Hang by Your Neck

by Kane, Henry

  He called his folks first. He told them he had a job to do. He told them he could turn a buck. He hung up and he smiled at me. I assumed he had permission.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Travis. John Travis.”

  He called the town cops. He told them about having driven a man named Travis over to the Nottiby place. He told them about the method the man named Travis had used to enter the Nottiby place, and why, and what he’d found there. He told them Travis was a tall guy, not bad looking, with black hair and blue eyes and a straight-line mustache. Then he told them he was driving the man Travis to the Bronx, and he hung up while the phone still squirted a protesting voice. The only thing he didn’t tell them was who was calling.

  “We better go, Mr. Travis.”

  “Sure, kid.”

  We went.

  We stopped once for gas, and we slowed down once for the transfer of the twenty-five dollars. Cops on motorcycles went by several times, but nobody stopped us. It was a warm night with stars and Jeff provided a good deal of silence. It gave me time to realize I was smack out of ideas. Nottiby would have been a good guy to talk with. Now Nottiby had gone and done it, like it was an epidemic. Or did he? Any way you looked at it, Nottiby didn’t have too much to live for. The car jounced and I tried to put some ideas together. They hung limp as the back row in burlycue.

  He dropped me off at the 205th Street station of the Independent Subway. It was a little after eight o’clock. I said, “Thanks for the ride, Jeff.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “See you sometime. You’re a smart young lad.”

  “Your name’s Travis like mine’s Robert E. Lee.”

  “Right smart lad,” I said. “See you around.”

  I put my coin into the slot and I pushed through the turnstile and I got on a waiting last-stop train. The doors closed and I went to sleep. I awoke once at Fordham Road and then again at 125th Street. I took a cab for home at Columbus Circle and right there in the cab, I remembered.

  “Turn around,” I said. “East Eighty-fifth. Right off the park. I’ll show you when we get there.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Night softened the gaudiness. Vertical steel strips and marble gargoyles and white brick and metal adornments all fused into the jagged hill of blazing windows. The doorman was another doorman, who smiled and saluted. The man inside, in the sky-gray uniform, was another man, small, mousy, round, and paunchy. He had seen the doorman’s salute. He smiled, tentatively, at my unimpeachable “How do?” I went by him. The elevator was waiting. “Four,” I said to the elevator man. I heard the hall attendant belatedly acknowledge my “How do?” with a dubious “How do?” of his own.

  Harsh noise of argument filtered through her door: a man, and a woman, and then the softer voice of another man. I listened. I got the melody, but I couldn’t make out the words. I put my finger to the push-button. Silence.

  Then: “Who’s that?”

  “Pete Chambers.”

  She opened the door. She wore the same green outfit. No hat.

  Petersen said, “You, eh?”

  “Me.”

  “I’m glad to see you. I’m glad you came.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  He turned his back and he walked away from me on thick-soled brown brogues. He wore brown slacks and a red plaid sport shirt and a tan jacket.

  Nancy took my hat and coat.

  Merrill chuckled. “Ah, the good detective.” Merrill had his legs crossed in an easy chair and his hand clasped about a tall drink. He was immaculate in a gray suit, a roll-collar silk shirt, and a black tie. He was cleanly shaved. “Ah,” he said, “the good detective. Speak of the devil. Think, rather, of the devil. Build a drink for the boy, Nancy.”

  “Yes?” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  She bowed, cocking her head, and she smiled grittily. “I hear you’re quite a member of our little family. I hear you’re quite one of us.”

  She sat in a corner of the couch, her skirt tightening up her legs, and I didn’t have much opportunity for admiration, because Petersen was back at me, poking a hard finger at my shoulder.

  “Confidence,” he said. “It was supposed to be in confidence. You—”

  “Take it easy.”

  The finger curled down to a portion of fist. The pokes became thumps. I backed out of reach. “Take it easy, Mr. Petersen.”

  “Why, you—” His face was red and sweaty and his glasses dug tight at the temples. He tore in with the fist aloft like he was running with an invisible torch. I stepped aside and let him run. I threw a questioning look at Merrill. Merrill smiled.

