Maestro: 4 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  Passau pretended to stagger from the rehearsal hall, but the moment he was outside, he ran. Down the stairs, into the street, hailing a cab, even telling the driver that there was an extra five bucks in it if he could get back to Lexington Avenue in record time.

  There was nobody on duty in the lobby of the apartment building when he arrived back. He took the elevator to his floor, and was somehow not surprised when he saw the door to his apartment was slightly open.

  Gently he pushed at the door.

  In the darkness, he saw the beam of a flashlight, and the shape of a bulky figure bent over the small bureau—which stood in the large vestibule—where Passau kept important papers and correspondence. He switched on the lights and spoke, before the man had a chance to turn around.

  “I’ll blow you apart if you even twitch,” Louis whispered, using the threatening, calm voice he had heard from some of the Gennas’ most dangerous men.

  “Just put your hands on your head and don’t try anything stupid or you’ll be spending the night in the morgue.” Louis was convincing enough. He even felt a slight frisson of fear within himself.

  The figure straightened up and Louis moved forward, standing just behind the intruder, a finger jabbed into the man’s back as his left hand expertly frisked him. He had a Colt revolver in a shoulder holster, and a billfold containing a private investigator’s I.D. The name on the I.D. showed as Robert D. Flynn.

  “Okay, Robert—or do you prefer Bob … ?”

  “Bob, my friends call me Bob.” The accent was New York. Fast, excited and afraid New York. You could smell the sudden gust of fear as though it had almost voided the man’s bowels.

  “Okay, Bob. Move very slowly into my living room. Keep your hands on top of your head and walk towards the easy chair over there. Please don’t try for a medal. The man who taught me to shoot could take the eyes out of a snake at fifty paces.”

  He kicked the door closed, and seconds later had Robert D. Flynn sitting quietly, hands on head. Mr. Flynn did not look happy with life. He had ex-cop written all over him: pugnacious jaw, blue-veined nose, big heavy-lidded melancholy eyes which were, somehow, alert, moving slowly but constantly, as though searching for a way out. Flynn was also overweight, with a heavy beer gut popping over the belt of his trousers; his shoes were scuffed and. worn, and the cheap gray suit deserved a long-service citation.

  “Private Investigations Unlimited,” Passau read from the I.D. “There a lot of you working for this outfit, or just you, Bob?”

  It was not all that warm, but Bob Flynn was sweating a lot. His eyes still moved constantly, and he licked his lips, but said nothing. His thin hairline was positively soggy.

  “Want me to call the cops, Bob?”

  “I’ve got a P.I. license there. The cops know who I am.” He sounded dry in the throat.

  “So they’ll tell me I’ve shot a shamus. Tough. I caught you in here going through my desk.” Passau cocked the Colt revolver.

  “Look …” Bob Flynn’s eyes began to dance around again, not really settling anywhere, certainly not on Louis Passau.

  “I’m sure the cops love you, Bob. Though they might not take too kindly to you breaking into my apartment. You give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you, then call the local precinct?”

  “Look, Mr. Passau, I …”

  “You know my name. That’s a good start, Bob. Maybe we can do business.”

  “I didn’t mean no harm. Give me a break. I’m just doing my job, Mr. Passau …” He did not sound sincere enough to Louis.

  “And what is your job, Bob? As a private dick, what’re you looking for?”

  “He said you wouldn’t be back until much later.”

  “No, Bob, that isn’t the answer. I asked what you were looking for.”

  Flynn hung his head and refused to meet Passau’s eyes.

  “Okay, Bob, you’re not going to tell me, so I’ll call the cops now, and when they arrive I’ll tell them you tried to make a break for it so I shot you.” He thought he could detect the tiny beginnings of a smirk on Flynn’s lips. “Bob, you don’t believe me. Now that’s not a smart move. Let me show you.” He moved the revolver slightly to the right and fired one shot, praying that nobody in the other apartments would report the noise. The bullet clipped Flynn’s left shoulder. He gave a fat squeak of pain, dropped his hands from his head and clutched at where a small trickle of blood showed against the ripped cloth.

