by Kane, Henry
I lit cigarettes in the latest hero manner, one for her and one for me. “You know what they were fighting about?”
“I’m only an employee around here.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing else. A lot of angry stuff, but I couldn’t make it out. When they came out of there, they weren’t talking to each other.”
“What about the girl?”
“What girl, lover?”
“That Pamela Reeves.”
“Tramp. Strictly. Society tramp, but tramp.”
“What about those two? I mean Johnny and her?”
“He was stuck on her, but good. They were going together maybe two, three years. The guy was in love, infatuated, something. I heard she’d been married twice. I don’t know who was the first one was, but the second was a lovely man, everybody liked him. Rich, too. But she wore him down. Last I heard he was broke, and a drunk. About a year ago, she and the second husband separated. She always used her maiden name, anyway—Pamela Reeves. The Missus part she only used to impress society; this second husband came from a long line back to that boat that brought them over. Right about that time, when she separated from her husband, Johnny found out she was seeing still another guy.”
“Did he like it?”
“He took it. He took it a long time; then, a couple of months ago, it busted out wide. After that, Johnny saw her, but he saw her spaced out like, you know, intermittent.”
“Who was the other guy?”
“What other guy?”
“The guy in the middle. Not the husband.”
“I don’t know. Neither did Johnny.”
“I don’t get that.”
“She told him there was another guy. She told him. Maybe she was tired of Johnny, you know how those tramps are. As it happens, Johnny didn’t care who. Maybe he had finally wisened up to her. As I said, he didn’t actually like it, but he took it. He used to talk to me about it sometimes. He didn’t care who. He didn’t ask or try to find out. Maybe he thought it was strictly a phony—just to get rid of him, Johnny.”
“Was there another guy?”
“How would I know?”
She slid out and stood over me. “I’ve got to go back to my hecklers, lover. You ought to go talk to Sweetheart. And don’t forget, you’re working on a job.”
“Love a down payment.”
“One nasty guy.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The office was formal, businesslike, like Johnny’s: the wood-paneled walls and the big desk and the hard chairs and the leather couch. Sweetheart said, “Come in, boy. What are you drinking?”
“I’m drinking Scotch.”
Sweetheart proffered private stock. “It’s a hell of a thing,” he said, “hell of a thing. That was one lousy shindig up in your apartment.”
“Sure was.”
“And they had you tied up in the can, too. You’ve been having a real good night.” He came out from behind the desk, walking. He had a face like a square box with the corners rounded off. He was tall and bald, a trickle of well-brushed hair over his ears. He carried a lot of weight with grace, neatly dressed, precise in his movements like a mannequin.
“Why?” he said.
“I don’t know why.”
“Why would a guy like Johnny knock himself off? A guy like Johnny don’t figure to knock himself off.”
“That’s right.”
“You got a figure on it? The whole thing?”
“Nope.”
“The dame, yeah. A dame like that figures to get caught up with. A dame like that can drive you nuts. I know that kind of dame. A dame like that can make a guy lose his head; a guy can get excited and let her have it before he knows what he’s doing. Then he’s jammed. But Johnny the Mick hanging by his neck—”
“According to the wise boys,” I said, “when he comes out of the smoke, he realizes he’s washed up, that they have it on him solid, so …”
“Could be, I suppose. He never did kid himself, that Johnny. Johnny was what you call a realist.”
I sat and stretched my legs in a hard chair. Sweetheart came with a box of cigars. I brushed it off.
“You and he been getting along?”
“What’s that, Chambers?”
“You and he.”
“Me and he, what?”
“Friendly?”
“Sure we’re friendly. What’s the matter with you?”
“That’s not what he told me.”
“What’s that?”
“You said that before.”
“I’m saying it again.”
“Look, he was over at my place, I mean the first time, before we both got picked up—”
“I know all about it. We got the whole story down here. One of them reporters called in.”
“Well, according to what Johnny told me, you and he weren’t doing so good together. Would you like to tell me?”
“What’d he tell you?”
“Told me you weren’t too crazy about a proposition he made you.”
Sweetheart came over close, sucking on his cigar. “Listen, punk. I’ve been wanting to see you because maybe you could straighten me out on what happened. Can you?”
“No.”
“Then the hell with it. You’re not here to be asking me questions. Anything Johnny told you, he told you. If you want to state it, and ask me if it’s a fact, okay, state it. Then ask. Otherwise, don’t try to pull the smart-pants sleuth on me. I don’t like it. I’ll throw you the hell out of here.”
“You and how many bouncers, Sweetheart?”
“Me, myself.”
“Have a drink, Sweetheart.”
I had one.
“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry. I’m worked up over this. I just don’t like guys with long noses; I never do. I’m going downstairs now, to show around my joint. A lot of people are going to want to know what happened with Johnny. Now, is there anything you want to tell me about this thing, that you figure is for me, and not for cops?”
“I don’t know anything, Sweetheart. That the cops don’t know.”
