I took the stool at the end of the bar closest to the door and waved the bartender over. He was a young man, barely out of his teens, with troubled eyes and a thin mustache. He carried himself as if he thought he was too good for the job, and maybe he was. There’d been a lot of that going around since the stock market crashed in twenty-nine.
He sauntered over. “Give me a one and one,” I said. “House whiskey’s fine.”
He set me up. “Just get into town?” he asked.
I tossed back the whiskey, picked up the chaser, and downed it too. “Keep ‘em coming and hold off on the gab.” I pushed the glasses toward him and added, “I’m not feeling very sociable tonight.”
***
I woke up in bed, in my underwear. I had vague memories of an angry Mary finding me in the bar. I’d rambled on about Ed and cried on her shoulder. I couldn’t say how I got up to our room. I didn’t care. My head was two sizes too big for my shoulders, my stomach churned, and my mouth tasted like I’d spent the evening snacking on an uncooked rat.
Light seeped in around the edge of the draperies. I couldn’t tell if it was morning or afternoon. I found my glasses and got out of bed, careful not to jar my head.
I heard movement to my right and when I glanced up I saw Mary walking toward me. She had a scowl on her face, or maybe it was a look of pity.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Noon.”
“Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”
“I tried. You were out cold.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me too.”
There was a knock on the door and Mary said, “Come in.” The door opened and the bell boy walked in. When he saw me he averted his eyes. “Which bags are going?” he asked.
She pointed next to the door. “Those two there.”
The boy picked up the bags and scurried out of the room. “Going somewhere?” I asked.
“Back to New York.”
“Why?”
She took her cigarettes and a lighter from her purse and gave me a look that seemed to say, “You don’t know?” After she lit up I waited for her to offer me one. She didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask.
“You told me you quit drinking,” she said.
“I’ve been grieving over all the murder and mayhem that seems to have invaded my life. I think I deserve a bender.”
“Maybe,” she said. “I feel bad about Ed, and about Helen. And about everything that’s happened to you. But I can’t handle the drinking. Besides, I think I can do more for you in New York. I want this to end, Jim. You were right. If you go to Key West, and I go back and work on getting the police to realize you couldn’t have killed Belcher, we can bring this nightmare to an end. You need to get this whole thing worked out as soon as possible, Jim.”
“I thought we decided it would be best if we traveled as a couple.”
Mary checked her watch. “After breakfast I checked out the depot. There was hardly a copper to be found. And there’s nothing about you in the local papers.”
“What about us?” I took a step toward her but she held out a hand to stop me. “I’m sorry Jim. I’ll do everything I can to help set things right for you. I just don’t think it’s going to work between us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
By the time my train reached Key West I was feeling so sorry for myself that I wondered why I’d even bothered to make the trip. I thought maybe I should have stayed home and let the coppers have their way with me.
I could see the docks as I stepped off the train. Sailing schooners, sponge boats and fishing boats bobbed in the harbor. The air was filled with the sounds of steam engines, motor boats, and children playing. The smell of fish and diesel oil made my nose twitch.
I found a cab waiting outside the station. The ten-year-old Ford had a dented front fender on the passenger side, ample rust, and could have used a good cleaning. The driver was a taciturn man with a long drawn face, greasy hair, and sweat stains along the back of his shirt and under his arms. He kept an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth and spoke with a thick Spanish accent.
When I explained that I wanted to go to the Colonial Hotel, he grabbed my bags and tossed them into the trunk without saying a word. The manager of the hotel I’d stayed at in Miami recommended the Colonial, assuring me that with its marble floors, private baths, and elevators, it was the only place to stay.
I assumed that meant it was the most expensive place in Key West. That concept was beginning to feel okay to me. After all, if I survived this whole ordeal I would be a rich man. If I didn’t, I would have no need for money anyway.
I climbed into the car. “Do you know where Ernest Hemingway lives?”
“Everybody in town knows. It is number eighteen on official tourist list for Key West. Mr. Hemingway was not happy about that. He put up a fence to keep out the tourists.”
“Can you drive past the house on the way to the hotel?”
He nodded, put the car in gear, and took off with a lurch. As we drove I kept my eye out for Greeley or Boyle. Most of the houses were one story bungalows with large front porches. Many were in need of maintenance and painting. I seemed to remember reading somewhere that Key West had been one of the hardest hit cities in the United States after the crash.
Two minutes later we turned and slowed down as the driver pointed to a two story white-washed house on our right. It had large windows and looked as if the shutters were recently painted. A new brick fence ran around the estate, and several people were milling about, trying to look into the yard. There was even a trio of young Negro boys tap-dancing on the sidewalk while a fourth entrepreneur shook a tin can in the direction of the gawkers.
Once we passed the house, the driver made a right turn, then a left onto Duval Street. According to him, we were only four blocks away from the hotel. I figured I was home safe. I was dead wrong. As we came up on the El Anon ice cream parlor I caught sight of Mike Boyle and Hank Greeley. They were sitting at one of the outdoor tables drinking beer, and chatting like long lost friends.
