Death Comes Early

by William R. Cox

  Then he had returned to New York, homeless though rich. He hung around Toots’s and Twenty-One and got to know everybody and played the horses and bet the ball games and threw some dice and always came out a winner. He had athletic skill, and gyms were fun, but sweaty. He did not hunt or fish, he played on the beaches up and down the east coast, took a whack at Hollywood and West Coast Florida, then Europe for a season.

  Then, partly through his friendship with sporting folk and Ted Colyer, he had got the idea of a hangout restaurant in midtown. Two years and a lot of money later, he opened Jack’s Place and success came at once.

  He had never thought far beyond this, he had never found a girl he wanted to marry, he had no urge for posterity nor craving for home and fireside. He sometimes slept at the Waltham Gardens on Park Avenue but he lived in the restaurant. Now he was restless again and at this moment he recognized that he needed a change of tempo, something to add flavor to the days and nights.

  The alley behind the restaurant ran to 46th Street from a dead end and was paralleled by an office building, deserted at night. There was an electric fixture, required by law, to throw some light, but it was not bright. The lid to the fat, round trash can lay in shadow and Jack leaned over to pick it up.

  There was, in back of him, a light but explosive cough, the kind that is held back too long. Something hard hit Jack at the nape of the neck, dropping him to his knees against the trash can.

  He was momentarily dazed, but heard footsteps flying past him to the 46th Street exit. He tried to get up, slipped. When he had regained balance and vision, the alley was deserted. He ran fast as he could to the street. A dark coupé, either a Ford or a Chevy, without lights, was going toward Third Avenue.

  When he got to the corner, the coupé was lost in city traffic. He rubbed the back of his neck and returned to the alley. Ask, he thought, and it shall be given unto you. I craved a change and I got it, a bat in the head. From someone I would recognize, what’s more, or else someone bent on dark deeds.

  What adventure in the alley, among the trash cans? Better go back and look. … In the trash can?

  “Ted,” he cried aloud as he bent over the wide mouth of the can. Then he knew it wasn’t Ted, because no trash receiver was big enough to hold Ted Colyer, all bent in half like that, his face bloody, dark eyes staring.

  It was Alvin Colyer. It was Ted’s brother who was supposed to be upstate, running the hunting lodge. He was folded neatly into the can and dead.

  There had been something peculiar in the genes of the Colyer family. Alvin, two years older than Ted, looked enough like him to be his twin. But Ted was tall and wide while Alvin was tiny and thin. Both had athletic ability; Alvin had been a top jockey until an accident had broken both legs and finished his career.

  Jack’s first instinct was to yank the body from its undignified position, to try and straighten out the distorted limbs, close the eyes. Then he remembered police procedure from his OSS days. He backed to the kitchen door and called, “Louis.”

  The sharp-faced chef scowled at him. “It’s busy in here.”

  “It’s busy out here, too. It will be busier. Get one of your men to call the police. Ask that Sergeant Damon be informed that Alvin Colyer is dead in our alley.”

  He felt it would be wrong to leave the body. Louis came out and stared and shrank back in horror and asked questions which he could not or would not answer. He sent the chef back inside.

  He leaned against the wall and awaited the police. He had been deep in thought when he heard the cough, the hasty footsteps. He tried to recollect the moment

  They had been rather fond of him in OSS because he was possessed of total recall. His mind was nimble in retrospect, he could run it backward or forward like movie film in a projector. Several points cleared for him now.

  The cough had been so light that either a man or a woman might have been the attacker in the alley. The blow aimed at him had missed his skull and had not rendered him unconscious, the footsteps had been hard- heeled, that is, there was no soft-shoe involved, also furthering his premise.

  The speed of the getaway implied a second party waiting in the coupé. It would have been almost impossible to open a car door, enter it, start it and make Third Avenue before Jack got close enough for identification.

  Two people then, and Alvin in the alley, he decided. The blow that killed Ted Colyer’s brother had not been struck by one lacking strength, the front of the skull was broken wide open. Still, a woman could have done it with a weapon like a lead pipe.

