“That’s actually a good plan,” Frank said with a grin. “I could threaten him with it, at least.”
“Not if you wanted to walk out of the meeting under your own power,” Robinson said grimly.
He had a point. “I guess I won’t mention it, then.”
“Lawson will think of it, though. You have to be smart to be successful, and he’s more successful than most. That means he’s always looking ahead, figuring out what could go wrong and planning for it.”
Frank considered this for a moment. “If he’s that careful, why didn’t he think about how this could go wrong for him before he started it? No matter how wild Harvey was, everybody knew Pritchard was painfully honest, and that he wouldn’t go along with anything illegal.”
“Are you sure everybody knew?”
“I can’t speak for Lawson, but everybody who knew Pritchard did. I even had a dairy owner out in Brooklyn tell me that.”
“I wonder if Pritchard would have been clever enough to go to the newspapers when the police ignored his complaints, which of course they would have.”
“He probably would’ve made a fuss of some kind. The newspapers would have caught wind of it sooner or later.”
Robinson nodded. “You’re right, that does sound foolish of Lawson not to have thought of possible consequences. It’s almost as if . . .”
“As if what?” Frank asked when Robinson got lost in thought. Or maybe he was still not fully awake.
“As if he was more interested in aggravating Pritchard than anything else.”
Did that even make sense? “Do men like Lawson even care about things like that?”
“Men like Lawson are still men,” Robinson said with a shrug. “We’re all petty creatures.”
“But why would he even care about Clarence Pritchard?”
“I have no idea. Maybe Clarence delivered sour milk to his house one day.”
“I don’t think Clarence actually delivered milk to anyone.”
“Well, his dairy’s wagon did. I don’t know, and you can’t expect me to be clever at this hour of the morning.”
“It’s almost eleven o’clock.”
Robinson glared at him before pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Or maybe I’m just being imaginative and Lawson simply made a mistake. But still . . .”
“Still?” Frank said encouragingly.
“It seems like a small operation for Lawson. I mean, how much can a few milk wagons carry?”
“My wife pointed out that they may have been carrying small things that are very valuable, like jewelry.”
“She could be right, of course. Since I don’t move stolen goods around the city, I can’t really be sure.”
“So that’s another thing we can ask Mr. Lawson.”
Robinson winced, but he said, “I’ll need some time to set up a meeting.”
“Send me a telegram. To my office,” Frank added a little sheepishly.
Robinson’s eyebrows rose. “Am I going to be as afraid of my wife as you are of yours?”
“I hope so.”
* * *
• • •
Robinson didn’t need as much time as Frank had expected. He received the telegram a few hours later. He and Gino had been reviewing the case in the privacy of their offices and trying to decide what Frank should ask Lawson and what he actually could ask Lawson without giving too much offense. Unfortunately, they hadn’t reached any good conclusions. Robinson’s instructions were to meet him at the corner of Madison Avenue and 66th Street. It was a familiar area, not too far from Robinson’s house and close to the Pritchards’ and even to Bergman’s house. How odd they all lived in the same neighborhood.
“Mr. Donatelli,” Robinson said with some amusement when Gino and Frank found him sitting in his carriage at the appointed meeting spot. “Are you Malloy’s bodyguard?”
“That’s what I’m going to tell Mrs. Malloy,” Gino replied, equally amused.
“No, you aren’t, because I don’t think we’re going to tell her anything at all about this,” Frank said.
Neither man seemed to believe him. Robinson climbed down from his carriage and said, “It’s that building.”
“We were just there the other day,” Gino said.
“Not seeing Mr. Lawson, I assume,” Robinson said.
“No, someone else connected with the Pritchards,” Frank said.
“But not the killer?” Robinson asked, leading the way across the street.
“Unfortunately, no.”
Robinson didn’t bother checking the building directory but led them straight to the elevator. The operator took them to the fourth floor.
“Gino, you wait in the hall,” Frank said. “We don’t want Mr. Lawson to think we’re ganging up on him,” Frank said.
Gino nodded and stepped back when Robinson stopped in front of an unmarked door. “This is it.”
“You’ve been here before?” Frank asked.
Robinson just smiled and opened the door.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Robinson,” a woman’s voice said. “Mr. Lawson is expecting you.”
She was a lot friendlier than the last time Frank had encountered her, but when she saw Frank come in behind Robinson, her smile vanished, and Miss Kathleen Denson actually gasped.
“Miss Denson, how nice to see you again,” Frank said, equally surprised.
She rose from her chair, her disbelieving gaze locked on Frank. “You didn’t say you were bringing anyone with you,” she said to Robinson.
“I’m sure I did,” Robinson lied.
Before Kathleen Denson could think of a suitable reply, the door to the adjoining office opened and Otto Bergman stepped out.
“Jack, how are you?”
But that was as far as he got before he saw Frank, who was trying to come to terms with the knowledge that Otto Bergman was really Lou Lawson.
