New York Nocturne

by Walter Satterthwait

“Anything goes on in this place, I know about it.”

  “John Burton was killed on Friday, with a hatchet. Miss Cartwright was killed today, with a knife.”

  “Yeah. And?”

  “Might there be a connection?”

  “Who knows? Life is complicated. What did you want with Cartwright?”

  “To speak with her.”

  “I guess you can forget about that.” He looked at the fat man and smiled.

  “So it seems,” said Miss Lizzie. “Do you have—”

  Someone knocked at the door.

  Mr. Fay called out, “What?”

  The door opened and the big man poked his head around it. In the brightness of the room, the scar on his face seemed darker. “We got another one,” he said.

  “Who?” said Mr. Fay.

  “A broad. Says she’s with them.”

  “Let her in.” He turned to the fat man. “We got a bus station here.”

  It was Mrs. Parker, wearing a smart black evening dress, black gloves, and a small toque, shiny with black feathers. She stepped into the office, stopped, then looked around the room. She said, “Ain’t this the Ritz.”

  “You want to buy it,” said Mr. Fay, “or you want to take a seat?”

  Mrs. Parker smiled brightly. “I think take a seat.”

  “And you are who?”

  “I’m Mrs. Parker,” she said. “Wonderful to meet you.” She moved to the empty chair beside Miss Lizzie’s. “Sorry I’m late,” she said to her softly, sitting down.

  Mr. Fay looked at his watch again then at Miss Lizzie. “I figure like I’m being very reasonable here. Your five minutes, they’re up already.”

  “Have you any theories,” said Miss Lizzie, “as to who might have killed John Burton?”

  “Yeah, I got a theory. It was a guy with a hatchet.” Smiling, he turned to the fat man. Then he turned to me. “No offense, kid.”

  Mr. Liebowitz said, “Mr. Burton did a lot of traveling.”

  Mr. Fay looked at him. So did the fat man. “That right?” said Mr. Fay.

  “Europe, several times a year. France, Germany. Last year, he went to China.”

  “China. No kidding.”

  It seemed to me that the fat man was watching Mr. Liebowitz very closely.

  “Do you know why?” said Mr. Liebowitz.

  “What am I, a travel agent?” said Mr. Fay. “Maybe he likes noodles.” He glanced at his watch again then turned to Miss Lizzie. “That about it?”

  “Yes.” She rose from her chair. “Thank you very much.”

  The rest of us stood.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Fay. “Tell the waiter I said to put your drinks on the cuff.” He looked at me. “The least I can do, your uncle and all.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  We were nearly at the door when he said, “Hey. One thing.”

  We all turned back to look at him.

  “Yes?” said Miss Lizzie.

  “A lot of people getting popped around here. Burton. The Cartwright broad. Maybe it ain’t such a hot idea to go pokin’ around.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Miss Lizzie. “But I do thank you for your concern.”

  After Mr. Liebowitz retrieved his pistol from the man outside the door, we returned to the table. Our bill was waiting there. Despite Mr. Fay’s instructions, Miss Lizzie lifted it, looked at it, set it back down, opened her handbag, and pulled out a five-dollar bill. She lay that on the table, and then we all went outside to find Robert.

  Within a minute or so, he cruised up to the curb. Mr. Liebowitz, Miss Lizzie, and I sat in the backseat, me in the middle, and Mrs. Parker in the front, across the bench seat from Robert.

  “Hello, Robert,” she said.

  “Evening, ma’am.”

  “Dorothy,” she said.

  The car moved out into the street.

  Mr. Liebowitz said to Miss Lizzie, “He didn’t much care for that question about John Burton’s traveling.”

  “No,” said Miss Lizzie. “He didn’t. And he seemed altogether uninterested in the death of Miss Cartwright.”

  “Yes. But it’s possible that he did know her only as a dancer. As he said, in New York, dancers are a dime a dozen.”

  “Do you dance, Robert?” said Mrs. Parker.

  “No, ma’am.”

  I said, “He told us five minutes, and he let us stay a lot longer than that.”

