New York Nocturne

by Walter Satterthwait

  Mr. Liebowitz stepped forward. “A Mosler,” he said. “Prewar. Quite a good safe.”

  Albert said, “According to Mr. Burton, sir, it is totally uncrackable.”

  He nodded. “Totally is a big word, Mr. Cooper. Let’s see for ourselves, shall we?”

  He put his small left hand, fingers splayed, along the handle and leaned toward the safe, holding his shiny white head close to the dial. Gripping the knob of the dial lightly between the finger and thumb of his right hand, he slowly turned it.

  I looked again at Miss Lizzie. She looked at me and then, very faintly, nearly invisibly, she shrugged. Beyond the lens of her pince-nez, her eyes flicked back toward Mr. Liebowitz.

  He slowly spun the dial some more, reversed the direction of the spin, and then stepped back, letting his hands fall to his sides.

  “Like I say, sir,” said Albert. “Totally uncrackable.”

  Mr. Liebowitz reached forward with his left hand, placed two fingers against the handle, and tapped it to the right. Silently, the door to the safe swung open.

  I looked at Miss Lizzie. She was smiling at the detective. “Mr. Liebowitz,” she said, “you are showing off.”

  He looked at her over his shoulder and grinned. “Let’s see what we have.”

  The three of us gathered around behind him. The safe held three metal drawers and, in the open space below them, a small black metal box.

  He slid open the first drawer and looked inside. “Nothing,” he said. He pushed the drawer back in.

  The second drawer. “Nothing.” He pushed it back in.

  The third drawer. “Nothing.” He pushed it back in and turned to Albert. “Does that seem right to you, Mr. Cooper?”

  “No, sir, it does not. Just last week I observe Mr. Burton deposit some papers into the bottom drawer. At that point in time, all the drawers are full.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He attempts to deposit them in the other two drawers first. They are both full.”

  “What sort of papers were they?”

  “I got no idea. Mr. Burton and me, we never discuss his business affairs.”

  “What did you discuss, you and Mr. Burton?”

  “The events of the day, sir. Politics and the like. Mr. Burton, see, he is a very up-to-date person, insofar as the events of the day are concerned.”

  Mr. Liebowitz nodded. Leaning toward the safe again, he angled his head to look at the drawers from the side. “No fingerprints, except the ones I’ve put there. It’s been wiped clean.”

  “And the box?” said Miss Lizzie.

  Mr. Liebowitz reached in, lifted the box by its handle on the lid, and drew it from the safe. As he moved it, something softly thumped inside. He stepped over to a small circular wooden table, set down the box, and once again put his head at an angle to examine it. “No prints,” he said. “Wiped again.”

  He flicked open the latch at the lip of the lid, flipped back the lid, and dipped his right hand inside. When the hand emerged, it held two packets of hundred-dollar bills, each neatly wrapped with a strip of paper. He dropped one of the packets to the table and then, using his thumb, he flipped through the other.

  “Bank packets,” he said. “Five thousand each. Ten thousand dollars, all told.”

  “Why on earth,” said Miss Lizzie, “would he keep so much cash on hand?”

  “An excellent question,” said Mr. Liebowitz. “And one that suggests another.”

  “Why is the money still there?” she said. “Why would whoever took the papers not take the money, too?”

  He smiled at her, looking now like an approving schoolteacher himself. “Well done, Miss Cabot.”

  “You’re assuming,” she said, “that someone did, in fact, take the papers.”

  Mr. Liebowitz looked to Albert. “Mr. Cooper, to the best of your knowledge, those drawers were full when you saw them last?”

  “Yes, sir. To the best of my knowledge.”

  “And was it usual for Mr. Burton to keep so much cash on hand?”

  “Like I said, sir, Mr. Burton, he often keeps large sums available.”

  “This large a sum?”

  “I could not say, sir.”

  “Are you surprised to see this much cash here?”

  “No, sir. I cannot say I am.”

  “What did Mr. Burton use it for?”

  “I could not say, sir. Possibly for investment purposes.”

  “And to the best of your knowledge, no one else knew of the safe?”

