by Kane, Henry
“McCoy,” Prairie said.
“The McCoy. Consider that, Mr. Chambers.”
I stayed behind the highball.
“I postponed it. I delayed it. But I knew I would have to act. I wanted to marry Nancy. I couldn’t tell her what was in the way, yet I couldn’t have her believe it was another case of—protégée. She knew I had been married to Pamela. We discussed all of that. What she didn’t know was why I couldn’t marry her. She believed, like everybody else, that Pamela was long divorced from me, married and separated from Nottiby. Funny, isn’t it? Petersen met Nancy through Pamela and I met her through him, and, originally, I had introduced Petersen to Pamela. Round robin.”
“Round robin redbreast,” Prairie said. “Which reminds me. I was over by the trotters one night over there by Roosevelt Raceway—” Prairie looked at the boss, and he stopped trying to help the boss ease over the high hurdles.
“I knew I had to act, and, finally, I did act. I got in touch with her, and I saw her, privately. I suggested a way which would have been feasible. She and Nottiby were living apart. A divorce could easily be arranged. That, for the world, would save the status of the child. Then, very quietly, in Europe, our marriage would be dissolved, and I could marry Nancy. I also offered to adopt the child, after the marriage. That kid simply has no life, this way. I know that Pamela didn’t give a hoot about her. Nancy, though, loves her dearly. And the adoption would cure any possible taint of illegitimacy. I knew that Nottiby would co-operate, in the interests of the little girl.”
“Intricate,” I said. “But I agree—feasible.”
“She was willing—for a large sum of money. She always needed money, and she always managed means to get money. I don’t know all her sources. I know some …”
“So do I,” Prairie said.
“Stop it,” Merrill said.
“Take it easy, boss. Please.”
“How much?” I said.
“What? Oh, yes. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. A quarter of a million, that’s all. She would go through with all I suggested. Price—a quarter of a million.”
“Was it that feasible?”
“Like hell it was. Within reason, I would have paid her. But she wouldn’t listen to reason. A quarter of a million, take it or leave it.”
I stood up and brought my empty glass to the sink. Merrill walked with me. “I spoke with her several times, but that was it. She said if I made any move, she would fight. She threatened to state that I had told her that I had secured a divorce when I was in Europe and that she had relied on that. Then she refused to see me. Then, two weeks ago, by accident, I ran into her at the Courvocco—”
He poured straight Scotch into the highball glass and drank it. Scotch after rum. What a man.
Prairie said, “Attaboy, boss. That’ll do it.”
“Then,” Merrill said, “after that awful scene at the Courvocco, I made up my mind. I had Nottiby down here, and Nancy. I told them the whole story, both of them at once. That was when Nottiby gave me the facts—about the elopement.”
“When?” I said. “When did this discussion take place?”
“The very next day. Friday. Two weeks ago.”
I looked at my watch. I flicked polite fingers at Prairie for my hat and coat. Prairie grinned, and brought them. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I have an appointment.”
“Not at all,” Merrill said.
“Then what?”
“I told them I was turning it over to my lawyer. I told them that my instructions to the lawyer would be to get me my freedom, no matter whom it hurt. I wanted to marry Nancy. I told Nottiby that, in the circumstances, he would get custody of the child, and that we, Nancy and I, would adopt her. Certainly, there would be a scandal, but we were on the right side, and, somehow, it would all work itself out.”
I put my coat on. I said, “Thank you, Mr. Merrill. It’s a hell of a story, and that was one hell of a woman, and whoever put that bullet into her certainly saved a lot of people a lot of headaches.”
“Confidential,” Prairie said. “Remember.”
“Of course.” I shook hands with Merrill. “Just one more question.”
“Yes?”
“How did Nottiby take it?”
Merrill looked at Prairie. Prairie looked back at Merrill. Merrill said, “I may as well go the whole hog.” Prairie nodded, elaborately.
“After he had told us his story,” Merrill said, “Nottiby was very quiet, listening. He didn’t say anything. Nancy cried, and Nottiby patted her head. He wasn’t sober, of course.”
