I was now at the back of the Quaker National Building, all grimy exposed brick. There was that hollow roar you get in the courtyards of office buildings: a dull din and vibration of ventilation, updraft, and late afternoon traffic hum. Plus the inevitable smell of coffee-shop grease: this afternoon’s hamburgers and fries wallowing in this morning’s fat. I found myself gagging, getting the backwash of that fried egg sandwich supreme, and tried to concentrate hard on the role of building inspector. I took out a little file and chipped away at some rust, then stood up to test the weight by sort of jumping up and down without leaving my feet, like a fat man having a tantrum. The metal rattled a bit and I broke out in a cold sweat before taking out my little book and jotting down some notes like: “FE, test weight. OK.” Whoever might be watching would be convinced and impressed. Correction: was convinced and impressed. Impressed enough to try and kill me.
Don’t ask me who it was—I’ve never met the guy—but someone was paying him royally to develop a strong distaste for me. I had just turned aside when the first explosion of gunfire did a fine job on some brick two inches to my left—approximately the spot where my generous and forgiving heart had been patiently beating a split second before. Right off, I figured the guy was trying to get my attention. To signal him that he had it, I hit the floor, in this case rusted metal slats which scraped my knuckles raw and jarred my bones to a fine powder. A second and third shot ripped into the brick a foot over my head. I stood up, ran two feet and crashed to the floor again, shaking the whole fire escape, as a fourth shot missed by so little as to put a buzz in my ear that stayed there a week. I was a sitting duck, crawling desperately toward Savage’s window. He must’ve heard all this by now. The shots echoed cavernously off the three walls of the courtyard and I could hear the first confused shouts of bored office workers suddenly slammed awake. I lay still for a second, then leaped wildly forward—a bald Jewish bullfrog—as a shot flew over my ankles and creased some more brick. Three feet from Savage’s window, I saw the great man himself for the first time, a gray eminence, alert and startled, looking out the window, absolutely fearless. He was opening the window as I bellowed, “Watch out,” and a sixth shot shattered the top pane, missing the banker. I dove through the open half and landed on top of Savage, sending both of us to the floor.
“Who the hell are you?” he grunted.
“Stay down,” I said. “There’s a sniper out there.” Our hearts were beating together like conga drums; under other circumstances, it might have been romantic. I heard the first sirens, then another shot ripped through Savage’s window, spraying us with fragments of glass.
“Jesus Christ Almighty,” Savage roared. He was very angry and goddamn impressive sounding. We lay waiting, breathing hard, and he finally said, “Please get off me,” so I rolled over.
Which is when I first noticed Kerry Lane.
She was cowering behind a couch when she recognized me and gasped. I just had to smile. At least I wasn’t getting shot at for a bum hunch.
“Hi, Kerry.”
She smiled wanly. “You found me.”
Savage looked incredulously from me to Kerry. “Anne, you know this man?”
She came crawling out from under the couch as the door flew open and Madge Durham came bursting in.
“There were shots … Oh my God!” She saw broken glass and three people on the floor. “Are you all right, Mr. President?”
“Yes, yes,” Savage said testily, dusting off his pants. “Madge, get those curtains shut and watch yourself. Stay out of window range.”
“We’re probably all right now,” I said.
Madge tiptoed around and pushed a button on Savage’s desk. The curtains silently came together.
“Should I call the police?” she asked. Savage looked at me and I shook my head no.
“No, Madge. Get maintenance to replace those panes immediately. If the police ask for me, tell them it’s absolutely impossible today. Perhaps tomorrow.” He looked at me. I smiled and nodded. We were in business.
Madge looked at me. “You’re not a building inspector.”
“That’s right.” She looked desolate.
“Madge,” Savage said slowly and evenly, each syllable rounded by a lifetime of giving orders, “you must speak to no one of this. And the panes must be replaced in the next five minutes. This is of the highest urgency.”
“Yes, sir,” she nodded and left.
Savage got up and went to the couch, sitting down on it heavily. The girl I knew as Kerry got up and sat beside him. I wanted a little distance, so I took a chair across the room.
“Anne, how do you know this man?”
