The ensuing morning, I crawled out of bed with a hangover. Nothing a good embalmer couldn’t fix. I showered, shaved, and got dressed, before driving to Mel’s Place. When I pushed through the door, Alice saw me and hooted. “What? No kids?”
“No. None of my own.” I laughed.
I grabbed breakfast while we made small talk as she leaned over the counter, resting on her elbows, with a hand cupping her chin.
When I finished eating, I put a match to a cigarette, offered my waitress one, and set fire to it for her. Finally, I got to the point of my visit. “I need some help,” I said quietly. “Are you interested in earning an easy five bucks?”
She giggled. “That depends on what you have in mind, sparky.”
“I need you to telephone Mrs. Lausmann.”
“Yeah, sure. Call her … and?”
“Disguising your voice, I want you to leave a message for one of her tenants. Tell her your name is Esther. Have her inform Santini something has happened and you need to see him as soon as possible. It’s not anything you can discuss over the blower. You absolutely need to meet with him. And you have to emphasize how important this is.”
She shot me a wicked smile. “Say, I never asked you. What are you? A cop? A gangster? What?”
“No, nothing like that,” I answered, producing my badge. “I’m a private detective working on a case, trying to locate this woman for a very prominent client. I think Santini knows where she is. If this works, he’ll lead me right to her. Whaddya say? Is it worth a fin?”
Her grin broadened. “Is it worth a sawbuck?”
I smiled at her nerve. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, it is.” I flashed the tenner. As she reached for it, I folded it into my palm. “Uh-uh. The phone call first.” Her face showed uncertainty. “I promise the cabbage, sweetie, if you swear to keep this between us.”
“Okay, but if you don’t come through, I’ll scream so loud the entire police department will show up.” That wicked leer never left her puss.
“Tell you what. To show my good faith, I’ll give you half now and the rest when you’ve made the call.” I dug out a five-dollar bill and passed it to her. She snatched it and unashamedly slipped it inside her blouse.
Her smile softened. “Okay. You’ve got a deal.”
I handed her a nickel for the pay station and stood beside her as she telephoned. Speaking through her apron, which she held over the receiver, Alice completed the call with a performance that Sarah Bernhardt would have envied. I slipped her the other fin and thanked her. The second half of my payment joined the first inside her brassiere.
… Alice completed the call with a performance that Sarah Bernhardt would have envied.
She snickered and softly said, “The way my life is right now, you might be surprised to know what I’d do for a double sawbuck.”
Her statement caught me off-guard, but I smiled. As I mentioned earlier, times were hard. “Let’s leave that idea for another day, beautiful.” She bobbed her head and tossed me a naughty smirk before going to her station behind the counter.
So I had to stake out simpleton’s digs until he showed himself. Hopefully, he’d react to the message and be quick about it.
Under lowering skies, I slid into the passenger seat of my LaSalle and settled in for what I figured to be at least a several-hour stint of waiting for my patsy. My thoughts instantly returned to the lovely young woman in the portrait in Morgan’s study. Her innocent yet sad loveliness enchanted me.
Luckily, it took much less time than I’d expected for my gull’s appearance. Within half an hour, Santini burst through his buildings door and hustled toward the same taxi stand as two days earlier. I cranked my boiler and trailed him slowly as he traveled along the sidewalk. Once he hired a cab, I stalked their route of travel across town and in the Whisper Club’s direction. Around three miles past the gin joint, the hack motored into a neighborhood of nondescript, modest bungalows. More than a few showed small signs of neglect.
The vehicle eased to a stop at one such residence on Skyview Drive. I drove four houses beyond them and stopped. While the cabbie waited, Mark spilled out and scurried to the door. He knocked several times with no answer. Appearing frustrated, he stepped off the front porch and peered through a couple of windows. The man abandoned the effort, trotted to his ride, and climbed in. They pulled away.
When they’d passed me and disappeared around the next corner, I shifted into reverse and slowly closed the distance to the dwelling in question. I eased out and duplicated Italian’s efforts to rouse anyone inside, to no avail. Out of curiosity, I circled the structure. It revealed no evidence of any soul being present.
I returned to my LaSalle and grabbed a packet of papers lying on my passenger seat and scampered to the house next door. Earlier, I’d heard a radio playing through an open window there. A reasonably attractive young woman with mouse-colored hair answered my knock. She immediately clutched the top of her flannel bathrobe to her throat as if threatened by a man or temperature. Despite the light rain that was falling, the weather was comfortable, and I intended her no harm.
“Yes?” she asked with uncertainty.
Smiling to ease her concern, I said, “Good afternoon, madam. I’m Hal Cooper with New York Indemnity Life Insurance. I need to speak with the lady next door, a Miss Esther …” here I deliberately fumbled through the papers, stalling for her to fill in the blanks for me.
“You mean Esther Howard?”
“Yes! Yes, that’s the person!” I bobbed my noggin vigorously. “She doesn’t appear to be home at the moment. Do you know if she’s employed?”
She cracked the screen door open, peeked toward her neighbor’s place, then drew it closed again. Her eyebrows knotted. “Oh, no, not that I know of. The poor dear lost her husband within the last two months.” An expression of perception played across her face. “Say, is this about her husband’s life insurance?”
Her question provided me the opportunity to use a ploy that usually pulled suckers into spilling more than they otherwise might. “Well, I really shouldn’t divulge confidential information, but, yes, it is,” I confessed sheepishly. “That’s why I’m so eager to speak with her.”
“I have to be honest with you. She doesn’t have a job that I know of.” She lowered her voice and shifted her eyes furtively. “To be honest, I think the poor soul has taken to the bottle since Frank died. I’m not certain where she spends her days. She comes home most days just before dark.” She paused, then blurted, “And drunk, as far as I can tell.” That gave rise to several possibilities.
“To be honest, I think the poor soul has taken to the bottle since Frank died.”
