Dash sighed. Zora Mae inspired more questions instead of providing more answers. And tonight, he had to go back to Walter’s apartment and give that horrible man information he frankly didn’t have.
Joe was still snoring on the cot, having lost the coin toss and having drunk too much whiskey to fight over the bed.
How unfortunate, Dash thought. When Joe was conscious again, he’d tell him about Paul Avery and what happened to the real Tyler Smith.
Frustrated, he got himself ready for the day, dressing in a three-button dark navy pinstripe suit with white shirt and turquoise tie. Starving, he briskly walked to West Fourth and opened the door to the Greenwich Village Inn, immediately regretting it.
The bloated globe of Cullen McElroy stood at the bar, waiting for Emmett to pay him his “donation.”
Dash cursed under his breath. Monday was his bribery day; Thursday was Emmett’s. Usually McElroy stopped by earlier, but he was apparently running late today.
The odious man turned and smiled, his teeth a nauseating quilt of gray and yellow. “Ah, Mr. Parker. Fancy seeing you here.”
Other than Emmett and McElroy, the only other witnesses to police corruption were the three Ex-Pat Wall Street traders. They sat in the back corners, trying to blend in with the shadows.
Dash took a deep breath. “Mr. McElroy—excuse me—Officer McElroy.”
McElroy chuckled. “You’re learning. That’s good, Mr. Parker.”
He flashed a look towards Emmett, who had his back turned and was counting out money from the cash register. Even from the back, he looked pouty and sullen. Not that Dash could blame him.
“Perhaps you can teach grandpa here how to show the proper respect.”
Emmett replied, “I was taught respect was earned.”
He turned around and re-counted the bills on the wood bar.
McElroy’s eyes shifted from Dash to Emmett. “I haven’t shut you down, have I? For your politically radical clientele. I think that’s earning not just respect but gratitude.”
He held out his fat hand.
Emmett left the bills on the bar.
The two stared at one another, both not willing to budge. A queasiness sickened Dash’s stomach. While Emmett’s insubordination was admirable, it could lead to violence or arrest or both. Whether they liked it or not, the police had the upper hand.
McElroy considered his response and opted for the easy way out. He smirked as he slid the money from the bar into his meaty hand. He pointed a stubby finger at the white-haired man.
“One of these days, grandpa, I’m gonna lose my temper. And I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
Emmett’s snowy brow remained fixed in a frown. “I’ve lived through worse than you.”
Another chuckle. “So you say, grandpa, so you say.” He glanced at Dash. “See you next week, Mr. Parker.” He nodded to The Ex-Pats sitting in the back corners. “Good afternoon, mutes.”
All eyes were on the officer until he strolled out of the Inn.
“Jesus,” hissed Emmett.
Dash looked at him. “You can’t antagonize him like that, Emmett. He could really hurt you. At the very least, he can put you out of business.”
Emmett waved him off, irritated. “I can’t stand having to suck up to him. Who does he think he is?”
“The law, unfortunately.”
“About time we changed that. The usual?”
Dash nodded as he pulled out a barstool and settled himself at the bar.
While Emmett set about making his sandwich, he said, “Emmett? You read the news every day, right?”
A raspy voice from behind Dash replied, “Multiple times a day.”
A higher tenor voice added, “Multiple papers a day.”
A granite bass voice finished the triad chord with, “Got a memory like a steel trap about every story too.”
Dash turned around to see The Ex-Pats staring at him. “They speak,” he said.
Emmett asked, “Why do you ask?”
Dash swung back around to face the bar. “Do you remember a few days ago, let’s say Monday or Tuesday, reading a story about a body found behind the Shelton Hotel?”
Dash wanted to make sure Zora Mae wasn’t playing with him about Tyler Smith. And Emmett’s memory of news stories, as the bass voice attested, was usually faultless.
Emmett squinted as he thought. Then he nodded. “Yep. One of the tenants. Big scandal they tried to bury on page twenty. Nobody wants to check into a hotel to be murdered.”
