He said, “I got to make a phone call before I turn in.” He walked past the phone booths out of the hotel.
3
He remained slantwise on the pavement outside until he saw Reuben disappear behind the elevator doors. He headed south then to Selma Street. He’d memorized the location from Albion’s notes. Even this near to Hollywood Boulevard, there were yet relics of a gentler day, old frame houses of the era of front porches and wisteria vines. These patches too would go; but they weren’t shabby yet, they were well-kept, lived-in homes.
The fog was lifting with the early dawn; it was past four by his watch. He peered for numbers; he was on the wrong side of the street but he did not cross until he had found the house he sought. It was not as kempt as its neighbors, its gray paint was thinned by time. There was an old wooden swing and an old wicker rocker on the porch. The vines were without leaf this near to December.
No lights showed within, no shadow stirred behind the old-fashioned stiff lace curtains masking the front window. Steve climbed the three wooden steps of the porch without sound. He stood silently before the front door, not wanting to start this. After a moment his finger touched, barely touched, the bell.
He waited, his hands dug into the pockets of his coat, his hat half covering his eyes. At this hour a faint bell might not awaken a household long asleep. But he waited, reluctant to ring again, and the door came open. He couldn’t see the man inside. A deep voice was overlaid with old European accent and suspicion. “What is it that you want?”
He answered, “Mr. Oriole.”
The door was pulled wider, evidently as an invitation to enter. Steve walked in. He was in a small gloomy hall, papered in mottled wine color, cramped with an oversized oak hall tree, a chest to match, and a two-shelf bookcase. By a side window there was a worn leather armchair, eternally holding the sag of a large man, and a scuffed oak table strewn with newspapers. Above on the wall was a telephone with a coin box. A staircase climbed behind the chair, carpeted in the same worn green as the hall, the same color as the limp brocade drapery separating this room from what would be a parlor on the left. The staircase turned at a landing, hiding the upper floor. Directly forward where the hall narrowed into a corridor, another limp curtain covered another room. The only light on was a dim bulb hanging in the corridor.
The man was as shabby as the room. Flabby flesh drooped on his large stooped frame, on his shapeless face. He was half bald, the lank hair over his ears and neck a dirty gray-brown; his small dark eyes were both wary and uncurious. He wore gray trousers, shapeless as elephant shanks, a wrinkled shirt without collar or tie, and old felt bedroom slippers over his brown cotton socks. He probably hadn’t been to bed, only snatched a laydown while waiting for Steve to report.
Steve questioned, “Mr. Oriole?”
“I am Mr. Oriole.”
“Steve Wintress.” He didn’t take his hands out of his pockets.
Mr. Oriole began plaintively, “Where have you been? I have for hours been expecting you—”
Steve interrupted, “Trying to get here.” He demanded roughly, “Where the hell is Albion?”
“He did not meet you?”
“He did not meet me,” Steve parroted. He knew how to deal with stationmasters like Oriole. Jump them before they could start on you. “No one met me.”
Mr. Oriole spoke with concern. “Mr. Albion was there. He telephoned to inform me the plane would be late.”
“Maybe he got tired waiting.”
“Not Mr. Albion,” said Mr. Oriole.
Not Albie, never Albie. He took orders with a bulldog grip. Efficient, trustworthy Albion. Steve wondered which side had killed him. Not why, only who. He said, “I’ve got to see him. He has my plans.”
“I will telephone to him,” Mr. Oriole said. Not with confidence.
Steve sat down on the oak chest, pushed back his hat, lit a cigarette. He needed a prop. Mr. Oriole put a coin into the hall phone and dialed a number. The sustained ringing sounded faint and metallic in the quiet. Mr. Oriole waited a long time before he hung up. The coin clacked down the chute, he retrieved it and put it in his pocket before turning. “There is no response.”
“Where does he live? I’ll drop around there.” This was the point to make quickly. Stationmasters didn’t like giving out an address.
Mr. Oriole was no amateur to be stampeded. He pried into Steve’s face. “You want a room?”
“I have a room. I want to see Albion.”
“I will send him to you. Where is your room?”
