This other girl—this daytime eccentric—had arranged her own death; And Frugi’s, too? The path into her other life led through a devious channel, a tangled net of her own devising, a route that might include other Frugis, other lovers. I must dig deep, back, beyond the horror in my bedroom, beyond the blood in Frugi’s place, deep and deeper still. I fought to relive my part in the tragedy, recalling every word of dialogue in the living room, the defiance of Jake Frugi, the bitter scorn in Gwen’s eyes.
And then I remembered the paint box!
If the police came, they would find the new paint box in the living room, where I had dropped it. They would trace it to the storekeeper who sold it to me. They would determine just at what moment I had left it there. It could prove damning, this innocent gift.
“Where are we going?” Monkowitz asked.
“You know Mario’s?”
“Sure I know Mario’s—it’s a hackey hangout. I’ve had been there.”
“Go there by way of Bleecker.”
“It’s shorter through Seventh.”
“I need the air.”
We made the turn into Bleecker Street and I saw the street over Monkowitz’s shoulder and my mouth went dry. There was a car parked before Mrs. Monati’s. We rolled up to it and as we passed it I heard the muffled sound of a radio and knew that this was a police squad car. The lights were bright in the hall and two men stood on the stone landing. They were heavy men. They were detectives. My eyes found the windows upstairs and they were bright with light. A few people huddled on the curbing and gawked up at the windows, pointing and whispering. We were at the house and past the house and it was all behind us. It was an effort to hold my head away from the rear window of the cab. My hand was shaking when I tapped Monkowitz on the shoulder urgently, too urgently. He slowed down and turned his head my way.
“Don’t stop,” I said. “I just wanted to ask you a favor.”
“Name it and it’s yours.”
“There’ll be a girl in Mario’s, a girl and a man, in the back of the place. You can’t miss them.”
“You want to stay in the cab?”
“I can’t get out, Monkowitz.”
We were at Mario’s. He killed the motor. He turned in his seat and grinned at me. “What’s the pitch, boss?”
“I want you to get the girl out for me.”
“Not the guy?”
“Just the girl. Tell her Steve’s outside.”
“Steve’s outside,” he repeated. “Anything else?”
“You’re a good egg, Monkowitz.”
“Nothing to it,” he said, and got out.
He went into Mario’s. He was gone for only a minute. But he came out alone.
“She’s not there,” he said. “There’s nobody there but a couple of fat tail cops, drinking suds and talking about a murder.” He said it deadpan. He didn’t push it. “Seems they found a stiff down the block, a dame. The way they talked, it was a stabbing. Some nut busted in on her and bloodied up the place. They’re looking for him, they said. They expect to pick him up any minute, a young guy, the dame’s husband. Open and shut, they called it.”
“They’re not always right,” I said.
“They got plenty of confidence,” Monkowitz said. “Whoever this guy is, they have it pinned on him.”
He was fussing with the dashboard compartment. He was trying hard to be offhand.
I said, “Sometimes they go off half-cocked, Monkowitz. Sometimes they figure it dead wrong.”
“I heard of such cases.”
“They happen all the time. The cops dig for the wrong customer, and when they find him they rough him up and make him say things he never wanted to say.”
“I heard of such cases.”
“What else did they say in there?”
He found what he was looking for in the compartment. “I spoke to Mario. I took him down the end of the bar as soon as I saw the cops had their schnozzles deep in the beer. Mario said that girl left a message for you, boss. You must be a special friend of his.”
“Mario’s a good egg.”
“He said the girl wants you to go to her apartment.” He held out a tin of adhesive bandages. He looked at me and smiled at me. “Wipe off that face, boss. Put one of these on. That’s a stinker of a cut you got there.”
I said, “Did Mario say how long ago they left?”
“Not too long. Just before the cops came in.”
“Nothing else?”
“Mario said there was a guy in there looking for this Ken Sisley. Mario figured you’d want to know.”
