She put her heavy-veined hand briefly on his wrist. He started to follow her but Miss Grasse’s voice whipped across the room. “Mama!”
The mother’s voice was strong. She knew Marguerite wouldn’t make a scene, not before the relatives. “I will show Frederick’s friend the fine lace shawl he brought to me.” Her bedroom was the first beyond the living room, a warm, rose-colored room. There were framed pictures on the wall, family pictures. Three little girls in stiff hats and high-buttoned black and white shoes, two little boys in sailor suits, unreal as cartoons. Steve wondered where the other children were now; he didn’t ask. Children were born and they died. She had opened a long bureau drawer and from tissue paper lifted out a folded black lace shawl.
Steve remembered. “I was with him when he bought it. In Berlin.” The first time he’d heard about Mama. He touched the delicacy of the fine lace. And he remembered the aged man who had sold it, the furrows in his pallid cheeks, his blackened teeth. He remembered how the old man had held it in his withered hands before he could let it go.
She unfolded it. “See? How big it is!” Her voice was powerful. “It was much too fine for me.” As she spread it on her rosy satin bedspread, she was pulling open the small drawer of her bed table. Her voice went under her breath. “This is what came from his pockets.” While Steve touched the keys, the license case, the half-roll of mints, she spoke up loud again. “He was a good boy. He was never in trouble. Never!”
And Steve’s fingers closed on the ruble, folded so small to escape attention. Not to be thrown away, for Frederick had preserved it; not to be shown to the shame of the good sisters. Steve unfolded it, his back to the woman. She wasn’t watching him, she watched the door.
“He could not give me so much as Marguerite, no. She with her fine position, a high school principal she is, for ten years now. He was not so successful.”
No message save that Albion had carried it as message, the proof that Davidian was in the city.
Her voice lifted, “Ah, Gertrude! My shawl, you remember this fine lace Frederick brought to me from Berlin?”
Aunt Gertrude blocked the doorway. She mourned, “Always so good to you, your son.”
Softly Steve closed the drawer. Miss Grasse’s nose quivered behind her aunt’s heaving shoulders.
The mother said, “His friend was with Frederick when he bought the shawl for me.”
Miss Grasse didn’t believe. She didn’t know what Steve wanted here but she knew his coming wasn’t honest. Her eye was trained to spot excuses.
He said to Mrs. Grasse, “I must go. Thank you for your kindness.”
She was a little fearful. As if, in his leaving, he was taking away another part of her son. She took his hand and pressed it. “Come again to see me. Thank you for coming today. Thank you.”
Had Albie spoken of Davidian, perhaps a funny story to make her laugh, about a little man who made money and who was hidden in the open streets but no one could find him? No more questions. Miss Grasse was at his side until he was shown out the door. She remained on guard in the doorway until he was beyond the path and out on the sidewalk. Her silent mouth was repeating, “We don’t want to know Frederick’s friends.”
3
On the corner of Fourteenth Street there was a superdrugstore and supermarket. On impulse, Steve swung into the parking lot. He took the drugstore, found a phone booth and called Feather’s number.
The precise voice of the manservant wasn’t certain that Miss Talle was available. Before investigating, he was insistent on the name of the person calling; he’d been trained to preserve the Eldon Moritz privacy. He was worth every cent of the three or four hundred a month he’d demand.
Feather came on the phone. She said, “I have only a moment. Haig is waiting for me.”
“Have you found out anything?”
“Oh yes.” She sounded pleased.
“When do I see you?”
She was hesitant. “I don’t know whether I can get away.”
He told her flatly, “If you have a date for cocktails with me, you can get away.” Either she was without any experience or she didn’t want to get away.
She hesitated further. “Y-yes.”
“I’ll meet you at five. Wherever you say.”
She didn’t say anything but she was there, he could hear her faint breath. She might be consulting Haig.
“Well?”
“Could you make it at six? It may be difficult.”
“Six. But I can’t stay long. I have a dinner date.” Tonight he wasn’t going to drag her along. “Where?”
“The Beverly Hills.”
