I walked across the living room and into a paneled den. Here I paused. Confusion ran riot in this room. There was a heavy desk near the window and the drawers were opened wide, and around and about the desk the rug was littered with an assortment of papers. I kneeled to examine the debris. Somebody had been through this desk with an eye for detail. A large blue checkbook lay open on the floor. There were a variety of bills, undoubtedly jerked from the small cubby holes in one of the drawers. I saw a small leather key ring, of the type used for automobile licenses and registrations. The license was made out to Consuelo Frugi. I wrote it down. She had a roadster, a Buick, 1947.
A small cabinet lay on its side on the floor. Alongside it sat a broken lamp, of bright yellow china, in two parts, cracked and incongruous on the green rug. The lampshade was holed, as though a shoe had stepped into it while walking. Four drawers, of various sizes, spilled their contents around the lamp. There were poker chips and many decks of cards and the odds and ends of domestic life—a pipe, a magnifying glass, some ashtrays, a long chrome box of cigarettes and two or three lighters of the expensive kind.
I walked through the wide hall and stepped into the bedroom. Here, too, somebody had worked hard to explore and upset. The two dressers were a turmoil of clothing and silk—Consuelo’s underthings, her stockings and slips and handkerchiefs. The bed was unmade. The mattress hung over the edge of the bedstead. The pillows were not covered with slips. Somebody had been very anxious to dig into this room. Somebody had searched this place for items of importance.
In a small dressing room, a wall safe hung open. The picture, behind which it had been hidden, lay against the wall, the glass cracked, the hunting print ruined by the same heavy foot. Whoever had entered Consuelo’s apartment must have been either drunk or over-loose in the limbs. A cat burglar is a careful man. He does not kick pictures. He does not kick lampshades. He has sensitive feet, nimble and spry. And he takes jewelry. A jeweled box was overturned on the floor. And the baubles were there.
The bathroom window was open. There was dirt on the sill, not mud but gray and brown marks, the dirt of fire escapes, the dirt of city streets, casual dirt. There were no fingerprints. There were glove smudges, four of them, fat and heavy, over the sill and around the tub where the invader had let himself down.
In the silence, I fidgeted. I was wasting time here. Not too long ago, I had read stories of the famous Burglary Belt on Park Avenue. This sort of thing was usual for the police. They expected it. But something held me here. I lit a cigarette and walked slowly back to the bedroom, fighting the impulse to leave this apartment. Somehow, this robbery seemed important. It fit, I thought. It would fit, later on. It became important to try for an understanding of the marauder’s motive. Why had he entered this place? What had he taken?
I sat down opposite Consuelo and made mental notes. She breathed daintily. Relaxed, she had the look of a sleeping angel. Her face was not built for murder. She smiled as she slept, an innocent smile, girlish and intriguing. She was unused to the liquor. She had told me a weird tale in her drunken gabfest. But she had told me the truth, I was sure. I could not picture her holding a knife.
I was busy with my mental gymnastics when the door chimes rang. There were three notes, high, low and then high again. I was on my feet before the last note struck. I stood there, staring stupidly at the door. My legs would not move. Nothing stirred in my brain. Instinct told me to remain where I was. Instinct was wrong. The door knob turned and a man walked in.
It was George Barker. I began to laugh, without reason. His slit eyes widened at me. He couldn’t see Consuelo from where he stood. But he moved forward, scowling at me, his fists hard at his side, his cheeks alive with high blood pressure. And then he was in the room and my laughter died. He saw Consuelo. He stood tight on his legs, and his big right hand unlimbered and flexed, once, twice, three times. He moved my way.
I said, “You’re wrong, Barker. Your girl friend got stinking at your place. She wanted me to take her home. She’s home.”
Something in my voice irritated him. He continued toward me and reached out a hand for me. I slapped it down.
“Don’t get rough,” I said.
He leaned into me, very close, but his hand didn’t come up again. “I’ve got a good mind to knock you around, McGrath. Who gave you the license to fiddle with my broad?”
“I’ll play it again, Barker, this time with the loud needle. She asked me to take her home. She was stiff. I took her home.”
A small muscle was rippling high on his right cheek. He surveyed me for a while. He walked away from me and stood over Consuelo. He touched her head. It was an incongruous gesture, almost brotherly.
“She’s all in one piece,” I said. “You shouldn’t let her drink so much. She goes under too quickly.”
“All right, doctor,” said Barker. “You can go home now.”
In the pause, I watched him straighten. It seemed to me that he must see into the den from where he stood. But he made the turn my way without noticing the debris.
“Not yet,” I said.
“What are you waiting for?”
“I’m in no hurry.”
“You’re in a big hurry,” he said.
I lit a cigarette, not looking at him. “Don’t shout,” I said. “Take a load off your feet, big boy. The night is young.”
“On your feet, McGrath.”
I didn’t move. He was too anxious. He wasn’t playing the scene right. He was out of character now, too obviously tough, too heavy in the eyebrows. I watched him strain for a while.
I said, “Somebody broke into this place, Barker. Tonight. In the den.”
