“Good. Now we’re getting someplace,” he breathed.
“But only you. I’m not shouting Jake’s business out in front of these clowns. Get rid of them if you want to hear it.”
Again there was silence while everybody present looked at Charlie Martello. He bit at a fleshy thumb, spat out a piece of finger nail to the carpet.
“O.K. You guys wait in the next room.”
His two henchmen moved obediently away. I jerked a thumb at Hamilton.
“He goes, too.”
Hamilton didn’t flicker an eyelid, merely watched his boss’s brother.
“Why him?” demanded Charlie.
“Because he doesn’t like me, and it’s mutual. Because I’m going to tell you something that could get me into a lot of trouble. And he might take it into his head to use it for just that.”
“And you think I won’t?”
“I have to trust somebody. And you’re Jake’s brother.”
He twitched his head, and Hamilton got up. Before leaving the room he treated me to a malevolent stare.
“Mind, this don’t make no difference,” warned Charlie. “I don’t like what I hear, you could still get pushed around.”
The man was dangerous. Somebody put a hole in his brother, and he wanted something done about it, something physical and quick. I was the nearest candidate for that kind of exercise, and I wasn’t looking for election.
“I’m still waiting.”
I began to tell him. Names were the only parts I left out. For the mood Martello was in, he was quite capable of undertaking a grand tour with his goons, beating up everybody I’d spoken to that day.
“And that’s all?”
“I thought it was a pretty tight schedule for one day’s work.”
“H’m. You never told me no names.”
“I always make my reports that way,” I lied.
“So how do you figure it? Which of these people shot Jake?”
I held up a hand.
“Whoa,” I remonstrated. “Too fast, much too fast. Maybe none of them. Remember, I didn’t see everybody yet. And there could be others, lots of others, I may not even have heard of. It’s too early for calling names.
“That’s on the level, about the dame got herself knocked off?”
“It is.”
Without moving he leaned across and switched on a radio. Shrill music blared into the room. I didn’t like that too well. Where I come from, some people switch up radios while they lean on other people. The music drowns out other noises. Like scream noises. The door opened fast and Hamilton came in, followed by the others. Martello turned irritably.
“Nobody needs ya. Get outa here.”
They went sheepishly away, while Charlie fiddled with the radio dials. Finally he got away from music and on to a man speaking.
“——followed by a newscast in just four minutes time.”
Martello grunted and turned to me.
“We got four minutes. Take the weight off.”
I sat down in the chair Hamilton had vacated. The man on the radio droned away with a message of peace and love for the brotherhood of man. If the message was getting through to brother Charlie, there was nothing on his face to betray the fact.
Four minutes doesn’t sound very long, but the seconds seemed reluctant to slip away unnoticed. Each one seemed to quiver petulantly on my watch before sliding across to make way for the next. I tapped out an Old Favorite and pushed it in my face. The smoke was hot and unfriendly in my throat, and I was about to stub the cigaret when I changed my mind. If I were to do that just after it was lit, Martello might think I was nervous or something. How wrong can a man be?
He hadn’t moved, just stood by the window, waiting for four minutes of his life to ebb away.
“. . . to that great day when all men will walk forward together, shoulder to shoulder, and with heads held high. . . .”
I was beginning to hate the guy on the radio. Then quite suddenly the droning ceased. Some people sang a little jingle about how crispy certain candy bars were.
“And now it’s newstime on your station of the stars. In Vietnam this afternoon. . . .”
Charlie turned up the volume so the guy in the next apartment could learn what was going on in the world.
“. . . at the United Nations. . . .”
At least I needn’t bother with a newspaper next morning. The items wore on, overseas, political, labor news. Then:
“and for our last item, a special interview with the senior police officer investigating the mysterious death today of lovely Serena Fenton. Miss Fenton appears to have fallen from the eighth floor of the Monteray Apartment Building here in Monkton City. A special feature of the enquiry is that the apartment was that formerly occupied by Poetry Brookman, shot to death last night at Indian Point.”
Charlie switched off. I was disappointed. I’d been hoping to hear who the senior police officer was. Probably some front man for the department. They’d never let any of Rourke’s squad loose on the air.
“So it checks,” murmured Charlie. “That far it checks.”
“If those guys ever found out I was there, they’d have my license,” I told him.
“That’s tough. If I ever find out you’re lying to me, I’ll break you’re neck,” he said off-handedly. “So what happens now?”
“Looks like your play,” I pointed out.
“Ah.”
He slapped at his leg with irritation.
“I never figured you except as a right guy. Trouble is, I’m all mixed up. Back home now, things’d be different. I know everybody, everbody knows me. Back home I’d have that town upside down. You wouldn’t be able to go to the can without I’d know. But here——” he spread his arms——” I’m like some visiting fireman. I ought to be out cracking a few heads, that’s what.”
It was the nearest I was going to get to an apology. But I knew the signs. Preston was off the hook.
“Everybody’s working on it,” I assured him. “And I have a lot of calls to make. Especially now.”
“Now? You mean because of Jake?”
He eyed me beadily, sceptical that I should be particularly worried if somebody shot his brother.