I turned, scanned the area, and let loose a heavy sigh. “Well, I have to speak to her as soon as possible. So you know, I’ll probably wait in my car on the street to catch her when she arrives. Come to think of it, I need to call my office first.”
The woman had relaxed by that point. “Oh, okay. If it’s not a long-distance telephone call, you can use our phone. If it is, you can use it anyway … if you call collect.”
“No thank you. Some things I want to discuss are confidential. I’ve already told you more than I should have, miss.”
“Hudson. Madge Hudson. And it’s missus. Thanks for telling me you’ll be outside in your car.” She paused briefly, then offered, “Do you want to come in and wait? You’d be more comfortable in here.”
While giving her credit for the purest of intentions, I thought it best to decline the offer. “No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I didn’t want you to see someone sitting in a car in the shadows and be alarmed by it.” With that, I thanked her profusely and hurried through the rain to my crate.
* * *
Resigned to the circumstances, I traveled to a filling station out on the main road and called the senator’s mansion from its pay station. The stodgy Faversham informed me his master was at the capitol building. I hung up and dialed the number for the lawmaker’s office there. Koons answered. He advised me Morgan was on the chamber’s floor and unavailable. Then he began questioning me regarding the status of my investigation.
Immediately, my gut raised a red flag. Without mentioning my likely lead on the Esther dame or the Basilone lug, I filled him in only on locating Santini and shadowing him. The aide advised he’d tell his boss about my progress. While I had him on the wire, I asked Frank where I might buy a few bottles of hooch. He furnished me the location of a nearby drug store. He suggested I mention his boss’s name to the pharmacist to get what I wanted. After I rang off, I traveled a short distance and purchased a pint each of gin and rye and an evening edition of the local daily.
* * *
Then, I returned to the Skyview Drive bungalow and parked across the street. For the next three hours, I watched her place and read that broadsheet from front to back and over again. Since the baseball season didn’t start until the following day and the big thoroughbred horse races were a month or more away, there wasn’t much in the sports section to interest me. The funny pages were a bust, too. I was so bored I even read a “titillating” article on an upcoming spring flower show sponsored by a local garden club. Nothing I did kept my mind from drifting to that young lady’s depiction hanging in Daniel’s home. No, I was not fixated.
Finally, as a rainy dusk was closing in, a jitney pulled up and deposited a person outside my objective’s bungalow. By the way the murky figure ambled, it imparted the impression of being of the female variety, although I wasn’t certain. Carrying something, the person staggered inside. Lights began coming on. In a few minutes, a stocky female passed by a lighted window. I waited several seconds more before walking to the porch and knocking. As I did, I noticed the young next-door neighbor staring at me through parted window curtains. Her nose was flattened against the windowpane. The effect didn’t enhance her looks. I smiled and threw a hand up. She tossed me a hesitant wave and was gone.
A rough-looking gal opened the door. She may have been around the age to have been Morgan’s Miss Plunkett, but appeared older. Through the screen door, a malodorous mixture of stale gin and old cigarettes wafted my way. A lifelong love affair with booze possibly accounted for the apparent age difference. The woman sported a loosely tied, faded flannel bathrobe similar to her neighbor’s. A local department store must have had a sale on the things in the distant past. This broad’s version, however, was tattered and grimy.
The unsteady crone pushed her face to the screen. It was one that had spent too many days in the sun and too many nights in the bars. “Yeah?” she breathed heavily with a slight slur. The aroma of gin coming to me was greater than before.
As her neighbor had suggested, I was dealing with a tosspot. A slatternly one, at that. “Yes ma’am. I’m searching for a Miss Esther Plunkett,” I explained, feigning doubt.
An expression of momentary surprise came to her wrinkled puss. She quickly recovered and chortled. “Mister, you’re around ten years too late. I ain’t been a Plunkett since 1922. Name’s Howard these days. Though it’s widow Howard now,” the old girl sputtered. I thought she’d start blubbering. A melancholy drunk was always a treat to deal with.
Trying to re-direct her focus, I blurted, “Then you’re the lady I’m looking for!” She managed a crooked little grin. “I just need some information from you, if you can spare the time.” I glimpsed the surrounding area. “Since the weather is kind of miserable, I brought along a couple of pints to snuggle up with while we chat.” I counted on the old phrase in vino veritas. The eel juice was intended to loosen the woman’s tongue.
“Since the weather is kind of miserable, I brought along a couple of pints to snuggle up with while we chat.”
“Well,” she stretched the word out as she unlatched and opened the screen door, “c’mon in here, you sweet man.” She turned and waddled away with an unstable gate. “Let me find us some glasses. What’re we drinkin’?” she crowed over her shoulder, before vanishing into what I took to be her kitchen.
“You have your choice!” I shouted to her. “Gin or rye! I hope they’re okay with you, Mrs. Howard!”
“Oh, sure they are! Have a seat anywhere, honey! I’ll be right there! And call me Esther!” she bellowed from the next room.
I surveyed the space I stood in. It had seen better days. Perhaps. A couple of empty gin bottles and an ashtray full of cigarette remnants, a few smeared with lipstick, sat on a coffee table between a timeworn sofa and a small pair of odd wingback chairs with shiny, threadbare upholstery. The grouping huddled on a on a frayed green rug. My fedora found a resting spot beside the dead soldiers. As I pulled the pints from my coat pockets and settled gingerly on the couch, I wondered if the home had looked this way when Frank was still above ground. Again, maybe.
“Here we go,” the woman giggled as she rounded the corner and handed me a glass of dubious cleanliness. I reckoned the alcohol would take care of that problem. “What if we tap the gin first?” she grunted at me as she plopped on the divan, without taking her eyes off the bottles of booze sitting on the table.
Suddenly pausing, my frumpy hostess cast a hard look my way and sat back. “Say, sport, I didn’t catch your handle,” she noted. Before I responded, she leaned past me and reached for the clear liquor.