  “Hands on your head, Bob.” Passau really had not even meant to graze him. “You stupid bastard!” Flynn mouthed. “I oughta …”

  “The next one’ll take your head off.” He lifted the gun, closing his left eye.

  “No! No, Mr. Passau! No, look I’ll tell you.”

  “Let me tell you, Mr. Flynn. My guess is that you’re employed either by Mr. and Mrs. Howells-Duncan, or Mr. Boris Androv. If I were a betting man, I’d probably go for Androv. You were told to get some solid information—letters, or some such—which proved an involvement between me and Miss Veronica Howells-Duncan. …”

  “No! Yes! Something like that. Can I look at my shoulder? It’s burning like hell.”

  “Keep your hands on your head. And what do you mean, no-yes? Which is it?”

  “I’m employed by an attorney, not by the people you said.” Flynn was certainly very frightened now. He thought he had come up against a crazy man—which, to some extent he had. “And, yes, I was told to look for letters, photographs. You and the Howells-Duncan girl. They showed me a picture of her.”

  “And you didn’t find any.”

  “No.”

  “So what happens now? No proof, so what are you to do next?”

  “I had to watch you. See if I could put you and the girl together. That’s all. There wasn’t anything more than that. Christ, you can’t kill a guy for …”

  “Oh, but I can, Bob. Who’s the attorney?”

  “Guy called Gold. Big law firm. Spinebrucker, Havlish and Gold. Very big. Asher Gold. He’s a junior partner. …”

  “And how did he choose a one-man operation like you, Bob? Big law firms employ uptown investigators. …”

  Flynn hesitated, then, as he continued to look into the barrel of the revolver, he relented. “Asher Gold owed me a favor. It was my turn to collect.”

  “And this Asher Gold was working for whom, Bob?”

  Another pause, then a change of heart. Passau kept the gun leveled straight at his head. “He mentioned this guy Androv. Just him, I don’t know about the others.”

  Passau nodded. “So you calmly broke in here and went through my desk. What was he paying you?”

  “Twenty a day, plus expenses.”

  Louis laughed out loud. “Twenty a day? You must be crazy, Bob. Twenty a day?”

  “I was broke.”

  “Even so. I’d pay you far more than that but, unhappily, I can’t trust you, can I? What a shame. I’d pay you twenty grand for information on friend Androv. Twenty Gs plus expenses. What a pity.”

  “You would?” The pain in his shoulder must have eased. Passau had his complete attention now.

  “I would have. How can I possibly trust you, after this?”

  “I’d take this guy Androv to pieces for twenty grand, Mr. Passau. Take him to pieces like a car engine. Put him together again for the same price. Everything included.”

  “But how can I trust you, Mr. Flynn?”

  In the here and now, on Captiva Island, old Louis Passau gave a long chuckle. “This idiot, Herb, was so frightened. I played with him for an hour. When we finally came to terms and worked out a deal, I knew it was a risk. He could have walked straight out of my apartment and gone to Gold. He could even have reported to the police. Said I’d shot him. There were a dozen things he could have done, but I figured the man was greedy.”

  “So you just let him walk out?”

  Passau chuckled again. The sound came from deep within his memory. “Do I look like I was born yesterday, Herb? No, he signed a document. I don’t k
now if it was legal or not, but he signed it. He also spent the night in my apartment, and I stood over him when he called this lawyer, Gold. I got to know Asher Gold quite well later on. Anyway, I locked Bob Flynn in my guest room for the night, brought him out to make the call, then locked him up again while I went to the bank. I bought him, like Mephistopheles. I bought his soul and his silence. He was mine until the day he died.

  “He was even there when Boris came to make sure I was okay. That was the real test. About two hours after I clipped Flynn’s shoulder, Boris turned up, looking anxious. My man, Flynn, could have yelled and caused one hell of a stink, but he stayed quietly in the guest room. Like a mouse. Boris looked relieved as well. He’d obviously told this shmuck Gold that I’d be out until late. He must’ve really been frightened when I walked out of the rehearsal. He went away happy.”

  “And you, Maestro, put this dumb private eye onto Androv? You took that risk?”

