by Brad Latham
He ran his hand over her face, sweeping back the strands of hair that had tangled themselves over her forehead. “Stephanie,” he breathed, “what’s wrong?”
“What happened?” she asked.
“You tell me. I thought you’d been hit by a bullet, but—”
She waved a hand, weakly. “No. No bullet.”
“Then what?”
Stephanie shook her head, as if to clear it. She drooped back limply into the seat. Lockwood waited.
“Cigarette,” she said, and he pulled out two Camels, lighting hers, then his. “Let’s get away from here,” she said, exhaling two trembling trails of smoke through her pinched nostrils.
“Okay.” He turned the key in the ignition, then slowly pulled away. The crowd they’d drawn dispersed in disappointment as the anticipated drama faded into an anticlimax.
“Well?” he asked, after a few blocks had passed.
“I am so ashamed,” Stephanie told him. He glanced at her, but her face was turned away from him.
“About what?”
“I am not a whole woman.”
He looked at her, then back to the street, saying nothing.
“It began when—my first lover—André—the man like you… when he died.” She had already smoked the Camel halfway down. “I went into—convulsions.”
She was looking at him now, fear on her face as he returned her gaze. “Epilepsy, they said it was, brought on by the shock.”
Lockwood turned left. “I’ll get you to a hospital,” he said.
“No, no, there is no need. Once it is over, it is over. Since that first time, for no reason, they will come… and then go. I have no knowledge of it happening when it occurs, but when it is over, I feel disgraced. I have been told what happens—I am like an animal, unreasoning, completely out of control.”
“That’s foolish,” he said.
“Undoubtedly. But that doesn’t change the way I feel. May I have another?” she asked, as she crushed the butt into the tray.
He gave her one and lit it for her. “I am ashamed of how you must regard me now,” she said, head averted.
An unpleasant thought crossed his mind, and he forced it away. “I think of you no differently.” He cupped her face with his hand. “You’re a beautiful woman. And all woman.”
She nuzzled her cheek against his hand. “You are too kind.” She looked away again. “You said last night that it seemed to have been a long time for me.” She looked back at him. “It was. Because of this—this condition, it was the first time—since André.”
Lockwood looked at her with sympathy, and wished somehow he could trust her more.
Mr. Gray, head of claims at the Transatlantic Underwriters company, was unhappy. But then, in Bill Lockwood’s experience, Mr. Gray was always unhappy.
“We pay you a lot of money, Bill,” Mr. Gray began.
“I know,” Hook answered.
“Certainly you’re a good man. We wouldn’t pay you a lot of money if you weren’t a good man.”
“I know,” Hook said again.
Gray stopped a moment, the frost in him forming, then subsiding. He didn’t like to be kidded. Couldn’t stand it. “But sometimes, Bill—” Mr. Gray paused and stared out the window. He toyed with the pince-nez he affected, rubbing the gold rims, a habit that over the years had become an annoyance to Lockwood. It was all the detective could do to keep from reaching out and closing his fist over Gray’s hand to stop its nervous motion.
“Sometimes, Bill,” he repeated, “it seems to me that things could be done by you perhaps just a little more efficiently—more quickly.”
“My kind of work takes time,” Hook parried, “you know that.”
“True. True. And yet—” Gray was wearing his old disappointed-in-you look. “When the insured is screaming for her money, and the people over me are putting on the pressure, saying we have to move at top speed on this one—after all, her father and our board chairman did attend Choate together—I would hope that perhaps this time you—”
“I’m moving on this as quickly as I can. If you prefer, you can replace me.”
Gray’s thin lips clamped shut. He didn’t like to be called either. “No—not yet,” he said, finally. “All right, what do you have so far?”
“Nothing too solid,” Lockwood admitted. He sat down in the leather chair next to Gray’s desk, offered Gray a Camel and at the shake of Gray’s head, tapped one out for himself and lit up.
“I think there’s no question Two-Scar Toomey is involved in the theft,” he said. “It’s not really his kind of operation, but shooting down Muffy’s press agent—Christ, why else would he do it?”
