The Sartorial Senator (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 3)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Ralph continued breathlessly. "Only she was out of costume! Roxy and I decided on a lark to go to Gene Compton's Cafeteria and there she was, Miss José herself, holding court. Oh, honey, it was better than anything she's ever done on stage."

  I laughed. "We need a night at The Black Cat after the way things have been going."

  "So you can do more research on the infiltration of San Francisco by homosexuals? Really! This world would be a much nicer place if it weren't for some people."

  "Thanks, Ralph."

  "Anything for you, sweets. You take care and give that man of yours a big wet kiss for me."

  "Will do." With that, I put the receiver on the hook.

  When I stepped out of the phone booth, I saw Carter standing nearby with a negro skycap who had our luggage on a cart.

  He looked up. "All set?"

  I nodded.

  "Where to, sir?" asked the skycap.

  "We need a taxi for The Parmer House."

  "Will do. Follow me."

  We did that and, by some magic, found ourselves moved to the front of the line of folks waiting for cabs.

  I was reaching in my pocket when Carter whispered, "Taken care of." That explained that.

  Once we were in the taxi and on our way, I asked Carter, "How much?"

  "Twenty."

  I whistled. "Hoo boy! Mr. Moneybags!"

  He laughed. "I learned at the knee of the master. The man that every waiter and waitress in the Bay Area prays will once again come visit their lunch counter or fine dining establishment. The man that bellboys whisper about and that elevator attendants light candles for just before mass."

  By this time I was laughing hard like he was tickling me since, in a manner of speaking, he was.

  Chapter 12

  The Palmer House

  Chicago, Ill.

  Tuesday, June 1, 1953

  Just past 7 in the morning

  The next morning, breakfast was delivered to our suite at around seven. Along with eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee, we got that morning's Chicago Tribune and its morning competitor, The Chicago Sun-Times.

  Both papers had the same story on page one.

  Senator's Son

  Found Murdered

  Police in the nation's capitol were called in to the grisly scene of a vicious homicide on Sunday afternoon.

  Michael J. Bushman, son of Senator Xavier "Rocky" Bushman, junior Senator from Pennsylvania, was found dead at the scene in his Washington, D.C., town home.

  According to witnesses, shots were fired around 3 p.m. on Sunday afternoon. When neighbors tried to enter Bushman's home, the doors were found to be locked and bolted. Police were called to the scene and, after forcing the door open, found the dead man in the kitchen. The home appeared to have been ransacked by an intruder.

  I handed the paper to Carter, who was just waking up. He looked at it and asked, "Isn't Senator Bushman on that committee you were supposed to appear before today?"

  "Yeah. But he's on the other side. He's a real liberal and he's been fighting McCarthy."

  At that moment, the phone rang. Carter, who was closest, picked it up.

  "Yes?"

  I waited as Carter listened. He began to frown.

  "Who is this?"

  He listened and then his eyes opened wide.

  "Just a moment." He put his large hand over the receiver.

  "It's Senator Bushman's office. They're wondering if we could still come to Washington, after all."

  I frowned. "Why?"

  Carter handed me the phone.

  "Yeah?"

  "Mr. Williams?"

  "Yeah."

  "This is Thomas Jefferson. I work in Senator Bushman's office. I know you're probably planning on returning to San Francisco today, but the senator would very much like to have your help here in Washington, if that would be possible."

  "Why?"

  There was a pause. "It's not really something I can discuss with you over the phone."

  "So, you want me to fly to Washington for some mysterious..." A bell went off in my head.

  "I know it's odd. But everything about this is odd."

  "Lemme ask you this, Mr. Jefferson. Does this have to do with the murder of the senator's son?"

  "Why, yes."

  "I see. And, is it possible that the senator's son and I have something in common?"

  "Well... since you put it that way... Yes. That's precisely it. The senator feels that you may have a particular insight into the circumstances surrounding the tragic death of his son."

  Mr. Jefferson had a hard time getting those last few words out. He sounded real broke up, as a matter of fact, which I found interesting.

