The Third Figure

by Collin Wilcox

  “Well, isn’t it?” I asked, suddenly irritated. “You said it yourself: you don’t know his identity. And if you don’t know that, then I don’t see how it’s possible for you to know that this—this fictitious man is the murderer. Not unless you—” I paused, struck by the thought. “Not unless you were in the habit of following your mother, at a distance, say.” I looked at him closely. “Have you followed her?”

  Slightly smiling, he shook his head. Teasing.

  “Have you ever been to the beachhouse, for instance,” I pressed, “when your mother and Vennezio were there?”

  He continued to shake his head, still smiling. Then, with a sigh, he glanced at his watch.

  “It’s five thirty,” he said. “I’m afraid I have to get back to school soon.”

  I nodded, opening the door and stepping out of the Mustang.

  “Thanks for your information, Johnny,” I said. “If I can be of any help to you—or you think of anything that might help me, I’d appreciate a call. I’m staying at the Prescott Motel.”

  “The Prescott.” He nodded. “I know where it is.”

  “Good. You won’t forget, will you?”

  “No, Mr. Drake,” he answered, also getting out of the car and striding toward the house. “I won’t forget.”

  5

  I DECIDED TO RETURN to my motel, have dinner and phone Mrs. Vennezio, reporting my progress. Then I planned to watch TV for an hour or so and go to sleep. The day had left me drained, and as I ate my dinner I tried to analyze the causes. The answers, unhappily, were obvious. At ten o’clock that morning, standing in the phone booth and wrestling with my timid conscience, I’d been someone recognizable to myself: Stephen Drake, age thirty-two. Intelligence—better than average; physical courage—average or less. Lucky with some girls, unlucky with most. Physically tall and spare, with a receding hairline and dark, intense eyes, well suited to ESP publicity pictures. Vocationally I was a better-than-competent crime reporter. I had a by-line on the San Francisco Sentinel and a columnist’s contract. I was also the grateful possessor of a modicum of modest fame. That some of my reputation as a clairvoyant derived from hokum was not really disturbing. I could honestly claim proficiency both as a reporter and as a clairvoyant, however labored and sketchy might be my private processes of ESP.

  At ten o’clock that morning, therefore, I was a reasonably happy man, secure in the knowledge of my own achievements.

  By noon—two short hours later—I’d become a servant of the underworld. And, worse, I’d been warned. It had all happened exactly as Captain Larsen had predicted it would.

  Walking down the long corridor to my room, I was aware that I was thudding my heels angrily into the thick hallway carpeting. I’d made a fool of myself. What could I do about it? The choice was obvious: either return the thousand dollars and leave town or stay and try to earn the other nine thousand, quickly.

  Nine thousand dollars …

  Larsen had anticipated that, too. ‘It always begins with money,’ he’d said.

  With an impatient, almost vicious twist I opened the door of my room and flipped on the light.

  Mrs. Vennezio’s dwarf was lounging in an easy chair, smiling.

  “You should be more careful about locking up.” He pointed to the room’s outside door, leading to the patio and the parking lot beyond. “Someone could walk in and clean you out.” He gestured reprovingly at my open suitcase and at my other things scattered around the room.

  “You should be more careful, too,” I retorted. “House detectives don’t like their guests disturbed.” As I said it, I realized that I was almost pettishly venting my frustrations—picking on someone smaller than myself, while the neighborhood bully swaggered off.

  His smile faded. He sat up straighter: a small, ludicrous figure in the large chair. His feet didn’t quite reach the floor.

  “Maybe we should both be more careful.” As he spoke, he slowly reached inside his jacket, withdrawing an ice pick. Following the gesture with a kind of numbed fascination, I watched him lightly heft the weapon. With his pale blue eyes he stared at me, unblinking. Then, in a smooth, effortless overhand motion he threw the ice pick. It flashed across the room, striking the wall perhaps two inches from a large mirror. The pick didn’t quiver. It entered the wall like a huge nail, driven deeply into the plaster.