“No, not really because of Jake. Because of me. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Who’s stirring up all this trouble over the Brookman murder? Jake? No, it’s me. I’m the one asking all the questions, poking my nose all over this village. Why would anybody want to kill Jake? Remember, there were two of us outside that joint tonight. Jake’s the one who got shot, but who’s to know which one was aimed at?”
He let out breath in a long low hiss.
“Yeah. Yeah, I hadn’t figured that angle. You could be right, Preston. And you’re the one can prove that Fenton dame was murdered. Nobody else could swear she wasn’t alone up there.” I nodded.
“That’s the way I’ve been stacking it up.”
He pondered for a moment.
“Yeah, but hold it. If that’s true, why didn’t they take care of you when they killed the dame? Don’t make sense, leaving it till later.”
I’d been wondering about that myself, and thought I had an answer.
“Because I wasn’t expected. It’s not easy to kill a full-grown-man in a short time unless you have a gun or a knife. Whoever it was killed the girl went there expecting to have nothing else to do but push her out of a window. It’s a different proposition trying to heave a guy my size up off the floor.”
He thought about it, nodding slowly.
“Yeah, that figures. It was your lucky day the guy wasn’t heeled, huh?”
“I guess so.”
There was another silence, and I decided it was time for home. Unless Charlie had other ideas.
“Well, it’s pretty late,” I said. “If you don’t want me any more——?”
“Eh?—oh, no, no. You blow, Preston. Keep in touch, huh?”
“Will do.”
I didn’t bother about farewells for Hamilton and th
e others. In my business there’s a time to get, and when that time comes I don’t stand on any ceremony.
Back in the car I wrote down Martello’s telephone number, which I’d taken a peek at while I was with him. It was my last task of the day. Whatever else was to be done would have to wait till morning. I was bushed.
CHAPTER NINE
NEXT MORNING I GOT UP around nine and paddled around making coffee and coughing over my first cigaret. The paper was full of stuff about Flower’s murder and the shooting of Jake Martello. Jake was described as a financier, and I guess that’s as good a word as any. I got a two word mention as “a friend” who was with him at the time, and that was all the publicity I needed for today. There was a lot of filler about Jake, and the club, and Rose Suffolk, and just about everything else the reporter could dream up. They gave him a column and a half, and all it said was Jake got shot and nobody knew who did it. With Flower they had a better deal. They now knew there was a connection between her death and the Brook-man murder and they gave it plenty of treatment. The only disappointment from the paper’s standpoint was the lack of any real evidence that she didn’t fall naturally. Still, there was a rehash of the Brookman story, and plenty of emphasis on the mysterious connection with both cases of “the well-known entrepreneur Hugo Somerset.”
I chuckled as I read that “entrepreneur” again. A word that covered a multitude of activities, not to say sins. Just the same, it was clear Somerset would be getting his fair share of questions from Randall and the others. Not that I was sorry about that. All the time they spent asking other people questions was time they couldn’t spend darkening my door.
On an impulse I telephoned the hospital, and was told Jake Martello was making slow progress. I asked if they’d dug out the slug, and a frosty female voice advised me to ask his relatives. That I was not proposing to do at that hour of the morning. I didn’t want to be around Charlie and his playmates anymore than was absolutely necessary.
I was very sharp today in my new brown mohair suit and knitted tie. Anybody would take me for a lawyer, or one of those respectable people. An architect maybe, I thought as I admired myself in the mirror by the front door. Of course, architects don’t carry .38 Police Specials under their nice mohair jackets, I reflected glumly as I opened the door. Once again I found myself heading for Conquest Street. This is one of the more interesting streets in our fair city. It starts off close to the business section, with a legitimate theater right on the corner. That’s where it starts, how it starts. After that each succeeding group of buildings slides further and further down the social scale, and every other kind of scale. Half a mile along there are the girlie shows, clip-joints, run-down gym, every kind of entertainment you could put a name to, especially that kind. At nights, Conquest is no place to leave a car, but at that hour of the morning I knew most of the quick-money boys would be getting their hard-earned rest. I turned into a side-street and got out, locking up carefully. On the sidewalk a heap of rags groaned and stirred. A bony arm poked out from the heap and waved feebly from side to side before disappearing back among the rags. That’ll give you some idea of the atmosphere around that end of Conquest.
I found the building I wanted, and learned that Art Green—Impressario was on three. From the amount of stairs I climbed I was beginning to wonder whether that should have read thirty three. But I made it finally, and found myself standing before a peeled door with A—T G – – – N barely discernible in dirty white capitals. It didn’t say anything about impressario, and maybe the sign-writer ran out of paint about there.
Nobody took any notice of the first knock, so I gave the door a second application and this time there was movement and grumbling from inside.
“Go away.”
That was no way for an impressario to impress prospective clients.
“Open it up,” I called through the door.
Then I gave it a couple of kicks to show I wanted in.
“All right, all right, you don’t have to knock the place down.”
