Girls like Mary Pat were a dime a dozen in this town. No one could save them all. Hell, I couldn’t even save Mary Pat. But if a pastrami sandwich from Lindy’s and a little bit of conversation made her happy, it was the least I could do.
“Their pastrami sandwiches are the best,” she went on, “but their roast beef sandwiches are a close second,” she said. “Everything’s good at Lindy’s.”
I actually knew a couple of delis in the area that were better than Lindy’s, but I didn’t tell her that. She loved Lindy’s more for its history than its food. She was like millions of other girls who’d grown up reading about how Lindy’s had been one of the places where dashing criminal types like Archie Doyle and Howard Rothmann ate, back when the two hoods ran New York City like their own private kingdom. To her, Lindy’s was parties with Norma Shearer and Babe Ruth and Gloria Swanson.
She had grown up believing that hoods like Doyle and Rothmann lived charmed, glamorous lives of speakeasies and nightclubs, with movie stars and lots of friends and fun. She longed for a New York she was too young to know. She mourned the death of a New York that had never really existed. Because all the booze and fancy parties and actors and actresses had never just been about having fun.
Babe Ruth and Gloria Swanson and Rudolph Valentino were no different than Howard Rothmann and Archie Doyle. It was about that same, miserable common denominator of life: money. How to get it, how to spend it, and how to hold on to it once you had it.
But I didn’t have the heart to tell Mary Pat any of that. It might have spoiled her lunch. I just smiled and watched her enjoy her pastrami on rye. Extra mustard.
“I almost forgot.” She put down her sandwich and pushed a stack of papers a couple of inches thick at me. “Here’s the information you wanted about Mr. Fairfax.”
I cringed when I reached for the bundle. My right arm was starting to ache from when I hit the sidewalk. Guess private life was making me soft. I played it off by saying, “That’s an awful lot of stuff for an old guy like me to read.”
“You’re not old,” she giggled, “just lazy. That’s why I wrote some notes about everything. It’s on a sheet of paper at the top.”
Like I said, Mary Pat was a sweet kid. While she finished her sandwich, I read her notes. She had itemized everything she had found on the recently-departed Walter Fairfax, Junior. Where he’d been born. The universities he’d studied at in Europe. His marriage and child announcements. Articles on Fairfax Liability, his charitable donations, and so on.
I folded her notes and tucked them into my inside pocket, next to Mrs. Fairfax’s list. “Nice work. How about giving me a quick rundown on what you found out about him?”
“Boy, you’re even lazier than I thought.” She wiped her hands on the napkin as she started in. “Walter was born in 1872, right here in New York City. His father was Walter Fairfax, too, and he ran the family’s insurance business, but I guess you already knew that. But here’s something I’ll bet you didn’t know. I found the obituary for Walter’s mother from when she died a few years back. She killed herself soon after Walter got married.”
She was right. I hadn’t known that. Interesting. “No kidding? How’d she do it?”
“Arsenic poisoning. She got hold of a bottle of it somehow and drank the whole thing right down. They think she stole it from the gardener’s stash at the family greenhouse. She probably thought she’d just die right away, but arsenic doesn’t work that way. It’s not as romantic as the old plays and paintings make it look, you know. It takes a couple of days to die. Pretty painful, too.”
I knew suicide often ran in families. I supposed Mrs. Fairfax knew that, too. That’s probably why she hadn’t told me about Walter’s mother.
Mary Pat went on. “It’s a shame, too. She was born in Prussia and belonged to the Tessmer family, which was some kind of Prussian nobility. That means she was descended from Prussian royalty, so Mr. Fairfax actually had some royal blood. Isn’t that exciting?”
Titles had never impressed me. Especially Prussian titles. I’d seen my share of Prussian aristocrats in France during the war. Most of them lying dead in the mud along with the commoners. Titles and bloodlines didn’t make you bulletproof. “Enough about his mother for now. What other stuff did you find out about Fairfax personally?”
