Fallen Sparrow

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Kit didn’t linger for the baked meats. He returned to Riverside. There was no other place he wanted to go. They would be alone. She was sitting by the window now, just sitting there. The opal hung heavy as the albatross about her throat.

  She looked up. “It’s over?”

  “It’s over.”

  She asked, “What happened to your head?”

  He felt it. “I fell.” He waited, said, “Elise said so.”

  The recognition was so slight it might be imagined.

  “Was she a good maid?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She worked for your grandfather.”

  She looked out the window. “She told you that?”

  “That is her reference. She said so. Who is her brother?”

  “I do not know her.”

  He persisted. “She comes here. Who is her brother?”

  “I do not know.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. She cried, “Why don’t you ask the Prince?”

  He turned away. He said deliberately, “I will. I am waiting to be summoned—by royal command.” He would be. When they were ready. They didn’t know that he was ready and waiting for them. Through the Prince, he would face the Wobblefoot. He didn’t believe the Prince was the Wobblefoot. But all threads wound to this shabby substitute palace.

  He swung back to Toni. “You knew of Ab’s death Thursday, didn’t you? You needn’t bother to deny it, I know.”

  She was leaden. “II you know, why ask?”

  “Who told you?”

  “José.”

  He didn’t have to ask who told José. He knew. The murderer when he returned from Washington on Wednesday night. His heart spoke again. “Toni, you don’t like this, do you?” He sat on the table edge. He didn’t touch her.

  “Like it?” The pent up grieving over it flooded her eyes.

  “You don’t have to be in it, Toni. I’d like—I’d like to take you out of it.”

  She just looked at him. He might have looked that way at a moth believing it could wing to the white moon.

  He said, “I mean that, Toni. I mean it with all my heart.” He was rueful. “You might even learn to like me after a while.”

  Her smile touched and fled. “That has nothing to do with it. I appreciate your wish but it cannot be.” She lifted the pendant. “You will take this now? Its work has been done.”

  He refused it. “I really want you to have it. If ever I want it back, I’ll ask for it.” He didn’t wait for her grandfather to return. He didn’t want an accidental meeting; he preferred the summons.

  He was still without purpose. The net hadn’t been cast yet. He might as well go back to the apartment. He might steal a little rest. He let Elise admit him. “Tell Lotte I’d like lunch.” The girl didn’t appear to have any recollection of the early morning disturbance. Her face was as stupid as on the day he’d arrived.

  He went to his own room. Content was sitting in the chair, her hands clenched in her lap. She eyed him with hate, struck, “So you’ve given up on Ab’s killer?”

  He was taken back before recalling his remarks in simulated drunkenness last night. They had been repeated to her. She should have credited him with some strategy. “For God’s sake, Content,” he began.

  She struck again. “I thought you would. You’re like all the rest of Park Avenue. You don’t want to know any truths that might disturb the comfort of your daily life. You don’t want to soil your hands or stub your toe. Let sleeping dogs lie. You haven’t even done anything to get at what happened to Louie. I thought you might be different but you’re just the same as all of us.”

  He was angry. He wanted to shake her until the teeth rattled in her silly head. Any other day and he would. But her fury had been generated, if unconsciously, to war on the sorrow bottled within her.

  He said evenly, “What did you want me to do?”

  She was weary. “What does it matter?”

  “Did you want me to exterminate one by one everyone at Det’s that night, including yourself?”

  “Do you think so many would have to be exterminated?”

  He raised his voice. “What good is my thinking? I wasn’t there. I was two thousand miles away in Arizona. You were on the ground. What help have you given me at getting anywhere?”

  “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “Det’s told me the same story. And Toni. And Barby. And Otto. Maybe there’s nothing else in it.”

  She was skillfully cruel. “Maybe you’ve lost your imagination along with your nerve.”

  He wanted to deny it; he couldn’t. For all his self-protestations, he hadn’t faced the test yet. He said coldly, “Suppose I borrow yours. What might I imagine?”

