by Michael Mayo
The Cadillac stayed even or ahead of us until Frenchy turned on Forty-Third Street and then went into the service entrance. I got down and banged on a metal door. A guy in coveralls with the name FRANKIE stitched on the chest answered. I told him Ellis sent us. He pointed us toward the hall that led to the lobby. Frenchy asked if it was OK to leave the truck there. I gave Frankie a buck, and he said he’d watch it.
While the guys unloaded the stuff, I asked Frankie if he had a phone line to the Cloud Club. He said that he did, and I gave him a five to let us know when anybody else showed up.
Nothing had changed on the sixty-sixth floor. I still couldn’t get over how small the place was. Sure, they’d done a great job with the fancy ceilings, and the bar had a gentlemen’s club feeling, but the selling point of the place was the elevation and the view, and the windows weren’t that big. Maybe it meant enough to the members that they were up there above it all and the rest of us unwashed hoi polloi weren’t bothering them.
Not that I was really worried about such things that night. Like I said, I didn’t really have a plan, so first I had to figure out how we’d spread out and where we’d set up the dirty loot. Seemed to make sense to me that we act like we actually worked there. That meant Fat Joe stayed at the door. Frenchy and Marie Therese were behind the bar. Connie took the little coatroom and found the telephone switchboard there. We put the cases of Gordon’s on the floor and the two boxes of waxed cash on the bar. Frenchy pried open the first box again, and we left the chunks of wax that they’d separated on top of the bar. Malloy and I went up to the top floor of the restaurant and checked to see where the doors were, which ones were locked, and where they led.
The stairs and elevators were in the center. We couldn’t find any doors on the exterior walls, but there were odd-shaped little closets and cabinets, some locked. We also found buckets and wet spots on the floor from all the leaks in those weird windows, I guess. They made the footing treacherous in places. Malloy and I took the stairs up through the kitchen to the observatory. Not much light was coming through the narrow triangular windows. Malloy found the switch and turned on the screwy fixtures that looked like planets and stars. Again, there didn’t appear to be anyplace a guy could hide up there, but some of the windows could be opened.
I was ready to leave when Malloy said he wanted to look around.
“You know, we came up on one elevator to the fifty-seventh floor, I believe it was, and we took another to this overweening farrago they call their Cloud Club—‘Cloud Club’ my bleeding ass—but if we are to be having visitors who might wish us harm, I’d like to know more about the floors directly below us, particularly the one with the gargoylian eagles at the corners.”
It was a good idea, but with my leg it would take too long to get down the stairs. “OK,” I said, “make it snappy.”
He zipped down the stairs.
Gargoylian—what the hell was that?
Back in the Cloud Club, Connie said, “Frankie called. There’s a guy on his way up.”
There was no place I could sit where I could watch everything, so I took a four-top in a corner where I could see the bar and one set of elevators. Fat Joe was watching the elevators and stairs on the other side. I took out the little Smith and checked the load. Like me, Fat Joe kept an empty chamber. I cocked the pistol to put a round under the hammer and laid it on the table close to my hand. It was in plain sight. Just wanted to let everyone know that I was taking this seriously. It’s been my experience that a pistol in a holster or a pocket makes a damn poor defensive weapon.
I heard the elevator working and felt the vibration of it through the soles of my shoes. It stopped, the doors opened, and Fat Joe grunted. Johann Klapprott, cool as you please, strolled around the corner. Fat Joe patted him down and said he was clean. The German glanced at the pistol and a tiny smile lifted the corner of his mouth. He checked his hat and Malacca with Connie and nodded to Frenchy and Marie Therese, taking an extra moment to check out the crate and yellow oilcloth. He turned to me and said, “May I join you?”
I nodded to the empty chair. He sat, glanced at the crates again, and said, “First, I must apologize for what went on this morning. I was told by the party that responsibility had been transferred to the Chicago organization and I was to introduce you to them. I had no idea that Luther intended to do you harm, and I am reconsidering my association with them.”