I slid down into the seat and took another peek at the two men. They weren’t looking toward my cab and gave no indication they had seen me, but I kept a low profile until we pulled up in front of the Colonial Hotel on Fourth and Duval.
At seven stories, it was the tallest building in Key West. The lobby was a mixture of dark woods, marble tile, and thick lush carpeting. It was what your typical New York visitor might expect in a hotel. I felt out of place, but I wasn’t going to move with Boyle and Greeley sitting together a few blocks down the street.
After registering I followed the bellhop up to my room. “I don’t suppose Ernest Hemingway hangs out at the bar downstairs, does he?” I asked.
“You a friend?”
“No,” I admitted. “I want to talk to the man.”
“I saw him in here once, with some friends,” the boy said. “Best bet would be to catch him down the street at Joe Russell’s place, Sloppy Joes. He’s there most nights when he’s in town.”
“How do I get there?”
“It’s about three blocks from here. Head up Duval toward the harbor to Green Street,” he said. “Turn left and Sloppy Joes is right there. Mr. Hemingway’s there most nights.”
I tossed him two bits and almost before I could say thanks he was out of the room. Guess he didn’t want me to change my mind.
I missed Mary, but I tried to push thoughts of what might have been from my mind. She hadn’t left any hope on that front. The relationship was over. Now it was time for me to worry about Henry Greeley.
I had hoped that if I stuck a gun in Greeley’s face he might cave when I confronted him with the facts. Now that I knew Boyle was in town playing buddy-buddy with the man, I wasn’t so sure. It was beginning to look more and more like Greeley had paid off Boyle. At least if I got arrested I could point out to the local coppers that Boyle was a wanted man in New York. It would be almost as satisfying taking down Ed’s killer as bringin
g down Greeley.
It was a god-awful hot, muggy day. I needed to cool off more than anything. I undressed, called down and made arrangements for the clothes I’d worn for most of the trip to be picked up and cleaned, and ran myself a bath.
Around six-thirty, at the recommendation of the desk clerk, I found my way up to the roof where the management had set out about a dozen chairs for the guests to watch the coming sunset over the Gulf of Mexico.
The rooftop offered a grand view of the surrounding city and the harbor. Fishing boats were heading in, trying to beat the night, while the docks bristled with activity. I was the only one up there, and I settled into a chair and gazed out at the waning sun. As much as I tried, I couldn’t get my mind off Mary.
After the sun dipped into the Gulf, I went downstairs to the restaurant and ordered a medium rare steak with a baked potato and a slice of Key Lime pie for dessert. I had never tasted anything quite like the tart ambrosia, and as I sat there trying to overcome the discomfort of eating too much, I realized I sort of liked this town.
Over the last few years I’d become uneasy with the direction my life had taken. I still enjoyed the thrill of chasing down a story, but I’d grown weary of the criminals and the corrupt politicians who stoked the fire behind those stories. For a moment I tried to picture myself lost in the slow paced life of Key West, but I realized I didn’t like the town that much. I was a big city boy used to the hustle and bustle that was New York.
***
Sloppy Joes Bar was a run-down joint, just blocks from my hotel. The inside was as shabby as the outside and smelled of sweat, tobacco, and grease. The place was teaming with local businessmen, clerks, and fishermen.
Behind the huge curved bar a large Negro bartender served up drinks. I paid fifteen cents for a whiskey, then thought better of it and pushed it aside. I stood at the bar and looked out over the crowd. I had never felt so isolated and alone in my life.
Most of the men were drinking hard, but it was early and I suspected it would get rowdy as the night wore on. At a table in the back of the room I could see Ernest Hemingway talking with another man.
Hemingway was a few years older than me and looked like the pictures I’d seen of him: dark mustache, trim, with rugged good looks. The other man was thin and wiry with a ruddy complexion. As I watched, a third man walked up and sat down between the two men. His hair was beginning to thin; he wore a full bushy beard, and puffed on a cigar. I’d seen a picture of him somewhere, but I couldn’t place a name to the face.
I looked around the room and made sure nobody was paying attention to me. I took a deep breath, left my drink sitting on the bar, and walked over to their table.
I stopped alongside his chair. “Mister Hemingway, I was wondering if I might speak with you?”
Ernest Hemingway looked up at me. His eyes were still clear, but judging from the number of empty glasses in front of him, I doubted they’d stay that way.
“Do I know you, sir?” he asked.
“My name is Jim Locke. We met several years ago up in New York City.”
Hemingway shook his head and said, “Never heard of you.”
“That guy bothering you, Mister Hemingway?” a voice called out from behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw the big Negro moving out from behind the bar. I hadn’t realized how huge the man was until I saw him walking toward me. I weighed a hundred and seventy pounds, while the Negro must have weighed in at three hundred pounds. If I couldn’t convince Hemingway to listen to me, I suspected the Negro was going to toss me out on my ass.
“I’m the man who called you the other day and warned you someone was trying to kill you,” I said.
“You didn’t tell us someone was trying to kill you, Ernest,” the wiry man said, as a massive black hand clamped onto my arm.
