The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel

by Chris Holcombe

  I don’t know. I’m not sure what Walter would do to him, given his hatred over his father’s secret.

  The voice from downstairs shouted, “Jack, where the hell is Florence? Did she take the damned thing home?”

  Dash said, “First we need to know what his role is in all this. And then we need to make sure. I won’t send another innocent into danger.”

  He found his gray homburg and perched it atop his head.

  “What say you, Joe? Shall we pay Mr., or perhaps Miss, Avery a visit?”

  Paul Avery lived in a three-story bright red brick building on the corner of Waverly and Christopher Street, almost around the corner from Hartford & Sons and Pinstripes. Dash and Joe walked up to the stoop and scanned the names written in the small metal box, finding Mr. Avery’s name next to apartment 2A. No other name was listed.

  “Wonder what he does for a living that he can live by himself,” Joe said.

  “It’s not tending bar, that’s for certain.”

  They rang the buzzer for apartment 2A, but there was no answer. They rang once more for good measure.

  “He’s not here,” Joe said. “What now, lassie?”

  Before Dash could respond, an old woman with a sack of groceries came walking up toward them.

  Dash intercepted her, saying, “Excuse me, ma’am, we’re looking for Mr. Paul Avery. Does he live here?”

  Seeing her up close, Dash noticed rheumy eyes damaged by time.

  “He does,” she said, her voice trembling. “Though I haven’t seen him today. Then again, I don’t see most of anything these days. Can barely see you.” She turned her gaze onto Joe. “Or you, though I can tell you’re tall. Forgive my appearance, I’m just getting over a cold. Don’t you find summer colds to be the most irksome things?”

  Joe smiled. “You look marvelous, my dear.”

  She chuckled. “Your flattery is insincere but appreciated, nonetheless. May I tell him who was coming to call?”

  Dash said the first name which came to mind. “Tyler Smith. Do you know when he’ll return?”

  “Mr. Smith! So good to see you again! I don’t know if you remember me. I’m the landlady, Marjorie Norton. Spinster,” she added with a wink. She extended her hand.

  The news of Tyler’s death had apparently not yet reached the Village.

  Dash gently clasped her fingers, giving a warning look to Joe not to expose his deception. “Nice to see you again, Miss Norton.”

  “Please, call me Marjorie.”

  Joe said, “You own the building?”

  Her chin lifted with pride. “I do. My husband left it to me after he died. There were no other men around in the family to take it from me, so it’s all mine. I’m what they call a ‘working girl’ now and I’m having the time of my life. Isn’t it wonderful that women are able to do so much more now than we did when I was a girl?” She pivoted back to Paul Avery. “Mr. Avery isn’t in, dear, so you can drop off Mrs. Avery’s keys.”

  Dash furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry, did you say keys?”

  Joe couldn’t help himself. “Did you say Mr. and Mrs. Avery?”

  Marjorie’s rheumy eyes slid from Dash to Joe and back again. Her eyebrow arched with amusement. “Why, yes! Mr. and Mrs. Paul Avery have been tenants for years. Then again, you’d know that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Smith,” she added with a wink.

  Dash’s words came out in a stutter. “W-w-why would I know all about that?”

  Joe talked over him. “Have you seen this wife of his?”

  Marjorie looked at Dash. “I can see you haven’t told your friend everything. Discretion is a dwindling virtue in these modern days. Yes, I have, young lad. She’s a gorgeous-looking woman. I’d see her sometimes while she goes out at night or sits on the fire escape smoking her ciggies, I believe the kids call them now.”

  “And you’ve spoken with her?”

  “Oh yes, on several occasions. Very nice. She seems well suited to our Paul. I hardly ever hear them argue. As you know, Mr. Smith, my walls are quite thin. I hear all my tenants in the building, whether they know it or not.”

  A low laugh followed. Dash could only imagine what secrets she’d amassed over the years.

  “Yes, they are quite lovely. They always say ‘goodnight Marjorie!’ when they go out for an evening together. Sometimes I see him propping her up when they come home after a night on the town.” More chuckles. “Mrs. Avery sure knows how to have a good time.”

