I said, “I suppose it’s been rather obvious.”
“Yes, Mr. McGrath. I say to myself many months ago, ‘Maria, you will see this marriage bust up soon. This is not happiness between these two people. This girl, she is no longer in love. A woman in love must love her house.’ That is how I knew about you and your wife. She never stayed at home.”
I looked up from my plate, showing her my befuddlement. “I don’t understand, Mrs. Monati. Do you mean that she goes out every day?”
“Every day.” She leaned forward on her heavy arms. She breathed motherly sympathy at me. “You did not know?”
“I wasn’t sure.”
She stood up. “Then I am talking too much. Do not listen to me, Mr. McGrath, I beg you. I did not mean—”
“Please,” I said. “It’s all right. Whatever you tell me will help me, don’t you understand? Gwen and I are going to get a divorce.”
“So?” She sat again, relieved. “There is another man?”
“I suppose so.”
“But you do not know who it is?”
“I’ve never seen him.”
“She never told you?”
“She denied it,” I said.
Mrs. Monati snorted and tapped her finger on the oilcloth. “She is a bad woman, your wife. She cannot deny such a thing. I, myself, have seen her with this man.”
“What does he look like?”
“Why must you torture yourself, Mr. McGrath? What does it matter about the man? It is not the man’s fault in this case, you will admit. It is your wife who is bad, I tell you—you are wiser to let her go and forget her.”
Anger heated me. I shouted at her. “When did you see this man, Mrs. Monati? I’ve got to know!”
“I will tell you then,” she said. “It was on Monday.”
“Last Monday?”
“Last Monday.”
She was very sure of herself. She did not change her mind about the day. Her words made my head pound. Monday! Gwen should have been in Pine Bush on that day. She had come home on Thursday night, late. She had lied to me. For seven days she had lived somewhere in the city, so that she might meet her lover. The weight of her deception shocked me, irritated me, and yet opened the first small door of hope.
“That was the only time you saw them together?”
Mrs. Monati shrugged expressively. “She must have seen him often. She never stayed at home. During the day I can count the times I saw your wife. Always she left early in the morning. And at night, in the evening, in the afternoon, yes, I saw her at the butcher, or the grocery sometimes. But most of the time, no, she did not stay in the house.”
“What did he look like?”
“Forget about this man, Mr. McGrath. I could not remember him. It was a long time ago, and he was not close. He had on glasses; that is all I can think to tell you.”
“He never came here?”
“I tell you I would not know him if he came.”
“But others? There were others?”
She shook her head with determination. Then the wagging stopped and she made faces at her memory. “There was one man, this afternoon. An hour, two hours ago—”
“For Gwen? Are you sure?”
She showed me a flicker of doubt. “No—I am not sure. He was on the landing, perhaps for Mr. Sisley. He saw me and came down, quickly; perhaps too quickly. He went out.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“Not good. The hall is dark.”
“You wouldn’t recognize him, then?”
“He was a man; that is all. Just a man.”
“Glasses again?”
“I cannot be sure.”
She followed me into the hall. At the door, I thanked her.
“You Americans are funny people,” she said. “You will still search for your wife, is that it? Even if she is bad—very bad?”
“I must find her,” I said.
I ran down the stone steps and into the street.
PART II
Death Is the Artist’s Model
CHAPTER 4
I walked quickly through the side streets of the Village, on the prowl for Ken Sisley. My mind sang with Mrs. Monati’s words. “He had on glasses; that is all I can tell you.” I could think only of the man in my apartment, the man in the striped shirt. How many other men had Gwen known? She had developed the threads of a new life. She had created a pattern of living that would be hard to reconstruct. It was an incredible fact, too impossible to accept.
I phoned her father in Pine Bush. And after the call, I knew that my hunt would carry me into strange places, among strange people. Gwen’s father had not seen her since before Christmas. He had wondered why she didn’t come to see him. Where had she spent the last week?
I roamed the bars. Ken was a vagrant drinker, well known to every bartender in the Village. I found him, finally, at my friend Mario’s. Ken was half crocked. He did not want to be seen. He sat at a dark table, in the rear of the cluttered restaurant. There was a side door to the Street near his table. When he saw me, he made an effort to reach that door, casually, easily.
I shouted to him and he turned to frown at me. Then he smiled, briefly and with some nervousness. In the pause, I reached his table and he sat down with me.
I said, “Are you sober?”
He caught the urgency in my voice. He brushed it away with his hand and shouted to Mario for two Scotches. “You can see for yourself I’m half crocked. Who wouldn’t be? I haven’t sold a cartoon in eight weeks. I’ve been feeding myself wet inspiration. Every once in a while a good bat pulls me out of it—props up my dying sense of humor.”
His talk came with an effort. It was not natural for Ken Sisley to explain away his liquor. And he didn’t talk to me. He concentrated on his lean hands. He cracked his knuckles. He was putting on a show for me—an amateur act.
I said, “How long have you been here, Ken?”
“How long?” He shrugged. “Generations, Steve. My mind doesn’t recognize time—not when I’m in this mood.”
“How long?” I asked again. “When did you get down here?”