“You’ve seen Toomey, I suppose. Offered to—er—arrange for the return of the diamonds?”
“Yes. No dice. Toomey played innocent all the way down the line. Besides, at that point he wasn’t too interested in working deals with me. He was a little sore about my knocking off a couple of his boys.”
“But if Toomey is the one who did it, why can’t you do something about it, wrap it up by going to the police, or—”
“Because I don’t think it’s just Toomey,” Lockwood responded. “There’s a funny smell to this whole thing.”
“How do you mean?”
“Nothing I can quite put my finger on. First, there was the item in Winchell’s column. Where did that come from? And is it true?”
“You’ve spoken to the Dearborn girl?”
“Yes. She hasn’t given me much—yet. When she talks about the robbery, she seems to be telling the truth.” Lockwood rose, roaming the thickly carpeted floor, his thoughts too intense to allow his vision to register the walnut paneling of the walls that his eyes unconsciously took in. “And yet, there’s something about her—I keep getting the feeling she knows more than she’s letting on.”
“You mean,” Gray asked, hope in his voice, “that she did stage the robbery—perhaps hired Toomey to do the job?”
“Could be, but I don’t think so. I really believe the robbery was a complete surprise to her—and yet that there’s some other aspect to this whole thing that she knows about and isn’t telling.”
“What about this press agent—the one who was shot?”
“It was while I was trying to pump him that he was gunned down. Another five minutes, and maybe—”
Gray sighed impatiently, and began fiddling again with his glasses. “Well, what else, or is that it?”
“Jock Bunche,” Lockwood mused.
“Who?”
“Jock Bunche, a former boyfriend of Muffy. There was something odd about his being at her opening, and something even odder about his being rude and noisy while she was performing.”
“The spurned lover getting his revenge?”
“Maybe, and their split had been pretty spectacular—made headlines—but it’d have been a pretty childish act for a man his age. Bunche is a shady guy, too, and you have to wonder if there was some connection between him and the theft.”
“A lot of speculation it seems to me, Bill, but not many hard facts.”
Lockwood returned to the chair and looked at Gray. The older man shifted his gaze almost immediately. A person didn’t get much eye contact with Mr. Gray. Lockwood went on. Sometimes it helped just to talk it all out, gave you a better fix. Even if the talk had to be with Mr. Gray.
“Muffy’s seeing a man named Raff Spencer. Devilishly charming fellow, and yet—perhaps somewhat a bit of a rake. Again nothing I can put my finger on, but….” He took another drag on the Camel. “And then there’s the thug with the glass eye.”
“Glass eye?”
“Right. He’s the mystery in all of this. I had set up a meeting with Toomey, but on my way there, I was crowded off the street, and a bunch of mugs, One-Eye included, worked me over and told me to stay away from Toomey and to forget about the jewels.”
“Toomey’s man, obviously.”
“No. Definitely not Toomey’s. Mobsters for sure but not locals. A crook with
a description like that would be known by every cop in the city.”
“Then why?”
“I don’t know. One-Eye turned up again—at Stymie’s.”
“Stymie? You mean your famous Stymie the Fence?”
“That one. The word is around that Stymie received the jewels and my guess is that One-Eye was coming into his place for something connected with them—a payment, something like that.”
“But if your one-eyed badman isn’t with Toomey, why should he be getting a payment for the jewels?”
It was The Hook’s turn to sigh. “You’ve got me. The whole thing just doesn’t add up.”
“Anything else?” Mr. Gray asked, exasperation putting an edge to his voice.
“There’s a woman, Stephanie Meilleux, Muffy Dearborn’s former maid. She’s acting strangely; when I was pursuing One-Eye she was with me. Just as I was about to nab him, she went into a convulsion. Epilepsy, she said. Very pat coincidence, I say. Anyway, she’s attached herself to me, and I can’t be sure why.”
“Surely, it’s just another example of the Lockwood charm?” Gray asked, his voice lightly laced with sarcasm.
