“What’d you tell him?”
“That I didn’t know the answers. That even if I did know the answers, it was none of his business. And that if he wanted to know what was going to be in your story, he should wait until the magazine comes out—it costs thirty-five cents a copy.”
I smiled. “I don’t imagine Jax liked that.”
“He didn’t. He became very angry. He said he was an important official and that, if I didn’t cooperate, he’d get me and my family in trouble with the Immigration authorities.”
“You believed him?”
“Of course not. I said, ‘Mr. Jax, I’m not just off the boat. If you don’t stop pestering me I’ll get you in trouble with the Immigration authorities for saying such silly things.’”
“What’d he do then?”
“He said, ‘All right. But you tell Farrar that if he prints any kind of an article on the Bowser murder by Pete Ames, he’s making a big mistake.’ I asked him why and he said, ‘Ames is a suspect himself. And if I can pin something on him, Metropolis will wind up in trouble too.’”
Jax seemed to be doing his best to get me fired. For a state’s attorney’s man, he was taking a peculiar approach to a homicide investigation.
I asked, “What did Sam do when you told him about the threat?”
“He just laughed. He seemed to know this Jax. He said if he came around again, I should order him out.” Wanda studied me. “Ames, what did Jax mean when he called you a suspect?”
“He had a theory that Irene told me what was in her envelope when she came to the Express. And that I went to her apartment after work and killed her for it, so I could use the contents for blackmail.”
“I suppose,” Wanda said slowly, “it could have happened that way. It never occurred to me before. Ames, did you kill her?”
It was hard to tell if she was joking or not. Her expression seemed as solemn as always.
“No. Now I ask you a question. Who owns Metropolis?”
“Felix Kress, the board chairman of the Kress Brick Works.”
“That’s what it says on the masthead. But some people I’ve talked to seem to think Kress is just a front man.”
“I couldn’t say.” Again Stash shrugged. “Frankly, it doesn’t make much difference, does it? So long as the paycheck is there every week, why should we care?”
* * * *
At two minutes after noon the next day, Willard Fordyce stepped out of the Nalon Building. He turned left and I followed.
He was alone, a break for me. But then, Fordyce wasn’t the gregarious type. As Nalon’s office manager, he rarely socialized with subordinates, something I’d learned by asking a few questions of the girl who ran the cigar counter in the Nalon Building lobby. And it was hardly likely that Nalon or anyone else on the top executive level would lunch with Fordyce very often.
At a newsstand, Fordyce bought the mid-morning edition of the Beacon. Then he walked to a medium-priced bar and restaurant about five blocks from the Nalon Building. The waiter seemed to know him well. He showed Fordyce to a narrow table in a secluded corner. Fordyce just nodded, and a moment or so later the waiter was back with a double Manhattan.
I could understand that. Nalon himself had strode into the lobby of the Nalon building an hour earlier. Judging from the scowl on his face, the people who worked for him had a rough morning in store.
Fordyce sipped some Manhattan, put his glass down, unfolded his paper and began to read. His narrow lips twisted into a wry smile. I knew why he was amused. The banner story, headed TYCOON TELLS LINK TO IRENE, was based on an interview with Lieutenant Moberg. When I read it, I’d laughed too. No doubt a lot of other people were also laughing about it.
Nalon and his lawyers had remained closeted with a crew of homicide detectives until late the previous night. Then the industrialist hurried out of the Detective Bureau, saying nothing to anyone. The details of what had transpired were disclosed by Moberg at a midnight press conference.
First, Gabe Nalon had an alibi. It was still being checked, but so far it held up. He claimed that on the afternoon of the murder, he entertained three business associates—a state senator, an attorney, and a powerful Administration alderman—at a country dub. They played golf and then retired to a private dining room, where they ate, drank, and discussed a pending deal until nearly 11 p.m.