  “Yes, he did,” said Miss Lizzie. “I suspect that he wished to determine how much we knew.”

  “Which is approximately nothing,” said Mr. Liebowitz.

  “We do know,” she said, “that he was lying about his conversation with John Burton.”

  “Do we actually know that?” said Mr. Liebowitz.

  “As it happens,” she said, “I follow the commodities market. There’s a glut of peanuts just now, worldwide. No one in his right mind would invest in their future, or advise anyone else to invest in them.”

  “Did you know, Robert,” said Mrs. Parker, “that George Washington Carver has invented over three hundred different uses for peanuts?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.”

  “Well, yes, of course you did.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Liebowitz to Miss Lizzie, “Mr. Burton was attempting to put something over on Fay.”

  “Would you attempt to put something over on Mr. Fay?”

  Mr. Liebowitz put his hand on his bald scalp, rubbed it softly, and smiled. “Not without a very large gun in my hand.”

  “Yes,” she said. “There you are.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  We arrived at the Cotton Club at a little after eleven. Dropping us off, Robert told Miss Lizzie that he would park the car, enter the club through the rear, and attempt to find his friend.

  “The game is afoot, Robert,” said Mrs. Parker.

  He grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

  It was a Sunday night, but the people gathered outside the club had evidently not been informed of this. There were as many of them in line as there had been on Friday, and they were just as impatient and just as excited. I saw Mr. Minton, the former prizefighter, standing at the front door in his dinner jacket, and I led the others toward him.

  Tonight’s crowd disliked the breach of etiquette as much as the crowd on Friday. “Get in line!” a man hollered.

  Mr. Minton looked down at me grimly for a moment, and then his face opened in recognition. He smiled, showing the gap in his upper front teeth. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said.

  “Hello, Mr. Minton.”

  He moved down into a crouch, knuckling his left hand against the pavement, and his face grew serious. “Listen,” he said, “I’m real sorry about your uncle. He was a top-notch guy.”

  Unlike Mr. Fay, he seemed genuinely sorry.

  “Thank you,” I told him. “Mr. Minton, we need to talk to Mr. Madden. Is he here tonight?”

  He glanced up at Miss Lizzie, Mr. Liebowitz, and Mrs. Parker.

  “These are friends of mine,” I said.

  He nodded at them, then looked back at me. “I gotta tell ya, sweetheart, Mr. Madden’s a busy guy. Is it something really important?”

  “Yes, it is. Honestly.”

  He nodded again. “Okay. You go inside with your friends, and you talk to Mr. DeMange. You know who he is?”

  “The manager. I met him.”

  “Right. He’ll let you know if it’s okay. Deal?” He held out his big hand.

  I took it. “Yes. Thanks a lot, Mr. Minton.”

  “You bet.” He stood up from the crouch, moving with more effort now. He turned and tugged at the brass door-pull. Once again, the blare of music billowed out onto the pavement.

  At the reception desk stood another large man, one
I didn’t recognize. Like the man who had been here on Friday, he wore a black dinner jacket. He smiled at Mr. Liebowitz and then asked over the music, “You have a reservation, sir?”

  Mr. Liebowitz nodded toward me. “We’re with her.”

  The man looked down at me.

  “May I talk,” I said, raising my voice to be heard, “to Mr. DeMange?”

  He smiled, as though amused to discover that I was capable of speech. “And who are you, little lady?

  “My name is Amanda Burton,” I said, “and I’d like to talk to Mr. DeMange.”

  The man looked at Mr. Liebowitz.

  Mr. Liebowitz smiled. “She’d like to talk to Mr. DeMange.”

  The man looked at Mrs. Parker.

  Mrs. Parker said, “Must I say it, too?”

  He looked back at me. “What was the name again?”

  “Amanda Burton. John Burton’s niece.”

  This time, at the mention of John’s name, there was a flicker of recognition. He nodded. “Wait here,” he said and then glided smoothly away.

  Inside, the band suddenly stopped playing. The audience applauded wildly, whooping and hollering. From the entryway, the noise sounded like the howl of single large, ecstatic beast.