  I looked at Carter, who shrugged. I smiled at him. He smiled back.

  "Look, Mr. Jefferson. I'm not sure what help I can offer, but we'll fly in today and be in touch when we get there. What's the best way to reach you?"

  He gave me a couple of phone numbers, which I recited to Carter who wrote them down.

  "Thank you Mr. Williams. I know the senator will be very much obligated to you for your kindness."

  I was dubious about all this. "I hope we can help."

  "Excuse me, 'we'?"

  "Yes. I'm traveling with Carter Jones, my..." I didn't know what word to use. Then I remembered. "My partner. We work together."

  The man purred over the phone. "Why yes. Of course. Your partner. Very good. I'll look forward to hearing from you when you get here. Thank you again."

  The line went silent.

  I handed the receiver back to Carter, who placed it back on its cradle.

  "Your partner?" he asked.

  "Sure. You know. We work together. For Consolidated Security or whatever the hell we're gonna call this so-called company we were supposed to have started up a week ago."

  I looked at my watch. It was just after 7:30 in the morning. That meant it was 5:30 in San Francisco and too early to call either Ralph or Marnie.

  "Speaking of that so-called company, what are you gonna do with the Bobbsey Twins?" asked Carter.

  This was our pet name for the junior members of our group, Ben Jones and Carlo Martinelli, who, last we'd heard, were staying with a couple they'd met in Ensenada. The two guys had been down there on a kind of enforced honeymoon to see if things would work out between them. And, from all accounts, that was happening. Now they were in Beverly Hills with their new pals. I had inadvertently walked in on a small orgy they'd been having while we were in Ensenada. I was hoping that whatever they were up to was going well. Since we still didn't have a company, I was at a loss as to what to ask them to do.

  I looked at Carter. "If Mike's the president of our outfit, shouldn't he be supervising Ben and Carlo?"

  Carter smiled at me. "There you go. That's what I was talking about."

  "Hand me that phone."

  As he did, he asked, "Isn't it a little early to be calling Mike?"

  I dismissed his concern. "No. He's president of the company, dammit!"

  Carter laughed, stood up, and walked into the bathroom. And, I was happy to note, without a stitch of clothing on.

  The operator came on the line. "Yes, Mr. Williams?"

  "Can you get me..." I realized that any call to Mike had to go through the switchboard at the motel. I wondered if the Kleinbergs were awake yet.

  Carter read my mind, as he often did, and called out from the bathroom, "She gets up at 5 every morning."

  I said into the receiver. "Can you get me the Trail's End Motel in Newport Beach, California? Person-to-person for Mike Robertson."

  "Yes, Mr. Williams. Do you want to hold or should I call you back?"

  "I'll hold."

  "Thank you." The line went quiet. Carter was brushing his teeth in the bathroom. After a couple of minutes, I heard Mrs. Kleinberg on the far end of the line.

  "Yes, Operator. He's a registered guest. But it's very early here. Who's calling?"

  "The person calling is Nicholas Williams."

 
; "Oh my! Hold on and I'll ring that room."

  There were about five buzzes as the phone in Mike's room rang.

  "Yeah?" was Mike's sleepy answer.

  I could hear the long distance operator talking. "Person-to-person for Mike Robertson from Nicholas Williams. Will you accept?"

  "Yeah."

  "Go ahead." I heard a series of clicks, indicating the various operators had disconnected. I wondered if that included Mrs. Kleinberg.

  "What the hell, Nick? Did someone die?"

  "Get up sleepyhead! Aren't you the president of Consolidated Security?"

  Mike yawned. "Sure. But, what's so urgent that I have to wake up at 5:30?"

  "Well, bucko, we have another case."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. I just got a call from Senator Bushman's office in Washington."

  "Aren't you in Washington?"

  "No. We're in Chicago. Our plane was struck by lightning as we were landing yesterday."

  I head Mrs. Kleinberg gasp. I just plowed ahead.