  Elise spoke at the doorway. “Luncheon is served.”

  They followed her to the dining-room. It was like being married, postponing continuance of the quarrel until the servants were out of earshot. Elise could be listening from the kitchen doorway but not with Lotte there, and neither Elise nor a cannery had created this Scotch broth.

  Content spoke quietly. “I might imagine that a glass of wine could be deliberately spilled. Do you know the name of the waiter in that convenient accident? I do. I even have his address in my date book. No, I didn’t do all the leg work it would take, hotel and agency, and long list of men. Ab was working on Louie’s death too.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I urged you—that night you came to the club.” Her mouth was calculating. “I was interested to learn if finding Louie’s murderer really meant anything to you or if you’d pass it off casually the way you have.”

  “Go on.”

  “Did you ever locate the room where Otto changed his shirt? Do you know whether it faced on a court or on Fifty-fifth or on Fifth? Have you bullied Tobin into letting you see the police record for that night?”

  He’d let the latter slide. They held truce until Elise had changed the plates, placed the omelette, the mixed greens.

  “Are you so afraid you’ll find that wobble-footed man you say you’re looking for that you’ve been careful not to take any chances?”

  Maybe she was right. He didn’t think so, but maybe that was it. It was too late to run now. With the opal out of hiding, he couldn’t escape the meeting. But while he waited for the invitation, he could make up for his lack of imagination. And there was no reason to endure the unwavering scorn pouring from Content.

  He laid his palms flat on the table. “Have you had your say?”

  She flickered to aliveness at the change in his voice.

  “Now I’ll have mine. Maybe I’ve been a dope. You say so. But I haven’t been sitting still.” He didn’t hold this from Elise’s ears. Let her carry this back. The quicker things broke now, the better. “Yesterday morning I had a letter from Ab. I should have had it Thursday. I don’t know who held it out. Who read it.”

  “I want to see it.”

  “You can’t. It’s safe until I want it again. I’ll tell you what was in it.”

  The maid was deliberate with the crumb tray. He said, “Bring the coffee, Elise.” She went with regret.

  “It gives the name of the man who lured Ab to his death. It connects him with me. Unfortunately that name was borrowed. Sidney Dantone thinks the letter is as phony as the lure was. It’s possible.”

  Elise was in the room again.

  “There have been other forgeries in this business. I didn’t find out anything in Washington but I didn’t entirely waste time. Sidney is enrolling me in the F.B.I. My orders should come through in a few days. I’ll have authority to act then.” Let her repeat that; that would speed their move.

  He spooned the sour lemon whip until the swinging door was again closed. “Furthermore the same trick that took Ab in was tried on me. I didn’t bite. I didn’t want to waste ammunition. And for your private information, I wasn’t spilling this last night for obvious reasons, viz to wit: Otto, Barby, José.”

  She said, “I apologize, Ki
t.”

  “You needn’t. I don’t blame you. You might give me that address you spoke of.” They returned to his room.

  She took from her hand bag the small red leather book; he made a note of the consonantal name, the unsavory numerals in the West Thirties. He asked, “Did Ab find this fellow?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  He tucked the scrap of paper in his vest pocket. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. Make yourself at home.” He tried to be casual as possible. “Are you going to sleep here tonight or at José’s?”

  She was white. When she made words come, they said, “I was at my father’s home last night.”

  He couldn’t apologize for that. He should have known better.

  2.

  “The George.”

  It looked as if Duck passed Elise, skirting the corner. She could make a comeback with what he’d put out for her at lunch. He didn’t expect to find Det in but he phoned up, heard her voice. She received him by the fire, keeping her swollen face turned away. She’d known Ab since he was a small lorn boy.

  He said without preliminary, “Why did the Skaases leave this hotel?”

  She was long in answering. “They wanted to live near Prince Felix.”

  “Did they tell you that?”

  Again she struggled for words. “I was present when he asked Dr. Skaas to move to his apartment house.”

