by Howard Fast
“Sit down, please. Something is wrong, Countess?”
“I was only thinking of that poor Cleveland hoodlum, whom you probably killed. I mean, murdered.”
“Murdered is terrible word. Sit down, please.” She started to sit down, when the doors opened and pinstripe one returned. He bowed and nodded at her.
“Please to come see the General now, Countess. A few words and ten thousand apologies. Please.”
He beckoned for her to precede him through the open doors, and Margie walked slowly into the larger room revealed beyond the doors. It must have been a reception room or a ballroom at one time, for it was unfurnished except for some side chairs, a grand piano, and a baroque gilt and ivory table. This table stood in the center of the room, and behind it sat a large, stout man with enormous mustaches. He wore a pepper-and-salt tweed suit with leather elbow patches and a leather gun patch on the right breast, a hound’s-tooth shirt, and a striped tie. Under his breast pocket he exhibited two rows of ribbons. He had a ruddy, healthy face, and he was about fifty-five. An Alpine-type hat sat on the table, and a walking stick leaned against the table. He had large, dark popeyes and a military manner so studied that it occurred to Margie that perhaps he did nothing with his days but watch old Hollywood films about the British Army in Africa and Asia.
As Margie entered he leaped to his feet and saluted her, and as Margie stared at him in astonishment he declared, with a strong and impressive British accent:
“Entirely proper that I salute you, Countess. Our military has been led by a Hutsinger for at least three hundred years, and as the last of the Hutsingers you are very properly entitled to this symbolic gesture from the last true Dravinian general officer. Aiffam Liah, as it was in old Dravinian, and what a fine ring the old tongue has! I salute you, venerate you, obey you!”
He circled the table. While Margie continued to stare at him, speechless and openmouthed, he gripped a chair and moved it purposefully toward her. “My dear Countess, be seated, please.”
Margie sat down.
He circled the table again, threw a gesture at pinstripe one, “Leave us alone!” As pinstripe one retreated and closed the doors behind him, the General informed Margie with controlled but evident passion and warmth:
“How good to have you here, my dear Countess! How I am honored! Ah, your father would have enjoyed this moment! It would have pleased him. I knew your father well. Served under him in ’forty-two, ’forty-three, and ’forty-four. Ah, how clearly I see the grand old chap at this minute, as he lives in my mind’s eye, tall, lean, the hawk face, the coldly appraising blue eyes, the drooping white mustache—that white mustache so much him, so much Hutsinger, but the eyes, the eyes, the eyes—you have his eyes, my dear. I think that if I met you on the street, I would have known those Hutsinger eyes immediately.”
“I have his eyes?” Margie said.
“Precisely, my dear Countess.”
“Well, if I have them,” Margie said flatly, “I do wonder how he gets along without them. He’s in his drugstore up at Kapatuk seven days a week—I mean including two hours on Sunday morning—and no one, but no one ever died at Kapatuk for want of medicine. My father, I want you to know, is not a fair-weather pharmacist, and he does not close up and play golf on Wednesday, and how he manages all this without eyes, I don’t know. He is also about five-seven with a round, plump face.”
“I see.” The General sighed, smiling understandingly. “You will play the game with me, Countess. But why? I was willing to lay down my life for your father. Am I not willing to lay it down for you?”
“Just spare me,” Margie said. “I don’t want anyone laying down his life for me, and the last time I got such a proposition was from Jimmie Krantz, who was only twelve years old and looking at too many Batman and Green Hornet funnies.—
The General stared at her thoughtfully. When he stared that way, so steadily, his popeyes ceased to be amusing and became rather threatening. Not that he displayed any hostility; rather, he examined Margie curiously and thoroughly. She had the feeling that he undressed her, examined every inch of her skin, and then retained her clothes tentatively.
“Why, Countess?” he asked flatly.
“Number one—I am not a countess. Number two—I do not enjoy being dragged here by those apes of yours. Number three—I do not like them or you, General, or whatever you are. So if you have a shred of intelligence, which is more than I would expect of those henchmen of yours, you will escort me to the door and allow me to depart.”
