New York Nocturne

by Walter Satterthwait

  “Mrs. Parker,” he said.

  Narrowing her eyes, she asked very seriously, “You wouldn’t be in disguise, would you?”

  Mr. Liebowitz smiled wanly. “No,” he said.

  Miss Lizzie told her, “Perhaps you could join us later, for lunch.”

  “That would be swell. Could you ring me?”

  “I could, and I shall. Take some aspirin, dear. And go back to bed.”

  “My pleasure,” said Mrs. Parker. “G’bye.” She looked at me. “’Bye, Amanda. See you later.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Mr. Liebowitz.”

  “Mrs. Parker.”

  She closed the door.

  As we walked toward the elevator, Mr. Liebowitz said to Miss Lizzie, “Mrs. Parker has an entertaining way with a phrase.”

  “She is a writer,” said Miss Lizzie.

  “And a drinker.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Then why—”

  I am not certain what he had been about to ask. Whatever it might have been, Miss Lizzie interrupted it.

  “She is my friend,” she said.

  The day was summery bright. Beyond the terraces and pinnacles of the gray towering buildings, the blue sky was cloudless. We took a taxicab to the Dakota and arrived there at a little before ten thirty. After we rode the elevator up to my uncle’s floor, I used my key to open the front door of the apartment.

  As soon as the door swung back, I could smell the piercing stink of disinfectant. The place reeked of it. I remembered Mrs. Hadley at police headquarters, that cramped little cell, Ramona shuffling toward me . . .

  We filed in and I turned, shut the door, and locked it again.

  I looked around the hallway. For a week, the apartment had been a home to me; I had grown accustomed to its surfaces and its spaces, the textures of its sounds and smells. Now, in the stillness that surrounded us, it seemed like a museum diorama, a re-creation of the life in some vanished, ordered past.

  “Right, then,” said Mr. Liebowitz. “If you’re prepared for it, Amanda, I need to see where it was you found him.”

  “In the library,” I said. “Just up—”

  From the library door, Albert stepped out into the hallway. “Oh, miss,” he said. “This is wonderful! Are you okay?”

  Once again, a white apron was wrapped around his broad middle. His tie was loosened, and the sleeves of his white cotton shirt were rolled back along his thick upper arms. He was wearing a pair of enormous yellow rubber household gloves, their gauntlets reaching nearly to his elbow.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m fine. And you?”

  He raised his right arm, turned his head to the right, and dabbed the upper sleeve of his shirt at his big square forehead. I noticed then that his eyes were rimmed in bright red. “As well as can be expected, thank you, miss, in such a totally rotten situation.” His brow furrowed. “But if you do not mind my asking—during all this time, where are you, miss? Yesterday, I make inquiries of the cops, but as per usual, they are not forthcoming.”

  “I’m sorry, Albert,” I said. “I’ve been with my aunt. This is she, Miss Elizabeth Cabot. And this is Mr. Liebowitz. He’s a private detective.”

  Albert looked at Miss Lizzie and Mr. Liebowitz as though he had just realized they were there. He stripped the glove from one hand—snap—stripped the glove from the other—snap—wiped the palm of his big right hand against the broad chest of the apron, and then stepped forward, his hand outstretched.

  Miss Lizzie shook it. Albert said, “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Cabot.”

  “How do you do?” she said.

  Albert turned to Mr. Liebowitz, looked down on him somberly, and gave him his hand. “And you, too, of course, Mr. Liebowitz. A private detective, is it?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Cooper. I’m investigating Mr. Burton’s death. I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.”

  “Naturally. What do you say we retire to the parlor?”

  “An excellent idea,” said Mr. Liebowitz.

  We trooped into the living room. Albert sat down in one of the padded brown leather chairs, laying his rubber gloves on the floor beside it, and the rest of us sat on the long brown leather sofa. Even sitting forward on the couch, Mr. Liebowitz’s feet only barely met the floor.