“I’ve been here all afternoon,” he said. He was working hard at avoiding my eyes. He was fingering his glass, grumbling at it. His face was very pale, too pale for the early evening. “I really don’t remember when I walked in. Mario would know.”
“You’re not that drunk, Ken. I need your help. It’s important that you help me.”
“Help you?” He looked at me squarely and I caught a flicker of fear in the gesture. Ken had creamy hair and a face to match. His was a blond personality, shaded lightly with undertones of femininity that appealed to certain types of women. He was a handsome youth, if you admired classic features in a bloodless face. “What are you raving about, Steve? Dough? I haven’t got a dime—you know that. I’m drinking on the cuff. Ask Mario.”
I said, “I’ll ask Mario later. Right now I want to know what happened up in my apartment this afternoon.”
I dropped it in his lap. He didn’t know how to handle it. He made an effort to accept it, but it didn’t come oil. Not quite. He licked at his lip. I saw his hand tremble on the glass. He lifted the liquor and sipped it uneasily. He tapped the glass on the table and turned my way and grimaced stupidly. “I don’t get you,” he said. “What are you driving at, Steve? You and Gwen had another fight?”
“Not exactly, Ken. What time did you leave the flat?”
“Noon. I went up to Collier’s to try to sell a cartoon. I had lunch with the boys at The Pen and Pencil. Then I came down here and had a couple. I’ve been polishing them off since then.”
“Since when?”
“Three.”
“You’re lying,” I said.
“Ask Mario.”
“Forget Mario. Mario doesn’t know one hour from the nex
t. You went to your apartment before you came here, didn’t you?”
He shook his head stubbornly. I found myself holding back. I kept my fists in my pockets. He was ripe for pushing around. But there were people in Mario’s—the front of the place was humming with habitués, the rank and file of Village acquaintances, the men and women who knew me by sight. I leaned toward Ken and held his arm. He went soft under my grip.
I said, “Where’s your portfolio, bright boy? Has Mario got your portfolio, too?”
Ken tried to get up, suddenly. It was a drunken movement, calculated to convince me that he was tight as a drum. I held him there with one hand. He wiped at his brow, but didn’t quite make it.
“Portfolio?” he asked himself. “Must have forgotten it. Better run, up to Collier’s to grab it before some crumb cartoonist swipes it.”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “I just saw it, Ken. Up in your apartment, leaning against the phonograph, just where you always put it.”
He sat down then. Hard. He ordered more drinks. Mario came over and wiped the table. “You want another hooker, Steve?”
I said, “No more for me, Mario. I’ve got things to do.”
Ken stared at his drink. I allowed him to stare. I let the silence build itself. It was a well-staged tableau. Around us, the hum of noise set a strange mood for the scene. This was no moment for quiet. Far up front the door opened and a cop walked in. He was a familiar officer, the fat one who pounded Bleecker Street every night at this time. He squinted through the mist of smoke, then took off his cap and polished his pate with a handkerchief. Mario said something to him from the bar. The cop leaned against the bar and accepted a beer. Then he turned and looked our way, over his shoulder.
It was a casual gesture, but it did things to my blood pressure. I suppressed the urge to turn my head away from him. I listened to the pounding of my heart as I faced him. He waved a hand at me. I returned the salute, feeling the muscles in my sleeve go hard and tight, remembering that soon there would be many cops alerted to me, watching for me, ambling into other bars with a deeper purpose than free beer. For a moment I forgot about Ken, until he leaned into me, until he whispered hoarsely, “That cop, Steve. Do you suppose—?”
He jolted me. When I turned, his eyes were bunged. Drunkenness had fled his face. Terror twitched at his mouth.
I said, “Sit tight, you damned idiot. We’ll leave here after the cop walks out. We’ve got some talking to do, you and I.”
On the street we walked fast. Ken said nothing, nothing at all. But when I turned into Bleecker he stopped. He stood there, his tall frame caught in a fit of trembling. He brushed the hair from his forehead. He tongued his lip.
“Where are we going, Steve?”
“Home. Where did you think we were going?”
“Not back to the house!” he whispered. “Christ, not back to the house!”
“You’ve got nothing to fear. What’s bothering you? Mrs. Monati probably went to the movies for hours. And nobody knows about the business in my place.”
He didn’t want to move.
“I’ve got a friend over in MacDougal Alley, Steve. We can use his place. Why go back to the house?”
“I don’t know your friend,” I said. “And I don’t feel social now. Get moving.”
I nudged him forward. In the hall, he ran upstairs, his frenzied figure alive with fright. And in his room he broke down completely. He shook. He stuttered. He sat on the edge of his couch and ran his fingers through his hair. He began to talk immediately. Not to me. He whispered his words to the tattered scatter rug under his feet.
“All right, Steve, I saw her. I came home from the magazines and wanted a drink. I’ve done it before. Every once in a while Gwen and I would drink together in the afternoon—when she was home. Today was different. It was horrible. I walked into your place and found her. It was just before three. I remember the time because I know exactly when I left Pen and Pencil—two-forty-five. I took the East Side subway home. Nobody was in. It was quiet, deadly quiet. When Gwen was home, usually I could hear her whistling. I’d lay on the couch here and listen to her whistling Lazy Bones. It used to amuse me because she was always off key. But today it was different somehow. I knew Gwen was in. I could hear her moving around in there. But she wasn’t whistling. Or maybe it was the man who was moving around—I don’t know. I didn’t—”
He was rambling, out of control.