“And you had nothing to do with dosing the coffee.”
He shrugged as if it meant nothing. “A simple precaution, but not, I understand, an effective one. I advised against it, but the people from Chicago insisted. Do you suppose they stock Steinhäger in this establishment?”
“Try the Gordon’s.” I nodded to Frenchy. He poured gin over ice in a short glass and brought it over. I wasn’t buying Klapprott’s story and the way he was making nice, but I figured it was good to have him right there where I could see him.
Klapprott sipped, crossed his legs, and leaned back. “The young man who claims to be the rightful owner or, I suppose, inheritor of the money in question will be here soon. I have seen—” He stopped and appeared worried. “What is that object?” waving toward the messy waxy oilcloth.
“If your young fellow can explain that, it’ll go a long way toward supporting his claim, but I doubt that Justice Schilling or Justice Saenger will be joining us.”
“Is that Klapprott?” I hadn’t heard or seen Ellis approach, but there he was by the bar. He handed over his hat and overcoat to Connie and sat with us. I gave Fat Joe the high sign, and he poured another gin for the detective.
I made the introductions. “Johann Klapprott, Detective William Ellis. Ellis, Klapprott.” They didn’t shake hands. Ellis didn’t waste any time.
“What is your connection to the 115 warehouse on the wharf off South Street?”
“My firm represents the owners, Herr Schmidt and Herr Watts, in matters involving real estate and investments.”
“What do you or they know about two murders that took place there Tuesday night?”
“Nothing.” Klapprott was unruffled. “I do know that my clients own those properties, but even if they are suspected of any involvement in the incident, my firm does not handle criminal cases.”
About then it came to me that nobody had called to say that Ellis was on his way up. I interrupted and asked if he came in through the Forty-Third Street entrance and saw Frankie downstairs. Before he could answer, the elevator doors opened.
Jacob the Wise and Mercer Weeks walked in.
It was a strange moment, seeing how the four of them reacted to one another.
You had Weeks and Ellis, a strong-arm enforcer and a cop. As I saw it, they did the same job on opposite sides of the street. The few times I’d seen them in my place at the same time, they avoided each other without making a point of it, and I had the idea they respected each other.
With Weiss and Klapprott, it was the opposite. The German’s back stiffened and his normally bemused expression twisted into naked contempt. Jacob Weiss read it right away. He was looking at a guy who hated Jews and didn’t care who knew it. You could tell they’d be after each other soon enough.
Jacob was wearing a decent suit, and he had a big Havana fired up. Weeks cased the room quickly, establishing where everybody was. He noted the pistol on the table in front of me and took a longer look at the crate on the bar. He and Jacob went over to it. While Weeks read the Railway Express label, Jacob picked up one of the wads of waxy bills. You could tell it was money if you were looking for it. After a few seconds he put it down, frowning around the cigar and sniffing at his fingers. He cleaned them off with his pocket square and muttered, “What the hell is this?”
“That’s what we’re here to establish,” I said. Then I asked Connie, “Have you heard anything from Frankie downstairs?”
She shook her head. I asked Ellis again if he’d seen Frankie. He s
aid no. I heard fast footsteps on the stairs, and Malloy, breathing hard, ran into the room. He had his Luger out.
“We have company,” he said between breaths, “a lot of company.”
Malloy had gone down four or five floors, where they had normal offices. He didn’t see anybody working in any of them. At that hour, all of them were dark. But he heard somebody, at least two groups of guys.
The first were men’s voices close and distinct. They were on the far side of a corner and Malloy ducked into a men’s room. He heard at least two guys who’d taken the elevator up to the fifty-seventh but didn’t understand where they were and couldn’t figure how to get to the other elevator. They were arguing about what to do, and it sounded to him like they’d decided to take the stairs, if they could find them. Then they shut up because they and Malloy heard somebody else. Mind you, Malloy didn’t actually see any of these guys, but that didn’t matter.