  He plucked his notebook from inside his jacket, opened it, slid a pen from his shirt pocket, unscrewed the cap, and slipped it onto the pen’s barrel. He crossed his legs, right over left, and said, “Mr. Cooper, when exactly did the police inform you of Mr. Burton’s death?”

  Albert nodded. “I am informed of this yesterday at approximately eleven o’clock in the morning. Yesterday. Saturday, that is. At that point in time I am in Queens, on Long Island, visiting with a friend.”

  “They sent someone out there?”

  “Correct. They send two detectives from the twentieth precinct: Detective O’Deere and Detective Cohan.”

  “How did they find you?”

  “I am very cooperative with them, I believe.”

  Mr. Liebowitz smiled. “I meant, how did they locate you?”

  “Oh sure,” said Albert and nodded. “The superintendent of the building, Mr. Bryant—”

  “The superintendent of this building? The Dakota?”

  “Yes, sir. What he does is he notifies them of my whereabouts. I always make certain that Mr. Bryant knows of my current whereabouts in the event of an accident occurring.”

  “Did they bring you back into Manhattan?”

  “Yes, sir. To the precinct house, on Seventieth Street. After I assist them with their inquiries, I ask for permission to return here. To the apartment, I mean to say. They inform me that I cannot return until today. So I spend the night in a hotel that is owned by an acquaintance of mine, downtown, a very nice place I know of, and I come up here this morning.”

  “The name of the hotel?”

  “The Broadway Inn. Situated at Sixth and Broadway.”

  “Why return to the apartment?” Mr. Liebowitz asked him.

  “To assure myself that everything is in order.”

  “And was it?”

  “No, sir, not in the least. The moment I get here, I discover it is a terrible mess. Everything is out of place. Everything is totally covered with powder.”

  “Powder?” said Miss Lizzie.

  “Fingerprint powder, miss.”

  She nodded.

  “And, naturally,” he said, “the library . . .” His voice trailed off as he looked down. He stared at the floor for a moment then looked up at me. His bloodshot eyes were shiny. He shook his head. “I am so sorry, miss. I know that you and him, Mr. Burton, the two of you are getting along real well, like birds of a feather.” He swallowed and then turned to Mr. Liebowitz. “It is a terrible thing, sir.” He cleared his throat.

  Mr. Liebowitz nodded. “Yes, it is. Was anything missing?”

  Albert inhaled deeply then shook his head again. “No, sir. Not that I can determine, as of yet. But I have very little faith in the police of this city. I will not be surprised to discover they are purloining things.”

  “But nothing of which you’re aware. So far.”

  He nodded. “Nothing of which I am aware so far. That is correct.”

  “What’s the name of your friend in Queens?”

  “Mrs. Hannesty. Mrs. Madge Hannesty.”

  “And how do you know her, Mr. Cooper?”

  “We are friends now for many years. Many years ago, see, I work with her late husband. Before the war, that is.”

  “May I have her address?”

  “Naturally.” He gave it.

  Mr. Liebowitz wrote it down. “And when did you go over to Queens?”

  “I leave here at approximately five thirty on Friday evening.” He looked at me. “Correct, miss?”


  “Yes,” I said to Mr. Liebowitz.

  “The trip takes approximately one and a half hours,” said Albert. “So I arrive at Mrs. Hannesty’s residence, I would say, at approximately seven o’clock.”

  “And you spent the entire time with her?”

  “Correct. At nine o’clock p.m., approximately, we go out to a dance hall—she is extremely fond of the dancing life, Mrs. Hannesty is. We stay there, I would estimate, until approximately one in the a.m., and then we return to her residence.”

  “The name of the dance hall?”

  “The Jolly Roger.”

  “Who do you think killed him, Mr. Cooper?”

  Albert blinked in surprise. “I got absolutely no idea, sir. I am totally in the dark. Like I tell the police, I cannot conceive of anyone wishing to cause harm to Mr. Burton. He has no enemies whatsoever, that I know of.”