How could the concierge have not known about the story? If one’s business was in the news for something awful like murder, wouldn’t everyone you work with be a-buzz?
“It does ruin one’s plans,” Dash said. “When did the story hit the papers?”
“First story hit the papers Tuesday, the morning editions, though the body hadn’t been identified. He was found by the trash cans in the back alley Monday night. No papers or anything like that on him. The papers didn’t list his name until the Wednesday evening editions.”
Emmett poured coffee into a mug and passed it over to Dash.
“That’s why the concierge didn’t know,” Dash muttered to himself.
The name wasn’t announced until the day after he and Joe visited the Shelton.
He took a sip of coffee and asked Emmett, “How did they find out who he was?”
“They took a photograph of his corpse and sent it around to the buildings in the area, the hotel included. The night staff identified him. Apparently, he was a night owl, and the day staff never saw him before.”
“Did they say anything else about him?”
“Yeah. The fella was a high roller. Paid in cash for his room. Kept to himself largely, which hinders the police finding suspects—or at least finding innocent people to blame. Why do you ask?”
Dash shook his head. “Too long of a story. When I have more time, I’ll tell it to you.” Another sip of coffee. “Did the papers mention anything about what he did?”
Emmett shrugged. “All they said was bachelor, rich with family money, though they’re estranged, and a New York native. Front desk said he spent nearly every night out, usually came back half-seas over. He was harmless and he was rich, so they looked the other way.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. One strange bit: He was leaving the Shelton for good. Gave his notice. He’d be moving out the end of this month. The staff said they were sad to see him go.”
Dash perked up at that. One of the many messages Tyler Smith hadn’t picked up was a travel agency confirming his tickets across the Atlantic. Two tickets. Dash once again wondered who was going with Tyler.
He asked, “What was the reason for leaving?”
“Didn’t say. Decision was sudden though, according to the staff.” Emmett leaned on the bar, his weathered eyes flashing with cunning. “I bet he was running away, but somebody didn’t want him to leave.”
“You should work for the NYPD, Emmett.”
The old man smiled. “I can’t. I actually have a conscience.”
After he finished eating, Dash left the Inn to open Hartford & Sons for the day. Standing there waiting for him was Prudence Meyers. She had donned a brown suit, her jacket open to expose a vest and white shirt with a high collar, topped with a bow tie. The gold link of a chained pocket watch scooped from the lower part of the vest to an interior pocket. A dark brown bowler perched on her head.
She smiled as he approached. “Mr. Parker.”
“Miss Meyers. What brings you here? A suit, perhaps?”
She shook her head. “Can we talk?”
20
Inside the shop, the air was thick and musty, yet still degrees cooler than being on the street. Dash left the closed sign in the windowsill to keep the two of them from being interrupted. He took off his jacket and laid it across the writing desk. Next was his usual routine of opening the windows. Pru took off her hat and did a short walkabout, taking in all the decorations and accoutrements of
the tailor shop.
“This is cozy,” she said once she finished her visual inspection. “One would never know a most exquisite speak is in the back.”
“I wouldn’t call our place exquisite.”
“Come, come now. Don’t be so modest. Your band is entirely unique for the Village.”
Dash was suddenly wary. “What brings you down here, Miss Meyers? I pictured you as more of an uptown girl.”
Pru went to inspect the hats on top of the wardrobe. “I’m an all-town girl, if I do say so myself.” She selected a fedora and examined it. “I’m here to first apologize. Normally I don’t turn away clients, but extenuating circumstances being what they are . . .”
“And what are those circumstances?”—Dash held up a hand—“I know, privileged. Alright, let me fill in some of the blanks and you tell me if they’re the right answers. You’ve been seen around town with Karl Müller, Tyler Smith, and a man named Paul Avery, who may or may not go as Miss Avery when the sun goes down.”
She went perfectly still. “Where did you get those names?”
“I’ve been keeping myself busy, Miss Meyers.”