“All right, kid. I’m sorry I blew. You look dead. Have a drink. Take a snooze, if you want. I’ll see you later.”
I walked around, alone. I had a drink. I had another.
The leather couch was broad and long and comfortable.
2
Sweetheart woke me. I was fuzzy as a snowflake.
“Whew,” I said.
“It’s eleven o’clock.”
Dimly I said, “Eleven o’clock?”
“Eleven o’clock. Would you like some coffee?”
“Thanks, yes. Where’s Miami?”
“She went home. Rough night.”
He picked up the telephone and he ordered breakfast for both of us (supper for him), with pots of coffee. I washed up. I used his things to shave. I ate bacon and eggs and I drank coffee. We talked about everything except Johnny the Mick. Then I said, “What about that tomato?”
“Which tomato?”
“That Pamela Reeves.”
“Poison.”
“You know her well?”
“I knew her. I knew her before Johnny knew her, as it happens. I knew her husband too. In the old days, that husband of hers was a terrific spender, terrific. Went through a fortune. Why, I remember the time that Nottiby—”
“Who?”
“Nottiby. The husband. He was her second husband.”
“Who was the first husband?”
“I don’t know. Like I was saying, I remember—”
“Thanks for the breakfast, Sweetheart. I’ve got to go now.”
“What?”
“So long, Sweetheart.”
He reached and brought his eyebrows down. “What you need, brother, is what they call the hair of the dog. You will kindly have a drink.”
“No, thanks.”
Now his eyebrows really went.
“This Nottiby,” I said. “You know him well?”
“I knew him till he
ran out of dough. Then he dropped out of the picture.”
“Did he know about Johnny and his Missus?”
“Sure he knew.”
“How’d he take it?”
“With a wife like that, you learn to take plenty, if you’re a taking guy. He took. But Johnny was a steady, for a long time. I’d say he didn’t like Johnny. At all.”
“Would you say it was more than disliking him?”
“I’d say he hated him like poison.”
The phone books were a red and gray pile on a telephone table. I rummaged. There was only one Nottiby. “Toby O. Nottiby,” I read out loud. “That him?”
“Him.”
“Bye, Sweetheart. Oh, my hat and coat. I left them downstairs.”
“I brought them up for you.” He opened a closet door.
“Thanks.”
“You sure about that hair of the dog?”
“Well … I’m not a hard guy to convince.”
I had Scotch burning hot after breakfast from an old-fashioned glass and I said, “Thanks, brrrr,” and he said, “You’re a character, all right,” and I said, “I hope you’ve got nothing to do with this mess,” and he said, “Out, before I throw you out,” and I said, “I’ll be seeing you.”
3
I yanked at my clothes, and I patted. When you sleep in your clothes, they wrinkle. Mine had more flattened wrinkles than the third face-job on a bag that wants to stay young. I went home.
I showered again and I dripped down more coffee and I drank it naked with the music of the steam hissing from the radiators. With the intricate wisdom of a cretin, I searched for Scotch. I found no Scotch. I called Miami Moonbeam. “Honey, I’m going out to try and find a guy.”
“A guy? So why wake me? Shame on you.”
“You sleeping?”
“No. I’m playing marbles with my grandma in the schoolyard.”
“The guy I’m going to try to find is on the case.”
“Case? What case?”
“What case? How do you like that?”
“Goo’by, lover.”
“The case I’m working on. For you.”
“So, go. Find him. Why wake me?”
“I don’t know. I got to thinking about the down payment.”
“What?”
“An earnest, sort of.”
She hung up.
I called her back. “You’re abrupt.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Look, honey …”
I heard her yawn. I could almost see her stretch.
“Honey,” I said, “ever hear of a guy by the name of Nottiby?”
“Nottiby. Certainly. The tramp’s husband.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“I don’t know. Dropped out of circulation. Let me go to sleep, will you?”
I let her go to sleep. I dressed and I checked the phone book again and I went calling on Nottiby. The address was East Eighty-fifth and the house was more pretentious than a press-agented debutante stiff against her standard poodle. I sailed by the doorman, but another guy in uniform captured me inside, very important in a sky-gray suit with metal buttons and a starched white dickey front.
“What?” he said.
“Nottiby.”
“You have an appointment?”
Very flossy for a guy that is a guard in the pokey.
“No appointment.”
He pursed a pair of astonished lips. “No—appointment?”
“Look, kid, jiggle the thing. Forget the protocol. I want to see Nottiby. Tell him it’s cops.”
“Police?”
“Gendarmes.”
“Mr. Nottiby doesn’t live here.”
I snatched at the natty uniform. I brought him over cozy-close. “Wise?”
“No.”
“Jiggle the thing.”
“He doesn’t live here, honest.”
“Then what’s with the appointment routine?”
“Well, I didn’t know what to say. Nobody calls on him here, maybe once in a great while. I brush them off like that.”
“There’s been a lot of people calling on him during this night, a lot of people. A lot of cops.”