The second group got off the elevator, and even though one of them was trying to quiet the others, Malloy could hear enough.
“They’re Krauts,” he said, “and I’m certain they’re some of the same schnitzel-eaters who frequented the 115 warehouse late on the moonless nights, the same ones who set upon Mr. Quinn this morning.”
His voice chilly, Klapprott said that they might be his colleagues. I asked how they knew to come to the Chrysler Building.
He shrugged. “Who can say? They have been talking to people on the telephone at my office all afternoon and evening.”
Jacob the Wise snorted. “This guy says it’s his dough?”
“No, I am simply here to warn Mr. Quinn that my former associates mean him harm.”
Jacob turned back to the bar and said to nobody in particular: “What the hell did you do to my money?”
I said, “Is it your money? How do you know?”
Weeks said, “Label says it came from Denver. That’s enough for us.”
I heard the elevator doors on the other side open, and there was some commotion. A few seconds later, Fat Joe shoved two guys into the room.
I’d seen one of them a couple of days before on street level when he followed me up Lexington from my place. It was the gaunt guy in the gray canvas jacket and black cap. The other one looked a lot like him and was also wearing tradesman’s clothes. I was pretty sure their last name was Saenger. They took one look at Ellis and saw that he was a cop right away.
I said to Ellis, “I think you’re gonna find these two are related to the guy you’ve got at Bellevue, the guy who broke into my room. They might also have something to do with the dead guy who set the bomb.”
They started squawking that they didn’t know anything about breaking and entering or bombs. Ellis cut them off and demanded to see identification. Each of them handed over a thin wallet. Ellis went through their pockets and found several others. He sat them down at a two-top.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.
They looked at each other, trying to figure out what they could get away with. Finally, the one who’d followed me said that Pauley Domo told them to come there. He said he had a job and offered each of them twenty bucks. All they had to do was carry some boxes.
They were interrupted by a ringing telephone in the coat closet. Connie answered, listened for a moment, and said, “It’s Frankie from downstairs. He says there’s a guy, an old woman, and a baby on the way up.”
Klapprott leaned back and laughed. “This really is becoming quite a production. I can’t wait to see what happens next.”
“Ain’t it the truth,” I said.
We heard the next batch before we saw them. I guess they were one floor below us, and there were enough of them that they split up. The first ones came out of the stairwell, the second from the elevator. They rushed into the room together and stopped. There were six of them, and I don’t think they expected to be outnumbered. Luther was in the lead, and he looked worse than he had the last time I saw him. He had a square gauze bandage stained rusty-red with dried blood in the middle of his mug. It was held in place with a big X of adhesive tape. His eyes were dark and swollen, and he gulped air through his mouth like a fish. The rest of them looked to be some of the guys who worked me over in the warehouse.
By then, the little place was far too warm and crowded. I slipped my knucks onto my left hand.
Like the Saengers, Luther made Ellis for a cop PDQ and ducked back between two of his fellow thugs. He went for the stairs with the detective close behind. His thug pals tried to stop Ellis. Mercer Weeks waded in to assist him, and things got lively.
From where I sat, it looked like a couple of the Germans turned tail and three stayed to fight. Neither Mercer nor Ellis messed around, and two guys went face-down in the first seconds. They were brawlers, not professionals. The third guy charged down the stairs with Detective Ellis right behind. Mercer Weeks went back beside his boss. I looked over at the two-top and saw that the Saengers had taken the opportunity to make a quiet departure.
I sensed movement nearby, turned, and saw the boy, the boy who’d slipped me Anna’s note and gone after Pauley Three Fingers in the bus station. He was standing right next to my chair, and it was almost spooky the way he just appeared there. He leaned in and whispered, “Anna says you should come with me.”
I shook my head. “Not now.”