I took a moment to set fire to a cigarette and offered and lit one for my companion. To maintain the charade I’d started with Madge earlier, I stated, “My name is Hal Cooper.”
Through a billow of smoke, her face skewed up. “And what are you really here for?” she wheezed.
I poured her a tall drink to ease the shock of what I had to say. “I want to speak with you concerning something that occurred a long time ago.”
“Oh, yeah?” Esther took a deep slug of the gin, smacked her lips in satisfaction, and wiped her mouth with her robe’s sleeve. “That is some swell hooch, Hal!” She inclined in my direction and held her glass out to me. The movement reminded me of Alice’s comment regarding a person taking a break from hygiene. Even so, I did the honors with another generous serving. “Well, what happened so far back you want to talk over?” she slurred. Her sodden peepers were unable to fasten on me.
I waited until she’d swilled more gin, then prodded, “I need you to tell me about the night years ago when your new squeeze stabbed and killed your ex-boyfriend, a guy named Biscari.”
Howard threw her head back and cackled so hard her entire body shook. I couldn’t figure whether she was so drunk she didn’t understand my inquiry or if she reckoned her former beau’s death was a humorous incident. Either way, I noticed she was fortunate enough to avoid spilling any of her drink. When she caught her breath, she waggled her noggin. “I haven’t thought of that jellybean in ages! Nah, Franco didn’t die that night,” she disclosed with a titter.
“Then, later he–”
“No, no!” she stammered, waving her hand sloppily. “He was cut bad. His buddies in their gang came and got him. Took him to a croaker they had in their pocket. He was close to dyin’ for a while, but he lived.” As I sat there dumbfounded, she dealt herself another round of gin.
“Then he disappeared, right?” I grabbed her to get her attention. “Do you know what happened to him?”
“Sure …. I was the mob’s … well … their moll. I knew ever’thin’ that … they (hiccup) did.”
She was fading fast. I needed information quick. “So, what became of him?”
“That son-of-a-bitch Dan Morgan … and his highfalutin ol’ man (hiccup) thought they was better ‘n me. He gave me the gate and ….” Her lamps slowly closed as her voice faded.
My patience was wearing thin. I grabbed her elbows and shook her. “What about Biscari? What became of him?”
Her eyes snapped open, and she looked vacantly at me, then beamed. “I nursed him back to health. Thought … we’d git together again. (hiccup) Instead, when he was healed enough, he pulled the big flit … to another city to join a mob there. The two mobs were … associated somehow. Refused … to take me with him … after all I done. I was (hiccup) glad to tell Dan … he killed Franco. Let ‘em sweat, I says.”
“Where did he go?” I jerked her once more to get her evaporating attention.
“I heard … he died a few years … later. Around … fifteen years ago, I think. He was–”
“Where did he go, Esther?” I again demanded.
Suddenly, there was a pounding on the front door. The banging seemed to bring Howard a step closer to sobriety. She flinched and tried to stand on her own, but did so only with my help. “Who the hell is that?” she groaned as she hobbled awkwardly toward the noise.
She opened the door and squawked, “What the hell do you want?”
I turned in that direction. Esther’s position blocked my view of her visitor, who abruptly burst in. It was Mark Santini. As I stood to face him, he pulled a revolver from a holster under his left shoulder, raised it with an outstretched arm, and sighted along it at me in one swift motion. “Don’t move, mister!” he ordered. I nodded numbly and stood perfectly still until my next play came to mind.
… he pulled a revolver from a holster under his left shoulder, raised it with an outstretched arm, and sighted along it at me in one swift motion.
“Listen here, Marco!” Howard screeched.
“Shut up, you old crone! We shoulda dealt with you long ago!” he yelled, as he slugged her hard. The sound of the blow ricocheted around the room. Nonetheless, the crusty battleax, made of sterner stuff, merely stumbled backward, keeping her balance. She grabbed a large glass ashtray from a side table, raise it above her head, and lunge toward her attacker.
The gunman spun and fired two times at the screaming woman. Both rounds found their mark, and she collapsed. At that moment, I drew my gat. It belched lead twice. I, too, hit what I aimed at. The intruder’s pistol dropped to the floor, and he toppled front-wise. Moving to him and kicking his rod out of his reach, I recognized he was out of action for the moment. I re-holstered my .45 as I moved to the fallen lady.
I knelt beside her, lifted her upper body in my arms, and checked her wounds, which were bleeding profusely. Her breathing was sporadic. One glance told me she was not long for this world. She opened her bloodshot orbs. A weird sneer crossed her face. “Is Marco … dead?”
“Yeah,” I lied. “I got him for you. We got him.”
“Good,” she coughed harshly. Pinkish froth seethed on her small teeth between parted lips. “Never liked the bastard. Can you get me a slug of that gin, Hal?”
“Sure, but first tell me where Biscari went to.”
Yeah, I know I was a complete ass for pumping her for info as she lay dying. Just the same, I couldn’t change her fate and needed to know the answer. Esther’s eyebrows knotted as she breathed a city’s name inaudibly. I put my ear close to her lips. She repeated it. Her response stunned me! It was my hometown! A million things rushed through my brain in that instant. I laid her down gently and reached for the glass of liquor. When I shifted to her with the drink, she was gone. Her death took the wind out of me until I heard movement behind me. My victim was coming around.
I crawled to the wounded man, rolled him onto his back, and stood up. His eyes were black with hate as he glared up at me.
“You’re in the middle of a blackmail gambit against Senator Morgan. Still, you’re not the kingpin. Who is?”
“I’m running the show!”
“Nah, you’re not smart enough for this caper. And everybody knows it. You have to be led around like a sheep. Told what do to do, every move to make, and when. I’d say Basilone is calling the plays.”
He bristled at my words. The expression on his kisser showed me I’d struck gold. “No, I run this thing!” Alice was right. This was a dolt with a monumental, baseless ego and poor impulse control.