“I thought the point was to shake that guy?”
“Oh yes, he’s stopping there,” she remembered vaguely.
She was the dumbest girl he’d ever met; no one could be that dumb. “Well, where?”
“The Beverly Wilshire?”
She wouldn’t know any dumps, only chromium-plated bistros. There wouldn’t be any dumps in Beverly Hills. He’d buy her one drink. “Don’t be late,” he said and hung up. That one would be wasted money. But he couldn’t miss any bets. She just might not be Haig’s girl.
When he left the booth he realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. There was time for a sandwich. He sat down on an upholstered stool at the soda fountain, ordered a cheese and coffee. The sandwich came fresh, wrapped in wax paper. He ordered another, and, lured by a shiny brown-and-cream illustration hanging on the mirror, topped it off with a chocolate soda. He hadn’t had a chocolate soda in years and it was good. It was like being home.
And then it was time to put in an appearance at the farewell to Albion. Not for Albie’s sake but because both sides would speculate over his absence. In their respective myopias they wouldn’t consider he might stay away in protest against furthering the ancient ugliness of gathering about an empty rotting shell, a custom perpetuated out of superstition and greed. Albion was gone, a part of infinity. He might even be a part of blessed infinity, he’d made mistakes but the Divinity wasn’t the party. You could err; you could, if you had to, hug grievous error, and be forgiven. God could forgive Albion his mistakes, God and Albie’s mother.
There were plenty of cars around the funeral home. He was late, the macabre festivities hadn’t begun but within there was a sizable audience. Not mixed. Schmidt and Oriole and Frederick’s friends were on one side; on the other were relatives and the family friends. On the outskirts was the law. He recognized Hale’s jaw line and Ferber’s shoulders. Wilton was further offside where he could check each entrance. Were they hoping Davidian might show? Steve didn’t join any group; he took a doorman’s position on the opposite side from Wilton. He’d only gone into his folding chair when the immediate family appeared and the man who must be the minister. Mrs. Grasse hadn’t veiled her face, her shoulders were straight and her chin; she wouldn’t weep. Not for an audience.
The minister spoke briefly, without spirit, he might have been rented with the hall. He was safer with the words of the Lord; his voice strengthened as he read from his book:
Have mercy upon me, O Lord; for I am weak:
O Lord, heal me; for my bones are vexed.
My soul is also sore vexed:
but thou, O Lord, how long?
He was too young to have known Frederick Grasse; had the Lord guided him to this Psalm? Or was it the mother?
Depart from me, all ye workers of iniquity
for the Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping.
There were hushed steps of more latecomers. Two heads turned, Steve’s and Wilton’s. There was no need, Haig Armour and Feather didn’t hide in the rear. They moved down the short aisle until they were directly behind the family party. Feather couldn’t have known she was coming to visit the dead; she was dressed for cocktails in a cap of violets, a spray of them at the collar of her blue suit.
Let all mine enemies be ashamed and sore vexed:
let them return and be ashamed suddenly,
the
minister intoned as he closed the book. He didn’t try a eulogy, merely a brief prayer for a man who had been and was no more. The murmur of Amen came feebly from both sides. No one wept.
It was over and Haig Armour was moving up to the family. Anger spurted into Steve. Armour couldn’t be permitted to invade the mother’s privacy at this time. Part of the anger could have been his own shame but Steve moved rapidly. And vainly. Feather stood in his way, cat-eyed, smelling of violets. “I want to tell you—”
In that moment, Haig reached Mrs. Grasse. Steve set Feather aside. “Hold it.” He didn’t bother to see how she took it; he reached Haig.
And he heard the rich voice, properly subdued. “May I express my sympathy, Mrs. Grasse? I knew your son a good many years ago. I had hoped to see him while I was in town.”
Steve wasn’t needed. The watchdog sisters had closed in and the impresarios of this affair. Mrs. Grasse had only the same words, “He was a good son,” and she was conducted away.
Haig turned and looked into Steve’s face. If he was chagrined over the brush-off it didn’t show. Steve said sardonically, “You were an old friend of Fred Grasse?”
