by Spain, Laura
That leads up to that final night. I had a good view of Leblanc from a nearby craps table. He came across more tense than usual. The way he curved over the table, the hunch of his shoulders, that grim pan. The final straw could’ve been anything, but when it came, he snapped. His hands balled into fists and softly pounded the table. Contempt washed over his face. He jerked to his feet, cashed in his chips without a word, moving abruptly, awkwardly. I remained in the background, casually hanging back—I saw no reason to sweat it.
Leblanc strode to the parking lot with a briskness I hadn’t expected. I didn’t think the old guy had it in him. His car sat a lot farther down than mine. I approached my coupe, keeping watch, and waited. Leblanc crossed the lawn, reached the Packard, and maneuvered himself in behind the steering wheel. I dug into my shirt pocket for a smoke. A soft, male voice from behind caught me off guard.
“Beg pardon, can I trouble you for a match?”
It happened just as I turned. It happened fast. It felt like a sack of cement crashing into my jaw. I caught a blurred, split-second glimpse of the Johnny who jumped me before crumpling into the grass. Then everything dissolved to smoke. I never saw Leblanc again.
I came to, slow, with a grinding headache. The sunshine didn’t help any. It took a few moments to register my surroundings as the passenger seat of the coupe. A sharp, throbbing pain kicked in along my jaw. Between the throbs, my memory flashed back to me in spurts. Sitting up made the pain worse. I found my billfold next to me on the seat. The Grants were gone. So was Leblanc’s snapshot. Everything else in order. A gaze through the windshield placed me just off the intersection of 22nd and Cicero. I identified the Hawthorne Works looming ahead on the right. I fingered my jaw, painful to the touch, but my teeth felt intact.
I needed coffee before anything else. I had enough pocket change for that. I exited the car and assessed the damage in the side mirror. The bruising bloomed like a Technicolor experiment. I spotted an owl wagon about half a block up so I tested the waters —and my legs — and set off on foot.
Funny how being roughed up can turn any lousy cup of coffee into the best you ever had. The stiff manning the counter kept sneaking peeks at my face. The register girl was kind enough to offer some aspirin. The gravel in my head gave way to something softer during the third cup. The raging headache subsided to a dull grinding and I could actually think. A lot of good that did me.
I still came up empty regarding Leblanc’s nightly sojourn. The man was no mean gambler, that’s for sure. Not betting on one number. Not night after night. Beats me what got to him. And then somebody got to me, all right. All of it made as much sense to me as trying to read a tote sheet in Chinese.
The big daddy question of them all threw me for a loop. I don’t know why I didn’t catch it sooner, laying there right in front of me. But when it struck me, it struck as hard as any blackjack to the jaw.
The headline in The American read, “Banker Commits Suicide.” Above the fold, a photograph of Peter-Louis Leblanc. He hadn’t smiled for the camera. The snapshot must’ve been taken years before the one the missus had forked over.
Suicide is never pretty. They all pull off their own level of ugly. The more you know the poor sap, the worse it plays out. A single witness stumbled on Leblanc’s Packard, the lone auto in a Hyde Park lot, half a city away from his home and office. A spent, old man, flung back in the driver’s seat. Like an abandoned marionette. Done in by a large caliber rod, probably a .44. The slug blew a huge crater through the top of his skull. Chips of bone, fragments of brains and bits of flesh sprayed across the Packard’s interior. Late at night. No letter. No note. Discovered by a stock boy on his way home from an all-night drugstore. The boy said, “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Sure.
The American ran a second picture, a portrait of Leblanc with his wife. That shot displayed her light hair, a wide face, and she appeared about the same age as her husband. That baby posed another question. Now we had two Mrs. Leblancs on the loose, one as phony as an alderman’s promise. As if my head didn’t ache enough.
My anger kicked in faster than the aspirin. I raced up north to the Leblanc’s apartment building—I never gave the speedometer a thought. I handed my card to the concierge, told him I knew the late Mr. Leblanc, said I’m sure his wife would want to see me. He hesitated, a questioning look screwing up his face. He caught sight of the bruising, the soiled jacket, dropped the questioning look, my whole, rough and tumble demeanor—he buzzed upstairs at once.