I said, “Go back earlier, Ken. How about this morning? What happened this morning?”
He gave me his eyes, but there was nothing in them. “I was out this morning. I left early, to go uptown to the magazines. I’m telling you the truth, Steve, believe me.”
“I believe you. What happened when you walked in for the drink?”
“I called out to Gwen. When she didn’t answer, I looked inside—”
“Did you touch her?”
Ken shuddered. He wasn’t acting any more. “I didn’t go near her. I ran out of there. I didn’t even go back to my room, I tell you. It hit me hard, the blood and all. I figured I’d better have a couple of drinks, and I went down to Mario’s. That was all, so help me.”
Ken pulled away from me on the couch. He got up, shakily, moving in jerks. “Good God, Steve. Who would murder Gwen?”
“I’ve got to find out,” I said. “And you’re going to help me. I haven’t much time. I have tonight, maybe, and part of tomorrow morning. Otherwise they’ll kiss me off for this, do you understand? Whoever planned this thing knew all about me. I’m the fall guy. I’m the little man with the knife, the white-collar murderer, the maniac, the frustrated husband.”
“Who would murder Gwen?” Ken whispered to his hands. “It’s incredible, Steve, incredible.”
“Relax,” I told him. “Sit down and cool off. How about a man in a striped shirt—did you ever see him around here?”
“Never.”
“Other men?”
“I’ve never seen any.”
“Think hard.”
“I don’t have to. I’d remember, Steve.” He was at the window now, fiddling with the mangy drape, restless, nervous, out of character. His delicate hands skittered and shook. He was a tall bundle of nerves. I had seen Ken Sisley almost every day for three years, but he had never irritated me. I regarded him as a Village character, a harmless youth; a deliberate actor in the Bohemian life around him. But now the mantle had dropped away. Now he was almost feminine in his gestures. His ague bothered me. He was a shallow bit-player. He was a ham juvenile. It hit me suddenly that he might be covering with these histrionics. He might be the small boy who had stolen the candy. Gentle talk could prolong his dramatics. I watched him turn from the window. I felt the heat seize me as he began to whine again. “Why don’t you be sensible about this and tell the police? They’ll know what to do. They’ll help you.”
I grabbed at him and held him at the collar with both hands. I said, “Listen, cute boy, I don’t want to act tough with you. Once they’ve got it I won’t stand a chance. They’ve got everything they want to hang this on me. I want you to listen to me and understand that I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t kill Gwen. I’m innocent and I’m going to prove it. And I won’t stand for any Boy Scout tricks from you or anybody else. Is that clear?”
He didn’t even try to fight me off. I let him go. He slumped to the couch again and buried his head in his hands.
I said, “I’m not through with you yet.”
“I’ll help you, Steve, You don’t have to worry about me going to the police.”
“Fine. Now you can talk. Tell me all you know about my wife—even if it hurts. Start with yourself, and give it to me straight.”
“Myself?”
“You and Gwen.”
“I told you what I know.”
“Not quite,” I said. “You and Gwen. Gwen and you. What about it?”
&
nbsp; “Nothing. If you mean—?”
“I mean everything. You said a moment ago that you would go into my apartment and drink with her. Was that all?”
“Nothing else, Steve.”
“How much did she drink?”
“Normally. We’d have one or two, that’s all.”
“No passes?”
He tried to look angry, but it came through as shock.
I said, “Anything but the truth is useless to me, Ken. I want to know everything about Gwen—everything. I’m the little boy with the big question. I’m the naïve husband, the sap, the dope with the horns. But you can’t shock me anymore. Remember that, will you, and tell me what you know.”
Ken said, “She would seem to relax more after the first drink, but that’s not strange. Gwen was a high-strung sort of girl. We’d talk, mostly about art. She seemed to be crazy about painting. Lots of times she’d tell me how nice it would be to be able to go off somewhere, to Mexico or the far West, so that she could really work at it.”
“What about the painting? What else did she say about leaving town? Any names?”
He was quieter now, concentrating, pushing himself into the past; trying to help me. He sat that way for a long time. “Once I took her to the Modern Museum to see a new exhibit. She must have told you about that, though. We spent the afternoon, most of the afternoon, at the gallery. She left me at four o’clock. Said she had to do some shopping.”
“When was this?”
“Last year, Steve. I don’t remember the date.”
“She never told me,” I said. “That could mean that it wasn’t important enough to her. It could also mean that you’re telling me the truth. But you haven’t said anything yet about the nights you brought her home from parties. Do you mean to tell me that she didn’t make a play for you? She was always tanked up at those parties. And Gwen got amorous after even a little liquor.”
I watched his face cloud up. He was on the spot and he knew it. The color rose on his cheeks and he made an effort to kill his embarrassment by getting up again. I followed him.
Friday for Death Page 5