“Listen—as long as we’re all letting our hair down—Nancy Reeves told me that she hadn’t seen Nottiby all the way since the time Pamela and he broke up.”
That created no excitement. It created nothing.
Tiredly Merrill said, “That’s right. She hadn’t. Not until two weeks ago, at this apartment, and it was agreed then, among us, that there be no mention of it to anyone.”
“I see. How did Nottiby take it?”
“He informed us of the particulars of the manner of his marriage—when I requested that. Then, throughout my entire recital, he said nothing. And then, afterward—and I’m telling you this, Mr. Chambers, because he said it not only in front of me, but with Nancy and Prairie present—”
“What?”
Merrill didn’t answer.
Prairie said, “He said this—he said it slow and he said it thoughtful—but you’re not supposed to hold it against him, just because he said it.”
“What?”
“He said, ‘That woman ought to be dead.’ That’s what he said. ‘That woman ought to be dead. The sooner, the better.’ “
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Empire State Building in the middle of Manhattan juts a civilized finger into God’s sky. Right up by the fingernail, on the eighty-ninth floor, Orson Axelrod metes out his judgment on matters of finance, and people with money pay him for that. The frosted glass door said ORSON AXELROD, INVESTMENT COUNSELOR, MANAGEMENT OF ESTATES. The receptionist was a pointed indication of his excellent taste.
“Mr. Chambers, gorgeous.”
“We don’t have a Mr. Chambers.”
“Do you have a Mr. Axelrod?”
“We have a Mr. Axelrod. Whom would you wish to see?”
“I would wish to see Mr. Axelrod. My name is Chambers.”
She tucked in one corner of her mouth and she threw up a couple of small daggers, but, by and large, she showed excellent restraint. I simply wasn’t running up against encouragement, this case. I pushed my hat back. I said, “Lovely day.” Nobody agreed or disagreed.
She fingered a button and a bright young man showed up with a clean shiny face and oiled shiny hair. The girl said, “Tell Mr. Axelrod a Mr. Chambers wishes to see him. Oh!”—she had almost committed the unpardonable sin—”Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Miss.”
“Miss.”
“He has an appointment.”
The boy went away, and now the young lady smiled. When she smiled, she reminded me of Miami Moonbeam. Beside the image of Miami, this good receptionist paled to insignificance. Utter. I was faithful to Miami. I said, “You know, you’re cute.”
“All you guys are alike.”
I came right back at her. “Aren’t we, though?”
The boy returned before there was further opportunity to pollute the air-conditioned atmosphere with more of our quick and deathless sallies.
“This way, sir.”
Orson Axelrod was a small man in a plaid suit with wide lapels behind a shelf of immense, immaculate desk. He was a smiling, impeccable man with a flat head parted in the middle by pink effete scalp trellised with wisps of nurtured sandy hair. He had a brisk, confidential manner and mild brown eyes and a pugnacious mandible. Mr. Axelrod was quicker than a running fox. He could change you in for a five and five singles faster than you could say sawbuck. Mr. Axelrod was an excellent client of mine, when his cli
ents paid for it. Between jobs, we exchanged favors, for free, under the heading of Professional Courtesy.
“You look good, Pete. Glad to see you.”
“You too. Don’t get up, Orson. You can do this on the phone. I hope.”
He sat back in his high, thick-stuffed, brown leather swivel chair. “Anything for my boy, Pete. Anything, that is, legal.”
“Sure,” I said. “How you fixed with Banker’s Fiduciary, Madison Avenue Branch?”
“Aces. I’m in the business, lad.”
“They have a depositor, John Mikvah. I’d like to know if he made a withdrawal yesterday, and whether he has a balance, and if so, how much.”
“I can do most of it, Pete boy. But the balance part, that’s strictly confidential. When it’s strictly confidential, it can be managed, of course, but it might cost money.”
“Money?” I said. “I’m not being paid on this case. That is, in money.”
