Goodfellowe House

by Persia Walker

  “Actually, it’s more like I’m following up on a friend’s interest.”

  He tilted his head in a question.

  “Tillman Carter,” I said. “You remember him?”

  He sealed the cigarette and stuck one end between his lips. “Tillman … Tillman Carter. A writer, right?”

  “He had an appointment with you.”

  “That was a while ago. He never showed up.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He lit his cigarette and nodded. “Why’re you asking?”

  “He’s dead—murdered.”

  “All right,” Sutton said slowly, exhaling smoke. “This is beginning to sound interesting.”

  “Did Carter say why he wanted to see you?”

  “Not that I recall. He just said he was writing a book on crooks, and that he wanted to talk to me because I was a bounty hunter.”

  “Did that strike you as unusual?”

  He shrugged. “Not really. I mean, yeah, he’s the first writer who’s ever called me. But if you want to talk to an expert, then I’m your man.”

  “I believe Carter wanted to see you about Powell.”

  “He didn’t say, but I would’ve been the right person to see.”

  “What could you have told him?”

  “Just about anything he needed to know.” He looked at me. “What do you want?”

  “For you to fill in the blanks. Right now, all I know is that Powell was a pretty boy who turned an older woman’s head.”

  “He was a swindler. He married Mrs. Goodfellowe fully intending to bilk her—and he might’ve done it if he’d lived.”

  “I take it she wasn’t the first dowager to fall for him?”

  “Not by a long shot. Most of the others were too embarrassed to say anything. They were glad to pay and get rid of him.”

  “How did he get them to pay up?”

  “Pictures. He’d get them to do things that no decent lady, especially of a certain age, would do, not even for her husband.”

  “He drugged them?”

  “Probably. And then it was just a matter of blackmail, pure and greedy. A threat to send a copy of a embarrassing picture to a local paper and that would be that.”

  “How often did he get away with this?”

  “At least four times that I know of. The third woman, also a widow—well, they were all widows—with large inheritances—she balked. She managed to get hold of the pictures, and the plates, and she turned him in. He jumped bail and hit the road.”

  “That’s when you came in?”

  “Not quite. You see, these ladies were widows, but that didn’t mean they were entirely alone. In two cases, grown children were involved. They suspected what Powell was up to, but couldn’t get their mothers to believe them.”

  “Until it was too late.”

  “Yup. Powell was gone and the money was gone with him. The widows didn’t want to go after him. They were too scared. But the kids weren’t. It was the children of the third widow who contacted me. Then the fourth heard about me and got in touch, but by then Powell had touched his new mark and scooted off again.

  “Powell was smooth. He didn’t just change states; he changed names. He’d stay with a woman for a few months, work on her, and get her to trust him. He’d cut her off from her friends and family, make her so hungry for him she’d do anything to keep him.

  “I tracked Powell for more ‘n a year, gathering evidence. I was making plans, hoping to spring a trap when it happened.”

  “Somebody else caught up with him first.”

  “Yup.” He raised his hands and shrugged. “And that was that.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Mr. Sutton. There’s more to Powell’s story.”

  “Is that so?” He leaned forward. “Why don’t you lay your cards on the table? Tell me what you’re shooting for. Maybe I can provide a little guidance, straighten your aim.”

  “You know that I’ve been writing about Esther Todd.” I paused, realizing that the Todd disappearance predated his arrival, so he might not know about it—though it became part and parcel of the heist lore, which he did know. Just to be safe, I briefed him on her case and how her disappearance got tied into the robbery.

  “It’s all too much of a coincidence,” I said. “I think the murder, the kidnapping and the robbery are all connected.” And then I told him the connection I saw. “I’ve seen photographs of Eric alive and Eric dead. They’re different.”

  “Yeah, one’s bloody and one’s not.”

  “I’m serious. It’s the chins. The photos clearly show that Eric Alan Powell had a dimple. Bobby Kelly did not.”

  “Is that so?” he repeated. “Well, you certainly picked up on something that everybody else missed. You’ve got sharp eyes, you do.” He drew deeply on his cigarette. “Was there more?”

  “The overkill,” I said, ignoring his mocking tone. “Obviously, Powell wanted to make Kelly’s corpse unidentifiable—so that when they found it in the car, they’d think it was him.”

  “As I recall, Powell was not only found in his car, he was found in his own clothes. You telling me that Powell forced Kelly to swap clothes with him, sit quietly in the car and let Powell shoot him?”

  “Powell could’ve given him the clothes as a gift. Kelly would’ve been happy to get them. He would’ve worn them in a minute. Powell could’ve done any number of things to get Kelly to do what he needed him to.”

  He gave a skeptical shake of his head. “And you base this theory on just a pair of photos?”

  “Even without the pictures, the case for Kelly doing the killing is pretty damn weak. Kelly was a petty thief. He wasn’t even an armed robber. Furthermore, he adored Powell. He was subservient to him. Why would he turn on him? Where would he find the strength to kill him so viciously? The cops never even came up with a motive.”

  “Well, it’s an interesting theory, real interesting. Too bad it’s all wrong.”