“Cops?”
“Police.”
“Oh, gendarmes. Well, I don’t know, mister. Because I’m not on during the night.”
“So what the hell do you mean, he doesn’t live here?”
“He don’t, mister. The Missus lives here. I mean, did.”
“Did?”
“I mean she’s dead. There’s a piece in the paper, terrible—”
“Anybody up there?”
“Well, there’s a sister, been living with her.”
“She home?”
“I don’t know. I—”
“Let’s go find out.”
“I’ll ring her.”
“You can skip that.”
“But—”
“Let’s just go, huh?”
“If you wish.”
“I wish.”
He ran the elevator himself. He took me up to the fourth floor.
“Four Q,” he said.
I looked at him.
“That’s the apartment.”
“Thanks, buster.”
“I’m sorry you got ruffled, sir. I only work here. I got my orders. You know how it is.”
“Sure, buster,” I said, real patronizing, real cop with a badge; Sam Kelcey himself couldn’t do better.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
I found Q and I pushed the button. Someone said, “Who?”
“Police.”
She opened the door. She looked like she’d been crying, but it didn’t spoil her face. She wore a housecoat and she looked good in it. When you look good in a housecoat, you’re something. She was something.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I won’t be long. Just a few questions.”
“Please come in.”
She looked a good deal like the other girl, the girl who had been sitting in the chair near the window in Johnny the Mick’s bedroom, except that she was a brunette where the other had been fair, and her eyes were dark and deep and restless, and the other’s had been blue, and still.
“Police?” she said.
“Something like that.”
I sat on a modern one-armed leather chair and I leaned my elbows on my knees and moved my hat around in my fingers. “I’m very sorry about—what happened.”
She didn’t answer. She stood up straight in front of me. Her eyes were puffed near the corners and her mouth was tight.
“My name is Peter Chambers.”
“Oh. You’re the man that found her. I was told. What is it, please?”
“I’m a detective, a private detective.”
“Yes. I know. What is it?”
“I’ve been retained to sort of—help in this.”
“Help? I don’t understand.”
I took out my wallet and I let her look at the cellophane window with the earmarks. “Identification.” I put the wallet away. “I know how you must feel about this, and I hate to—”
“Please—don’t the police have it clear? I thought—”
“There are people who won’t believe that Johnny—Mr. Mikvah killed your sister.”
“But they found her in his apartment. They’ve given me to understand that it was over, cut and dried.”
“I know that, lady. It’s just that there are people who don’t think that a guy like Johnny Mikvah would kill—Pamela Reeves. They simply feel that Johnny wouldn’t, couldn’t, despite the weight of all that evidence. Did you know him?”
“Mr. Mikvah? Yes, I knew him.”
“Do you think he killed her?”
She put her hand to her mouth, the nail of the little finger at her teeth. “I don’t understand. I mean, I wouldn’t know, I haven’t thought about it like that. I accepted what the police had told me and—well—adjusted to that. There seemed to be no doubt. Is there?”
“What?”
“Any
doubt?”
“No, Miss Reeves, there seems to be no doubt. On the facts, there seems to be no doubt. But my people— Let me say it this way … knowing Mr. Mikvah, would you think he was the sort of man to murder your sister, to push a bullet through her face?”
“Please.” She turned her back and walked away.
I had to do it like that. I didn’t belong there. She had every right in the world to put me out. So I did it that way. Shock treatment: it takes your mind off a nosy private richard busting in on bereavement poking questions.
Her shoulders moved, but she didn’t turn.
I went to her, close to her. I could hear the gulp that should have been a sob. I said, “Lady, I’m a louse, one louse. Please excuse me.”
I was all the way to the door when she said, “Just a minute.”
I stood there holding the doorknob like it was hot.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She said, “Please sit down.”
I still had nothing but her back at the far end of the room, shuddering a little. Then she turned. She smiled, a small smile, like a reproached child, and it came all the way across the room and it spit in your face. It told you about how you were a callous guy in a mean business and how you had rubbed up against so much dirt you had grit all over you and inside of you. It made your mouth dry, and angry, watching her smile beneath the swollen lids of her eyes, seeing the pattern of the tight strained lines over the smile by the nostrils. She stood there looking at me, her arms straight at her sides, and the effort of the smile made you proud of her.
She said, “I haven’t been hospitable, have I?”
“Lady, in the circumstances—”
“Please sit down, won’t you?”
I went back to the chair, bunched over my knees, playing with my hat. “If you’d like to postpone this, I mean, another time …”
She moved near me and now the smile was gone and the sorrow was gone and her face was composed, but alert. It was as though she had just come back into the room.
“Frankly,” she said, “I don’t.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Frankly,” she said, “the way you put it, now that I’m thinking along those lines, I don’t think that Mr. Mikvah could have done anything like that; I can’t see why. They seemed to be friendly enough that very afternoon, I can’t see why he’d have any reason to.”