The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel

by Chris Holcombe

  Dash shrugged. Oh, why not? He just had a gun pointed at him. “Gin for me.”

  Tyler pointed to the weapon. “I apologize for this.” He then laid the gun on the top surface of the stacked three accent tables. “I actually don’t know how to use the blasted thing.”

  Joe asked, “Then why do ya have it, lad?”

  A jaded look. “Have you seen this city lately? I’m surprised you two don’t have one, given the roughness of your neighborhood. Bohemia isn’t exactly where the cream lives, though I mean no offense.”

  Tyler went over to the drink cart holding various bottles of liquor. He set out three empty glasses. He spoke over his shoulder as he selected the bottles: one whiskey, one gin.

  “How did you learn about Karl?”

  Dash noticed his voice was less rough and less forced, his cadence relaxing into the vamp-ish style of inverted men when they’re in the company of each other. He replied, “His brother told us.”

  “You met the infamous Walter. What did you think?”

  “A bloody no-good bluenose,” Joe growled.

  Tyler turned. “That about sums it up.” He nodded towards Joe. “On the rocks?”

  Joe replied that was fine.

  Tyler turned back around and added a few ice cubes to the whiskey glasses. “Not to be morbid, but how did Mr. Müller meet his demise?”

  Joe replied, “A bloke strangled him in the Park.”

  “Central Park?” Tyler gave a theatrical shudder as he corked the bottle of whiskey. “Terrible way to go. A trick gone bad then. I’ll bet his brother is furious about the scandal.”

  “Aye, that he is.”

  “And what made you come up all this way to talk to me?”

  Dash answered that one. “In all truthfulness, Walter made us.”

  “He made you? Pray tell, how does one do that?”

  “He says to find someone, or he’ll turn us into the police.”

  Tyler uncorked the bottle of gin. “Sounds like our Walter.” He poured the gin into the third glass, looking at Dash. “How do you take yours?”

  “With soda.”

  “I don’t have any limes, sadly. So, what does Walter want with me? I haven’t seen his brother for a time now.”

  “Walter thinks you can point us to another friend of Karl’s, a female impersonator.”

  A slight pause. “Did Walter mention any specifics about her?”

  “Only that you might know who she is.”

  Tyler finished mixing Dash’s drink and turned from the bar cart, three glasses in hand. “Unfortunately for you both, I haven’t the foggiest idea who he’s talking about.”

  Joe said, “Walter was adamant he saw you and her together quite often, lad.”

  Dash watched Tyler carefully as the man served them their drinks. “We’re not the enemy, Mr. Smith. We won’t put her or you in any danger.”

  Tyler arched his brow. “I don’t know if that’s something you can promise with Walter around.”

  Joe asked, “Why do you say that?”

  “I direct you to Mr. Parker’s face.” Once all their drinks were in hand, Tyler said, “I would offer a toast, but it feels obscene given the present circumstances.”

  Joe raised his whiskey. “To calmin’ nerves.”

  Tyler’s laugh was a little too shrill for comfort. “To calming nerves.”

  They all drank their medicine and retired to the seating area. Dash and Joe shared the velvety blue couch while Tyler sat in the rounded ivory-colored chair next to the three accent tables . . . and the pistol.

  Dash tried once more to appeal to Mr. Smith. “You can’t help us at all in finding her?”

  Tyler gave a beleaguered sigh. “I just know I’m going to regret this,” he said. “Alright, I admit, I do enjoy the company of pansies. They’re so irreverent and bubbly, full of life and wit. I know many, many girls, so unless you have a description—”

  “Tall with dark hair. When I saw her, she was wearing a blue and gold dress.”

  Tyler blinked. “You saw her?”

  “She was in my club. With Karl,” Dash said. “I only saw her in shadow and only from behind. I noticed her dress when Walter came in, demanding I take him to her. I refused, hence, well, this.” Dash pointed to his face.

  “I see,” Tyler said. “Tall with dark hair doesn’t narrow down the list, I’m afraid.”

  “I have a name as well. Miss Avery.”

  Tyler considered the name, then shook his head. “Not one of my girls. You can finish your drink and then be on your way.”

