Together they returned to the boulevard. “Any choice?” Haig inquired.
“That’s a laugh.”
There were plenty of corner saloons, disguised as jazz joints, yet somehow they shrank out of sight during the shopping day. It was by day a woman’s street of hats and dresses and shoes and jewelry, of five-and-tens and movie matinees.
“How about Musso’s?”
Haig had named the sole remaining dignity of the boulevard. The old English front with the leaded windows hadn’t changed in twenty-five years. Nor had the somber quiet of the décor within. At this hour the place was uncluttered and unhurried. They walked past the empty booths to the old-fashioned taproom hidden in the rear.
Haig waited until they had their drinks before starting anything. But he didn’t waste time on preliminary social stuff. He stated the fact, “I’m looking for Davidian. So are you.”
Steve gave a quick laugh. “You’re not going to suggest we pool information?”
“No, I’m not. But I’m going to warn you. You aren’t going to get the Davidian report.”
If Armour next boasted that he already had the report, Steve would bust him one. No matter what it led to. He was afraid to ask it straight. He made it a taunt. “What makes you think I’m not?”
Haig drank comfortably. “I’m here to see that you don’t.”
Steve said, “And you don’t hold to let the best man win.”
“No.” Haig passed his cigarette case.
Steve refused, pulled out his own pack. He wished he were as sure of himself as Haig appeared to be.
Haig continued, “I always win.”
“That’s a pretty big admission. Maybe I could say the same.”
“It wouldn’t be true.” He leaned a steady elbow on the table between them. “Would it?”
Steve didn’t answer. Instead he asked, “You did come out here for this job? Not the phony line you gave out.”
“That wasn’t a phony. But I turned the case over to Timothy Leonard. Would you like to know why?” He was smiling, a dirty smile.
“Spring it.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be sent on anything minor.”
Steve shook his head. “You’re telling me it was accidental we took the same plane?”
Haig laughed a real one. “You’ll be accusing me next of plotting the fog.”
Steve stuck to the point. “Accidental?”
“And if I told you we had a tip a man was heading to the Coast to see another man? Nothing particularly interesting in it, your messengers go back and forth constantly. If the tip didn’t furnish the name of either man? But suppose I told you that on the plane an astounding human cross-file named Timothy Leonard recognized Stefan Winterich, or Steve Wintress, if you prefer? And where Stefan Winterich makes a personal appearance, something is going to happen?” Haig refreshed his throat.
“What about Feather? She accidental too?”
Haig signaled the waiter. “Two more, please.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “I’m afraid I don’t know about her.”
“You got acquainted damn fast.”
It wasn’t all in the open. Feather was to be withheld. Steve didn’t care, she didn’t worry him any. Maybe after all she wasn’t a plant; maybe Haig thought she was on Steve’s side. That would be one for the books, an innocent bystander and both sides thinking the other had her under orders.
“I don’t get it.” Steve tasted his fresh highball. This was quota. It wouldn’t be funny if Haig pulled the old one of getting the opposition talkative.
As if his side line were mind-reading, Haig remarked, “I thought you fellows didn’t drink.”
Steve showed his teeth. “We’re human too, you know. Some of us do, some don’t.”
Haig accepted it. “What don’t you get?”
“Why you’re giving me this pitch.” He could play the open-faced hands too. “Why don’t you lock me up? You guys can always think up reasons to get rid of your opposition.”
Haig said flatly, “I need you. Would it surprise you to know that with all our sources of information, we didn’t know until recently that Davidian was in this country?”
It didn’t surprise him. “Noooo!” He drawled it sardonically. “The great F.B.I.?”
Haig’s mouth tightened. “We’ve made up for lost time, I can assure you. But we haven’t found him. You’re going to do that. You were his friend. He believes you’re still his friend, working this deal for him. He doesn’t know that you’re under orders. You know how to reach him.”
Steve pretended amusement. “So I’m to lead you to him and fade out while you pick up the report without interference?”
