“No, Schrade is next on the list. Dig up what you can on him.”
“After I take a day off. I’m bushed. Home at two A.M., up at seven—I don’t even remember what Lucy and the kids look like any more.”
Murray had been prepared for this. Lucy Manfredi was a round-faced, bustling woman who took a dim view of her husband’s vocation, and who regularly declared open rebellion against it. “No day off,” Murray said. “I’ll call up Lucy and explain things.”
Bruno yanked at the zipper of the envelope. “You’ll have a tough time with her. Not about me, either. She keeps asking why you never come around any more. She thinks since you got to be a big shot, maybe you got a swelled head.”
“She knows better than that. Tell her I’m just leery of those overage girl friends of hers she keeps shoving at me.”
“Monsters,” Bruno agreed somberly. “But you know how a woman is. She sees a guy with money going around single she gets sick all over. Anyhow, I’ll tell her about it tomorrow. It wouldn’t hurt me to take a day off and show my face around the house.”
“You’ll be working on Schrade tomorrow,” Murray said. “And on your way out tell Mrs. K. I want to see her.”
Bruno stopped at the door. “Sure, boss,” he said unctuously. “That’s right, boss. Yes, sir, boss. Anything else, boss?”
“Yes,” Murray said. “Leave that Miller report here. I’ll be using it.”
He waved aside Mrs. Knapp’s omnipresent pad and pencil. “I’d like to make a date with you for tonight,” he told her. “How would it be if I picked you up at your place around eight?”
“Very flattering. What is it, a subpoena?”
“No, we won’t be serving any papers. I want to talk to one of the witnesses in the Lundeen case, Ira Miller. This stuff here is Bruno’s report on him, and there’s plenty of material on Lundeen in the files. Read up on it when you have time this afternoon. It’ll tell you as much about him as I can.”
“All right. Is this a come-as-you-are?”
Murray surveyed her thoughtfully. “Maybe a little less chic would be better. Hardly any make-up. Cotton stockings—”
“Good heavens!” said Mrs. Knapp.
“Well, you know what I mean. Something a little less eye-catching than those.” For a woman in her sixties she had excellent legs. “And a sort of maiden-aunt hat, if you can find one.”
“I think I can. Whose maiden aunt am I supposed to be?”
“Nobody’s. You’ll be an old schoolteacher of Lundeen’s—no, we’ll make that a settlement-house worker who knew him back when, and who just got wind of the trouble he’s in. You simply can’t believe it. He was such a nice boy. Now you’ve come to his lawyer to speak up for him and have insisted on telling Mr. Miller to his face that you’re sure a terrible mistake has been made. How does that sound to you?”
“Terribly touching.”
Murray laughed. “I know it’s corny, but if it opens the door that’s all we want. Care to make it a party?”
“I’ll be ready at eight,” said Mrs. Knapp.
8
The building occupied by the Millers was an ornate and weathered pile, a monument to the era when apartment houses were designed to look as much as possible like castles on the Rhine. Its elevator rose ponderously to a dismal accompaniment of rattling chains, and the sound of his footsteps along the corridor leading to the Millers’ door echoed hollowly in Murray’s ears.
“What’ll you bet,” he whispered to Mrs. Knapp, “that whoever answers the bell is wearing armor and carrying a halberd?”
It was not a knight, however, but a Valkyrie who opened the door. A blond, strapping figure of a woman clad in a gleaming white uniform, she stood stony-faced, barring the way.
Mrs. Knapp smiled a gently hopeful smile. “I’d like to see Mr. Miller,” she said, and Murray had the feeling that she was thoroughly enjoying her role. “Is he in?”
“He is not here,” said the Valkyrie. “Mrs. Miller is here, but she cannot see people. She is sick.”
Murray silently cursed Bruno Manfredi and all his works, but Mrs. Knapp seemed unperturbed. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “It isn’t serious, I hope.”
The Valkyrie shrugged. In that one small gesture she made it clear that it wasn’t serious, that Mrs. Miller was a fool who pampered herself, and that these strangers were a nuisance. “You call up tomorrow on the telephone,” she advised. “Mr. Miller will be here.”