  Then he knew, suddenly, why his mind kept turning to the fact of a woman’s presence. There had been a scent, a wave of perfume as the person who had struck him came close. Not heavy stuff, more like a light toilet water. Still, it had been strong enough to leave an impression on Jack’s senses.

  He thought about this, thought about Alvin Colyer.

  He had never liked the ex-jockey, a dour little man with absolutely no humor. Alvin’s life had been unfortunate and Ted always made excuses for him. The two brothers were, from adolescence, suckers for the opposite sex and Alvin had been through three marriages which had drained his considerable resources to the point that his crippling injury left him broke. Alvin was a devious man on any count and Jack had always known that he was dishonest.

  The Colyer Lodge had never made money. Jack had suggested that Max Somerwell be put on the books and the repercussions had been loud and long. The full facts were not known to Jack, but he surmised that Alvin had been siphoning off funds for various shady enterprises, including his romance with a beauty from Hobartville, the town nearest the lodge.

  This girl’s unlikely name was Rose Marie Coole. Her family owned a prosperous farm, Jack had heard. She was a tall, ample, lovely looking girl, Ted said. It was amazing, somewhat amusing, the way those tall women went hook, line and sinker for jockey-sized men like Alvin Colyer.

  Now it was certain that Alvin would never marry Rose Marie and the possible income from the upstate farm. He was crumpled into a trash can in a back alley and the police were on their way and trouble was in the offing, Jack thought, for Ted Colyer and everyone concerned.

  The police from the precinct came first, then the Homicide boys and Sergeant Damon. Jack answered the stock questions, then Damon motioned him inside. They went up to the office and poured drinks.

  Damon said in his harsh manner, “I tried to get you to check me out on Ted, didn’t I?”

  “What’s Ted got to do with Alvin’s murder?”

  “Tell me you didn’t know about the fight they had.”

  “I’m not trying to tell you anything. I’m asking.”

  Damon sighed. “Ted’s your pal. Your lawyer and tax man, Somerwell, was investigating Alvin Colyer’s operation of the Colyer Lodge. But you don’t know anything.”

  “I know what you just said is true.”

  “Ted spent the afternoon with you.”

  “You haven’t been wrong yet.”

  “He left here with Lila Sharp.”

  “Go on, fill me in from there.”

  Damon took a deep drink. His eyes watered but they were sharp on Jack. “He didn’t say where he was going?”

  “You think I lied to you?”

  Damon lifted one thin shoulder. “Ted’s your buddy.”

  “So he is, so he is. If you don’t want to tell me about it—whatever it is—let’s just go on with what happened in the alley, what I can remember that might help you.”

  Damon said without rancor, “Let’s do that… first.”

  Jack spoke slowly, again unreeling the moments of the action in his mind. When he was through, Damon held out his glass for a refill. There was a moment’s silence. Then the detective put down the glass and sat straight on his chair.

  “Jack,” he said, “you’re no damned fool. You know there was hard feeling between the brothers.”

  “Not exactly. Just a difference of opinion. Ted always took care of Alvin.”

  “He did, he did. Bu
t Alvin was stealing him blind and your pal is not in such good shape financially. There’s been a rumble about him welshing on some bets… Well, they call it that. I’d say he had the shorts and was spreading it around, trying to make a comeback. But you know Cancelli and his people.”

  Amazed, Jack said, “Now you’re telling me things I never guessed.”

  “It figures, don’t it? A guy like Ted?”

  He wouldn’t admit to this cop, but it figured. Ted had been riding high and unhandsome.

  Damon went on, “You didn’t know Ted and Alvin had a big fuss in Toots’s the other night?”

  “I didn’t know it.”

  “Toots covered for them,” admitted Damon grudgingly. “They had it again in a cab. The broad… that is, Lila was with them.”

  “I didn’t know about it.” His mind was working with rapidity now. He was remembering the deep trouble he had sensed in Ted.

  “Ted Colyer is short every way you look,” said Damon. He seemed, in some odd way, to be enjoying himself. “You ought to know that.”

