Kane sighed into the telephone. "I don't really know, Lieutenant. At least he's never done anything antisocial, to my knowledge. Knows a lot of people. Could be a bookie, I suppose, but frankly I've never seen him up to anything suspicious. Gets around a lot, now that you mention it. Nice, polite, bright-eyed guy. Neat and sociable."
"Mmmm," murmured Pruden, and decided he would ask for a tail on Mr. Carlos Torres just to see where his getting around took him.
Twenty-four hours later, by Monday night, Pruden had a neat list on what Carlos Torres had done with his Sabbath evening and with the first day of the new week. It was an interesting list: Kane was right, the young man got around. His tail had picked him up at four-thirty on Sunday when he was walking with a girl named Esperita. He'd returned the girl to her house and stopped at the Hy-Grade Laundry, where overtime was going on in the rear section. He'd had dinner at the Grand Hotel, a decent place on Seventh Street where he lived in a rented room on the ground floor. While he'd been eating a man had stopped to talk to him for fifteen minutes, followed by another, who had coffee with him. Then Carlos had picked up another girl-a blonde this time named Carol-and had taken her to a movie. After that he'd strolled up to a shop at 1023 Broad Street, gone down an alley next to the shop, knocked on a door and gone inside. One hour later he returned to his hotel. His lights had gone out at midnight.
In the morning he'd taken the subway to the Dell section, where he'd gone to a business building and entered the offices of one Harold Robichaud, Amusement Enterprises, Inc. He'd then gone on to the office of a John Tortorelli, attorney-at-law, also in the Dell section, and at noon was back at 1023 Broad Street again, this time entering the shop (The Bazaar Curio Shop, Everything Bizarre) by the front door. After another visit to Hy-Grade Laundry he was now at the Caballeros Social Club again, this time with a redhead named Marcia.
Bookie? thought Pruden. Messenger? Go-between? Wheeler-dealer? The name of Tortorelli was vaguely familiar. He asked for a rundown on Harold Robichaud and John Tortorelli and decided to pay a visit to 1023 Broad Street, which was one item on the list he could check out immediately.
He found the Bazaar Curio Shop a shabby but perfectly respectable little shop; in fact he'd noticed it a number of times in passing because of the carved masks displayed in a window. One window held rather good-quality secondhand books-Pruden guessed that this had been the shop's original purpose-while the right-hand window contained masks and figurines as well as a small assortment of necklaces and rings from Africa and the Orient. Small gold-leaf letters on the door announced that R. Ramon was the proprietor.
Pruden walked inside and nodded to the man who glanced up from a ledger at the counter. There was no one else in the shop. "Good morning," said Pruden.
"Morning, sir." The voice was courteous and pleasing to the ear. "Please feel free to browse, but if there's anything you wish-" He left the rest unspoken.
As he thanked the man and turned toward the masks, Pruden gave his face a quick glance and filed it away in his memory. It was a singularly homely face, he thought, yet not a unpleasant one: wire spectacles with very thick lenses, a thin wide mouth, receding chin, and receding hairline. He looked strangely like a frog with extended, magnified eyes, and in some odd way he appeared very much at home among the bizarre and the exotic, like a highly glazed, porcelain gargoyle set down among the other oddities. As Pruden examined masks, his back to the counter, he could feel the man watching him. He turned and said briskly, "Have you a card? I'm completely lost among all this but I've an uncle who collects this sort of thing. He'd go mad here."
"Oh, one hopes not," said the man gently. "Yes, I've cards." He indicated a neat stack of them beside his cash register and Pruden walked over and took one. "And you're Mr. Ramon?" he asked, reading it.
"Yes."
Pruden nodded, tucked the card in his pocket, and turned toward the books, running a finger casually over their spines like a man trying to memorize titles for a nonexistent uncle. Many of them dealt with the occult but there were also musty volumes on colonial history, herbs, theology, and American Indians. With a final nod he walked out of the store, closed the door behind him and continued up the street. So much for that, he thought, and walked back to headquarters to see what might have turned up on Robichaud and Tortorelli.
He need not have worried: there was plenty, all of it very interesting indeed.