Haig said evenly, “Frankly I don’t give a damn whether you interfere or not. I wouldn’t mind in the least getting rid of you for good. I don’t even mind if Davidian is a casualty, he’s lasted a long time for a spy. All I want is the report.” A slight change came across his face. It made him look human. “And I don’t want the girl hurt.”
Steve waited until he could speak without giving anything away. “What girl?” He didn’t want the answer.
“Janni. Janni Zerbec.”
He’d half believed her denials of Haig. That was why it slugged him in the pit of the stomach. He had a hard time spitting out the words. “What about Janni?”
“I said it. I don’t want her hurt.”
Steve tried to fight the sickness that was spreading like poison through his veins. Haig had everything she wanted, power and position, style and brass, money. She hadn’t wasted any time; she’d wrapped him up fast. In one meeting? In how many meetings? She hadn’t changed any; she was what she’d always be. Had she given Davidian to Haig? Were they only waiting for Steve to catch up to the trap they’d staked for him, to catch two birds at once? He wouldn’t let them pull it off; this was his baby, he’d set it up. He’d bring it off the way he’d planned it no matter how many angles Haig Armour played.
He heard Haig’s voice, the timbre of it. “She doesn’t want any part of your deal. Stay away from her.”
“Leave her for you?” He couldn’t laugh, he tried it.
“You think she’d rather have you?” It was a quiet challenge.
He couldn’t see Haig’s bold handsome face; it blurred before his eyes. “Okay. Take her. She’s yours. I give her to you, no strings.” The voice wasn’t his own. “But after you’ve loaded her with minks and rubies and dollar bills and everything her bitching heart desires, remember what I’m telling you now. There’s part of her you’ll never have. And that part you’ll want until you’re too old to care, and even then you’ll want it. That part belongs to me.”
He didn’t know how he got out of the booth, out of the restaurant. But he was on the street gulping the air, walking away fast and hard, not knowing or caring where. Somehow with his hat and coat on him. She’d lied, just as she always lied when it suited her dirty little schemes. Just as she was lying about not knowing how to get in touch with Davidian. He ought to go to her right now, slap her with the lie.
God! And what if she had lied? What’s Hecuba to me or I to Hecuba that I should weep for her?
Nothing mattered except finding Davidian.
2
Early twilight sifted down upon the shiny Christmas crystals and stars and metallic trees. When his eyes and brain began to clear, Steve found he was almost to La Brea. The street was roped off this far up the boulevard. It was necessary to retrace to the corner in order to cross. The Roosevelt Hotel loomed; he rounded the corner and used the side entrance. Only one telephone booth was occupied, and it by a large-size man whose hefty fur-coated dame leaned against the half-opened door. Steve wondered if they were cooking up a story for his wife or her husband. One thing sure, they weren’t Haig’s hirelings; they’d been here first.
Steve took a booth, put in his coin and called his own room. He didn’t expect Reuben to be around but there he was at the other end of the line. Did the kid sit around all afternoon just waiting for Steve to ch
eck in? Steve didn’t ask; this time it was a break. “How about us dating a couple of gals and making a night of it?”
“Gee,” Rube began, then his voice flopped. “Trouble is I don’t know any girls in this man’s town. Only Feather.”
“Stick around,” Steve told him. “I’ll be there with my little black book.” He hung up, put in another coin and dialed again. No one was leaning around the booths; the couple had gone off arm in arm, satisfied with their dime’s worth. He answered Oriole’s voice, “Wintress here. I’m coming around for some information.”
“You will not be long?” Mr. Oriole sounded anxious. “I will wait for you, you understand, but it is that tonight is the Santa Claus parade—”
Santa Claus parade. It explained the streets, the baubles, the colored lights. Steve said, “I’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Will that do?” He had to get Rube started first.
“You understand,” Mr. Oriole protested too much, “It is not myself. It is that I have promised the children and my wife.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll get to see Santy Claus. What I want won’t take long.” He left the hotel by the same side entrance. There was parade excitement in the air this early. Some particularly eager beavers were spreading their newspapers and blankets for front-row seats.