“I see. And we were seen by whom?”
“A woman named Zora Mae. Up in Harlem. The ‘Baroness of Business’? I said yesterday I was going to see her, and the conversation proved to be quite interesting. It seems the four of you would go up to the Hot Cha and have earnest conversations. Miss Mae noticed you in particular were trying to get this Tyler Smith to do something for you. I don’t know what, and she didn’t say. Now Tyler Smith has been murdered, assailant unknown . . .”
Dash paused to see if, unlike with Karl, Pru had heard that bit of news.
She nodded once, sadness dulling her normally vibrant self. “Yes, a great tragedy.”
Dash nodded as well. “And this Paul Avery fellow was impersonating him as of this past Tuesday morning.”
She turned around, her brow furrowed. “Excuse me. Impersonating?”
“As in, he introduced himself to me as Tyler Smith. In Tyler Smith’s hotel room. Tried to pretend he didn’t know you, Karl, or Zora Mae, which—let’s save the denials, shall we?—we both know are lies. So. Here’s Mr., or perhaps Miss, Avery, pretending to be a murdered man, aiming a gun at me and my bartender.”
“He had a gun?” This alarmed her.
“Oh yes. No idea how to use it, which made it all the more terrifying.” Dash placed his hands on the writing desk and leaned forward. “When I came to visit you, did you know Tyler Smith was dead?”
She looked down at the floor. “Yes,” she said, her voice small.
“Did Paul Avery kill Tyler Smith, Miss Meyers?”
She looked at him, her lavender eyes clear. “No, and it’s Pru, remember?”
“Then why would he be in Tyler’s apartment?”
“I don’t know!” The surge in volume surprised them both. Her eyes cast downward to the fedora in her hands. “I honestly don’t know about any of that. It’s news to me.” She looked up, her voice decisive. “But Paul Avery did not murder Tyler Smith.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because we are working towards the same goal.”
“Which is what?”
They both replied in unison, “That’s privileged.”
“Right,” Dash said. He let go of the desk, straightened his posture, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Pru. Help me. Please. I’m in the same boat as you.”
“Not quite. You don’t know what sea you’re in whereas I am the captain.” She returned the fedora to its perch on top of the wardrobe. “Of a sinking ship, apparently.”
Ships. “Who was planning to travel with Tyler to Paris?”
“How do you know about Tyler’s travel plans?”
He reminded her about the uncollected messages at the Shelton’s front desk. “Was Paul Avery going with him?”
The corners of her lips twitched slightly. “Not hardly.”
“Who is this Paul Avery? Is he another attorney?”
“Absolutely not.”
“A detective? A client?”
She walked towards Dash, her hands pressed together as if she were praying, the fingertips lightly touching her mouth. She chose her next words carefully.
“I can’t tell you what we are trying to do. Too much is at stake, and too many people are already in danger. I know I have no reason to ask this, especially given your circumstance, but this is the second thing I wanted to tell you: please leave us alone. We are so close to accomplishing something important, something vital for people’s freedom. We just need more time. I know it’s frustrating to wait, but I promise you; it will be worth it in the end.”
Time. Waiting. Suddenly Finn’s words came flooding back to Dash. He was always checking his wristwatch and the door—back and forth, back and forth—like watching Helen Wills on the court.
Dash kept his eyes on Pru’s face. “Who was Karl waiting for?”
The question caught her off guard. A wrinkled line creased her forehead. “What do you mean?”
“My waiter saw him checking his wristwatch and checking the door, as if he were waiting for somebody. Seemed nervous, too. Who was it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It was Tyler, wasn’t it?”
A quick blink of the eye gave Pru away.
“What was he bringing to you?”
Pru tried to evade his question. “What makes you think that?”
“Karl’s demeanor. He wasn’t anxious being in a queer club. I saw him in the Oyster House, and he looked right at home. Sure, some things made him blush, but there was a sense of childlike wonder seeing men and women being themselves. And if he was handing out rent party cards for the Baroness, then he certainly attended his fair share of ‘degenerate’ spaces. No, something else had to make him nervous—afraid, really—and that could be the safety of the man he loved.”
