He’d had too much to drink when he left the bar. He managed to slide into the cab without help. 56th, between Lexington and Third. Another old brownstone with military iron pickets planted in a patch of snow. Might be a little green there in spring. Content would call it her yard. His teeth set. With one and the same breath she would drip romanticism over a square of actual green in mid-Manhattan and brew a mess of lies calculated to involve in trouble a haphazard selection of acquaintances.
There was a bookstore in the basement, the usual table of dull and worn tomes barring the entrance. Kit didn’t look at them. He managed to climb the steps to the door Without falling on his face. He entered the vestibule; the card for 3-B, front, wavered before resolving into C. M. Hamilton. M for Makepeace? Grandfather Hamilton with Mayflower ideology had named the younger generation. Kit didn’t ring. He had luck; someone’s exit admitted him into the hallway. He lurched up two carpeted flights, past doors spilling piano scales, voice scales, violin scales. One of those places. Annex to Carnegie. Content’s door wasn’t musical. He knocked loudly and he pulled himself straight and belligerent waiting to be denied entrance.
Her voice called, “Come in!” The door wasn’t equal to the strength of his opening; he teetered a little on the threshold.
Content was on the floor, resting on the back of her neck, her hands under her spine, her legs pointed long and straight at the rococo ceiling. The corners of her eyes saw him, said, “It’s you,” with some surprise, and her feet resumed pedaling an imaginary upside-down bicycle.
Kit banged the door. He said, “I ought to push your teeth down your throat,” and then her words dripped through his brandied fog. “Who you expect—Blue Eyes?” All the other women he knew were after Otto Skaas; no reason why she shouldn’t be too. He dropped to the tapestry-covered studio couch, took off his hat and leaned his head against the pink wall. He removed the head quickly. Inside it there was a merry-go-round. He said to himself, “What I need is another drink.”
Content said, “You’re in the wrong house. This isn’t a bar. And who’s Blue Eyes?” Her toes touched far above her yellow head and she turned an effortless somersault landing on her knees. She looked like a kid in her pink, checkered rompers and her cheeks too pink for night club fashion. She looked like two little kids, twins.
He growled, “I ought to kick in your teeth. I need a drink. Oak-leaf Skass. The blue-eyed Luftwaffle.” He liked that, touched it with his tongue again. “Luftwaffle.” It was definitely funny and he giggled.
Content said cannily, “You’re drunk. You don’t need another drink. You won’t get any here. I don’t keep liquor.” She was doing kaleidoscopic things with her legs in the air again. Kit closed his eyes and shuddered.
She told him, “I have to keep on with my exercises. If you don’t like it, get out. I may get a Hollywood contract. My hips.” He could have closed one hand around them. “Why are you drunk so early in the day?”
He demanded then, “Give me a drink, Content.”
“Get out.” Her round mouth was too red to be that cold.
“Just one more.”
“Get out.”
He was mad as hell. “So Blue Eyes can come in. O.K.” He stood up but he dropped down again fast. “Guess maybe I am drunk,” he agreed pleasantly. He wiped his forehead with his hand. It was hot in this room.
“Sure you are.”
“Besides he’s gone to Franconia Notch with Barby.”
She laughed. “Go on. Sob about it. That explains the liquor on your breath.”
“It does not.” He tried to look knowing. He could see seven legs waggling in the air. He could count seven, the others were blurred.
He heard her voice very far away. “But it doesn’t explain your wanting to improve my dentals.”
His voice was even further. “… you’re nuts about the Waffle. Everybody is. You bluff me with a lot of wild yarns about Toni Donne—” His voice stopped. He was floating. He liked it.
He opened his eyes in heavy dusk. He didn’t know where he was. His shoes were off. His hat was in the middle of the floor with a white sail on it. A streak of lightning played zigzag in his head. His mouth had a rug inside it, a thick one but not a particularly clean one. He bumped his shin finding a lamp. The white sail said: “Your shoes are in the bathroom. Turn out the lights and lock the door. If you’re still in the mood, you can do your strong man act at Number 50. Sweet dreams.”
He’d passed out. Too much brandy. The overheated apartment had done the rest.