“Hilda,” said a pleasant voice behind her, “you are being rude, aren’t you? You know one doesn’t keep people standing outside like that. Do come in, please, you people.”
The Valkyrie sighed so that her corset creaked audibly. “Mrs. Miller,” she said without turning her head, “why do you walk around? You must lie down and rest.”
“I’m tired of resting. I want to have company. Now, do let them in, Hilda, or you’ll spoil everything.”
When Hilda moved aside in ungracious invitation Mrs. Knapp glanced at Murray, and he nodded. Pearl Miller led them into a living room so vast that even a grand piano in one corner seemed no more than a normal part of it.
“How lovely to have company,” she said. “How lovely, lovely. Do sit down, won’t you? No, not there. Toto uses that, and he sheds horribly. It doesn’t matter, though, if you wear dark clothing, does it, because he’s inky black all over, and he’s just an angel. Usually he goes for his walk at bedtime, but he was so pent up today that my husband took him out right after dinner.” (Murray silently apologized to Bruno.) “But they should be back very soon, and then you’ll see for yourselves what an angel he is. You don’t mind my telling you all this, do you? I’m just full of good talk.”
Her hand moved vaguely as she spoke, weaving a slow, meaningless pattern in the air. With a sense of shock Murray realized that despite the desiccated hand, the scrawny body lost in the heavy chenille robe, the faded complexion, the livid shadows under the eyes, this woman was twenty years younger than Mrs. Knapp and looked years older. Then, when the sleeve of the robe fell back, he saw the telltale bandage around her wrist. Pearl Miller followed his eyes and stood studying her own upraised arm with a puzzled interest. She suddenly dropped the arm and tugged the sleeve down.
“Isn’t that silly?” she said brightly. “I cut myself.”
Murray clicked his tongue sympathetically. “How did it happen?”
“It was an accident,” said Pearl gravely. “Don’t you think it was an accident?”
“Of course I do. What kind of accident was it?”
“Oh, very messy. Do you like to hear about accidents? I don’t think they’re good talk at all.”
“I do,” said Mrs. Knapp. She sat on the edge of the overstuffed couch next to Murray, a worn handbag balanced on her knees, the archetype of genteel social worker. “And look how the newspapers write about them. They know people are interested.”
“I don’t like the newspapers,” said Pearl. “I won’t read them. My husband reads them, but I don’t think he should.”
“Why?” asked Murray. “Because they printed things about him?”
“They did that, too.” She eyed Murray warily. “You’re not from a newspaper, are you?”
“No.”
“I’m so glad. Now let’s talk about something else. Do you like the theater?”
“Very much. Do you?”
“Oh, yes, but not as much as my husband does. You have no idea. I tease him about it sometimes. I say: ‘Ira, if you ever run off and leave me some day, it won’t be for another woman. It’ll be so you can go on the stage.’ Of course, it’s just teasing. He wouldn’t really do it, would he?”
“You mean, go on the stage?” Murray asked. He had the feeling of being led blindfold, step by uncertain step, across quicksand.
“I told you that was just teasing. I mean—go away. It can happen, you know,” she assured him solemnly. “It happens all the time.”
“My dear, you shouldn’t even think about that,” Mrs. Knapp sa
id. “I’m sure you’re very happily married.”
“Oh, I am. I am very, very. But I used to think about it.” Pearl smiled in faraway recollection. “Isn’t that strange? I used to worry about it all the time. After we were married people would say to me: ‘Pearl, you’ve got to keep your eye on him. Pearl, you’ve got to watch out with that kind of man.’ People in the family, friends, they all said it. You see, they didn’t know how kind he was. All they knew was that he was so handsome and smart, and he worked with somebody like Georgie Wykoff. But even Georgie respected him for being such a good husband. Nobody was ever a better husband. Did you see Time Out of Hand when it was on Broadway?”
Murray dimly remembered it as a play which had closed after a brief struggle against bad reviews. “Yes,” he said. “I did.”
“Did you like it?”
Her tone gave him his cue. “Very much.”
“I’m glad. My husband helped finance it, you know. We both thought it was perfectly beautiful. Why do you think the critics didn’t like it?”
Murray shook his head. “It’s hard to say.”