He turned then. I saw him in profile. His mouth opened, but it wasn’t convincing. It was a stock gesture, the kind of astonishment you arranged for special occasions. He had a big and hard face, usually deadpan, immobile; relaxed. But his eyes were wide open now. In the split second of amazement, I caught his effort to react. It was obvious, as obvious as a small-town ham seen from two rows behind the footlights. He shut his eyes to their normal squint, all in a tick of time. If he had held it a moment longer, he might have sold it to me. But he played it out of stock, corny and overloaded with histrionics. He was staring at something he had either seen before or expected to see this way. He ran into the library and gaped again. The same way, with no variations. He disappeared into the bedroom. I didn’t follow him.
In a little while he came steaming back. He was heavy on his feet. He rolled into the room, flat-footed. He came at me and I met him halfway.
“What’s the gag, McGrath? What were you looking for?”
“I’m looking for Gwen Hibbs. I don’t collect papers, Barker.”
“You’re lying!” he shouted. “I caught you dead to rights, you conniving heel!”
“You’ll sweat your bustle off with that kind of talk. What would I want with Consuelo’s papers?”
“How the hell would I know? How do I know you didn’t take her jewelry? I’ve heard of racketeers like you.”
He was torn between adverbs and fits. I watched the flush of his emotions as he glared at me. He came through as a simpleton now. I decided that he could be handled. I tapped his chest with a finger.
I said, “Why don’t you call the police?”
He slid his eyes to the telephone as though he had just invented it. He licked at his lower lip. There were beads of sweat on his high and artistic forehead. He brushed a swirl of hair back slowly.
I said, “Why don’t you call the police, Barker?”
He shook it off. He jerked his head at Consuelo, angrily. “It’s her, you damned fool. I don’t want to make any trouble for her. She’s had enough of it already. Otherwise, I’d pin your ears back, so help me, McGrath.” He began to boil again, convincing himself that he was very angry at me. “Now, get the hell out of here before I lose my temper.”
I smiled at him “Who did it, big boy? Somebody you know?”
“Did what?”
“The job up here.”
“What are you getting at?”
“You. You’re hamming it up, Barker. Is this your own handiwork, or one of your friends?”
“You’re crazy, McGrath.”
“Am I? Then why not call the police?”
“I told you,” he said. “If it weren’t for Consuelo—”
I said, “You’re a damn fool, Barker—and a liar, to boot.”
That uncorked him. He lifted a big hand at me quickly. He brought it up from his waist. There was nothing in his face to give me a clue. He deadpanned it and it hit me high on the cheek in a roundhouse that knocked me back against the chair behind me. I saw him through a growing fog, big now, out of perspective, his hands at his sides, fists clenched, big fists, two tight hams ready for my next move. I moved. I caught him low, around the knee. He sidestepped me and when he fell on me he was well larded. He outweighed me and outslugged me. I had thought him an easy man to handle, but he was wise and sly, avoiding my open hands, sliding away from my fevered punches, doing me damage around the stomach and jaw. He moved quickly, as spry as a bantamweight. He threw me into position and kicked me away from him and came after me smiling. It was the smile that angered me. I lashed out at him with a body punch. I heard him grunt. But that was the last sound I heard. He had his fist readied for me. He used it in my stomach. He doubled me up with it. I caught at my belt and went over, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling only the black pit of pain that rose up to engulf me.
And then I was out.
I awoke with a dry tongue and a jaundiced eye. The room swam away from me. The walls rolled and heaved and rolled again. I rubbed at my eyes and held them closed and when I opened them there were four pictures oscillating on the long wall over the blur that was Consuelo. I stared hard at the frames and they came into focus, jittering into line until the picture was a solid thing.
Barker was gone. I lurched into the bathroom and set myself in order. He had not cut me. He had spared my face. He had massaged me well, adjusting me for that stomach punch. I washed my head and combed my hair and walked through the living room and out of there.
The elevator boy grinned at me as though we shared the atomic bomb secret.
I said, “You could have warned me about him.”
He said, “I get paid for going up and down, brother. If I unlatch my ruby lips, the management spanks me.”
“He’s a big boy,” I said. “A big, strong boy.”
He leaned on the control and said nothing. He began to whistle. He had one hand on the lever, but the other hand was on his hip. The palm showed. I put a five-dollar bill in the palm. He stuffed it in his pants. He stopped whistling.
“He’s weak in the head,” the elevator boy said. “Definitely pulpy around the ears, that one. Sort of a poor man’s Primo Camera.”
“A steady visitor?”
“Since a week or so ago.”
“Stays for breakfast?”
“I wouldn’t know, brother. I come on at noon.”
“You never took him down early in the afternoon?”
We were downstairs. He opened the door. The lobby was empty. A marble fish spat water into a small fountain. The elevator boy lit a cigarette and cupped it in his hand and puffed twice. “Just once, I recall. What are you, a dick?”
“The inquiring photographer,” I said. “What about Frugi? He been upstairs lately?”
“Frugi moved out, some time ago. He must be nuts, leaving a dame like that one on her own. But he moved out. I helped him out with his luggage.”
“He never came back?”
“Not while I was on, brother.”
“Who else drops in on her?”
He sucked at his cigarette, thinking it over. “An occasional dame.”