  Petersen veered and came again. I sat him down with a soft jab at his stomach. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Nancy said, “Oh.”

  “You just can’t have him running around like that,” I explained. I put my hand down and helped him off the rug. I led him to the couch and pushed him into it. His mouth was open and the point of his tongue showed as he wheezed to get air back into him. “What’s it all about?” I said.

  Nancy sat.

  Merrill smiled.

  Petersen said, “You—” He pointed, now, with a limp finger. “You—you—I came to you to help. I talked to you in confidence, you dirty little—”

  “There!” Nancy said. “There!”

  Merrill said, “There, what, my dear?”

  “He admits it. We’ve been talking all around it, but now he admits it.” She stood up, walking quickly, her arms straight down, stiff and swinging. She came back with his hat and coat. “Get out of here, please.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Just for the record.” I looked at Merrill. “Did I tell you that Mr. Petersen told me anything? Did I mention his name, once, in this connection?”

  “No,” Merrill said.

  Petersen’s face was blank, listening. He fumbled with his hat and coat.

  “I talked with Mr. Merrill about certain information that I had. That’s all. I didn’t mention my source. I was asked not to mention the source. Remember?”

  He stood up wearily. He looked from Nancy to Merrill and back. “The hell with you,” he said. “The hell with both of you.” He went to the door, stopped. “All right, Chambers. I apologize.”

  “Forget it. You been to Nyack lately?”

  “Certainly. I live there.”

  “No. I mean—”

  “Honestly,” he said, “I don’t give one damn hoot in hell what you mean.”

  He slammed the door behind him.

  “Nyack?” Merrill said. “Sure he’s been in Nyack lately. I called him up there a couple of hours ago and I asked him to come down. We both waited for Nancy in the lobby. I wanted to have this out, once and for all.” He sipped his drink. “Quite amusing, wasn’t it?”

  “Contemptible,” Nancy said. She went back to the couch.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Merrill said. “All’s fair …”

  Nancy said, “Mr. Chambers, I—I’d like to explain this to you. You might as well know all about it.”

  “Yes,” Merrill said. “Whether or not you find your murderer, or whether or not there is a murderer that hasn’t already been found, you’ve done us a service, Mr. Chambers. I’ll have to invite you to the wedding.”

  “Cupid Chambers,” I said. (It rhymes with stupid.)

  Nobody smiled. Nobody ever does when I’m witty.

  Witty?

  Nancy said, “I don’t have to bring you up to date. I hear you’ve been very fully brought up to date. My association with Arnold Petersen was—well, not unhappy. Mr. Petersen was very kind to me, and, unfortunately, in my life, too many people have not been kind. I met Mr. Merrill and that was different, but—” She hesitated. “A woman might understand; we’re all grown up. It’s so very difficult to try to explain to men. Let me say it this way: it wasn’t nice—a stinking quandary. I felt bad, rotten. I couldn’t—I knew I’d have to break it
with Arnold, but I couldn’t bring myself—I—”

  “Talking as a mere man,” Merrill said, “we can label it as a misshapen sense of honor, sprinkled with conscience pangs, born of gratitude, growing out of ripe soil—”

  She touched her hair, wrinkled her forehead. “So you see, when this business came to light, this unthinkable business of Arnold Petersen informing on Conrad Merrill, no matter how innocent, there was only one reason for that.”

  “In a sense,” Merrill said, “you released her. For which, I am eternally grateful. I suppose it would have worked itself out, anyway, but marriage co-mingled with conscience pangs—oh, my. Marriage without conscience pangs—just marriage, marriage without anything—that’s bad enough. I shudder—” He shuddered. Over the highball.

  Cupid Chambers. I wasn’t interested.

  “Miss Reeves,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “You been to Nyack lately?”

  Merrill put his drink down. “Yes. She’s been to Nyack lately.”

  Nancy said, “Conrad—”

  “Why?” I said.

  The answer dawdled longer than a waiter with a second pat of butter.

  “Why?”