“Who was he?”
“He didn’t say. Mario didn’t know him. He just walked in and walked out, is all. A little while ago.”
I sat there pounding my fist against the seat cushion. The street was crowded with the usual Greenwich Village groups, the night clubbers, the family people, the shoppers, the strollers. The man could be watching from somewhere. This anxious man could be studying the cab, waiting for it to roll away. If he saw me, he would know me, he would attach himself to me. He was either a detective, or the man in the yard. If he were the man in the yard, he would want Ken desperately. He would be hell-bent for putting Ken away. He worried me. It might be profitable to sit here and let him come to me. But if he were from the police—
I said, “Go back and look for a little guy in a derby.”
He was opening the cab door when I changed my mind. Abe Freedman crossed the street, going away from me, heading for Mario’s.
“Abe!” My shout was born of panic, calculated to stop him where he stood. I saw him slow down and drop his cigar, killing it under his shoe as he turned my way slowly. I saw his smile, weary now and meaningless, as he shook his head at the sidewalk and turned my way and came across to me.
He opened the door and joined me. He said, “You don’t go shooting your mouth off any more, Steve. The cops were called in.”
“I know. I’m scared, Abe.”
“Don’t be. You’re not even close to a pinch yet.”
“I’m closer than you think, Abe. I just came from Frugi’s apartment. I found him in a dark room, as dead as Gwen.”
Abe came into the cab. “Tell me more.”
“I don’t get it at all. There was a character named Sliger up there when I walked in, a messenger from one of the Jersey gambling emporiums.” I went through it again, every part of it, including the upheaval, and Gwen’s name in the little red book. I must have promoted my confusion, because Abe finally held up his hand to stop me.
“Frugi,” he said. “Let’s skip the rest and talk about Frugi. He was your man? You recognized him?”
“Not his face, Abe. It was pushed in—kicked in. But I knew him in a minute—his shirt—his figure—”
“Pushed in? You don’t mean he was kicked to death?”
“I didn’t check.”
“Then he might have been shot?”
“He was stabbed.”
“How can you be sure? Think back.”
“His shirt,” I said. “It was stained up high on the chest—around the collar. I didn’t fiddle with him. He did things to my stomach, Abe.”
Abe considered my story. “I’d like to feel that he was stabbed, Steve. That would tie him up with Gwen—where we want him. If he was stabbed, then the same man killed him who killed Gwen. Do you follow my logic? We’re dealing with a lunatic killer, who might be marked up a bit, because this Frugi has quite a reputation for infighting. He wasn’t the type to fold up at the sight of a knife. He must have been surprised, in his flat, jumped, otherwise he’d have fought back like an animal and left his teeth marks on the idiot who attacked him.” He paused to weigh it out in his own mind. “Unless the killer was well known to him and gained access to the flat by simply ringing the doorbell and walking in. That would fit nicely. It would also acc
ount for the robbery.”
“Consuelo’s place had the same treatment. He must have been a busy little bee this afternoon.” I backtracked to the incident at Consuelo’s, including my fight with Barker. “Whoever our man is, he was looking for something, an item he needed desperately.”
“We keep saying ‘he,’” Abe reflected. “It could have been a woman, Steve. A woman could have been close enough to Frugi to walk into his dressing room and knife him. What about his wife—this Consuelo?”
“I can’t see her in it. She’s not the type.”
“You never know. Maniacs never wrinkle, mister. Sometimes the pretty psychopaths are the shrewdest.”
“Consuelo isn’t the type.”
“We won’t worry about her,” Abe said. “What about Sisley in there? You haven’t been in?”
“Linda’s left—with Sisley.”
“She’s a clever kid. What were you waiting for out here?”
“I don’t know, Abe. I just found out that somebody walked into Mario’s a little while ago—a man who was looking for Sisley.”