“She claims I need protection. I think she wants to protect me right into a coffin.”
“My! So then why allow her to—er—travel with you?”
“I figure I’m probably better off being able to keep an eye on her. Then, as an insider with Dearborn, she could be helpful with information, even if inadvertently. Besides, Lockwood smiled, “she’s rather—persuasive.”
“I’ll have to steal a look at her,” Gray said, eyes alight in an ugly way. “Well, dammit, Lockwood, where are we then?”
“I don’t know,” Hook admitted. “Stymie denied he had the jewels, even when I offered him a good-sized bundle for them.”
“How good-sized?” asked Mr. Gray nervously. How he hated to part with money.
“It’s not important, since he didn’t bite. But I think the scuttlebutt was right, that Stymie had the jewels—maybe still has them.”
“You’re going back to him then?”
“Not just yet. Stymie has been bought by us before, and I know this time it’s no go. Unusual, since normally, I do very well with him. As I’m sure you remember.”
Mr. Gray had no interest in past successes. He was only interested in right now. “Well?”
“Just before Jabber-Jabber was shot, I was asking him about the Winchell item. I guess my next step will be to talk to Winchell himself.”
Stephanie was with Lockwood as they entered the Stork Club that evening looking for Winchell. Sherman Billingsley, the club’s proprietor, hurried up. “Good to have you aboard again, Mr. Lockwood,” he said.
“Thank you.” Lockwood wasn’t too fond of Billingsley, with his snobbery and phony charm. “Is Walter here tonight?”
“Where else would he be?” Billingsley smiled, eyes taking in Stephanie appreciatingly. “You look like a night out, but you sound like business.”
“Business, mainly,” Lockwood said, anxious to lose him. “I really just want to see Walter for a few minutes. We won’t be needing a table.”
“All right,” said Billingsley, falsely affable. “Go right on in.”
Winchell was in the Cub Room, at his special table, the one at which no one else was ever seated without the columnist’s approval. He was, as usual, speaking, and as usual, speaking rapidly, and those at the table with him were rapt. The Hook recognized a couple; Hokey Lowenthal, one of the better press agents around town, and Mooney Mahon, a small-time criminal who reveled in his association with Winchell, Winchell tolerating him because of the occasional tidbits he could feed him. Winchell saw Lockwood and stopped in mid-sentence. “Hook! Good to see you, boy!”
“Good to see you too, Walter.” Winchell and Billingsley were similar types in a way, but Winchell was out in front with all of it; he was aware of his warts and wore them proudly. Con men are hard to dislike, and there was that aspect to Winchell’s personality, too. The way he used and misused his power was something else, but Lockwood had never directly been involved in that, so he shrugged it off. The smile he gave Winchell was real. “I’d like to talk with you, when you get a minute.”
“I just found myself a minute,” Winchell snapped out, and nodded to his four companions. As one they rose, obeying instinctively and reverently, the way a court would its king.
“Siddown,” Winchell said, pushing out a chair with his foot. “What’s her name?” he asked about Stephanie.
Lockwood told him, and Winchell turned his full attention to her. “Actress?”
“No,” Stephanie said, in some confusion.
“Well, if you wanna be one, I can make you one,” Winchell told her. “Would you like a contract at RKO? I could arrange one for you. Screen test, anyway, and if you come off on the silver screen the way you do in person, they’ll sign you for every year they can legally get.”
“No, thank you, but no,” said Stephanie in embarrassment, and Lockwood watched her with interest. He realized it was the first time he’d seen her truly vulnerable.
“Ah well,” Winchell shrugged. “With a man like Hook here, what girl would consider something so mundane as a big Hollywood career?” He turned toward Lockwood. “So. What can I do for you, pal?”
“I’m working on the Muffy Dearborn case.”
“Oh. Right. Another one of those goddamn no-talent broads—excuse my French, Miss,” Winchell apologized blithely, then continued, “it really gripes me, seeing those rich—rich—well, you know what they are—trying to buy their way into show business.” Winchell had been a trouper for a time himself, coming up the hard way, and it was obviously a sore subject for him.