  “We’ve taken you this far along the way,” Merrill said, “we may as well go the rest of the way. I presume, Mr. Chambers, you’ve guessed that after the police came to Nancy inquiring about Nottiby, telling her that he had committed some crime—you’ve probably guessed that she called me immediately after the police left. You realized we’re friends of the man.”

  “Yes, yes, I do.”

  “We knew where he went—if he was attempting to hide from the police. Neither of us made a move, except trying to call him there. There was no answer. We started calling directly after the police left Nancy’s apartment, this apartment. No answer. Of course, we tried his hotel also. There was no answer.”

  “I see.”

  Nancy said, “When I left Conrad’s studio, Petersen drove uptown with me. He didn’t come up. He had an appointment—with you, Mr. Chambers, as it develops. I called Conrad. I had an impulse to drive up to Nyack and check around. I was worried about Nottiby. I still am. I called Conrad and asked him what he thought, and he said for me to go ahead, but to be careful about the police possibly watching me. That’s about it. I drove up there. But Nottiby wasn’t there; the place is closed.”

  “How about the lights in the parlor, Miss Reeves?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “How do I know you were up there?”

  “How do you?”

  “Please,” Merrill said, “stop playing games.”

  I said, “I was visiting in Nyack too. I saw you drive off.”

  “I called Conrad immediately after that. I told him the house was shut. I told him about the lights in the parlor. He told me to come back to town, and I did that.”

  Merrill said, “No use breaking in. I’ll let it wait a day or so. I expect he’ll be in touch with one of us.”

  “Yes,” I said, “yes.”

  “I don’t suppose you were any more successful than Nancy.”

  “No.”

  He came out of his chair and sat beside her. “We’ll go away. We’re both of us overdue for a vacation.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder.

  I looked once, without favor, at the peaceful vignette of pre-domestic bliss, and then I went and brought Merrill his glass. He took it, her head slipping partly off his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said. He let it slip the rest of the way, finishing his drink.

  Nancy’s grimace was bitter-sweet. “You see where his choice lies?”

  “You can’t let a drink go stale,” I said.

  “A man of quality,” Merrill said. “Mr. Chambers, we must get together one day, Prairie, you, and I.”

  “And me?” Nancy said.

  “And you.”

  “I’ve got to go now,” I said. “By the way, Nottiby have his own car?”

  “Yes. A relic.”

  2

  I trudged toward home. There were no more people to see and no more people to talk to. Johnny the Mick had killed Pamela Reeves and hanged himself—or he hadn’t. I had to make up my mind with the facts I had. Facts. I kicked the sidewalk. Cupid Chambers. What facts? I had mixed into a lot of lives and I had listened to a lot of people. I had been lectured by cops. I had been drummed down by psychiatrists. I had wrestled with a wrestler. I had been convinced by a nympho. I had been sprung by a lawyer with a grumbling wife. I had added an open safe to empty pockets and come up with a blank. I had tangled with desk clerks and jabbed at hall attendants. I had taken a poke out of a tycoon. I had looked at pictures. I had taken train rides, car rides, cab rides, bus rides, ferry rides, subway rides. I had visited saloons, banks, studios, gymnasiums, uptown, downtown, suburbs, police stations, office buildings, elevator buildings, high apartments, low apartments, walk-ups. I had been insulted and criticized. I had fretted on a cot in a cubicle in the clink. I had drunk a lot of whiskey and met a lot of interesting people. I had eased the conscience of a good-looking girl graduating from protégée to wedded wife. I had seen a dead Pamela in a chair, a dead Mikvah in my bedroom, a dead Nottiby in Nyack. I had learned a lot of things about a lot of people which didn’t right the slant of my respect for the human race, and, in sum total, most of it flickered down to the fact that Pamela Reeves had been an excellent subject for murder, and whoever had pulled it off had done a good turn for a good many people. But who? And how? Mikvah, that’s who. The cops had it clear. How? He shot her. Go home, now. Go to sleep. Forget it.

  I couldn’t.

  That disturbed me.