His eyes got round and his nostrils opened and he pulled his chin in. “Not being paid in money? That’s not how I brought you up, young Chambers. If you’re not being paid in money, then I know what you’re being paid in, knowing you—and like that, you’ll never make any money, not you. Now look—”
“Skip it, Orson. Get onto your phone and procure my information. What you can’t get, you can’t get.”
He took his chin off his chest and he dialed a number. He asked for Jonas. He asked him about Mikvah. He hung up. “The guy killed himself last night.”
“How do they know?”
“The cops told them.”
“So he killed himself.”
“Did you know that?”
“Of course.”
“You’re supposed to tell me.”
“Sorry.”
“That makes it an estate matter. That way, he just can’t send a girl in and get the facts. Somebody might want to know why.”
“You can’t do it?”
“You joshing? Why, those guys owe me a million favors, the business I’ve thrown them. But we don’t do it over the phone.” He looked at his watch. “Hey, we don’t have much time. Let’s go, brother Chambers.”
“Orson, you’re one swell guy.”
We went to Madison Avenue and I waited in a stiff chair while Orson went through the rail and sat down alongside a thick-shouldered erubescent man with a pince-nez on a black ribbon, and an erubescent bald head. Erubescent means ruddy. I watched them, jabbering in pantomime, and then the erubescent man went away on short bowlegs, preceded by stomach, and Orson waved at me, discreetly. The man came back and they jabbered again and they shook hands with dignity and somebody would think they’d just earned a great many banknotes for the bank. Then Orson took me by the arm.
“Buy you a drink?” I said, outside.
“No more for a while. Gall bladder.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Sooner or later.”
“How’s about old Mikvah?”
“He drew forty thousand righteous bucks at eleven o’clock yesterday.”
“Balance?”
“They’re funny, those guys. They have principles. The fat bastard wouldn’t tell me. Except that the balance is quite zoftig.”
“Means what?”
“Means plenty.”
“Thanks.”
“Plus.”
“That’s my boy. That’s my Orson. Always there’s a plus.”
“Plus he had a vault there.”
“Did he visit it yesterday?”
“No.”
Sun poured down. I said, “Anything else, Orson?” and he said, “That’s all,” and we shook hands, and he toddled off, and I went into a United for cigarettes, and I called the office.
Miranda said, “A man called. Prairie. What kind of a name is that?”
“Prairie. You know, where the buffalo roams. A message?”
“Yes. He said he’d be waiting for you at the Hall. He said he’d be there till five o’clock.”
“Thanks. Anything else?”
“Yes. A Miami Moonbeam. What kind of names do your clients have, these days?”
“Bafflers. Real bafflers.”
“They baffle me, all right.”
“Any message from this female baffler?”
“No. Only that she called. That’s all. No one else.”
“Thanks, Miranda.”
It was five minutes after three. Prairie said he’d wait until five. I looked for a cab. I changed my mind. The unpadded expenses of a non-traveling private richard without a swindle sheet total down to more horrendous figures than the padded expenses of a traveling salesman with a swindle sheet. I walked over to Fifth, and took a bus.
Miami lived on Eleventh Street, just east of Fifth, in a modernized place with red walls and a closed door and a downstairs phone where you had to call up. I pushed a button and the squeak said, “Who? Who’s that?”
“Pete.”
“Who?”
“Pete.”
“I can’t hear you. Can you hear me?”
I wasn’t exasperated. All the tenants of all the modernized places with the red walls and the closed doors and the downstairs phones constantly scream, “I can’t hear you, can you hear me?” into the ornate instruments upstairs. Then they joggle the hook and curse, between screams.
“Pete,” I yelled at the mocking mouthpiece. “Pete Chambers.”
“Who?”
“Pete! Pete Chambers!”
“I can’t hear you.” But she squeezed the thing up there, and the buzzer buzzed, and the door opened, and I caught it just in time. I walked up one flight. Sweetheart Vaydelle opened the door. “Hi, shamus.” He turned his head. “It’s Pete Chambers.” He turned his head back to me. “Come on in.”