Reuben was finishing a shave. “What’s the scoop?”
“You have Feather’s phone number?” The Moritzes were unlisted.
“Yeah. Want me to call her?”
“I’ll call. I want you to take the car and pick up my girl.” My girl; that was a good one.
“You promoted a car?” Rube mopped his cheeks.
“An old heap. But it’s wheels. Janni lives downtown. In a dump but don’t let that throw you, she’s okay.” He explained, “She doesn’t have a phone.”
Rube had rummaged a scrap of paper out of his coat. A Crestview number was pencil-printed on it. “Janni,” he repeated. Well, he’d heard enough about her last night to be curious.
“I haven’t time to pick her up, I have to see a man.” He wrote her address on another scrap of paper. “Don’t take no for an answer. Tell her we’re going to have a front-row seat to see Santy Claus.” Steve flung out his hands. “Why am I briefing you? That’s the first thing they teach you army Joes, how to sweet-talk the dolls. We’ll meet at—” He’d go right back there, his head high. He’d have it out with her there. “—Musso’s. It’s across the street, up a block or so. The car’s in the lot in back of the hotel.” He dug up the parking stub.
Reuben was slicked up real pretty. And Steve wouldn’t have time for a shave. The boy took the keys. “How’re you going to get Feather if I’ve got the car?”
“Feather’s going to join us, sweetheart. Run along. Remember, don’t take no.”
“I won’t.” Out came the slow grin.
Steve was asking for Crestview before the door closed. Feather might have ten other dates but he doubted it. She didn’t react as if she were accustomed to the rush of fellows most girls of her age enjoyed. If she should have Haig Armour plans, Steve would have to convince her that a change was desirable. Someone had to take care of Rube while Steve worked on Janni. He sprawled on the bed while waiting for the Moritz houseman to get her to the phone.
Her soft hello came through.
“Feather? Steve. Look, Rube and I are lonesome.” He didn’t give her a chance to break in, just kept it moving fast. He had no time to waste on her. “How about meeting us for dinner and we’ll take in this Santa Claus parade?”
She was hesitant. “I don’t know. I’m not dressed.”
At this hour was she still hoping Haig would call? Or did she have to clear through him? “We aren’t fancy. Say about seven, Musso Frank’s.” He wouldn’t mention how she was to get there. Let her figure that out. “Okay?”
He barely gave her a chance to say, “All right,” before he hung up. He was out of the room at once. He’d have to move fast.
The sidewalks were beginning to jostle. And there were cops all over the place. Steve ducked down the nearest side street and proceeded to Oriole’s. The door was opened before he could ring. The parade must be important, Mr. Oriole had washed his face and was wearing a jacket over a clean shirt. He didn’t invite Steve into the parlor.
He spoke hurriedly. “This information you wish—”
From the dining room came the quelled voices of youngsters. Steve wondered how many little Orioles were waiting there and if they all looked like Pop. “Where would I find friends in Hollywood? Our friends.”
Mr. Oriole didn’t believe it was this easy. He began with the bookstore and Steve suddenly remembered Llewellyn and Pam, the job he’d set them on. “Ring them for me.”
“The store will be closed at this hour.”
“Not until they hear from me.”
Mr. Oriole’s face drooped but he was obedient. While he put his coin into the slot and dialed, he continued the tally. A record shop, a small café, a magic store. His eyes rounded at an answer to his call. He passed the phone to Steve and stood on one foot then the other.
Steve questioned, “Llewellyn? What did you find?”
“None of the other shops have had our experience.”
“What about the desk?”
“Nothing. Nor any notation.”
Steve mumbled sounds.
“Is there anything further, sir?”
“Not tonight. Enjoy the parade.”
He could hear the smiling condescension. “I’m not going to the parade, sir. I have a committee meeting.”
“Enjoy the meet. And thanks for hanging around.” He banged up the receiver.
Mr. Oriole continued as if there had been no interruption. “And there is, of course, the popcorn man.”