In one brown brogue there was an unbroken pint of whiskey. In the other was a placard labeled: Dog Hair. He broke the seal, quarter-filled a red plastic tumbler. It tasted of plastic. He ducked his head in a bowl of cold water, rinsed out his mouth with antiseptic, combed back his black curly hair, poured another quarter. Flavored with mouth wash, it tasted better.
If he kept his head up the lightning was fairly static. But it wasn’t lightning bothering him now; it was footsteps. Limping footsteps. The sound of a man who couldn’t walk right, whose feet wobbled ….
Sweat broke out of every pore in Kit’s body. They were coming nearer. He could hear them, the thud, the slur. And the door wouldn’t be locked. He’d be alone with the deformed man! He shook his head and the lightning stabbed it. But the sound was still there. He crept into the living-room; he remembered the gun and his hand trembled to it. He heard nothing.
He had more sense than to shake his head again but he wanted to. He wanted to know if that had made the sound. He hadn’t heard those irregular steps in months, he wasn’t going to let them torture his ears again. He was cured and he couldn’t be listening to ghost limping.
The trouble was he hadn’t had any solid food since last night. That was why his wrist shook, why his watch hands pointing to nine-ten were jumping. That was why he’d passed out. Food might even pad the lightning. Content wouldn’t be at the club yet. She might be at Carlo Lepetino’s.
He walked the few blocks. The place was well-filled; he wolfed a platter of spaghetti, washed it with Dago red. No chance to talk alone with Carlo, nor did the man come around. Kit waylaid him at another table before he left. “I’m going to see Poppa. Where they living now?” He said to Carlo’s eyebrows, “Poppa Lepetino.”
There was faint hope beneath the sadness. “The same apartment like always, Mr. McKittrick.”
Kit turned back. “Miss Hamilton been here tonight?”
“Earlier she was here. With her young man, yes.”
That was a surprise dose. It must be José; it couldn’t be the blue-eyed Waffle; he was week-ending. Not just like that; there’d be others; Barby didn’t do things that way. But young Skaas wanted him to think that, and why hadn’t Barby said something? He mustn’t funk about Barby now. He mustn’t mix her up with Louie’s death. She had no place with darkness and destruction.
Kit went into the night. It smelled of fresh snow. He walked on to Fifth, caught a cab and gave the Sullivan Street address. Poppa and Momma Lepetino wouldn’t move uptown, not even for Louie. They’d lived in the red-brick tenement too long. The driver didn’t believe it but Kit paid off.
He climbed, four flights now, with more smell than noise behind doors. He knocked. Some little Lepetino let him in, yelled, “Poppa, Momma,” in a combination of liquid Italian and adenoidal New York.
Kit knew the front room, the green velvet, tasseled cover on the golden-oak upright; on the trellised wall paper, the reproductions in gloss and color which Murillo and Raphael never visioned; the starched Batenburg curtains and crocheted antimacassars, the dustless roses on the rug. He was more at home here than in Geoffrey’s museum piece. He and Louie might have just run upstairs for a piece of bread. He could call, “It’s me. It’s Kit.”
They were fat and sad but their brown eyes spoke pleasure in his coming. They didn’t know why Louie should die. They had but one answer: “Eet was the cops.” Momma rubbed her fingers over her spotless apron. Poppa’s shirt sleeves rolled up nearer his sw
eaty underarms. “Yes, eet was the cops.” He pulled at his brigand moustachios. They were sad. Louie, not the first born, but Louie, the prop, was gone.
Kit said, “I’m going to find out what happened, see? I’m going to put the skids on whoever did this. But I’m going to find out why first.” He had to find out why. If Louie was murdered because Kit had sent him a souvenir from Lisbon, he had to know. There weren’t any sea shells in the room where Louie had slept. Not among the parlor’s bric-a-brac. He questioned but Momma and Poppa didn’t know what he was talking about.
And he insisted, “Louie didn’t jump out that window, did he?”
Louie didn’t. He was buried in sanctified ground. But they didn’t know anything save: it was the cops.
He walked away from the jangling street, hailed an uptown cab. “Number Fifty.” This cabbie wasn’t suspicious. Kit looked like a fare for Number 50.