  “Are you aware that he knew Owney Madden and Larry Fay?”

  “I know of those names, sir, but I never hear them from Mr. Burton.”

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “They are gangster types, I believe. And they are the owners of nightclubs. On occasion, I see them mentioned in the various newspapers.”

  “How do you suppose he knew the men?”

  “I could not say, sir. Maybe from the nightclubs? Mr. Burton, he enjoys his evening out.”

  “Do you know a woman named Daphne Dale?”

  “Yes, sir. The writer lady. At one time, she is an acquaintance of Mr. Burton’s.”

  “What was their relationship?”

  Albert glanced at me, almost furtively.

  “Mr. Cooper,” said Mr. Liebowitz, “I’m hoping that you want to help us apprehend whoever killed Mr. Burton.”

  “Yes, sir. I want that totally.”

  “Then I think you ought to tell us whatever you can. Mr. Burton is beyond embarrassment at this point.”

  Albert glanced at me again, then looked back to Mr. Liebowitz. “Yes, sir.”

  “Their relationship?”

  “It is no longer current, sir.”

  “And when was it current?”

  “Approximately two years ago, I would estimate.”

  “They were intimate?”

  “Yes, sir.” Once more, he glanced quickly at me and then back to Mr. Liebowitz. “For a period of time,” he said.

  “For how long?”

  “For five months or so, I would say. Approximately.”

  “Did she have a key to this apartment?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And did she ever return it to Mr. Burton?”

  “I could not say.”

  “Who ended the relationship?”

  “Mr. Burton, I believe.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Burton and me, see, we do not discuss his personal affairs.”

  “Has Miss Dale been to the apartment recently?”

  “No, sir. Not that I am aware of.”

  “I’ve heard it said that Miss Dale used Mr. Burton as a character in one of her novels. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Yes, sir. At one point, Mr. Burton informs me of this.”

  “At what point?”

  “Shortly after the book comes into circulation. Approximately one year ago, that is. He is here in the library at that point, Mr. Burton is, and he is sitting in that . . . chair. The same chair, I mean to say, as when he is . . . discovered yesterday.” He turned to me. “I am so sorry, miss, that it is you who discovers him. What a totally rotten situation.”

  Once again I felt a stinging at my eyelids. “Thank you, Albert.”

  Mr. Liebowitz said, “He informed you . . .”

  Albert nodded. “In the course of that evening, I am passing in the hallway when I hear him laugh. At that point, I step in to see if he needs anything. He has the book in his lap, and he says to me, ‘Albert, that silly piece of fluff, she puts me into her book.’ I ask who he means, and he says ‘Daphne. Daphne Dale. She makes me into something out of Jane Eyre.’ That’s a book, he tells me.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “No, sir. He laughs again. He is very amused. I ask him if he is in need of anything, and he tells me no. So I leave.”

  “Did you ever read Miss Dale’s novel?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Albert?” I said.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “Is the book still here? Miss Dale’s book?” Sometime soon, I knew, I would read that book.

  “No, miss, it is not. Mr. Burton, the very next day, he deposits it into the garbage.”

  Mr. Liebowitz nodded. “All right, Mr. Cooper. How did you meet Mr. Burton?”

  “In the war, sir. At that point, he is a lieutenant, and I am his assistant. I am a corporal at that point, sir.”

  “Which branch of the service?”

  “The army, sir. The infantry.”

  “And you’ve been with him ever since?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  “A little of this, a little of that. I cook, I shop, I run the errands. I keep the house tidy until Mrs. Norman arrives.”

  “Mrs. Norman?”

  “The cleaning woman, sir. Mrs. Jeanelle Norman. She comes twice a month. On every other Saturday afternoon, just like clockwork. A very nice Negro woman, very respectable.”

  “She wasn’t there last Saturday,” I said.

  “No, miss. Mr. Burton, he tells her she can skip a day. Yesterday, she is supposed to come. But after I talk to the police, I telephone her and I give her the bad news. She is very distressed. She has a great fondness for Mr. Burton. We all do.”