XIII
Malloy,” Bergman said through gritted teeth. “What are you doing here?”
A rather large man who had been sitting unobtrusively in the corner, suddenly stopped being unobtrusive and rose in a threatening manner. His crooked nose and cauliflower ear marked him as someone who could handle himself in a fight. “Boss?” he asked, his gimlet gaze fixed on Frank.
Bergman gestured impatiently. “It’s all right, George. Mr. Malloy is not a threat.”
Frank deeply resented that dismissal, although he had to admit, he was grateful not to have to deal with George. He felt sure he could handle him, but an encounter would leave bruises he would have to explain to Sarah.
“I see Mr. Malloy needs no introduction,” Robinson said, obviously amused and bewildered in equal measure.
“No, but he does need an explanation,” Bergman said. “Come into my office and you can give it to me.”
Frank followed Robinson into an office that was much more elaborately furnished than the one he’d visited with Gino one floor below this one. Directly below, Frank realized. Bergman probably had a private staircase to easily move between his two identities.
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Bergman said, gesturing to the two leather, wingback chairs that sat in front of his massive mahogany desk.
“Do I need to apologize, Lou?” Robinson asked, although he didn’t sound very sorry. “Mr. Malloy asked me to introduce you to him because he needed your help, and since I owed him a favor, I saw no harm in bringing him over.”
Bergman didn’t even glance at Robinson. He just continued to glare at Frank. This was a very different man from the one Frank had spoken with downstairs. This was a man who knew his power and how to wield it. He didn’t need to make threats because his very name—the one he used in this world—was threat enough.
“And what exactly did you need my help with?” Bergman asked.
Frank took a minute to reply.
He spent that minute by leaning back in his chair and folding his hands across his stomach as he waited for all the pieces to fall into place and everything to make some kind of sense. “I think you know, Mr. Lawson.” Frank glanced meaningfully at Robinson, silently letting Bergman know he wouldn’t reveal Bergman’s other identity. “But now I have some more questions that I think you might prefer to discuss in private.”
Bergman finally glanced at Robinson, but only for an instant. “What makes you think I’ll answer any of your questions, privately or not?”
“The last time I saw you, you indicated you wanted Harvey Pritchard’s murder solved. People you care about want that, too.”
“I can’t help you with that.”
“I think you can, but we won’t find out which of us is right until I ask my new questions.”
Jack Robinson rose from his chair, still both amused and bewildered. “I can see I am no longer needed here. I will leave you gentlemen to your private business.”
Finally, Bergman fully acknowledged Robinson’s presence. “We’ll discuss this later, Jack.”
“Of course.” If Jack had any apprehension about that discussion, he gave no sign of it.
Both men waited until the door had closed behind Robinson. Even then, Frank held his tongue, knowing how uncomfortable silence made most people, so uncomfortable that they had to fill it. He wanted to see what Bergman would say to him.
Bergman didn’t last even a minute. “All right, you’ve discovered my secret. What do you want?”
“I just want some answers.”
“White told me you’d been snooping around the dairy after hours.”
“Did he tell you I wanted to see you?”
“You must understand by now why that wasn’t possible.”
“Yeah, it’s all perfectly clear now, but it raises all kinds of new questions.”
“Which I don’t need to answer.”
“No, and I can’t make you, but unless you’re planning to have George out there throw me into the East River—and I wouldn’t advise it because then you’d have to deal with the wrath of my wife—then I could reveal your secret. Killing me seems a drastic step when simply answering a few questions would buy my silence.”
Bergman sighed in obvious frustration. “I don’t have people murdered, Mr. Malloy. It’s very bad for business, because dead men can never make good on their debts. Usually just the sight of someone like George is enough to persuade people. I’m not saying I haven’t had the odd associate who offended the wrong person and ended up with fatal injuries, but it wasn’t by my orders.”
“Then tell me what happened with Harvey.”
Bergman rubbed the bridge of his nose as if his head was beginning to ache. “Harvey had a gambling problem.”
“I know. It got him kicked out of school.”
“Out of college, yes. He’d run up debts and the school felt he was a bad influence on the other students. His parents believed him when he promised not to gamble anymore, but I know his type. I make my living off of men like that. He wouldn’t be able to stop, so I made sure he only gambled at places I own.”
“Did Mrs. Pritchard know?”
“Of course not. She doesn’t know anything about Lou Lawson. She thinks I own a lot of tailor shops.”
No wonder Frank hadn’t been able to find any of them. “Is that why you created Lawson? So she wouldn’t know about your . . . activities?”
Bergman’s scowl told Frank how much he hated admitting all this. “Her parents wouldn’t let us marry because I didn’t have any money, so I decided to make some as fast as I could. I started working for . . . Well, for men who knew how to make a lot of money fast. I was smart and ambitious, but by the time I was rich enough, Ilsa was married to Pritchard. I thought she’d leave him for me, but it wasn’t that easy.”
“Pritchard wouldn’t divorce her, I guess.”