“From what I found in the society pages,” she went on, “he spent a lot of time in Germany with his mother’s family when he was younger. All the way through college and after.” I watched Mary Pat’s eyes go soft and dreamy. “Doesn’t that sound romantic, Charlie? Summering in Europe. Visiting beautiful ancient castles. Learning things in universities and colleges all over the world. You ever been to Europe, Charlie?”
“Uncle Sam sent me on a trip to France back in ’17. All expenses paid.”
She looked like she was about to apologize for not remembering the war, but I hated when she pouted so I said, “When did Fairfax come back home?”
“When he was twenty-five or so, as near as I can guess from newspaper accounts. He immediately went to work at the family’s insurance company. Took full control of the company when he was forty and was there until, well, he died.”
“What about Fairfax himself? He give to any charities?”
“All the usual museums and hospitals and so on. He also gave a lot of money to some German-American organizations over the past couple of years.” She shrugged. “Maybe he was lonesome for his childhood or something.”
That caught my interest. “What kind of German organizations?”
She handed me another sheet of paper. “The kind I know I’d never be able to pronounce, so I wrote them out for you.”
I looked through Mary Pat’s list for myself. Her neat handwriting read:
The Teutonia Association
Friends of New Germany
Der Stahlem
Gauleitung-USA (NSDAP)
The last two groups on the list worried me.
I’d heard of Der Stahlem before. It was an old German veteran’s group whose name literally meant The Steel Helmets.
But seeing the last group on Mary Pat’s list didn’t make any sense to me. “NSDAP? That’s the German Worker’s Party, isn’t it?”
“It’s the American branch of the same group that made all that noise that got that Hitler guy elected in Germany a few months back.” She shuddered. “Have you seen his pictures in the papers? He gives me the creeps. He’s got such dead eyes. How could anyone vote for someone who looked like that?”
But I had other questions on my mind than German politics. “But the NSDAP are socialists. Why the hell would a wealthy guy like Fairfax be supporting a socialist group in his own country? Even if they are German?”
“Beats me.” Mary Pat shrugged. “All I know is that the papers are filled with articles on him going to parties thrown by those kinds of German groups for the past two years. He hosted some events for them, attended ribbon-cuttings for their offices, went to their galas, stuff like that. I can pull out all the articles for you if you want, but it’s kind of all the same stuff so I made the list instead.”
I didn’t care about stories or the parties he attended. I cared about the causes. A big-time capitalist like Fairfax giving socialists money wasn’t unheard of, but it made me curious. “What about the Fairfax Liability Corporation? How’s it doing?”
“It’s a privately-held company, so their financial statements aren’t public. But I wouldn’t know what I was looking at even if I saw them. From what I’ve read in the business articles, it seems to be doing pretty well.”
Damn. I had been hoping there might’ve been a financial reason why Fairfax had blown his brains out. Maybe trouble Mr. Fairfax had been able to keep from his wife. That would’ve wrapped this up quick. “What about bad habits? Scandals? Things like that?”
“Some pictures had him with a cigar,” Mary Pat said, “but that’s as
scandalous as it got. Nothing in the gossip papers or anything like that, at least for the past year or so. Except for liking German socialists, Mr. Fairfax seemed pretty dull.” She frowned a little. “Hope I didn’t waste your time, Charlie.”
I gave her a kiss on the cheek as I got up to go. “You never have and you never will. Thanks for digging this stuff up for me, especially the part about the Germans.” I patted the thick pile of papers she’d bundled together. “Keep this in a safe place for me. And don’t forget to keep all of this just between you and me, okay?”
She looked slightly worried. “Sure, but who cares about a boring old guy like Fairfax anyway?”
“Hopefully no one, but let’s play it safe.” I looked down at the sandwich. “Don’t let the rest of the pastrami go to waste.”
She giggled as I threw her a wink before closing the door behind me.