  Paul Avery had a wife—making him less likely to be Walter’s female impersonator—but what about this keys business?

  “Marjorie,” Dash said, “tell me about Mrs. Avery’s keys.”

  “She left them at your place, didn’t she? Oh my, what was it, a few nights ago—”

  Dash took a chance. “Sunday?”

  “Yes, Sunday. Very late in the evening. She comes running up while I’m out getting some fresh air. The heat has been something fierce and I couldn’t go to sleep, so I came out here to cool off. And here she comes up the walk, all breathless and shaken. I said, ‘Careful you don’t trip and break your ankle in those shoes, dear.’ And that’s when she said she needed me to let her in. She’d forgotten her keys at a friend’s place.”

  Marjorie looked expectedly at Dash.

  “Isn’t that why you’re here, young man? To return her keys? I assume the friend was you.”

  Sunday?

  Dash’s heart went pitty-pat. Another clue.

  “I . . .” He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Why would you assume she was with me that night?”

  Her grin was shrewd. “I told you I had thin walls, didn’t I? I heard you talking with Mrs. Avery. She said your name quite clearly and you replied back. You both have spent a bit of time in the apartment while Paul was away.” She lowered her voice to conspiratorial levels. “I won’t breathe a word. You can count on my discretion.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Mrs. Avery has her life and Mr. Avery has his. Why, he’s been hanging around that masculine woman for weeks now. I’m surprised Mrs. Avery hasn’t mentioned her to you. Let me see, what is her name . . . ?”

  Joe said, “Pru?”

  “That’s her! Striking woman, even if she flaunts natural convention wearing men’s clothes.”

  Dash said, “Do you ever overhear what Mr. Avery and Pru talked to about?”

  Marjorie lightly smacked his hand. “Now, now. If I promise you discretion, I must keep my word about his. Anyway, go on up there and return the keys.”

  She unlocked the door and let them in to the small, cramped foyer. Wood floors, brick walls, wood stairs. The air was musty and smelled of mothballs and sour milk. A baby cried somewhere above them. Dash nodded to Marjorie and led the upwards with Joe at his heels. Marjorie stayed in the foyer.

  “I thought you said this Paul fellow was our girl?” whispered Joe, as they climbed the creaking, groaning stairs. “What does this mean, lassie?”

  “I honestly have no clue,” Dash whispered back.

  “Tyler and Mrs. Avery. Mr. Avery and Pru.” Joe shook his head. “I can’t make heads or tails of this.”

  They reached the second floor and made their way to apartment 2A. Conversations murmured behind neighboring doors, complemented by the rattle of pots and pans and the pungent aroma of sausages and onions. Apartment 2A was at the end of the hallway, towards the front of the building.

  Joe’s brow furrowed even deeper into the folds of his red skin. “What do we do if she answers?”

  “First, we say hello and introduce ourselves.”

  Joe rolled his eyes as Dash knocked on the door.

  Marjorie called up from below. “She’s out! They both work and they usually don’t come back until late. Just slide the keys under the door.”

  Dash and Joe looked at each other and shrugged. They waited a few seconds and then returned to the foyer where the landlady was waiting.

  Dash tipped his hat. “Thank you, Marjorie. We appreciate it.”

&nbs
p; She smiled benevolently. “You are quite welcome. Tell her next time to tie her keys to a string and tie that string to her wrist.”

  “I will.”

  Dash and Joe waited until they were a block away, well out of earshot of Marjorie Norton.

  Joe remarked, “The hearing that lady has!”

  “I’d pay millions to know what she overheard from Paul and Pru. You know they talked about this case.”

  “If they were talking about a case at all.”

  “You believe Marjorie?”

  “Hell, lassie, this decade, why shouldn’t a masculine woman and a feminine man get together?”

  “Why not, indeed.”

  They reached the next cross section of streets and were drowned in the sea of noise of the evening rush hour. The rattle of motors, the squeal of changing gears, the impatient blasts of horns. The clanging bell of trolleys and the shouts of cabbies as they zigzagged about.