“Really? Then where does Rossi fit in?” I bluffed.
“Rossi? Who’s that?” he demanded, coughing blood.
“The goon Basilone is running between him and Morgan for the payoff,” I prodded.
He tried to recover. “Oh, Rossi, yeah. He’s … uh, just a small-time player.”
“That’s not what Rossi thinks.”
The thug’s eyes widened with rage. “That damned shyster!”
I laughed at him. “That’s what I thought. You’re just a cheap hood. Run this operation? Huh! Never will happen in a million years. You don’t have the brains, Marco. So, admit it’s the lawyer.” The bum tried to spit at me, but the effort failed miserably. Blood-packed spittle hung from his cheek. “Say it, and I’ll get you to a doctor while there’s time.” When the Italian gazed at me defiantly, my anger grew exponentially. Esther’s still-warm body was within arm’s reach, and this cretin was acting completely unrepentant. I slipped my gun from its holster and bent over him. His stare hardened. I pressed the muzzle to one of his entry wounds.
“Say it, and I’ll get you to a doctor while there’s time.”
The dupe screamed, then swallowed hard. “Screw you, jabroni!”
I moved my roscoe’s barrel to hover above his other wound. “I’m man enough, if you’re woman enough.” He refused to speak. I pushed the working end of my iron heavily into the bleeding opening.
Again, he squealed as tears rolled down the side of his face. I released the pressure. Still, he didn’t respond. The guy was a lot tougher than he was smart. He was leaving me no choice but to pursue the mug I believed was behind the entire thing, anyway. This jackass had plucked on my last nerve. I was tired of him.
He peeked at the scarlet stain spreading across his shirt, then back up to me. “I’ve robbed a handful of banks. Been shot at, never hit. And here in a short period, you shoot me twice,” he spat at me.
My eyes swept to the dead woman. When they returned to him, I calmly said, “You’re wrong, chump.” His forehead furrowed in misunderstanding. “Three times.” I put a round in his abdomen. That was for Esther.
I couldn’t dawdle. Knowing the nosiness of Madge, she’d heard the gunfire and was sure to notify the law. They’d be arriving here soon.
I had to choose between two options at that point. Either I stayed there, wait for the stiff-mobile from the coroner’s office, and dealt with the police, which probably meant at least one night in lockup, or I delayed–not defeated–their unraveling the scenario. I chose the latter.
In the kitchen, I located a paper bag holding a bottle of gin on the table. I removed the hooch and, with a pencil, I wrote the dead woman’s name and address on the outside. In addition, I printed the message that “this is Marco Santini, who killed Esther Howard at her house with this gun.” Not my most literary creation. But it got the point across. In the living room, careful not to smudge the fingerprints on it, I retrieved the killer’s weapon. I put it in the sack and dropped it into my side coat pocket.
Marco was a bloody mess, and I didn’t want to transfer that to my car during my next step. I raced to the bedroom and snagged a coverlet from the bed. With the man rolled into the thing, I heaved him over my shoulder like a load of potatoes. Following a last survey of the space, I hurried out the door and to my jalopy.
With Esther’s murderer slumped in the bedspread on the seat beside me, I drove to the filling station again. I climbed out and cut the kid working there off before he reached my auto. The less he saw, the better for everyone concerned. With sirens wailing in the distance, he provided me directions to the nearest receiving hospital.
* * *
Upon reaching the facility, I hauled my “cargo” to the front door, laid him down, and set the pistol-laden paper container on his chest. Then, throwing the door open, I hollered for help at the top of my lungs. Several people appeared in the corridor and started toward my location. That was my cue to rush back to the LaSalle and burn road to my hotel. Our state law required medical practitioners and hospitals to report any gunshot wounds to the police. I figured the three holes in the Italian’s hide met the criteria. The bulls would take it from there.
Speeding away to the center of the city, I focused on the next phase of this investigation. The odds favored the story of the murder I was leaving in my rearview mirror being splashed across the morning dailies. And if, as I suspected, Basilone was up to his neck in this shakedown, he’d destroy anything connecting him to Santini and / or Esther. There was one surefire way of bypassing all this guesswork. I needed to get to his office first. Tonight.
The odds favored the story of the murder I was leaving in my rearview mirror being splashed across the morning dailies.
* * *
On the sixth floor of the Wabash Building, I crept along the dark hall to the attorney’s office. By the light of my flash, I saw the lock was more sophisticated than the one on Marco’s flat. I pulled my picklock tools from an inside coat pocket, scanned my surroundings, and bent to the doorknob. Holding the flashlight between my cheek and shoulder, I worked the mechanism. With a little extra effort, it gave way. I donned a pair of gloves. No sense in leaving evidence of my presence.
The outer office held the secretary’s desk, a typing table, and a coat rack. The inner office door, emblazoned with the mouthpiece’s name, was locked. Fortunately, the securing mechanism proved similar to the one on his minion’s apartment. I opened it and set to work.
After rifling through the file cabinet, I moved to the attorney’s desk. Until I reached the belly drawer, it yielded nothing of value. That final compartment held an appointment book. Scanning the previous three weeks, the man had scheduled meetings with various named people. Not usual in that for a busy lawyer. However, I found several entries concerning consultations with someone having the initials “K. A.” They’d been the only get-togethers without full names given. I made a mental note to do some comparisons with the address book belonging to Esther’s killer when I returned to the hotel.
A separate compilation in the drawer held addresses and telephone numbers. The Italian’s info turned up in the thing. Again, “K. A.” appeared with two phone numbers set down. And, once more, I decided to check later for any similarities between this compendium and Marco’s. Interestingly, also itemized once was someone designated only as “F. K.” But this jasper’s listing had a vague familiarity to it.
Considering everything else I’d learned that night, my gut told me they ranked worth taking when I left. If the theory now bouncing around in my cranium didn’t pan out, I would simply trash the tomes. Basilone would have to cope with their loss. I set them on the desktop.