“You see? You don’t even know why yourself. But I’m sure you were angry about it, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was.”
“I was, too. Oh, how I hated those critics. We all waited in Lindy’s that night until the man came in with the papers, and when we read them I just hated those critics enough to kill them. Ira was so proud of the play—it was what he always wanted to be doing, produce a play—and then he had to sit there with all our friends, and make jokes about how bad it was. But I knew how he felt. I know everything he feels. Isn’t that funny? I know everything about him. Even the things I don’t want to know.”
“That’s the way it should be,” said Mrs. Knapp reassuringly.
“Yes,” Pearl said placidly, “that’s the way it should be. Would you like some coffee? I’ve been so pleased about your coming to visit that I’ve quite forgotten to be a good hostess. It does get lonely at times without company. I think it’s because this apartment is so enormous, isn’t it? You know, when it’s empty it can be the emptiest place in the whole world. That’s what happens when there’s no children, you see. All my friends tell me that. They all have children, so they know. We thought we’d have a family when we first moved in here, but we never did, and we still live here.” Her hand went to her mouth in a small fluttering gesture, and she smiled uncertainly. “That piano was going to be for our little girl. It seems a terrible waste now, doesn’t it? I don’t know how to play it at all.”
It was a dog that suddenly broke the terrible spell she was weaving, a small black poodle that dashed into the room at her, its feet scrabbling on the hardwood floor, its body wriggling ecstatically. She patted it with one hand while fending it off with the other. “My beautiful Toto,” she crooned. “Beautiful boy. Did you have a good walk?”
Then Miller stood there, a triumphant Hilda beside him, looking at them all with slow astonishment. He was the Miller of Bruno’s photograph, but the body was thicker now, the hard line of jaw concealed by a heavy jowl, and the face tired and unsmiling.
“What is this?” he said. “Who are you people? My wife’s a very sick woman. She’s not supposed to be seeing anybody.”
“I’m not sick!” Pearl clutched the frantic poodle to her so tightly that it yipped in protest. “I had an accident, but I’m all better now. You know it was an accident, don’t you, Ira? You told me so yourself. You said—”
“I know, I know.” Miller went to her, lifted the dog gently from her arms, and handed it to Hilda, who took it with obvious distaste. “It was an accident, but you were all upset after it, and that’s like being sick, Pearlie. You know you’re not supposed to get excited about anything, and now look at you. Is that the way you take care of yourself? Is that the way you keep your promises to me?”
She drew his arm through hers, and looked up at him coquettishly. “Let me stay with the company, Ira. Please?”
“Some other time. Right now you get to bed and try to sleep. You should have been sleeping all the time I was out. You’ve got a lot to make up.” He detached himself carefully and led her to the door. “Hilda, lock up the dog, will you, and then see that Mrs. Miller’s taken care of.”
Hilda was the image of righteousness. “I told her,” she said. “When the doorbell rang she just—”
“God damn it,” Miller said in a deadly voice. “I’m paying you a fortune to take care of her, not argue with her. Now go on and do it!”
She departed, her broad back rigid with outrage, and Miller closed the door behind her. When it clicked shut Murray saw Mrs. Knapp’s hands tighten convulsively on the handbag, and had a graphic insight into what she must be feeling. She had helped serve papers before, but this was something different. Then it was usually a case of being on the outside, wondering how to get in. Now it was a case of being on the inside, wondering how to get out. Which, as any mouse in a trap would admit, was a far more uncomfortable matter.
The trouble was, he knew, that Mrs. Knapp had no idea how much she resembled the genuine article. The sweet old gentlewoman loaded with the milk of human kindness. The settlement-house lady eager to turn aside wrath with a soft word. Our Mrs. Knapp. If she could see herself as Miller was undoubtedly seeing her she would feel a lot better. Unfortunately, she couldn’t.
Miller himself seemed divided between embarrassment and annoyance. He started to sit down in Toto’s chair, thought better of it, and stood there hunting in his pockets until he found a pack of cigarettes. He offered it to his callers, and Murray took one—it was Frank Conmy’s theory that a man was always subtly flattered when you took a cigarette he offered you—while Mrs. Knapp smiled beatifically and shook her head.