  Joe yelled, “What do we do now?”

  Dash put his hands on his hips. “Damned if I know.”

  21

  Despite Joe’s objections, Dash returned alone to 86th Street to give his update, such as it was, to Walter Müller. Joe wanted to accompany Dash, to make sure he was safe against this “blackmailin’ bloody bluenose,” but Dash assured him he’d be jake.

  “As long as he thinks he’s getting closer to the female impersonator and to Pru,” Dash said, “he’ll keep us around.”

  Joe was skeptical. “I don’t know about that, lassie. We’re in over our head.”

  He wasn’t wrong, but Dash couldn’t afford to have a night without a bartender. They might need to buy their way out of this trouble, and if that was the case, they needed all the sugar they could get.

  Dash soon found himself in an IRT car rattling eastbound, then northbound until 86th Street. The wind had picked up, a hot exhale blowing down the streets. He knew in his heart of hearts he couldn’t turn in Paul Avery to Walter. At least not yet. Not until he had proof of something dastardly or murderous. And he couldn’t in good conscience give up Prudence Meyers and her law firm. Yet he also couldn’t give Walter nothing again.

  Perhaps this meeting didn’t have to be about them. Perhaps Walter needed to know Tyler Smith was dead. Dash was interested in the man’s reaction. Would it be indifference? Surprise? Worry?

  Dash found the nondescript building on 86th Street near Avenue A. He walked up the stoop, took a deep breath, and rang the buzzer. He had to buzz twice before he heard commotion above in the form of a door being opened and shut, followed by heavy, angry feet on the stairs.

  Walter soon appeared on the landing dressed impeccably in a gray suit, which was in stark contrast to the purple bruising of his face, now turning blueish black. As if the man couldn’t look more like a nightmare.

  Dash put on his best smile. “Good evening, Mr. Müller.”

  Walter raised his hand. Dash winced, waiting for a blow. Instead, Walter was checking his wristwatch.

  “You are late, Mr. Parker. “

  “I apologize. The IRT is not the bastion of efficiency. I have something to report about your, uh, inquiry.”

  “Let’s have it then.”

  Before Dash could respond, a voice called from the top of the stairwell. “Walter! Who is there?”

  Mother.

  Walter took a deep breath and ignored her. “Tell me, Mr. Parker, where you’ve found this pansy.”

  “Walter! Answer me!”

  A door on the ground floor opened up, and a pugnacious, overweight man stuck his head out into the hall.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said. “You can’t conduct business in the hall!”

  Walter turned and said to the neighbor, “Mind your own business.”

  “Hey, pal, you made it my business by yakking it up so that the whole fuckin’ building can hear.”

  Mother’s voice called again. “Walter?”

  The neighbor pointed upstairs. “And tell that bitch to shut the hell up. Now go upstairs or I’m calling the cops.”

  Walter was about to reply when his mother called for him again.

  The neighbor crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, pal. Do it now.”

  Walter blew out a frustrated sigh. He gestured roughly to Dash. “Come upstairs.”

  Dash hesitated, the threat of danger weighing his feet down like cement.

  The neighbor in the ground floor apartment looked at Dash. “What are ya waiting for? Go the fuck upstairs!”

  Dash nodded and stepped into the building. Walter closed the front door behind him with a slam, causing Dash to jump. Walter gave a withering glare to the neighbor, who ignored it completely, and proceeded up the stairs at a fast clip. Dash followed, his feet struggling to keep up.

  At the top of the staircase stood Mother, looking fragile and pale in a lilac robe. Her hands shook as she tried to keep the robe closed against her chest. The signs of grief. It hadn’t been more than three days since she learned of her youngest son’s death.

  Walter was obviously playing the caregiver. “Mother, go back inside,” he said at the top of the staircase landing. His voice was surprisingly gentle.

  Mother’s eyes, glassy and big, looked at Dash instead. “Who are you?”

  Dash replied, “I work with your son, remember? At the Committee of Fourteen? A colleague of mine and I were here earlier this week.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I remember now.”

