The Third Figure

by Collin Wilcox

  “So you’re my mother’s own private clairvoyant?” Her voice was lightly derisive. She moved back to lean against a low credenza, half sitting—stretching out her long, elegant legs. Something in Charlene Vennezio’s disdainful assurance and restless vitality reminded me of Carmen. Fiery was the word Mrs. Hanson had used. It seemed an accurate adjective.

  “My name is Drake,” I said, irritated at her flippancy. “Stephen Drake.”

  She nodded, still derisively smiling. “That’s what you said in the hallway. And on the phone, too. It seems to me that I read something about you a few years ago. Something about solving the murder of a very important man. Was that you?”

  I shrugged. “It depends on who the man was. It could have been me.”

  Her smile faded. “So now you’re going to do the same for us. Is that right?”

  Again I shrugged, and decided not to answer. I was wishing that she’d sit down in a chair and get to the business at hand. She had a disturbing effect on me, with her legs braced straight out and her torso arched upward as she leaned back against the credenza.

  “There was a time,” she said abruptly, “when I was interested in psychology, including ESP. In fact psychology was the only thing I ever took in school that really interested me.” Suddenly she straightened, then paced with long strides to a nearby easy chair, sitting to face me. Now she crossed her legs.

  “Have you ever studied psychology, Mr. Drake?” she asked.

  I didn’t like the conversation’s direction. She was questioning me, instead of my questioning her. I pointed to the phone.

  “I overheard you say that you’re leaving this afternoon an a trip. I wouldn’t want to—”

  “I just said that. Everyone says they’re going on a trip when they’re trying to get a car repaired. Don’t you?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Maybe not,” she interrupted, her expression one of mixed amusement and easy disdain. “You seem to be a very mild-mannered man, Mr. Drake, in spite of your imposing height and your lean, dark good looks.” Ironically she accented the phrase, smiling. “Did you ever know,” she added, “that tall men are more successful in business than small men? Statistically, at least, height is more important than anything else to a man, even intelligence.”

  “Really?” In spite of myself, I was interested.

  She nodded, now lightly mocking me, still smiling. “Really. With a girl, of course, it’s the opposite. The smaller you are the more a man thinks he can dominate you. So, for a girl, being small is being successful. Because that’s how you get a man to make love to you. Then, with luck, you get him to marry you.”

  “Did you learn that in psychology class?” I asked, still striving for the initiative.

  “No, I didn’t learn that in psychology, Mr. Drake. Anything I’ve ever learned, that’s meant anything, I’ve learned by just keeping my eyes open, my mouth shut and my highball glass half-filled.”

  She smiled, perhaps appreciating her own flip little quip.

  “I understand you’re an actress, Miss Vennezio.”

  She snorted. “In my last picture I handed a mirror to the leading lady and then combed her hair. In the picture before that, I handed Gregory Peck a cocktail and thanked him when he gave me a tip.”

  I smiled. “At least you had some lines. I understand that’s a big step forward.”

  She didn’t reply, but was now gazing out the window, turned half away. The sky was a clear, bright blue. Two jets were tracing a parallel pattern of white vapor trails as they sped together out toward the ocean.

  Watching Charlene Vennezio’s dark, moody profile, I decided to come directly to the point, perhaps surprising her into a quick reaction.

  “Do you have any idea who killed your father, Miss Vennezio?”

  For a moment she didn’t move, nor did her expression change. Yet I thought I saw her body become momentarily more rigid. Then she turned to face me.

  “I thought you were going to tell me who killed him.” Now her voice was no longer light, nor sardonic. Her manner seemed suddenly almost bitterly cutting, picking a fight.

  I shook my head. “It’s better not to tell people everything you know. The police taught me that.”

  “Oh.” She nodded mockingly. “The police.”

  It had been a mistake. A gangster’s daughter would never be cowed at the mention of the police. If anything, her normal response would be derisive.