“Good. Fine,” said Abe. “Our boy Sisley is the key, Steve. Who would want him? I don’t think the police care about him at this point, do you? Of course not. They have nothing to lead them to Sisley—he was only a neighbor, after all. But there are other people who might want Sisley. I’m thinking of the murderer. He would want to slap Sisley down—and fast. If Sisley saw that man in the yard, he can identify him. That kind of a witness would prove very annoying to a murderer. The way I see it either Barker or McPhail tracked Sisley to Mario’s.”
“Bert McPhail? You’ve got him figured?”
Abe nodded sagely. He pulled a newspaper picture from his inside pocket. It was a press photo of Bert McPhail, complete with his juvenile bow tie and come-hither eyes. It was a full face shot and well taken. It carried me back three years, to the night he and Gwen were horsing around on a couch in a Greenwich Village brawl.
Abe said, “I took this picture to a couple of places tonight. I found out that McPhail was well known in your neighborhood. Your friend the baker recognized him. He had seen him often on the street, on your street. When do you think he saw McPhail last? This morning, the baker said. He remembered McPhail because he stood looking into the bakery window. McPhail must have been waiting there, for some reason. I don’t think he was hungry enough to stick his kisser up against a bakery window and stand there like a damned fool. So now we have Bert McPhail just where we want him.” Abe shrugged. “All we’ve got to do now is locate the great McPhail himself. I’m going back to his barn and wait for him.”
I said, “He sounds possible. Where do I go from here?”
“Take a ride up to Linda’s,” Abe said, “just to check, do you understand? Then go down to George Barker’s studio and hold him there. I’m going to sit down at McPhail’s. I got an invitation from the downstairs lady with the glasses.” He winked at me slyly. “She wants to see justice done, she says. She also wants to show me her water colors. I’m a great one for water colors.”
“Exactly what do I do with Barker when I get him?”
“You call me, that’s all.”
I took the number of the lady with glasses. “I’ll call you.”
“No more rough stuff,” he reminded me.
“I’ll call you,” I said.
Monkowitz started his cab. I told him to drive to Twenty-second and Tenth. He drove fast. Now the city streets, the gray buildings, the surge of traffic, the outside world beyond the thin walls of the rushing cab, all these things became a background for my personal terror, my flight from the pursuing hounds. For surely they would be tracking me down. They would be rifling my apartment and tracing my place of business. They would be shaking their heads over the paint box and making notes against my name. One and one would add up for them. One and one would add up to Steve McGrath. The alarm would be out.
They would find my picture on Gwen’s bureau, the shot I had taken while in service, the simpering youth with the boyish grin who faced the camera with smiling confidence. They would appraise me and catalogue me. They would label me with the clichés. Early morning papers would tag me as “THE VETERAN KILLER,” bold and black alongside the damning picture.
They would put the finger on Jake Frugi quickly. He must be well known to them. They would have him on cards in files, down at headquarters.
Monkowitz said, “Here we are. I’m going to park on the corner—at the hack stand. The number you want is down the block a bit.”
“Don’t go away,” I said.
“I’m not moving, boss.”
I ran down the street. Linda’s house lay in the deep shadows. There was one lamp post on this block, far down toward the end, but its light reached only to the distant edge of the long row of stone fronts. And in the gloom, I sprinted, I took the steps to the hallway three at a time and tried the door and opened it.
“Steve!”
It was a whisper from the landing. She had been waiting for me and I blessed her for it. She stood on the second floor and waved me up and I went to her quickly. She took my hand, saying nothing, and led me down the narrow hall to the last door. When we were inside her small apartment she said, “How is it going, Steve? I had to get out of Mario’s.”
I didn’t release her hand. It did things to my inner man. Good things.
I said, “Where’s Harvey?”
“I don’t know. When I came in I heard the phone ringing up here from the downstairs hall. It must have been Harvey. He’s probably having trouble, somewhere on the road from Connecticut. I ran upstairs, but the phone died before I could pick it up. He’ll be here, Steve. Don’t worry about Harvey—he always comes through.”