  “Yes, sir. To the best of my knowledge.”

  Mr. Liebowitz nodded. He picked up the other packet and was about to put both back into the box when Albert interrupted him.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is this such a good way to proceed, do you think? The police can come back here, if you follow me, and they can conduct another search. They locate the safe and they open it, I am certain the money is going to evaporate totally.”

  “What do you suggest we do with it, Mr. Cooper?”

  “I believe, personally, that it should go to Miss Amanda here. She is Mr. Burton’s closest relative.”

  “No, I’m not,” I said. “My father is. And then my brother.”

  “But I know for a fact,” said Albert, “that Mr. Burton, he is extremely fond of Miss Amanda.”

  Once again, an image of John flashed through my mind. I saw him as he was early on Friday evening, so dashing and charming in his dinner jacket, so handsome . . .

  “Well, Mr. Cooper,” said Mr. Liebowitz, “the suggestion does you credit. But I don’t believe that, legally, we can simply hand the money over to Amanda.”

  “I don’t want it,” I said. “It’s not mine.”

  “If you hand it over to the police,” Albert told Mr. Liebowitz, “then it will totally evaporate. I can promise you that.”

  “I suspect you’re right.” He turned to Miss Lizzie and me. “Let’s say I do this. I have a safe at my office.” He smiled. “Rather a better safe than this one. With your permission, and yours, Amanda, I’ll put the money there. I can assure you that it’ll be secure and that no one will touch it.”

  “It isn’t for me to say,” said Miss Lizzie. “The decision is Amanda’s.”

  Mr. Liebowitz and Albert looked at me.

  “Okay,” I said. “Fine.”

  “But a receipt,” said Miss Lizzie, “would not be amiss, I feel.”

  Mr. Liebowitz smiled. “I agree.” He set down the packets, plucked his notebook and pen from his inner left coat pocket, and opened the notebook. Quickly he scribbled something inside then tore off the sheet of paper and handed it to me.

  It read, $10,000 in cash owed to Miss Amanda Burton by Carl Liebowitz, removed from the personal safe of Mr. John Burton in the Dakota Apartments on 15 June, 1924. Due upon demand. He had signed it at the bottom.

  Mr. Liebowitz said, “Satisfactory, Miss Cabot?”

  On my right, Miss Lizzie had been reading along with me. She looked over at him. “Entirely,” she said.

  “Right, then,” he said. He returned his notebook and pen to his pocket then slipped one of the packets in behind them. He slid the second packet into another interior pocket, on the right side of the jacket. He patted himself, as though to make sure the packets were comfortable, and then, from the breast pocket of the jacket, he pulled out a white silk handkerchief. He flipped the lid of the box shut, wiped it all over with the handkerchief, closed the latch, then used the handkerchief to carry the box back to the safe. After it was stowed away, he wiped the front of the three drawers. He shut the safe and wiped down the handle and the dial.

  Tucking the handkerchief back into his pocket, he turned to us. “Now,” he said, “we need to go over the entire apartment.”

  Miss Lizzie had removed a gold pock
et watch from the front pocket of her dress. She looked up from the watch and said, “I wonder, Mr. Liebowitz, if you have a telephone number for Daphne Dale.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “Why?”

  “I propose a division of labor. You search Mr. Burton’s apartment. In the meantime, Amanda and I shall meet with Miss Dale. It is nearly twelve now. We can invite her to lunch. And then, afterward, perhaps we can speak with this Miss Cartwright. It may be that with just Amanda and me there—a young girl and a senile old biddy—these two women will be more likely to provide information.”

  He smiled. “Senile old biddy is rather good. But Miss Cabot, you are paying me to conduct the investigation.”

  “If you feel it necessary,” she said, “you can always speak with them later. But we’re operating here, as you yourself pointed out, within the pressing constraints of time. If the police don’t locate another suspect, they may very well return to Amanda. I’m simply trying to expedite matters.”

  He nodded. “As you wish.” He took out his notebook and pen, scribbled another something inside, and tore off another sheet. “Miss Dale’s number,” he said and handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she told him.