As I started to close the drawer, the light from my flash bounced off something that caught my eye. I retrieved a book of matches from a joint whose name I’d seen in the recent past. I dropped them into a pocket and picked up the two books.
On my way to the outer office, I noticed a certificate of appreciation from a local Italian-American organization. It recognized the work of one “Arturo Basilone” in promoting the interests of the group. Arturo. Everyone I’d dealt with in this case had Americanized their first names.
In secretary’s chamber again, I sat at her desk and opened her version of the office appointment book. It didn’t surprise me much when there were no engagements with “K. A.” that corresponded to the ones on the boss’s schedule.
Then that spark of “investigative creativity” I’d been hoping for earlier hit me. On a wild hunch, I loaded a piece of paper into the office typewriter. As best I could remember the wording of the threatening letter to Senator Morgan, I typed it out. When I pulled the sheet out and scrutinized it under the glow of my flashlight, I saw the same imperfections in the words for both the letters n and a. There was no doubt in my mind that the two had come from the same source. The counselor was in need of a new machine. I folded the paper and put it in a pocket for safekeeping.
I saw the same imperfections in the words for both the letters n and a.
I departed for my hotel with the fruits of my search.
* * *
Sunday morning’s dawn peeked among the skyline by the time I returned to the Empire. I was desperate for sleep. Even so, I needed to see if sense could be made of this riddle. After laying the loot from the Wabash Building’s office on the desk in my rooms, I stripped down and quickly showered and shaved.
Somewhat refreshed and wearing only my BVDs, I sat with Santini’s address book and the shyster’s opened side by side. I pawed through each from cover to cover, making notes as I did. Marco’s book still offered me nothing new to go on. Beyond the entries for Howard and the lawyer, it lacked anything substantive in the way of leads.
Arturo’s register, on the other hand, proved informative to a fair extent. Based on what my client and his aide had given me that first day, I confirmed that the telephone number listed for “F. K.” in the book to be Frank Koon’s direct line. Unless there was something in the works I wasn’t aware of, it seemed a very odd coincidence that Basilone had his contact information. I’ve never been a fan of coincidences. And why recorded only by his initials? Plus, I still had not tumbled to the identity of the person “K. A.”, although I had their phone number. Its presence may amount to nothing.
I tossed my pencil on the desk, leaned back in the chair, and rubbed my weary eyes. The time had come for a smoke. With a Chesterfield between my fingers, I started looking for a light. I picked my suit coat off the bed and began searching its pockets. I then located the book of matches from the attorney’s desk drawer. The cover, embossed with the name “Paradise Club,” was from the same joint as the one I’d seen in Koons’ hands when he lit my fag during my first visit to the politician’s mansion. The nightclub was likely a popular haunt for the city’s elite and possibly only a mere coincidence. There was that term again. Until convinced otherwise, I didn’t believe in coincidences.
Running the alternatives to my suspicions through my mind, I flipped the book of matches open to light my coffin nail. At that moment, several pieces of the puzzle came together. Inside the cover, someone had written two telephone numbers. One belonged to Frank Koons. The other was one of the two cataloged in Basilone’s book for the mysterious “K. A.” In addition, a date had been penciled in. A quick comparison of that notation with the lawyer’s appointment log revealed a meeting with the unknown “K. A.” had been scheduled for the same day.
A vague hypothesis regarding Morgan’s situation formed in my mind. Nonetheless, there was one more part of the conundrum to pursue. I glanced at the clock on the side table. It was late enough in the morning to follow up on that with the help of a friend back home.
Needing to confirm what Esther had told me, I placed a long-distance call to the police headquarters in my hometown. Fortunately, I caught my pal, Detective Waddell, there. He was just leaving for his house after a night of dealing with a pair of bank robbers. I pleaded for his help and promised him anything in return. As an added incentive, I explained the answer could affect, positively, a powerful state legislator. I swore I’d see he got credit for his assistance.
Luckily, the man had had a good night rounding up bad guys and, though exhausted, sounded in an upbeat mood. Rob said he’d be glad to help. Hoping the gangster had, in fact, moved to our city and hadn’t changed his name, I asked him to research the death and arrest records for a Franco Biscari during the years 1916 to 1918. I admitted it to be a tall order. And if he agreed to assist me, I was going to owe the lawman in a big way. Despite a hefty sigh at his end of the wire, my friend assured me he’d check. He needlessly advised me the task might take some time to complete. I assured him I understood that and gave him my hotel’s telephone number.
My requirement for java and something to eat grew steadily, so I got dressed and left for the greasy spoon further along the block.
* * *
Over breakfast, I read an item under a dramatic headline in the latest edition of a local broadsheet. It reported the murder of a recent widow, a Mrs. Esther Howard, by a villain named Marco Santini. Among other sketchy details, the piece said an unknown individual then shot the murderer in the widow’s home. Detectives working the case theorized that the deceased man broke into the residence intending to steal items and murdered the woman when she confronted him.
It went on to say the lady’s visitor, possibly a suitor, retrieved a weapon and shot the intruder. This second person then delivered the burglar to an area hospital before disappearing. The would-be thief succumbed to his wounds and was pronounced dead at the medical facility. According to the article, while police had no firm clues as to the visitor’s identity, they intended to question one of the murdered lady’s neighbors, who might have information concerning him. Authorities also solicited help from the public.
The rag’s account provided an interesting interpretation of the known and supposed facts. I wished the lawmen luck trying to locate Hal Cooper and the fictitious New York Indemnity Life Insurance Company, if it came to that. Regardless, the time had come to consider finishing this investigation, reporting to my client, and making a hasty retreat to the relative safety of my agency office in the Belvedere Building in my hometown.
I wished the lawmen luck trying to locate Hal Cooper and the fictitious New York Indemnity Life Insurance Company, if it came to that.