  “Calculated risk, Herbie. By the time Flynn left my apartment I knew that I owned him. The only doubt was whether he could do the job or not. That worried me some. But, in the end …”

  “In the end, Boris Androv resigned.”

  “Right, Herb.”

  “Why?”

  “Underage girls, Herb. The dirty little bastard wasn’t gay, he had a taste for very young girls. You see, one thing, he wasn’t very well built, if you understand what I mean. That didn’t excuse him. He was a real mess.”

  “Tell me about it. Then what, Lou?”

  “Then Flynn turned out to be quite good. He had information in less than a month, proof—nice big blown-up glossy photographs—in two months.”

  “Then what, Lou?”

  “Then I took the bugger apart, Herb. To the cleaners I took him.”

  “And he gave you the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra on a plate. I read the books, Lou. Boris Androv shakes music world by retiring. Shock! Horror! Gives up in favor of Maestro Louis Passau. You were really on your way, Lou.”

  “It wasn’t as easy as the books make out.” Passau’s head came up. He was not smiling. “I’ll tell you what happened, yes?”

  “Please.”

  “First, I bought a Rolls-Royce and hired a chauffeur. How about that? The Friends of the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra sat up. Eyes popped out all over the place.”

  “What next, Lou?”

  (10)

  “AND I ALWAYS THOUGHT of musicians—great musicians—as having temperaments but being basically nice people.” Pucky turned her head towards Herbie, on the pillow.

  “I believe most of them are. Passau’s an aberration, but I think he almost met his match in Boris Androv. Musicians and actors, they’re not like ordinary people but, like ordinary people, they carry their own devils with them through life.”

  They had agreed, before arrival on Captiva Island, that Pucky should continue to listen from another room as Herbie did the interrogations. Passau would be inclined to slow down, show off, and embellish if she was physically present, so she had spent the day with their makeshift recording apparatus in the third bedroom, listening through headphones.

  Kruger had also brought his bits and pieces of electronics from Virginia. On the first night, he spent three hours connecting a personal alarm system to cover the main door and the two windows that were relatively accessible from the ground. While he knew Art Railton’s team was probably as good as they came, he still relied on belt and braces.

  After they had eaten and got Passau to bed, Art arrived at the front door. Within minutes Herbie knew that the gentlemen from London had almost certainly wired the apartment before Pucky and he had arrived with the Maestro. They probably had the other apartment electronically covered as well.

  Sod ’em, Kruger thought. They would certainly have wired the bedrooms. That would give them fun listening when he went at it with Pucky so, before they finally retired for the night, he had made a visual sweep and, sure enough, there was a tiny radio bug neatly inserted into a picture frame near the bed.

  He removed it and flushed it down the nearest lavatory. It took a lot of paper and five flushes to get rid of the little electronic ear.

  Art had seated himself in the main room, almost calling a meeting of three to order. Herbie considered that young Railton was becoming a slight pain, the man from Head Office letting them know he was in charge.

  “Herb,” he began, his face friendly but tone firm, leaving no doubt that he was the boss. “Herb, we’re going to have to move the old boy on. Cut through the dross. Leapfrog to the things that matter.”

  That was the clincher that Art was listening in. There was little Herbie could do about it. He shrugged, “You want to try, Art? The Maestro says everything matters; that we’ll only understand if he confesses his whole life.” He scratched his big head. “Actually it’s a question of me understanding. He just won’t give it to anyone else.”

  “Then you’ll have to find a way. We’ve got about three more days here.”

  “Three days?”

  “We’re trying to set up a quiet exit.”

  “England, home and beauty?”

  “That is the safest bet, under the circumstances. London’s approved it, so it’s really only a matter of time—like it’s only a matter of time before they’ll be on to us.”

  “Who? The rogue Agency people or the Mob?”

  “Both, I should imagine, and I want you to be further up the road with Passau before we’re forced to break off the work again.”

  “I hope, sincerely, that London isn’t up to trickery.” Herbie gave his famous growling scowl. “Put Passau in Warminster with Gus Keene’s crew and he’ll clam up.”

  “They are aware.” Art sounded an inch or two off-hand.