  Jack waited a moment, then said strongly, sharply, “In my branch of OSS we learned about police procedure, Damon. They were working with the San Francisco force and we took some time on it. I told you before, don’t get cute with me. Talk straight and I’ll go along. Keep on with the clever insinuations and you’ll lose me.”

  Damon shook his head. “Oh, no. I won’t lose you, Jack. Nor Ted. Nor the broad… Lila Sharp.”

  Jack stood up. “Is that all?”

  There was a knock at the door. A detective entered and went to Damon and whispered. Damon said in his cracked, sly voice, “Speak up, Malaney. We’re among friends.”

  Malaney looked at Jack, then said, “It’s a fresh stiff. The M.E. guy says any time within the last hour. Hadda be fresh to be stuck in that can, and it was easy to pry out, I could see that my own self.”

  “But then you’re one of the bright boys,” said Damon coldly. “The new kids, real smart, huh, Malaney?”

  The detective was young and fresh-faced enough so that sudden color made his cheeks bright pink. “Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

  “Goddam army, too,” said Damon. “That polite crap. Go on, solve the case. Wash it up, Malaney, you’re the boy to do it. You’ll get a promotion if you make it snappy, like.”

  Malaney refrained from saluting, barely, then went out. Damon finished his drink.

  “A fresh one. You were in the alley how long, Ware?”

  Jack sat back and laughed. “You’re a sweet one, all right. A real lovely kid.”

  “How long were you in the alley? Did you see Alvin alive?”

  “A lovely cop.” Jack was angry all the way through. “You hang around midtown and listen and look. You eat your heart out because you can’t make Twenty-One or Toots’s or this place except on the cuff. You’d think we forced you to go on the cops, that you have some God-given right to belong to what you think is the class crowd. You hate everybody and you never miss when you can put your betters in the middle of a hot thing.”

  Damon was white, his long nose pinched in. “You dirty, rotten sonofabitch, don’t you talk to me like that!”

  Jack came out of the chair. He had Damon by the throat before the detective could defend himself. He picked him up, surprised even in his rage to find how little Damon weighed.

  He spun the detective and marched him to the door on his tiptoes. He held him with one hand while he got the door open.

  Damon flung back a heel, but Jack removed his shin in anticipation. Damon’s elbow dug at his ribs, but Jack shoved him. Damon went into the hall and against the wall. He right hand dropped to his gun holster, which was buttoned down over the weapon.

  Jack said, “Draw it, you slob.” He knew a judo trick to counteract that maneuver. “Go for your gun, you crooked, lying bastard. I’ll beat out your brains.”

  Damon stiffened against the wall. He croaked, “You’re under arrest.”

  “Dandy for you,” said Jack. “I’m ready. Let’s go.” Damon’s hands trembled as he produced cuffs. He growled, “Put out your wrists.”

  “Sorry,” said Jack. “You’ll have to wait a second.”

  He turned and went back into the office. He dialed a number and heard Max Somerwell’s voice. He said, “I’ve just been pinched by Damon… Yeah, the jerk … I don’t know what the charges are, but I’ve a couple against him. Be there with bail, pal…”

  “Wait a minute,” said Damon, behind him.

  Jack lowered the telephone. Damon’s face was again calm, his voice was normal.

  “Forget it.”

  Jack said into the phone, “He’s changed his mind. Better get over here, though. Alvin Colyer got himself knocked off. … In my alley, damn it.” He listened to admonishments for a moment, then hung up and faced Damon.

  “You came at me too hard,” said Damon.

  “Maybe I did.”

  “I’ve got to check out everything, you know that.”

  “Like maybe I killed Alvin?”

  “Look at it,” said Damon reasonably. “Ted is your best friend. He and his brother had a real battle, threats, all that. You’d do almost anything for Ted. Suppose Alvin came here, threatened you, made a fuss, and you slugged him.”

  “With what?”

  Damon turned toward the door. “Yeah. That’s it. No weapon. You didn’t have much time. Mind if I search your kitchen?”

  “If you keep your hands off the food. City ordinance about that, you know.”