“Balboa Hotel. If you haven’t his address, I’ll take his phone number.” When the man was hesitant, Steve asked, “What’s the matter? Don’t you want me to see him?” That would throw a delayed scare into the flab when he read the afternoon papers. The news wouldn’t make the a.m.’s.
Reluctantly Oriole divulged the number. He didn’t like doing it; it was his business to get people together, not arrange for them to make contacts on their own. He eyed the scrap of paper on which Steve had written the information as if he would snatch it from his hands. Steve tucked it into an inner pocket. “Don’t worry. I won’t hand it to the F.B.I.”
Oriole tried for a laugh but it wouldn’t come.
“And don’t call me at the hotel. I have a roommate.”
At Oriole’s startled grunt, Steve smiled insolently. “You don’t know me, Mr. Oriole. Wintress is the name, Steve Wintress. They send for me when there’s a special job to do. And I do it my way.” He rubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his shoe, pitched the butt towards the table before he crossed to the door. “If you find Albie, tell him I’m in a hurry to get back to Berlin.” He slammed the door after him, not caring now how many he woke in that musty house. He didn’t like armchair slobs giving him directions.
The morning was pale as he walked back to Hollywood Boulevard. No one followed him. It was easy to be sure because as yet the day of the city hadn’t begun, he was alone on the side street, near alone on the blocks he covered returning to the hotel. In the hotel he passed the desk without a nod, passed the maroon uniform of the Philippine boy into the elevator. He had to look at his key to know the floor. “Fourth.”
He used the key to enter his room. Reuben’s breathing was even in sleep. Steve didn’t need a light to undress; he dropped his clothes on the armchair, yanked the window drapes across the narrow gray windows to shut out the coming of daylight. At the clatter of the metal rings over the rod, the soldier raised his head. His voice was druggish. “Get your call made?”
Steve said, “Yeah. Don’t wake me in the morning.”
It would have been easy to thump the pillow over coming problems, but he didn’t. He needed sleep; he would sleep. Whoever killed Albie wasn’t going to run away, he’d be around to see how Steve was liking it. Because there was only one reason why a smart guy like Albion would have dropped dead at the International Airport last night. One reason only, to keep him from meeting with Stefan Winterich.
It was after eleven when Steve awoke, not a long enough sleep, but more than he could hope for again for the duration of this job. He glanced towards the opposite bed. Reuben was still embedded in blankets, his spiky brown hair rising like pins from the pincushion of the pillow. Steve propped to an elbow to regard the sky through the ragged line between the curtains. It showed gray.
His movement stirred Rube. The boy creased his eyes. “What time is it?”
“About eleven-twenty. Time to get on the job.” He lifted the phone from the table between the beds.
Rube reached out for a cigarette. “You here on a job?” It was the first personal question he’d asked.
Steve said, “A little insurance investigation deal.” He had the right credentials for it, too, in case anyone got too nosy. It was the kind of job that gave a man a legitimate excuse to poke around in varied neighborhoods. He’d memorized Oriole’s coin-box number last night. He gave it to the switchboard, said “Call me,” and added, “Send up some coffee and stuff. Wintress,
four-ninety.” He told Rube, “We’ll have breakfast this morning on the boss.” A man needed a bit of coddling now and again. He lit a cigarette himself and pushed the pillows behind his shoulders.
Reuben said, “I ought to get going and see if I can find those guys. One of them has an aunt lives in an apartment on North Cahuenga. We were going to bunk with her.”
“You on leave?”
“Yeah. I’m being reassigned. I just got back from two years in Berlin.”
Steve’s face didn’t say anything; his face was trained. Berlin. And the phone rang. He slurred into it, “Who’s speaking?”
The voice said, “Mr. Oriole.” It was the right voice.
“Wintress. What’s the news?”
Oriole had had it. He begged, “You must come here at once.”
“What for?”
“It is not something to speak over the telephone. Mr. Schmidt is waiting for you. You will come.” It was half question, half command.
Steve wanted to laugh. Here the name was Schmidt. It wasn’t so much the news putting the tremolo in Oriole, it was a man called Schmidt. He said, “Soon as I get dressed and catch a bite of breakfast,” and waited for the hysteria. He wasn’t disappointed.