An hour later, after digesting the reports brought to him, Pruden walked into his superior's office with a puzzled frown. He said, "Look, have there been any signs lately that the Syndicate might be moving into the Puerto Rican section in Trafton?"
Startled, the Chief said, "What have you come up with?"
"Some interesting coincidences."
His superior sighed. "That's how it usually starts: whispers, echoes, rumors and coincidences. I don't know why the hell they'd want to move in on Fifth Street, though, they had a rough enough time getting into the black section. At least five of their men turned up in alleys with knives in their backs and they ended up making a deal with Bones Jackson, didn't they?"
"Maybe they learned something," said Pruden. "Maybe they're going about this in a different way, staying out and letting Puerto Ricans take over." He slipped two sheets of paper on the Chief's desk. "I had a tail put on one Carlos Torres yesterday, for reasons so microscopic it would be embarrassing to explain, but damned if he doesn't seem to be leading me into Syndicate territory. I may be wrong but I think something's up."
He sat down and watched the Chief's face and was not surprised to see it change when he reached the second paragraph. "Tortorelli! He's certainly Syndicate-their best lawyer. And Robichaud . . ." He scowled. "That name rings a bell."
Pruden nodded. "You'll find him on the next page. You remember the ice-cream-truck war in the Dell section two years ago? The original distributors lost the battle, filed for bankruptcy, and Robichaud Amusement Enterprises very kindly came along, bought them out, and took over the Mr. Freezee business there."
The Chief whistled softly. "And I see that Tortorelli handled the purchase. We suspected the Syndicate connection but this Tortorelli involvement was kept damned quiet."
Pruden nodded. "Some crusading news reporter uncovered it a year ago when doing a piece on Tortorelli."
"How does this Carlos Torres fit into this?"
Pruden hesitated. "An ice-cream vendor here in Trafton died ten days ago under strange circumstances. A Jack Frost vendor. Puerto Rican, no enemies. Now his brother, who also owns a Jack Frost ice-cream truck, isn't expected to live out the week."
The Chief's brows shot up. "But he's still alive? What does he say? You've talked to him?"
"He's-uh-unconscious," said Pruden. "However, the only person to visit him at the time was Carlos Torres, which is why I had a tail put on him."
The Chief sat back, eyes narrowed in thought. "And he visits Tortorelli and Robichaud Enterprises . . . What about the Hy-Grade Laundry?"
"I'm asking around."
The Chief nodded. "I don't like the sound of it, frankly. You'd better turn over whatever else you're working on to Benson. Go after this full-time and let me know what you need."
"I could certainly use Swope if he's available," said Pruden.
"You've got him. Anything else?"
Pruden stood up and walked to the door and then with one hand on the knob he suddenly grinned, a sense of mischief overtaking him. "Well, I wouldn't mind hearing that a certain willow tree on Third Street-that ought to be a banana tree-has shriveled up and died." He went out, gently closing the door behind him.
Chapter 10
Leaving headquarters at five o'clock that same day, Pruden hesitated on the step and then instead of climbing into his car he turned left and began walking toward Eighth Street. He found Madame Karitska at home, with Gavin curled up on her couch with his homework.
"My dear Lieutenant," said Madame Karitska, "you look badly in need of coffee. Nothing so anemic as your American brew but something
to fortify you. I will also prepare you a cucumber sandwich."
"Aren't you supposed to be at St. Bonaventure's?" Pruden asked, throwing himself into the chair opposite Gavin.
The boy grinned. "It's okay. I came over to see Madame Karitska on Saturday but she wasn't here, so the school said I could come tonight instead. Now that I'm an orphan, you know, they give me special privileges."
"Which of course you refuse," Pruden said with a smile.
"Not if I can help it," grinned Gavin. "Have you found out who killed Arturo yet, and made Luis sick? Madame Karitska's been explaining why she wasn't here Saturday when I came."
"No, but I've been finding out a hell of a-excuse me, a heck of a lot of other things."
"Such as what, may I ask?" said Madame Karitska, returning from the kitchen with a tray.