As for Irene, Nalon denied knowing who might have killed her or why. He said he hadn’t come forward before because he never wasted time reading about murders in newspapers; that he hadn’t known of Irene’s death until reporters began showing up at the Skyline Towers. He added that at the very moment three fresh reporters broke into his office to question him about Irene his finger was on the telephone, dialing the police so he could volunteer to help in any way possible.
With a straight face, Moberg said Nalon told him there was nothing personal about his relationship with Irene. Irene, according to Nalon, had been just another of his many unpublicized charities. He claimed he allowed her to live rent-free in the Skyline Towers because at the time she had theatrical ambitions, and he wished to provide her with financial aid and lessons in dramatics. Nalon said he often did things like that for aspiring young theatrical people. His father had been a carnival pitchman, and Nalon had a soft spot in his heart for any young person entranced by the smell of grease paint.
Unfortunately, according to Nalon, it became apparent after three years that Irene had no real talent for the stage. Nalon said he thereupon gave Irene ten thousand-dollar Treasury certificates and advised her to use the money to start a little business somewhere. He claimed he hadn’t seen Irene since the day, in 1955, that she moved out of Apartment 201 and into the apartment on Alexander Boulevard.
Interestingly enough, though, Nalon admitted hearing from Irene two days before the murder. Irene telephoned him and asked to borrow five thousand dollars, for a purpose unspecified. Nalon had turned her down.
Willard Fordyce uttered a little chuckle. He moved his newspaper aside and reached for his drink.
I slipped into the chair across from him.
“Hi. I think its a riot too. The whole town does.”
“I remember you.” Fordyce scowled. “You’re one of the reporters who saw Nalon yesterday.”
“That’s right. Pete Ames. I’m doing a story for Metropolis magazine.”
“Well. I can’t tell you anything. Please go away. If anyone from the office saw me talking to you, I’d be fired.”
“Nobody from your office will walk this far for lunch. I’ll bet that’s why you come here, so you can have a drink and relax. Look, I’ll bet you people in the office know…”
“I don’t know anything. Certainly not about Irene Bowser. Good grief, in 1955 I was working for a savings and loan association in Ohio. I didn’t come here and start working for Nalon until 1959.”
“All right, then maybe…”
“I’ve asked you to leave once. If you don’t, I’ll call the manager.”
“Then maybe,” I persisted, “you could do something else for me. A very little thing. Just give me a name.”
“A name?”
“Yes. From what I’ve seen and heard, Nalon isn’t a pleasant man to work for. He can be charming if he wants something from you, but he’s rude and overbearing to his employees and his reputation for business practice isn’t good. I imagine a lot of people have reason to dislike him.
Fordyce said nothing. But since he hadn’t called the manager yet, I went on.
“I wouldn’t want to put you on a spot. But it struck me that you might know of someone in a position to give me the kind of information I want. Someone who might have been close to Nalon in the years Irene lived in the Skyline Towers, but who isn’t close to him now. Perhaps an old employee, or a former business associate or ex-servant, or even a member of his family. I wouldn’t tell this person where I got the
name. Hell, if such a person exists, probably dozens of people could have told me…”
Fordyce studied me. He looked down and twirled his Manhattan glass. He closed his eyes.
Then he said: “Eugene Zender.”
“What’s his relationship?”
Fordyce’s eyes were open again. “I gave you a name. That’s all I’ll give you. Now please leave.”
“Okay. And thanks.”
As I walked out, Fordyce picked up the glass and drained it. He signaled to the waiter for another drink.
Now he looked real happy.
* * * *
Connie Thurlow located the right Eugene Zender in two minutes by phoning the financial editor of the Beacon, and asking some apparently innocuous questions.
Without access to a newspaper clipping library, it might have taken me an hour or two to identify the right Zender on my own. Connie’s office was just a few blocks from the restaurant where I saw Fordyce. I went straight there and she was in.
“Your man,” Connie reported, “now runs the Zender Mortgage Company, at 329 Harrison Street. But at one time he was Nalon’s closest confidant. A grand jury indicted him while he was fronting for Nalon in an insurance scandal. Nalon fired him afterward. What’s it all about?”
