Homicide at Yuletide Page 3

  Cold.

  His hands were white and smooth, unworked. He wore a gold wrist watch, smashed. The pointers said ten after one. There was an electric clock on the floor, a desk clock, plug-out in the turmoil. I took my leather gloves out of my coat pockets and sighed again and put them on. I turned over the electric clock, face up. It said one-thirty. Maybe it meant something. The wrist watch said ten after one, the electric clock said one-thirty. I went back and patted his plaid pants. There was a wallet in the buttoned-down back pocket. It had eighty-two dollars, and Sheldon Talbot’s driver’s license, outdated.

  “Take Fred Thompson’s wallet,” I said. I tossed it into her lap. She put it into her pocketbook.

  There was something funny about his shoes that stayed with me. I went back and crouched in front of them. I sat on the floor and looked at them. I raised one foot, and then the other. They were brown shoes, similar, but different. I got up and went to the closet and found another set, brown shoes, similar, but different. I held each in one hand, fighting against time, shoving one out half-arm’s length, and then the other, until it came to me. One had a built-up heel, like small men use, and the other was normal. But they weren’t a pair. I went back to him, with the shoes. I sat down on the floor again, feet spread, and I compared the shoes. He was wearing one of one pair, and another of the other pair. I got up, put the shoes back in the closet, opened the bathroom door, looked in, closed the bathroom door. There was a small kitchen. There was nothing else.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  She picked up her hat and went to the door.

  “Just a minute,” I said. I took the gun, a round-bellied forty-five, and put it in my coat pocket. “Okay.”

  The key was on the inside of the door. I left it there. I rubbed each knob of the door with my leather gloves, and I left the door as I had found it, ajar with the snap-lock clicked back. Outside, she waited on the landing, while I walked halfway down and looked around. Then I motioned to her, and she came down. We went out into the street and hunched our shoulders against the cold. It was beginning to snow.

  The wind put color on her cheeks. She was lovely, but that wasn’t it. Nobody kills a man between one-ten and one-thirty, and then sits around looking dopey until three o’clock. And if they do, I’d like to hear about it before I start ringing bells and yelling copper. We walked toward Sixth. “You could use a drink,” I said. “I’d love to buy you one, but I don’t have the time.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Pete Chambers.”

  “No, I mean, who—”

  “It’s a long story. Too long for now. What’s your name?”

  “Stella.”

  “I’m a detective, Stella. I’ll try to help you, if you’ll let me. Plays like corncob, doesn’t it: ‘I’ll try to help you if you’ll let me.’ I mean it. Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where can I reach you?”

  “Tamara Towers. Eleven B.”

  I brought her to a parked cab and put her in. “See you,” I said.

  I took my hat off and scratched my head. I put my hat back and shoved fists into my pockets. I bumped the gun. I took my hands out and rubbed them together. I saw a saloon and started for it and changed my mind. I walked back to the peeling house and up the seven stone steps and through the unlocked door into the vestibule. I knocked on the door on the right. No answer. I knocked on the door on the left.

  “Who’s that?”

  The voice was dry and tired.

  “Message,” I said.

  “For who?”

  “Thompson.”

  “Second floor, back.”

  “He’s not in.”

  An apparition in a rust bathrobe that fitted like a blanket opened the door. It was a man’s bathrobe going down to gay incongruous pompon house slippers and up to a folded dishtowel wrapped around her neck and held together with a safety pin. Her hair was a faded blond falling swirl. Her eyes were blue and squinting. Her face was red with the spirit of the Yule, and her breath reeked accompaniment.

  “Merry Christmas,” I said.

  “Oh, yes he is.”

  “What?”

  “In.”

  “Who?”

  “Who you asking for?”

  “Thompson.”

  “That’s who. Who do you think?”

  “But I knocked, dear lady.”

  “Knock again, dear boy.”

