Too Soon Dead

by Michael Kurland

  Brass said, “They do? Are you sure?”

  Von Pilath moved his head up and down slightly in what was probably a nod. “Through ICPB,” he said.

  “Did you leave the building carrying a brown paper bag?” Brass asked.

  “I was not there all day,” von Pilath said, “until this evening when I was arrested. I have been in—no, I cannot say where. But elsewhere.”

  “If you won’t tell me where you were, was anyone else with you?”

  “I will not—I cannot—say.”

  Brass leaned back and stared at von Pilath. “Your friends at the Verein are thinking of hiring an attorney for you.”

  Von Pilath thought this over for a second. “They should not bother,” he Said. “Either I cannot be convicted for something I did not do, or I can. If I can, it will be because of circumstances over which a lawyer will have little control.”

  “You think you’ll be railroaded?”

  Von Pilath looked puzzled. “Railroaded?”

  “You believe there is a conspiracy to convict you of a crime you did not commit?”

  “I am convinced of it. Regard the evidence which has already been manufactured. The question is, are the New York City police a part of it or are they not?”

  “I think you’ll find that they are not. They have their problems, but railroading the innocent is not among them.”

  “I hope you are right, and that it does not occur that you are the innocent and not I,” von Pilath said.

  Brass thought this over for a moment, then stood up. “Are there any photographers in your group?” he asked.

  “Photographers? No. I don’t think so. No.”

  “Thank you,” Brass said. “I may return later.” He walked to the door, and knocked to be let out.

  Raab slid the panel closed and we exited from our spy room. One of the detectives opened the door for Brass and went in as Brass came out.

  “That was not much help,” Raab said as we walked down the corridor. “Although you certainly got more out of him than we did. Someday I’ll have to have a discussion with you about just what problems the police department has. What was that about photographers? You trying to locate your chubby picture purveyor?”

  “It might be a good idea,” Brass said.

  “Well, maybe. But we’ve got the murderer.”

  “He didn’t do it,” Brass said.

  “So he says,” Raab said. “And you believe him. Why?”

  “I can’t explain it. Just a gut reaction.”

  “Well, you keep your gut reaction, and I’ll keep my bloody knife with his fingerprints on it, and we’ll see which one impresses the jury,” Raab said.

  “What’s ICPB?” I asked.

  “The International Criminal Police Bureau,” Raab told me. “It mainly exists to simplify the exchange of information among police departments around the world.”

  “Is there any truth to what von Whosis said about it?”

  Raab shrugged. “It’s a story that’s going around among the anti-Nazi emigré groups,” he said. “My guess is that Nazi sympathizers here started it themselves to make their enemies afraid to go to the police. The fact is that we are members of ICPB, as are the German national police. Which means that if they request police information about anyone, we are obliged to share it with them—up to a point. But they don’t tell us who to charge with a crime, and we don’t tell them who to beat up.”

  “A succinct way to put it,” Brass said. “Well, it’s heading toward eleven o’clock, and I have a column to write. I think I’ll head off to the Stork Club.”

  “A hard life you lead,” Raab said. “An endless round of gaiety and free booze.”

  Brass put his hand on Raab’s shoulder. “Have you ever noticed,” he said, “that people who work at soda fountains soon lose their taste for ice cream?”

  9

  Brass went to the Stork Club and I headed home to get what was left of a good night’s sleep. My alarm went off at six-thirty, as usual, and I was wide awake before my hand hit the shutoff button. I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I felt like running in place and doing a set of sit-ups, push-ups, and jumping jacks. Perhaps even attempting something that required coordination. Resisting this impulse to do violent physical exercise, I shaved, showered, started the coffee perking, dressed, made my bed and pushed it up into its hiding place in the wall, poured a cup of coffee, and sat down at my typewriter for my morning bout with the saga of Percival. I rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the machine and poised my fingers above the keys.

