I think.
One block into Forest Hills Gardens and you’re in another world at another time. It’s a protected enclave of private tree-lined streets untouched by the incredible development of the rest of Forest Hills. There are no thirty-two-story apartment buildings, no bachelor pads or groupie-stewardess setups. Although the enclave is a part of the borough of Queens in the City of New York, the Gardens Association maintains a private sanitation service, a staff of gardeners and maintenance men and a force of security guards who patrol on foot and motorbike. Unauthorized vehicles—without a numbered Gardens sticker—get window-sized, iron-glued notices pasted over each window informing the owner that “Forest Hills Gardens is not a parking lot.” The second violation, and the car gets towed away at the owner’s expense. Not friendly, but effective.
Most of the homes were either Tudor or Normandy mansions set back among trees, shrubs, velvet lawns and formal gardens. The home of the Vincent Martuccis was imposing by any standards. It was a huge old castle set so far back and so concealed by hedges and twisting brick pathways that I wasn’t sure where the front door was located until I was nearly on top of it. I ignored the small neat sign advising “All Service to Rear Door”; the sign beneath it, just as neat but more ominous, advised me to “Beware of Trained Dogs.” As soon as I touched the buzzer, the chimes and the trained dogs went off. Even through the heavy door, I was convinced that the barking was of the no-fooling-around variety.
There was a slight variation in the small round mirror set at mouth level in the door: I was being viewed. There was a small clicking sound, and a voice came at me from the cluster of tiny pinpoint holes set into the doorjamb. I held my shield up to the mirror and gave my name to the pinholes.
“You wait dere please jus’ a minute.” The accent was West Indies. The dogs barked again, but a sharp command shut them up.
Another sliding of the viewer; a different voice. “I’m Mrs. Martucci. What is it, please?”
I identified myself again; there was the sound of heavy locks being undone. The door opened on a chain and she asked, politely, for some identification, which she checked quickly; then she shut the door, undid the chain and allowed me into a huge marble entrance hall. The trained dogs, two sleek Dobermans, sat quivering with emotion; a deep rumble vibrating in their throats and four glassy, vicious eyes convinced me not to offer them a pat on the head. They waited for me to follow Mrs. Martucci, then they backed me up, one on each side. I put my hands into my pockets; I didn’t want them dangling behind. She led us into a huge room with a stone fireplace that stretched from floor to high ceiling across one entire wall. A young girl sat against the velvet-topped railing in front of the fireplace and she stopped in the middle of a sentence, so that a second girl, poised at the edge of a velvet chair, became curious and turned toward me.
The dogs ran, one to each girl. The younger girl, against the railing, closed her eyes and offered her face to the dog nearest her. I thought the kid was crazy; her whole head could easily fit inside that dog’s opened mouth.
“Lucia,” Mrs. Martucci said sharply, but with a maternal pride, “don’t let him do that to you.” The dog was slobbering a thick pink tongue all over the girl’s face. “Girls, you must excuse yourselves now.” She told them in Italian to take the dogs with them. I added a silent grazie.
“I hope I haven’t interrupted you.” There was a breakfast tray set between the two velvet chairs.
She waved her hand: it was of no matter. A very small very black woman in a light-gray uniform stood in the doorway waiting.
“Bring another cup, and some fresh coffee, Pearl, and some of the small glazed cakes. Thank you.”
She snapped on the lamp beside her chair, and for the first time I saw her clearly. Maria Martucci was a Madonna. She was totally unexpected. She had a pale, unbelievably elegant face with high prominent cheekbones, a regal nose, wide lips and the blackest, brightest eyes framed by thick long lashes. Her hair was black and very heavy, worn off her face, twisted into a knot at the back of her neck. She wore a dark wine-colored long velvet gown which clung to her tall body sensuously. The only jewelry she wore was a narrow gold wedding band, and at her throat, just in the hollow, rested a tiny gold crucifix.
It was hard to figure why the hell Vincent Martucci was at this moment having coffee in a crummy Yonkers luncheonette with Kitty Keeler when he could be here, with this magnificent woman. Kitty had a fresh, cute, girlish beauty. Maria Martucci was the real thing: a woman whose beauty increases with time.