  “Wait a minute, lad,” Joe said. “We’ve got other names.”

  Tyler’s brow furrowed. “I thought Walter only wanted this female impersonator.”

  Dash replied, “We’ve discovered a few other friends of Karl. Perhaps they can help us if you can’t.” Or won’t. “Do you know a woman named Pru.”

  “Pru? As in, Prudence?”

  “I suppose. She wears men’s suits and is a lawyer.”

  “How interesting. A female lawyer. What will they think up next?” Tyler uncrossed, then recrossed his legs. “How did you come about that name?”

  Joe leaned forward. “Why do you ask?”

  Tyler shrugged. “I’m curious. I didn’t know Karl had any friends. One of the reasons I broke it off. I had to be all of his life—lover, friend, acquaintance, family. It got to be so tedious after a while.”

  Dash replied, “Karl let the name Pru slip to a friend of mine.”

  Tyler rolled his eyes. “Discretion was never that boy’s strong suit. Obviously, otherwise how would you know to come here.”

  “Walter did mention Karl would come to you often after his mother threw him out.”

  Tyler scoffed. “His mother. Have you met the woman?”

  Both Dash and Joe shook their heads.

  “Consider yourselves lucky. Karl told nightmarish stories of how she’d discipline them if they did wrong. Wooden spoons on the back of the hands, a switch to the back of the legs, hand slaps to the face. And yelling, he said. Always yelling. An absolute terror. She’s the reason Karl’s so clingy and Walter so rigid.”

  “Karl told me about their father, how he was robbed and killed coming home from a cabaret in Berlin. He said it was why she’s such a fundamentalist teetotaler.”

  “I didn’t realize you had spoken much with Karl.”

  “We had a brief conversation.”

  Tyler’s eyes glinted with a shrewd look. “I see little Karl wasn’t completely forthcoming then.”

  Dash furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t just any cabaret. It was a cabaret in Berlin. And, my dear boys, Berlin makes the Village look positively tame.”

  Joe said, “Ya mean—”

  “Mr. Werner Müller liked to wear ladies’ clothing and dance the night away with former army soldiers. The Nazi thugs—excuse me, the representatives of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party—decided ol’ pansy Werner needed to be taught a lesson.”

  “Sounds like they taught him too much of one,” Joe remarked.

  Dash said, “That explains why Walter is so vehemently against female impersonators.”

  “He’s vehemently against all members of the queer sex,” replied Tyler, “but yes, pansies in particular. Mother Müller made sure of that.”

  “Did Karl know what really happened to his father?”

  “That’s how I knew about it to begin with. The boy didn’t find out until years after, when he was older and got caught experimenting sexually. Walter told him to try to ward off such behavior. ‘Death comes for degenerates’ or some such thing.” Tyler waved the thought away. “Thank God I cut that cord. Too much baggage for one man.”

  “How long ago had you ended things?”

  “Fairly recently. I’d say five days ago, maybe a week?” Tyler paused. “Perhaps that’s why he was in the Park when he died. Trying to cure his loneliness.”

  “That’s not so,” Dash said. “I hid hi
m with a friend in Harlem. He was overheard arguing with a telephone operator. The person he was trying to reach wasn’t available and it greatly upset him. He said it was urgent.”

  Tyler’s eyes flashed with intensity. “My, my, you have eyes and ears all around this city, don’t you?”

  “I think he left the hiding place to warn somebody.”

  “Warn them of what?”

  Dash held out his hands. “I don’t know. Perhaps of Walter? You said yourself he’s a dangerous man.”

  “Well, he didn’t call here. I was out the entire evening, and when I returned, I had no messages waiting for me at the front desk.”

  Joe asked, “Where were you that night?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was at Mother Child’s kicking it up for the jam. They do love to come and gawk at the pansies, bulldaggers, and the rest of us.” He saw their empty glasses. “Now that you’ve finished your drinks, will there be anything else?”

  Dash looked to Joe and back again to Tyler. “I don’t believe so.”

  He stood up. Joe followed suit.

  “Thank you for the drink, Mr. Smith,” Dash said. “Apologies again for bringing you such horrible news.”

