Melissa was at her desk when I ambled into the office, and she gave me a big, cheery, well-acted "Hi, Noon!" as I spotted the two plainclothesmen decorating chairs in the outer office. I knew them. Lieutenant Sanderson, James T., another old friend from the past, and another familiar face, Detective-Sergeant Garelli. Sanderson was a giant. Red-faced, rawboned, freckled, and tough. Garelli was much shorter, shoulders as wide as a barn, handsome like a wild animal is handsome. He had a rep for being fearless.
"You have company," Melissa said.
"You're telling me." I nodded at the two detectives. "Sanderson. Garelli. Selling tickets for the PAL?"
"Hi," Sanderson laughed, without laughing. "Monks is in your office. Has to talk to you. We came along for the ride."
"I'll bet. Looks like all the brass on Centre Street. Well, Angie. Who do you like in the Series? The Mets or Baltimore?"
Garelli looked surprised. "You really think the Mets will win it? Save your money. Leo's got the Cubs hopping. But what about the UN, huh? Ever hear of anything like that? Real sabotage, if you ask me—"
"Go on in, Noon," Sanderson grumbled. "We got things to do today. Know what I mean?" He made a double-time motion with his right hand.
"Sure." I waved to them, asked Melissa to order me a coffee and Danish, and went into my office. Captain Michael Monks, as big as the life he is, was sitting in the chair behind my desk, staring at the pigeons tight-rope walking on the ledge. He still had his hat on, one of those damn slouch Borsalinos that make him look like an Italian immigrant from 1915. A short cigarette stilted out from his mouth. He looked bothered. Hot and bothered. Normally, his temperature was very cool.
"Shut the door," he commanded. "I want this private."
I shut the door and, for once, I took the client's chair. I faced him across the desk. He forgot about the pigeons, swiveled around in my chair, put his cigarette out carefully in the desk ash tray, and looked at me. The mouse auditorium seemed different from the client's hot-seat. His face is seldom less than pleasant, but right now it was particularly grim and unfriendly. I decided to skip all wisecracks, flip talk, and repartee. I, too, didn't have the time that morning, if I wanted to make Rockefeller Plaza at ten o'clock. Though I was sure Mr. Godlove would wait for me this time. It seemed he might have to.
"Where were you yesterday?" Monks said suddenly.
"What time?"
"Let's say from noon to about six o'clock, for starters?"
"That's easy. Shea Stadium. I took Melissa, too. The Mets lost, though. Want to see the rain-check stubs?" I couldn't resist that.
He ignored it. "I see. Anything happen while you were there?"
"Like what?"
"Like a murder," he snarled, suddenly, his control slipping. Then he recovered and stared me up and down icily, as if daring me to lie.
"Oh, I get it." I shook my head, casually reached into my side pocket and produced the baseball. I began to toss it up and down in my right hand. He glowered at me. "The nun. Yeah, I saw that. On my way out. Somebody stuck a knife in her, huh? Didn't see it in the papers though. I was too busy, Michael. Wanted to get this baseball autographed for a pal's kid. I promised it to him. You know how kids are."
Monks swallowed as if it were an effort.
"Where did you get that crease on your scalp?" It must have stood out like a sore thumb. Felicia had daubed it with iodine last night.
"I banged my head against the bathroom door this morning." Monks held his temper in check.
"Is that all you have to say to me, Ed?"
"Should I say more? What did you expect me to do? Rush to the nearest telephone to report it? There were about fifty people standing around. One of them could have done it just as easily. Don't blame me if nobody did—the murder I mean. Not my scalp—"
"Stop it." He said it almost pleadingly. "Stop—don't pile the lies up one after another." He cursed, and his eyes were hurt. "You bastard. After all these years. Dummying up on me. I ought to take back my introduction to you!"