She moved her head to one side politely; apparently she was accustomed to the effect she had on people.
“Mrs. Martucci, I’m sorry if I’ve intruded on your breakfast, but I must ask you questions about a very serious matter.”
“Yes?” Her eyebrows, black against her white skin, raised expectantly.
“You’ve heard about what happened to the children of Mrs. Kitty Keeler?”
A shudder went through her body, working across her shoulders, then down along her spine. Her hand went to her throat; she touched the tips of her fingers to the crucifix. “Terrible. Terrible. Little babies.” Then one shoulder moved forward and she said softly, flatly, “The will of God is difficult to comprehend sometimes.”
“I don’t think God’s will had anything to do with this, do you?”
“Everything is God’s will.”
There was a certain tension coming from her, but it disappeared as she turned, polite, expectant, to watch the maid set a silver tray on the coffee table. Mrs. Martucci leaned forward, indicated that she would handle it from here. The maid disappeared without a sound, as though she vaporized. Mrs. Martucci concentrated on pouring coffee into the large thin cups, added sugar, cream, stirred it quickly, then, half smiling, handed the cup and saucer to me. “You must try these little cakes; I make them for my children. They are so fond of them.”
I tasted the coffee, then put saucer and cup down on the table, shook my head at the dish she held toward me, sensing she was trying to distract me. It wouldn’t have been hard. There was something very erotic about her.
“Mrs. Martucci, I have to ask you some questions. About a somewhat ... delicate matter.” I don’t think in my whole life I had ever used that expression: a somewhat delicate matter.
She stopped stirring the small silver spoon in her cup and looked at me coolly. “There is nothing delicate about it. A whore is a whore.”
That brought me up sharp. “You know, then, about your husband’s relationship with Kitty Keeler?”
She put the cup down on the tray and folded her white hands in her lap. They were startling, like ivory, against the dark velvet. “I know what goes on between such a woman and a man.”
“Do you know Kitty Keeler?”
I could have sworn she made a spitting sound; at least, a sort of hissing. “I would not know such a woman.” Then, in almost a whisper, telling me a secret, “There are many men who know this woman. Many. Married men, unmarried men. It means nothing to a ... a woman such as this.”
“Do you know of anyone at all who might have a reason to do such a terrible thing to Mrs. Keeler’s children?”
Without hesitation, she flashed back, “To her, yes. To her children, no.” Her back pulled away from the chair; she moved her long hands, one inside the other. “A woman like this, with no respect for marriage, for her own or another person’s, brings down terrible things on her own head. A woman like this, with no heart,” she brought a hand up to her breast, “who knows what such a woman is responsible for?” She was silent for a moment and I was about to ask a question, but she added, slowly, deciding whether or not to continue, “There are many women whose lives have been damaged by this woman.” She hesitated, then added softly, “A poor crippled woman ...”
I leaned forward. “I’m sorry, did you say a crippled woman? Who would that be?”
She moved her head from side to side; there was a strange light coming from her eyes. The corners of her mouth turned
up slightly, but not in a smile. “Maybe you will find out something about that.” She shrugged. “Maybe not, I do not know.”
She sat as still as a picture; her face was serene and beautiful and yet she gave off certain sparks, tensions, signals, that were contradictory. She held up the plate of cakes toward me, and when I shook my head she carefully selected a little pink-iced square for herself, placed it on a plate, took tiny crumbs of it on her silver fork, inserted the fork between her barely parted lips, then licked the end of the fork with the tip of her tongue. All the time, she watched me, her eyes huge and amused.
“Mrs. Martucci, we have serious reasons to believe that your husband is implicated in the death of Kitty Keeler’s two sons.”
She put the plate down, as though she’d had all the nourishment she needed. She dabbed at her mouth with a heavy linen napkin, then said softly, “My husband was in Phoenix. He only arrived home last night.”
“He spoke to Kitty Keeler twice on the night the children were murdered. Immediately after they were dead.”
“How would I know about this? What is it you want from me? Why do you not question my husband?”
