get going.” He had no time to waste on the Wobblefoot’s stooges; it was the man himself he must smoke out.

  A cab slid to the awning with harrowing swiftness. He didn’t like the rat teeth on the fellow. He said, “We have a cab.” He liked Joe’s ordinary dirty face turning the corner. Kit sprinted towards him, Shannon at his shoulder.

  The pilot asked, “Wrong number?”

  “Maybe so.”

  He followed Shannon’s heels to the hangar. And he asked, “Any danger of tampering with your plane?”

  The cherub scowled. “It’s Jake’s plane. He don’t take tampers.”

  The mechanics who helped wheel it out had the rubber stamp of Jake’s men. Decidedly illiterate and decidedly reassuring.

  3.

  The phone carried his ingratiation, not his set jaw. “I know it’s late to be calling.” They’d landed after eight, but he’d spent more than an hour getting to Jake’s, saying thank you. “You couldn’t join me, could you?”

  Toni was hesitant. Waiting for sideline coaching.

  “I’m at Number Fifty. Haven’t eaten yet. Would you be an angel?” He chortled. “You know I hate to eat alone.”

  She said, “Hold the wire one moment.”

  A real consultation now. The Prince would make her come. She wouldn’t want to but she’d follow orders.

  She returned. “There are guests here. Barby Taviton and Otto.”

  “Swell.” He put a punch in it. “Barby likes lights and music. See if they won’t bring you along. Let me talk to Otto. I’ll fix it.”

  She didn’t. She said, “We’ll come.”

  That made it good. He’d drink too much, present the moonstone publicly with gestures, watch. He said, “Jake, I want a ringside table for four. Dinner for me. Supper for the others. And tell Cerberus I haven’t time to change to dinner clothes.”

  He washed up, waited at the door. They could smell the one drink on his breath, conjure a dozen. He’d been right. Toni didn’t like this. Her ivory face and crimson velvet were sombre. Barby, lacquered in lipstick and flaming silk; Otto, in arrogance, were too sure of themselves. The gift for Toni for separate reasons would shatter that surety.

  Kit was noisy. “Sure glad to catch you, Otto. You were just the fell
ow I wanted to see. I ran down to Washington today.” He scowled with portent as if spying ears protruded from the walls. “On that business we talked of.” Shrugged. “Drew a blank. Abs’lute blank. There’s nothing to find out.”

  Barby began, “But Kit—” She was anxious; she knew it for murder.

  “You must be wrong, beautiful.” He fondled her hand, her useless hand. “It was suicide.”

  Toni was sad. For his stupidity? For Ab? Her eyes recalled another meeting; grimly he faced it. Toni had known of Ab’s death before it came into print. She had rushed to Det with the news on Thursday afternoon. Sometime before his arrival on Riverside that night, she had passed the information on. That sadness lay on both women that night. Where did Toni belong in this?

  The answer to that couldn’t change his plans. Whatever she might be doing on the side, she was following orders in meeting him. Quite obviously his company wasn’t choice to her. He let the drinks visibly affect him; he might have been in an alcoholic fog. He pretended not to catch Content’s gimlet underglance, José’s stiletto outglance, even while he applauded vociferously their turn. He waited until Barby and Otto were dancing before struggling with the box in his pocket. He shoved it to Toni. “This is for you.”

  She touched it with one tentative finger. “For me?”

  “Yeah.” His words slurred. “Just a little thing I picked up. Reminded me of you.”

  Slowly, uncertainly, she raised the lid. Even the ivory faded from her cheeks. “No—no—” She covered it again with tremulous fingers, urged it back to him. Her eyes were quick on the dancers, the waiters, the stage. The pupils throbbed with danger.

  He protested, “Aw, Toni. You’ve got to take it.” He kept forcing it upon her. “I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known. I want you to have it. Put it on. I want you to wear it for me, Toni. I—”

  There was nearness to hysteria in her sharp. “No!”