  Damon remained impassive. “Yes, I know. About bail, and all… You better have Somerwell ready, I imagine. We’ll be bringing in Ted and the broad… Lila Sharp.”

  He was gone. Jack sat down behind the desk to wait for Max Somerwell.

  Ted, of course. Why hadn’t he spoken of the quarrel? He usually talked everything out with Jack.

  Maybe because of Lila, maybe she started it and Ted was covering for her. Ted knew what Jack thought about Lila and her works.

  Restlessness brought him to his feet. He took a quick drink. He went back to the desk.

  He dialed a number. The phone rang several times and he was about to hang up. Then Lila Sharp’s voice asked, “Yes? Who is it?”

  Taken aback, he stumbled. “You’re… you’re home?”

  “Jack?”

  “Yes … Is Ted with you?”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know and… Oh, the hell with it. I do care. We had a fight and he walked out.”

  “A fight about Alvin?”

  “Al… How do you know that?”

  He said, on impulse, “Stay where you are until I get there. Don’t talk to anyone, except Ted if he calls. Just wait for me.”

  He hung up before she could expostulate. He wrote a note for Max, sealed it, took it downstairs and left it with Pat Shapiro. He went out on Third to look for a taxicab.

  There were several things puzzling him besides the murder of Alvin Colyer. Not the least of them was the sudden unveiling of Damon’s hostility, his own attack upon the cop and the obvious fact that he had hit the bull’s eye, even in his off-the-top, hot anger.

  Another was mention of Cancelli in relation to Ted. His friend had done a lot of race-track betting, sometimes with advice from Alvin which was no better than any tout’s guesses. That he had been betting off-track with the Syndicate people was news to Jack.

  Maybe Lila knew all this, maybe she knew as much as Damon thought she might know. He wanted to get to her and learn whatever might be necessary to protect Ted Colyer.

  Damon had been wholly correct about one thing. He had scarcely realized it before, but the ex-ballplayer was his best friend, a guy he had liked on sight and had been happy with ever since.

  three

  Izzy Blatsky was in front of Jack’s, which was far from unusual. He was a midtown hackie, he knew everybody, he made a good thing out of being on hand when needed. He was in his forties, a stout man but agile and his
voice was raucous with the effort of making himself heard above the sound of traffic.

  “Like I say, if you got a delly, you serve food, what can they do you? The taxes, even, you can beat because who knows how many samiches outa bread and a ring boloney? Once I hadda chance to buy into a delly, up inna Bronix, my wife she don’t like it. She figures she’s gotta help out, you know, with the samiches, beer, wait on tables. You wanna meet a lazy woman, you meet my wife. If she ain’t loafin’, she’s inna hospital. So what can I do, I drive a hack. A life a dog shouldn’t lead.”

  “You’re alive, you’re healthy, what more do you want?” Jack had heard Izzy’s talk over the years. Horns blew around them, a cop yelled at an out-of-town car which had paused for one uncertain instant and thereby fouled up a lane of traffic a mile long.

  Izzy said, “What I want is a chance to get off the streets. I don’t say I need a farm, already. I don’t say I want a million bucks. All I want, I should stop driving a hack, maybe my wife should live without another operation.”

  “Things are tough all over,” Jack said, then wished he had not been so callous. There was a pathos in the droning complaint. Every man has his troubles, he thought, why not Isidore Blatsky?

  “Maybe even a roadside joint. Maybe a breath of air, you could inhale without you cough. It’s bad? Why should she hate it like she does? I could hire somebody, she wouldn’t have to wait tables.”

  “Don’t you turn here for Breitnal Place?”

  Izzy turned the corner. It was one of those East Side streets which go from no place to a dead end. There were brick houses all in a row and Lila Sharp dwelt on the south side in one of them. Jack gave Izzy a five-dollar bill and said, “It you want to wait you can keep the meter running.”

  The hackie looked at the money, then at the house in front of which they had stopped. “Miss Lila’s place, huh? Like I carry Ted Colyer a lot.”

  “You carry everybody a lot.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Miss Lila, I know her good. A very fine lady. Ted, he is a pal of yours.”