“Hello, Steve. Maybe I knew him.”
The mourners were filing out. Schmidt was interested. And Wilton. Neither came forward.
Steve said angrily, “She’s decent. Call off your hounds.”
“I can’t hurt her. Nothing can hurt her further.” Haig’s jaw was squared. “She might like to know that there are some who aren’t willing to condone murder.”
He hadn’t seen Haig angry before. Maybe it was the presence of the assassins, the hypocrites, mouthing amens. Steve demanded, “And you think you’ll find a killer by heckling her? She doesn’t know his friends or his enemies. Miss Grasse doesn’t allow them in the house.”
“You’ve been there.”
“Yes. Unlike you, I was an old friend of Frederick’s. Like you I hadn’t seen him for a long time. And hoped to see him while I was here.”
Haig said, “Maybe you did see him.”
“Meaning what?”
“There was time enough. While you were looking for your unknown pal at the airport. Time for more than a few words.”
Haig’s boys hadn’t accused last night. Haig hadn’t outright before. It rocked Steve but he hung on. “He was dead when I was on the plane. With you.” Haig said nothing.
“You know damn well he was dead before I got there.” They weren’t going to saddle this murder on him, no matter how much Haig would like it that way. “The police know. They released the body, they know when he died.”
Haig quoted, “The tolerance of the body to certain alkaloids is different in different men. They can’t be certain whether Grasse got his before he went to the airport or later.”
The attendants were working around the edges of the auditorium, cleaning up for the next show. They wished the two men would carry their argument outside. Feather had drifted to the door, as if she didn’t want to hear what they were saying.
Steve’s fists ached from their clench. “You’ll have a hard time hiring witnesses who can put us together. I came here to do business with Frederick, not to kill him. I can prove that.”
“Not on the witness stand,” Haig said smoothly. “You wouldn’t dare go on the witness stand and reveal your business with Grasse.”
That was it. Rage ate at him, knowing they could do this to him, knowing he couldn’t make testament of the truth of the matter between him and Albion. Even if they couldn’t prove their case, and they couldn’t without perjury, they could tie him up long enough to make him worthless on the job. Haig had many ways to win his victory.
Steve whispered, “You bastard.”
Haig said, “Don’t worry. I don’t believe the police will bother you for a few days yet.” He moved with the taunt, towards the girl.
Steve waited until they’d gone. When he came out of the place, the pitifully small cortege was driving slowly away. Haig and Feather were advancing to a Cadillac roadster. Ferber and Wilton idled by a plain black sedan as if concluding desultory conversation. Schmidt and Oriole duplicated the performance by another sedan. Steve knew what they were all waiting for. The number-one pigeon. He had no choice. He moved down the walk and joined Mr. Schmidt and Mr. Oriole. It couldn’t be news to Ferber and Wilton that he belonged in that category. They’d had his friends tagged before now.
Schmidt asked, “What had Armour to say to you?”
He didn’t have to answer. It was none of Schmidt’s goddam business and it wouldn’t hurt to tell him so plainly. Nor would it hurt to speak up. “He wanted me to understand that this doesn’t close the file on Albion.”
“So?”
“He’s still trying to put it on me. He’s capable of having me picked up for questioning. To keep me from reaching Davidian. If that happens, you’re going to have a hard time explaining to New York why I wasn’t given proper protection.”
Schmidt didn’t move an eyelash.
“If that happens,” Steve pounded it, “you’re going to get me out of it fast. If you have to turn yourself in as the killer.”
Schmidt inclined his head. The smile on his lips wasn’t nice. It was Mr. Oriole whom Steve had frightened. He would have to pick the victim, arrange for proof. Even if he had to turn himself in, Schmidt wouldn’t be touched. He was the brainy kind, safe until Steve could undermine him at headquarters. Unless something happened to Steve. His insolence was icy. “Don’t worry, Mr. Wintress. We will take care of you.”
Steve propelled the question. “Who did kill Albion?”
It didn’t disturb Mr. Schmidt. “We are working on that, Mr. Wintress.”
