“You know somebody who could tell me?”
She was leaning over the cabinet when I asked the question. She held her hooker at the bottle as my words hit her. I saw her straighten and laugh, hysterically, as though I had told her the funniest joke of the season. But her laugh carried no overtones of humor. She laughed bitterly, in a frenzy, high and hollow—not humorous but springing from the depths of discord and disillusionment; a secret joke, evil and insane.
“Sure I do,” she said. “My husband!”
She began to cry and I went to her.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”
She did not snivel. She waved it away. “I’m not quite used to it yet,” she said. “But it won’t be long—it won’t be long.”
“When did it happen?”
She allowed me to help her to the window seat. She sat there dabbing at her eyes. She began to talk, quickly, in a rush of words, as though she had little time to say what was on her mind, to empty herself of her memories of Gwen. I fed her the rye. I sat close to her and listened.
“I met her at Romani’s,” she began. “In the beginning, that first night, she was another girl, not Gwen at all. She was sweet as pie, and friendly, and anxious to get to know me. We left early together and walked over to a bar and had a few drinks. Oh, she’s a clever one, this Gwen Hibbs. She was studying miniature painting and wanted help. I should have known better than to try to help her. She had seen my paintings up at Romani’s. I’m not much good at it. I’m really a beginner. Right then and there I should have suspected her of something. But, you know how it is with artists—each one thinks he’s just about the best in the world. And, besides, I wanted a friend. I needed somebody to talk about it. You lose interest unless you can share your painting with somebody like yourself. We made a date to meet the next day, for lunch, up near the Modern Museum.”
“Then she wasn’t working?”
“Working?” Consuelo laughed. “Girls like Gwen Hibbs don’t have to work. She was on the town, McGrath, on the town when I met her for lunch that day. I got my first surprise. Do you think she talked about art? Do you think Gwen met me to see an exhibit? Looking back at it all now, I could kick myself. She fooled me completely. She began to talk about clothes, only clothes. She told me that she used to be a fashion expert—up in Rochester at some department store. She talked only about clothes—nothing but clothes. She made a big fuss about the way I dressed. She flattered me until I warmed up to her. She was smart—very smart, because she worked me as though I were a little girl, a kid with a piece of candy. So help me, I fell for her line of talk so completely that she had me talking about styles as if I had met her for that reason. Do you see what I mean? It’s not easy to describe her now. Everything’s faded out because of what happened later. But that first time, that first date, she had me eating out of her hand—and liking it. Then she threw the book at me. Did I know anybody in the fashion business? Could I help her? And, of course, I began to feel sorry for her.”
“You got her a job?” It was an effort to listen to all this. This was no piece of fiction. These were the threads, the important threads, and yet I hesitated to accept them, to note them, to take them into my mind and use them. Consuelo was creating a fictional character for me. Surely this girl couldn’t have been Gwen? I tried to remember Gwen in November. I groped for clues. But my memory died at the great black void of Gwen’s hidden hours, her daytime career; the bolted door of her secret life while the sun shone, while I lived away from her, locked in the inexorable routine of the Jonas Tripp Company.
Consuelo nodded grimly. “I got her a job, or thought I did.”
“With whom?”
“Wagner—Mark Wagner. She did some modeling for him.”
“The Fifth Avenue Wagner?”
“There’s only one.”
“How long did she work for him?”
“You’ll have to ask Mark that question,” Consuelo said. “He’s your man. He’d have her address, if he ever paid her for modeling.”
“I’ll make a note of it. She’s certainly an interesting girl, this Gwen Hibbs. You saw her after she got the job with Wagner?”
“Only once. But that was enough for me.”
“She was friendly then?”
‘“Quite. She had to be—she was with my husband.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s hard to take, isn’t it?” Consuelo worked the handkerchief in her slender hands. “Hard to believe? But not for Gwen—she took him from me quite naturally. I found them together one day—in a restaurant. She was clever about that, too. Do you know where I found them? Can you imagine where? It was The Press Box—a place up on Forty-fifth Street—pretty inconspicuous—inconspicuous enough so that she’d be safe with him, the bitch. They didn’t see me when I walked in. And, fool that I was, I saved it for that night—at school. We had a fight that night, Gwen and I. It’s too bad I didn’t kill her. I should have had a gun with me then—or a knife—”
She was trembling again, I gave her another drink. She drank it thirstily, desperately. She was no actress. She had a simple mind and a simple purpose. I played it her way.
“I can’t blame you for hating her” I said. “She’s a queer one.”
“My husband left me, finally,” Consuelo said.
“When?”
“Months ago.”
“He told you he was going to Gwen?”
“He told me nothing. We had a fight and he left.” She gulped the rest of her rye. “I suppose he went to her. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anymore. She can have him. She’ll tie him in knots and it’ll serve him right, the fool. He doesn’t know what he’s dealing with. He thinks he’s so clever, Jake Frugi. He’ll learn differently, he’ll suffer plenty. She doesn’t want a man like Jake. She only enjoyed taking him away from me, I’m positive. You meet that kind of person, every once in a while, a woman who enjoys robbing another woman just for the sake of the swindle, not the stakes involved. That’s the way Gwen is—a conniver. Jake Frugi can’t mean much to her.”