“If we are right, Mrs. Martucci, and I believe we are, your husband gave Mrs. Keeler advice that night, regarding the boys. When we prove it, your husband can be charged with murder.”
“My husband has been charged with many things in his lifetime. I do not involve myself in his affairs.”
She moved one hand, brought it across her body to rest on the opposite arm, then slowly, languidly, she moved her hand up and down, from shoulder to elbow. Her face showed pleasure, the kind of pleasure a cat feels when being stroked the right way.
She had that half-smile again; an indication that she was aware of her impact on me. That she was radiating sensuality with a simple, innocent, nonsexual motion. There was a hard light in the center of her black eyes and now I could see that she and Vincent Martucci were not mismatched.
“Mrs. Martucci, where were you on Wednesday night, between, say, ten o’clock and midnight?”
She dropped her hand to her lap, moved back against the chair and smiled. “I was at Our Lady of the Martyrs. We are sewing and preparing baskets for the victims of the flooding in Guatemala. My chauffeur dropped me home at twelve-thirty and then he drove Father Collins to his residence on the campus at St. John’s.” She began the stroking of her arm again; tilted her head to one side. “Can I help you with anything else? Anything at all?”
I considered for a moment, shook my head. “Maybe some other time.”
“Perhaps.” The word offered something; in and of itself, a harmless, meaningless word, but from her lips the word conveyed several meanings. I wasn’t sure at this point whether she was merely amusing herself or challenging me to interpret what she didn’t choose to say openly. I don’t mind games when I’m in on the rules, but this lady kept everything secret; kept the advantage and enjoyed my discomfiture. When she stood up, her hands lightly skimmed the outlines of her body, and she moved silently into the two-story-high hallway. I took a minute to take it all in: the sweeping curved marble staircase, the various paintings, the handsome grandfather clock, ticking steadily, softly, the dazzling crystal chandelier hanging on a gleaming chain from the high ceiling, then I turned to Maria Martucci.
Her eyes fastened on my mouth; my lips began to tingle. I tried to be casual about rubbing my thumb along my lower lip. Without a word, a sound, a gesture, the lady made me aware of her great, deep hunger. Games. The lady was playing games again.
“Oh, by the way, Mrs. Martucci. I guess you know—or would want to know. Your husband is up in Yonkers right now. In some diner with Kitty Keeler. Consoling her, probably, the way a good friend would.”
Her mouth turned down; her lips parted and pulled back; her teeth glinted. Her dark eyes hardened and glowed with an ancient, undeniable hatred and demand for revenge for injuries suffered. Her hands rolled into tight fists at her side and she leaned toward me.
“She has no right to the man of another woman. No right to the father of my children.” Her hands came up, together, and rested at the base of her throat. She whispered in a harsh voice as though I was someone she needed to confide in, “The nights I have spent alone; my empty bed; my empty body. Do you not think that I have suffered, while she, the whore, has drained the juices from my husband? For her, let there be no end of the suffering. Her children are in God’s hands now.” She let her hands fall to her sides and she smiled tightly with anticipation and said with absolute certainty, “God will see to her.” She nodded and repeated, “Yes. God will see to her.”
I heard the heavy door close behind me, followed by the resetting of the various locks.
So much for the Madonna of Forest Hills Gardens.
CHAPTER 11
THE LAST TIME ALFREDO Veronne’s name hit the papers was about four years ago when his son-in-law, Ray Mogliano, stepped into his Cadillac, turned the ignition key and, along with a young fill-in cocktail waitress, blew up all over the parking lot of a popular Nassau County roadhouse managed by Ray and his brother, John Mogliano, and owned by Veronne. The regular cocktail waitress and more or less steady girl friend of Ray had been home sick that night. If she hadn’t been home sick that night, little pieces of Kitty Keeler would probably have been scattered all over the parking lot. So it was very lucky that Kitty was sick that particular night.
Not surprisingly, no arrest was ever made for the bombing; according to Paul Sutro, the word was that since Alfredo Veronne objected to divorce on religious grounds, he had little choice when his well-loved only daughter complained to Papa about her wayward husband. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, it was an open secret that Ray had been ripping his father-in-law off; Mogliano had been known to brag that no one could touch him. As it turned out, he was wrong.