The elevator opened directly onto a foyer and connecting hallway. The Leblanc’s must’ve let the entire floor. My whole walk-up could’ve fit in the foyer with room to spare. A subdued butler showed me to a large sitting room. Mrs. Leblanc sat dead center, surrounded by a warehouse worth of furniture. There were straight-back chairs and lounge chairs, loveseats, small sofas, end tables, coffee tables, console tables, table lamps, floor lamps, floor rugs, throw rugs. She appeared stiff and uneasy in her cane chair. As animated as asphalt. I took a seat in a wingback, right across the Oriental rug from her.
Mrs. Leblanc looked just like her picture in the newspaper, all right, with a few years thrown in. The regal widow, sure. Encircled by that hodgepodge of luxury. I could’ve expected the old dame to be plenty sad or upset. Heartbroken, even. Maybe the whole affair would leave her numb. Maybe everything would come crashing down on her later. I gave her a careful once-over—Mrs. Leblanc was terrified. You could see it on her face. As plain as anything. Alone and terrified.
I declined the offer of something to drink. I wasn’t in the mood to have anything spilled in my lap—the old dame looked that shaky. I didn’t feel in top form myself. A light-headedness tried gumming up the works I call a brain, but I ignored it. Mrs. Leblanc asked after my health, but making small talk didn’t interest me. Neither did paying my respects. I cut to the chase.
“Mrs. Leblanc, what are you afraid of?”
A soft gasp escaped her lips.
I continued. “You don’t believe he killed himself, do you? I can’t think he did. He didn’t strike me as the type. But I barely knew your husband, Mrs. Leblanc. It’d mean a lot more coming from you.”
She parted her lips, and then hesitated. She looked about to speak, but kept mum. An air came over her that put a distance between us, as though she saw through me and into the next room.
“Mrs. Leblanc.”
She squinted in my direction, like I was difficult to make out all that way across the Oriental.
“What did you tell the police?”
She mouthed the word “nothing” without making a peep.
“But you could tell them something, isn’t that right, dear?”
She closed her eyes, nodded, and drew in her upper lip.
“What do you know about it, Mrs. Leblanc?”
She started rocking in the cane chair.
I spat at her. “What do you know?”
“I,” she paused. She glanced upward. “He couldn’t. He just—” She paused again and took a breath. “I cannot accept it. Pierre-Louis would not do such a thing. Such a harsh thing. Such a vile thing.”
“I’m with you as far as that goes, Mrs. Leblanc.”
“Pierre-Louis was a very gentle man, in his own way. Serious. Perhaps too serious, but also gentle.”
I had to keep pressing. “What else?”
“He liked snow. Did you know that?”
“What do you know about his trouble, Mrs. Leblanc? Tell me about that.”
She squeezed her eyelids shut, placed an index finger to her lips and bobbed her head. I waited. She drew heavy breaths in a stop and start fashion. I leaned forward. The thin creaking of the cane chair squeaked as she rocked in place. Then, like a piercing alarm, like a fire alarm, the telephone rang with shocking loudness. Mrs. Leblanc let fly, “I blackmailed my husband!”
The old girl had come through. Her eyes opened and scrutinized me, again with that unsure squint. They held terror, all right. I sat still. The phone continued to rin
g. A third ring. A fourth.
“Maybe it’s important,” I said. She put her index finger to her lips and waited. “The butler?”
“I’ve left instructions.”
After 10 rings the telephone went silent. Mrs. Leblanc was ready to talk.
“I’ll confess everything. I can’t tolerate the shame. I must talk to someone. Can I trust you? You look like someone I can trust.”
“There’s no reason in the world you should trust me, Mrs. Leblanc. Just because I was all for your husband doesn’t mean I’m for you as well.”
“I see, yes.” She spoke faintly, almost to herself, as softly as rainfall. “But I feel as though I can trust you. Did my husband trust you?”
“In a small way, I think he did.”
“Is it all right if I tell you everything?”
You could see the old gal had reached the final station. Any strength, any resilience she’d once had was shot. Nothing left inside. Nothing left to lose. “I’m not going to stop you, Mrs. Leblanc.”