“Hi. Miami around?”
“Coming, lover.”
Sweetheart closed the door behind me. She had a beautiful place there, all Louis the Fourteenth stuff, green and gold and red mahogany. She came in from the bedroom, decked out in street wear. “Cripes,” she said. “What’s the matter with you people? You got marbles in your mouth?”
“What?” I said.
“Can’t you talk into a telephone? What do you think we’ve got those things for? Were you able to hear me?”
“Clearly,” I said.
“Well, I couldn’t hear you. I couldn’t hear one damn word. From downstairs, all you’ve got to do is just talk at it, that’s all, just stand there and talk at it. You guys bawl into it. Why, it’s impossible—” She smiled. “Skip it, lover. How are you?”
“Swell. How’d you like to take me for a ride?”
“I can’t. Where?”
“Nyack.”
“What for?”
“An outing. You and me. We could take him, too.” I meant Sweetheart.
“What for?” he said.
“A chaperon.”
“Chipper,” Sweetheart said. “We got us here a real chipper shamus. A joker, yet.”
“I can’t,” Miami said. “We were just going out. We’ve got places to go and things to do, Sweetheart and me. Would you like a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“You, Sweetheart?”
“Not now.”
“Well, I would. Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Sweetheart said, “What’s with Nyack?”
“I wouldn’t know, tell you the truth. How’s Jimmy Mason?”
Sweetheart shrugged his big shoulders. “Champ in the raw, that kid, champ in the raw.”
“Petersen got a piece of him?”
“What’s that?”
He came up very close to me. He was bigger than some of those heavyweights back there in the gym, and he looked like he could handle himself.
“Petersen,” I said. “Arnold Petersen.”
Miami came back holding a tall glass. She settled deep in a soft chair, her legs long and high. And beautiful. “What are you two guys posing for?”
Sweetheart moved away. “I hate a wise guy.”
“Look,
Sweetheart,” I said. “I’m getting a little tired of you. To me you’re nothing more than a half-ass fight promoter who’s been getting too big for his pants lately. So you own half of the Courvcoco. So what? That doesn’t rate you a big shot with me. You’re still a small man making big noises. So do me a favor, stop trying to throw your weight around, because it’s about time somebody began cutting you down to size, and, believe me, I’m just the boy for it. Any time. Right now. I’m in the mood.”
Sweetheart started coming. Miami scrambled up and got between us. She pushed her drink at me and I had to grab it or let it drop. I grabbed it.
“Hold that,” she said. “Hold it, and cool off. What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. He’s been riding me since last night.”
“Why, that loud mouth, that crumb of a shamus, why I’d like to—”
“Any time, Sweetheart.”
“Now, stop it, you two. What in all hell goes here?”
I had the drink in my hand. I used it. It was Scotch and it had a faint taste of her lipstick.
“That’s the boy,” she said. “Have a drink. Sit down.”
I sat down. I said, “All I asked him was whether Arnold Petersen had a piece of his new boy, Jimmy Mason. So he gets nasty.”
“It’s none of your goddamn business, that’s all.”
“Of course it’s none of my business, Sweetheart. It’s none of my business that Petersen owns a half interest in the Pantheon, either. I mean—”
They looked at each other quickly, and then they both looked at me.
“Where’d you get that?” Miami asked.
“Checking around. Working.”
“On what?”
“On that Johnny Mikvah thing. Pamela Reeves.”
“What’s Petersen got to do with that?”
“You know him?”
“Of course I know him.” She went back to the soft chair. “What’s he got to do with it?”
“I don’t know yet. He was her boy friend once. Now he’s her sister’s boy friend. He gets around, that guy, doesn’t he?”
Sweetheart said, “So what if he’s got a piece of the Pantheon?”
“So nothing. All I want to know is how he got to you. How you two get together.”
Sweetheart smiled. The pressure was off. “Give her back her drink,” he said. “I’ll fix you a new one. One for me, too.”
