Homicide at Yuletide

by Henry, Kane,

  “Whew,” she said. “I’d like to wash and freshen the makeup. Where?”

  She took her bag, and I showed her where. “You wash and freshen,” I said. “I’ll make drinks. Martini, is it?”

  “Scotch for now, if you please.”

  I brought out a bottle, brought water, soda, ice cubes, and glasses. She came back, sighed, sat, and crossed her legs. She took a cigarette from the bag beside her. I lit up and made her a drink, a large one. I made one for myself and sat opposite her, a vantage point. This Gene Tiny was extraordinarily something, and here it was Christmas Eve, and here we were alone in my apartment, close and comfy, with snow piled up on all the window sills and the park all white and the room quiet and peaceful and a non-furniture-fixing zest bubbling inside of me—so we had to be mixed up in a deal featuring a dead man with a wine-red beard, and jewels, and an unromantic jolt of disappointment involving the loss of a fee of twenty-five thousand clams.

  “For the time being,” I said, “I’ll skip my wash and freshen. Let’s get that story over with.”

  She sipped her drink, put it down beside her.

  “Sheldon Talbot disappeared.”

  “I heard,” I said.

  “I didn’t know Barney at the time. There was gossip among us, his friends, that he’d run off with somebody, I mean Talbot. It sort of dwindled away. Then came that terrible news from Chicago. Theresa went out there and had the pieces put together and he was buried. The address on the papers that were found on him showed a bare furnished room, nothing else. That was that.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  “Right. It wasn’t. About four months ago, I received a call from Barney Bernandino. I went up there and he told me the whole story.”

  “About Talbot.”

  “About Talbot and Krapoutsky and the jewels from the Renaissance and the bodyguards and the hospital—”

  “The works.”

  “It was Barney’s idea that a man with a million dollars’ worth of jewelry, more or less—that a man like that doesn’t get killed without leaving something—a trace. Barney said that for two and a half years he had had people out looking for Talbot, and that Talbot damn well knew that.”

  “So Barney thought it was a plant.”

  “That’s right. It was Barney’s idea that Talbot had devised a plan to get out from under, that it wasn’t Talbot who was dead, but that it was somebody that Talbot had arranged to be dead for him, to take the heat off him. The truck had been found without a driver, the alleged Talbot under the wheels. There had been an investigation and it had been found that the truck had been stolen out of a garage. I honestly thought Barney was crazy.”

  “But—”

  “I wasn’t there to think for Barney. He wanted me to go out to Chicago, at twenty-five dollars a day and expenses, to check and see what I could do. What recommended me to Barney was that I had actually known Talbot.”

  “So?”

  “I went.”

  “So?”

  “So, after a while, I began to agree with Barney. I came to the conclusion that, in his field, Barney was a very brilliant man.”

  “Everybody does, sooner or later.”

  “I spent two months in Chicago.”

  “Not bad at twenty-five a day.”

  “No, I worked. I didn’t find Talbot, but I did accumulate facts that certainly were peculiar. The man who was killed was approximately the same size and build as Talbot. That’s all. The place of residence had been an absolutely bare room, not even a suitcase. There had been no clothes, no writings, nothing. More and more, I inclined toward Barney’s theory. I kept an ad running in the personal columns of all the Chicago papers, but it didn’t help.”

  “What was the actual identification of the man under the truck?”

  “Sheldon Talbot’s personal papers. A few old trinkets. Stuff, unimportant stuff in his wallet. And a finger ring positively identified as Talbot’s by Theresa.”

  “So?”

  “I came back to town, conferred with Barney, and then I really had an idea. I told it to Barney and Barney liked it. I did make Barney promise that if we ever turned him up, there’d be no rough stuff, no violence, or I’d scream my head off to the police. Barney promised.”

  “Idea?” I mumbled.