Before I laid the daily aside, I learned the Redlegs had lost their fourth consecutive ballgame yesterday, this time to the Pirates. My negative thoughts regarding this season hadn’t changed.
* * *
Upon returning to my hotel, I found I had two telephone messages. The first was the one I’d hoped for from Rob Waddell. The note showed a time the staff received it, which was less than half an hour from when I’d departed for the eatery. Like a mouthpiece waiting for a jury verdict, I was unsure if that quick a response might be good or bad news. The second communication came from my patron. Apparently, he’d read the account of Santini’s death in the newspaper.
From my room, I telephoned Waddell. The fellow who answered my ring in the detectives’ bureau told me Rob had gone home, but left a note for me to call him there. I hung up and redialed the number for my pal’s residence.
Within a dozen rings, a sleepy-sounding Waddell picked up. “If this isn’t Gil Tanner, hang up now or suffer my wrath.”
I chuckled. “It’s me, Rob. Gil. Do you have anything for me?”
“Yeah,” he groaned. With a lengthy yawn, he resumed, “You know Mike Coggins, right?” I did. “Big Mike” Coggins, a graybeard among the men pulling patrol duty on the city’s force, was a good, tough cop.
“Sure, I know him.” His question aroused my concern. “Is he all right?”
“Yeah, yeah. He’s okay. Mike was working with me last night on the bank heist. He was standing there when we talked earlier. When he heard me repeat Biscari’s name, it caught his attention. Coggins was a young patrolman when your boy got cut up pretty bad in a knife fight a number of years ago. Passed away from his wounds a day or two later. That occurred in 1918. I confirmed it with the death records. Franco, aka Frank Biscari, died October fifteenth of that year.
“Coggins dug out his arrest photo from somewhere. Swarthy-looking mug with a nasty scar over his left eye. It ran into his eyebrow. He’d hooked up with the dago mob on the north side of the city.” Waddell chortled. “Apparently, his last knife fight wasn’t his first.” Rob coughed harshly. Then he gave me a general description of the subject. “Mike said he’s buried in the pauper section of Rosemont Cemetery.”
“That’s swell! Thanks for your help! I owe you!”
“Damned right you do!” he laughed. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going back to bed.”
We rang off.
I returned Senator Morgan’s telephone call. He’d indeed read the newspaper account of Santini’s death. The man was eager to speak with me and wanted to learn what I knew concerning the Howard woman’s murder and the Italian’s demise. I stalled him.
We arranged for me to come to his home. Daniel balked when I suggested we meet privately, without Koons, the person he referred to as his shadow. Insisting he find an excuse not to have him present, I promised to explain my demand, and everything I had learned when we met. He relented hesitantly.
I assumed that, by this time, Arturo had read of the death of his comrade in crime. And, if I chanced to be the betting type, I’d lay odds he, too, knew of Esther and her role in this vignette.
I gathered the various volumes I’d pilfered from Santini’s and Basilone’s places and the all-important book of matches from the Paradise Club, then headed for my Lasalle.
* * *
Twenty minutes later found me once more, using the stately home’s door knocker to gain the butler’s attention. In due course, he answered my summons and showed me into the study. While I waited, my eyes never left the painting of Celestine. This might well be my last visit. I hoped I’d finally lay peepers on her in person. After a few minutes, Morgan entered the room and sat on the settee across from me.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said, reaching for the humidor on the table. “I’ve been packing for a trip to New York tomorrow afternoon.” He nodded toward the portrait. My daughter’s arriving aboard the Île de France. Celestine’s spent the last several months in Europe. I sent her there to bring her out of the doldrums she’s been in since my wife’s passing.” My heart sank, knowing she would not appear.
He glanced around furtively and lowered his voice. “Why the secrecy, Mr. Tanner? I tell you my aide can be trusted to keep confidential anything we discuss here. As you requested, I intended to send him on an errand. Before I broached the idea, Frank advised me he had some urgent business to take care of this morning.”
“Why the secrecy, Mr. Tanner?”
I considered a notion. If he’d read the same article I had and was aware of the roles Esther and Marco played in this plot, I’m sure he had to contact Basilone as soon as possible. My first inclination was to disabuse him of the fallacy of his aide’s loyalty. However, I chose to lay the evidence before the legislator and let him decide.
“Allow me to bring you up to speed on what has happened in my investigation.” As he bent toward me and nodded, I proceeded, “I found Franco’s digs where Burgett said. To learn more about the goon, I ran a bluff on him to see if he spooked easily. He did. And, in doing so, the sucker led me to the office of a lawyer named Arthur Basilone. Real first name’s Arturo. Familiar with him at all?”
“I’ve heard of the man,” Daniel offered, “but I’m uncertain if we’ve ever met. Maybe at a fundraiser.”
“That’s not important, sir. At that point, I didn’t know of any angle between your problem and the Santini-Basilone connection. So I shadowed Mark, whose true given name is Marco, for several days. That got me nowhere. I was convinced searching his apartment would provide me something to sink my teeth into. Since he seemed so quick to squirm and run to the shyster when I squeezed him the first time, I tried another ploy using the lawyer’s name. He bit and disappeared for a while. It gave me the opportunity to rifle his flat.
“I found this address book secreted in his residence.” I set it on the coffee table, keeping my hand on it until the right moment. He glared at the thing. “Among the entries therein is one for you and for Frank. Interestingly, there appeared another for an ‘Esther H.’” His arched eyebrows showed he wanted to say something, but I pressed on. “Beside her name, only a telephone number was given. All my efforts to call her got me nowhere. My gut told me to follow up on it. And that instinct rarely steers me wrong. At that stage, only Santini could lead me to the woman. I had–”
“Let me guess, Mr. Tanner,” the lawmaker grinned. “You used another ruse to get him to guide you to her.”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did. And it turned out she was the Plunkett twist you knew those years ago.”