Until that incident, anyone interested in such things would have assumed that Alfredo Veronne, in company with his contemporaries Lucky Luciano and Frank Costello, had long since made his peace with his Maker. Although he was now deathly ill, Veronne was not yet dead.
When Alfredo Veronne’s name and unlisted telephone number turned up in Kitty Keeler’s little pink book, Paul Sutro’s amazing memory came up with a significant detail. According to what’s called “information received,” the officers investigating the bombing learned that on the afternoon of the night that Ray Mogliano exploded, someone called Kitty Keeler and told her she was going to be sick that night and she better get right into bed and stay home and take care of herself.
Which could mean, apparently, that Papa Veronne didn’t blame Kitty for his son-in-law’s behavior; in fact, that he thought enough of Kitty to do her a favor. Like save her life. And maybe like send someone over to Fresh Meadows to help her dump a couple of small bodies.
In the not too distant past, Alfredo Veronne, with a blink of an eye or a flick of a finger, could have condemned a man to a most horrible death. The mention of his name had been sufficient when money or a service was demanded. His name, face and organization were familiar to nearly three generations of governmental agencies which had been formed to study and combat organized crime. There were at least three popular writers collating material about his most colorful days which they hoped to capitalize on once the old man was dead; which shows there is an honest buck to be made from organized crime.
Veronne now languished in the beautiful stone house in fashionable Great Neck where he had raised his family of five sons and one daughter. His sons had all gone to good colleges and were all established in legitimate enterprises. More or less. He had many fine grandchildren. Impressed by the wisdom of old-fashioned American millionaires, as each grandchild was born Papa Veronne established a million-dollar trust fund for the infant. Something which Alfredo’s stonecutter father in Sicily never would have thought of.
Alfredo Veronne was a cordial host. From his sickbed, he waved his hand, offering me any kind of refreshment: food, liquor, fruit, candies, cookies, anything. The t
able next to his bed was well stocked and tempting.
“I’d just like to talk with you, Mr. Veronne.”
“Well, since you do not accept my hospitality,” he sounded offended, “what is it you have come to see me about?”
Veronne’s voice was raspy, low in his throat, hoarse. Some nodules had been removed from his vocal cords, but others were growing back. He touched his wrinkled throat with a bloated hand as though he owed me an apology for his inability to speak louder.
“Mr. Veronne, you’ve heard about the murder of Kitty Keeler’s two sons?”
“Terrible. Two such small children. Terrible. A bad thing.”
“Do you know anyone at all who might do such a thing?”
Alfredo Veronne closed his tiny eyes and whispered, “People might do anything at all, for any reason at all.” The dark, bright rat eyes sprang open and studied me shrewdly. “Who can know another person’s mind? But you ask me this particular thing and I must say no. I know of no one in this instance who might have done such a thing.” He moved his head slightly and added, “I have heard nothing.” As if, had there been anything to hear, it would have reached his ears inside this beautiful dark-paneled bedroom with its massive fourposter bed, huge gold-framed paintings, Oriental rugs, stained-glass windows.
“Tell me about your son-in-law, Ray Mogliano.”
Veronne’s body jerked up on the pillows and his face was surprised, as though he’d been jerked upright by an outside force. He carefully relaxed and seemed in pain as he slid down slightly. His brows, thin and scraggly gray, like his remaining hair, moved close together over his thin nose, and his mouth worked, lips pulling downward as though trying out suitable words. Finally his lips twisted and deep in his throat he simulated a spitting sound.
“Dead. No great loss.”
“Because he was sleeping with Kitty Keeler?”
The old man blinked quickly to clear his vision. His head tilted toward one shoulder as he stared at me. He smiled slightly, an unpleasant baring of his square yellowish false teeth, and he nodded his compliment. “Very direct. Yes. You are very direct. Sometimes, that is good. Sometimes it can be very dangerous, you know?” He considered his own words for a moment, then made a cackling, laughing sound. He held up his swollen hands, let them fall stiffly to his sides, indicating his helplessness, his inability to move from the bed, the senselessness of either threats or denials.
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