  “Talbot was a New Yorker who, barring vacations, had lived here all his life. He probably never read a Chicago paper. You know how it is, we’re all alike, provincialism, something—most of us stick to our home-town papers. Whatever, it worked. I ran an add in all the New York papers. It read: ‘Talbot. It’s all right with Barney. An amicable agreement can be worked out. Contact me and trust me. Gene Tiny.’ Three weeks later, I got a call, and I went back to Chicago.”

  “I see.”

  “His first motivation was fear. There had been the fear of Barney, which had caused him to go into hiding. Then, he had committed murder, and it hadn’t worked. The ad showed we knew he was alive. So the fear remained. Added to that was the fact that he hadn’t been able to sell any of the stuff, except some very small pieces, because of that very same fear of being found out. He was poor, ill, and disgusted, and he was getting old. He had to risk it.”

  “Logical enough.”

  “When I met him, I hardly knew him. He had grown a beard and both that and his hair were dyed that awful red color. He walked with a limp which he managed by always wearing one regular shoe and one with an elevator heel that short men use. He was furtive, but he wasn’t really worried about Barney when he and I had our first talk. He felt that nothing would happen to him while he had the stuff hidden out. We talked for hours at a time. I spent two weeks in Chicago, and I think I convinced him. He said he’d come to New York shortly. In the meantime, I was to arrange the deal. He would sell the stuff back to Barney. All he wanted was fifty thousand.”

  “Cheap enough, in the circumstances.”

  “He wanted to make it sweet for Barney. He said he needed that money only to re-establish himself, while he was arranging for the revocation of certain trust funds.”

  “Trust funds? What kind of trust funds?”

  “He didn’t tell me. It wasn’t any of my business. He wanted no part of Barney. It was all to work through me. I called Barney long-distance, told him, and Barney agreed.”

  “What did he have to lose?”

  “Nothing. Barney’s smart. Either way, he had nothing to lose. He could send out and kill the guy, but that way—no profit. At an additional fifty thousand, it was a steal. He would have paid Krappie that extra fifty, had Krappie insisted.”

  “Let me add it up,” I said. “Trotto offered a half million. Barney spent two hundred thousand, now an additional fifty, and an extra twenty-five to you if you could swing the deal. Thus Barney could earn himself a clean two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, if you could bring it off.”

  “Correct.”

  “So?”

  “I came back to New York, and waited. Twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot of money to me. I kept my fingers crossed—and then Sheldon Talbot called me. This morning. He told me he was in town, where he was. I was not to tell Barney. I was to go up to the Kitten House and make the arrangements. Then I was to come down to him and get it all ironed out. I was on my way down there when I got into that miserable traffic mess. That’s it. Period.”

  She finished her drink and I made her a new one, and one for me.

  “So here we are,” she said.

  “What about the other fellow?”

  “What other fellow?”

  “The one mashed by the truck.”

  “Horrible.”

  “Yes, but what about him?”

  “Someone he had picked up on Madison Street and fattened up for the part. Stole a truck and did it himself. I never wanted to listen to the details. Man by the name of Fred Thompson, which name, as you know, he took over.”

  I left her looking at her drink and I went and washed and combed my hair. When I came back, there wasn’t much of the d
rink left to look at, and she smiled at me, really, for the first time. “You’ve been very sweet,” she said.

  I sat down beside her, close. Warmth radiated from a full thigh. “Listen,” I said, “if there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate. And it isn’t the five hundred.”

  “What is it?”

  “You.”

  She giggled. “Played straight for that one, didn’t I? And consciously.” She sipped once, put the glass aside, lifted her hands and touched her hair. “You know, I think I’m high.”

  That was all right with me.

  Her eyes slid to mine and stayed there with a pert expression that could be worked into more various shades of meaning than a simple declaration from a visiting ambassador. Boiled down, it was either “Come and get it,” or “I know what you’re thinking, dope, try and get it.” Her hands stayed up at her hair, fluffing, putting additional, but immensely interesting, strain on the off-the-shoulder blouse.

  I construed the expression my way.

  I moved my head under her elbow, and put my mouth on hers. Her arms came down around me, and I shifted to get comfortable. So the phone rang.

  I let it ring, but the moment was broken.