"Well, for one thing," confessed Pruden, "I have to swallow my considerable pride and admit this isn't the small neighborhood affair I thought it would be last Saturday night. My apologies to you," he added, picking up a sandwich, "but I honestly didn't think it would amount to more than an ex-boy friend of Maria's, or a neighbor who was jealous of Arturo's success. Now it looks like the biggest case I've tackled yet. The Syndicate appears to be involved somehow."
"The Syndicate! Holy cow!" said Gavin, eyes widening. "You know about the Syndicate, don't you, Madame Karitska?"
She seated herself on the couch beside Gavin and inserted a cigarette into a long holder. "It is, I believe, very organized crime?"
"Very organized crime," Pruden said dryly. "And not, I might add, a group that usually dabbles in voodoo. We've been working our tails off today and it looks as if for some reason they're after the Jack Frost ice-cream business here in Trafton."
Madame Karitska laughed. "What a strange thing to be after!"
He nodded. "Both Arturo and Luis drove ice-cream trucks, remember? Here, look at the facts," he said, and brought from his pocket a condensed list of Carlos Torres' activities. Handing it to Madame Karitska he said, "Two years ago in the Dell section there was what came to be known in the media as the 'ice-cream war.' One of the vendors was kidnapped and then released, three ice-cream trucks were bombed on the streets, and the Mr. Freezee garages broken into and expensive machinery stolen or destroyed. This went on for six or eight weeks and then suddenly stopped."
"You were not told why?" asked Madame Karitska.
"No, but one looks for patterns. In this case shortly after the turbulence ended the Mr. Freezee distributorship was taken over by Harold Robichaud of Amusement Enterprises. We know nothing about him except that he bought it, but about the attorney who handled the purchase we know a great deal. His name is John Tortorelli and he's a Syndicate man."
Madame Karitska frowned. "But you are speaking of the past, of something that happened two years ago."
"Yes, but we begin to suspect the scenario is about to be repeated."
"And this Carlos Torres?" asked Madame Karitska, glancing through the memo. "Who is this Carlos Torres?"
"He paid a call on Luis twelve hours before Luis took to his bed. In fact he was the only stranger who ever paid a call on Mendez. He lives just off Fifth Street and he's Puerto Rican."
"Ah," murmured Madame Karitska. "A link-I see . . . and he led you to these others? But this Tortorelli and Robichaud . . . do they seem to you the sort of men learned in voodoo?"
Pruden laughed. "Absolutely not, but we'll get to that eventually."
"This Carlos Torres then, perhaps he would kill by voodoo?"
"Carlos?" He shook his head. "Not likely."
Madame Karitska said with a hint of exasperation in her voice, "You are no longer investigating what has happened to the Mendez brothers, then?"
Pruden sighed. "Look, you're missing the point. This has broadened into Syndicate stuff. It's big, bigger than the Mendez brothers. It could turn into the biggest case I've uncovered."
She said gently, "On the contrary, I think you are missing the point, Lieutenant. You speak of patterns and scenarios and what took place two years ago but you do not see that suddenly a very original mind has become involved now. The past is not repeating itself. You speak of bombings and kidnappings, but someone has entered the picture who side-steps physical violence. Now there is violence against the spirit. One cannot help admire the originality, do you not agree? The perfect crime."
"You keep saying that," he said crossly, and gave her a resentful glance. He was tired and he had expected approval, even admiration; instead she insisted on returning him to Luis Mendez, who was only a link to something greater.
"You do not feel," she went on crisply, "that the mind of a man who could conceive of such a murder is infinitely more subtle, infinitely more sophisticated and dangerous than your Syndicate criminal?"
"We're only starting," be pointed out defensively. "It'll all unwind like a spool of thread. Luis is still alive, isn't he?"
"Yes," she said, "but so is the willow tree, and gives every evidence of remaining alive. Why do you believe they want the Jack Frost ice-cream business, or any ice-cream business?"
"We don't know yet but we'll find out."
"This Ramon," Madame Karitska said, glancing at the list. "You have looked into him too?"
"Oh yes. No record. Clean as a whistle," said Pruden, and was glad to have the subject changed. "I visited his shop first thing this morning."