“He’s a private investigator I hired in New York when it started.”
“What does he know?” They were having a private chat. The detective as cleaning lady.
“Not much.”
“Plenty,” I said pleasantly.
Kerry stared at me. “Mr. LeVine, what’s happened?”
“Well, as you might have guessed from my entrance, this case is pretty important to some people. But you knew that already, right?”
“All right,” Savage growled, “let’s cut all the crap and find out what the story is. First, I’d like to thank you for saving my life. Thank you. Second, what is your precise involvement in and knowledge of this matter? Third, what were you doing crawling around on my fire escape?”
I took a good long look at Eli Whitney Savage, a spectacular product of the good life. If the Mayflower slept with Mount Rushmore, Savage would have been the result. His eyes were the deep blue of a Greek sea, his hair going white over the temples but otherwise bluish-gray. His skin was flawless, never touched by a blemish; he had the nose and chin of Jack Armstrong. Beneath the three-hundred-dollar suit, monogrammed DePinna shirt, and dark blue Sulka tie, Savage’s body looked taut and trim. An American beauty rose, every inch of him: stem to stern, ass to elbow. When he looked at you, it was clear that you were being measured by a banker’s yardstick: was this chump good for a thousand bills at nine percent?
I breathed deeply and went into the soft-shoe.
“First off, you’re welcome, but the chances are good that if I wasn’t out on the escape, your life wouldn’t have been in danger; not just yet, that is, if I’m figuring things right. Second, my name is Jack LeVine, born Jacob Levine on Orchard Street in 1906, and I’m a private investigator operating out of New York City. In that capacity, I was hired by your daughter.…” I looked at the two of them and smiled. “I’m correct? She is your daughter?”
“Yes, yes. Anne Brooke Savage,” the banker said impatiently.
“Just wanted to confirm it. I was hired by your daughter to scare off some blackmailers. She was afraid they’d blow the whistle on her to the producer of GI Canteen, a Mr. Warren Butler. Now, I’d guess she was afraid they’d tell you and I’d guess, furthermore, that they have. Hence her visit to Philadelphia, after a lengthy absence?”
Anne Brooke Savage, chorus girl, nodded.
“Finally, I was on the fire escape because I was unable to get in the front door. Miss Durham serves you very, very well, Mr. Savage.”
He allowed himself a smile. “She’s been with me for a long time. A very loyal and courageous woman.”
“Aces,” I agreed.
“How did you find out I was here, Mr. LeVine?” asked Kerry. Dark circles were smeared beneath her eyes. Coming home to Philly must’ve been murder on her.
There was a knock at the door and Savage put a finger to his lips; two maintenance men came in respectfully, carrying panes of glass. Miss Durham followed.
Savage stood up. “Let’s go to the dining room. Madge, some coffee, please.”
“They called,” she said obliquely.
“And?” he asked.
“A man with a rifle was spotted on the roof of Prudential. He got away.”
Savage looked at me, then gestured to a side door which led into a small but elegant room with a beautiful walnut table and a crystal chande
lier. The four of us walked inside.
“The Ritz,” I said, ever the commoner. We took seats near the end; Miss Durham walked into the adjacent kitchen.
“Anne had asked you something, LeVine,” Savage said evenly.
“She asked me how I found out. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t hard. It was lucky. An assistant stage manager at the Booth told me the girl had been skittish about the possibility that GI Canteen might play in Philadelphia. I connected that fact and her going home, wherever that might be—probably Philly, I thought—with this picture.” I unfolded the news clipping and slid it across the table. “I found this in the blackmailers’ hideout on Long Island. I couldn’t believe that two people had gotten murdered over a simple shakedown of a chorus girl.”
“Two people?” Kerry asked.
“Very early Saturday morning, a fella by the name of Al Rubine came to my apartment, very scared, and told me where the films were stashed. Not only was it a bum steer, but Rubine was dead five hours after he told me.”
“Rubine?” Savage said contemplatively, asking himself a quiet question.
“You know him?” I asked.
“A man by that name, or something very close to it, contacted me about four days ago.”
“In connection with the blackmail of your daughter?”
Savage looked at Anne. Anne looked at me. I looked at Savage.