“So far, just a fishing expedition.” Connie wore another of those ostensibly discreet dresses that showed more than they concealed, this time in a shade of pink. She was, I reflected, the most beautiful public-relations gal I’d ever been conned by. “How about lunch? It might be your last chance to see me socially until I finish this article. The way it’s going, it’s a fulltime job, ten or twelve hours a day and seven days a week.”
“Sorry.” Connie seemed to mean that. I was sitting across from her desk, and her face contorted in a mock pout. “I have to lunch with the Journal’s food editor at one. But how do you like Metropolis? Sam’s a dear, isn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t express it in quite that fashion.”
“Well, if you decide to stay with Metropolis after you write your article, you’ll learn a lot working for Sam. I think he’s—but never mind him. Have you decided about your future?”
“Not yet. Anyhow, Sam might decide not to hire.”
“He’ll hire you.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.” She winked. “Confidentially, he likes you a lot. And by the way, you’re already a local celebrity. When I made my rounds this morning, all the newsrooms were talking about the stunt Emil, you and Kells pulled with Horace DeLand. Nobody’s done anything like that here since before the war—you just helped create a new legend. But I’m afraid your two friends are in trouble…”
Nalon’s ad agency, Connie said, phoned Hale and insisted that Ryker and Kells be fired. Hale refused. But after he hung up he called Kells and Emil in and berated them both, Emil for conceiving of the near misrepresentation scheme and Kells for allowing him to go through with it.
“Emil,” Connie added, “was demoted back to Squawks. And Kells was appointed permanent Women for Morality editor.”
Women for Morality was the editorial Siberia of the Express. Organized to promote laws aimed at improving moral standards, WFM was the pet enthusiasm of Murray Hale’s wife, president and a cofounder of the group. The Express ran at least one WFM story daily. Currently WFM was agitating for a city ordinance banning bikinis, state legislation cracking down on fathers of illegitimate children, and a bill in Congress making it illegal to transport books with four-letter words across state lines. Hale himself didn’t seem to give a damn for WFM, but by running a story every day he kept his wife out of his hair.
“That,” I said, “will floor old Sid. They never forced anyone to be WFM editor for more than a week at a time before. I caught it once, it’s awful. You have to go to WFM headquarters every morning and write the story with the WFM publicity chairman looking over your shoulder, telling you how she wants it done. How did Kells take the news?”
“Not very well. And confidentially, I don’t think Murray would do a thing like that to Kells unless he planned to let him go soon anyhow.”
“Sid? Fired from the Express?”
“Yes, it’s been rumored for quite a while. I saw him this morning, by the way. He said he wants to talk to you about something.”
* * * *
After lunch I phoned Zender. He was out but his secretary made an appointment for the next afternoon.
I dialed the Express.
“Sid? Tough luck, I just heard about it. But I don’t, imagine Hale will keep you on WFM for long.”
“Sez you.” Kells sounded glum. “I shoulda known that if it was Emil’s idea there’d be a hitch.”
“Connie said you were trying to reach me.”
“Yeah. Look, how about a deal? A limited exchange of information?”
“You plan to work on Irene’s murder on your own time?”
“Naw, that’s silly, but I still got good police contacts. I had the police beat once, after Hargrove and before Deuce—I might hear things the police wouldn’t tell you. I could tip you off to that stuff, and to anything I might pick up from Deuce. Of course I won’t give you anything that could spoil an Express exclusive.”
“What do I do in return?”
“The same. Tell me anything you pick up that the reporters for the dailies don’t have yet, and let me see proofs of your story one day before Metropolis hits the street And naturally until then, don’t give me anything that would spoil your exclusive. The deal might help you with your article, and if I get a lead from you that gives me any kind of a beat on the other papers, it would help me a lot.”
“Fair enough. Incidentally, a D.A.’s man named Jax has been investigating me, but I don’t think he’s doing it for the D.A. Maybe your sources could verify that, one way or another.”