  I wiped my mouth and answered it.

  “Pete?” It was Barney. “I want you to come up here, Pete boy.”

  “You want me, huh?”

  “It’s business, Petie.”

  “Ask me nice, boss-man.”

  “I want to talk to you, Pete. Seriously.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Well—”

  “It’s business, Pete.”

  “All right.”

  I went back and I told her, “Barney wants to see me. Stick around, won’t you? Whatever it is, I won’t be long.”

  She stretched her arms and smiled. She stood up and came to me and kissed me on the forehead. “Perhaps it’s just as well the phone rang when it did. I’ll tidy up here for you. We didn’t do a good job at all.”

  “Sure. Thanks. You may as well stay in practice.”

  “Why?”

  “Knowing Barney, sooner or later, he’s going to get the idea to give your place the dipsy-doodle.”

  She laughed. “Good old Barney. How does he get into places, just like that?”

  “Leave it to Barney. Barney has ways.”

  6

  I CLOSED MY COAT COLLAR against driving snow. There was a cab right at the door, for which I sent up fervent thanks. Snow is fine and beautiful but I am a hothouse number, city-bred. To me snow looks good on post cards or on travel ads where the girl on skis flies through the air with her green scarf flapping madly. Let her fly and let it flap. I am patient, come winter. You close your eyes and you draw a deep breath and the girl comes down off her travel ad and there is a new one with brown legs and white spray and a red background of blazing sun.

  The cab mushed while I dozed.

  At the Kitten House, I suddenly remembered I had worked right through a hangover. That gave me pause while I sent my name up to Barney. The Kitten House is formal. To see Barney, you must send your name up. My name carried weight. I had to wait only forty minutes (although a drink was served) before Potsy came for me.

  “You know how it is,” he said. “That guy’s got a million things going for him.”

  We took the elevator upstairs and I gave my hat and coat to Potsy. Barney was slumped in his swivel chair wearing the penitent face of a horse-player the day after payday.

  “Make him a drink,” Barney said.

  “He already had a drink. How much can this guy hold?”

  “Experts,” I said, “have commented on that. And for my money, you’re no expert.”

  “Make him a drink,” Barney said.

  “Like to make him a mickey.” But Potsy grinned good-naturedly.

  The drink came, and I sat near Barney by the desk.

  “I been thinking,” Barney said. “I wouldn’t be surprised I maligned you.”

  “Maligned,” said Potsy. “The boss is getting real fancy these days, catering to the upper crumbs. What does it mean, maligned?”

  “I don’t know,” Barney said. “But if it means what I think it means, I did it to Petie over here. You sore, Petie?”

  “No.”

  “I been thinking. You certainly don’t figure. You wouldn’t know what it’s all about, and you wouldn’t have the time to really operate. But you know how it is. You got to cover the angles.”

  “Sure, Barney.”

  “I’d like to have you working on this, Petie boy. The girl is a fine little tomato. How you doing there, by the way?”

  “Same as your other figure.”

  “Which means what?”

  “I haven’t had the time.”

  The puissant Potsy squealed like a wrestler going through the ropes. His teeth showed bright. “A card,” he said. “A real card. A whole deck of cards.” He smote my shoulder tenderly. I gasped, grabbing the glass as ice jiggled. “A very very funny fella, boss.”

  “Hilarious.”

  “Yeah, hilarious. What’s hilarious?”

  “Some other time, Potsy. And that’s enough with the hysterics. Pete, lay off the cracks. This moron has got a peculiar sense of humor. Where were we?”

  “A fine little tomato.”

  “Yeah. A sweet kid, and plenty smart too. But now that the guy’s got kicked off, we are stacked up against major problems. For which I need a major operator.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like you.”

  “Thanks, Barney. From you, it’s a compliment.”

  “That’s enough with the schmoos. You want to earn some money?”

  “I’d like to chat first.”

  “Chat? Chat? Chat about what?”

  “Talbot.”