  “Don’t forget,” he said, “to ask her about the key. Miss Cartwright, too.”

  She smiled. “I’m very good at remembering things, Mr. Liebowitz.”

  He smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure you are.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Six stories tall, the Hotel Brevoort stretched along the east side of Fifth Avenue, taking up the entire block between Eighth and Ninth Streets, a few hundred feet north of the stately white arch that led into the greenery of Washington Square Park.

  The hotel’s main dining room was an elaborate space of high molded ceilings and serene linen draperies, of white damask and gleaming porcelain and brightly polished silver. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows. Black-coated waiters sailed silently between the tables.

  When we arrived at a quarter to one that Sunday, the room was nearly full, the customers being mostly families and couples dressed in their churchgoing best. An urbane buzz of conversation floated in the air, punctuated by the discreet clatter of cutlery. The maître d’, whose French accent seemed genuine and whose eyebrows seemed permanently arched, led us to a corner table for four, handed each of us a large pasteboard menu, nodded once, and then sailed impressively away.

  “Should we wait for Miss Dale?” I asked Miss Lizzie.

  “From what you tell me, I suspect that Miss Dale does not number promptness among her virtues.” She smiled. “And besides, I confess to feeling somewhat peckish at the moment.”

  We studied the menu for a few minutes. Miss Lizzie decided on the onion soup and the squab casserole. I chose the soup as well, and the coq au vin. As soon as we lowered our menus, a tall and very thin waiter suddenly loomed between us.

  “Wee, maydahms?” His accent was considerably less successful.

  Miss Lizzie gave him our order.

  “Somezing to drink, perhaps?” he asked. “Zee water? Zee soda pop for mamzell?”

  “A glass of water, please,” said Miss Lizzie.

  I ordered the same.

  “Tray bone,” he said and then sailed off toward the kitchen.

  Once the waiter had disappeared, I turned to Miss Lizzie. “Why do you think John had so much money in the safe?” I asked her.

  “I can’t imagine,” she said. “He was, to all appearances, a very successful business man. I should think that anyone—anyone legitimate—would be happy to accept his personal check.”

  “Do you think that maybe he was involved with someone who wasn’t legitimate?”

  She smiled. “I think that Mr. Liebowitz is right,” she said. “I think we must make no assumptions until we have some evidence to support them.”

  We had finished our soup and were nearly finished with our main course when Daphne Dale arrived. She swept up to the table in another symphony of silk—white this time: a rakish beret, a finely wrought lace shawl, a slim ivory shift, a pair of creamy white hose, and white patent leather pumps. She still seemed tiny, almost elfin.

  “I am so sorry,” she said in her magnolia drawl. “I was just leaving my apartment when I received a telephone call. Long distance, from Los Angeles. In California?” She had the southern habit of ending some of her sentences with a question mark.

  “It was a movie offer, to tell the truth,” she said, “for my last book, and I simply couldn’t get off the line. Those people refuse to understand that we have lives to lead.” Rounding her cheeks slightly to blow out a faint feminine puff of distaste, she fanned her delicate face with the fingers of her delicate right hand. “I positively ran over here.”

  “That’s quite all right,” said Miss Lizzie. “I am Elizabeth Cabot. You know Amanda, of course. Please do sit down.”

  Miss Dale sat beside me, placed her white leather purse in the empty chair to her left, leaned toward me, and put her hand atop mine, entrapping it. “You poor little thing.” Her eyes narrowed, and her red cupid’s bow of a mouth turned tragically downward. She fluttered her long eyelashes. “This must be simply awful for you, sweetie. If I were in your position, I’d be utterly devastated.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

  She released me, adjusted the shawl at her shoulders, and smiled at Miss Lizzie. “One of those Cabots?” she said. “The Boston Cabots?”

  Miss Lizzie smiled. “For my sins, alas.”

  Miss Dale laughed, a light chime of a laugh that reminded me of small coins tinkling into a cup.

  Our waiter once again materialized at the table and bowed to Miss Dale. “A menu, mamzell?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Do you have any of that lovely caviar? The Russian?”

