Kinds of Love, Kinds of Death

by Donald E. Westlake

“It’s a funny thing. I don’t have any pictures of Rita. Would you believe it? I figure, doing what you re doing, you must have some pictures of her. Would you send me one? I’ll give you Robin’s address.”

  I said, “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Ted? She really is gone, you know.”

  His face distorted. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. He turned away.

  I went up front, to where Robin was sitting, watching me suspiciously, not drinking the tea I’d bought for her. I leaned over in front of her, resting my hand on the table, and said softly, “Ted’s working out some grief right now. If I were you, I’d leave him alone for maybe fifteen minutes, and then I’d go get him and take him home and give him the god-damnedest lay of his life.”

  I left her blinking.

  twenty

  BACK AT REMBEK’S APARTMENT, Roger Kerrigan told me my appointment with William Pietrojetti was for three o’clock, and with Matthew Seay for three-thirty. I typed up a quick summary of my meeting with Ted Quigley, filed it, and left with Kerrigan to see my last two suspects.

  What I had been told by Quigley changed things, though I as yet had no way of knowing how much. I was sure he had been telling me the truth to the extent that he knew the truth, but I was not entirely convinced that he had fully known the truth. Still, I was prepared to believe that Rita Castle had maintained a fitful sort of relationship with Quigley all the time she was being kept by Ernie Rembek, and I was further prepared to believe the implication that the incessant flirtation among Rembek’s friends had merely been, along with the dumb-bunny routine, a part of the mocking façade, the “put-on” she had maintained to help her survive the rigors of her relationship with Rembek.

  But what was this business about marriage? Rita Castle had told Quigley that Rembek planned to marry her, and so far there didn’t seem to be any reason for her to have been lying. But Rembek had made it plain he intended to stay with the wife he already had, and there didn’t seem to be any reason for him to be lying either. But one of them must be, must have been. Which one, and why?

  I spent most of my time on the trip out to Pietrojetti’s house gnawing on this question without getting any nourishment from it, sitting silent and preoccupied in the back of the limousine with Kerrigan, Dominic Brono once again at the wheel. We drove in the rain out the Long Island Expressway, past the big bulky building where Joseph Lydon stood and sipped at his drink and stared at his view, on out past the city line and eventually to Mineola, one of the endless array of miniature towns packed shoulder to shoulder across the island just beyond Queens.

  Pietrojetti lived in a house that looked something like mine on a street that looked very much like mine. The out-of-place limousine pulled to a stop in front of it, Kerrigan and I got out, and Pietrojetti met us at the door.

  I had no real expectation that either Pietrojetti or Matthew Seay would turn out to be the man I was after. The death of Mickey Hansel made it plain that I had already touched the killer, that he was more than likely one of the people I’d talked to yesterday. I was going through with these last two interviews partly because in such matters I’m a completist, partly because there was still the vague possibility that one of these two might be my man after all, but mostly because I hoped one or both of them would in the course of the interview say something useful or enlightening.

  I had assumed that Pietrojetti was a bachelor, I don’t know why, but his house contained a wife, a slender wraith hovering in the background, apron-clad, nervously playing with her fingers, watching and listening, creeping forward slightly when called by Pietrojetti to be introduced. He gave her no name, presenting her to us merely as “My wife.” Then, the introductions over, she turned with clear relief and vanished.

  Pietrojetti collected clocks, and the house was alive with their ticking. From a grandfather’s clock in the hall, its pendulum swinging slowly back and forth in stately contemplation of the passage of time, through a Seth Thomas mantelpiece clock in the living room, which rang out the sound of the Westminster chimes every quarter-hour, to a small and ornate and gilt-encrusted antique clock on an end table, there were clocks everywhere, all working and all telling the exact same time.

  The three of us sat in the living room, beneath the rustle and stride of all those clocks. I said, “You have quite a collection here.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose so,” he said, making it clear he wasn’t anxious to talk to me about his hobby.

  Well, he was right. I said, “When was the first time you met Rita Castle?”

  “When Mister Rembek brought her to the office. The first time he brought her. He wanted me to set up the financial arrangements.”

  “You mean paying the rent?”

  He nodded. “And so on,” he said.

  “And so on?”

  “Well, there were certain charge accounts, and a weekly cash outlay for miscellaneous expenses, and so on. All of this had to be handled in a somewhat roundabout fashion, to make it deductible.”

  “You mean tax deductible?”

  “Yes. Business expenditures.”

  “Business expenditures. When was the last time you saw Miss Castle?”

  “Approximately six weeks ago.”

  “Where was that?”

  “She came to the office. There were some papers for her to sign. She was on the books as an employee, there were occasionally forms to be filled out or papers to be signed.”

  “Did you ever see her at a party or anything like that?”

  He shook his head, smiling thinly. “Oh, no. Janice and I rarely attend parties. We’re more the homebody type.”

  Janice came in at that point, bringing a tray on which, astonishingly enough, there were three glasses of milk and a plate of homemade cookies. She placed this tray silently and deferentially on a coffee table accessible to us all, and then as silently hurried out again, not seeming to hear the confused and mumbled thanks that Kerrigan and I sent after her.