  He brought up both hands and, delicately, pushed fingers against his temples. “Look, don’t talk to me about that son of a bitch. How do you like that guy? Putting the buzz on me for two hundred G’s. Two hundred G’s. A professor, yet. Two hundred big ones, Petie. And me taking care of him like he was my son. I had that cookie set up like a prince. Prince? What am I saying? It aggravates me to talk about them, Pete. It aggravates me right up to the hairline. Look, Petie, you interested in earning a buck?”

  “How?”

  “By working on this.”

  “I have been working on it.”

  “Why?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “So I’ll give you a reason. I’ll give you a lot of reasons, green ones that you got to pay a tax on.”

  “Wait a minute, Barney. Tell me about the guy.”

  “What can I tell you? Genie gave you the spiel, didn’t she?”

  “That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about the man himself. What about him? What kind of a guy? You took care of him like a son, didn’t you? Well, what about your son? What do you know about him that could help?”

  “Help what?”

  “I don’t know. Just help.”

  “I don’t know nothing about him except he’s a smooth-talking professor who is crazy about jazz, the late stuff, the modern stuff. Outside he loves to gamble, there’s nothing else I know about the guy. I figured him for one of them simple characters, you know, educated, but simple, so look what he goes and pulls on me.”

  “Do you know he was in town for three days before he called Gene Tiny this morning?”

  “No. How do you know?”

  “I’ve sort of been dabbling around.”

  “Dabbling,” said Potsy. “Everybody’s fancy today.”

  “Do you know, for instance, that he called his daughter last night?”

  “No. For Chrissake. No.”

  “Do you know, for instance, that he’s seen all of his ex-wives during that period?”

  “No. No. No.”

  “See what I mean?” I drank a good deal of the highball.

  “That’s what I mean,” he said. “That Gene Tiny’s a good kid, but this needs a real operator.
Like you. I mean—”

  “Can I use your phone?”

  “What?”

  “Your phone.”

  “Sure.” He looked at Potsy, his lower lip stuck out, his head cocked and his eyebrows flying.

  “Like I said before,” Potsy said. “A card. I know this guy from way back. Right away he’ll stand on his head and make like a Yogi, or yogurt, or whatever you call them.”

  I reached for the phone, closed my eyes remembering a number, opened my eyes and dialed.

  “What’s with the phone,” Barney said, “all of a sudden, in the middle?”

  “Sudden thought.”

  “About what?”

  “An assistant.”

  “An assistant?”

  “Like I told you, boss,” Potsy said. “A card.”

  I waved my hand, backing off talk, as a voice came over the wire. “Yes?”

  “Alger Shaw, please.”

  “Right now Alger Shaw is putting mustard on a frankfurter.”

  “Quite,” I said. “When he’s finished putting mustard on the frankfurter, may I speak with him, please?”

  “Certainly. Why not?”

  “Mustard on a frankfurter,” Barney said wildly. “What’s the matter with this guy?”

  “Like I told you, boss—”

  “Shut up.”

  “My sentiments,” I said, hanging on to the phone.

  I waited, watching Potsy replenish my drink.

  Alger Shaw was a dog-tender on Eighty-Sixth Street and Second Avenue. His livelihood involved the unhinging of the succulent tubes, placing them on the sheet-metal broiler, rolling them as they fried, wiping grease from around them, and dispensing them wrapped within toasted finger-rolls, sauerkraut if desired. Occasionally he pulled a lever for grape juice. In this manner he earned sixty-five dollars a week, protected in sickness and in health by the Encased Meat Products and Salami Vendors Union, Local 69. Alger was young, dark, tall, slim, and fetching, wounded once in the service of his country, but that didn’t show. When Alger smiled and bowed from the waist, the ladies did nip-ups standing still. Alger with a tuxedo on was like a crooner with his mouth open—the girlies flocked. He was a denizen of all the night spots, earning much more than the sixty-five provided by the union, but Alger was a smart young man who knew (wise lad) that the indiscriminate virility of youth does not spurt forever, so he clung to his union-protected sixty-five, come sickness or health, and occasionally he did odd jobs for the private richard.