When Elephants Forget (Trace 3)

by Warren Murphy

  “I always kind of looked at myself as a pussycat,” Trace said. “But we can talk about that some other time, too. Now that we’re going to be such great friends, we’ll probably meet a lot for dinner and drinks and coffee and chatter. But right now, Tony Armitage.”

  “All right,” she said. “What do you want to talk about?”

  He decided to run a large bluff. “I know about the kidnapping. I don’t know who.”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “Good. Perhaps the police will. It was nice sharing this time with you, but I’m leaving. I have to get some sleep.”

  He stopped when he heard a voice from the room entrance behind him.

  “I wish you wouldn’t, Tracy.” Nick Armitage was there, wearing his business tuxedo, and Trace thought that brother-in-law, sister-in-law relations had made major strides with these two since Nick obviously had his own key to the front door, which Anna had locked behind Trace.

  “If we talk, I’ll stay,” Trace said. “We were just talking about the kidnapping.”

  “What do you know about it?” Armitage asked.

  “Enough. Now I want to know what you know about it. I want to know who.”

  He was still skirting around, trying to sound definite and authoritative, but he did not want to make a flat statement that would show that he knew nothing and was only guessing. Still, the trip was already a success; both had conceded that there had been a kidnapping.

  Armitage came into the room slowly. With the familiarity born of practice, he went to an oak cabinet against the far wall, opened it, and poured himself a Scotch in a water tumbler. He squeezed in a splash of soda from an old-fashioned seltzer bottle. He took a lot of time, then walked over to a sofa facing Trace, who had lit a cigarette and put his feet up onto the marble-topped coffee table.

  “Who?” Trace mouthed silently.

  “We don’t know who.” Armitage sipped his drink and sprawled back on the sofa. “Don’t you think we’d like to know who?” As he spoke, tendons swelled in his thick muscular neck. Was this what he would look like if he started lifting weights, Trace wondered.

  Armitage leaned forward again. “Maybe it’s time that you and I talked a little bit.”

  “About time,” Trace said.

  “For instance, I’d like to know just what business any of this is of yours. Who the hell invited you here to look into anything? Just who do you think you are, Tracy, you and your old man nosing around, pestering us?”

  “You said all that before,” Trace said. “And I thought I explained. My insurance company invited me here. They told me to look into it before they pay up five hundred very large ones.”

  “And I told you once before that you can tell your insurance company to stuff their money. I don’t need it.”

  “You never know,” Trace said. “Most people could use an extra half-million usually. Keep it around to tip the paperboy. Or in case the money-laundering saloon downtown goes up in a fire.”

  Armitage stared at him angrily for a moment, then looked at Anna Walker. Trace saw her shrug.

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, Armitage. But I don’t give a damn about your business or how you run it. Just your son.”

  “We want to be left alone,” Armitage said.

  “So you can just forget that somebody murdered your kid? Just wash it off, forget it. What do you call it? A business loss? A deduction you don’t need anymore? Is there a special line on your ten-forty: murdered Kids, removed from dependency status? What the hell kind of father are you anyway?”

  “What do you know about it?” Armitage said. “You’ve got no right to judge. You don’t know what I’m doing or not doing.”

  “Yes, I do. The only thing you were doing was having that black guy keep an eye on Tony’s old girlfriend in Connecticut, and he didn’t find out spit. You haven’t done a damned thing else. Tell me about the kidnapping.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Good,” Trace said. “Tell it to the cops.” He rose to his feet and turned toward the front door of the apartment. He wanted a drink really badly now and he hoped Armitage would try to stop him. He would not mind hitting the man.

  He was almost at the door when Anna Walker’s voice, soft and calm, reached him.

  “At nine o’clock that night, Nick received a telephone call at his private office,” she said.

  “Don’t,” Armitage snapped.

  She ignored him and went on. “The man on the telephone said that Tony had been kidnapped and Nick had to come up with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He had to take it to that spot on the Merritt Parkway. He delivered the money as he was instructed and came home to wait for word from Tony. The next morning, Tony’s body was found at that spot. The money was gone. Those are the facts, Mr. Tracy.”

  Trace came back into the room and went to the bar to pour himself a drink. He splashed a lot of vodka into a glass as he asked Armitage, “Why didn’t you tell this to the police?”

  “Would it have made any difference? They didn’t find the people, did they?”

  “Would it have hurt to have them look?” Trace asked.

  “I didn’t trust them to look very hard,” Armitage said. “They had a killing to investigate. Why complicate it?”

  “What do you think happened that night?” Trace asked.

  “I think some kidnappers got Tony and beat me out of money and never planned to release Tony. Probably because he could identify them. And I think they took him there with them to pick up the money and then they killed him.”

  “Why was he wearing that mask, do you think?” Trace asked.

  Armitage just shook his head. He was staring into his whiskey glass, as if it were a lens, looking at a country long ago and far away.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally. His voice trembled a little.

  “Haven’t you ever thought about it?” Trace asked.

  “Maybe they didn’t want him to be recognized or something.”