She got up and looked at the easel again, working her hands as though they were very cold. She turned away from the picture and her eyes were liquor heavy. She laughed briefly.
“But you’re not getting anything out of this, eh, McGrath? You’re sitting there wondering about me, probably. Well, all right, I’m a little nuts and I admit it. George Barker will tell you how nuts I am. But he like me better than Gwen, George does. We get along. And it makes me feel better this way. She was after George, too, you know. She plays the field. But he dropped her when I told him to. Isn’t that crazy? Do you think I’m crazy?”
“Not a bit of it,” I said. She wanted sympathy now. She was drunk enough to take whatever I would give her. It would have been easy to pour it on. She came close to me and I could feel her reaching out for me, inviting me to go along further with her on her jag.
She looked at her wrist watch. “It’s after nine. That crumb is standing me up again.”
“He’s a devil with the ladies, isn’t he?”
“A crumb,” she said. “I don’t know why I sit here and wait for him. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he went to her, to warn her about you.”
I patted her hand. “How about a substitute?”
She responded with a slow smile. “You’re a nice guy, McGrath. I’ve got a good mind to go with you.”
“What are you waiting for?”
She didn’t wait. She got up and began to color her face. She brushed her hair and powdered her nose. Then she turned to me and held out her hand.
“I’m not waiting,” she said.
CHAPTER 7
We were walking down the darkened street when the little man slid alongside me and nudged me with his elbow. It was Abe. I kept walking. Consuelo clung close to me. Her stride was liquored. She leaned into
me. She babbled as she walked. Abe dropped behind and I heard his flatfooted strides as he measured his pace to suit ours. My ears caught only the surface sounds of Consuelo’s chatter, the idle gurglings of her rye-filled mind.
I took her into a small bar, away from the fringe of lights on Seventh Avenue. I sat her at a table.
“We need a few shots of real stuff,” I told her. “Barker’s liquor was pure rotgut.”
“Barker is a crumb,” she said.
I ordered the drinks at the bar and went to the street door where Abe waited. He made a funny noise at me through his teeth.
“Careless,” he said. “We’re a couple of amateurs, Steve. I’ve been worrying about it. I stopped looking for Bert McPhail when it hit me. What gives with that Sisley character?”
“He’s in a bar—Mario’s.”
“You’re sure?”
He had me there. For all I knew, Ken Sisley might be talking to the police at this moment. “No, Abe, I’m not sure.”
“He’s got to be watched,” Abe said soberly. “He’s a gimmick in this thing. Maybe you’d better call Linda and put her on him. She can do the job—she’ll do anything for you. We can’t watch him, either of us. It would foul us up. I’m getting hotter and hotter about McPhail. I found out that he lives down here—over on Greenwich Street, in a remodeled stable. He’s been down here for the past three months, maybe longer. Ann Black, the warbler down at The Cellar, tells me she’s seen him around with a woman who might have been your wife.”
“When?”
“Get this, Steve—it sounds as hot as hell—during the day. You got any idea of what your wife did with herself during the day?”
“Mrs. Monati told me she went out all day.”
“Every day?”
“She was rarely home. It could be that she was running around with McPhail,” I admitted. I took one of Gwen’s pictures out of my wallet. “Why don’t you check the Black woman again—see if she recognizes Gwen?”
Abe tucked the picture away. He squinted at Consuelo, over the edge of the booth. “What’s with her?”
“I’m letting her run,” I said. “She’s Frugi’s wife. She’s Consuelo.”
“Stay with her. I’m having a beer now. Call Linda and then get moving with this Consuelo. Give her the lead and sit it out. She looks about ready to drop. Is she a talker?”
“Plenty—and more to come.”
“Make that phone call and get Linda on Sisley.” Abe went to the bar as though he had just walked in. He didn’t turn his head to examine Consuelo any further. He just stood there and tapped a quarter on the bar.
I went to the phone booth. Linda must have been sitting on the phone.
“I’ve got news for you, Steve.”
“You found Arthur’s address?”
“Better than that,” she said gaily. “I found Harvey.”
My heart sang with hope. “How did you do it?”
“You did it, not I. I called nine undertakers in the big towns of Connecticut. I caught the name Tripp on the ninth try. The old man’s being buried in Darien. Harvey is coming, Steve—he’s on his way back now.”
“Where will we meet him?”
“Right here. I thought my apartment would be best. He should be in town within an hour or so. He’s driving down—says you might need the car. When will you come up here?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I won’t know for a while.”
“Got anything?”
“I hope so. Listen, Linda, I’m worried about a character named Ken Sisley. Write the name in your little black book. Then go down to Mario’s Bar in the Village. You’ll find the subject there—a big blond guy—probably drunk as a fool. Stay with him. He knows too much.”
“What do I do with him?”
“Stay with him. He may get the urge to go to the police.”
“And how do I stop the subject?”
“Scotch,” I said. “Keep pouring Scotch into him.”
“Forever?’
“Until I get down there. If he makes a break, take him to your apartment, do anything you like with him, but don’t let him get away. He bothers me.”