  “But, lady. How would you know? I mean—”

  “Listen, that’s a crumb with a habit of slamming the door when he goes out, it’s enough to drive you nuts.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Well, today he don’t slam no door, so he don’t go out. That’s how I know. No slam, no noise, no nothing, and I been in all day—nursing this.” She pointed at the swath of towel. “Got a frog in the throat. Got something. Got no tonsils. Maybe it’s that post nasal drip everybody talks about. Post nasal drip. What is it? Sounds like a name for a broken-down bookmaker. Go on up, Sonny, and knock again, and if he don’t answer, maybe he’s sleeping. Tuck it under the door.”

  “How long has he been living here, ma’am?”

  “What’s it your business?”

  “Just asking.”

  “Go deliver your message.”

  “I mean, how long—”

  “Look, bub, I manage this house. I got enough with slamming doors, and missing mail, and gripes about heat, and empty bottles instead of rent. I don’t need a nosy messenger boy on top of it. Go tuck it under his door.”

  “But, ma’am—”

  “Go tuck it, bub.”

  She slammed the door.

  I walked up one flight, letting her hear if she was listening, rested on the landing, waited, chugged down. I went out, solicitous with the street door, unslamming. I walked to Fifth Avenue and waved down a cab and went back to Traffic Court.

  3

  THE PARTY WAS GOING full blast in Part IV, Mr. Justice Sullivan presiding. Mr. Justice Sullivan seemed more interested in the snow whirling against the windows than in the proceedings in his courtroom. Yenny-boy was on the witness stand, fulminating, as per prognostication, like the rear end of his motorcycle. A sandy-haired young barrister with a smile like a breadknife was throwing up cross-examination. Yenny-boy sat, sprawled, slid, squirmed, stood. The scar of where he wore his cap slanted purple on his naked forehead. Sweat added gleam to his face. The young lawyer poured the questions, purringly, while Yen bounced and berated. Then the lawyer stopped, looked long at Yen, flicked a glance at the Judge, turned his back, said, “That will do.”

  The Judge returned from his contemplation of the snow, asked a few mild questions of his own, and gave Yen back to the D. A.’s man. The D. A.’s man tried to square matters on re-cross, but Yen was too far out of temper by then. Everybody was his enemy. He barked at the prosecution as he had barked at the defense. Finally, the D. A.’s man whipped off his horn-rims, sighed, bowed, said, “Thank you.”

  I waited to see how Miss Tiny’s legs would look, but it never got to them. The lawyer-gibberish started at once. The young barrister said, “If Your Honor please—”

  The Judge said, “Counselor?”

  “If Your Honor please, I believe that no prima facie case has been made out on any of the charges, except the speeding.”

  The D. A.’s man jumped up. “May it please the Court, I object to counsel asserting what, or what not, are his personal beliefs in the premises.”

  The Judge put his glasses on and looked to defense counsel. “Are you making a motion?”

  “I am making a motion.”

  The Judge took his glasses off and looked to the prosecution. “He is making a motion.”

  The prosecution sat down.

  “Make your motion,” said the Judge.

  “If Your Honor please,” said the defense counsel, “I respectfully move for dismissal of all of the said charges, with the exception of the charge of speeding. On the said charge of speeding, wi
th the Court’s permission, I plead my client guilty.”

  The Judge put his glasses on and looked at the prosecution. “He pleads her guilty on the said charge of speeding.”

  “But, Your Honor,” said the D. A.’s man, “on the other said charges—”

  “On the other said charges, I am inclined to agree with him.”

  “But the said charges, by competent testimony—”

  “The said charges have not been proven. The testimony was insufficient, confused, contradictory.”

  “But on the said charge of speeding—”

  “On the said charge, he pleads her guilty. Are you deaf? Look, young man, it’s nigh on to Christmas.”

  “All right, Your Honor.”

  The Judge took his glasses off. He used his fist for a gavel. “Guilty. Fifty dollars. Pay the cashier. Next case.”