The two downed Germans got to their feet, and one of them was so damn stupid he made another move on Mercer Weeks, who backhanded him with a sap across the cheek and then broke his right arm with it. You could hear the bone go, even with all the noise in the place. By then, Marie Therese was yelling something, and Frenchy was coming around from behind the bar. Connie racked a load of birdshot into the shotgun.
Jacob watched it all without disturbing the ash on the end of his cigar.
The smarter German tried to help his friend who moaned and cradled his arm. The smart guy made the mistake of pulling a nickel-plated pistol, but before it cleared the shoulder holster, Weeks was on top of him. He smashed the guy’s wrist with the sap. As he twisted the piece from the numb fingers, it went off.
Everybody got quiet as the report echoed away. But the noise coming from downstairs got louder. I could hear banging and thumping and yelling, like several guys in a fight. Weeks scooped up the nickel-plated pistol and put it on the bar by the crate.
Klapprott got up and retrieved his hat and cane from Connie. She put the gun down long enough to get them. He walked to the elevators and pushed the button.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” he said looking at me and ignoring Jacob, “I believe it’s time for me to say good evening. I’ve done what I came here to do. Mr. Quinn, again I apologize for what happened earlier today. It was unnecessary. I am, however, still interested in purchasing your establishment. We shall talk of it another time.”
The elevator doors opened and he left.
Jacob the Wise, who would not be moved off his point, asked me again what the hell I did to his money.
That did it. I was tired of him. “First, I don’t know what it is. I only got the stuff this afternoon. Look at it. It’s a big chunk of brown wax. They tried to separate the banknotes from the wax, and it didn’t go so well. It’s going to take a while to do that right, and, when you think about it, if this really is your money, I should be asking you what the hell you did with it.”
He snorted. “Don’t get smart with me, you—”
“Fuck off.” The cigar drooped. “You’ll get a chance to state your case.”
Damn, it felt good to say that.
Jacob cut his eyes to Mercer Weeks like Weeks was going to lay into me for mouthing off. Weeks paid no attention. I wondered what he’d told his boss about his talk with Anna and me that evening. Or if he’d even told him that Anna, aka Signora Sophia, was back in town.
Jacob and Weeks messed about trying to pull a bill out of the smaller block of wax for
a few minutes. A familiar face peeked around from the corner of the stairs. I said, “Come on in, Pauley, you’re invited to this party, too.”
Pauley Three Fingers edged in slowly, like he was ready to rabbit at the first sign of trouble. That sign turned out to be Jacob. He looked up from the money, saw Pauley, and said, “That’s him. That’s the guy who tried to tell me you’d bought my money for a penny on the dollar.”
Pauley flinched. He wanted to run, but by then he’d seen the money on the bar and he wanted it bad. You could tell that by the way his remaining fingers twitched as he scanned the room. If he’d thought that he had half a chance, he’d have grabbed that box and gone straight to the stairs. But that wasn’t in the cards, not then, so he straightened up and said, “I guess I got part of the story wrong, but Quinn did have the money, didn’t he? I shot straight with you. And I know more now than I did when I talked to you. That’s not your money. It belongs to my wife.”
The older woman, Anna’s grandmother, came up the stairs. She had the baby in her arms, and she hung back, away from Pauley Three Fingers. I don’t think Jacob or Weeks noticed her. They were focused on Pauley as he edged closer to the bar. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip.
“He is not my husband.”
Anna must have come in from the elevators. Her voice was loud and cold, and everybody in the room turned to look at her.
She was wearing a long black coat unbuttoned over that tight red dress. She shrugged the coat off as she strode across the room and gave Pauley a scornful glare. He tried to meet her eyes but really couldn’t. I had the feeling that maybe he had never seen her looking like she did then, hair blonde and bobbed, expensive beautifully fitted clothes, heels that made her legs look even better than they always did. All I can say is I’d seen her at her best, and I hadn’t seen anything like that.