“Tell him, father. He’s very trustworthy …”
“Like your other friends, Anne?” His tone made you reach for a fur coat.
“I think we’ve covered all that ground, father,” she said unawed. “I don’t think we have to squabble in front of Mr. LeVine.” Suddenly I thought of Katie Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story, and it all seemed very right, and I wanted things to turn out just great for Miss Anne Savage.
“Prodigal daughter,” I said, the cool professional. “I see it every day. Your daughter’s a fine girl, Mr. Savage, and in my business you learn to judge character. If you can’t, your life expectancy tops out at about thirty-five. She got caught in a mistake, not an uncommon one for rich girls who want to experience the world a little, who get bored with having everything done for them. What’s uncommon is the way she stuck up for you, protected you every step of the way, until I had to crawl around on a fire escape and take more flak than the Fifth Army to find out she was your daughter.” Anne was sniffling. “You ought to be proud of Annie, Mr. Savage, very proud.” Curtain. When I’m good, I’m very good.
“All right,” Savage said, clearing his throat. “You are a private detective. From this moment on, consider yourself a top-secret detective. What I tell you is absolutely and strictly between you and me. If you talk in your sleep …”
“I get the point. You don’t want me to tell anybody.”
Miss Durham paraded out of the kitchen, holding a silver tray which held a silver coffeepot and exquisite china coffee cups.
“What does she know?” I asked.
“Everything,” Savage said. She poured the coffee and kissed Anne’s cheek, which started Anne bawling. “Mrs. Savage passed away when Anne was ten. Madge has always been like a mother to her.”
“When Annie ran away,” Madge started to say, before a look from the banker stopped her cold. “Excuse me.” She backed out of the room.
We sipped at our coffee in silence. Anne dried her tears and forced a smile in my direction.
“It’ll be okay,” I said. She just nodded.
Savage wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “I’m ready.”
“So am I.”
“Fine. Here’s the story in a nutshell. The blackmailers used Anne to get at me. They threaten release of the films and a great embarrassment to a reputation the Savages have built in Philadelphia for two hundred years.”
“Unless you pay up?”
He permitted himself a chilly little excuse for a smile. “Quite the contrary, LeVine. Unless I don’t pay up—to the Republican Party. I’ve been a principal contributor to, and fund raiser for, the Dewey campaign. The convention started in Chicago this morning. I’ll fly there tomorrow—that’s the 27th—and we anticipate that Tom will be nominated on the first ballot Wednesday. After that we’ll be on the go, fighting all the way.” He punctuated the last four words by beating his fist on the table. “Three terms was bad enough; four is unthinkable. This isn’t a monarchy, this is a democracy.”
I looked around the private dining room. “Nice chandelier.”
Savage raised a bushy eyebrow. “Look, LeVine, I don’t care if you like my politics. This is just blackmail, pure and simple.”
“I agree one hundred percent. To tell you the truth, I don’t care for anybody’s politics very much. I do my fund raising strictly for Jack LeVine, the people’s choice. You back Dewey and that’s jake with me. If you were a vegetarian, likewise. Pay me and I’ll try and do a job.”
“I like that very much.” Savage was staring straight into my eyes. “I’m not asking you to love Dewey—God knows his manners could be better—but to give me some efficient detective work. If we understand that, I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”
“No doubt about it.”
“Excellent. As for payment, I will give you a retainer of one thousand dollars, with fifteen hundred more payable upon the completion of the job.”
That was nearly as much money as I’d made all last year. Bankers didn’t usually come my way.
“Tell you what, Mr. Savage, I travel pretty light, so how about three hundred now and hold the other twenty-two until it’s all over. Then maybe I’ll take the rest of my life off.”
“The fee’s too large?” he asked, eyes twinkling. A little banker’s humor.
“Not for this case. Your daughter gave me twenty and I almost got killed twice. The Savages owe me a little comfort.”
Anne smiled. Savage smiled. I smiled. Not grins, just a bit of polite fun among three strangers stuck on a life raft.
“They set any deadline for a decision, Mr. Savage?”
“Two weeks.”