  I waited for them in the corridor. She looked surprised but all she said was “Hello.” She introduced me to the lawyer, and we got rid of him. “What are you doing here?” she said.

  “Let’s blow.”

  She wrapped her fur coat around her and put her arm through mine. We marched down the Courthouse steps, blinking against the snow. “White Christmas,” she said.

  “White Christmas.”

  I tugged and she followed. Halfway down the block was a Bar and Grill that was all bar and no grill, four deep with merry roisterers exercising the seasonal excuse for legitimate afternoon swilling. We worked our way through to the lonesome booths in the rear, and waited for service, and gave that up.

  “I’ll get them,” I said. “What’ll it be?”

  “Double Martini.”

  She handed out her fur coat, and I hung it up. I found an opening and got through to the bar.

  “Double Martini, two on a tray. Two double Scotches, too.”

  “I know what you mean, mister. I am sorry because the table service stinks. But you know Christmas. It only comes once a year.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And a white Christmas.”

  “Wunnerful, huh? White Christmas.”

  “Yeah, wunnerful,” I said.

  “What’s with the Scotch?”

  “Water.”

  He made them and I paid for them and the boisterous boys and girls broke ground for me. I set them up on our table and put the tray on the floor. “Luck,” I said.

  “Luck.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Who?”

  “Sheldon Talbot.”

  You either set the Martini down or you gulp it. She gulped it, and when she set it down, she set it down hard. The stem of the glass broke off and I wiped it up carefully and brought it to another table. When I came back, the flush of the gulped Martini was off her face. “You kidding?” she said.

  “No.”

  “It’s impossible. He—”

  “He’s dead.”

  “How? I—”

  “Shot in the head. Dead on the floor. The room like a whirlwind hit it. How much of your five hundred do you want back?”

  “Barney. Does Barney know?”

  “No. I called him before I went up there. Then I came directly to you. You’ve got a deal cooking. I didn’t want to jam it I figured it’s your information first.”

  “Listen, are you sure?”

  “Dead as Kelcey’s.”

  She drank part of the second Martini. “You keep that five hundred. The fact that you work like you do is good by me. I’m going to call Barney.”

  “Why?”

  “He might want somebody to go down there and look the place over, before it breaks wide open. That in itself ought to be worth five hundred, and I ought to be reimbursed.”

  I moved the table so she could get out of the booth. “If Barney asks you to do it—don’t. That joint’s been looked over, but good. Somebody’s liable to walk in on you, and that’s half-mast, sister, with a dead man on the floor. Let him send one of his boys down.”

  “Thanks.”

  She took her coat off the hook, put it on, changed her mind, took it off, dropped it in my lap, and went looking for a phone. I poured all of my stuff into one glass and said, “Merry Christmas,” to nobody and stroked the fur coat.

  A waiter who looked like he’d been sleeping in a barrel tapped my shoulder. Tremulously he said, “More?”

  “Think you can make it?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. It’s only I started celebrating maybe too early. My wife’ll kill me. What’ll it be?”

  “Scotch and water.”

  “What about the cocktail glass?”

  “She’s done, I think.”

  “Right with you.”

  I sipped and stroked the fur. The waiter came back with the order. “In here,” I said. He splashed the jigger into my glass and added trembling water. The amber in the amber highball deepened. I paid him and tipped him, and watched her coming back.

  Even in the black suit, her figure was something, swinging through the tables. She leaned her hands on the edge of the table and looked down at me, her big eyes black and worried. Two sets of black eyes I’d run up against in the last few hours, and the best I could do with either of them was rub a fur coat.

  “All right,” she said.

  “You want me?”

  “No. Barney’s sending a couple of his boys down to Talbot’s place. And there seems to be a garage right here, around the corner, that Barney owns. Someone’s coming to pick me up.”

  “Can’t you go alone?”

  “You know Barney.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Smacked up. Towed in.”

  She finished her Martini standing up.