  Mr. Liebowitz said, “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. In Harlem.” He gave him another address and a telephone number, and Mr. Liebowitz wrote them down.

  Mr. Liebowitz nodded. “Since the time of Miss Dale, has Mr. Burton been seeing any other women?”

  “For the most part,” said Albert, “no. Until recently, I mean to say.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “A Miss Sybil Cartwright, sir. A very nice young woman, in the show business.”

  “In show business where?”

  “At the El Fay Club, sir. She is a dancer there.”

  Mr. Liebowitz turned to me. “You were there. Did you meet her?”

  “No,” I said. I felt an absurd flicker of resentment at John for hiding something from me. “I’ve never heard of her.”

  Mr. Liebowitz looked back at Albert. “For how long had Mr. Burton been seeing Miss Cartwright?”

  “For two months, I would estimate. Over that period, she comes here several times. That I personally know of, I mean to say. This is during the week, see. On the weekends, like I say, I am in Queens.”

  “Does Miss Cartwright have a key to the apartment?”

  “I could not say. I have never seen her use one.”

  “Do you know her address?”

  “The Broadmore Hotel on Forty-Fourth Street. Mr. Burton, he mentions it to me once.”

  Mr. Liebowitz wrote in his notebook then looked up at Albert. “Do the police know about Miss Cartwright?”

  “Yes, sir. They ask me is Mr. Burton seeing any women? I mention her name.”

  Mr. Liebowitz nodded. “Did Mr. Burton have a lawyer?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. James McCready, of McCready, McCready, and Porter.”

  Mr. Liebowitz wrote again then looked up. “Did Mr. Burton use an address book?”

  “No, sir. Not here at his residence. As for his business addresses and such, it may be they are located at his office. I could not say.”

  “Did he keep a diary? A journal?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Burton, he keep
s everything in his head. Phone numbers and the like. Addresses. He has got a remarkable memory for such items, Mr. Burton has.”

  “What about his records? His valuables? Did he keep them here in the apartment? Did he have a safe?”

  For a moment, Albert looked at him without answering. Then he said, “When they are here, I inform the police that no such a thing exists.”

  “And was that, strictly speaking, the truth?”

  For the first time, Albert smiled. It was not much of a smile, but it was there. “Not speaking strictly, sir,” he said. “In point of fact, there is what you call a safe.”

  “But you didn’t mention it to the police.”

  “Like I say, sir, I have very little faith in the police. Mr. Burton, he usually keeps large sums of money in the safe, see. Cash money. My belief is that if the police examine the safe, the money will have occasion to disappear.”

  “Do you know the safe’s combination?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Does anyone else? Miss Dale, for example? Miss Cartwright?”

  “Not to my knowledge, sir. Only Mr. Burton.”

  Mr. Liebowitz stood up. “Show me,” he said.

  Chapter Eleven

  The smell of disinfectant was stronger in the library, strong enough to make my eyes water.

  I glanced over to the chair that had held John. It was empty now, of course, and the dark horrid splatters were gone from the books behind it. But on the parquet floor beneath the chair, there was a faint irregular gray patch, like a shadow. Beside it sat a galvanized metal bucket.

  I felt my stomach shift slightly to the side.

  Miss Lizzie put her hand on my shoulder for a moment and gently squeezed it. I looked at her and smiled weakly.

  “Over here,” said Albert, walking to the left side of the room. He reached into one of the bookcases, removed some books, set them on the floor, then reached into the shelf below and removed another batch. These he put on the floor beside the others. He placed his hand along the right side of the adjoining bookcase, pulled gently, and two of the shelves came away from the case together, as though they were both connected to a single long hinge at the case’s left side. Behind the shelves, set into the wall, was a black metal safe, perhaps two feet high and a foot and a half wide. Its dial was black too, and at its center was a silver-colored knob. To the left of that was a vertical handle.