  “They better be bloody aware. I wouldn’t put it past the old reprobate to turn his face to the wall and die, just to spite everyone. In any case, Art, how important is all this?”

  “You’ve asked before, old chum. And we’ve told you. There are several reasons for knowing the truth—a link between the August coup and the Agency—the long and winding secret road of history. That, and more. If we prove there’s been any funny business, we have a mighty strong lever, and we need a damned great lever if we’re to keep our end up in the nineties.”

  Herb gave another growl. “This is still all Cold War trade-craft and shenanigans. …”

  “Shenanigans, Herb.”

  “Whatever. We’re behaving like the generals at the start of World War II—when they thought it would be like the trench warfare of 1914 to eighteen. Why can’t we just talk to the Agency?”

  “You know why we can’t do that, Herb.”

  “Okay, just playing the devil’s advocate.”

  They talked a little more before Art left, with another instruction for Herbie to get a move on.

  Pucky fell asleep quite quickly, but Kruger lay there in the dark, smoking, his mind turning over the final part of Passau’s duel with Boris Androv. The Passau version.

  Androv’s sexual tastes turned out to be quite revolting, even to Louis Passau in his old age—and the old Louis was not normally squeamish. Androv liked girls of around twelve or thirteen years of age, and there were plenty of people—even Louis was amazed—who would supply them.

  It seemed that the concert hall-struck mother, or choirmistress, would do almost anything to further a talented child’s career. Androv had a steady stream of girls who came directly from choirs or music societies, even schools which had earmarked a budding prodigy. Sometimes their mothers condoned, in an attempt to curry favor and see their daughters set on the road to success. Embryo singers and instrumentalists passed through Androv’s Riverside Drive apartment where he would hear them sing or play, give advice and instruction, and then suggest further, and very different kinds, of instruction, which took place in his bedroom.

  “He liked to do rather unpleasant things with these kids, Herb. I tell you, even I was revolted.” Passau showed no emotion on his face as he talked about the dubious
nature of Androv’s trips to the bedroom with girls on the verge of puberty.

  “Can’t understand how he got away with it, except people didn’t talk so much about child abuse in those days—didn’t know so much. I often wonder what scars he left. If some of those kids suffered permanent psychological damage.”

  Herbie wondered how many scars Passau, himself, had left during his journey through the world’s bedrooms. “The private dick, this Flynn, he got all you wanted, Lou?” he asked.

  Passau nodded. “He turned out to be quite good, if you gave him enough money. It was, I think, the profit incentive. He watched, and he managed to get pictures. I never asked how he did that. Better I shouldn’t know, ’cuz it was probably by some illegal act. But when I knew we really had the goods on Androv, I made another move.”

  What Passau talked about was a visit to the law office of Spinebrucker, Havlish and Gold. “I went straight to the top, not to Asher Gold. That wouldn’t have been a good move. I spent a few hours with Martin Spinebrucker, the senior partner. I’m still with them. Martin’s son, Harold, looks after my business now. But that first visit put the cat among the pigeons.”

  “Let me guess. You told them you had money?” Passau gave a smile of satisfaction and threw a sly look in Herbie’s direction.

  BEFORE THAT FIRST visit to the tall, patrician-looking Martin Spinebrucker, Louis Passau had bought the car and hired his first servant. The car was a Rolls-Royce—a Sedanea de Ville, gray, large and luxurious. The servant was a chauffeur-bodyguard, Thomas “Tiny” Dyson. Recommended by Bob Flynn, Dyson had tried his hand at being a professional boxer, but had scruples about falling down when told to by his manager. He stayed with Passau for a decade, and his very first outing in the Rolls was to drive his new employer to the law offices of Spinebrucker, Havlish and Gold, situated near Wall Street.

  Passau’s arrival had obviously been noted, for Martin Spinebrucker seemed to be in an almost fawning mood. A Rolls spoke of money and, if Spinebrucker had one true love in life, it was money. He fawned even more when Passau left the building. Louis described him as “A stiff conservative prick. Like he had a broomstick rammed up his ass. This guy, Herb, he was all good looks, gray hair. What the Brits call old school. A royal pain, but good at his job. The whole firm is good still.”