“You see, I knew. I knew Pierre-Louie was seeing someone. He didn’t love me anymore, or maybe he knew I hadn’t loved him for years. Or maybe he just gave up. Perhaps that’s why he found someone else. I don’t know, really. After all that time, why should that have hurt me?”
“So you wanted to hurt him. To get back at him.”
“To a point, I suppose so. What I wanted most of all was to run away from everything. Imagine that. At my age. But I would have had nothing, you see. Pierre-Louis made me sign all these documents before we married. We were happy and I didn’t mind. Perhaps I was being young and foolish. That was so very long ago. One can hardly start over at this age. Now even so, when Mr. Jupiter first suggested we blackmail Pierre-Louis—how I could I entertain such a notion? That’s all it was to me at first. Just a silly notion, or his way of poking fun at me.”
“Mr. Jupiter, the gambler.”
“Yes, some call him that. I first met him at his club—I’d gone there on a lark. I’d begun going out nights when Pierre-Louis said he was working late. Soon after, Mr. Jupiter and I met again, quite by accident, in a restaurant near here.”
“Fancy that.”
“Yes. He began calling me and calling me. Finally, I just gave in. He was the most charming gentleman, really, and made the most pleasing companion. For a time. Until we began discussing my husband. I don’t know what I was thinking. He was so young. I acted so foolishly.”
“A younger fella. I see. What’d he work out for your husband?”
“At first he wanted to know if Pierre-Louis had any weaknesses. That’s a funny sort of thing to be asked. And now, now Pierre-Louis is gone.” She glanced upward.
“Don’t drift out on me, Mrs. Leblanc. You said Jupiter wanted to know about your husband’s weaknesses.”
“Yes, yes, that’s what he asked. I told him what came to mind, though not exactly what you’d call a weakness, was Pierre-Louis’ obsession with his privacy and reputation. Any type of notoriety simply outraged Pierre-Louis. He refused to pose for the camera. Avoided every kind of publicity. He never even advertised in the journals, you know. Some businessmen are more discreet than others. Pierre-Louie was, well, practically invisible.”
“But did okay for himself. And for you.”
“I must say so. I really must.”
“And Jupiter must’ve smelled opportunity.”
“I saw a change come over Mr. Jupiter. He became excited and distracted. ‘This one is going to be easy, my dear, so easy.’ I remember that’s what he said, and his voice was cold and frightened me. ‘So easy.’ When I offered a slight protest, he grabbed me painfully hard. By the wrist. ‘Isn’t this what you want?’ he asked. He pushed me away, said we were all alike, and marched off. I never saw Mr. Jupiter after that.” She added in a whisper, “Just the thought frightened me.”
“He was all fixed.”
“Yes, he was. And I’m to blame for it. And now I’m to blame for Pierre-Louis.”
“You think Jupiter’s involved?”
“Pierre-Louis would never do anything like that, you see? He was a proud man. And something—”
“Do you think Jupiter could’ve been involved in your husband’s death, Mrs. Leblanc?”
“Jupiter?”
“Do you think Jupiter killed your husband, Mrs. Leblanc?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know.” The words ran fast and breathless. “I know I am afraid of him.” She went all petrified again.
“I think I’d like to meet this Mr. Jupiter.” That gave her a terrific scare. Maybe I shouldn’t have said it.
I left Mrs. Leblanc like I found her. There was nothing I could do for her. That didn’t interest me, anyway. Still, I couldn’t ignore that sense of sorrow that washed over that home. Maybe I just felt sorry for all of us. Take it as you like. I caught a maid on the way out and suggested she look in on Mrs. Leblanc. Maybe sit with her for a bit. “I’d die before I show that old crow any consideration.” That was the maid’s flat response. The staff had taken sides, and Mrs. Leblanc lost out.
I stopped home for a shower and a change, but an unscheduled collapse delayed me. That wrap on the jaw must’ve been harder than I figured.
The twilight ride to River Road went by in no time. My thoughts distracted me. Mostly I pictured Mr. Leblanc, discarded like last year’s suit. No longer in style. Out of step. Then I reflected on Mr. Jupiter—finding him and taking care of him in one way or another.