  Slowly the dwarf got down from his chair, walked with a lopsided gait to the opposite wall and twisted the ice pick free. For a moment he stood surveying the room. Then, with the same smooth movement, he threw the ice pick just above a large picture of a sunrise, elaborately framed. The pick struck the wall a bare inch from the picture frame. The picture hung less than two feet from where I stood.

  The dwarf pointed to the ice pick.

  “It’s too high for me to reach.” His voice was soft; his eyes never left mine. “Get it for me, will you?”

  Conscious that my throat felt terribly dry, I turned toward the picture, grasped the ice pick and pulled. As I did, an inch-square piece of plaster fell to the floor.

  I turned the ice pick in my hand. Handle first, I handed the weapon to the dwarf. He took it, smiled with a kind of polite, amiable wolfishness and slipped the pick inside his coat. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a sheaf of money in his small hand.

  “Here.” He gestured for me to take the bills. “That’s another thousand dollars. From Mrs. Vennezio.”

  As I took the money, I swallowed repeatedly, wishing for a large, cool glass of water. I watched the dwarf return to his easy chair. Then, as if helpless to do anything else, I counted the money. Ten one-hundred-dollar bills. With unsteady hands, I took out my wallet.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” The dwarf smiled, this time with a wide, expansive warmth, almost infectious. He gestured to the bed. And, obediently, I sat.

  “My name’s Reggie Fay,” he said pleasantly. “Mrs. Vennezio might not’ve told you. I’m her bodyguard. I been with them for years. Her and Mr. Vennezio, I mean.” He pointed to the picture frame. “Too bad about that plaster. Maybe you can get some spackle or something. Better yet, I’ll bring you some. We got some in the garage, I think.”

  “Tha …” I swallowed. “Thank you.”

  Airily he waved. “That’s all right.” He patted his jacket, where the ice pick was now concealed. “I throw that thing every day, for a half-hour, at least. Regularly. It’s hard to get them with metal handles, you know. And the ones with wooden handles, they’re too light to throw so they’ll do much good. I sent away for this one. I bought a dozen.” He smiled. “Ever since, they been sending me catalogues, and everything, about butcher supplies. They think I got a butcher shop or something.”

  I tried to smile, but was aware that the attempt must seem grotesque. I was wondering how many remained, of his dozen ice picks.

  “How you doing?” His voice was solicitous.

  “How—how do you mean?”

  “I mean, how you doing? Figuring out who killed Mr. Vennezio?”

  “Well, I—I haven’t had a chance to do much.” I took a deep breath, reassured now by his apparent amiability. He’d demonstrated his capacity for destruction. He’d made his point. Now, possibly, he wanted to ingratiate himself.

  “I hear you got Mr. Russo’s O.K.”

  “Yes. That—that’s what he said.”

  Reggie Fay nodded judiciously. “That’s good. You got Mr. Russo pulling for you, then you got no problems. You play ball with him, he plays ball with you. But if you cross him …” The small man grimaced, mocking a forlorn sadness.

  “Was Dominic Vennezio like that?” I asked.

  “Mr. Vennezio was different. Mr. Russo, he uses his brains instead of his muscle. He keeps you guessing—a little off-balance, until he gets you in line. But not Mr. Vennezio. He was the old-fashioned kind, if you know what I mean. Anything he got, he got the hard way. That’s the way he came up, and that’s all he ever knew. Hit ’em on the head.” Reggie Fay struck the arm of his chair a sharp,
vicious blow. “Bop.”

  I decided to try and draw him out, not by asking questions directly, but by apparently confiding in him, enticing conversation.

  “I think that’s what got him killed,” I said. “That bopping. I think he bopped one person too many.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He sat forward on the edge of his chair, gripping the arms. “How’d you figure that out? Did you see it in a mental flash, or what?”

  I shook my head and smiled. “I’m not that, ah, facile, I’m afraid. I have to work for my flashes.”

  “I read about one of you guys. Some guy in Europe, he could tell the police exactly where to look for a kid that’d drownded a whole month before. He told the cops to go to a certain place along the riverbank on a certain day, at a certain hour. He said the kid’s body would come floating up to the top. And that’s what happened. He does that kind of stuff all the time. He handles something that belongs to the person, like a handkerchief, or a glove, or something. That’s all he needs. He can tell what’s in the future, too. Like fortune-telling.”