“Henchmen?”
It was cold in the room. Evidently the house was unheated. Margie drew the mink more closely around her throat and repeated, “Henchmen.”
“Curious choice of a word. Not really an American word, is it? Sort of upper-class-storybook word, bad writing and all that. You interest me, Countess. American education—but not quite, really. Nineteen years here—”
“For heaven’s sake, come off it,” Margie sighed. “I am not your countess.”
“No? Then who are you?”
“I am Margie Beck. I am a model. I work for Mr. Marvin Potnik, who is a very successful Seventh Avenue manufacturer of expensive ensembles. My take-home pay, in case you are interested, is seventy-six dollars.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“And all this—” the General waved his arm—”all that happened to you today, doesn’t it mystify you? Alarm you?”
“It annoys me.”
“Oh? Quite,” the General agreed. “And tell me, dear lady, is it the custom in America for models to wear coats like that one you just happen to be wearing?”
“Some.” Margie shrugged.
“Oh? And bracelets like yours? I have been watching that bracelet. It fascinates me. If those stones were absolutely perfect, it might go for a quarter of a million dollars. But if they were simply good, honest, respectable first-class diamonds, it would still be worth—oh, say thirty-five or forty thousand pounds. A lot of dollars. I imagine models wear them as a matter of course.”
“Some,” Margie said. “What are you—a crook? Is this some kind of fancy jewel-thief set-up?”
“My dear lady—what talent. You could be a great actress, and you know, it would not be out of tradition. Your great-aunt Josephine Hutsinger was an actress—at least for a single season in Vienna—in old Vienna—before her father came and horsewhipped the producer and challenged the leading man to a duel and dragged her off home.”
“You bore me.”
“And perhaps you bore me, my dear Countess. I don’t enjoy all this. I know you are the Countess.”
“Have you ever seen me before?” Margie demanded indignantly. “What a note! Just tell me—have you ever seen this precious countess of yours?”
“Yes, but it would hardly help,” the General smiled. “You were three years old, you know. However I have no doubts. There are very few women who could afford a coat like yours, a bracelet like yours—and as I said, you have the look, the Hutsinger look. The morning paper had it that you had registered at the Plaza, that you always went out for an early-morning walk. Also—you were addressed by your title. Perhaps if we had known just how early you went for your walk, we could have saved you your embarrassment at the hands of that petty thief—”
“Did you murder him? I think murder is disgusting,” Margie burst out.
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” The General nodded with pleasure. “You have decided to be a brainless model, and you play the role well. Are you really afraid of us?”
“Brainless? How dare you? How you can sit there with that idiot suit you have on and that idiot mustache you sport and call me brainless, I don’t know. If you had an ounce of brains you would know that type of mustache indicates a feeling of inferiority, which Freud proves to my satisfaction, so how you can dare sit there and call me brainless—”
“Oh, enough of that, Countess. Really, it is quite enough. No more games. You know why I am here, and I think we ought to get down to facts. Facts�
�do you understand?”
Margie folded her arms. “You bore me.”
“No, don’t get me angry, Countess. There was a time when any Hutsinger could snap his fingers and I would dance through hoops. No more, dear girl.”
“And you are also very lucky I am a girl,” Margie went on. “A lot of people have a great deal of respect and feeling for me, so I am not anyone you can just push around. There just happens to be a salesman up our place who is crazy about me, which anyone could see with one eye closed, but I don’t know about salesmen because I think I could aspire to something better. That’s what my father always tells me, and don’t think that owning a large drugstore is such a small thing today, but this salesman is a lovely guy, maybe a little large, because he played fullback or guard or something, and he’s six feet and three or four inches tall—I mean he’s a lot bigger and stronger than those idiot apes of yours, and he respects me …”
The General shook his head and spread his arms. “Enough, enough, Countess. You are wonderful, but we are not playing charades today. Why are you afraid? We won’t cheat you.”