“I need him. Badly.” The frustration was almost a pain inside me. There was so much to talk about, so much to do. “You got out of Mario’s in a hurry. You brought Ken with you?”
“He got terribly drunk down there.”
I looked around the apartment. It was a one-room-and-kitchenette affair, but it sang with Linda’s personality. She had decorated it in a simple theme, promoting the woodiness and charm of New England. It might have been part of a cottage on Nantucket Island. I had admired rooms like this in the magazines, but Gwen never cared for simple furniture. She preferred the harum-scarum and the bizarre.
“The subject’s not here,” Linda said. “I’ve put him downstairs in Gloria Baran’s apartment. Thought it would be safer that way. Gloria won’t be home until Monday.”
“He’s cock-eyed?”
“He won’t wake up until late tomorrow afternoon. Mario told me he had fed him plenty before I got there. And I can guarantee he drank seven with me.” She sat me on the couch and joined me there. “Forget about Ken Sisley, Steve. He’ll keep.”
I said, “The police are in my apartment.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“At Mario’s,” she said. “Somebody came in off the street with the news. That was why I left there with Ken. They might have picked him up.” She didn’t release my hand. Her fingers worked against my trembling. The warmth of her, the closeness of her fought my sudden fear, my fresh anxiety. I struggled to regain my perspective. But fear is a sly aggressor. Fear crawled up my back and numbed my brain. Fear dried my mouth and twitched the little muscles high on my cheek. I was no hero. At this moment the busy bees in the newspaper business were setting me up for the morning editions. At this moment radio newsmen were clearing their throats for the shocking news about the soldier who went crazy.
“Let me make you a cup of coffee, Steve. You’re as nervous as a cat.”
The phone rang.
Linda reached for it. I pulled her hand away frantically.
“It might be the police, Linda.”
“Or Harvey.”
The phone howled in the jittery quiet. My nerves scream
ed panic, but I tried for reason. I was desperate for help.
“Pick it up,” I said.
She lifted it and smiled at it and handed it to me.
“Harv!” I shouted. “Where in hell are you?”
“The damned car broke down again,” he said. “I’m up in the Bronx, about to step into a cab. Listen, Steve, give me what you’ve got, and make it snappy. They’ve put you on the air. We’ve got to work fast.”
I told him what Abe and I knew. There were no gaps, no questions. That would be Harvey’s method. He was filing it all away. It was coming through to his trigger mind, to be catalogued and inventoried, one item against another. As it spilled from me, my tension fell away for the moment. He let me talk myself dry. I held Linda’s hand as I talked to him. It was a link to renewed confidence. There were four of us fighting my fight now. I gave Harvey the facts and spared him the theories, and when I had finished there was a moment of silence.
“You’re moving right,” he said, “But we need more background on Frugi. I’ll get on that angle right away. I’m going to call my friend Harvey Brush on The Examiner. He’ll pull what we need out of their files. We’ve got to know more about the subject—much more. You didn’t get anything in his apartment?”
“Only that her name was in his little red phone book.”
“Not enough. What about his wife?”
“She was too drunk for much information. All I got was general stuff and a lead to a man named Mark Wagner.”
“You’ve got to get up there to Wagner,” Harvey said. “He sounds hot.”
“Isn’t that a bit risky? The radio must be broadcasting this mess by now.”
Harvey laughed. “Don’t go off halfcocked, Steve. Your picture hasn’t appeared yet, has it? And they don’t broadcast police alarms over television. Think like an operator. Play it smart and go up to see Wagner. He doesn’t know you. Simply tell him that you were invited by Consuelo. Get him alone and pump him. Use force if you have to. Wagner is a party boy. I’ve read about him. You’ll be the only sober man up there. And people at cocktail parties don’t listen to radio news.”
Friday for Death Page 11
