by Delynn Royer
There was no answer.
The other side of the duplex was vacant. He’d tried Nell’s door and found it unlocked. Men didn’t think about locks. Women living alone did. Hell. Something in his gut tightened. He pulled his service revolver and entered.
Like Johnny’s apartment, Nell’s place had been torn apart, and there was no sign of Nell. He found her passport on a dresser.
The girl he remembered from their years growing up on the impoverished West Side had dreamed big dreams, but she’d never traveled farther than Coney Island. The woman she’d become now traveled the world. Britain, France, the Bahama Islands. Her latest entry stamp was only two weeks old.
Sean checked the icebox to find a fresh bottle of milk. Nell had been home as recently as that morning. Had Johnny known something was about to go south and sent his estranged wife out of town? If not, where was she?
Sean had slammed the icebox shut, called in the information on Nell, and left. He was glad to leave the detail work behind for the Centre Street dicks while he took his patrol car out through the chilly dark streets of midtown Manhattan.
It was almost 3:00 a.m. and a world he knew well. Shuttered shops and empty street corners, underground speaks and the occasional flicker of a busted neon sign. Even the taxi-dance halls had been closed, but not everyone was asleep. At the sight of his headlamps, boys and men and some dames too had darted away, pulled back into the shadows or ducked like ghosts into lightless alleys. Up to no good. But they weren’t his concern. He was intent on paying a visit to one of Johnny’s favorite all-night haunts—a jazzy midtown speak called Bacchus. He needed to find Johnny’s driver, Little Arnie.
He got what he wanted at the speak. Arnie’s address. It was a modest four-story walk-up in West 25th. It took several pounds at the door to rouse the hulking chauffeur, who’d appeared in the threshold bleary-eyed, and reeking of Scotch whiskey. He loudly denied any knowledge of Nell’s whereabouts.
Arnie wasn’t alone. In the doorway to the bedroom, clad in a man’s flannel robe, stood Johnny’s leggy blonde fiancée, Lenore Stewart.
When Sean had informed the pair of Johnny’s demise, Arnie, who weighed no less than two hundred fifty pounds of pure gorilla muscle, broke down like a baby. Lenore, after grabbing an open bottle of Scotch, had joined him. Their stories matched the timeline given by the night clerk at the Plaza.
Lenore and Arnie had accompanied Johnny on a drive to Long Island to check on his properties. They’d spent Wednesday in East Hampton and that night at an inn in Montauk. They’d returned to the city Thursday evening.
As for their whereabouts after nine, Lenore and Arnie’s affair had been carried out on the QT, lest they both end up getting whacked by the man they adored.
Surprise, surprise, this left no one to alibi them.
Weary, Sean had returned to the precinct before dawn, written a terse report for his captain, then caught some shut-eye before rising again to beat it downtown. He’d wanted to be the first to talk to Trixie Frank.
Lucky for him, she’d been late for work.
“Hey, Trix!”
“Morning, Trix!”
Now, as telephone bells jangled over the chatter of newspaper staff and the clacking of typewriter keys, Sean followed the girl reporter past rows of occupied desks in the bright, busy city room of the New York Morning Examiner. The place fairly swarmed with harried errand boys and chain-smoking reporters.
Trixie Frank wasn’t what Sean had expected. Not that he’d known precisely what to expect. She was the daughter of Wilhelm Frank, who, along with his brother, owned the Frank Brothers Five and Dimes, a chain of about ninety stores across the country. What was the daughter of a multi-millionaire doing working for the sleaziest jazz sheet in town? She couldn’t be serious. This had to be the passing fancy of a bored debutante. Right?
He caught himself sizing her up from behind, taking measure of slim calves and trim ankles below the hem of her light wool coat. Nice gams, he thought and scowled at himself for noticing. He was beat. Otherwise, he’d know better than to look. This dame was as uptown as a dame could get. Not his type.