“That’s not so bad. It gives me a little leeway to operate. I only have one question: what the hell do you want me to do?”
“Get the films,” Anne said.
“Perhaps,” Savage said, “if that’s possible. Mainly, I wish to avoid embarrassment and remain an active member of Mr. Dewey’s campaign. The possibility of a Cabinet post for me is not a remote one. I want to find out who’s in back of this and I wish them flushed out, scared off, or whatever. I’ve got a hunch about this, LeVine. Dewey made plenty of enemies when he was D.A. in New York and the Syndicate knows that if he were elected, the FBI would be on their trail night and day. I’m convinced organized crime is in back of this. Obviously, I don’t dare do anything by myself.”
“That’s very wise, Mr. Savage. But I’m not sure what I could do against the mob by myself.”
“You have friends, contacts. Use them.” Savage abruptly stood up. “Keep my name out of it and make it sticky for them, so sticky that they back out. Obviously, it is not a simple situation. If it were, I wouldn’t be paying you twenty-five hundred dollars to clear it up.” He extended his hand. “Now good luck, I think you’d better get started. I’ll be in Chicago starting tomorrow, at the Pioneer Hotel, room 1115, through Thursday. I want daily reports.”
He didn’t want much for his money, only that I commit suicide and keep his name out of it. That’s if his hunch was on the money. I wasn’t so sure.
“If I bring this off, tell Dewey to make me head of the FBI. Hoover’s getting too old for the job.”
Savage was thoughtful. “You have any ideas about this?”
I said yes and went out the door.
ONE OF THEM looked like Tony Galento after a week-long bender; the other was just a little smaller than a two-family house. Leaning against a long black Packard on my sleepy, tree-lined block in Sunnyside, they stuck out like hard-ons in a Turkish bath. I spotted them two blocks down, while still on the “el” platform. After staring at them through
my pocket binoculars, I decided that I had neither the wit nor the energy to play with them. It had been too long a day. I looked a bit more. The squat one was yawning and cracking his knuckles; the big one was picking his nose. They were drawing all kinds of funny looks from my neighbors, regular Joes coming home from work with the papers under their arms.
I went to a pay phone next to the turnstile, called the precinct house and asked for a captain who owed me a favor, a guy by the name of Joe Egan.
“Joe, there’s some muscle hanging around outside my house. Be a nice lad and chase them for me.”
“Muscle? Outside your place? I didn’t know you were that important.” Cops have to pass some kind of humor quiz before they get on the force.
“Can you hear me laughing, Joe? People tell me that sometimes it’s hard to, over the phone. Listen, I don’t know what these mugs want and I don’t have the strength to find out, not right now.”
“What kind of a case is this?” he asked in his raspy growl of a voice.
“Beats me. Nothing I’m working on right now. Frankly, I’m baffled, Joe.”
“Sure you’re baffled. You don’t know what the hell is going on. What is it this time, Jack, hiding a witness? Working against us? You know I’d like to see you get your head broken, so you’d go back to the fur business where you belong. A Jew shamus can’t cut the mustard, Jack, I’ve always told you that.”
“You’ll get rid of them, then?”
Egan sighed. “I owe you a favor and I’m one of these big-hearted Irish assholes you always read about. I’ll send a couple of boys over. But if this case is anything important, I wish to hell you’d level with me.”
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t handle important cases, they make me cry. Now give me a break and hurry it up, Joe. I want to go home.”
“I’ll give you a break, a break on …” I hung up on him. It was a private joke. I always hung up on him. He was a good boy and proved it two minutes later when a nicely polished squad car came rolling up the street. The gorillas turned around to watch it and I dashed down the stairs, ran three blocks—one east, two south, cut through Roth’s hardware on Murray Street, out the back door, and into the basement entrance of my building. I took the elevator up and pushed the door open very slowly when I got to three. There was no one in the hall, no one outside my door. My door was locked. I didn’t smell smoke or gas and I didn’t hear screams, so I unlocked it. No one was waiting inside with a sap or a rod, no one floating in my bathtub. I was surprised. LeVine returns home after a day at the office.
The Big Kiss-Off of 1944: A Jack LeVine Mystery Page 10