The man sat back in the chair at my revelation. “So, then–”
I held up a hand, cutting him off. “Let me finish, please. She’d married a fella named Howard in 1922. To say the least, her life had not been easy. Offhand, I’d speculate your father was right about her. Anyway, I used her fondness for drink to worm the truth out of her regarding that night you fought with Biscari.” My host released an audible sigh and shook his head. I continued, “He didn’t die from the stab wounds that night. Or even later from your struggle with him.”
Daniel’s face turned ashen. “What? What do you–? How–?”
Again, I stopped his outburst with a hand wave. “He survived the knife fight, according to your former girlfriend. She helped nurse him through the injury, hoping he’d take her back when you dumped her. He refused, though. Once he regained his health, he left town.”
“Be that as it may, I was certain he had died.”
“You said the entire incident occurred in shadows. That’s the trouble with shadows. They can be deceiving. Things, people don’t always show their true nature in shades of darkness.”
“How can you be sure about this? How–”
“Do you recall what Biscari looked like? Can you describe him? His facial features, for example?”
“Well, it’s been so long. Let me see…. He was around my height, uh five feet, nine inches tall, with a medium build. Dark complected.” Morgan hesitated as he tried to recollect him. I bided my time to see how he described his assailant. “He had black hair and dark eyes.” He stopped momentarily, then burst forth with, “Oh yes, he had an ugly scar above his … his left eye! It had split his eyebrow. Esther said he got it in a skirmish with a rival gang. Apparently, some women thought it sexy in a masculine sort of way.”
That was the clincher. “Senator, that thug moved to my hometown and was killed in a knife fight around thirteen years ago. The police have a book-in picture of him. When I return home, I’ll send you a photostat. So, the bottom line is that is no reason for anyone to blackmail you. The people involved used your belief that you’d murdered a man and wanted to hide it.”
Relief swept across his countenance. Then, as if a light suddenly turned on, he asked. “Tell me what happened at Esther’s home? Were you there? How did she die?”
“Yeah, I was there.” I then related the events at the bungalow from the night before, including how Santini broke in and ended up at the hospital. “However, there’s more to the story.” He made a face showing he didn’t understand.
I resumed, “The fact that the simp was so quick to turn to Arturo when a stranger appeared on the scene piqued my curiosity. It set me thinking that the attorney might have a role in your difficulties. So, last night I went to his office and discovered a few things. First–”
“Last night?” he exclaimed. The pointed allegation in his question was clear.
“Yeah. Did you want answers or not?” I responded harshly. He shrunk back in silence. “In Basilone’s office desk, I located his private appointment book.” I laid it on the table next to the volume from Marco’s flat. “I say private appointment book because it doesn’t exactly jibe with the one on his secretary’s desk. It shows meetings with a person whose initials are ‘K. A.’ that hers doesn’t. I also found this address book.” I placed it beside the other two. “It has contact information for quite a few folks. Again, this ‘K. A.’ individual appears with two phone numbers. Plus, there is someone listed only as ‘F. K.’ This fella’s number was familiar to me.
“I say private appointment book because it doesn’t exactly jibe with the one on his secretary’s desk.”
“By chance, do you have the letter you received handy?”
Daniel cocked an eye at me and said it was in his desk. I watched as he went into the next room to retrieve the document. His absence gave me another opportunity to ogle the painting of the gorgeous, enigmatic Celestine.
As he walked back to me, I removed the page I’d typed from my pocket. He handed me the letter. I made a careful comparison between the two. My examination eliminated the last lingering doubt in my mind that they had come out of the same machine.
Another thing struck me at that point. It had been my experience that you can tell the difference between something typed by a professional, say like a lawyer’s secretary, and an amateur such as me. The former typist leaves an even impression of the letters on the paper, while the latter hunt-and-peck effort produces a dark-light, strike-over result. The shyster’s clerk had not typed the letter to my client. I reckoned it to be the work of either Basilone or Santini.
I directed my attention to the man opposite. “Before leaving Arturo’s office last night, I played a hunch. Using his secretary’s typewriter, I composed a loose duplicate of the threatening letter you received.” As I said this, I laid both on the table, facing him. “They came from the same source.
“Later, I checked for any numbers in Basilone’s tomes that also appeared in Marco’s. The same info for this ‘F. K.’ joker showed up in Santini’s.” The face of the man opposite me began to redden. He was catching on.
“Is it …?”
“Yeah, it is.” The fellow’s chin dropped to his chest. I gave him a second to come to grips with what I’d just told him. Then I added, “There’s one more thing I need to reveal to you.” His watery orbs rose to meet mine.
“Then there was this in the desk drawer.” I tossed the book of matches to him.
Morgan caught the thing and looked at it. “I’m familiar with the establishment. What of it?”
“Open it up.” He did. His face blanched. “I don’t know who wrote it. Notwithstanding that, it’s the same person’s scrawl. And the date there corresponds to a rendezvous scheduled in his appointment book with this ‘K. A.’. One number belongs to him or her and the other to Koons. The thing caught my eye, because Frank used a book of matches from the same club to light my cigarette that first day we met here.”
“I recognize the ‘K. A.’ person’s number. I’m aware who it is,” he said in an utterly dead voice. “The man is Kirkland Adler, a cut-throat state senator in the opposition party. We’ve been at odds for years. And it occurs to me that this Basilone person has been mentioned as a protégé of Senator Adler. I cannot believe Frank, someone so close to me, living in my home all these years, might be mixed up in such a nefarious affair. How could I be deceived for so long? Why?”
“That’s between the two of you. I reckon your assistant was caught having to carry on his subterfuge while hoping I got no further than Burgett did. Perhaps he expected me to suffer the same fate at the hands of Santini as Don did before I got wise to the setup.”
He said nothing for what felt a very long time. Although his expression was nearly impossible to read, his strong face appeared thoughtful. Nevertheless, the legislator seemed a broken man to some extent.
I was tired and ready to be done with this mess. Cynically, I scoffed, “Hey, it’s politics, and you’re a politician, right? You well understand that, in the end, it comes down to whoever can tell the best lie the longest.”