A bolt scraped and I got my first look at Mr. Green. I don’t know a lot about show business, but from where I stood he didn’t look like any Ziegfeld. He was a short skinny guy, with a near-yellow face and blue stubble to make it more colorful. His top teeth were almost as yellow as his face. I couldn’t tell about the lower half because he hadn’t put them in yet.
“What’s the idea?” he snapped.
“Mr. Green?” I enquired politely.
“That’s what it says,” he replied, not so politely. “Whaddya mean, dragging a guy outa bed middla da night?”
I looked through the landing window at the strong sunlight. Maybe Mr. Green normally wore eyeglasses too.
“Want to talk to you. Do I come in, or would you sooner I shouted my business all over the street?”
If I knew anything about people who lived that end of Conquest, that kind of publicity was the last thing Mr. Green would want. His eyes took on a furtive look and he peeked quickly outside to make sure there was no one around.
“Like that, huh?” he said hopefully. “Sure, sure. Come in if you want. Why should you care if I never get any sleep.”
I stepped inside, and the close atmosphere made my nostrils react sharply.
“What do you do for air?”
He shrugged.
“Listen, me I like fresh air. I believe in it. But to have air, you gotta have open windows. And believe me, anybody around here leaves a window open at night, he’s crazy. Why, some of those guys wouldn’t leave the strings in your shoes.”
To show what a fresh-air fiend he was, he yanked open a big window and I felt safe in taking a breath. We were in a room about fourteen by twelve, and this seemed to be the extent of the Green holdings. In one corner stood a folding bed, and at the far end a drab curtain was pulled to one side, showing the catering arrangements.
Green stood in his undershirt, picking at his few teeth, and eyeing me curiously.
“So, you’re in,” he pointed out.
“Right. This is your lucky day, Art. Today, you make a profit.”
“Urn.”
He didn’t sound too excited about it. There had to be more, and somewhere in that more would be the catch the Art Greens of this world have learned to expect.
“You don’t seem very pleased,” I reproved.
“Pleased? What’s to be pleased?” he cackled. “You come bustin’ in here in the middla the night, talking about profits. Way I hear it, a guy has to make an investment before he gets around to a profit. Investments I don’t need today. What’s your pitch?”
“It seems there’s a girl, a girl I want to meet.”
“Ah.”
Now I was getting a reaction. Girls made sense, even at that hour of the morning. Girls have been around a long time, and all the time they’ve been around, there’s been an Art Green with some kind of corner on the market. Now the profit began to look more of a reality.
“What kind of girl would you have in mind?” he asked softly.
“Would it matter?”
I winked him one of my all-boys-together winks and he looked positively cheerful.
“Why no, as a matter of fact, it wouldn’t matter at all,” he assured me.
“Just state your preference, give me five minutes to make a phone call and you are in business.”
I smiled.
“Great. Matter of fact, I do have a special girl in mind. Her picture was in the paper. Shiralee O’Connor is the name.”
All happiness faded from his face. A new expression took it’s place, and to me it looked like fear.
“I don’t believe I know——” he began.
“Oh, but you do,” I interrupted. “I saw a mock-up of the story in the Globe Office. The original photograph was pinned to it. And your name was on that picture, Art.”
He took a step away from me, as though he’d been threatened.
“Photograph?” he muttered, “There must be some——”
“No mista
ke,” I cut in. “You’re my boy, Art. Tell me where to find her.”
“Listen, that poor kid’s had a tough time over that,” he pleaded. “All the time cops and reporters with nothing but questions.”
“I could see she was the shrinking violet type,” I sneered. “Just get that address up.”
Then he decided on a different approach, and grew aggressive.
“Say what’s it to you anyhow? You can’t go around interfering with private citizens. What gives you the right to come here pushing me around?”
“Nobody’s pushing you around, Art,” I corrected. “Though it could probably be arranged if you weren’t feeling cooperative.”
He backed further away till he felt the bed behind him. Then in one quick movement he dived under the pillow and came up with an old army colt.
“Yeah?” He was ten feet tall now. “Who’s gonna push who around? You just get out of here before I mistake you for some kind of burglar.”
The gun didn’t look to me as though anyone had fired it in twenty years. I walked slowly to the only chair and sat down. He watched me with rising impatience.
“Listen, I told you——”
“Art, Art.” I remonstrated sadly. “That’s all foolish talk, and you know it. There are some people, not many, who can shoot a stranger down in cold blood. You’re not one of those people, so why don’t you stop clowning around, and let’s talk?”
He lowered the gun, but didn’t put it down.
“I got nothing to say,” he said sullenly.
“Sure you have. You’re going to tell me where I find her. And then you’re going to pick up those.”
I tossed two tens on the office table and he licked his lips. But he shook his head firmly.
“No can do. Go ask the cops. You got any business with the girl, maybe they’ll tell you.”
“But I don’t want to go to the cops,” I pointed out. “They might ask who sent me. And then I’d have to say it was you, and when they asked about you I’d have to tell them you were a guy who supplied girls for parties. Why, I might even have to tell them you offered to promote one just for me alone. You wouldn’t want me to do that?”
“That’s a lotta hooey,” he scoffed. “They wouldn’t take just your word.”
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