  Tyler stood up as well and walked them to the door. “I apologize I couldn’t be more helpful.”

  “Oh, but you have been,” Dash said, noting with satisfaction the slight blanching of Tyler’s cheeks. “I’d be cautious answering the door. Once we tell Walter we didn’t learn much from you, he might come up here himself and ask his own questions.”

  Joe said, his voice grave, “And he won’t be as polite as us, I can promise you that.”

  Tyler’s face hardened. “Is that a threat?”

  “No,” Dash replied quickly. “No, I just . . .” The guilt he felt over Karl was rising up again, like bile, hot and bitter. “I just don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

  Tyler watched him for a moment, then gave a short nod. He looked over his shoulder at the gun still sitting on the side accent table. “Perhaps I should learn how to properly use that, then.”

  Walking through the hotel’s lobby with Joe on his heels, Dash saw the time on the brass clock and abruptly stopped, causing Joe to almost run into him.

  “What’s the matter, lassie?”

  The clock announced it was five minutes past twelve. “One quick thing before we go.”

  Dash veered off to the front desk again. Joe stayed put, watching after Dash with an expression of irritation mixed with concern. Dash ignored him. If he was right, then there should’ve been a shift change at the front desk. In the adjacent room, he was relieved to see their haughty concierge had been replaced by a much friendlier-looking fellow. Much younger too. When it was his turn to step up to the counter, Dash put on his best smile, hoping to override the garish purple of his bruise.

  “Hello there,” he said, “my name is Tyler Smith in room 2119. I was wondering if you had any messages for me.”

  The young man’s face flashed dimples as he smiled. “I’ll check for you. One moment, please.”

  He turned and went to the back wall behind the desk, which was a honeycomb of small cubicles holding tenant’s messages and mail. His fingers counted until they reached 2119 and he pulled out several pieces of small paper. He faced Dash again and placed them on the counter.

  “Looks like you have several, Mr. Smith.”

  Dash slid the papers into his palm. “Thank you so much. Good day!”

  He turned to the lobby where Joe hissed, “What are you doing, lassie?”

  “Detecting.” Dash held up the pieces of paper. “Looks like several people were trying to reach our Mr. Smith.”

  “So the lad lied.”

  “I suspect he was lying about a lot of things.” Dash flipped through the messages. “How interesting.” He pointed to the stack of papers. “These first five are from Sunday night. Three are from Karl and two are from Pru.”

  “Lying little minx. Any of these messages have telephone numbers or addresses?”

  Dash looked through the papers again. “Sadly not. Let’s see here, two more from Pru dated yesterday. And this morning, a message from Atlas Travel Agency confirming two tickets aboard the Red Star Line for Boulogne-sur-Mer on August 27.” Dash looked up at Joe. “Looks like Mr. Smith is leaving the country.”

  “Aye, makes ya wonder why.”

  “And makes you wonder who was going with him.”

  Joe tapped the messages in Dash’s hand. “Lassie, why didn’t Tyler pick up his messages? He’s got three days’ worth here.”

  Dash shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”

  13

  Trying not to blow the week’s remaining cash on cabs, Dash and Joe took the rattling, squealing elevated train uptown to Walter Müller’s neighborhood. The address he gave Dash last night was on the corner of 86th and Avenue A in the Upper East Side neighborhood of Yorkville. Not surprising, since many of the city’s Germans took up residency there after they left the Lower East Side at the turn of the century, so much so that New Yorkers started calling 86th Street “Sauerkraut Boulevard.”

  Walter’s building wasn’t the Wagner-glory of the Yorkville Casino and others surrounding the main drag near the station. Closer to the river, the neighborhood was a bit more modest and plain: three stories of square and brick with rectangular windows, elevated stoops, and flat roofs. The first floor of Walter’s building, like all the others, was occupied by a business. This building hosted a spiritualist, someone who claimed to speak with the dead. Dash chuckled to himself. All-Holy Mother and Holier-Than-Thou Walter Müller lived above a charlatan. There was an anecdote in there somewhere, he was sure.

  He and Joe walked up the stoop stairs, found the Müllers’ apartment (Apartment 3B), and rang the buzzer.