Sean noticed as they passed a closed office door marked JULIUS MERRYWEATHER, MANAGING EDITOR. He was acquainted with Merryweather. The editor and Sean’s uncle had formed a lucrative I’ll-scratch-your-back-if-you’ll-scratch-mine relationship back in the days when Sean’s uncle had headed up the old Confidential Squad and Merryweather worked on Park Row.
Trixie led Sean to a small desk in a remote corner. She took off her coat, hung it on a rack and smiled. She was more than just a pretty girl. She was stunning, with pristine white teeth and wide blue Clara Bow eyes that seemed to say, “Gee whiz, who, me?” But Sean wasn’t fooled. She was hoping to get something out of him.
Well, that was copacetic because he intended to get something out of her too.
“Be it ever so humble,” she said, tossing her purse down next to a Remington typewriter. “Pull up a chair.”
“What about the boy?”
“Hold your horses, Detective.” Perching on the corner of her desk, Trixie lifted the receiver of her telephone and tapped the hook. She spoke a number into the mouthpiece, then, “Harold? Trix Frank in the city room. Have you seen a kid hanging around this morning? Blond, scruffy, nine or ten years old?”
She paused, listening. “Mmhmm. If you see him, keep him there and give me a ring.” She hung up. “No luck. Maybe he’ll turn up later. It’s still early.”
“Or maybe he won’t turn up at all. I need you to give me a description and tell me everything you remember about your meeting with him yesterday.”
She placed her hands on the desk and leaned forward slyly. “Sounds like you want to find him pretty bad. Is he a witness to whatever happened to your mysterious Mr. Murphy?”
Sean didn’t answer. She was playing him, sure thing. And not half badly. Damn. He pulled up the chair she’d offered earlier and took out his notepad and pencil. “Blond, you said, right? Light blond? Dark?”
“Light.”
“Age about ten?” he asked and she nodded. “How tall?”
Trixie measured from the floor with her hand.
“How about his clothes?”
She crossed her legs and closed her eyes. “Plaid knickers, tan socks, brown wool coat.”
Sean jotted down the details, refusing to notice that her skirt hem lifted slightly when she crossed her legs. If he raised his tired gaze from his notepad, he would be greeted with a distracting view of one very fine knee.
“How’d you meet him?” he asked.
Suspiciously cooperative, Trixie described how the boy had snatched her purse and then led her on a chase up Broadway. She’d judged by the sorry state of the boy’s attire and hygiene that he was orphaned. She offered him a bribe to show up the following day.
Sappy story. Sean wondered if she had another angle. In his experience, the rich made their dutiful contributions to charities and left it to others to care for the less fortunate. Regardless, it didn’t matter.
His logic told him that the boy had stumbled on Murphy’s body after the killer was gone. His instinct said different. The boy could be important, but only if he could be found. That was a long shot.
A tall youth in a crooked bowtie and wrinkled shirtsleeves approached Trixie’s desk. He spoke fast and his eyes were bright. “Hey, Trix, Pickles says the chief wants you in his office right away.” His tone dropped confidentially. “There’s a homicide cop in there asking for you.”
“Is that right? They’re asking for me?” She looked askance at Sean. “Now I wonder why the police would be interested in talking to me?”
“I don’t know, but it’s all over the wires about that gangster, the one they call Johnny Blue Eyes. Did ya hear? He got killed last night in Central Park.”
“No fooling?
I’m sure I don’t know anything about that.” The cat was out of the bag, and Sean could see by the savvy light of interest in her expression that she was already figuring her angles.
Trixie sent her messenger on his way. “Thanks, Finn. I’ll be there.” She waited until the youth was out of earshot. “So what’s this, Detective? Don’t you coppers talk to each other, or is that badge you showed me a fake?”
“It’s on the level.” Sean rose to his feet. “You can call the Central Park Precinct.”
“So, where’s this other fella from?”
“Hard to tell. Headquarters probably. A lot of guys will have their mitts in this.”
She cocked her head shrewdly. “Uh huh. But it’s the early bird that catches the worm. Am I right?”