She dropped her voice. “I’ll take care of him, Steve.”
“Good girl. See you later.”
Consuelo was well into her second rye. Her eyes were fogged. She greeted me with affection. When we left the bar she stumbled to her feet and threw her arms around me. Her voice was tongue-thick. She was ripe. I told the cabby to drive around Central Park.
In the cab I questioned her. It was a simple deal now. She responded eagerly, and rambled into devious drunken lanes of thought. The liquor had opened her brain for my inspection. We sat together like two lovers. She smiled up at me and squeezed my hand and made passes at my face. I played it her way, questioning her as we played. Jake Frugi? What did he do? Who was he? Jake was a rich man, very rich. They had a Park Avenue apartment, six rooms in the middle Fifties, the high-rent area, and why not stop up there now for a few really good drinks? Jake had more money than he could count. He made it his own way. And what was Jake’s way? Consuelo shook her head savagely. She knew plenty about Jake’s business. She could fix Jake Frugi. The dirty dog. The hairy pig. You asked Jake a question and if he liked it he answered it. There were certain questions he never answered. Like the question about Gwen Hibbs?
Consuelo pulled away from me and sobbed. “The hairy pig. He hit me when I asked him, the dirty, dirty dog. Nobody ever hit me before. Nobody. I wanted to kill him. I kicked him out that afternoon. I kicked him right out.”
She sniffled into her handkerchief. But the mood passed. She seemed to enjoy her memory of the last sight of Jake Frugi.
I said, “Where did he go?”
Where would Jake Frugi go? He had several places. He had a summer home in Westchester. He had an apartment downtown in a hotel. You would have to understand Jake Frugi to figure his course of action. He might even have taken a suite at the Waldorf. Money didn’t mean anything to him. He had ways of earning money. He collected it. People came to him and handed it to him. In suitcases, she remembered. It wasn’t clean money. Consuelo laughed. Clean money comes in checks, through businesses. Jake had a chain of gambling houses. Once he had taken her to one of them in Jersey. In the front it was a garage, a regular ordinary gas station with pumps and everything. But in the back, you went through a door into another world, with roulette tables and crap games and the finest liquor served by men in formal dress. And the people. The customers. They came from all over, in evening clothes and fancy gowns. Their cars were parked far down near the George Washington Bridge, at a special place. Then they were driven to Jake’s den in sleek black limousines. Nobody would ever suspect Jake’s place. And if he was suspected, there was plenty of money for bribes.
We were cruising around Central Park now.
I said, “No wonder you went in for art. He left you alone most of the time?”
“All the time, all the time,” Consuelo said savagely. “How long can you stay by yourself? How long can you shop? You have a lot of money and you like to buy pretty clothes, like any woman, but how long can it go on? After a while I began to give up shopping. It was foolish to waste so much money. But in those days Jake was all right because at least we had the evenings together. It was when he stopped coming home evenings I started to go crazy. After he met Gwen. I kicked him out then. I had to get rid of him after I saw them in that restaurant. How could I help myself? Maybe I loved Jake Frugi, I don’t know. But he didn’t love me, the hairy pig. It was because I saw them together during the day that I got so mad. He never had time for me during the day. Never. I was furious when I saw him giving time to another woman; that was it. It wasn’t jealousy, really. You understand?”
“You must hate his guts,” I said. “And Gwen, too. Did you ever see her again, after that?”
�
�Never.” She shook her head violently. “Not Jake and not her either. They can go to hell together for my money. Let’s forget about her, can’t you? For God’s sake, let’s stop up at my place and have a few more drinks, McGrath. I like you, McGrath. You’re an okay guy. I like you.”
“I like you, too,” I said. “Where’s the apartment?”
“The Temple,” she said.
I tapped the driver on the shoulder and said, “The Temple.” Then I leaned back with Consuelo. “How about Wagner? A good friend of Jake’s?”
She shrugged Wagner away. When she made a wry face there were small wrinkles on the bridge of her nose. “Mark’s one of Jake’s cash customers over in Jersey. I know because I met him there. He likes me. He’s a little devil, that Mark Wagner.” She began to laugh, suddenly, out of control. I patted her hand. She laughed louder. “Mark and Gwen must have made a humorous couple. He’s small enough to be a midget. She must have kneeled down to kiss him, the little runt.”
We turned down Park Avenue and slid to a stop before the Temple Apartments.
CHAPTER 8
Consuelo rocked and rolled against me in the elevator. She was the zany-type of drunkard, all awash, a feminine leaner, weak in the knees and simpering vaguely. The elevator boy concentrated on the buttons before him. If he had seen her this way before, he didn’t show it. When the door opened, he said, “First door to the right, sir,” and he was gone before I could thank him.
I found the key in her bag and opened the door. I carried her into the living room, a square place, festooned with an assortment of well-rubbed mahogany furniture. If Consuelo designed the apartment, she had good taste. The decor was rich but quiet and the room sang with cool blues and yellows. I crossed the room to the long sofa and put her down. She had her arms around my neck. She liked them there. I pried her loose and she relaxed against the cushions, burbling soft words at me. But she was asleep before I could adjust my tie.
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