  "We were met at the airport here by Agent Anderson who told us the subcommittee meeting had been canceled, so we stayed here overnight. We were supposed to leave for San Francisco, but now we're going on to Washington."

  "Why?"

  "The senator's son was murdered yesterday and he thought it might be helpful if I was around since, um, I might be familiar with some aspects of his son's life."

  Mike thought for a moment. "Same vow?"

  "Looks like it."

  "Interesting."

  "Exactly. So, we'll be there for a few days. I don't know how long. But that's not the only reason I'm calling you. Where are the Bobbsey Twins?"

  "Beverly Hills, last I heard."

  "Don't you think you need to round them up and get them home? Even if we have nothing for them to do?"

  "I guess."

  "You don't sound enthusiastic."

  "Remind me why I convinced them to take your hard-earned money--"

  "Uncle Paul's ill-gotten money, doncha mean?"

  "You know what I mean. What are we gonna do with them?"

  "I don't know. You're the president of this outfit. And you're the man who's perfect to execute the vision I handed you."

  Mike laughed. "Do you even believe that crap?"

  "Not really. Just get everyone rounded up. By the way, Marnie and her mother are at our place, if you need to reach her."

  "Good to know. I'm planning on calling the Coast Guard today about the ship."

  "Damn!"

  "What?"

  "Carter and I left town without permission."

  "I think a Congressional subpoena trumps his concern. But I'll talk to him about it. If you see Coast Guard Police looking for you, you'll know why."

  "Is there really such a thing?"

  "Yep."

  "OK. Good to know. How're things with Bud?"

  "Oh, fine."

  "He's right there, isn't he?"

  "Yep."

  "OK, Mike. We'll be at The Willard in Washington if you need to find us. Or you can try Senator Bushman's office."

  "Gotcha."

  The line went silent as he hung up. I heard one more click before the line was disconnected. I assumed that was Mrs. Kleinberg unplugging her headset.

  I hit the plunger on the phone, held it for a moment, and then released it. The operator answered, "Yes, Mr. Williams?"

  "Can I speak with the concierge, please?"

  "One moment."

  A competent and authoritative male voice answered. "Concierge. Good morning, Mr. Williams. How may I help you?"

  "I need two tickets for Washington, D.C. this morning."

  "By air or by train?"

  "Air."

  "Any airline preference?"

  "Whoever flies non-stop."

  "That would be American Airlines. Their flight 562 departs Midway at 11 a.m. and arrives at Washington National at 2:45 p.m. local time. Shall I book you on that flight?"

  "Yeah. Two tickets."

  "Yes. For yourself and Mr. Jones, correct?"

  "Yeah. One other thing. Can you get us booked into The Willard in Washington for tonight for, say, four nights?"

  "Certainly, sir. Might I suggest you be ready to depart the hotel no later than 9 a.m.?"

  "That's fine."

  "Very good. I will arrange to have the bellman retrieve your luggage at 8:45 and will advise the cashier to prepare your bill in anticipation of your departure. Will there be anything else?"

  "No, thanks. What's your name?"

  "I am Mr. Howard."

  "Thank you, Mr. Howard."

  "Happy to be of service." With that, the line went dead.

  I was sorry Ralph would be losing the commission but with the way this trip was going, I imagined it would be just a drop in the bucket.

  Chapter 13

  National Airport

  Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday, June 1, 1953

  Right at 3 in the afternoon

  We arrived at National Airport right at 3 that afternoon. We landed from the south, so we didn't get a chance to see the White House, the Capitol building, and the monuments from the air.

  When the door opened, I could feel the warm mugginess of the summer day enter the cabin of the plane. Carter drew in a deep breath and said, "Smells like home."

  I took in a deep breath and asked, "Did home smell like kerosene and plane exhaust?"

  "Guess I should say that the air is thick and muggy. Just like home. And you need to drop your high-hat routine, son."

  Carter was sitting on the aisle. As he stood up to get his coat and hat, I looked up at him. Every now and then, I would catch glimpse of him in a new way and feel a chill go down my spine. I said a small "Thank you," to no one in particular.