"Yes?"
"You'd love it," he told her with a smile. "Books on the supernatural, books on haunted houses. Some spectacular handcarved masks from Africa and South America."
"Hey, I'd love to have one of those," Gavin said eagerly. "Could you take me on Saturday, Madame Karitska? The kids would get a real bang out of something wild hanging on our dorm wall."
She smiled at him. "I will take you on Saturday, yes, but I think I may stop in there tomorrow to first make certain it is-how do you say?-okay for a young boy?"
"She's tough," Gavin said to Pruden, nodding. "She doesn't want me to know about porno and all that."
"She's not tough, she's cagey," said Pruden, finishing his coffee and standing up. "She'll walk in and check out Mr. Ramon for you, admire the ring he's wearing, ask to hold it, and tell us later what he eats every day for breakfast."
But it was not a ring that Madame Karitska succeeded in holding when she visited the Bazaar Curio Shop on Tuesday afternoon; it was a fountain pen, and it was only with considerable finesse that she managed this. When she arrived at the shop there were already several customers there, and Madame Karitska moved quietly among the books, from time to time glancing covertly at the man behind the counter. A strange little man, she thought. He gave every evidence of being amiable but she came to the conclusion that of all the masks on display in the shop, his was the most formidable. In the meantime she waited, and when the others had gone she moved toward the counter carrying a copy of Crowley's Magick in Theory and Practice. She had moved quietly and Ramon's back was turned. She reached for the pen he had been writing with and it was in her hand when he turned and looked at her. Their glances met and locked, and Madame Karitska found it necessary to steady herself against the counter.
He said softly, "You will put down my pen."
She placed the pen back on the counter.
"Thank you," he said and with an amused glance at the book in her hand he said, "Aleister Crowley, I see . . . . You're interested in black magic, perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
But he had lost interest, and his mask was back again. "It will be seven-fifty, please," he said.
She paid him, took the book, and walked out, her heart beating very quickly. She felt curiously drained of energy, as if recovering from a bout of fever that had left her nerves trembling and her body weak. She went at once to a telephone booth and dialed Pruden's number. When he answered she said, "Lieutenant, I think you should-I think you must-check out Mr. Ramon again."
"Is this Madame Karitska?" he said. "Your voice sounds changed. Look, I'm in the middle of a conference b
ut if you can explain-"
A wave of nausea swept her; she dropped the receiver and stumbled outside, Pruden's voice following her through the open door. Outside she stood drawing in deep breaths of air, her hands trembling as she clung to the door for support. It was necessary for her to remain there several minutes before she felt well enough to return the receiver of the phone to its hook and to begin her walk back to Eighth Street.
Pruden found Madame Karitska's call frustrating, coming as it did in the middle of a planning session with the Chief, Swope, Benson, and a man named Callahan. He said, "Excuse me a minute," and called Madame Karitska back at her apartment, but when there was no answer he hung up and turned back to the others. "All right, tell me what you found out about the Hy-Grade Laundry," he asked Swope.
"Something very interesting."
"Let's hear it."
"Right." Swope picked up his reading glasses and put them on. "Back in November of last year there was an explosion at the laundry."
"Bomb?"
"No, the investigators traced it to a boiler, but the odd thing is that the owners sold out after it happened, and rather fast. It wasn't a bomb, it was a boiler blowing up and yet they sold."
"Sabotage?"
"It has that smell," said Swope. "A boiler doesn't need a bomb to blow it up-there are a dozen things you can do to accomplish the same thing-but in any case they sold. Now it's under new management, a family named Torres, and guess who the youngest son is."
Pruden felt a prickling of excitement. "Carlos?"
"You've just won the box of Crackerjack. And," he added, "the attorney who handled the purchase was John Tortorelli."
"Good Lord," said Pruden. "The Syndicate is moving in."
"Looks like it. Same pattern."
"I don't get it," said Callahan, baffled. ""The Syndicate goes where the money is, and I wouldn't have thought there was anything to tempt them around Fifth Street. Of course there's crime there-gambling, drugs, prostitution, numbers-but it's all smalltime, petty. Nothing worth organizing."
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