  He spoke quietly, “I want to see the rooms they occupied here, in particular the one where Otto changed his shirt. Could you arrange it with the management?”

  “I believe so, Kit. I have lived here many years.” Her voice faltered but her step to the phone was firm. They sat in silence awaiting the manager. He was as time-gray, as conservative as The George.

  He used his passkey. He said, “These rooms have not been occupied since the accident.”

  No suite. Two bedrooms. A connecting door.

  “This is above the Duchess’ library?”

  “Yes.”

  “This was Otto Skaas’ room at the time?”

  He’d answered these questions before. “No. This was the room of Dr. Skaas.”

  Louie, looking for evidence in the Doctor’s room. Otto cued to change an evening shirt. The connecting door.

  Kit asked, “Do you know—was there an inquiry about Lieutenant Lepetino using the elevator to go up from the party?”

  The manager said, “He didn’t use the elevator.” This too had been asked. “But then, it is only a flight. The staircase faces this corner room.”

  That was all. He thanked, returned alone to Det.

  “Why wasn’t Prince Felix at your party that night?”

  She said, “He is an old man. He does not go—”

  He interrupted. “He went out today.”

  “Only because of his long friendship with the Hamiltons.” Or to gloat over success.

  He said, “I want to talk about Toni.”

  She was guarded.

  “She told you about Ab’s death before it was known.”

  “She had nothing to do with it, Kit.”

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly.

  “Kit.” Her hands trembled. She didn’t know what to say. “Kit, I’d perjure myself to save Toni. But this is true. She had nothing to do with these deaths. She—” Det felt for words. “There is a hold over her which forces her to do some things which of her own volition she would not do. But she had nothing to do with the death of Louie or of Ab. I know this because in both cases she came to me. She was as horrified and as broken over them as I.”

  “She knows who killed them.”

  “No. She knows these deaths must have been ordered. But who carried the orders out, she does not know. The organization wouldn’t risk her pointing a finger by mistake. She does not believe in their ways.”

  “How well do you know her grandfather?”

  She closed her eyes. “Once when he was strong and I was weak, he helped me. I try now to repay. Perhaps he is foolish—the old ones are often foolish—but he could not be harmful. He is too feeble for intrigue now.” She came close to him. “Kit, what was in your face when you saw the Babylon goblets?”

  He was gentle. “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  He searched her eyes. There was anxiety there, even fear, but no dishonesty. He stated, “Those weren’t the Babylon goblets.” He said to her disbelief, “You see, I know where the true ones are.”

  She quivered slowly.

  “That is why I am being hunted. You know that I am being hunted?”

  She barely nodded.

  “Toni has told you that. It is because a certain little man wants the Babylon goblets. And I don’t want him to have them.”

  She was sibilant. “It’s dangerous, Kit.”

  “Yes.” His jaw was solid. “But there are worse things than danger. That is why I am going to put an end to those who have been sent after them.”

  She warned, “Be careful, Kit.”

  “Even if I lose, as Louie and Ab lost, I still win. He won’t get the cups. But I don’t intend to fail. The strong win.” He’d learned well. Brute strength, brute morality always won.

  She cried out, “You can’t touch Toni. I won’t let her suffer. She’s suffered enough.”

  “I won’t hurt her.”

  “I’ve seen your face on Chris. When he stormed for righteousness. He didn’t have any human feeling then.”

  He repeated, “I won’t hurt her.” He walked out.

  The wind had shifted, bringing waves of stinging sleet. Kit pulled down his hat brim, turned up his overcoat collar. He’d look into the Thirties next. He couldn’t go back to Toni; she needed help but she’d refused his.

  He didn’t see Duck. The storm had placed a premium on cabs; his must have been requisitioned. A part of orders was to cause no comment. He couldn’t just stand here; there was too much to be done and time was waning. He knew that an end of his unrestricted movements would be soon.