  I might be awake and alert, but this morning I was not creative. Words would not come. I got up and poured myself another cup of coffee. I sharpened a pencil. I adjusted the window to just the right height. I sat down. I got up and closed the window. I sat down. I opened the window again and stuck my head out to examine the street below. The morning was mild, with a feeling in the air that spring was about to thrust itself upon the city. A chubby man in a tuxedo, top hat, and black tie askew was doing a drunken pavane down the sidewalk below me; he was being extravagantly ignored by the fifteen or so people scurrying to early morning jobs. Gotham.

  Suddenly the events of yesterday came back to me. All of them, all at once, and I knew why I was wide awake. My unconscious must have been pondering them all night. Now, with the coming of day, my unconscious handed the memories back to me. William Fox. The Widow Fox. Max von Pilath. I felt overwhelmed and in need of answers.

  I was not going to work on my book this morning. I would take a long walk, heading for the office in some roundabout way, and try to think things out as I walked. It worked for Brass, it should work for me. I put on my jacket, decided that spring had indeed arrived and I didn’t need an overcoat, grabbed my hat, and went downstairs. I went over to Central Park West and turned downtown, walking on the park side of the street. Before I could think of the answers, I would have to formulate the questions. But, aside from the obvious ones of who killed William Fox and who took the dirty pictures, none came to mind. And neither of those presented obvious solutions.

  I stopped for a hot dog and an orange drink at the Seventy-second Street entrance to the park, where a vendor had set up his cart in hopes of catching the early morning hot dog crowd. My alfresco breakfast warmed and cheered me, but my thoughts kept spiraling around the questions I was trying to analyze. Aside from realizing within the first few blocks that I should have taken an overcoat, I came to no conclusions. Half an hour later, when I reached the World building, I had several ideas, but none reasonable enough to suggest to Brass. I won’t embarrass myself by going over them, but if I say that one of them involved a hot-air balloon, you see what I mean. My only fairly respectable notion was to go to the various subjects of our collection of dirty pictures and ask them if they had any idea of who had been taking snapshots of them while they were otherwise engaged. But Brass would not approve. Fine. Then let him think of something.

  It was ten after eight when I pushed through the door to the office. Gloria was already at her desk. She was wearing a dress that I would call tan, but I guess she would call beige, and a necklace of some sort of thick beads, and had managed her usual trick of looking simultaneously desirable and untouchable. The sound of typing was coming from the inner hall.

  Gloria looked up. “You’re here early,” she said. “Let me guess. You hocked your overcoat to pay your gambling debts and your landlady kicked you out when you couldn’t make the rent. Right?”

  “Very good,” I said. “And now, for the grand prize: If the plural of goose is geese, what’s the plural of gooseberry?”

  “Jam,” she said.

  “Congratulations! You’ve won a one-way trip on the day boat to Albany, steerage class, bring your own lunch.” I tossed my hat on the peg. “You’re a bit early yourself. What’s happening?”

  “Cathy couldn’t sleep, so we came to work,” she told me.

  The typewriter in the hall stopped banging, and a few seconds later a somber-loo
king Cathy Fox appeared in the inner doorway. She was wearing a black skirt and jacket and a little black cloche hat with her hair tucked up inside it or around it or however women do these things. “Good morning, Mr. DeWitt,” she said. “Where do you keep your typewriter ribbons?”

  “In the closet,” I said. “On one of the shelves in back. How are you feeling this morning?”

  “I’m not feeling this morning,” she said. “I’m keeping busy so that I won’t feel. Gloria said I should stay at her place today, but I didn’t want to be alone. I hope Mr. Brass has a lot for me to do. I hope it has something to do with—with…” She stopped speaking and moving and stared at me, unable to finish the sentence.

  I wanted to offer some word of comfort, but nothing came to mind that wouldn’t have sounded trite or patronizing or just stupid. “I hope so too,” I said, and sort of patted her on the shoulder as I walked by, headed for my office.

  Brass came in around ten-thirty and greeted each of his minions as he made his way to his office. I gave him a couple of minutes to get settled and then went in after him. He was standing behind his desk staring out the window at the Hudson River. “There must be something in the air,” I said. “Gloria and Cathy were here before me, and I was here two hours early. And now you’re an hour ahead of your usual time.”