  “Do you have any idea who killed him?” I repeated.

  “No, Mr. Drake,” she answered steadily, meeting my eyes. “No, I don’t.”

  “A suspicion, then. Anything. You were very close to your father, I understand. If anyone has an idea why he was killed, I’d think it would be you.”

  “Who told you that I was close to my father?” The question seemed to come with an effort.

  “Your mother.”

  “Oh.” She once more turned to stare out the window. “And how is Mother? I haven’t seen her for two weeks, at least.”

  “She’s feeling very …” I hesitated. “Very lonely, it seems to me.”

  She laughed. It was a brief, bitter sound.

  “Mother’s always felt lonely, as long as I’ve known her. She should’ve married a—a fruit peddler. That’s what her father was, a fruit peddler.”

  “How did your parents happen to get married?” I asked, willing to go along with her.

  “Mother was a beautiful Italian girl who came to America when she was eleven, but by the time she was seventeen she still couldn’t speak English without a thick accent. She spent most of her time going to church, because her papa decided church was the safest place for Italian girls who were beautiful. Then, one day, my father saw her. Daddy was a rising young hoodlum in those days. He took one look at Mother, and decided it was true love. Her papa wasn’t so sure, but it didn’t take Daddy long to convince him. One visit. A semiofficial visit, the way I understand it. So they were married, and her papa ended up a prosperous fruit peddler, instead of a dead one.”

  “Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say for the moment. Then, lamely, I added, “Well, that’s the way they used to court in Sicily, the way I understand it.”

  The mocking note returned to her voice. “That’s it exactly, Mr. Drake. That’s how they did it in the old country. And they’re still at it. You’d be surprised.”

  “Is that the way your father courted Mrs. Hanson?”

  She looked at me sharply, her expression now cautious and shrewdly speculative.

  “Why do you say that?”

  I shrugged, at the same time trying to assess her reaction. A “semiofficial visit,” she’d said. Had such visits been a habit with Dominic Vennezio?

  “Did you know Mrs. Hanson?” I asked, watching her closely.

  “I’ve met her. Twice. Both times accidentally.”

  “But you knew about your father’s affair with her.”

  She nodded.

  “And you didn’t approve.”

  Her manner pretended a blasé indifference as she said, “If Daddy wanted to recapture his lost youth, it was his business. As long as he didn’t make a fool of himself.”

  “But he did make a fool of himself, according to what I hear.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion. Daddy was a very vital person. Everyone makes a fool of himself, sooner or later, over the opposite sex.”

  I was thinking about Dominic’s semiprofessional visit to his intended bride’s father, long ago, as I said, “I take it that you didn’t know Mrs. Hanson’s husband.”

  “No.” The answer came quickly, as if she’d been waiting for the question.

  “But you knew who he was.”

  For a long, silent moment she looked at me. Then she sighed and sat up straighter in her chair. Looking off across the room, she pitched her voice to a speculative note as she said, “I suppose there’s really no harm in telling you.”

  “No harm in telling me what, Miss Vennezio?”

  She shi
fted in her chair to face me fully. Her manner became crisper and more businesslike. “I suppose you’ve heard about my, ah, friendship with Larry Sabella.”

  I nodded.

  “You’ve probably also heard that Daddy didn’t approve.”

  “Yes.”

  “You might also know that Daddy made a hell of a stink about me and Larry. I think he even had Larry beat up, once, by men who were supposed to be ‘competitors.’ Larry doesn’t think so, because he always liked Daddy, or at least respected him. But I think Daddy had him beat up. Anyhow, I decided to do what I could to take some of the heat off Larry, as we say in the movies.”

  “And what did you decide to do?”

  “I decided to let Daddy know that I knew about Mr. Hanson’s strange disappearance.”

  I was aware of a sudden stifling sense of excitement as I asked, “What did you know about Mr. Hanson’s disappearance?”