  “Well, he’s luckier than I am. I have to do a lot of leg-work.”

  “Do you see it all like a big, bright picture, or what?” His avid, intent expression was guileless—almost childlike.

  At that, I had to ruefully snort.

  “I see it as a very small, very muddy picture. Sometimes it’s like seeing an abstract painting, that you have to figure out. Everything’s there, but it’s meaningless.”

  He nodded and thoughtfully blinked. Then, leaning sideways against the chair’s arm, he tucked his feet up beside him. It was an oddly feminine posture. Suddenly he seemed vulnerable—if one could forget the ice pick tucked inside his natty tweed sport jacket.

  “So you got to play detective until you get the picture. Is that it? And then you got to figure out what the picture means, sometimes.”

  I nodded. “Exactly.”

  “And that’s what you’re doing now. Playing detective.

  “Yes. I’m asking everyone I can. Trying to piece something together. Then maybe I’ll get the picture. Literally.”

  He cocked his head almost pertly aside, thinking about it.

  “And you think Mr. Vennezio was killed by someone he bopped too hard. Is that it?”

  “That’s what I think, yes. He must’ve had a hundred enemies. In his, ah, line of business, he could’ve made enemies he didn’t even know existed. A cigar store owner, for instance, could’ve gone broke because the Outfit moved in with one of their own, ah, cigar stores.”

  Reggie Fay nodded thoughtfully, stroking his chin in a gesture that seemed to burlesque manhood.

  “Yeah, I see what you mean. Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The job was too smooth. Too professional.”

  “The murderer could’ve just been lucky. It happens all the time.”

  He thought about it, then judiciously shook his head. “I don’t know about luck, where murder’s concerned. It takes more than luck. Figure it out for yourself: a guy’s doing something that could mean the gas chamber. So luck’s not enough.”

  “What does it take, then?”

  “It takes experience.” His manner was decisive—flat with an authoritative finality. “A job that clean, it takes experience.”

  “What you’re saying, then, is that someone in your, ah, organization did it. Is that right?”

  He shrugged. “I’m just talking about this luck thing. I’m not pointing anywhere.”

  “Mr. Russo says there wasn’t any, ah, official beef against Vennezio.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. I’m low down on the pole. Real low down.”

  “But you were Vennezio’s bodyguard.”

  Now his expression became ironic. He snorted. “If you really want to know, I was always around mostly to mind the Vennezio kids, Angelo and Charlene.” He paused and once more shrugged. “I’m forty-eight years old. I don’t look it, but I am. I started with Mr. Vennezio twenty-five years ago, running errands. I could never be a bagman, or anything like that, because I was too conspicuous. So I just used to run errands. I guess Mr. Vennezio and the other big shots, they kept me around for luck or something. They were always polite, and everything—except when they’d get to drinking. Then they’d start kidding around with me. Kings, you know, used to do that.” He paused, briefly trapped in a sad, distant reverie. Then, drawing a deep breath, he said, “Anyhow, when Angelo got to be two or three years old, he used to get real happy whenever I showed up. He’d clap his hands and laugh and run over to me. Charlene did the same, too, when she was old enough. So gradually I became the kids’ bodyguard, sort of. When Mr. Vennezio first came out here from the East, there was lots popping, believe me. Guys were getting killed every week, until Siegel finally got it. The kids never got hurt, but you never knew. Finally, though, things calmed down, and the kids grew up. So I just kind of stayed around. Then, a couple of years ago, Mr. Vennezio’s wife moved out on him, like she told you. And I went with her. To—” He hesitated. “To keep an eye out for her.”

  “How do you mean?” I pretended not to understand.

  “You know …” Guilelessly-seeming now, he spread his hands. “Just keep an eye on her. Mr. Vennezio, he was pretty worried about her. He wanted to make sure she was all right.”