“She’s not so bad.”
“She stinks. They all stink.” Winchell wasn’t a man to be contradicted. “Imagine, pulling off that supposed heist, hoping the critics would forget about her voice and talk about her jewels.”
“Actually, that’s why I’m here,” Lockwood told him. “I’ve been wondering about that item in your column.”
“What about it?” Winchell snapped, eyes glittering. He suspected what was coming.
“I wondered where you got your information.”
“Come on, Lockwood, you know better than that. I’m a newspaperman. I don’t reveal my sources.”
“We’re not just talking about a jewel theft here, Walter. We’re also talking about murder.”
“And I’m talking about newspapers. This is America, Lockwood, land of the free—freedom of speech, of the press, all of that.”
“Jabber-Jabber Jacoby’s dead.”
“Too bad. I gave him a nice send-off in the column. Even if the moron had double-planted me a few weeks ago—imagine! Calling in the same item to both me and that imbecile over at the News—Sullivan. But I gave him two lines, anyway.”
“I was wondering if Jabber-Jabber had tried to get back on your good side, by calling you about the theft.”
Winchell raised his hand, and two waiters scurried over. “What would you like?” he asked Stephanie.
She obviously didn’t know what to say, and Lockwood took over. “We’ll just be here for another minute or two.”
“Nonsense,” Winchell snapped. “Once you’re done pumping me, I’m going to do a little digging myself. Who knows? You might give me another item on this Dearborn thing—and with luck, maybe a front-page lead.”
Lockwood smiled, and shrugged. “Canadian?” he asked Stephanie, and she nodded. “Two Canadians,” Lockwood told the waiter and the man nodded and left.
“You were asking me whether or not Jabber-Jabber called in the item to me, trying to get back in my column?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see any of his clients in the paper after that item?”
“He had no clients, Walter, after you pulled the plug on him—except Muffy, that is.”
“Well? Did she turn up again?”
“You’re trying to tell me Jabber-Jabber didn’t call you. That
if he had, you would’ve repaid him in kind. Is that it?”
“I’m trying to tell you that I don’t like your questions, Hook. I know you’ve got a job to do, but so do I. And if people who trust me find out they no longer can trust me, I’m dead. I might as well be Curly Kramer,” he said, referring to another columnist who was a joke in the trade.
“Damn. This case really has me going.”
“I’d like to help you, Hook, I really would. You’ve done a lot of good things for me along the way, and I’m grateful. Believe me, if there were anything I could help you with….”
“I understand,” Lockwood shrugged, and then was struck by a thought. “You’re the original crime reporter, Walter. Maybe you can help me with something else.”
“Fire away,” said Winchell. He’d made sure Stephanie had been seated next to him, and he was obviously enjoying having her beauty so nearby. “I hope we’re not boring you,” he smiled at her.
“Not at all,” she said, and Lockwood believed her. She’d been hanging on every word.
“There’s a mug I’m trying to find,” Lockwood said. “No one around here seems to have heard of him.”
“Crook?”
“Yes.”
“Murderer? Arsonist? Extortionist?” Winchell shot a look at Stephanie. “Rapist?”
“I don’t know. A puncher, that’s for sure.”
“He whacked you around a little, eh?”
“More than a little. He’s a big guy, a hulking type, with one very identifiable feature. He’s got a glass eye.”
“Nice,” Winchell shot out. “Very nice. A glass eye. I like that. What’s he got to do with the Dearborn heist?”
“I’m not sure. But he seems to be deep in the middle of it, somehow.” He glanced at Stephanie. Her concentration was almost trance-like. How the hell did she figure in all this? If she did.
“One eye. That should be easy. Me, personally, it’s got buffaloed, but maybe we can find someone who knows something.” The columnist’s arm rose, and again the two waiters ran up, almost looking guilty for not having been there the moment before he’d had to raise his hand. Winchell, with all the plugs in his column, had made the Stork Club, and the two knew upon whom their jobs depended.