  He crushed out the remnants of his cigarette in the glass ashtray on the table, and started making himself a new one. I’ve never seen anyone make a cigarette as fast as he did. With a few flicks, he had it rolled and stuck in his mouth.

  “When you spend as much time tracking a man as I did, you get to know him. In some ways, you know him better than he knows himself. I certainly knew Powell better than any of the women he married. And I can tell you the one thing none of them ever guessed.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “He loved men.”

  He smiled at my astonishment and lit his cigarette.

  “You’re telling me that he and Kelly were lovers?”

  “Long-time. Big-time. Since childhood.”

  The statement hung in the air, as heavy as the smoke floating upward from his cigarette. I was surprised all right, stunned is more like it.

  “It started when they were boys on Chicago’s South Side. Didn’t many people out there know about it.”

  “So this Mr. Loverman business … Powell was just playing …”

  “A role.”

  “And Kelly went along with it?”

  “He had to. He never did take a fancy to the scam, but I guess he always believed that none of those old women meant a thing to Powell.”

  “You telling me that Powell felt differently about Katherine Goodfellowe?”

  “No, I’m saying that something about that setup made Kelly snap.”

  “Jealousy?”

  “Greed. I think they had a falling-out over the money. Y’see, Mrs. Goodfellowe was the richest of all of Powell’s wives. I think he decided to stick with her. Maybe he was getting tired. He was getting older, too, and there are only so many rich old widows you can swindle and get away with it.”

  I saw his point. “So you think Kelly got upset because Powell decided to stay married?”

  “Yup. If you want to know why he shot his life-long friend, then look no further.”

  I turned this new angle over, aware of him watching me. “Why didn’
t you take this information to the police?”

  “They didn’t need it. Powell was dead and they knew who did it. Who cares if they had the wrong motive, as long as they had the right guy?”

  Smoke wafted over his face. His slanted eyes studied me, as I studied him.

  “If you feel that way, then why are you telling me?” I asked.

  He had a disarming smile. “I like to help people. And I see that you do, too. This column you’ve told me about. And your trying to find this woman, help her family: You done put a lot of work into it. I can respect that. I’m listening to you and thinking, ‘Good cause, but bad start.’”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Bad start, I said. You’re going off in the wrong direction. You won’t come up with any new leads this way, by claiming something so totally wrong—very imaginative and gutsy, mind you—but still wrong.” He gave a deep laugh. “If you go on this way, no one will help you. I want to prevent that.”

  I felt faintly insulted. “How nice of you.”

  “You really think you’re hard-boiled, huh?”

  “I’m no sob-sister.”

  He gave another deep-throated chuckle. “Okay … okay. So, you’re good at your job. But yours is different from mine. You’re a good writer, not an investigator.”

  I stirred my coffee. “So what’s your pitch?”

  He pretended not to understand. “S’cuse me?”

  “You’re working hard to convince me that I need you. When somebody does that, it usually means they need me. What do you want?”

  His lips drew back in a lazy smile that revealed no teeth, just turned his mouth into a wide, curved slit. Smoke came out in little puffs as he spoke.

  “I like you,” he said slowly. “I really do.”

  “Nice to know it.”

  “You know, it was dang hard for me to lose Powell like that. He meant years of work, time I can’t get back, can’t get paid for. But there’s another reward—for Bobby Kelly. And that I can be paid for.”

  “You’d like me to inform you if I get any information on Kelly.”

  “We could split the reward, fifty-fifty.”

  I shook my head. “Kelly’s dead. But even if he wasn’t—thanks, but no thanks.”

  I started to get up. His hand shot out and grabbed me by the wrist. He was quick, all right. It was easy to imagine him as the quickest draw in the West. His grip was firm, confident and very warm.

  “Let me go,” I said.

  He released me and held his hands up in an attitude of surrender. “Hey, sorry. I just want you to know that I didn’t mean to insult you. I just thought we could help each other out.”

  “I’m not interested in a bounty. I want information on Esther.”

  “All right, then I’ll take the bounty and you’ll get the information.”

  “If you’re so sure Kelly killed Powell, then why are you still in New York? Everyone else, including his sister, seems to think he’s skipped town. And it makes sense, considering how many cops were after him.”

  “Yeah, it makes sense. Some.” He stood, pushing back his chair. “Look, why don’t you think about my offer? It can’t hurt. And you never know. It might just get us both closer to our goals. The cops aren’t interested anymore. It’s just you and me. You help me find Kelly and I’ll help you find your missing piano player.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”

  * * *

  Sutton surprised me with an offer to drive me back uptown. By the time I got to the newsroom, everyone had left. Even Sam. Was he with Selena? I shook myself free of the thought, reached for the telephone and had the operator put me through to Ramsey in Chicago. He sounded awfully cheerful to hear from me.

  “Oh, Mrs. Price! How ya doin’?”

  “Fine, thank you. You have that information I need?”

  “Sure do. The answer is yes. We have the prints. Or I should say we did.”

  “Why the past tense?”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he? No need to have ‘em cluttering up the files. His records have been archived. I had to go downstairs to the basement to dig ‘em out.”

  “What I need to know is whether they were in the files that were used to identify his remains.”