“Would you remember the dames?”
“I never forget a leg.”
I showed him Gwen’s picture. He eyed it with pursed lips. He chewed on his cheek for a moment. “Once, for that one. But not to visit Frugi’s wife.”
“How long ago?”
“A long time. Months and months.”
“You mean she came to see Frugi?”
He shook his head sadly. “She came with Frugi. At night.”
“No breakfast?”
“I took them down in less than an hour.”
“Drunk?”
“Not drunk. But happy. I remember her laughing on the way down.”
“Remember any of the dialogue?”
“There wasn’t any.”
I said. “You’re a great help. Thanks.”
I started out across the lobby, but he whistled me back. He waited for me to come the whole distance before he talked. He was confidential. He said, “You look like a regular guy, even if you are a dick. You interested in the Frugi dame? Listen, I took a man up to her floor today, after Primo Camera.”
“Camera was up here before? What time?”
“Let me figure it, mister,” he said, reading the invisible writing on the ceiling. “At three-thirty I knock off for java, you understand? I come back at a little after four. Every day it’s the same routine with me. The doorman comes on to relieve me. Live and let live, that’s me and the doorman. Anyhow, today, I come back from my java on schedule—four-fifteen. I find Primo Camera in the car. He goes up to the ninth—Frugi’s floor. A few minutes later, he buzzes me and I take him down. This other jerk is waiting in the hall. He—”
“What did he look like?”
“Average guy. About your size, and with glasses. He wants the ninth, too, so I ride him up. He stays up.”
“In Frugi’s apartment?”
“That’s just it,” he said, screwing his face into a lemon look. “Maybe he went up to Frugi’s—maybe not. But if he went to Frugi’s he must have been waiting for her up there in the hall, because she was out, you follow me? The doorman took her down and out when I was having my java.”
“He could have been going to the other apartment on the ninth, couldn’t he?”
“Sure, he could or maybe he had a date with the blonde and was waiting for her, I don’t know” He was sincere as the color of money. “But I figured maybe it would mean something to you, mister.”
“It might,” I said. “Do you remember where Frugi went when he moved out? He left a forwarding address, didn’t he?”
“That’s an easy one,” he said. “Frugi went down to the Beveret, downtown. I remember it because the name struck me as a funny one.”
I crossed the lobby to the phone booth. This time Abe picked up the phone at Mama Frichio’s.
“I’m hot,” he said. “This Bert McPhail looks promising, Steve. Listen to this. I didn’t find him at his place, but there was a downstairs neighbor, a female busybody who was just asking for a chance to talk about McPhail. She was a young dame, probably the type that McPhail would brush off because she didn’t have much in the right places, you know the kind, glasses and no figure. Anyhow, she gave me plenty. I showed her your wife’s picture and she told me she had seen your wife come in the building many an afternoon. I asked her when and she said it wasn’t recently—maybe six months ago for the last visit, but she swore up and down that it was Gwen. ‘How can you be so sure?’ I asked her. Then she gave me the payoff—the way Gwen dressed. I wrote it down. See if it checks.”
He began to describe a girl in a green dress, a girl who wore green with grace and charm. He told me about her gloves and I shut my eyes and stood once again in our living room the night Gwen came home from her shopping tour at Macy’s. I remembered the ensemble, the neat cut of the dress, the matching gloves; the small string of phony pearls that carried your eyes to her head and kept them there. She had bought a halo hat, too, a chic affair trimmed with white frills around
the crown. I had stood there admiring her, wanting to sweep her into my arms and warm her to me. But she was cold that night, colder than ever in the green dress, more aloof, posing and strutting before the mirror, teasing me, acting the model for me, and finally accepting my praise with the stiff smile that told me she did not dress for me, really.
“… and there was a string of pearls,” Abe was saying. “That would set her up one way or the other, Steve.”
“I remember them, Abe. It was Gwen all right.”
There was a silence. “It must hurt,” Abe said softly. “I know how you feel, Steve. But we have got to check it carefully. Her hat? Do you remember it?”
“Green, with white trimming.”
“We’ve got her,” Abe said. “I’m going out again now. This dame says Bert McPhail left the house at about eleven. That’s pretty strong for us. I have to find out where he went. She tells me he never ate at home. That should mean a lead from some dogcart around here. He wasn’t working. He was at liberty, she says. Behind in his rent, and all that. He should be easy from here on out. What did you get from Consuelo?”
I told him about George Barker.
“You shouldn’t have mixed with him, Steve. I don’t like him. I don’t like him any more than I like Frugi or McPhail. But you made a mistake fighting with him. You don’t want to irritate our subjects. Remember that when you find Frugi, will you?”
“Barker was asking for it. Or maybe it was me, Abe—I asked for it and he gave it to me. He’s pretty good with his fists.” I still felt weak and soft in the midsection. “I just got a lead from the elevator boy. I know where Frugi lives—it’s the Beveret, downtown. I’m going down to look around.”
“No more fights, Steve. Look, but don’t touch.”
“I’ll go to Mario’s from there.”
“Good enough. I’ll meet you there,” Abe said. “An hour?”
Friday for Death Page 9