“It’s been three days since this man called and I’m still alive, Joe. No one has tried to kill me. No one has even approached me except this man.”
Joe waved a hand toward the colored guy and said, “Let him go, Big.” He used his foot to push the remaining chair away from the table and said, “Have a seat, Jim. Tell me about this man who wants to kill our friend. Big, bring the man a drink.”
“I’ll have a beer,” I said.
“Your whiskey is still on the counter,” said the man referred to as Big.
“The man wants a beer, bring him a beer,” the bearded man across from me said. He was staring at me and his eyes seemed to say “I know you.” I hoped he didn’t.
I looked away from him and Joe said, “I’m Joe Russell, I own this joint. This here is Waldo Peirce. He’s an artist.”
I shook hands all the way around, and Peirce said, “I’m a painter, not an artist.”
“Indeed,” Hemingway’s mouth turned up into a smile. “He’s been referred to as the Ernest Hemingway of American painters.”
Peirce took the cigar from between his teeth, pointed it at Hemingway, and then looked at me. “One lousy reporter referred to me that way, and Ernest hasn’t stopped gloating since he read about it. Truth of the matter is; I’m a better painter than he is a writer.”
Hemingway laughed, and then signaled to the bartender for another round of drinks. “In your dreams, Waldo,” he said.
The Negro returned to the table carrying my beer and fresh drinks for the others. Waldo Peirce grabbed a glass and tipped it toward Hemingway. “To Ernest, may he survive the wrath of another disappointed reader.”
Russell and Hemingway picked up their glasses and all three men looked at me. I grabbed my beer, tilted it toward the others, and took a swig. The three friends downed their shots as one and slammed their glasses onto the table.
“Any excuse for a toast in this mob,” Russell said. “Now, who’s trying to kill Ernest?”
I told them about finding a copy of The Sun Also Rises dedicated to Henry Greeley, and how Greeley had written ‘Liar’ several times across Hemingway’s note. I mentioned my fears that he had killed Helen and the other actresses, but left out the fact I was the number one suspect in Helen’s death. When I finished my story all eyes at the table turned to Hemingway.
“I didn’t remember the guy at first.” Hemingway pointed at me. But when Jim here called, I went through my files and found the letter from this Greeley fellow. He claimed he met me in Europe and that I was his ambulance driver when he was hurt. Claimed he was the model for Jake Barnes. Said something about ruining his life by making it public. I tell you I never heard of the guy before then. He’s a nutcase.”
“I did some research on Doctor Greeley,” I said. “He was badly injured in the war. He was awarded the Distinguished Cross for heroism during the Second Battle of the Marne.”
“There you go,” Hemingway said. “I was in a hospital in Italy when that action took place.”
“That the story about the guy who lost his manhood in the war?” Peirce asked.
“It is,” Hemingway said. “If the guy thinks he was the real Jake Barnes, why is he killing these women? He can’t have sex with them. Jake was always the perfect gentleman.”
I shrugged. “The first woman who was killed, Anna Ingerson, was engaged to Henry Greeley before the war. She broke it off with him sometime after he returned to the States. She married another man several years later and the two of them were murdered shortly after they were married.”
“Greeley’s Lady Ashley,” Peirce said.
Hemingway turned to his friend. “You did read the book.”
Peirce cleared his throat and said, “I might have skimmed through it at one time or another, it’s unimportant.”
“I found a copy of your book among my sister’s belongings,” I said. “There was a note written in it. I can’t remember the exact wording, but there was something about him being her Jake Barnes and her being his Brett, Lady Ashley.”
“Odd,” said Russell. “Why would he refer to your sister like that? He’d have to be stone crazy.”
“How many women did you say
this fiend murdered?” asked Peirce.
“Four that I know of, plus the first woman’s husband.” I took out my cigarettes, offered them around, and when they declined I lit one for myself.
Peirce pushed his ashtray into the middle of the table. “What I don’t understand,” he said, “Is why this Greeley character wasn’t arrested up in New York?”
“I don’t know.” I wasn’t about to tell them it was because I was the primary suspect. Although they appeared to be pleasant enough company, I suspected they would turn on me in a minute if they found out the coppers had me pegged for Helen’s murder.
“You must have some idea?” Hemingway said.
“For some reason Michael Boyle, he’s the primary investigator on my sister’s case, refused to consider Greeley to be a suspect. He also claims that he’s never come across a multiple murderer who singles out women and butchers them. I think Greeley may be paying him off.”
“You have proof of this?” Peirce asked.
“No,” I admitted. “But I saw the two of them sitting in front of an ice cream store drinking beer this afternoon. I came down here to confront Greeley. I’m sure he killed my sister, I just can’t prove it.”
“Are you here to prove this man killed your sister, or for the story?” Hemingway asked.
“I don’t give a damn about the story.”
“Then you’re not much of a reporter,” Hemingway said. “The story always comes first.”
“I’m a damn good newspaperman.” I leaned forward in my chair. “The problem is, I was a sad excuse for a brother. I’m trying to change that, even if it’s a little late to do Helen any good.”
The Storm Killer Page 20
