The punk surprised me by slipping out of the coat and darting up Broadway, all in one fluid motion. Horns blared and people cursed as he sprinted between the cars and the crowd and disappeared in the sea of people.
I hardly even noticed how much my left hand hurt. I’d chased a good number of punks in my day and I knew how to put a man down with one punch. But I’d never seen anyone move with that kind of speed and power outside of a football field. Hell, I’d never seen anyone move like that on a football field, either.
Blondie had disappeared in no time flat and left me standing alone on the corner with a dumb look on my face, a cheap coat in my hand, and a whole lot of questions on my mind.
I patted down the coat, but the pockets were empty. No tags inside it to tell me where it had come from or who it belonged to. I balled it up and tucked it under my arm as I started walking up Broadway again.
I kept wondering:
Who was trying to kill me?
Why had they sent a rank amateur to tail me?
And what was a kid who could run like that doing with a bunch of killers?
I couldn’t think of anyone, but I had a feeling I’d find out soon enough.
Chapter 5
I stashed Blondie’s coat with the New York Athletic Club’s coatroom before they had someone take me upstairs. I figured it might come in handy at some point down the line. Their coatroom was just as good as my place, maybe even better.
The lounge of the NYAC looked like a lot of the places where I met my clients these days. Dim lighting. Heavy drapes. Lots of dark wood. Plenty of thick leather lounge chairs and couches where white-haired men nodded off. The men who weren’t dozing were either having hushed conversations over cigars or were reading the newspaper.
It wasn’t as lively as The Longford Lounge on New Year’s Eve, but it beat the hell out of raiding a whorehouse on Canal Street.
Dr. Matthew Blythe looked like someone I’d expect to see in such surroundings. He was tucked into a plush leather chair next to the fireplace, glasses perched on the end of his nose as he read through the latest edition of The New York Evening Journal. He was a round, fleshy man; mostly bald except for a crown of white hair swept back behind his ears. A large cigar burning away in the standing ashtray at his elbow.
There were also two coffee cups at his elbow on the table, saucer and all. But judging from the doctor’s ruddy complexion and the slight whiff of gin I caught as I got closer, I figured those cups weren’t just for coffee. The doctor had that paunchy, bloated look rummies tended to get when they bent the elbow too much.
The porter who had escorted me up to the lounge cleared his throat to draw Dr. Blythe’s attention away from the newspaper. The doctor quickly got to his feet, palmed the porter some cash, and eagerly shook my hand.
“An honor to meet you, Detective Doherty.” He motioned to the chair opposite him. “Why don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable?”
“I’m afraid it’s just plain old Charlie or Doherty these days, Doctor.” I sank into one of the leather chairs opposite him. And I wasn’t ashamed to admit it was damned comfortable. I might nod off myself if I wasn’t careful. “I’m not with the police department anymore, so rank doesn’t apply.”
“Nonsense. I believe rank, once earned, can only be rescinded through an official process, and even then it’s debatable. I know how poorly they treated you at the end of your tenure at the police department. Why, they should have given you a medal for bringing the Van Dorn boy home alive the way you did.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “And they should have given you another medal for killing the bastards who took him and killed poor Jessica, too. You saved the taxpayers the great expense and anguish of a trial, sir, and for that I’m grateful.”
Whenever anyone brought up the Van Dorn case, they either talked about the shootout or how I’d brought Jack home alive. Dr. Blythe was one of the few who mentioned Jessica’s death. That was human nature, I guess. Focus on the shiny objects, not the commonplace.
Talking about it made me feel uncomfortable, so I tried to get to the point. “I wish you and I were meeting under better circumstances.”
“As do I, young man, as do I.” He produced a large, dark medicine bottle from the floor next to his chair and poured some clear liquid into both coffee cups on the table at his elbow. “Here’s something that should take the sting out of our conversation.”
I caught the smell right away and knew I’d been right about the doctor’s favorite drink: gin. He probably figured gin was a safer drink because it wasn’t supposed to smell. The only people who really believed that were gin drinkers.
And judging by how the cup rattled in its saucer as he handed it to me, Dr. Blythe had the shakes. Not from nerves, but from need. Blythe was a drunk.
“You don’t look well, my boy,” he said from over his glasses. “I suggest you try some of this fine elixir sent to me by my colleagues from across the pond.” He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “Some Beefeater gin sent by friends over in London. The club doesn’t mind us nipping now and then so long as we don’t get too soused. But the bastards refuse to provide ice so I’ve grown accustomed to sipping it warm. It’s an acquired taste, but well worth the effort, I assure you. Goddamned Puritans and their Prohibition! They’ve made our minor vices turn us all into bunch of common criminals.”
He poured more into his own cup before setting the medicine bottle back on the floor next to his chair. He cleared his throat as he toasted me with his coffee cup. “To repeal, sir.”
I took a swig to be polite, but left most of it in the cup. Gin and I had never gotten along.
Blythe licked his lips after a healthy swallow. “I find that a couple of tablespoons a day tends to take the edge off a bit.”