  After a minute or two, Mr. DeMange came looming around the corner, tall and bulky, his long, basset-hound face still looking rumpled. He took in Miss Lizzie and the others, then glanced down at me. When he had first met me, two nights ago, his sad face had abruptly lit up. This did not happen tonight.

  “Amanda,” he said. “How you doing?”

  “I’m okay, thank you.”

  “A tough break what happened to your uncle.”

  “Yes.”

  “We all liked him here.” He looked again at the others then back at me. “What can I do for you?”

  “These are my friends,” I told him. “We’d like to talk to Mr. Madden.”

  “And who are your friends?”

  I introduced them.

  He nodded. “Okee-dokee. What I’m gonna do is get you folks a table, and then I’m gonna talk to Mr. Madden. See if maybe he can spare some time. No promises, right?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Come on in.”

  We followed him into the cavernous room, into the smells of cigars and cigarettes, perfume and cologne, hair spray and perspiration. He led us to a large circular table on the second level of seating, at the arch of the horseshoe-shaped dining area, opposite the stage. Once again, the crowd was entirely white. Like the crowd two nights before, they seemed restive yet energized by some secret feverish expectation. All around us, people leaned toward one another, gaily chattering.

  As we sat down, Mr. DeMange said to me, “I’ll send over the waiter.”

  I thanked him, and off he went, his big ungainly body moving easily through the clutter of customers.

  “Shit,” said Mrs. Parker. She had taken off her gloves, and now she put a cigarette between her lips. “We missed the show.”

  “We didn’t actually come for the show,” said Mr. Liebowitz.

  She searched through her purse. “I wanted to see Robert’s friend.” The tip of the cigarette bobbed as she spoke. “She’s one of the dancers, he said.”

  “And how would you know which of them was Robert’s friend?”

  She had found her lighter. “Easy,” she said, lighting the cigarette. “She’d be the one with the big smile on her face.”

  A waiter, a thin black man, came weaving through the tables, a tray tucked under his left arm, an order book in his right hand. “Evenin’, folks,” he said and turned to Mr. Liebowitz. “What kin I getcha?”

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” he said.

  Miss Lizzie ordered another Ramos gin fizz, Mrs. Parker a Scotch and water. I ordered a Coca-Cola.

  “Got it,” he said and then weaved his way back.

  Miss Lizzie was looking around the room. “An extraordinary place,” she said.

  Mr. Liebowitz smiled. “Nothing like it in Fall River, Miss Borden?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “That’s him, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Parker.

  I looked. Out on the empty dance floor, a man had stopped the waiter, his hand resting lightly on the waiter’s arm, and now he leaned toward him and whispered in his ear. It was the same man I had seen two nights ago, the short, dark-haired, broodingly handsome man who stood very straight. Tonight, he wore another white dinner jacket, as trimly tailored as the first, and beside him stood the woman who had been with him on Friday. Her small, voluptuous body was tightly sheathed in a glistening black silk gown that left her arms and her pale round shoulders bare. It also left bare a large percentage of her chest, which itself took up a large percentage of her body.

  “Yes,” I said to Mrs. Parker.

  As the waiter stalked off, the man and the woman approached our table.

  Mr. Liebowitz stood.

  “Good evening,” said the man. His accent was British, his voice low and silky. He smiled pleasantly at the others. “I’m Owney Madden. Welcome to the club.” He turned to me. “Amanda. We didn’t meet the other night. I regret that. And I deeply regret what happened to your uncle. He was a fine man.”

  I thanked him, then introduced the others.

  To Mrs. Parker, he said, “I’ve read your theatre reviews in Vanity Fair. They’re very well done.”

  She smiled—surprised, I think, at the recognition. “You should tell the owner.”

  “I’m sure that Condé Nast is already aware.”

  Mrs. Parker blinked, cocked her head, and studied Mr. Madden, as though surprised that a club owner would know anything about magazines.

  “Mr. Liebowitz,” said Mr. Madden, putting out his hand, “you’re an associate of Mr. Lipkind’s, I believe?”