"Hey. Hold on, Mike—"
"No," he roared. "You hold on. Damn you, my office has been crawling with the CIA since yesterday. They came down to claim the corpse. The nun was a man. An agent named Blassingame good at female impersonations. Seems he was working on something the CIA is mixed up in. They closed the doors on all my official questions. Out of my jurisdiction, they said, and they had the fancy papers and documents and signatures to make me play ball with them. But you—damn your independent hide—your name popped up all over the case. Blassingame contacted you at the game, they said. Blassingame passed you something—they wouldn't tell me what. But they wanted me to know that you were to be told to keep your mouth shut, too. So—I waited. I waited all last night for you to come forward on your own. I stayed away from here, stayed away from your apartment. I gave you a break—meanwhile, I was checking with Washington on the teletype just to see if I could pick up some clue about this CIA business. But, no. I waited in vain, didn't I? You come breezing in here this morning and still treat me like I had two heads. Okay, Mr. Noon. We'll play Cop and Witness or Possible Suspect. Maybe it's better that way. I'll ask questions and you answer them. Straight answers. One wisecrack or double entendre and I'll throw the book at you." His accent was laughable, but it wasn't funny.
We had been through plenty together, but we both had gotten older. A lot older. The old carefree days of give-and-take were a thing of the past with him now. After all, Homicide was his job. Anything that hindered or hampered it couldn't be taken lightly, not even in terms of friendship or horseplay. He was old enough now to want things a little easier.
I stared back at him, angry that he had pulled Establishment on me, but seeing all too clearly the justice that was on his side of the fence. But time was running out for me, and I couldn't risk getting him so worked up that he'd pull me in just for the hell of it. Felicia Carr would be waiting for me. So would Christian Godlove. And maybe the answer to the whole confusing mess. The only answer I might ever get.
"All right, Captain. You called it. Ask away."
Monks grunted, losing some of his vitriol.
"Did you have anything to do with Blassingame's murder?"
"No, I did not."
"Did he contact you at the ball park?"
"Yes, he did."
"Did he give you anything?"
"Yes."
The acid moment had come. The real test. Monks sensed it and almost leaned eagerly across the desk.
"What?"
"I can't tell you. Not even you."
"Why not, for Christ's sakes—"
"Because," I said quietly, "it involves the security of this country and it's privileged communications—"
"The hell it is," he snapped. "A man posing as a nun was killed in Shea Stadium. That's Homicide One, and it's in my jurisdiction. You tell me and tell me quick. No CIA is going to pull my tail in my own backyard."
I put the baseball down on the desk, making sure it wouldn't roll, and now leaned toward him. Our eyes met. For a long moment, I tried to tell him how I felt with my eyes. It isn't easy for men to tell each other what they think of each other. The world of manners and mores doesn't work that way. Sentimental Italians can embrace on the street, Greeks greet each other with handclaps and roars of affection, the French kiss each other—I'm talking about males—but two tough, Anglo-Saxon Americans have to be uncomfortably subtle about it. And waste a lifetime doing so.
"Mike," I said, softly.
"Yeah?" he growled, expecting a trap, but his eyes lowered uncomfortably, as I expected them to. But I sailed right in anyway, taking a leaf from the foreign born who know so much better than we do. About the emotions and people. And the precious value of Time.
"Listen, you silly bastard," I said in a low voice. "I love you. I always have. You're probably the best friend I have. You know I'm not a killer or a crook or worse, even a phony, and the day I'd really double-cross you in the terms that you mean a double-cross, I'll take a long walk
off a short pier—"
He started to glower again, but I shook him off. "Hear me out. I'm on government business, and I can't cooperate with you or Headquarters to the extent of telling you what that business is. I just can't, as much as I'd like to. So will you please forget your pride and my aggravating habits and close the books on Blassingame and me and the CIA, and trust me? Someday when I can tell you, I will. As it stands now, it's Fifth Amendment all the way with me. I can't tell you a damned thing that would incriminate me. So there it is. I've told you. So either book me or close the iron door on me or write me off as your friend—but please, I'm asking you. Drop this."