Chapter 4
I felt better now that I had knew more about Walter Fairfax as a man, not just the victim in a police file. I hoped Mary Pat’s research had given me enough pieces to figure out why Fairfax had killed himself. Making those pieces fit together would be the hard part. I decided the best way to start was by working the list Mrs. Fairfax had given me.
I used one of the pay phones in the lobby near the main entrance to the library and called the first name on the list.
Dr. Matthew Blythe – New York Athletic Club.
I called the NYAC and asked to speak to him. About a minute later, a man came on the line. “May I inquire as to who wishes to speak to Dr. Blythe and why?”
The formality almost made me laugh. The AC was a jumped-up gymnasium with better furniture, but I didn’t let the high-hat routine bother me. “This is Charles Doherty,” I said, using my full name for the first time since grade school. “I have been told he’s expecting my call.”
“Hold the line, please.”
I heard him put the phone down. I checked the library lobby while I waited for him to come back on the line. I was still more than a little shaky after my run-in with the Thompson. I wanted to see if anyone in particular was watching me, especially a blond kid in a gray overcoat. Fortunately, I didn’t see anyone who fit the bill.
I heard someone pick up the other end of the line again. “Dr. Blythe would prefer to see you rather than speak on the telephone. He is most anxious to see you. Would you be available to come here to meet him this afternoon?”
I checked my pocket watch. It was one thirty. “I’m available now if that’s okay with him. Say half an hour?”
“The doctor will be expecting you at two o’clock. Please stop by the front desk, where you’ll be escorted up to the lounge.”
As I put the earpiece back in the cradle, I couldn’t believe my luck. Matthew Blythe was Fairfax’s doctor, friend, and brother-in-law. He might be able to tell me something Mrs. Fairfax didn’t know. Hell, depending on what Blythe told me I might even have this whole thing wrapped up by dinner time.
I’d almost forgotten that I was never that lucky, but I was reminded soon enough.
***
Now that I had an appointment at the New York Athletic Club, I decided to buy a couple of good cigars for the occasion. I’d always been more of a cigarette man, but I appreciated a good cigar now and then. After all, it wasn’t every day a guy like me got to go to such a swanky place.
I walked down the steps of the library, keeping an eye out for the bastards who’d taken a shot at me uptown. I didn’t know what the shooters looked like, but the punk who had run past me was my size in a cheap gray overcoat. In a city full of skinny guys in cheap gray overcoats it wasn’t much to go on, but it was something.
I watched for slow-moving cars with open windows as I walked to 38th and Broadway to Nat Sherman’s Cigar Store.
The counterman who greeted me was a bald, fat little man who looked like he’d been born with a cigar in the corner of his mouth. “What can I get for you, mister?”
“How about a cigar? On second thought, make that two cigars.”
“Big spender.” Though the guy didn’t look impressed. “What kind?”
I thought about it for a second. I was actually proud of myself when I said, “Something mild, but good.”
The look he gave me sent my pride down the tubes. “We only sell good cigars, mister.” His cigar shifted from one side of his mouth to the other. “I’ll go back and pick out a couple of winners for you.”
The counterman went about his business and I caught my reflection in the large mirror behind the counter. I noticed a small spot of dirt I’d missed on the top corner of my hat.
I took off my hat and tried swiping off the dirt, but my right hand was shaking. Badly.
I balled up my fist and told myself it was just because of the ache in my arm. A mild sprain, nothing more. It wasn’t nerves. It couldn’t be. I had been shot at dozens of times when I was on the force, and a hell of a lot more than that over in France. People had been trying to kill me for most of my life. Nothing rattled me anymore.
But as good as I was at lying to other people, I had never been good at lying to myself.
The shaking was from nerves. I just wasn’t used to getting shot at anymore. Things were different a year ago, back when I was in the Life. Hell, I was different. The well-dressed reflection in the mirror proved it.