  One can do nothing with hospitality but accept it. We all took time out now to munch on cookies—peanut butter, and very good—and drink milk. When a sufficient time had elapsed, I said, “In other words, you never did see Rita Castle in a social situation.”

  “Not directly, no,” he said. “Now and again I was called to Miss Castle’s apartment to meet Mister Rembek there for a business discussion, and usually Miss Castle would also be present. Not at the discussion, of course, she would stay elsewhere in the apartment while we talked.”

  “The money she took away with her,” I said. “How much was it?”

  He looked for help from Kerrigan, who told him, “It’s all right, give him the figure.”

  “Yes, sir.” He turned back to me and said, “Approximately eighty thousand dollars.”

  “How is it she had access to the cash?”

  “It was kept in her apartment. Mister Rembek had a bad experience with a safety deposit box one time—the government obtained a court order to open it—so since that time he has kept his miscellaneous funds in caches at various points, including Miss Castle’s apartment.”

  “Where was it kept?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “How much did Miss Castle cost Rembek every year?”

  He thought about it, and said, “Approximately eleven thousand dollars. That’s a very approximate figure, of course.”

  “In other words, when she left she took about seven years’ salary with her.”

  Beside me Kerrigan chuckled, but Pietrojetti took the question seriously, gazing into the middle distance and saying, “Well, it wouldn’t have any legal basis. Of course, if one could arrange prior paperwork, a portion of the substance could be written off as a settlement upon severance, and then divert funds from—”

  “Well, that’s for you to work out,” I said, interrupting him, bringing him back to reality. “About Miss Castle’s charge accounts. Did she do an unusual amount of spending in the week or two before leaving?”

  “Not that I recall,” he said. “I’ve closed off
those accounts, of course, and received the final bills, and as I remember them, none of them struck me at the time as unusual or excessive. Of course, I could look into it further for you at the office if you—”

  “No, that’s all right. What about cash? Did she ask for any extra money in the last few weeks?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. I think I would have noticed, I’d remember it.”

  “All right.” I got to my feet. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Not at all.”

  “And thank your wife for the, uh, milk and cookies. It was a pleasant surprise.”

  In his thin way, he showed pleasure and embarrassed confusion, thanking me for my thanks, preceding us to the door. His wife was nowhere in evidence. We left and walked through the rain back to the limousine and headed again for Manhattan.

  In the car, Kerrigan looked at me and said, “You surprise me, Mister Tobin.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You handle yourself well in a comic situation. I didn’t think you would.”

  “I live in a house like that,” I said. “On a street like that.”

  “Don’t kid me, Mister Tobin,” said Kerrigan.

  twenty-one

  MATTHEW SEAY WAS A hobbyist too, but of a different and more subtle kind. His apartment on Riverside Drive in Manhattan was furnished in a somewhat unusual fashion, the significance of which I failed at first to understand, so that I spent unnecessary time with him.

  On the trip back from Long Island, Kerrigan had told me several things about Seay, not including the central fact, which he himself at that time didn’t know. What he had told me was that Seay was a strong-arm man and bodyguard on general call in the corporation. That is, he wasn’t specifically any one person’s bodyguard, but was assigned to certain individuals at special times. He was what Kerrigan called a “show guard,” which is to say he could be shown in public, he was a bodyguard who could accompany his master into any social or public situation without looking out of place.

  Kerrigan was right about that. Seay met us at the door, wearing a black suit, black tie, black shoes and silver accessories, looking like the prototype movie idol, a tall, big-shouldered, narrow-waisted, blond-haired, strong-jawed, handsome and smiling Adonis, a kind of trim weight-lifter, the ultimate lifeguard on the beach. No one would object to this man’s presence, not at a formal reception, an after-theater party, anywhere. No one would suspect him of being anything so crude as a syndicate hoodlum’s bodyguard.

  Smiling, welcoming us with a radio announcer’s voice, Seay ushered us into the living room, a bright large room full of spidery antiques plus two very old plush sofas, one green and one orange. Paintings of sad-looking clowns hung on the walls, statuettes of muscular men were placed here and there on pedestals and small tables, a number of candelabra were scattered about, and crossed swords gleamed on the wall above the fireplace.

  Seay asked us if we would have drinks, which we both declined, and then we all sat down to begin, Seay on the green sofa, me on the orange, and Kerrigan on one of the spidery chairs off to one side.

  I said, “You know what we’re here about, don’t you?”

  “I believe I do,” he said. “Miss Rita Castle.” He spoke in an overly precise way, clipping off the ends of his words, an extreme carefulness about being understood that implied condescension, though there was otherwise no sign of condescension in his manner.

  I said, “I suppose you saw Miss Castle mostly in the course of your work.”

  He nodded gravely. “Yes. Whilst escorting Mister Rembek.”

  Whilst! I was taken aback at the word, losing the thread for just a second, until I saw out of the corner of my eye Kerrigan not entirely suppressing a grin, which helped me get back on the track. I said, “Did you ever meet or see Rita Castle when Ernie Rembek wasn’t around?”

  “Oh, no,” he said, smiling politely. “I know them both only in my official capacity. Knew them? It’s difficult to know which verb to use.”