He sat back in my chair, stunned. The swivel creaked with his weight. Then he cursed. Then he stood up, blew his nose, walked around the desk, stared down at me, shook his head, and cursed again. Before I could ask him once more, he lumbered toward the door, his big Charles Bickford shoulders swinging forcefully. At the threshold he paused, and before he could pull the door back and step on through, he looked back at me and leveled one of his enormous sausage-like index fingers at me. His face was a study in frown.
And amazement.
"You," he said gruffly, "would have made one helluva vacuum-cleaner salesman."
That was all he said.
The door slammed loudly, and I could hear Sanderson and Garelli asking him questions, then a muffled roar from the Captain and heavy shoes punishing my carpeted floors as they thundered on out. Two seconds later, Melissa Mercer came sashaying in, both hands filled with a container of coffee and a tissue-wrapped piece of Danish pastry. She was wide-eyed.
"What did you tell him? He nearly bit their heads off when they asked him why you weren't being taken down to Headquarters—"
"Forget it. Give me those. I'll be on my way in five minutes." It was then ten minutes to ten. I'd have to hurry. I stared at the ball for a long second before dropping it once more in my pocket. I checked my .45, holstering it, satisfied. I attacked the coffee and Danish. Melissa sat on the corner of my desk and watched me. Her shapely figure seemed elfin and light. Mentally, I was comparing it with Felicia's, without really meaning to. There was little to choose from, really. Melissa's eyes were sad. But not accusing.
"The boy," I asked, between a sip of coffee and a mouthful of Danish. "He say anything else about the old woman?"
"Only that she was dressed like something out of Grimm's Fairy Tales, and said something about it being a matter of life and death. It does sound like the old lady in the Mustang, doesn't it?"
"One and the same," I agreed. "Mel. I've got to run again. It's very important but I promise I'll call you first chance—"
"Sure. Don't worry about me. After all, you're the Boss. I only work for you. I'm not your wife. You don't have to report to me."
"Cut it out. You're important to me. You always have been and you always will be—"
She was staring pointedly at my neck where another woman's mouth had left an imprint. Something I'd never noticed shaving that morning. I had the decency to lower my eyes. People were closing in on me, suddenly.
"Ed," Melissa said softly. "You don't owe me explanations. Or anything. If I'm jealous, it's a woman's privilege, isn't it?"
"Yeah." I sipped more coffee. It was very hot, and I felt better scalding my liar's tongue.
"Just save me a corner spot in your life, huh? Like you have?"
Before I could protest, she had slipped off the desk and almost run into the outer office back to her own small corner. I couldn't think of a single thing to say. I finished the coffee, wiped my hands free of Danish crumbs, and a few seconds later was on my way out.
I headed for the door, without looking to the right or left. I didn't trust myself to. It had been bad enough with Mike Monks.
Melissa Mercer was typing furiously, the machine sounding like a Sub-Thompson as I barreled out of the mouse auditorium. I knew she was crying, fighting the tears with work, and I didn't want to have to see the moisture in her eyes. I had hurt her enough, no matter what she said.
I had just five minutes to make Rockefeller Plaza to meet Felicia Carr and Christian Godlove. Just five minutes to wonder what in the name of Espionage had made Louise Warrington Paul change her mind and come running to me for help at the eleventh hour.
Blassingame killed.
Dmitri and Aloyesha wiped out by the grande dame of spies.
Garnu Sin dead in Teheran with the Chief standing helplessly by as a mute witness.
The ground floor of the UN Building sabotaged par excellence.
The CIA telling Monks to lay off.
Christian Godlove wanting to buy a baseball.
Somewhere in all that mass of perplexing facts was a keystone of the arch. A jigsaw piece that would fit the entire puzzle into a sensible, realistic whole.
But what?
I tried not to run the distance from my office on West Forty-sixth to Fiftieth Street and Rockefeller Plaza, where the answer might very well be.
Where it had better be.
A blazing hot August sun followed me all the way.
There wasn't a breath of fresh air in the entire world.
The crucial baseball in my side pocket began to feel about as heavy as a stone idol. The kind you pick up in a curio shop on Mott and Pell in Chinatown.
That was the real scoop on the whole crazy business about the baseball. The something that had been screwy from the very first inning.