Smart dame. She knew she had him. Even if she didn’t know why. Sean was unable to control the grudging smile that tugged at his lips. “Early’s good, but which bird gets fat depends on who sits in the commissioner’s office.”
Trixie hopped down off her desk and smoothed her skirt over the appealing curve of her hips. “So what am I supposed to tell this other fella? The whole story? Part of the story? None of the story? A new story? What might this be worth to you?”
“I would never advise you to lie, Miss Frank.”
“Mmm, right.” She offered a clever smile of her own. “So, where can I reach you if Danny shows up?”
Sean tore a page from his notepad, scribbled the number of the Alhambra Hotel. “If I’m not at the precinct, try that. If I’m not there, leave a message at the desk.”
Trixie took the sheet. “Fine. Just remember, one hand washes the other. I’m a strong believer in that saying, Detective.”
Sean didn’t trust reporters, and pretty or not, he didn’t trust this one. Like his uncle before him, though, he’d learned that it could pay off to work with them rather than against them, especially when the political winds weren’t blowing in one’s favor.
He gave a dry laugh. “I guess that depends on how much soap you bring to the table, Miss Frank.”
Trixie offered a coy wink and left him to watch after her as she went to report to her managing editor. The skirt she wore wasn’t fancy, but it sure did fit swell.
Nice caboose too.
* * *
Trixie waited while Julius Merryweather’s pretty but grumpy secretary, Genevieve “Pickles” Polokowsky, pressed an intercom button. “Miss Frank is here.”
Merryweather’s terse reply to enter crackled back.
Pickles was a crackerjack secretary and so fiercely loyal to Merryweather that she’d left her last job to follow him to the Examiner. Not once in two weeks, though, had Trixie seen her smile. Today was no different, but Trixie wasn’t about to let that get her down. She gave the secretary a breezy smile as she passed. Pickles pursed her lips and returned to her typing.
The managing editor’s office wasn’t plush, but it impressed Trixie every time she stepped inside, which, counting today, was only two occasions. And that included the day he’d hired her.
The walls boasted journalism certificates and awards as well as photographs of Julius with a variety of well-known personalities, Joe Smith, Florenz Ziegfeld, Fanny Brice, Jack Dempsey and The Babe, among others. It wasn’t the names that impressed Trixie, it was Merryweather’s distinguished newspaper career. When the McClintock family had launched their own tabloid, they’d scored a coup right out of the gate when they’d lured Merryweather into the fold.
The window behind Julius was cracked open, letting in the distant, intermittent honks of the motor traffic far below as well as a light breeze that stirred the pungent cigar smoke that curled from an ashtray on the cluttered desk. Her managing editor didn’t rise from his seat as Trixie closed the door behind her.
“Sit,” he said. “Beatrix, this is Detective Carter from the Homicide Squad. He has some questions for you.”
Trixie took measure of the plainclothes officer who stood to greet her. Perhaps it was because she’d just come from her interview with Costigan that she found herself making comparisons. There were few similarities.
Detective Carter was of a smaller build and wore a tailored suit. He was fair-haired, clean-shaven, handsome in a toothpaste-ad sort of way, and smelled pleasantly of cologne. There was nothing not to like about this suave young officer. So, why did Trixie feel her guard go up? He reminded her of someone...
“A pleasure, Miss Frank.” He flashed a disarming smile and spoke with an accent she recognized from her college days as Boston.
“Likewise I’m sure.”
They both took seats facing Julius.
Detective Carter took a notepad from a side pocket of his suit coat and flipped it open. “Just for the record, Miss Frank, I got your address here as Madison Street in Brooklyn. That’s Apartment 2A. Is that right? Is there a telephone?”
“Yes. Sterling 5557.”
His tone was smooth—again, elusively familiar—as he jotted down the number and returned his notepad to his pocket. “By now, I’m sure you heard about the murder of John Murphy. What you may not know is that we found your business card at the scene of the crime.”
“One of mine?” She tried to sound casual. “Isn’t that interesting?”