  “I knew that Daddy forced him to leave town.”

  “How?”

  “He offered him money to go. Ten thousand dollars.”

  “And he took it? And left?”

  “Not at first. He had his pride, apparently—his drunken, patrician pride. But then Daddy explained that he had no choice. Either he left with the ten thousand dollars, or he left anyhow. Without the money.”

  “And what if he didn’t leave?”

  She moved her shoulders in a single, eloquent movement of inevitability, at the same time shaking her head.

  “What did you intend to accomplish, Miss Vennezio, once your father knew that you were aware of the reasons for Mr. Hanson’s leaving town?”

  “Simple blackmail,” she answered promptly. “If Daddy didn’t quit making it tough for Larry and me, I’d blow the whistle on him to his girl friend.”

  “Then you don’t think she knew about the ten thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t think she knew anything. As far as she was concerned, her husband just walked out on her. Because of his wounded masculine pride, or something. Anyhow, I do know that Daddy wanted her to think her husband walked out. Very much.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because Daddy started squirming when he heard my proposition. Then he got mad. Finally he went along. I even got him to give Larry a bigger cut. A kind of junior partnership.”

  I thought about Dominic Vennezio’s problems with his womenfolk, and I must have smiled.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked resentfully.

  “I was just thinking,” I replied, “that you and your mother were making it pretty tough on Dominic. Apparently he didn’t have much trouble keeping the toughest guys in town under his thumb. But he wasn’t so lucky at home.”

  “What d’you mean? What’re you talking about?”

  “I mean that your mother was blackmailing him, too.”

  “Why?” she asked incredulously.

  “Can’t you guess?”

  She thought about it. “Because of the Hanson woman, you mean?”

  “Exactly.”

  She smiled, unexpectedly. “Well, good for Mother. Maybe she learned something after all, during all those years. Did she have the same information I had, about Mr. Hanson?”

  “No. Her information was—different.”

  She didn’t press the point, but instead relaxed back into her chair, pulling up her legs. She began absently tapping a forefinger on the arm of her chair. I watched her for perhaps a full half-minute, deciding what to say next. Finally, without any real plan, I started speaking:

  “You know, Miss Vennezio,” I said slowly, “most of my successes in the art of criminology are the result of work—lots of legwork and lots of talking, and lots more legwork. I can’t say I’ve finished all my legwork, but I’ve certainly done a lot of thinking about your father’s murder. And I always come back to the same problem.”

  “What’s that?” Her voice was oddly subdued.

  “A motive,” I answered, watching her as I spoke.

  “I shouldn’t think that’d be a problem. I can think of several.”

  “Exactly. So can I. But that’s the point: there’re plenty of possible motives, but nothing that seems any more convincing than any of the others. For example, there’s the obvious fact that getting murdered, in your father’s business, was an occupational hazard. However, because of his position, the murder would normally be a contract job, as they call it—and a pretty big contract, at that. Now, as nearly as I can see, nothing like that happened. I talked to Russo for a long time yesterday. And I’m convinced that your father’s murder wasn’t ordered by the Outfit.”

  “There’s always the lone assassin.” Her eyes and her voice were perfectly expressionless. She wasn’t suggesting a possibility, she was merely making a minimal response.

  “That’s true, there’s the lone assassin—possibly a nut, or even a maniac. About that, you could certainly be right.” As I said it, I thought of the previous night’s vision. She could be right—making me wrong. “But,” I went on, “even assuming it was a lone assassin, we’re still stuck for a motive. Or, at least, I’m stuck. For instance—” I held up three fingers. “Everyone agrees there’re three main reasons for premeditated murder: love, revenge or the possibility of gain. Now—” I paused, organizing the lie I’d already prepared. “Now, love doesn’t seem to be a factor. As far as I know, there wasn’t anyone else besides your father who was romantically interested in Mrs. Hanson. Revenge, of course, is a possibility. Undoubtedly there were many people with a grievance against your father. However, at the moment, there doesn’t seem to be any outstanding candidate—or at least none that I’ve been able to uncover. So …” I hesitated. “So that seems to leave the possibility of gain. Now, to me, the possibility of gain looks like the most likely motive.”