CHAPTER NINE
Eugene Zender tugged absently at his right ear, leaned back and said, “You’re a clever man, Mr. Ames, to seek me out. But I’m afraid you’re also a little naive. What did you expect? That I’d tell you Nalon’s business secrets, so you could hint that maybe Irene Bowser was killed for knowing them?”
Zender was a heavy-set, bald man in his fifties, with a big paunch and a benign cast to his ruddy countenance. Behind him, a large window overlooked a downtown street.
“I can assure you,” I said, “I don’t want you to violate a business confidence. It’s just that the people close to Nalon won’t let me in the door. And it was my thought that since you’re no longer associated with him, you might feel freer to tell me what you recall about Irene.”
“You’re a diplomat. What you really mean is people around Nalon won’t talk because they’re scared to death of him. You’ve learned I was his right-hand man until I nearly got sent to prison for doing his dirty work, after which he fired me. And you think I’ll be so full of hatred that I’ll disclose every filthy thing I ever heard about Gabe Nalon. Isn’t that so?” I sensed that a wrong word here would end the interview. “That’s so. If I’ve done you an injustice, I apologize. I’m afraid that at times reporters get cynical about what might motivate people.”
Zender chuckled. “Well, at least you’re honest, and I’ll tell you something. Businessmen get cynical too. Have a cigar.”
I didn’t like cigars much, but if smoking one would help establish kinship with Zender, I’d smoke one. He lit up for us.
“It’s true,” he said, “that I don’t like Nalon and could tell you damaging things about him, but I won’t. Let me explain. For twenty years I worked for Nalon, my eyes wide open. Business, you know, can be like war. You can fight, lie, cheat and chisel for every last dime. That’s how Nalon does business, and when I worked for him it’s how I did business. I did it that way because, for all his other failings, Nalon has a rare talent. He’s a born promoter. And if an ordinary man like me can hitch his star to a promo
ter, the promoter can make him rich.”
Zender expelled a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “The deal that nearly put me behind bars—that’s the one time Nalon got careless. He pirated the assets of a little insurance company so blatantly that a grand jury indicted. Only the indictment was brought against me because everything had been done in my name. There was a long trial and I was acquitted, primarily because my lawyers confused the jury and they couldn’t understand the evidence. It was very complicated. Then Nalon fired me. He said he didn’t want me around any more, he couldn’t be associated with a man of my bad reputation. And in retrospect, he couldn’t have done me a bigger favor.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He made me think about who and what I was. I decided that from then on I wouldn’t be Nalon’s kind of businessman. I started my own business. I’ll never make a million, but I’m comfortable, I sleep better and I have more friends. I can thank Nalon for that. As for his business practices, they’re no better and no worse than those of a lot of other businessmen. I’m honor-bound not to discuss his deals, but I can tell you this: I doubt that Irene Bowser knew much about them or was even capable of understanding them. She didn’t impress me as being very bright. Pleasant, easygoing, yes. She was nicer as a person, much less brittle than Nalon’s other girls. But bright, no.”
“You recall her?”
“Very well. Can I speak—off the record?”
“I’d rather you didn’t. Later, if I learned what you told me from a source willing to speak for the record and printed it, you’d think I had violated your confidence. But I’m willing to keep your identity secret.” Zender thought this over. “I see your point.” He shrugged. “Well, what I know is little enough and it’s common knowledge anyhow. No doubt the police know all the details already. Nalon always had a girl in Skyline Towers, and before he bought the Towers he kept one somewhere else. When he wanted the girl, he’d send a cab to take her to his own apartment He’d summon her, like a rajah, and she had to go, no matter what time of night or day. Sometimes Irene Bowser would be in his apartment when I or other people went up there to discuss business deals. Or maybe we’d go down to the bar or to a discreet restaurant, and Nalon would order the girl to come with us. That’s how I got to know Irene. She’d sit like a dummy, a patient smile on her face, speaking only when spoken to.”
The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel Page 29