  “I’ll try not to make a habit of it,” Brass said. “I stopped at the medical examiner’s on my way here. They’ll release Fox’s body today. I’ll have to find out what Mrs. Fox wants done with it.”

  “How quickly a person becomes an it,” I said.

  Brass sat on the edge of his desk. “Momentary emotion, no matter how sincere, is not a good basis for a philosophy,” he told me. “It also creates lousy legislation.” He pointed a finger toward the door. “Get her. I’ll do it now.”

  I went to the little alcove that contained the spare typewriter and Cathy Fox, and told her that the boss wanted to see her. She straightened her jacket, touched her hat to make sure it hadn’t disappeared, and went through into his office. I followed.

  Brass motioned her to a seat. “I’ve made arrangements for the Campbell Funeral Home to pick up William’s body,” he told her. “If you approve.”

  Cathy nodded. “They did Rudolph Valentino,” she said. “I was thirteen. I stood in line for three hours to see him.” She took a deep breath. “Do you suppose anyone will stand in line to see William?” She was fighting down some powerful emotion, but she was fighting it successfully.

  “He had a lot of friends,” I said.

  Cathy looked at me, and then turned back to Brass. “Do you think there’s a heaven?” she asked him.

  Brass took Cathy’s hand. “Whether or not there is a heaven,” he told her, “we live on in the memory of those who love us. As long as you are alive, William Fox is immortal.”

  I thought she’d burst out crying, and so did she for a second, but she gulped twice and nodded.

  Gloria appeared in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, but the bund is here to see you,” she told Brass.

  “What bund?” Brass asked.

  “I don’t know,” Gloria said. “There are four Germans out front who want in. They seem agitated, but not dangerous.”

  “What do they want?”

  “They want to see you about Max von Pilath,” Gloria said. “They said you’d know who he is. Who is Max von Pilath?”

  “The police arrested him last night for the murder of William Fox—”

  Cathy jumped to her feet.

  “—but I don’t think he did it.” Brass patted Cathy on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. It isn’t going to be that easy.”

  Cathy sat back down.

  Brass moved to his desk and lowered himself gingerly into his chair. “Bring them in,” he said.

  The four men came in and ranged themselves in front of Brass’s desk. Gloria introduced them from left to right. “Mr. Schulman, Mr. Grosfeder, Mr. Eisen, Mr. Keis—Mr. Brass.”

  Brass nodded. “My associates,” he said, waving an arm in our direction. “Mr. DeWitt and Mrs. Fox. You know Miss Adams.”

  Gloria and I pulled some chairs from the far wall to the front of the desk, but our guests remained standing. Grosfeder, the erstwhile German journalist, we’d met earlier. Schulman was a small man in a tweed suit with leather patch pockets, leather patches at the elbows, and leather trim. He had a spade beard and eyes that protruded slightly from his head and never stayed still. Eisen was tall, dressed in an ill-fitting black suit, white shirt, and black bow tie, and seemed to be leaning forward even when he was standing still. He gave the impression that whatever he put on would look ill-fitting after he had been wearing it for an hour. Keis—pronounced to rhyme with ice—was a portly man wearing a shiny blue suit and black shoes that were either patent leather or very well shined. He looked as though any second he was going to try to sell you something.

  Grosfeder turned to look at Cathy. “Mrs. Fox?” he asked. “You are a relation of the poor man who was murdered in our offices, yes? His wife, perhaps?”

  Cathy nodded without speaking.

  “You have our most deep sympathies, I assure you,” Grosfeder told her. He turned back to Brass. “We, my associates and I, are here as supplicants. We wish you to aid us, to advise us, and we can offer little in return.”

  “You can start by sitting down,” Brass told him. “All of you. It makes me nervous to have people looming over me while we talk.”

  They sat down.

  “Grosfeder told us of meeting you last evening,” Keis said, “and so we decided to come see you.”