Maybe I really had lost something working as Van Dorn’s personal detective after all. But whatever I had lost, it was nothing I’d miss. Because if having the shakes after getting shot at was the price I had to pay for the life I had now, I’d gladly pay it. I’d grown up poor, then had plenty of money on the force, then flat broke again after they kicked me out. Now I had more money than I could spend. Having money was a hell of a lot more fun.
I opened my fist and my hand wasn’t shaking anymore. I swiped off the remaining dirt from my hat and put it back on my head. I checked my reflection in the mirror behind the counter and set it to the proper angle. I wanted to make a good impression on Dr. Blythe.
I watched the mirror while I waited for the counterman to return, enjoying Broadway in all its grimy, bustling glory. Street cars and people and taxi cabs and trucks of all shapes and sizes zipping uptown and downtown; east side to west side and back again.
I saw something else, too.
A skinny blond man eyeballing me from a doorway of an office building across the street.
About my size.
Maybe twenty years old, in a cheap gray overcoat that was too big for him.
Even though he was across the street I could see he had wide, serious eyes that were staring right at the cigar shop’s front door, like it was the most important thing in the world to him.
He could’ve been the same son of a bitch who’d been with the men who shot at me that morning.
He also could’ve been just a kid in a gray coat killing time, waiting for his girlfriend to meet him for lunch. The fact that he fit the description of the man who’d run past me could’ve just been a coincidence.
But I’d been a cop far too long to believe in coincidences.
It had to be the same punk from earlier that morning, only now he was tailing me. I’d pegged him for an amateur because a pro would have been much tougher to spot. His wide-eyed glare told me he was timid, but eager. He thought I couldn’t spot him from a doorway across the street. He was wrong.
The counterman brought me a couple of light brown cigars and showed them to me. I barely glanced at them as I paid for them and pocketed them. I kept my eye on Blondie’s reflection in the mirror instead.
I exited Nat’s and started walking up Broadway, toward the New York Athletic Club on 59th Street and 6th Avenue, just south of Central Park. The street was jammed with cars and the sidewalks packed with people. Considering the amount of traffic, I figured the Ford wouldn’t be able to roll up and take another shot at me. Too many witnesses and too much traf
fic to make a quick getaway, either behind the wheel or on foot.
That meant if trouble came, it would come on foot from Blondie, which was just fine by me. I may have lost a step or two in the past year, but I was still good enough to get the jump on a punk like him.
I walked up Broadway at a normal pace, hoping that would make it easier for Blondie to trail me. With this many people on the street, chances were that someone would scream or yell if he pulled a gun. I was ready to hit the deck again if I had to.
I stopped short in the middle of the sidewalk and lit a cigarette, turning sideways as if I was shielding the flame from the wind. I caught a lot of dirty looks and curses from the people behind me for the sudden stop. More importantly, I caught a glimpse of Blondie ducking into a store about a quarter of a block behind me. Too close, little man, even in the crowded environs of Times Square. Definitely an amateur.
But I didn’t relax any. Amateurs got lucky, too.
I smoked my cigarette as I headed uptown again. I wanted Blondie to relax. Let him think this was going to be a lot easier than his buddies in the Ford had probably told him it would be. I kept the same pace for a few blocks until I got to 44th Street, where foot traffic was knotted by a group of people stopped dead on the corner, gaping up at the signs and buildings along the Great White Way.
I took my chance and ducked through the crowd and quickly doubled back, pressing myself flat against the building at the corner.
I figured Blondie would panic; he didn’t let me down. The crowd had thinned out a bit and I saw people’s heads being jostled from one side to another as he knocked them out of the way, trying to see where I’d gone.
When the crowd thinned out enough, I pushed off the building and nailed him with a sucker punch left hook square on the jaw. I’d put enough into the punch to stagger him, but not enough to knock him out. I grabbed him by the coat collar and tried to keep him on his feet.
The Fairfax Incident Page 3