Margie shook her head, clenched her teeth, and kept her arms folded.
“Well, what then? What do you propose? What kind of a position do you put me in? To keep you prisoner here in this cold barn? To burn the bottom of your feet? Beat you? Torture you? My dear lady, the very mention of such obscenities turns my stomach. After all, say what you will, I am a Dravinian gentleman and no simple country oaf. The Alexanders are an old family, an old line, not as old, perhaps, as the Hutsingers, but well regarded. I was sent to England for my education, Harrow, Sandhurst—and now you hear me talking about torturing a noble lady!”
“Who listens?” Margie shrugged. “I couldn’t care less. The whole thing is ridiculous.”
“Isn’t that a rather pat way to dispose of it?”
Margie remained silent.
“Is that your last word, Countess?”
Margie disdained to answer.
“You insist on putting me in this position?”
“Shall I take off the bracelet?” Margie asked. “I abhor violence. I could say a good deal about this bracelet, but since it would not matter one iota to a creep like you, I might just as well save my breath.”
“Oh, I don’t want the silly bracelet. I will not permit you to reduce me to the level of a common thief.”
“No? Are you an uncommon thief?”
“You know, Countess, whatever they may have told you—the old days are gone. I don’t have to sit here and smile and dance a jig while you insult me. Not at all. I can—”
He leaned forward suddenly and fetched Margie a hard, resounding slap across the face—one that almost knocked her out of her chair.
“—I can retort in my own manner, do you see?”
Rubbing her hurt cheek, which felt like eleven bees had stung it simultaneously, Margie stared at him and said coldly:
“You fat creep, I am going to remember that to my dying day.”
“Which may not require a long memory at all!”
And with that he rose, strode to the door, flung it open, and shouted, “Take the bitch away.”
Pinstripe one and pinstripe two entered and grabbed her. The chauffeur acted as a trail blazer, opening and closing doors. They took her up two flights of stairs, opened the door of the back room on the third floor—like most old mansions, it had two large rooms on each of the floors—and flung her inside. The room was dark and cold. Turning, the men closed the door behind them.
CHAPTER 5
In which we witness the taking of a torpedo.
THE GOVERNOR and his wife entered Commissioner Comaday’s office with the eagerness and easiness of two people meeting old and valued friends. The Governor wore his famous smile, and his wife wore a dress of thin brown wool that appeared to have made no stops between Balenciaga’s salon and her shoulders. Withal, she was so graceful and so charming on first meeting that Comaday found himself warming to her in spite of himself. He had been prepared to dislike her, but his resolution shattered on her relaxed and pleasant manner, and he found himself leaping to his feet and offering her a chair. She was taller than Commissioner Comaday, but height had never abashed the Commissioner when he was dealing with a pretty face.
“How very good to see you again,” the Governor declared, thrusting out his hand to grasp Comaday’s. “And you, Larry,” to the District Attorney. And back to the Commissioner, “I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Commissioner. You know, my dear, Mr. Comaday is probably the best policeman and the most able administrator in this city. He’s done a superlative job. I just wish he was on our team.” And again to Cohen, “Don’t you agree, Larry?”
“Well, he is on my team, you know,” Cohen smiled. Comaday gurgled. The Governor’s wife examined the office with her pleasant, warm eyes.
“It’s a charming office, Commissioner. Oh, I don’t mean chintz and all that sort of thing—I mean the good, sturdy mahogany of another era. And those pictures! I guess it’s no secret that the Governor’s great delight is pictures. If he weren’t on his best behavior right now and rather annoyed at me because of where and how I drop my coat, he’d be prowling around with his nose right up to those marvelous pictures. I mean his taste is catholic, you know—and he takes as much delight in a Joshua Johnston as in a Klee. Is that the first police commissioner of the city?”