I reached Jupiter’s club after sunset. The hatcheck girl referred me to a floor manager who looked more like a bouncer. He referred me to a set of double doors at the far end of the game room. A little sign in gold above the doorway read, “Private Office.” A couple of torpedoes flanked each side of the entry.
“Jupiter’s private office?” I asked.
Bruiser number one had a comeback ready: “Whatever you say, brother.”
“I’d like to see him.”
Bruiser number two chirped, “So would his wife and her attorney.”
“Nix that,” spat the first bruiser. “He ain’t here, brother.”
“He’ll want to see me.”
“As much as you want to see him?” That from number two.
“More,” I said.
“Don’t matter,” shrugged number one, “cause he ain’t in.”
“You boys ever try this routine on the radio?”
“Radio?”
“Why, you want to manage us?”
“I’ll tell you boys what. You tell Mr. Jupiter that the P.I who was tailing Leblanc is waiting for him at the bar.”
“I will if I see him, brother.”
“That’s Leblanc,” I emphasized.
“Say, I think I had a nice Leblanc ‘88, once.”
“Just tell him.” I headed for the bar.
The second one called after me, “Maybe you should send him a cable, maybe.”
I pulled up to the bar, wondering if I’d made my point. An empty stool was all the company I wanted and I found it. I ordered a highball. The first sip went down rough, which was fine with me. Jupiter’s establishment didn’t impress me, or his reputation, and it pleased me that his liquor followed suit. I enjoyed my displeasure for less than ten minutes. The interruption arrived in the form of a thin wheeze.
“So you have ferreted me out.” The voice sounded soft and grainy and short on air, like a pump organ without enough juice.
I spun around to view the celebrated Mr. Jupiter. Put him around 60. And a round man, all together. Dull, blonde hair circled his round head so closely you couldn’t make out for sure if he was going bald. The eyes, tiny slits close to his nose, held two, tiny balls that glistened like black pearls. His monkey suit brought out the roundness of his shoulders, chest and gut. His short, round fingers displayed too many rings with too many stones. The capper, which was just right because it fit so wrong, was a short cigarette holder wedged between his tiny, round teeth. No doubt this egg couldn’t belong to
the real Mrs. Leblanc.
“Far from Rome,” I mused.
“Pardon?” Jupiter wheezed.
“Nothing,” I replied.
One of the gargoyles from the office hovered a little too close. “No need to crowd, Geoffrey,” Jupiter said. “Our friend here might think we’re expecting trouble.” He bent towards me. “Should we be expecting trouble?”
I was all set to crack wise, but Jupiter kept wheezing and speaking.
“We dismiss all troubles here. My guests leave all their troubles outside when they enter my house. Look at them. Complacent. Content.”
“Going bankrupt.”
“I rather think hopeful. They find hope in my house. One more spin, one more roll. A turn of the right card could change everything.”
“You’re just a goddamn romantic.”
“Why do you mean to bring trouble into my house?” The color in his round face went up one, rosy notch.
“Nothing you haven’t brought on yourself.”
“You’re referring to this man? This Leblanc?”
“That’s right.”
“Well. I never heard of this Mr. Leblanc.” He smiled to me. He turned and smiled at Geoffrey.
“He was an important man to know,” I said. “A powerful man. In private banking.”
Jupiter let out a thin sigh. “Well, as to that.” He worked a gold cigarette lighter from his waistcoat pocket. “What need do I have for a private banker?”
“You’re greedy.”
“Even greed has its limits.”
“No it doesn’t.” I felt like pushing just for the sake of pushing. “Not in your case.”
Jupiter worked his thumb on the lighter. “Well, in any case, I have never met your Mr. Leblanc. I can’t even say I’ve seen the fellow.”
“And one of your best customers, too. Supported you plenty, night after night. That is, after you set him up. I’m sure it was easy for you to find some pretty, and pretty cheap, young thing to take him in.”
“I don’t associate with cheap!”
“Everything about you is cheap, Jupiter. I’ve looked around. Cheap and rotten and corrupt.”