  “On occasion,” said Mr. Liebowitz as he took it and shook it.

  “A gifted lawyer,” said Mr. Madden. He held his hand toward the short blonde woman. “This is my friend, Miss Mae West.”

  “Charmed,” she said. She had an accent with which I was then unfamiliar, but I later learned had originated, like Miss West herself, in Brooklyn. Hanging from her neck, dangling between her imposing breasts, was a long strand of large, opalescent pearls.

  Mr. Madden turned back to me. “You wanted to speak with me?”

  “If that’s okay.”

  “Certainly. Come along. We’ll use my office.”

  As I stood up, so did Miss Lizzie.

  Mr. Madden turned to her. “You’re coming as well, Miss Cabot?”

  “I am Amanda’s guardian.”

  He smiled. “Then of course you’re coming.”

  Mr. Liebowitz started to move around the table.

  “Make yourself comfortable, old man,” Mr. Madden told him. “I promise I’ll return these two safely.”

  With a brief glance at Miss Lizzie, Mr. Liebowitz nodded.

  Mr. Madden asked him, “Would you mind terribly if Miss West joined you in the interim? I dislike leaving her alone.”

  “Of course not,” said Mr. Liebowitz.

  “Sure,” said Mrs. Parker, without a great deal of enthusiasm. Her glance moved glumly over the woman’s dress. “Join the party,” she said.

  Miss West smiled. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Mr. Madden turned to her. “I’ll be back shortly, Mae.”

  “Take your time, sweetie,” said Miss West.

  Mr. Madden’s office was bigger than Mr. Fay’s, but it was simple and extremely white—the carpet, the walls, the two long sofas, one on either side of the room, each flanked by white oval end tables. Even the desk, a curved, sweeping piece of gleaming wood, was white. On it was a white telephone, a small white calendar, a notepad of white paper, and a long white pen in a white marble holder. Behind it hung a
pair of long white curtains, drawn shut.

  The only real decoration was a single oil painting on one wall, opposite the desk. Simply framed in wood, about six feet wide and four feet tall, it showed a jolly group of men and women laughing and drinking at a trestle table, green trees and a blue lake visible behind them, a lavish yellow sunlight splashing everywhere.

  “Please,” said Mr. Madden, gesturing toward one of the sofas, “have a seat.”

  We sat down as he moved around behind the desk. He lowered himself into the chair, leaned forward, clasped his hands together on the desktop, looked at me with his sleepy eyes, and said, “Now, how may I help you?”

  “Maybe it would be better,” I said, “if my aunt explained.”

  He turned to Miss Lizzie.

  “As perhaps you know,” she said, “the police have yet to discover who killed John Burton.”

  Mr. Madden nodded.

  “Initially,” she said, “they focused their attention on Amanda.”

  He smiled at me. “Must have been a bit of a bother for you.”

  “Yes,” I said. I remembered what Miss Dale had told us. They say he killed a man. Like her, I found it difficult to believe.

  “And we suspect,” said Miss Lizzie, “that their attention will return to her unless we can discover who was actually responsible.”

  He nodded. “And you propose to do that how, exactly?”

  “By speaking with everyone who knew him. By trying to determine if anyone had a motive for killing him.”

  He shook his handsome head. “Afraid I can’t help you there, Miss Cabot. To the best of my knowledge, John was universally liked. Everyone thought very highly of him.”

  “And yet you had some sort of disagreement with him on Friday night.”

  Smiling, he sat back. “Who told you that?” He turned to me. “Ah. The little exchange in the entryway. Between John and me.”

  “It looked like you were angry with each other,” I explained.

  “It must have.” He turned to Miss Lizzie. “Do you know anything about baseball, Miss Cabot?”

  “Only a very little,” she said.

  “A few weeks ago, John and I made a bet with each other. The Washington Senators have a pitcher named Walter Johnson. He’s quite good, and this year he’s having an exceptional season. I bet John that when the Senators played the Chicago White Sox, Johnson would pitch at least a one-hitter, and possibly a no-hitter. Do you know what that means?”