  Walter took his mother by the shoulders and guided her back to their apartment. Dash followed, wondering if Mother registered the fact both he and Walter had bruised faces. Had she assumed they’d fought each other? Did Walter have a history of violence?

  I sincerely hope not.

  The apartment was cramped and unbearably hot. The front square-shaped room Dash walked into was decorated with severe German furniture made from heavy, dark wood. A Black Forest hunting cabinet hugged one wall; a high-backed sofa bracketed by end tables hugged the other. In the center was a round oak table with a square base. On top were a few books, their titles faded and unreadable in the dim light.

  Mother said, “I’ll go make some tea.”

  Walter replied, “There is no need. My colleague here will give a report and then be gone.”

  “Why is it so late? Why are people visiting you at all hours?”

  Dash said, “It is an emergency, madame.”

  “What emergency could there possibly be?”

  Walter answered that one. “A club, Mother. A club that must not be allowed to stay open for longer.”

  Mother rubbed the side of her head. “What could be going in that club? Oh Walter, you don’t think it was like when Karl was—”

  Whatever gentleness Walter showed quickly fell away. His voice was sharp, his words short. “Mother. That is none of this man’s business.”

  She nodded. “It’s just the similarities. The late night visit. The urgent news.”

  Dash looked upon her with interest. Was she talking about a night when Karl was arrested? Visit enough speaks, in particular their kind of speaks, and the odds of ending up in the paddy wagon rose exponentially higher.

  Walter softened his tone. “Go back to sleep, Mother. I will handle this news.”

  Mother nodded again. “Perhaps I’ll do more of my knitting.” She shuffled her way down a narrow hallway to the right of the front room. At the far end was a half-opened door. Her bedroom, Dash supposed.

  “Mr. Parker.”

  Dash turned and faced Walter, who was now sitting on the sofa. The end tables on either side held family photographs. The sight of an even younger Karl caused a moment of melancholy for Dash.

  I tried to save him, I tried to . . .

  Walter looked at him expectedly. “Well?”

  “I’m having trouble finding the woman lawyer, but I have a few leads.”

  There was something odd about those family photographs. Dash looked past the image of Karl.

  “And the pansy?”

>   There were just three figures in the frame: Karl, Walter, and Mother. Dash looked to another framed photograph of the family. The same three. And those frames which held single portraits only showcased either Karl or Walter, occasionally Mother. Where was the father?

  “Still no sign of her,” Dash replied. “It will be difficult to find her, given that she may have heard what happened to Karl and is hiding in plain sight. In men’s clothes.”

  Dash raised a finger before Walter could voice his displeasure.

  “One item of interest regarding Tyler Smith, Karl’s friend at the Shelton.”

  “Yes, yes, the one you claimed you didn’t find.”

  Looking back at the family photographs, Dash noticed the shape of the pictures didn’t fit the frames. They were too small. The pictures had been cut. Dash could make out the clean edge where scissors excised a figure out of the family. The father. A chill set in to Dash’s chest.

  He cleared his throat. “There’s a reason we couldn’t find him. He’s dead.”

  Walter blinked. “Dead?”

  “Murdered. Bludgeoned to death with an ashtray.” Dash gathered all his strength and bravery and gave what he hoped was an intimidating look. “Did you kill him, Walter?”

  The man sat still for a moment, then laughed. It was a harsh, cruel sound.

  “Why would I murder him?” Walter asked.

  “Because your brother ran to him whenever your mother would kick him out for refusing to stop his way of life. Being the good dutiful brother, when you didn’t find him at my club, you went to his usual rescue place. Perhaps this Tyler Smith wouldn’t let you see him.”

  “And I what?” Walter said, his voice mocking. “Hit him over the head with an ashtray in a rage? Seems a bit trite, Mr. Parker.”

  “Not for someone who hates the queer sex as much as this household does.” Dash pointed to the framed family photographs. “I see Father Müller’s been effectively erased from the family. Will you do the same to Karl now that he’s gone too?”

  Walter took a few deep breaths, getting his anger under control. “The next time we meet, you will give me their names and addresses. No excuses. Or there will be consequences you cannot fathom. Understood?”