  “Who called with the ransom demand?” Trace asked.

  “Some guy I never heard before.”

  “He called you at the club?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did he say? Exactly?”

  “He said something like, ‘Just listen and don’t talk. We’ve got your son and if you don’t want him chilled, you’ll do just what we say.’ And he told me to get two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash and he told me where to drop it along the Merritt. That spot where the litter basket is.”

  “Why did you believe him?” Trace asked. “It could have been a hoax.”

  “I thought that for a minute,” Armitage said. “But he called on my private line and nobody has that except family. I was waiting to hear from Tony because we were supposed to get together for dinner that night. I told him he wouldn’t get anything unless I knew Tony was all right, and he said, ‘You’ll find that out soon enough.’ So I hung up the phone and ten minutes later Tony called. He said he was being held prisoner and that I should do what they said or they’d kill him.”

  “How did he sound?”

  “He sounded upset. How the hell do you think he sounded?”

  “So you came up here then and got the money—” Trace started.

  “I didn’t say that,” Armitage snapped.

  “You didn’t have to. You came up here and got the money and delivered it. Did you wait? Did you hang around? Did you see anybody?”

  “No, no, and no. I did what they told me. It was my son, remember, that they were holding. I dropped off the money and I beat it. Then I went back to my apartment. Anna was there with Martha. We waited for a message but there wasn’t any message except from the cops in the morning that Tony was dead.”

  “Where were your two bodyguards during all this?” Trace asked.

  “I had them watching the apartment. I didn’t want anybody to try anything with Martha. And that’s all I know.”

  “Well, maybe just a
couple of other things,” Trace said. “Who has your private office number?”

  “Just family, I told you.”

  “Who knew that Tony was supposed to have dinner with you that night?”

  Armitage thought a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think anybody did. We made the date that afternoon on the telephone. He was going to call back at nine.”

  “What happened to Dewey Lupus?”

  “Anna told you and I’ll tell you again tonight. He was a thief and a drunk and that kind always winds up getting lost someplace. He quit before I had a chance to fire him, that’s where he is. And you and your father nosing around about it isn’t going to change that. I don’t like you hanging around.”

  “What are you going to do, Mr. Tracy?” Anna asked.

  “With reference to what?”

  “Are you going to the police?”

  “Not yet. I don’t have anything to tell them yet.”

  “Then….”

  “I’m just going to keep looking,” Trace said.

  “I don’t want you looking. I want you out of this,” Armitage said.

  “In life, you don’t always get what you want.”

  “We’ve answered your questions now, Mr. Tracy. Will you answer one of ours?” Anna Walker said.

  “Try me.”

  “How did you find out about the kidnapping? We thought—”

  “You thought that the only other people who knew about it would be the kidnappers,” Trace said.

  She nodded.

  “I’m sorry. I learned this from inside your camp. I don’t think it’d help anything to tell you exactly how I learned it.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  “First things first.” He turned back toward Armitage, who was still sitting on the sofa nursing his Scotch.

  “Where’s Tweedledum and Tweedledee?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your two trained apes, Frankie and Augie, the Happiness Twins.”

  “I sent them home. Why?”

  “I didn’t want them sneaking up on me from behind when I leave here.”

  “They went home, I said.”

  “Me, too,” said Trace.

  When Trace returned to the Plaza, he went directly into the bedroom and woke up Chico.

  “You were right. Tony was kidnapped.”

  “Good. Did you figure out who did it? Who killed him?” she asked groggily.

  “No.”

  “We will,” she said.

  “We?”

  “I’ve decided to help,” she said thickly.

  “I’ll let you get your rest, then,” he said. “I’ve got to do my log.”

  “Okay. Leave it out for me so I can hear it,” she said.

  “I will.”

  “There’s a present for you on the living-room table,” she said as he was leaving the room.

  The present was a pint bottle of Finlandia and a note from Chico. “Trace. I bought this a couple of days ago. Have it if you want. It won’t count against our bet.” She had signed her name in Japanese symbols.

  He kissed the note and poured a drink.

  22

  Trace’s Log:

  Very early Sunday morning. The one bird in New York City is already up peeping and the left-wingers are skulking to the newsstands to buy the New York Times to get this week’s party line and I ought to be in bed, so this will be very short.

  Chico, I’m leaving this out for you and so I’m presuming you’re listening to this while I’m sleeping, and since I never tell you in person, “close up and personal,” as Howard Cosell says, let me tell you that I think you are a very exceptional lady. You are beautiful and funny and smart and you’re economically self-sufficient. About the only thing wrong with you is that you really don’t put your money to work for you in the best way, and perhaps one day soon, you and I will talk about that and see what we can do to make you more secure in your old age.

  You know what happened when I met Cheryl, the cashiered maid, ’cause you listened to the tape in the restaurant tonight. Martha’s a drunk, Tony was pissed because Nick told him to break up with the black chick, Tony had a secret apartment near the school, and that business with Martha talking about napping, which turned out to be kidnapping. And Tony got drugs from Paulie, the manager downtown who was a waiter then.