  He set out on foot to cover the long blocks towards the Broadway subway; if he could catch a cab, good; if not, the subway would take him there with more safety if not more speed. Taxis, empty taxis, were a vanished commodity; the occupied ones were a nonmoving phalanx on the side street. Wet and cold, Kit paced on. The short subway ride neither warmed nor dried him. He emerged to sleet turned rain, soggy, spongy rain. He stood there under the puddled shelter dreading the step again onto the street, hopeless of finding a cab here further downtown, realizing too well that the number Content had given would be as far across as Tenth Avenue, It wasn’t too far to walk but it would be an ordeal. Conscious of footsteps, unconsciously he realized the man behind him had also paused, not at the head of the stairs, but halfway below. He glanced over his shoulder as he stepped into the rain. He had turned at the right moment, the match flare in the grayness profiled Pierre.

  Kit halted, then set out with long strides. Duck had been trailed from Park Avenue. He himself had been easy to follow from The George. He had to elude this fellow; wading through the dirty pools of rain he regretted angrily the impatience that had kept him from waiting for his cab. He didn’t want this side trip known, not until it was completed. He didn’t want them to know whom he sought. He could hear the wet slapping steps following, presumably far enough behind not to arouse his suspicions. The enemy detail didn’t think much of his powers of discernment. No wonder. They’d have been able to trail him all over town save for that moment of flinching from the rain.

  The streets were growing meaner; it wasn’t yet five but the heavy clouded sky, the undeviating fall of rain, had brought early twilight. Passersby were scarce, but he was not alone. It struck him then, raw as the wet wind. A trap. Kit McKittrick, the gullible fool. He’d trusted Content unwaveringly. Because she was a Hamilton. Because he’d known her when she was a poor little rich girl. Damned fool. He knew she was an excitement eater. What better diet now than playing the enemy’s game against her own kind. He’d been suspicious of Barby because she kne
w Otto Skaas too well. He’d let Content hoodwink him although she knew José fully as well. She knew how to do it, little pricks against the violinist, against everyone connected with the affair. Her grief over Ab hadn’t been feigned; he did not belong in this, and she hadn’t expected him to die. But Kit was nothing to her; he was the gullible idiot that had moved her into his apartment, consulted her about his plans, asked her advice. Toni wasn’t the only woman they had to give the cue; was this the end? He didn’t want it to be; he wasn’t ready; he hadn’t expected it from this source. He wouldn’t bite on it now. He must throw off Pierre.

  The neon sign of a corner saloon wavered through the gloom. Heavy curtained windows. A drink. He needed a drink. Pierre could stand out in the wet and envision him warming the pit of his stomach. Better to think it over at a bar. He must be getting dangerously near the rendezvous.

  He ordered a straight one. It barely pierced the clamminess. He took another. The liquor wasn’t good but it was hot. He saw the phone. “May I use it?”

  The bartender nodded. “Go ahead.”

  He reached Jake. “Duck checked in?”

  “He’s here blubbering. A cop made him move on. He thinks he’s lost you for good.”

  Kit spoke under his cupped hand. “Have him get down to this address right away.” He repeated it. “If I don’t come out in an hour, get on it.” He spelled the unpronounceable name.

  He had to throw off the tail before meeting Duck. He stepped to the door, peered out. There was a shadow. He announced, “Still pouring cats and dogs.” He went back to the bar. “Gents’ room?”

  The bartender jerked his thumb. There’d be a window somewhere in back. Kit pulled on the light in the designated cubbyhole. It was combination lavatory, broom closet, wardrobe, storeroom. There was a good sized window. He scraped off a bit of the soap; too dark to see what was outside. He wouldn’t venture forth another day without the flashlight. He doused the overhead, silently wrestled the window. It wouldn’t open without sound. He flushed the toilet as he wrenched it wide. An alley. Cautiously he stuck his nose into the air, one eye. No watcher. Pierre was still in front in the rain, waiting for him to emerge.