Morgan acted mildly stunned at my attitude. “Don’t you have faith in our political system, Mr. Tanner?” he asked with a touch of exasperation.
“As it relates to politics,” I replied, “I’m an agnostic.”
He now knew everything I did. I rose from my chair and pointed to the items sitting on the coffee table. “Those materials are yours to do with as you see fit, sir. They connect the dots, paint a picture.” The mention of the word “picture” caused me to glimpse at Celestine’s portrait, then back at my client. The enchanting girl was like a lump in my heart. “I believe I’ve answered your questions regarding your dilemma. Where you take this from here is your call. By the way, I learned nothing to resolve Burgett’s death other than an accident. I’d lay odds Santini was behind it at Basilone’s behest.” I sighed wearily. “So, unless there’s something else, I’ll check out of the Empire and drive home.”
“Those materials are yours to do with as you see fit, sir. They connect the dots, paint a picture.”
Daniel waggled his head, stood, and shook my hand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Tanner. This will be one of the toughest things I’ve ever dealt with, but deal with it, I shall. I guess it is better than being on the hook to extortionists.”
Outside the mansion, I sat in my car, lit a Chesterfield, and pondered the events of the past nine days. Soon I realized Faversham stood at a window, watching me closely. I tipped a hand at him when I started the motor. He merely glared at me as I motored away. By the time I rolled along the cobblestone driveway, it was three-twenty in the afternoon. I wanted to do one thing more before I checked out of the Empire and departed this metropolis.
* * *
It occurred to me to repay my favorite waitress for her help in this case. I drove to Mel’s Place only to learn she wasn’t working that day. The chief cook and bottle-washer provided me the address of Alice’s boardinghouse.
Once there, I waited until she joined me on a chintz-covered davenport in the ground-floor parlor. She gave me an unexpected hug and gushed, “I’m so glad to see you again!”
“Well, I didn’t want to leave town without thanking you for all your help and telling you how much I enjoyed getting to know you. I–”
“Leaving town?” she broke in. “You mean you don’t live here?”
“No, afraid not.” She pouted the lips of her soft red mouth at me. The sight launched in me a yearning. Just the same, I moved on. “My mother back home is in a bad way or I’d stick around and buy you dinner.”
“Can I have a raincheck?” I smiled and nodded. “Truth is, Gil, I felt a little guilty about taking your money for making that simple phone call.” Before I objected, she pulled a sawbuck from her peignoir and passed it to me. It seemed unusually warm.
“No, no. You keep it and add this to it,” I insisted, handing it back to her with another tenner. “I couldn’t have finished this job without you.” Alice hesitated. I thrust it at her. “C’mon. Treat yourself to something nice or consider it a down payment on that night on the town we’ll have when we meet again.”
She took it and grinned sheepishly. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Look, here’s my card. It has my agency’s address and telephone number. If you ever find yourself in my city, look me up. We’ll paint the town red.” The girl took the card and read it, then dropped her hands into her lap and looked at me. “And if you ever get in a jam, call me,” I added. “I’ll come running. Promise.”
“If you ever find yourself in my city, look me up. We’ll paint the town red.”
She gave me a big goodbye kiss, and I was on my way.
* * *
When I approached the Empire’s front desk to check out, the clerk handed me a telephone message, adding the caller said it was urgent. It came from Marty, telling me to contact him as soon as possible. A formless fear began to rise in me.
I hurriedly crossed the lobby to a pay station and called Mom’s house. There was no answer. I hung up and, referring to a small notepad I kept, dialed the number for St. Joseph’s Hospital. The lady who answered acknowledged that a Hallie Tanner was there. She transferred my call to the nurses’ station on the women’s floor. Whoever picked up there laid the receiver down and got my brother to the phone. Marty said Mom had taken a turn for the worse and had been re-admitted within the last hour. He stressed I needed to get home as quickly as possible.
I checked out of hotel and drove much too fast the entire way to the hospital, hoping I’d make it in time. The sun had set when I parked in its lot.
When I arrived at Mom’s room, Marty, decked out in his copper uniform, sat in a chair next to the bed, holding her hand. Her breathing was shallow and labored. She appeared to be asleep. As quiet as I tried to be, she heard me enter. Those sad hazel eyes opened and slowly shifted my way. She smiled weakly.
I walked to the side of the bed opposite my brother. “Hey, Mom. How are you feeling?”
“I’m good, Gil. Glad to have you here.” Her voice was faint. “Both my boys.”
Dr. Fleishman appeared at the door. He gave us a head bob that indicated he wanted to speak out of Mom’s earshot. We met him where he stood.
He sighed deeply and whispered, “You need to prepare for the worst.”
Fleishman was unaware of the keen hearing our mother had developed over the years, listening, first, for her drunken husband to stagger into the house, trying unsuccessfully to be as quiet as a church mouse. She always made certain he got to bed without a serious mishap. Later, she applied the skill to pick up on Marty coming in from a night of carousing. When he departed for the Coast Guard, she focused on my antics.
As weak as she was, Mom managed to carry her voice to us. “There is no ‘worse’ to prepare for, doctor. Not at all. I’m going to a place of indescribable light.”
“I’m going to a place of indescribable light.”
He glanced at us with an expression of uncertainty, as if his patient was having a hallucination. He stepped to her bedside. “I don’t understand, Mrs. Tanner.”
She laid her hand on the Bible resting beside her on the bed. Through another feeble grin, she told him, “I have lived in the land of the dying, but, thanks to my Lord Christ Jesus, I am going to the land of the living. I will take my leave from this body and move into the presence of the Lord.” She closed her eyes and said nothing more. Hallie Tanner passed away peacefully a short time later with her sons by her side, holding her hands.
I picked up her Bible. Though I knew she was right about what awaited her, for only one of the few times in my life, I cried. ©