It was like a Chinese homer.
It wasn't real. Wasn't legal.
Something was wrong from the word Go!
10
The Late Runner
The short block behind the RCA building, which comprises the hub of Rockefeller Plaza, is perhaps the most peaceful and lovely square of real estate in all of Manhattan. Bordered on four sides by towering office buildings, it is like a shapely canyon in whose bowl reposes the sunken plaza lined with water fountains and open-air restaurant where lucky diners can watch the ice skaters in the winter and the waterfall in the summer and spring and fall. It is always hard to believe that the Rockefellers own every square foot of concrete and macadam that makes up the area, but they do. The canopied rear entrance of the seventy-floor RCA building is eternally a Mecca for tourists and New York buffs. With guided tours, NBC, CBS-TV Studios, and the cosmos of subway lines, post office, and countless shops and stores arcaded within structural elegance, the entire tableau is a far cry from the Manhattan of Third Avenue, Eighth Avenue, Times Square, and the shabby sectors like the Village, Yorkville, and Columbus Avenue. I have always liked Rockefeller Plaza. It is the New York of the postcards. The effect of the Statute of Liberty, the Chrysler, and the Empire State all rolled into one concrete oasis of charm, stateliness, and beauty.
When I swung onto the Plaza, I saw Felicia Carr immediately. She was waiting for me by the canopied facade of the RCA building, staring just twenty feet across the narrow street at the western side of the Plaza Restaurant, where I had invited Christian Godlove to meet me. I followed her gaze. The stone parapet along the pavement was empty. Not a single passerby had paused to look down at the sunken restaurant. In fact, the usual crowds of people were thin that morning.
Felicia was outfitted in a black-and-white checkered coat with matching tam and red scarf encircling her slender neck. She looked only marvelous. Like a memory of a million happy Sunday mornings. It was a sunny Saturday, but that didn't change the first, visual impression.
I joined her under the canopy, and she shook my hand as if she barely knew me. But her eyes warmed me, silently. Then she looked around and made a shrugging expression with her shoulders.
"Nobody you recognized?" I asked.
"Not a soul," she admitted. "If this Mr. Godlove is so certain I'll know him when I see him, it beats me. Everything okay at the office?" She winced a little as she moved her stiff, injured arm.
"This'll kill you. Dame Paul sent a messenger up with the baseball. The baseball. I've got it in my pocket. See the pretty bulge?"
; Her eyes flew open. "Good Lord—then that explains it."
"Go on."
"I called my—ah—superiors this morning. The drop wasn't made at Penn Station. I told them I was working with you, and they said to hang onto your coattails until further developments. I told them about Godlove also, Ed. I had to. Nobody seemed to know the name either, so they're running a trans-Atlantic check on it. Interpol, the CIA, our agents in Europe—something will turn up, if there's any kind of file on him."
I took her hand. "All right. Let's go look at the outdoor pavilion. Maybe he's sitting down there having a cup of coffee."
It was the shortest walk in the world. An Olympic athlete could have made it in a running broad jump. We took up a station at the stone wall and looked down into the heart of the restaurant area. The scenic waterfall just below us made gushing, rhythmic noises. A gentle, lulling sound all the way. Felicia scanned the orderly banks of outdoor tables, all of which were placed astutely under huge, almost beach-type, umbrellas to shade the diners from too much sunlight. It was a fine idea that morning. At ten-fifteen, according to my watch, the August Sol was blazing down Death Valley style. Also, according to my Timex, Mr. Christian Godlove was late.
"He's late, isn't he?" Felicia murmured.
"Fifteen minutes late. See him down there?"
"No. Looks like the usual. Fathers and mothers with gaggles of children. A couple of young people. Date types. I don't know, Ed. I just don't know. He sounded so sure on the phone last night. That I would know him—"
"He did. But stop knocking yourself out. I trust you. I have to. We'll just wait, that's all."
"We don't have much choice," she agreed. "Is the ball really the same one?"
Little Miss Murder Page 10