  “Now, look, Miss Tiny—”

  “Here we go,” she said, pointing.

  A tall man had come in, looking over the heads of the people at the bar.

  I said, “That the monkey?”

  “I suppose so. I’ll be in touch with you.”

  “Sure. I’d like to earn part of that five hundred.”

  “You’ve earned it.”

  The man came up. “Miss Tiny?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Steffen.”

  “How do you do?”

  “Let’s go.”

  I sat alone in the deserted rear of the saloon listening to early noises of happiness from the bar. I sipped my deep amber highball, pondering. The waiter came and added more amber to the highball, said, “On the house,” and went away. I pondered some more, sat sidewise, extracted five one hundred dollar bills, looked at them, put them back, shrugged, and got up. Outside, I found a taxi and said, “Tamara Towers.”

  “Sure pop, mister. Climb in. Snowing like hell, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “White Christmas. Whaddyaknow?”

  • • •

  The Tamara Towers had a doorman shuffling in the snow with the off-balance dignity of a four-star general doing inspection with a bun on. Inside, a wavy-haired switchboard boy with a barber-shop tan said, “Merry Christmas. Who?”

  “Eleven B.”

  “That’s where. Who?”

  “Stella.”

  “Stella who?”

  “Look, lovely, it’s getting on to Christmas Eve. Must it be who. What are you, a sentry?”

  “No.”

  “Stella. I don’t know who.”

  “Well—”

  That sounded like five dollars. I gave him two.

  “Who’s calling, sweetie? Might you know that on Christmas Eve?”

  “Pete Chambers.”

  He plugged in the poke, whispered into the mouthpiece, winked, said, “Oke. Elevator on the right.”

  A lady with white hair opened the door for me. “Well, now—”

  “New boy friend,” Stella said. “Cute, no?”

  She wore a short-sleeve white sweater, black silk slacks, and black high-heeled shoes. She came at me, not too steady, most of her in front of her, and kissed me on the ear. “Merry Christmas,” she said. She had the biggest black eyes in the worl
d, and she was throwing them at me, filmy, but with a look that lingered like a sacroiliac sprain.

  “Well, now—” said the lady with the white hair.

  Stella said, “Drinkie?”

  “A pleasure,” I said. “If somebody will take my hat and coat.”

  “I will,” said the lady with the white hair. “As it happens, I’m getting my own. I’m about to leave you two lovebirds.”

  “Not on my account, I hope.”

  “On my own account, young man.”

  She was what is called a handsome woman, dark eyes too, with a young face and a quick stride. She smelled of expensive perfume. She took my hat and coat and put them in a closet, while Stella clinked drinks.

  It was a red room, red carpets, red drapes, red leather chairs. There were two dark blue divans. The rest of everything was silver. It looked like one room with a hidden kitchen. It wasn’t It was two rooms with a hidden kitchen. The lady with the white hair said, “I’m Theresa, called Terry.”

  “Peter, called Pete.”

  She gave me her coat and I held it for her. She leaned back, smiling up. I held the coat around her, my hands in front, and I said Merry Christmas at her neck. She leaned farther back, her neck touching my lips. “And a Merry Christmas to you.”

  “Break it up,” Stella said. “My new boy friend, Mother.”

  Mother.

  I let go the coat and backed away.

  Mother kept smiling. “I hope she knows what to do with you.”

  “Meaning,” Stella said, “if I don’t—she does.”

  Terry waved her hand, kissed it, and waved it again. “ ‘By, kiddies. And get dressed, Stella. The rest of your family will be picking you up right soon. And invite Peter. Peter what?”

  “Chambers,” I said.

  “You’re invited. Party at my place. The Somerset. Bring whomever you like, including my daughter.”

  “Thank you.” I kept looking at her, because looking at Stella in the white sweater would engender an expression that would keep any mother standing by, including the youthful Theresa, and, for the time being, I could live without her.