  Carter slipped on his coat. It was the same gray one he'd been wearing on and off for two weeks, now. As he put on his hat and pulled on the brim, he looked down at me and smiled sweetly. "Watcha thinkin' about?"

  "Happy to be with you."

  Carter flicked the brim of his hat, nodded, and said, "I'm right there with you, son."

  I stood up, grabbed my hat and coat from the overhead rack, put them both on, and followed Carter to the door in the back.

  As I stepped out of the plane and started down the stairs, I saw Agent Anderson standing near the door of the terminal. I sighed and said to Carter, "What now?"

  "I don't know but you talk to him. I'll get our bags."

  "Fine by me."

  "Really?" Carter asked, as we were walking across the tarmac towards the door.

  "No. Just wanna keep you out of jail as long as possible."

  "You got that right, son."

  He looked straight ahead as he walked by Agent Anderson and into the terminal building. I stood to the side to let the people behind me get through.

  "What?" was my opening line.

  "Why are you here and not in San Francisco?"

  "Doing a favor for a friend."

  "I don't suppose your friend would be Senator Bushman, would it?"

  "What's it to you?" I was not interested in idle chit-chat. But I did wonder why he was here and not in L.A.

  "As long as you're here, there's an investigator from Senator McCarthy's office who wants to meet with you."

  "Why are you here Agent Anderson? And why are you running messages for a senator? Seems to me like all of this is out of bounds for an agent of the F.B.I. And, by the way, if you worked for Eisenhower in France and Germany, why are you just an agent?"

  I spit all of this out like I was shooting bullets out of an automatic pistol.

  Agent Anderson said, "Follow me."

  I asked, "To where?"

  "To somewhere we can talk privately."

  I said, "Fine. But make it fast."

  "Sure." He seemed like the kind of guy that could slow burn. I wondered when his breaking point would finally hit.

  I followed him as he walked through the door. We made a left at the first hall
way, which led away from the rest of the action and was empty. He opened the door to the men's room, which was the first on the left, and walked in. I followed, wondering what he was up to.

  He walked over to the row of stalls and banged on one of the doors a couple of times. "Police. Everyone out!"

  At first glance, the bathroom had appeared to be empty. But then a toilet flushed. A couple of men came out of one stall together. Both had their hats over their faces as they rushed out. A third man came out, walked to the row of sinks at a leisurely pace, and took his time washing his hands while stealing suspicious glances at both of us.

  As he dried his hands on the towel, he sneered at us, "You ain't lilly law. I know all of 'em and I ain't never seen neither of you in here before."

  Agent Anderson flashed his F.B.I. badge. "Get out. Now." He spoke in a low but determined tone. The man shrugged and walked out slowly. Agent Anderson followed him to the door, pushed it closed, and locked it.

  "Was that necessary?" I asked with some righteous scorn in my voice.

  "Yes. I know all about this particular bathroom."

  "Why? Is this where you pick up your tricks, Agent Anderson?"

  He grinned at me and said, "You get one more dig at me, for Carter's sake, before I take a swing."

  "Fine. So, why are you here? In Washington?"

  "I'm trying to protect you."

  "Protect me?"

  "Yes. There's some in the Bureau who wanted to arrest you as soon as that story broke in the Examiner when you told off George Hearst. You basically admitted to having committed sodomy."

  I nodded.

  "But, the F.B.I. can't just go around arresting people for breaking state laws. Sodomy isn't a federal crime. It's up to the San Francisco police or the California state police to take care of that. If they want to. But, I don't think the San Francisco D.A. or the state Attorney General is interested. So, while you're out of state, I'm keeping an eye out."

  "I see. Mighty nice of you, Agent Anderson."

  "Andy." It was an olive branch.

  "Agent Anderson." I wasn't gonna budge. And I didn't completely buy it.

  "So, why are you here? In Washington? You didn't know..." Then it hit me. The Bureau had been listening in on our calls. I looked around for something to punch.