“You must not wait for these things!”
“I’d look pretty funny running around Hollywood without my pants. See you.” He hung up, yawned a grimace. But he got out of bed. “I’ll go ahead and shower. If breakfast shows up, don’t wait for me.”
“Sure,” Rube said. He appeared young and disinterested lying there in the bed. And he’d just come back from Berlin. He said for reassignment.
Steve didn’t waste time in the shower, but Rube was swallowing coffee when he emerged. The smell was good. “Pour me some, kid. I’ll shave while I’m eating.” He plugged in his razor. Rube carried the coffee and a plate of ham and eggs to the bureau. “Should think you’d be spending your leave with your folks.”
“What for?”
“Usual thing, isn’t it?”
“Uh-uh,” Rube said. “My old lady’s got a new boy friend. She didn’t want me around cramping her style.”
“She can’t be so old,” Steve commented. “Your pop?”
“He took a walk twelve years ago.”
“Where’d you live if you lived there?”
“New York.”
“I was born there.” Yeah, he’d been a New York kid once himself. A long time ago. He detached the razor and began to put on his pants. They could stand a press. He had a couple of clean shirts and a neat tie with little pink birds on an elongated navy sky, a girl had sent it to him for Christmas. He wore the plain maroon one. The shine on his shoes was still good enough with a rub-up. “Look,” he said, “no use carrying your kit around all day. Bring your pals back with you around five and I’ll buy the dinner.” Big-hearted Steve. But he’d feel better if he made certain that there were pals before the soldier moved out.
“Well, thanks.” Reuben was in character this early.
Steve caught up his coat, put on his hat, ducked back in to grab his room key and stow it in his pocket. He kept it there when passing the desk. No sense in advertising your comings and goings to strangers. There was a new man on the desk, a tall, thin, younger one, with a face like a sea gull.
It was as gray as fog out. Steve covered the few blocks to Oriole’s steadily but without undue speed. Let them wait. He pushed hard on the doorbell this morning. There’d been a flutter behind the starched lace when he climbed the steps.
Mr. Oriole’s face was wobbly. He hadn’t washed, hadn’t changed his clothes. “Come in, Mr. Wintress, come in.”
Deliberately Steve delayed. “What’s up?”
The flabby hand pointed towards the parlor. The green hangings were pulled apart, just enough for a narrow man to pass through. “Come in. Mr. Schmidt is waiting.”
There was always a Smith or a Schmidt or a Smithsky. This one was a precise middle-aged man, wearing a banker’s blue suit and a conservative tie of blue on navy blue stripes. His black shoes were small and high-polished, his fingernails dull-polished. His rimless glasses had no expression.
Mr. Oriole said, “This is Steve Wintress, Mr. Schmidt.”
Schmidt said, “I’ve heard much of you, Mr. Wintress.” He shook hands like a man in a countinghouse. There was no warmth in his voice. It could have been a tape recording.
Steve inclined his head. The parlor was small and hadn’t been redecorated since the house was built. It was golden oak and green plush, as crowded with furniture as the hall. A luxuriant fern sprayed green fronds from a table by the front window. Steve took the straight chair by the side window, leaving the plush one for Schmidt; the light for Schmidt’s face, for Steve’s back. He asked again, “What’s up?”
Schmidt said, “Albion is dead.” His hand tightened imperceptibly on the newspaper he was holding. Early edition of the p.m.’s.
Steve reached for it. Schmidt had to lean far out of his chair to pass over the paper. It was a trick Steve had learned too long ago to remember where. To make the other fellow subservient. The story was a small one near the foot of the front page. “The body of Frederick Grasse—” that had been Albion’s name—“was found early this morning,” and so on. Officialdom believed that Grasse, feeling unwell, stepped outside the terminal for fresh air. Heart attack.
Steve read it word for word. He handed back the paper, again letting Schmidt come out of the chair for it. He propelled the question, “Who killed him?”
Mr. Oriole twisted his dirty hands. Schmidt said, “You believe he was killed?” His voice was dry as a pod.