I knew he didn’t have the shakes that bad from a couple of tablespoons, but I let it go. “Nothing wrong with that. I’ve always been more of rum man myself.”
“To each his own tastes, I suppose. I acquired a preference for gin back when I served with the British during the last unpleasantness.”
That explained the earlier comment about rank. “You were in the war, sir?”
“Indeed, but strictly in a supervisory capacity. I never saw any action firsthand, only its aftermath. I served on the Armed Forces Medical Board in London. America was neutral at that point in the war, but as I was the only son in the family and my father insisted I find a way to help the war effort. He was a doctor, too, and, given my medical background, the medical board seemed like a good fit. We tried to provide the boys in the field with the best care we could manage, but always came up short. I suppose most efforts like that always fall short during war, despite the best intentions.”
The doctor looked at me again over the glasses at the end of his nose. “I’d wager you saw plenty of action, didn’t you?” He took a closer look at me, like he was examining a wound. “Yes, you have that look one can always see when one knows what to look for.”
I knew then that Blythe wasn’t the toddling old rummy he probably let people think he was. “You’re very perceptive, sir. I was in the Third Battalion, Fifth Marines.”
His white eyebrows flicked upward. “You were at Belleau Wood, then.”
I didn’t like talking about Jessica Van Dorn’s death. I liked talking about Belleau Wood even less. “Along with a lot of other guys, sir.”
Neither of us had to say how many guys hadn’t come back. Human nature again.
The doctor sipped from his cup. “And I’m sure your experiences in France and your years as a policeman taught you a thing or two about perseverance. You’ll certainly need it in dealing with my sister. For some strange reason, Eleanor has gotten some damned fool notion into her head that Walter didn’t take his own life. What do you think of her hypothesis, Detective Doherty?”
He held up a hand before I could answer. “And I don�
��t take you for a delicate man, sir, so please don’t disappoint me by being polite just because we’re talking about my family.”
I kept it as direct as I could. “I’ve spoken to the lead detective in the case, the coroner, and I’ve read the police report. Walter Fairfax went to his office that morning and shot himself in the head. There’s just no other way to see it.”
“No question in your mind? No room for doubt?”
“None, sir.”
Dr. Blythe frowned like a man used to smiling. “I was afraid of that. I also happen to agree with you, which makes me wonder why we’re having this discussion at all. Or why you took this case in the first place.” His eyes narrowed. “I should hope you’re not the type of man who would take advantage of my sister’s wealth in her time of mourning.”
“Mr. Van Dorn can confirm that I have no intention of taking advantage of anyone,” I said. “But I do think your sister is asking the wrong question, even though she doesn’t realize it yet. She knows Walter killed himself, but what she really wants to know is why.”
“I’d like to know that, too, Detective. Because, for all of his many faults, Walter Fairfax was my oldest and dearest friend. His loss has affected me far greater than I could have imagined.”
Blythe placed his cup back on the saucer on the table at his elbow. “I keep hoping the gin will help make his passing easier to take, but it doesn’t seem to be working.”
“In my experience, it usually just makes things worse, sir.”
The doctor’s lower lip began to quiver. “He called me that morning, you know. Right before he killed himself.”
I felt myself move toward the edge of my seat. “No, I didn’t know that. I know he received a call at nine fifteen, but there’s nothing in the police report about him making one.”
I felt the room begin to spin and it wasn’t from Blythe’s gin. Loomis’s reports were meticulous. He usually put too much in them, not too little. How could he have missed an important detail like Fairfax making a phone call? “May I ask what you talked about?”
Blythe’s eyes glazed over with a faraway look of remembrance. “The police told my sister that Walter shot himself at nine thirty in the morning. Is that accurate?”
“As far as I know. That’s what the initial report said based on witness statements.”
The doctor closed his eyes. “That’s what I was afraid of. Walter called my office just after nine fifteen. Unfortunately, I happened to be indisposed at the time and was unable to take his call.” He offered a quick smile. “Indisposed is a polite way of saying I was still drunk, Detective. But when one comes from a wealthy, respected family such as mine, one can never admit to such failings, so they say one is indisposed.” The smile became a grimace. “And I was quite indisposed that morning. On the one morning when my friend needed me most.”
I knew nothing I could say to make him feel any better, so I didn’t say anything. I just sat there and made damned sure I heard everything the good doctor said.
Because, from the look on his face, he wanted to say quite a bit.
“I suppose I wasn’t technically drunk,” Dr. Blythe went on, “just hungover in epic fashion. I’m a fairly predictable man when it comes to my drinking, Detective. I prefer gin during the daytime hours and progress gradually to scotch in the afternoon and evening hours. You could say my liquor gets darker as night approaches. I’d had far more to drink than usual the night before Walter killed himself.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“Just a miscalculation of indulgence,” the doctor admitted. “I woke the next morning in a terrible state, too sick to answer the phone. I was curled up in bed, shivering like a sick dog while my best friend called, begging me for help. I didn’t even hear the damned phone ring, and wouldn’t have been able to answer even if I had. My maid answered the phone for me.”
He surprised me with a short, sharp laugh. “As drunk as I was the night before, I’d apparently been sober enough to leave a note for my maid telling her not to disturb me under any circumstances.”