Steve didn’t shove in the man’s face. He simply walked on to the car and drove away. Neither Armour nor Schmidt was worth his blowing his top. He wasn’t here to fight big shots. He was here to get the Davidian report.
He should have insisted that Davidian pick a safer locale. But the little guy had seen too many American movies or heard too many tales of eternal palm trees and orange juice. Or was it that Janni was here? Davidian wasn’t a man you could drive; Steve had had to have his co-operation. And what was the difference? There were outfits working in every city, Des Moines or San Francisco or New Orleans, name any of them. There was activity in even the small towns.
You couldn’t outrun danger, not when you were in the business that Albion and Davidian and Steve were in.
He remained on Wilshire into Beverly, parked the old crate a block away and walked back to the hotel. There was nothing cozy about this lobby; it was as big and glittering as a movie set. Feather wouldn’t be early. Time for a phone call.
The phone rang on and on in an empty room. Reuben and Janni would find out he was late when he didn’t show up on time for dinner. They wouldn’t care how late he was. The call hadn’t been to find out if she’d gone to the room with the soldier. It didn’t matter to Steve if she had.
He left the booth and found the cocktail lounge. It was crowded and noisy, high-class noise, Beverly Hills brand. He had a straight one standing at the bar and returned to the lobby. She wasn’t very late. She was still dressed up like a cocktail-hour girl but she didn’t play the part. She stood timidly by the revolving door, looking out myopically into the lobby. Steve went to her.
She fumbled, “I tried to be on time. But Haig insisted I have a drink with him before I dropped him at his hotel. I thought it was better. He was angry.”
He guided her elbow back towards the fancy bar. The head waiter found them a sliver of space; it didn’t take him long to bring a sherry and a weak highball.
Steve asked her, “What has he got to be angry about?”
“This man. The funeral—” She didn’t want to continue. “He was murdered. Haig thinks you—” Her eyes scuttled away from him. “You didn’t. You were on the plane. But—”
He said sourly, “They couldn’t pin it on me but they could hold me too long. What about Davidian?”
She wasn�
�t listening. “Is Haig really F.B.I.? He says he isn’t. He says he’s a lawyer with the Department of Justice. But Eldon says—”
Steve told her, “He’s been an important Federal man for years. What did you find out about Davidian?”
She admitted, “Not very much.”
“Haig won’t talk?”
“I don’t believe he knows. He seemed to be trying to pump me as much as I was pumping him.” She seemed embarrassed. “As if he thought you might have confided in me.”
If that was a come-on, he ignored it. “He doesn’t know where Davidian is?”
“I don’t think so. Only that he’s in touch with this girl—Janni.” She breathed hard against his shoulder. “I know I haven’t found out much for you. I’ll do better tonight.” She was too eager, as if she had to convince him that she was on his side, not Haig’s. “We’re going to have dinner with him at the hotel. Eldon and Elsabeth and me. And Eldon is going to help me. Eldon’s very good at things like that.”
Steve said, “My God, did you have to rake in your whole family?”
“Was it wrong?” Her lip fell. “I wouldn’t have only I thought—” Her shoulders hunched tremulously. “I mean I thought because Eldon knows everybody, he might know—”
“He couldn’t possibly know the man I’m after,” Steve said. “Davidian’s not a movie star.”
She caught his wrist. “I’ll find out something to night. I promise you.”
“I’ll give you a ring.” He put a bill on the table.
“After dinner. I’ll go home right after dinner.” She didn’t want him to go; she was fine-strung as a race horse. Her mouth was opening to spill a further delaying action. For what purpose, he didn’t know.
He got to his feet. “I’ll ring you after dinner.” He swerved away. He was threading through the tables, almost to, the door, when he noted Eldon Moritz sitting alone, almost directly opposite to where Feather was now alone.
It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered what cooked with Eldon Moritz. But it was the first time that it bothered him sufficiently to wish that he weren’t already too late for his appointment at the Prague. He’d have liked to join the man for a few presumptuous questions.
Davidian Report Page 14