Dash arched an eyebrow.
“How am I doing so far?”
Pru’s lavender eyes flashed. “A strong volley. Any guesses on what he was allegedly bringing us?”
Dash shrugged. “Evidence. For your case, though what kind of evidence for what kind of case, I don’t know yet.” He tapped his chin. “Walter said Karl had something this Miss Avery wanted. This makes me think there was a trade somewhere, or there was supposed to be, but it got interrupted. Either way, it’s something Walter desperately wants back.”
“I thought you said it was Tyler who had the evidence?”
“It’s possible the trade was from Tyler to Karl.”
“Then why Karl’s anxiety? Why the fear?”
Good questions.
“I don’t know,” Dash said. “Perhaps because Tyler wasn’t there at my club, and he was worried Walter had done something.”
“He very well could have,” Pru replied. “From what I can tell, both Karl and Tyler were killed around the same time.”
Dash nodded, having come to the same conclusion himself.
“Pru,” Dash said, “Walter is out for blood. I have to give him a report tonight, and I have nothing of real value to give him. Sooner or later, he will make me tell him what I know. Whether I want to or not. And I . . .”
He glanced around the shop, trying to ignore the swells of panic rising in his chest.
“. . . I don’t want you or anyone else hurt.”
She reached into her jacket and pulled out a pistol in a brilliant blue finish.
Dash raised his hands. “What is that?”
Pru admired the pistol in her hand. “A Remington Model 51 .32 caliber. It’s an automatic. First manufactured in 1918 but overshadowed by the Colts and Russian models. I never preferred them much. Remington is my man.”
“And what do you intend to do with that?”
“Defend myself against Walter Müller, of course. Don’t worry about me or Mr. Avery. We can handle the likes of him.”
She returned the blue pistol to her inside jacket, where Dash caught the flash of a holster.
�
��Do what you need to do, Mr. Parker. I’m not afraid.” She headed for the tailor shop’s front door. “If anything, Walter Müller should be far more afraid of me.”
“Do you have it, Pru?”
Dash stopped her at the door with his question.
“The evidence? Was Tyler Smith successful?”
She gave him a long look, then said, “Goodbye, Mr. Parker.”
At closing time, Dash returned to the apartment. Joe had roused himself and wanted to know where they stood with this “bloody Müller Problem.” His brow darkened during Dash’s recount of Zora Mae, the murder of Tyler Smith, and the visit of Pru.
“Damn this Pru for not helpin’ us. And damn that little minx Paul Avery, too. Thought he could outsmart us by pretending to be somebody else.”
“That Paul Avery very nearly did.”
A voice from below shouted “Where the hell is Florence’s dress? Anyone? Someone better answer me!”
Joe ran a hand through his tangled red hair. “Any idea why he’d pretend to be his dead friend?”
Dash shook his head. “None.”
“Is he the impersonator Walter’s been lookin’ fer?”
“I think so.”
Those emerald eyes stared into Dash’s. “Do ya think he killed the lad?”
Dash remembered the gun in the man’s hand. “It’s possible. But then why be in Tyler’s hotel room? It’s one definite way to be caught.”
Joe dropped his gaze. “Maybe that’s why he killed him. Mr. Smith looked like he had a lotta sugar.”
Dash followed Joe’s train of thought. “Take on a new life. With a brand-new bank account. Finn told us how hard it is to get into the Shelton.”
He paused.
From below, the beleaguered stage manager yelled, “This is why no one should touch the costume rack! Goddammit, we have two hours to curtain and no dress for Florence!”
Dash said, “Mr. Smith must not have had many close friends or relatives for Mr. Avery to pull off the deception.”
“Aye, but there was at least one person who knew him well, lassie. Karl.” Joe looked up at Dash. “Think we might turn over a man like that to a man like Walter Müller?”
The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel Page 18