  Schulman leaned forward. “I’ve read your column, Mr. Brass,” he said. “You use your superior writing skills to write pap for the bourgeoisie, and parade for them tales of people they cannot be and places they cannot go and things they cannot do. Do you consider this socially relevant? Do you not agree that the writer’s only important function is to educate the masses?”

  “Schulman!” Grosfeder leaned over and put his hand on Schulman’s arm. “Don’t start! You agreed—”

  “That’s all right,” Brass said, leaning back in his chair and fixing his gaze on the little man in the tweed suit. “Those who refer to other people as ‘the masses’ usually have small regard for them as individuals. Those who write to polemicize rather than entertain usually succeed in doing neither.” He looked around at the rest of the German contingent. “Now, did you want to discuss something with me?”

  The four looked at one another and began talking German. The conversation began quietly enough, but hand gestures were quickly added, and it grew louder by the second. Brass waited patiently for about a minute, and then opened the side drawer in his desk, took out a silver whistle, and blew one piercing blow.

  Silence.

  Brass jiggled the whistle between his hands. “This was given to me by FDR when he was governor of New York,” he said. “For helping to blow the whistle on organized crime. It was quite a ceremony. There were, I believe, five whistles given out. I haven’t noticed any reduction in organized crime, but I suppose it’s the symbolism that counts.” He tossed the whistle back into the drawer. “It’s the first time I’ve used it.”

  “You will forgive us,” Grosfeder said, doing his best to bow an apology from a sitting position. “We are not used to working together on anything. It is why we accomplish so little.” This threatened to set off another round of German vocal exercise, but Grosfeder managed to squelch it before it got out of hand. When silence again reigned, he nodded to the man on his left. “You will speak what is necessary for us, Professor Eisen, yes?”

  Eisen nodded and stood up. “I apologize for our uncivility,” he said. “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Brass. You, through your writings, have done much to teach we poor, confused émigrés what it means to live in America.”

  Brass looked up with his “don’t kid a kidder” expression, his hands wide apart on the desk, a broad smile on his face. “Yes, valuable lessons about American life,” he said. “
Gangsters, bootleggers, chorus girls, crooked politicians, nightclubs—”

  “That is not the lesson,” Professor Eisen said, jumping in as Brass paused to take a breath. “You write also about the good things of America: about people of different nationalities working together, about a policeman who climbs a tree to rescue a kitten for a little girl.”

  “Oh yes, the kitten story,” Brass said. “I got more letters about that—But the point of the story was that the cop got stuck up the tree himself, and they had to call the fire department to get him down.”

  “Your point, perhaps,” Professor Eisen said. “But a policeman who rescues kittens is not a policeman who breaks windows and beats people up because they are socialists or communists or Jews.” Eisen sat down as though he were suddenly very tired.

  Keis buttoned the top button of his blue suit jacket, sat up straight, and took a deep breath. “The truth is, Mr. Brass, that we are afraid of asking your help,” he said. “But then, we are afraid of everything. We have learned to live with fear, as others learned to live with a toothache or a wooden leg. But constant fear is a debilitating disease, and its primary symptoms are indecision and uncertainty. And so we go around even more indecisive and ineffectual than usual, and bicker among ourselves because there is a certain amount of pleasure in being able to yell at someone and a certain amount of safety in not agreeing on any course of action.”

  “What are you afraid of,” Brass asked, “and in what way do you think I can help?”

  “That is two separate questions,” Grosfeder broke in. “What we want you to do is investigate the murder of William Fox, and show—prove—that Max von Pilath had nothing to do with it. In which fact, I assure you, there is nothing but truth.”

  “It is that the police are holding von Pilath under the suspicion of murdering William Fox,” Professor Eisen said. “And it is that Max von Pilath is not capable of killing anyone, and besides had absolutely no reason to wish this New York World reporter harm. But it is also that we would not be useful in speaking to the police. They will put his name on the ICPB, and the Berlin police—Max is from Berlin—will discover several crimes for which he is suspected, or even possibly convicted. And if we try to help directly, the results will be the same. I will become a bank robber in Frankfurt. My friend Keis here will be a man who molests small children in Munich. Perhaps the German police will even demand that we be exported.”