  “Wee, mamzell. Zee Beluga?”

  “The Beluga, yes. That would be yummy. Is it very cold? I can’t eat it unless it’s very, very cold.”

  “Wee, mamzell. It is on zee ice.”

  “Lovely,” she said. “And a glass of seltzer.”

  “Tray bone, mamzell.”

  As he sailed away, Miss Dale turned to Miss Lizzie. “Aren’t they darling? I just adore that accent. The French have such fabulous style, don’t you think?”

  “Fabulous,” agreed Miss Lizzie, and adjusted her pince-nez.

  “Now,” said Miss Dale, putting her tiny hands together on the table and interlocking her fingers, “how can I help you all?”

  “What we’re attempting to do,” said Miss Lizzie, “is learn as much about John Burton as possible.”

  Miss Dale frowned. “You know,” she said, “Johnny never mentioned having an aunt.”

  “I’m Amanda’s aunt, actually. Her great aunt, on her mother’s side. No blood relation to John.”

  Miss Dale glanced at me with new respect. I had abruptly become a Cabot.

  “I liked John very much,” said Miss Lizzie, “but we were not, I confess, very close. As you may know, the police have no idea who killed him. They have even gone so far as to suspect Amanda.”

  “Well now,” said Miss Dale, “that’s positively silly, isn’t it?” She turned to me and smiled.

  “But it is also potentially dangerous,” said Miss Lizzie. “In order to protect Amanda, we need to discover if there’s anything in John’s past that might have led to his death.”

  “Couldn’t you just hire one of those private detective people? I mean, from what I hear, they’re all dreadful little men, not the kind you’d want to see socially, but they’d probably be useful in a situation like this.”

  “Before I take that step, I should prefer to see what I can learn on my own.”

  “But Miss Cabot—is it Miss or Mrs.?”

  “Miss,” she announced.

  “Miss Cabot, honestly, there simply wasn’t anythin
g. The women all adored Johnny, and the men, all of them, they just envied him to pieces.”

  “But envy,” said Miss Lizzie, “can grow bitter.”

  “Yes, surely, but everyone loved him.”

  “Someone clearly did not. And you have no notion who that might be?”

  She sat back. “Absolutely none. I was completely flabbergasted when I heard. The idea that anyone would want to hurt Johnny just positively boggles the mind.”

  “Do you know of a man named Larry Fay?”

  “Surely. He owns El Fay uptown.” She leaned forward, smiling. “It’s a marvelous place, but I hear that Mr. Fay has an unusual personal history. He’s a bit of a rogue?”

  “What have you heard?”

  “I love this story. Well, apparently, before he owned El Fay, he owned a small taxicab company. The way I heard it, what happened was, one day he drove one of his taxis clear up to the Canadian border—this is all the way from New York City?—and he filled his trunk with liquor. When he got back to New York and he realized how much money he could make from bootlegging, he just never looked back. And now he owns one of the biggest clubs in New York.” She smiled. “Isn’t that a fantastic story?”

  “Extraordinary. Did you know that John knew him?”

  “I’m not surprised. Johnny knew everyone.”

  “Did he ever mention Mr. Fay?”

  “No. And I’d remember if he had, I definitely would. As a writer, that’s the kind of mind I have? I just can’t help it, no matter what I do. Information,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “virtually any information, just sticks right here.” She tapped at the side of her head, to pinpoint the location.

  Miss Lizzie said, “What about a man named Owney Madden?”

  “Well now, I know for a fact that Johnny did know Mr. Madden. He introduced me to him, up at the Cotton Club. That’s this wonderful big speakeasy in Harlem? Very chic. Lovely young darkie girls, a fantastic jazz band.”

  Just then, the waiter arrived with Miss Dale’s caviar. It came heaped in a small crystal bowl nestled inside another crystal bowl, the second packed with shaved ice. Lying alongside the caviar was a small spoon made of horn. Next to the bowl, the man set a platter of buttered toast points, and, beside this, three small plates, one filled with lemon wedges, one with chopped hard-boiled eggs, and one with chopped onion.