The head waiter gave him the glass eye. He said something about dinner clothes. Kit laughed in his swarthy face. “I don’t want a table in your stink hole. Tell Jake I’m here. Kit McKittrick.”
Jake had a swell joint. That was a name band, did commercials. Those were Gropper murals on the wall, Kober limericks. The suckers were café crowd. That meant high society and high crooks. Jake said from behind and below his shoulder, “Didn’t think you’d remember me, Kit.”
Jake lite first born. Learned food from Uncle Carlo. Started his wad with prohibition. Poppa helped him. That was before Louie joined the force. Learned the ropes from his first joint. The Silver Bell didn’t cater to the café crowd, but the band became name band after while, and there were three zanies who later made Broadway lights. Now Jake was café crowd. He was almost as fat as Poppa and Momma and Uncle Carlo but his tailor didn’t let you know. His white tie was unblemished, his graying hair well cut. Under his eyes was the Lepetino sadness.
Kit said, “Your strong arm wouldn’t let me sit down.”
Jake spoke to the major domo. “Mr. McKittrick is to have the best of service whenever he honors us,” or something like that. Kit understood enough Italian.
He said, “I didn’t want to—tonight I’m waiting for Content.”
Jake talked like a gentleman. “She’ll be through her number soon. Have a drink with me in the office while you’re waiting.”
He followed, sank into a splendor of chromium and red leather. A white coat came to the private bar. Jake sat on the scarlet couch. There was no office equipment, not even a desk. He said, “You’ve heard about Louie?”
Kit said, “I just came from Poppa’s.”
Jake’s eyes were unconsciously wide with surprise. They weren’t sad any longer. He was apologizing with manicured hands. “We thought you did not care, Kit. It took you so long to come. You did not even send flowers.”
Kit scowled. “I found out by accident. I was West.”
“Yes.” Jake’s eyes were slits. “Your health—is regained?”
“Yeah.” He took the glass from the servitor, tasted, good as Geoffrey’s stock. “Who got Louie?”
Jake’s shoulders were expansive. “If I knew.” If he knew he had friends who would take care of it. “It was no grudge.” Jake had tried to find out. It wasn’t a hood; Jake could get a line on hoods.
“How did Louie get mixed up with the swells?”
Jake’s shrug was slight.
“Couldn’t have been here at Fifty?”
“Could be.” Jake’s cigar had aroma.
Kit was annoyed. “Don’t be so loquacious.”
He sounded honest. “Louie dropped in to see me now and then. But not to see the customers, Kit.” He deposited a banker’s ash on the scarlet stand.
“Louie liked women, Jake. Beautiful women.”
“Yes.” He regretted his brother’s weakness.
“Toni Donne come here?”
“I know so few by name, Kit.” He was bland. “Barbara Taviton comes here.”
Kit’s jaw was tight. “All right. I made a mistake once. I introduced Barbara Taviton to Louie. When I was sick. Before I went West.” His throat ached. Barby, who didn’t know any better, being used. That’s how they got on to Louie. Jake wasn’t just thinking up customers. Barby mentioning, causally, meeting Lieutenant Lepetino in Kit’s room. Mentioning with stupid casualness that after all these years Kit still had the little detective for friend. Louie awed that day in the bedroom by Barby’s exquisite contours. Louie humbly pleased at being remembered by Barby, meeting her escort, Otto Skaas. Louie meeting Toni Donne, her grandfather, the old Prince who was seen by invitation only? Louie not suspicious. But they knew, knew Kit communicated with someone. They didn’t know that Louie’s knowledge was incomplete. Why was he killed? Because he wouldn’t tell them all he didn’t know? Or because he’d learned too much about them? Because he knew they were stalking Kit?
They. Whom was he accusing of the crime? The old Skaas was in sight of a roomful of guests. The young one not even on the floor. Prince Felix didn’t leave his Riverside apartment. If Louie’d been killed with a gun, it could have been a man; but it wasn’t a gun, it was a shove, and what was Louie doing while the guy pushed? No one but Toni Donne could have done it and Toni Donne could not have done it. Kit was looking for a dame to kill Louie, but not Toni Donne. It wasn’t in her face.
He heard Jake’s voice consulting a millionaire’s silver-thin gold watch. “Content goes on in a few moments—you want to hear her?”