  She didn’t reply, but only watched me with dark, expressionless eyes. She still remained curled back in the chair, but now the lines of her body seemed subtly more tense.

  “For instance,” I continued, “I talked to your mother last night and asked her about your father’s will. She said that she, you, and your brother shared equally in the bulk of the estate, with the exception of ten thousand dollars to Mrs. Hanson and five thousand to Reggie Fay. Is that right?”

  She cleared her throat, seemed about to speak, but finally only nodded. I decided to veer away from the subject, perhaps to return later, unsuspected.

  “Of course, there’s also the possibility of someone within the Outfit gaining by your father’s death,” I said. “Forgetting about any high level decision to have him killed, there’re probably a half-dozen men who benefited directly from Dominic Vennezio’s death—just as the executives in any large company move up when the head man dies. Russo, for instance, obviously profited. And …” I paused. “And Larry Sabella, probably.”

  As I said it, I saw her eyes narrow. She returned my gaze with a kind of calm, thoughtful malice.

  “It seems like you’ve got a pretty good parlay in Larry and me, then. Both of us profited by my father’s death.”

  “I haven’t talked to Sabella,” I answered, as steadily as I could. “For all I know, he could’ve been out of town when the murder was committed.”

  “He wasn’t though. He was with me. Here.”

  “Then there’s no problem, Miss Vennezio. For either one of you.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Drake. No problem.” She was staring at me with sullen defiance. I’d seen that expression in the eyes of a hundred hoods, handcuffed to a hundred cops.

  “Who do you think killed him, Miss Vennezio?” I asked quietly. “You must have some idea—some suspicion.”

  In the taut, hostile silence we watched each other. Then, slowly, she said, “I can’t help you, Mr. Drake. As we say in the movies, all I know is what I read in the papers. I’ll say this, though: Daddy undoubtedly thought he was opening the door for Mrs. Hanson instead of for his murderer. Whoever killed him arrived in her place. Think that over, Mr. Drake. Whoever killed him was …”
r />   The doorbell interrupted her. She rose from the chair in long, lithe movement, and quickly crossed the room to open the door.

  A tall man entered with the sure, confident stride of possession.

  Here, I realized, was Larry Sabella. Obviously, she’d been expecting him—waiting for him.

  “This is Mr. Drake,” she said with a supercilious little flourish. “The man we’ve all been hearing so much about. And this,” she said to me, “is Mr. Larry Sabella. We thought maybe he could give you some background material for your hallucinations.”

  I’d risen involuntarily to my feet, facing him. As I did, I saw Charlene pick up her purse and, without a word or backward glance, leave the apartment.

  “I guess she needs some cigarettes, or something,” Sabella said, mockingly smiling as he advanced to the middle of the room, unconsciously striking a pose. He was one of those narcissistically handsome men, completely preoccupied with his own rugged good looks. His dark, curly hair was worn long and carefully combed. His Italian sweater was draped with casual elegance; his slacks were meticulously pressed; his loafers were beautifully burnished.

  “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the chair I’d just left. Again he gave me the smile, as superficial and mannered as his posing.

  I decided, immediately, that I didn’t like Larry Sabella. Looking back, I realize that I’d chosen him as the focus for the frustrations, anxieties and downright terror I’d experienced during the past twenty-four hours. And, besides, phonies have somehow never much worried me.

  “Want a drink?” he asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  “How about some coffee?”

  “No. I’ve got to be going soon.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where’re you going?”

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “Or else you won’t tell me.”

  I shrugged.

  With thumb and forefinger he thoughtfully arranged his trouser creases. “I hear you saw Russo yesterday,” he said softly.