  I wasn’t going to be thrown off any more. I said, “What was Miss Castle’s attitude toward you, generally speaking?”

  “Oh, quite pleasant,” he said, with the same polite smile. “We had one or two conversations on fashion and whatnot.”

  “You liked her?”

  “Well, of course she was of a type, hardly an individual, but rather a pleasant example of the mode. I enjoyed chatting with her.”

  “Were there ever any…overtures between you?”

  “Overtures?” He seemed totally blank for an instant, and then smiled like sunshine breaking through the clouds. “Oh, you mean sex! Oh, no, not a bit. Rita Castle? Not for an instant.”

  “You mean you didn’t,” I suggested.

  “Well, neither of us,” he said, and made a shrugging gesture. “Why should we? I daresay we understood one another.”

  It was more than I was managing to do. Something about Matthew Seay was clamoring for my attention, and I couldn’t think what it was. Something about the way he furnished his room, something…

  I said, “Would you mind if I looked around your apartment? Without touching anything.”

  “But of course.”

  He started to rise, but I said, “I’d rather go by myself, if it’s all right with you.”

  He settled again. “Certainly,” he said, and made a gracious motion toward the inner door, offering me the run of the place.

  As I left the living room he was offering Kerrigan a drink again, and Kerrigan was refusing it.

  A cream-walled hallway led deeper into the apartment past several abstract paintings. The kitchen was large and airy, with curtains on the windows, a great number of copper-bottomed pots hung on hooks along the wall above the stove, and a general air of tidiness and constant use. The bathroom had burlap-covered walls and a painting of a horse above the toilet. But it was in the bedroom that I came to my belated understanding.

  The bedroom was all purple plush, dominated by a huge canopied double bed with dark draperies all around. I opened the draperies on one side, found a purple bedspread within, and purple pillows. The underside of the canopy was a great dark mirror.

  Beside the bed was a bookcase, small and dark, tight-packed with a jumbled and dog-eared collection of male physique magazines and nudist magazines. Atop a massive dresser were a great number of perfume bottles, all opened and partly used.

  A white telephone on the bookcase rang once.

  I opened the closet door and found the clothing separated down the middle into two distinct groupings. On the left were the suits and jackets and slacks to be expected of a man in Seay’s social and occupational position, but on the right were a great number of costumes. Leopard skins, leotards. Batman and Satan. A wedding gown, a nun’s habit. A pirate, a spaceman, and Mickey Mouse.

  From the doorway behind me Seay’s voice said, calmly, “A phone call for you, Mister Tobin.”

  I shut the closet door and turned to face him, seeing him standing there with a faint smile on his face. It pleased him to have been found out. When next he came in here he would remember my face; I didn’t much care for that.

  I said, “A very interesting array.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You have said you spent Wednesday night with a friend, but you wouldn’t give any details.”

  He nodded, the small smile still flickering about his lips. “Quite so.”

  I went over to the bed, pulled a drape open, and motioned at the mirror up above. “Was that the friend?”

  He smiled like a Cupid; his mouth seemed wet. He said, “You may take the call on that phone there if you wish.”

  I closed the drape again. “Thank you.”

  He left the doorway, as silently as he had come, and I went over to the white telephone and picked it up and said hello.

  Ernie Rembek’s voice spoke, with a background of jumbled noise as though a great number of men were talking. He said, “Is that you, Mister Tobin?”

  “Yes, speaking.”


  “Hold on, let me close this door.”

  I listened to the jumbled noise, and then to silence, and then to his voice again, saying, “There, that’s better. You still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you better come back double fast.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Remember Paul Einhorn? The one that ran away.”

  “With the father and two uncles in Florida. Yes, I remember. What about him?”

  “The cops just found him dead.”

  “Where? How?”

  “Hotel room, 46th Street. Shot in the head.”

  “I want what they have,” I said. “Before they have it, I want it. I’ll be right there.”

  “It’ll be waiting,” he promised.

  twenty-two

  REMBEK’S APARTMENT WAS FULL of people, all men, all formally dressed in dark suits, standing around in small groups, talking together in low tones, most of them holding drinks in their hands. It looked like the lobby of a convention hotel, but more serious.

  Rembek met us just inside the front door, saying, “I’m still waiting on the call.”

  “I’ll be in my office,” I said. “Come along, Kerrigan.”

  We went on through the crowd, and when we got into my office with the door shut I said, “What is all that out there?”

  He shrugged. “A sort of wake,” he said. “An expression of sympathy from the boys.”

  “A wake? Without a body?”

  “Rita’s parents had her shipped back to South Dakota,” he said. “Ernie checked with them and found out they were having a wake for her today and the burial tomorrow. So he thought he’d have a wake here, too. Sort of an expression of, uhhh, respect. And loss.”

  I’d seen this absurd sentimentality in the underworld before, but in this particular instance I found it startling. True enough the girl was dead, but before dying she had run out on Rembek in a very harsh way, and had left behind her a note couched in terms of calculated cruelty. Still, I supposed it was understandable that Rembek’s memory would prefer to hurdle that recent history and concentrate its attention instead on the more pleasant parts of the past.