He stood. “I’ve taken enough of your time, Jake.” He looked around. No sea shells in this pristine decorator job. He didn’t know how to ask; he didn’t want Jake messing with his job. It wasn’t something Jake could handle. Then he laughed. “Louie ever show you what I sent him from—” he hesitated “—from Spain?”
“No.” Jake was wondering.
He didn’t satisfy the curiosity. He said, “See you soon,” and unescorted followed the corridor in the opposite direction, dressing-room direction. He stopped at one ajar. “I’m looking for—”
José lowered out of ebon eyes. “You are looking for Miss Hamilton. She is singing. She will not see anyone.”
Whatever the setup was, José didn’t know him. Nor was he interested in one of Content’s chasers.
“This her dressing-room?” Kit looked around, insolent, assured, a rich young man on the loose.
“This is not her dressing-room.” The accent was Spanish. “You disturb me. Go your way. Go.” He brandished the violin from his knees.
“O.K., kid.” Kit turned on his heel, at the door flung over his shoulder, “Hasta la vista, mi amigo.”
The ears pricked like a faun’s. Kit shut the door, continued down the corridor to sound, to stand behind the golden-starred curtains of makeshift wings. Content was singing. The lyric was no more audacious than the voice, the sheath of gold glittering her smallness. She came behind on applause, hissed, “Where’s José?” and asked, “When did you sober up?”
He grinned. She returned momentarily to insistent hands and he felt the warmth of José looming behind him. He said to the curtain, “Fiddlers can’t ski. Might break a wrist.”
The black eyes turned hate as the Spaniard followed Content into the spotlight.
There was another warm bulk behind him and the hairs on his neck crawled. He hadn’t advanced into José’s dressing-room, one of them could have been parked there. His fingers moved with cautious quickness to his pocket. He smelled cigar. Jake said, “Good act, yes?”
“Swell.” He kept his thumb hooked there. “Content always was a cute kid. Where’d you find the fiddler?”
“She brought him around. He is good. Too good for Jakie’s.”
Kit was casual. “Bet Louie was nuts about him.”
“Yes. Louie loved good music.”
José had been here before Louie was bumped off. Maybe the fiddler put the finger on him. Maybe Content was the sap who gave things away. She’d not seen Kit with Louie but Jake could have mentioned the friendship.
The couple took fi
nal bows and the orchestra rushed into cacophony. Content slipped her arm through Kit’s. “You know Jake. And José Andalusian?”
José bowed sulkily, froze with his back. “Tonight I can not play, Jake. Too much disturbings.”
Content called after them, “Only one more number, José. Buck up. Come along, Kit. I’ve forty minutes before the next.” She led him into her dressing-room. It was next to the Spaniard’s. José’s eyes hated them as she opened the door. Jake’s cigar went on down the corridor.
Kit slumped on the chaise. Jake had even done himself proud with these unseen quarters. Content drank coke from a paper carton. She asked, “Who sobered you up?”
He apologized. “I’m sorry. If I’d known the shape I was in I wouldn’t have invaded you.”
She said, “Maybe now you’ll tell me why you were loaded with the prize ring patter when you arrived.”
He stared at the next wall pertinently, turned back to her, “Don’t you want to get some air before the next show?”
“Certainly. I didn’t know you could take it.” She was covering herself with the red velvet cape. She let him out the fire door into the areaway. They walked in the dirty snow to the 51st Street exit and he lighted her cigarette.
“Now what?”
“Why did you tell me those lies about Toni Donne last night?”
“Lies, yet.” Her eyes met his squarely in the dim alley. “Who calls them lies?”
“I do.” He was certain. “She’s too little to toss a man out a window.”
“And who said she pushed?”
“You did.” He corrected it. “It’s the only way in your set-up. Who are you trying to get into trouble? Toni? Why are you jealous of her? Is it José you’re after? Or Otto Skaas?”
She was five foot two of disgust with him. “Why don’t you look beyond your nose?”
“What’s true? What’s lies?” She was the only one who’d talk to him. If he could only beat the truth out of her.
“Everything I’ve told you is true.” She was solemn. “Unfortunately I don’t know everything. You’ll have to do some of the work yourself.”
Fallen Sparrow Page 6