  And you listened to the Jennie Teller tape. I should have spotted that she was selling a little dope when I was at that diner the first time and she gave that kid Sweet’n Low from her pocket, instead of from the sugar bowl. Being sober too long, I find, clouds one’s mind so that one cannot see. That’s the only reason Lamont Cranston lasted so long as The Shadow. If he had ever tried that trick on a bunch of drunks, they would have seen him right away. By the way, this vodka is good, but next time, please try to put the bottle on ice. So anyway, I found the Sweet’n Low packets in Jennie’s room and the bankbook with the big balance from the time she and Tony were living together. I guess she’s just been selling the leftover drugs since then. And she confirmed that Tony was going to get even with the father. Was he going to deal more drugs? I don’t know. Maybe he was going to open a competing restaurant and disco.

  Anyway, then you and I went to dinner and to that opera club and we had fun even if you were rude to me and didn’t let me talk when I wanted to.

  I’m leaving you the tape of my pleasant kaffee-klatsch tonight with Anna Walker and Nick Armitage. It will explain everything about the kidnapping, or at least everything they told me, and I still don’t know whether I believe them about anything or not.

  It occurs to me that the reason Nick Armitage didn’t tell the police about the kidnapping was that he didn’t want anybody to ask how he could get his hands on a quarter of a million dollars in cash at night on just a few minutes’ notice.

  Still no clue why Tony was wearing that mask.

  Maybe there’s something in the tapes that you can find, but I don’t have anything right now. I still think Dewey Lupus counts for something, and maybe Sarge found out something about him. If I ever hear from him again.

  Actually, although I don’t have one single damned answer, I don’t feel too bad. The fact that there was a kidnapping changes the whole thing. It could bring a new investigation by police and they might solve all these riddles and save Gone Fishing some money. That should make Walter Marks happy, if any man smaller than you can ever be said to be truly happy.

  I like this vodka a lot.

  I am going inside now, Chico, to go to bed with you. If, by chance, you should try to seduce me during the night and I resist, remember this: it was not because I loved you less but because I loved sleep more. I am very tired. Good night to one and all.

  Yes. This vodka is very good.

  Oh. I’ll do my expenses some other time. Be sure to give me a receipt for the vodka. Make believe it was a half-gallon bottle.

  23

  It was noon when Trace awoke. It felt like old times. His throat was raw from cigarette smoking. The membranes of his nose were dry and his head felt as if it were packed with cotton. It hurt to move his body quickly. His teeth felt loose and the inside of his left arm itched, but he knew from experience that if he scratched it, his whole body would begin to itch, so he just lay there in bed, trying to ignore the irritation on his left arm.

  It felt wonderful to be hung over again.

  Alleluia. And Hallelujah, too, in case the Protestants were right.

  He noticed that Chico was not in bed with him and he bellowed, “Chico. Get in here. Your man awaits. Attend me.”

  There was no answer and he shouted again, then waited, and when there was still no answer, he went back to sleep some more to give her a chance to come into the room and apologize before he had to call her again.

  It was another hour before he woke once more. When Chico did not respond to his renewed bellowing, he finally got out of bed and went into the living room of their suite.

  There was a
fresh note on the table. It read: “Trace. I think maybe I’ve got a handle on this. I’ve taken the car and am checking a couple of things out. I’ll be back before dinner. Good job on the vodka. I hope you’re back to normal.”

  The empty vodka bottle was still on the table, and Trace picked it up and held it to the light. It was empty. He tried an old army trick, holding the bottle at an angle, then running his cigarette lighter back and forth beneath the glass at the bottle’s lowest point, then quickly upending the bottle. He was rewarded by a dribble of six drops of vodka into his glass.

  Not bad, he thought. A man could live on six drops of vodka, if there were enough six dropses. All he had to do was to make sure he never ran out of empty vodka bottles. A noble ambition, he assured himself as he drank the six drops.

  He lit a cigarette. When he finished coughing, he called the front desk to see if there were any messages for him. There weren’t.

  He wondered where Chico had gone and then he wondered where Sarge was. He called his father’s office and then his home. No answer either place.

  Some silent alarm bell went off inside his head. Sarge had said he was working on something good, but he had been out of touch too long. Usually when Trace came to town, he and Sarge spent most of their time together. A rare father and son, they got along with each other, genuinely liked each other, equally disdained Trace’s mother, and were more like friends than kin. For Sarge to get lost this way was highly unusual.

  Trace thought of calling his mother in Las Vegas to find out when she had last spoken to her husband, but he quickly rejected that idea. The woman would pry, complain if things were wrong, pester all of New York on the telephone, and wind up coming home from Las Vegas four minutes earlier than scheduled and claim that Sarge had ruined her vacation. Forever afterward she would call it “the vacation I cut short when Patrick got lost.”

  No, thanks.

  He went and looked in his luggage and found two airlines bottles of vodka that Chico didn’t know about, which he always carried for emergencies, and poured both of them into his glass.