  I decided not to pursue the point. Instead, musingly, I said, “The way I understand it, then, you think Vennezio was murdered by a professional, but not necessarily for, ah, professional reasons.”

  He thought about it, frowning. Then he finally nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s one way of putting it.” His eyes were uneasy, foreshadowing evasiveness.

  It was time to shift my ground.

  “What about Charlene? I understand she’s been going around with, ah …” I couldn’t come up with the name.

  “Larry Sabella.” He was watching me carefully.

  “Right. Larry Sabella. And I hear her father didn’t approve.”

  He got to his feet. “I guess I better be going.”

  “Wait a minute.” I also rose. “Tell me something about this Sabella. I could ask Frank,” I added, by way of technique. “But I’d as soon not bother him.”

  Using Russo’s first name seemed to have an effect. Reggie Fay turned to face me, staring up at me intently. Finally he said, “Larry Sabella runs the gambling end of things. He and Charlene are pretty thick, I guess. They have been, for three or four years.”

  “And Dominic didn’t like it.”

  “No. He sure didn’t. He was always real wrapped up in Charlene, the way some guys get about their daughters.”

  “Is Sabella married?”

  “He’s divorced. He got divorced just about the time he and Charlene started going around together. Maybe a little before. I’m not sure.”

  “Does Charlene live by herself?”

  “Now she does. For the last two years, after Mr. and Mrs. Vennezio split up, she lived by herself. Before that, she lived at home.”

  “You said, though, that she’d gone with Sabella for three or four years.”

  “Yeah. She used to see him without her father knowing.”

  I thought I saw my chance to slip Mrs. Hanson into the conversation.

  “Did Charlene know Mrs. Hanson?”

  He shrugged. “She knew about her. I don’t know whether they ever met. I doubt it, though.”

  “Did Charlene like the idea of her father having someone like Mrs. Hanson?”

  His eyes became opaque, his manner noncommittal. “You’d have to ask Charlene about that.”

  I nodded, thinking over his answers. As I did, I realized that Reggie Fay was far from stupid. His insights were sharp and his mind quick.

  I decided to try for one last bit of information.

  “Do you happen to know,” I began tentatively, “how Dominic left his estate? I mean, did he make a will, for instance?”

  He smiled, as a card player might smile at an opponent’s clumsy play.


  “That’s not my department, Mr. Drake.” He turned and limped to the door. “About some things you can pump me. But I know when to stop talking. That’s how I got to be forty-eight years old.” He opened the door and politely wished me good night.

  I sat for perhaps five minutes, thinking over the conversation. Then, on an impulse, I dialed Mrs. Vennezio’s number. She answered the phone herself, on the second ring.

  “This is Stephen Drake,” I said, trying to make my voice cordial. “I just wanted to thank you for the money.”

  “That’s all right. Have you found out anything?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Vennezio. But I only got in town last night, and I haven’t been able to question anyone until today. However, now, I’m beginning to get an idea of the kind of information I need.”

  “What kind of information is that?” It seemed a cautious question.

  “Well, that’s the reason I called. First, I’d like to know how your husband left his estate. Who benefited, in other words.”

  A long silence followed. I was on the point of repeating the question when she asked, “It’s necessary, that you have this information?”

  “Yes, it is, Mrs. Vennezio. Absolutely.” As I said it, decisively, I realized that I may have turned a corner: demanding something of others, rather than merely awaiting their demands on me. I was dimly realizing, too, that I possessed an important advantage in my present situation—a cultural advantage. “Class” seemed to count heavily in underworld society.

  “… just left a handwritten will,” Mrs. Vennezio was saying. “It was just one page, that’s all. But the lawyer says it’s good. It’s in the probate court right now.”

  “What’re its provisions?”

  “Well, Dom said that first everything he had should be turned into cash within six months, at the best price. Then next everything but fifteen thousand dollars was to be divided three ways and given to me and the kids.”

  “And what about the fifteen thousand dollars?”

  “Five thousand of it goes to Reggie Fay and ten thousand to that—that woman.”

  “I see. And what’s the total estate, Mrs. Vennezio?”