  “I wasn’t in this division then. But I heard about the case. The prints? Yeah, normally they woulda been there.”

  “But they’re not now?”

  “No.”

  I paused. “Listen, do you know Denver Sutton?”

  A guffaw. “‘Course I do. Who doesn’t? Sort of a legend around here. Got a thing for the cowboy look. A great guy. Good bounty hunter.”

  “So you think highly of him?”

  “If I needed someone backing me up, he’d be the one I’d choose.”

  I was thoughtful.

  “Anything else?” Ramsey asked.

  “No, nothing.” I said, “You’ve been of great, really great help.”

  And he had, too.

  Chapter 51

  I had found most of my answers. I had my story. There were a few gaps, but I had a clear idea of who could fill them. I hailed a taxi and gave the driver a Park Avenue address. I told the driver to pull up across the street from Goodfellowe mansion and wait. I handed him a bill.

  “Will that cover you for an hour?”

  “Oh, yeah. It sure will.”

  I didn’t have any more of that particular denomination, so I hoped we wouldn’t have to wait too long. It was already nine at night. Theoretically dinner was over and all domestic chores done.

  Park Avenue is an elegant block. Even the shadows are elegant. Long dark cars moved up and down the street, pausing before doormen buildings to discharge gents in top hats and ladies in fur. I watched them for a while, but soon got bored. Park Avenue didn’t have the action I was used to. It was nice, but it wasn’t Lenox.

  Minutes dragged by. The cabbie tried to gab, but after a few of my monosyllabic responses, he got the message and lapsed into silence. More minutes crawled by. It was getting close to the hour mark and I was beginning to wonder whether this was such a good idea, when the door to servants’ entrance opened and he come out, a tall thin man with a sense of natural grace. His gray hat was tilted to one side; his immaculate dark overcoat hung straight and true.

  “Pick him up,” I said.

  The driver started the engine, rolled across the street and drew alongside the curb. I lowered the window and called out, “Roland!”

  He jumped back. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Miss Lanie?” His relief was palpable.

  “Get in, Roland. Let’s go someplace and have a coffee.”

  “Well, I—I had plans for this evening.”

  “This won’t take long. I’d really like to have a talk.”

  “About Beth? Did you see her?”

  I pushed opened the door and slid over. He hesitated, but then got in. We drove uptown to a blues bar near the Cotton Club. Outside, a billboard advertised Bessie Smith. The club was in a half-basement. It was a crowded, narrow room with a small podium at one end. It sounded like Bessie had the mike. We squeezed up to the bar, just inside the door.

  “It’s a dive,” I said, “but a comfortable one.”

  “Yeah,” he said, looking around, taking off his leather gloves. “Looks okay.”

  The bartender appeared, a woman in her forties with a thick waist and tired expression. “What’ll it be?”

  “Just coffee for me,” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow, but then shrugged and turned to Roland.

  “The same.”

  “All right, then. Coffee it is,” she said, waddling away.

  Somebody left, opening the door, and a blast of frigid December air came in. I repressed a shiver. Roland looked at me and smiled.

  He was around sixty, old enough to be Beth’s father, but attractive. How did he feel about her? Had he given me her address so I could spy on her for him? Was he jealous of her and her relationsh
ip with her baby’s father? Could he have been the father himself?

  “How long have you been with Mrs. Goodfellowe?”

  “Nigh on forty years.”

  “You like working for her?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a job.”

  “So you were there before Beth came?”

  He nodded. “I helped train her. She … she was a good child.”

  “Was?”

  He put down his cup, encircled it with his hands. “Things changed after Mr. Eric arrived. You know, Miss Katherine’s second husband?”

  “Changed how?”

  “Well ... I think he gave Beth ideas, the kind that no colored girl should have.”

  “Such as?”

  He had such a hangdog expression that I felt a surge of pity. It seemed obvious what he was getting at. But experience had taught me the danger of making assumptions. So I asked him straight out:

  “Did he make love to her?”

  The hands on the cup tightened. “He talked to her and I’m sure he got her to meet with him. To go places with him, and yes, maybe even let him ... you know.”

  I spoke gently. “Were you in love with her?”

  He gave a bitter chuckle. “Now what would I be doing, a man of my age, in love with a little bitty girl like that?”

  “Why not? You’re a good-looking man. Elegant. Well-mannered. A lot of young women I know would ...”

  He shook his head. “You’re awful nice to tell an old man that. But I know better.”

  “What a man knows, or thinks he knows, and what he feels are two different things. So, tell me, were you or aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “Okay, yeah. I guess I was soft on her.” He smiled sheepishly. “Heck, I was crazy ‘bout her.”

  After that, it was easy to get him to talk. He wanted to get it out.

  Following the robbery, everyone was so preoccupied by the investigation that no one noticed the changes in Beth. One day it hit Roland that her waistline had expanded.

  “It was like there was nothing there one day and she was showing the next. By the time I noticed, it was too late. I was gonna talk to her, but Miss Katherine sent for her that same day. It happened so fast. One minute she was on staff, the next she was out on the street. I tried to talk to her, but she shrugged me off, told me not to worry. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘I’m gonna be well taken care of.’”