“She was expecting Theda by then, and even if he’d agreed to a divorce, he’d never let her keep the baby. Then Harvey made it twice as hard for her to leave.”
So they’d settled for seeing each other secretly, although Frank saw no reason to annoy him by mentioning that. “What I don’t understand is why you wouldn’t let Pritchard just pay off Harvey’s debts.”
“Who told you that?” he asked, furious all over again.
Frank shrugged. “Harvey and his father argued about it in front of the servants.”
Bergman rubbed the bridge of his nose again. “It was White’s idea. He’s always getting ideas. Nobody looks twice at a milk wagon, he said. We could move things around the city at will, he said.”
“And he was right, but I’m surprised you agreed to it, knowing how scrupulously honest Pritchard was.”
To Frank’s surprise, Bergman smiled. It was a mirthless smile, grim and full of anger, and it sent chills up Frank’s spine. “That was how White convinced me. Pritchard was so damn honest, and we would be forcing him to break the law to protect his son.”
“So you saw it as revenge.”
“I like to think of it as retribution.”
Frank thought of it quite differently. Bergman certainly had reason to be jealous of Pritchard and to hate him for taking the woman he loved, but had Pritchard deliberately set out to ruin Bergman’s life? Frank doubted it. The fact that Bergman was considered a dear family friend meant that Pritchard had no idea how deeply he had injured Bergman, much less that Bergman was still in love with Ilsa and having an affair with her after all these years.
“Retribution, then. So White convinced Harvey and somebody told Amelio Bruno to go along, and suddenly all of Harvey’s debts disappeared.”
“It seemed fair to me,” Bergman said, showing no remorse. “Pritchard should have been relieved that he didn’t have to pay them.”
“Instead he was infuriated because his wagons were being used for something illegal.”
“Which was the whole point.”
So it was petty revenge or retribution. Robinson was right—men were petty creatures. “And you were going to keep using them, even after Harvey had worked off his debt.”
“I actually didn’t expect Harvey to ever work off his debt. He promised his parents again that he wouldn’t gamble anymore, but I knew that sooner or later, he’d be back at it, especially if he knew how easy it was to pay off the debts.”
“But then Pritchard decided to go to the police.”
Bergman stiffened. “What?”
“He decided to go to the police. He told Harvey on New Year’s Eve, the night he was murdered.”
“Who told you that?”
Frank sighed wearily. “Someone who heard him say it. And you found out and—”
“No!” Bergman almost shouted.
The door burst open and George was there, chest puffed out, fists clenched, eyes scanning the room for threats.
“It’s all right, George. Mr. Malloy startled me, that’s all.”
George scanned the room once more, then nodded and withdrew.
Frank managed not to sigh with relief.
“No,” Bergman repeated as if they had not been interrupted. “I did not do anything because I did not know Clarence had threatened to go to the police.”
“I used to be a police detective, Mr. Bergman, so forgive me for saying this, but any detective worth his salt would put it together like this: Pritchard tells his son he’s going to tell the police that some gangster is using his milk wagons to move stolen merchandise. Harvey storms out of the house, probably to warn that gangster or at least his people that trouble is coming. Later that same night, someone the gangster sent finds Pritchard in the crowd at Trinity Church and strangles him.”
“Except that Harvey never told me Pritchard was going to the police.”
“How could he? He had no idea that you are Lou Lawson. But he might have told
your man White.”
“White would have come to me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Does White know about your special relationship with the Pritchard family?”
Bergman’s face colored, but he said, “He knows we are friends. Nobody knows the rest of it.”
“And you don’t think White could have decided to take care of Pritchard without bothering you?”
That at least made Bergman stop and think. “I don’t believe he’d take a chance of angering me that much. He knows how I feel about outright murder.”
“Maybe you need to make sure, because if he took it upon himself to kill Pritchard and then killed Harvey to cover it up . . .”
“I would never forgive him for killing Harvey. I don’t think Ilsa will ever . . .” His voice broke, and he had to take a moment to recover himself. “You must believe me, Malloy. I might have hated Pritchard, but I would never have harmed that boy.”
Frank did believe him, which didn’t help a thing, because he was running out of suspects. Maybe White had gone renegade and defied a boss most people feared crossing, but that seemed doubtful. If the notorious Lou Lawson and his crew hadn’t killed the Pritchards, then who had and why?
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Frank said, “I’d like to talk to White once you’ve finished with him.”
Bergman’s expression gave Frank chills. “Assuming I’m satisfied that he didn’t kill them without my knowledge, because if he did, you won’t have to trouble yourself with him at all.”
Frank figured that went without saying. He rose from the comfortable wingback chair and then remembered one more thing he needed to ask. “By the way, are you the one who paid off Devery not to investigate Pritchard’s death?”
Bergman hesitated just a moment as he rose from his own chair, and some emotion flickered across his face, too quickly for Frank to identify it. “I did.”
“You know that makes you look guilty, don’t you?”
Murder on Trinity Place Page 22