“I don’t think he dropped dead so he couldn’t meet me.” Steve came out of the chair and began pacing the square of old carpet. It could make guys like Schmidt and guys like Oriole nervous. “It wasn’t the Feds—”
Schmidt interrupted virulently. “The F.B.I.! Cossacks! Tools of the capitalist dictators—” He was primed to go on with the well-worn speech but Steve cut him off.
“Don’t tell me. Write your congressman.” He walked over to Schmidt and stood above him, making him lift up his glassy eyes. “It wasn’t the Feds. They take us alive. They want talk, not dead men. Who killed Albie?”
Schmidt said rigidly, “We will find out.”
“Okay. And while you’re finding out, what do I do? Play the ponies?” He walked back to the gushing fern. “Albion was carrying the information I need for this job. I’ve got to have that dope.”
“You will have it.” Schmidt eyed Mr. Oriole.
“By tomorrow morning.”
Oriole’s mouth drooped. “It is impossible!” At the warning of Schmidt’s face, he explained hurriedly, “Mr. Albion worked for long weeks. We do not know how many places he visited, how many persons with whom he spoke.” The excuses were not being accepted. He swallowed hard. “It will be difficult.”
Steve was brusque. It was either that or weep with the guy. “You think we’re the only ones after the Davidian report? Who came in on my plane last night? Haig Armour.”
“He is no longer with the F.B.I.” Schmidt was full of knowledge. “He is here on another matter.”
“Says who? What’s big enough for him out here but Davidian? I’ve got to have that dope tomorrow.”
Schmidt said thinly to Oriole. “Put everyone available on it.”
Steve relented. “Make it noon. That gives you twenty-four hours.” And that gave him twenty-four hours.
There were gaps which only Albie’s knowledge could fill. Oriole and his research squad would never close all of them. Albion was too smart not to withhold some keys. Because in this racket you didn’t know whom you could trust or for how long. But Steve was ahead of all of them; he’d been in on the Davidian business a lot longer than a couple of weeks. He’d been in at the very beginning, in Berlin. Which was nobody’s business but his own, certainly no business of this puny West Coast outfit. In twenty-four hours he might not need Albion’s material. Meanwhile, looking for it would keep
the Schmidt crowd occupied.
He went back to the chair and gathered his coat; he hadn’t removed his hat. “Noon,” he repeated.
Schmidt came up on his small polished feet. “May I give you a lift?”
“I need exercise,” he said ungraciously. He added to it, “I’ve got some thinking to do. If Mr. Oriole can’t get me that material—”
“He will,” Schmidt assured him, and “Oh yes, I will,” Oriole quavered.
Steve completed his sentence, “—I’ll have to do a bit of scratching around.”
You couldn’t say that Mr. Schmidt appeared alarmed, but neither was he complacent. His minions didn’t scratch around, you could bet; as they followed procedure. He pattered after Steve to the swinging draperies. “It is true that you knew Davidian in Berlin?”
Steve gave him courteous attention. Even a neat little Continental half-bow.
“It is absolutely true,” he said.
II
HE TOOK HIS TIME walking back to Hollywood Boulevard. Not much of a boulevard, none of the elegance either of the old-trees variety or of glassy modern towers. The one big hotel and the one big department store were at opposite ends of the main stem; westward the boulevard dwindled into a residential section, eastward it moved on downtown. There were a couple of big movie houses like delusions of grandeur scattered along the way. But mostly the street was home-towny, an overgrown Main Street. It was probably why Hollywood Boulevard had become a lodestone. Any American, except perhaps a born New Yorker, would feel at home on it.
Large red trolleys clattered through the centerlane, small yellow buses stumbled against traffic. Vintage cars and an occasional better one crowded the curbs; endless little shops and movie houses and cafés backed up either side of the sidewalks. And endless men and women and kids sauntered on the treadmill pavement. The pace wasn’t that of a city, it was California easy. The shop windows were decorated for Christmas shopping, heavy on the red and green and pocket-size cellophane trees dusted with stars. The street was decked out in the same spirit. Great green metallic trees grew from the sidewalks, giant tinsel stars and bells dangled overhead.
Davidian Report Page 3