“Did you know Mr. Murphy?”
“No, I don’t believe so. I meet a lot of people in my business, but uh, wasn’t he a gangster? I’m sure I’d remember if I ever met a gangster. That’s not my area. Mr. Rochester is our crime reporter. Maybe you should be talking to him.”
Carter’s pleasant manner gave no hint that he suspected her of dissembling. Only the intelligence in his eyes made her feel like she sat on a griddle that was about to heat up. “Yeah, sure, except it was your name written on the card, you see what I mean? That brings up some questions.”
Trixie glanced at Mr. Merryweather for a clue as to what he was thinking, but he sat slouched back in his swivel chair, puffing on his cigar, his expression unreadable.
“Of course,” she said to Carter. “I understand. I’m just not sure what the answer could be. After all, if I never met Mr. Murphy, how could he have been carrying my card?”
Carter said nothing at first and Trixie had to fight an urge to fill the silence with some dangerous embellishment. She forced a smile instead.
“I didn’t say he was carrying it, Miss Frank. I said it was found at the scene of the crime.”
“Oh, I misunderstood. I haven’t had a chance to see the wires yet. Where exactly was the scene of the crime?”
“Central Park. Near the pond.”
“Gee, that’s a public place. I bet lots of people come and go there every day.”
“So, you think someone else left your card? The killer maybe?”
Trixie laughed. “Oh, my. Isn’t that an unsettling thought? Like I said, I meet a lot of people in my job. I could have given my card out to many of them, but my beat is entertainment. In fact, just yesterday, I interviewed Santa Claus. Now, might he be your gangster killer?”
“We don’t count anyone out.”
“Oh.” Trixie shot an urgent look at her managing editor, this time for help.
Merryweather set his cigar down in the ashtray. “Detective, I think it’s clear that anyone, including Santa Claus, could have dropped Miss Frank’s card in the park. As she said, it’s a public place. And as she also said, she’s not a crime writer. I can vouch for the fact that she isn’t working on any stories connected to Johnny Blue Eyes or any of his type. We have more experienced reporters for that.”
Trixie bristled. More experienced men he meant, but she kept silent. Carter appeared to weigh the editor’s point seriously. “Sure,” he said finally. “That makes sense. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
Carter stood and retrieved his hat from a rack near the door. Trixie was poised
to breathe a sigh of relief when he looked at her squarely. “I still want a list of people you gave business cards to.”
“Um, okay, but I don’t keep records of that. I’ll have to think about it.”
“Sure. You do that.” He pulled out a card and handed it to her. “Check your calendar. I’ll call you later today.”
Nuts. She stared at the words HOMICIDE SQUAD on his card before forcing a smile that felt as stiff as a pencil. “You betcha.”
Detective Carter nodded to Julius. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Merryweather, appreciate it.” And to Trixie, he winked. “You ever got a problem, Miss Frank, call me. Day or night.”
Trixie’s eyes widened as Detective Carter turned and left. It was that wink—too smooth by half—that made her realize in a flash who he reminded her of. Her former fiancé, Nick Welles. Worm.
Merryweather interrupted her unpleasant realization. “For a baby newshound, you sure are one devil of a bad liar. Want to tell me what that was all about?”
Trixie faced him. “Huh?”
“I just hired you. Your editor should still have you on rewrites. Are your cards even back from the printer’s yet?”
“I didn’t exactly lie. I said I meet a lot of people in my job, and that’s true. Our staff is ‘people,’ aren’t they? And I said I could have given my card to many people, and that’s true too. I could have.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Well, no... Not exactly.”
“So how many have you given your card to?”
Trixie winced. If she was still with the Eagle, she’d be back to full days on the rewrite desk, but she hadn’t worked for Merryweather long enough to know what to expect. Was she in a little trouble? Or a lot?
“How many?” she repeated, trying to think of a way to fudge without lying. “Um, I don’t know... One?”
“One. You up to something I don’t know about?”
“No.” Trixie had to fight an urge to fidget beneath his formidable gaze.