“I don’t smoke,” she said.
“I smoke too much,” said Miller. He lit a cigarette for himself, and Murray saw that his hands were trembling. “Well, I’ve got reason. I’m only sorry you people had to walk in on something like this. I guess you know that whatever Mrs. Miller was saying to you—whatever she was talking about—well, it wouldn’t be too logical. She had this accident a little while ago, and it just sent her off balance. She’s loaded with this Reserpine stuff now—this tranquilizer—so she’s on sort of a jag all the time.”
“How awful,” said Mrs. Knapp. “She’s such a lovely woman.”
“She’s a saint,” Miller said heavily. “She’s too good. She bleeds for everybody. Let me tell you, it’s crazy to be like that in this world. But what do you do when somebody is made that way? How do you talk her out of it?”
“You don’t,” said Mrs. Knapp. “She has a right to be that way.”
“You think so?” Miller shook his head. “I don’t. You can be just so good, and then they nail you on a cross, and where are you? And where are all the people who care about you? You think you’re helping them, but you’re killing them, too. What do you think happens inside of me every time I look at her? Do I have to tell you?”
Murray saw the opening and seized it. “I’m afraid you won’t convince Mrs. Knapp about that,” he said. “She used to work for the Downtown Settlement House, and as a matter of fact, she’s here to help somebody she knew there a long time ago.”
Miller looked puzzled. “Help somebody?”
“Somebody you know. Arnold Lundeen.”
“That cop?”
“Yes. Mrs. Knapp was very close to him at the settlement house. When she heard about the trouble he was in she came to me and asked to see you personally about it. She’s sure a mistake has been made, and wanted to clear things up.”
What interested Murray was Miller’s reaction to this. This, he thought, is the spot where another man laughs, swears, or rages. But not Miller. The small frown, the pursed lips, the sober concentration, all indicated only a sympathetic interest, a warm desire to listen and help. It was a beautiful performance. With a witness like this on the stand, LoScalzo could impeach the President of the United States.
; “I’m sorry,” said Miller, “but I don’t completely understand. What mistake has been made? And where do you come in?” he asked Murray. “Are you a friend of Lundeen’s?”
“I’m associated with his lawyer on the case.” “Associated” was always the perfect word, suggesting, as it did, everything and nothing. “My name is Kirk, if you want to check on it. Anyhow, I explained to Mrs. Knapp that it’s pretty unusual, this business of coming to you directly, but, as I found out, she can be a pretty stubborn woman.”
Mrs. Knapp bridled. “I can be, when it’s a case of seeing justice done.”
“Sure, sure,” said Miller soothingly. “But where do I come in?”
Murray saw that Mrs. Knapp’s hands had relaxed their grip on the purse. Like a good fighter she had been keyed up waiting for the bell, and now that it had rung she was prepared to answer it like a champion. The story of an Arnold Lundeen sans peur et sans reproche, who as a child, a youth, a man, could do no wrong, emerged like a Hollywood epic of the slums.
“So you see,” Mrs. Knapp concluded, “when I heard about the terrible charges against him I just knew it was a mistake. He couldn’t be dishonest. It isn’t in him to be. Mr. Miller, couldn’t you have picked the wrong man? Couldn’t you have forgotten what really did happen? That’s possible, isn’t it?”
Miller had maintained the sympathetic interest throughout the recital. Now he showed some impatience.
“Let me answer you this way,” he said. “It’s also possible that there are some honest cops in New York, but so far I never met any. No, you don’t have to look at me like that, lady. I’ve dealt with more cops than you’ll know in a lifetime, and every one of them was looking for a handout, and waiting to twist your arm if you didn’t come across for them.
“Sure, in my line of work—and I’m well out of it, thank God—you expect it, you play along with it, it’s part of the business. From your angle a cop is somebody in a nice uniform who helps you across the street sometimes, who chases crooks, who’s always Johnny-on-the-spot when some kid gets his head stuck in the subway turnstile. But, lady, that’s because you’re always on the right side of the street. Come over to where I was, and you’d have your eyes opened. Whether it’s an apple, or a five-dollar bill, or a thousand dollars, there’s always a cop waiting to help himself.
The Eighth Circle Page 9