  I’m an old hand in my racket. It gets so you know when you have nothing. That’s when you forget it. When you have nothing. That’s when you lay it down. But not this case. I had a lot of little things in this one. I just couldn’t shake them up to talk to me. The thing had more frills than a carnival sideshow. You couldn’t see the design because of the spangles, but I had an answer somewhere. There was an answer inside of me. How do you like that? Peter Chambers pregnant with an answer. Maybe. I needed a large drink, bad.

  I live in a tall house on Fifty-ninth Street facing Central Park. It would be a pleasure getting home. I wanted a warm, soaking bath and relaxation. Warm, soaking bath. That’s where I came in. I was lolling in the bathtub wherein tepid … I got a picture of little Johnny with a blue face twisting slowly off a leather belt tight and deep in his neck. A small warm breeze from the park made me shiver. I pulled my hat down and I walked faster. There was something wrong with the city. It was dim, it was eerie, it was fog-quiet. It gets like that when you work too hard, when you’re pregnant with an answer, when you don’t get enough sleep, when you splash onto a guy with the brains of his head slopped against a wall, a nice polite soft-voiced guy, a guy that had crept into a bottle to get out of a lousy world. I needed that large drink, bad. I needed a warm, relaxing bath. I needed sleep. I called a cab.

  All I got out of all of that was the drink.

  The cab dropped me off at my liquor store. I picked up a couple of bottles and then I turned in under my canopy and I said, “Hi,” to the doorman.

  “Mr. Chambers—”

  “Not now,” I said. “I know. It’s a beautiful night. It’s warm for September. Some other time, huh?”

  “Really,” he said, “it is. Wonderful weather we’re having. New York’s the best, this time of year.”

  “Some other time, kid.”

  “It’s not that, Mr. Chambers. I’m not supposed to tell you, I think—but you’ve got company.”

  I stopped. “Me?”

  “Yes, sir. About ten, fifteen minutes ago. They ring your bell. That don’t answer. I tell them you’re probably out. Then they ask for the super.”

  “You know them?”

  “Never seen them before, except one, he looks familiar. Four guys. Then the super comes down and tells me. They had him open the door. Either they’re looking around or they’re wa
iting for you. Cops.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Look, you don’t have to go up, Mr. Chambers. I never mentioned anything to you.”

  I took one of the bottles out of the brown paper bag and I handed it over. “Thanks again,” I said.

  “What’s this?”

  “An installment on Christmas. For a pal.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I went up and put the key in the door. Sam Kelcey and two tight-faced young men whom I didn’t know had their hats and coats on ready to leave. Louis Parker lay on the couch using his folded topcoat for a pillow, his hat over most of his face. The way it looked, the boys were going, leaving Louis, supinely, to hold the fort.

  “Well,” I said. “Welcome, gentlemen. Only I don’t believe I heard you ring.”

  Sam Kelcey took his gloves off. He slapped the package out of my hand. He curled a choking fist around my shirt collar. “A nice cool private-eye bastard,” he said. He held on to the collar with one hand and he threw the other, backhand and slamming, twice against my face.

  “Cut that out,” I said.

  Inspector or no inspector, the guy was priming himself for a jolt of knee to where it hurts most. That wouldn’t do me one little bit of good, after he came out of the jackknife, but the hell with it, it wouldn’t do him any good either. “Let go the shirt,” I said.

  The open right hand was now a fist. It started from way back. I wrenched out of his hold, tearing my collar.

  “Don’t …” Parker said. He put his hat on the floor and sat up on the couch. “Sam—”

  The two bright young men were grinning.

  I put my hat and coat away. I looked in a mirror at the shirt collar. I looked at Kelcey. I took my jacket off and my tie and the shirt.

  “What is it, a strip tease?” Kelcey said.

  I didn’t answer. I picked up my bottle. “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Where you going?” Kelcey said.

  “I’m going to hang up my jacket. I’m going to hang up my tie. Then I’m throwing the shirt away. Then I’m going to have a drink.”

  “Smart guy,” Kelcey said, moving toward me.