Nothing but bad breaks, that pattern hadn’t been disturbed. Albion had not thrown away that ruble; 100 to 1 he’d had it in his pocket when he went to the airport to meet Steve. “What about the popcorn man?”
For the moment Mr. Oriole forgot his anxieties. “He has a little cart with glass over and about it to keep the popcorn warm and clean. He pushes the cart himself and there is a lantern in it with such a nice yellow light. It is a real lantern that burns, not electric. And a little whistle, such a nice whistle.” His smile was nostalgic. “Once I was the popcorn man.” He added too quickly, “It is much better the work I do now and this big house.”
Steve asked, “Where do I find him?”
“He walks the streets at night selling his popcorn. And meets many people.” The small eyes were shrewd. “If his feet get tired, he sets down the wagon on any corner he chooses and the people come to him.”
There wouldn’t be a much safer way to deliver messages. It didn’t sound like the efficient Schmidt; it would take someone before his time, someone with more imagination and romance to invent the popcorn man.
“He is easy to find because of his nice yellow lantern. And the little whistle.”
“Yeah.” Steve nodded thoughtfully. The dining room was becoming impatient. He hurried. “Where did Albion live?”
Mr. Oriole didn’t withhold the address this time. “It is a rooming house.”
“Friends?”
“No. Mr. Albion preferred not. It was safer, he believed.” Oriole wasn’t as sure as Schmidt that Albie was a traitor. He spoke as of a friend.
“Who took over his things?”
“Temporarily it is Llewellyn who is in charge of the store.”
“I mean his personal stuff, his clothes, that kind of thing.”
“I do not know this. You may ask Mr. Schmidt.”
Steve said, “I will. Better get those kids off to the parade.” He went to the door, opened it.
Mr. Oriole could smile again. “Always they enjoy the parade. There is Santa Claus—” The smile disappeared as if it were Cheshire. “You understand, they do not believe this superstition,” he said carefully. “It is only—” He extricated himself. “It is Hopalong Cassidy and Roy Rogers they wish to see.”
>
“Yeah, kids are all alike.” He was sorry for the old boy. Trying to live up to Schmidt’s standards and yet give his children a happy life.
He had time to visit the gathering places, or some of them, and still beat Feather to the restaurant. There were cops all along the boulevard by now, cops and family parties with innumerable children. The adolescents were even more numerous, they paraded on the sidewalks, boys and girls in jeans and bright wool shirts, shrilling cryptic messages to attract the others’ attention. The spirit was holiday, Steve hadn’t seen anything like it since he was a boy. The spirit was so good it was contagious. He didn’t want to be on his gritty little errands, he wanted to be one of these people, just having fun.
A job was a job. He took the far address first. This wasn’t one of the clean, shining record stores of the boulevard, it was no more than a hole in the wall, a front. It was open but not patronized. A young man was lolling on a folding wooden chair behind the cash register, reading the evening paper. He looked up at Steve. He didn’t rise.
“Is this your place?” Steve didn’t like the sullen face.
The fellow flickered an up-and-down glance. As if he’d sized Steve for a plain-clothes cop, he asked with open insolence, “Yeah. What about it?”
Steve gave him more rope. “I’m looking for a guy who’s giving out phony rubles.”
The smile jeered. “No kid?”
“Has he been in here?”
“Nope.” He resumed the evening paper.
Steve let him have it, cold and ugly. “I’m from New York. Mr. Oriole sent me here.”
The paper dropped. The fellow was on his feet, stammering something about not knowing.
Steve eyed him. “Now suppose you answer my question.”
The slack mouth became voluble, sweat was breaking out on the unwashed face. But the answers added up to a negative. Small wonder. Davidian couldn’t have any fun in this dump. Nor would he waste his handiwork on a lout.
Steve said coldly, “I shall recommend you to Mr. Schmidt.” He walked out while whey-face was still stammering about being sorry. It took him a couple of blocks to get back to the crowd’s good humor. He should have clouted that one across the mouth when it first opened. It was better to see that the guy was pitched to the lions along with Schmidt.
Davidian Report Page 9