  Joe murmured in Dash’s ear, “What are we gonna tell him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That Tyler Smith was lying through his teeth. He knew where to find the pansy and he definitely knew this Pru woman.”

  “I agree. I just don’t know how to make him talk.”

  Through the door, they heard the creaking of stairs. Someone was coming down. A series of locks were undone, and then the building door squealed open. Walter had washed the drunkenness off his face, though the bruise was still a brash violet and crimson. Dash wondered how he explained it to Mother. He now wore a crisp white shirt underneath a gray vest and over gray slacks, the crease sharp, the fabric smooth with nary a wrinkle.

  Walter made a show of checking his wristwatch, much like the one Karl had worn. The time annoyed him. “What did this Tyler Smith have to say?”

  Dash kept his face neutral. “He hasn’t seen your brother in days, and he doesn’t know the female impersonator you followed.”

  Walter stared at Dash. “You are lying to me.” He shifted his eyes to Joe. “You’re both lying to me. Do I need to remind you of what is at stake for you? For all of you?”

  Knowing what he knew about Walter’s father, Dash saw the hatred for what it was: suffering. What had Dash said to Karl? When tragedy hits, people will need someone, or something, to blame.

  Joe replied, “We’re not lying, Mr. Müller. He says he doesn’t know them.”

  “Did you question him thoroughly?”

  “We didn’t beat him to a pulp, if that’s what ya mean.”

  Walter’s blazing blues were pitiless. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Dash said, “Mr. Müller, given how your father died, I would think you’d abhor such violent measures.”

  That threw him off his stride. “What do you know about my father?”

  Dash decided to play it cagey. “We know enough,” he said. “I think the better question is, does the Committee of Fourteen know about your father?”

  “Lassie!” hissed Joe.

  The three men stared at one another for almost a solid minute. Dash let the statement lie there, waiting to see what Walter would do with it.

&nb
sp; The man licked his lips. “Are you threatening me? Because if you are, I will make you and anyone you love so very sorry.”

  Dash kept his face blank. “That’s a no then for the Committee?”

  Walter worked to get his anger under control. “Did you talk with the front deskman?” he asked, changing subjects completely.

  Dash paused, considering how much to push him. No need. He knew where Walter was vulnerable. “We did,” he said.

  “And the front deskmen never saw this pansy walking through their lobby?”

  Joe shook his head. “You think they’d know what one looks like?”

  “And the day shift?” Dash added. “I’m not sure how familiar you are with them, Mr. Müller, but most female impersonators don’t come out during the day.”

  “Then you must return at night then.”

  Joe was incensed. “We can’t just wait around the hotel lobby for her to show. We have a business to run!”

  “A business that breaks the laws of this country.”

  Dash stepped in. “Mr. Müller, what do you know about the woman who dresses in men’s clothes?”

  That stumped Walter. “A what?”

  Dash repeated himself.

  “Unnatural,” Walter replied. “A woman who does that is flaunting herself against nature’s, nay God’s, laws.” He ran his tongue over his teeth, pausing to probe where the “fairy” had knocked out two of them. “I presume she is yet another one of my brother’s degenerate friends.”

  “You’ve never seen her before?”

  Walter shook his head.

  “Would it shock you to know the woman is a lawyer?”

  Walter stared at Dash. “A lawyer?”

  “Yes. Do you know why your brother was socializing with an attorney?”

  Before Walter could respond, an older female voice interrupted them. “Walter! Why do you keep the door open to let in the heat?”

  The accent was even thicker than Walter’s. An older woman—Dash supposed her to be in her fifties, maybe sixties—stood ramrod-straight in the hall of the building, her posture perfect, her face determined. This was Mother with a capital M. The lines of age and experience creased her skin. She had on a dark blue dress with lavender daises printed everywhere. A long string of pearls decorated her neck with two strands hanging down to her waist, the white orbs small but gleaming fiercely in the dim interior light. A wide-brimmed straw garden hat was held in her hands, its lavender bow matching the daisies on her dress. The hat was a surprisingly modern choice given that Dash assumed her to be a Mrs. Grundy.