Blythe’s voice cracked. “He even told her it was vital that he speak to me, but she told him I was…indisposed.”
The doctor shut his eyes again and tears ran down his cheeks. “God, I didn’t even know Walter was dead until hours later, when I was finally sober enough to comprehend it.”
I could see Blythe’s guilt was doing a number on him, so trying to console him would just be a waste of time. His gin and his guilt were all the consolation he wanted right now. But since he was in a talking mood, I wanted to keep him that way. I liked Dr. Blythe. I even felt a little sorry for him, but I was still working for his sister. I had a job to do. “Why do you think Walter killed himself, Doctor?”
Blythe wiped his tears away with the palm of his hand. “Have you had much experience in working with insurance men, Detective?”
“No, but your sister gave me a quick lesson about them this morning.”
“Yes, I suppose spending over thirty years with Walter has made Eleanor something of an expert on insurance men. I could never understand how anyone could simply boil down the factors that make up a human life into cold numbers on a chart. But Walter Fairfax could. He and his family had built a sizable fortune doing that very thing.”
He picked up his medicine bottle from the floor and refilled his cup. “Then again, I suppose I’ve had a different exposure to the intricacies of the human condition than Walter did.”
“What about the intricacies of Walter’s condition, sir? I mean, how was his health?”
“He had fewer vices than any man his age had any right to have. He hardly ever smoked, save for the occasional cigar, and he drank even less. He suffered from ulcers and other stomach troubles, but he wasn’t overweight. His blood pressure was a little high, but that’s to be expected of a man who runs a company the size of Fairfax Liability.”
“But no illnesses or disease?”
“Just terminal gloominess. In fact, when I examined him a month ago, Walter was the picture of health.”
“What about his mental state? Do you know of anything that might’ve been troubling him?”
“Something was always troubling Walter, Detective. No matter how much money he made, it was never enough. It was almost as though he had a fear of settling.”
I tried to think of a more delicate way to say what I wanted to say next, but decided just to come out with it. “I understand Walter’s mother killed herself—arsenic poisoning. I know depression runs in families and wondered if that might be the case here.”
Blythe didn’t let my question hang for long. “My compliments, Detective. I know my sister didn’t tell you that, so you must have done your research. Walter’s mother was a beautiful woman who suffered from a persistent case of melancholy. She was Prussian, you know, descended from a minor noble family. Her family’s fortune was just about played out when she married Walter’s father. He was a rather melancholy bastard himself, and being married to him only made her dark tendencies even darker. She tried to kill herself a couple of times over the years. Cut her wrists, that sort of thing, but suicide can be a rather difficult undertaking if you try to be subtle about it. Those actions were more cries for help than any serious attempt of suicide. Walter tried to get her help, but his father wouldn’t risk the scandal of admitting to having a wife given to depression.”
Dr. Blythe went on. “Walter did his best to help her, but with a young family to raise and a business to learn, he simply didn’t have the time. She ultimately gave herself a healthy dose of arsenic one morning with her tea. She’d been under the unfortunate misconception that arsenic was a romantic, painless death. That she’d just go to sleep and never wake up. That’s possible if you get the dosage right. Unfortunately, Walter’s mother didn’t get the dosage right.”
Dr. Blythe got that far-off look again. “I was a young physic
ian at the time and helped my father tend to her. It took her almost two days to die, and she screamed for almost every minute of it. Walter was never the same after that.”
“That kind of thing is never easy to take.”
“You would have thought his experience with his mother would cure him of his attraction to women of Teutonic extraction.” The doctor frowned. “I suppose that’s why I was surprised when he took up with that Austrian whore last year.”
There it was.
I’d known all along that there had to be more to Walter. No one that rich was that clean. Now we were getting somewhere. “Mrs. Fairfax told me she was aware of other women in his life. I didn’t know you were aware of them, too.”
“I certainly didn’t approve of it,” Blythe said. “Eleanor might not be the most pleasant woman in the world, but she’s still my sister. But if she tolerated Walter’s indiscretions, who was I to object?”
I didn’t care about his objections. I cared about the woman. “Tell me more about this Austrian whore you just mentioned.”
“Well, she isn’t actually a whore, I suppose,” Blythe admitted. “It’s not called prostitution when one plies their trade under the pretext of aristocracy, even though the motives and the practice are the same. She even has a title, too, just like Walter’s dear departed mother.” He cleared his throat and said, “The Countess Alexandra von Holstein, to be precise.” He reached for the medicine bottle and poured himself more gin. “On the lam, as they say, just like all the other Bosch blue bloods sent scurrying after the Treaty of Versailles. No room for aristocracy in the new Germany these days, and good riddance, too. But now the bastards are scattered all over the globe like locusts. Why, you can’t spit anywhere in Europe these days without hitting someone of peerage.”
Blythe took a healthy swig from his cup. “Unfortunately, the Countess von Holstein got bored with Europe and decided to ply her trade here in Manhattan.”
I’d already pulled out my pad and started writing things down. “When?”
The Fairfax Incident Page 4