“Wonderful piece of old portraiture!” the Governor exclaimed. “No, my dear, I don’t think it’s one of the commissioners. More of the look of old Cadwallader Colden—he was mayor eighteen-nineteen or twenty or so. That may be a militia hat he wore just for his portrait. I don’t think I’ve seen but one other painting of Colden. You have veritable treasures here, Commissioner. Needs cleaning though—rather badly.”
Larry Cohen realized that in any other mood Commissioner Comaday would have burst out with something like, “If we had the kind of money that you hoard up there in Albany, we’d be able to keep our damn pictures clean.” But a combination of Captain Bixbee’s inefficiency and the Governor’s wife’s charm restricted Comaday to gurgles, ahems, and throat-clearings.
“Love to spend some time here at Centre Street—so many treasures remain unexplored,” the Governor said. “But I’m afraid we must pick up the lost property and rush off. Our schedule is very heavy. But I must say, Commissioner, that I do admire the way you have handled this. I doubt if there’s another police force on the face of the earth that could have traced and recovered the coat and the bracelet in such short order.”
Comaday cleared his throat, started a word, swallowed it, started a second word, swallowed the second word, and then stared bleakly at the Governor and his wife.
“Oh, I am sorry,” the Governor said. “I mean, are we too precipitous, barging in here and demanding our property? I among all men should know that nothing official proceeds without a bit of red tape. It is stolen property—or lost property—is that it?’
“Captain Bixbee …” Comaday began, while the Governor and his wife listened expectantly.
“He’s the Captain of Detectives uptown—you see—that’s the Fourth Detective Division—I mean, well, it’s sort of within his jurisdiction—”
“You mean the material is not here yet?” the Governor asked, seeing that the Commissioner was embarrassed.
“That’s right.”
“Oh well. Our fault for rushing it so. Will it be here by late afternoon?”
Comaday nodded.
“Good enough. It means we pare down one speaking date over in the Seventeenth, and that’s no tragedy. We’ll stop by at our apartment and get a coat for my wife, and, Commissioner—”
“Sir?”
“Oh, just send the coat and the bracelet over whenever it’s convenient. To our Fifth Avenue place. You will forgive us for slightly irrational haste? There’s nothing rational about politics anyway.”
“You will forgive us, dear Mr. Comaday?” his wife added.
“Yes. Oh yes. Of
course.”
“Good-by, Larry.”
“Good-by, Governor,” the District Attorney said.
Commissioner Comaday held open the door for them and then closed it softly.
Cohen nodded thoughtfully. Comaday demanded to know why in hell he was wagging his head in that manner.
“Oh—well. Number-one cop—number-one administrator. You got to feel proud.”
“Goto hell.”
“That’s all right. Take it out on me, Commissioner. I have a broad back.”
Comaday turned suddenly and faced Cohen. “Can’t you stop wisecracking? Can’t you answer one question straight?”
“Try me.”
“Do you think we’ll ever see that damned coat and bracelet again?”
“Frankly?”
“Frankly.”
“No.”
“No? Just like that—no?”
“No. Unless the insurance company makes a deal with the fences.”
“What do you think of this kid, Margie, who’s in the act?”
“I don’t know her.”
“This Joey Montoso could have knocked her over?”
“With a lead right to him?” Cohen shrugged. “I don’t know—maybe. What’s the difference? You don’t have to account to the Governor. He’s a Republican.”
The intercom buzzed to tell the Commissioner that his car was ready. “You want to come?” he asked Cohen. “You got nothing else to do?”
“I’d love to come,” Cohen replied.
“Sure, the city pays your wages, and you got nothing better to do than to chase fire engines.”
“The only mayor of this city I ever really loved chased fire engines. It was his only hobby, and suppose it cost the tax-payers a couple of bucks. So what? I don’t take bribes. Neither did he.”
“Bribes. You got more money than God. How the hell could anyone bribe you?”
“He didn’t have a nickel, the mayor who chased fires. Why don’t we level with each other, Commissioner? You love to ride in a car with a siren, so do I. Not just any old police car, but a great big black special Commissioner’s car.”