1953 - I'll Bury My Dead Page 9

  He decided he had made a fair beginning. Someone was interested in listening to any conversation that might take place in this office. From the look of the microphone it had been installed for some time. Someone therefore had wanted to know what Roy English had been doing, what he had said, and what had been said to him.

  Leon wondered if the microphone was still alive, and if this someone would be interested to listen in to his conversations. At a more convenient time – when the building was closed for the night - he decided he would make an attempt to trace the wires further. But not during office hours.

  English had told him the janitor, Tom Calhoun, seemed cooperative, and Leon thought it might be an idea to go down and talk to him before settling down to a day’s work in the office.

  He left the office, locking the door behind him, and took the elevator to the basement.

  He found Tom Calhoun in the boiler room industriously carving a model boat from a chunk of soft wood, and with the aid of a murderous looking pocketknife.

  Calhoun was big and fat with a heavy moustache that reminded Leon of a bunch of dry seaweed. He wore a dusty Derby set square on his bullet head, and he had some interesting looking food stains on his vest which he wore open and held together by a heavy gold watch chain. He eyed Leon with mild interest and gave him a brief nod.

  ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Anything I can do for you?’

  Leon hooked a chair toward him and folded his long length into it. ‘I got an ulcer,’ he said. ‘At noon every day I give it a feed of whisky. The trouble is I don’t approve of drinking alone. Once a guy gets into the habit of secret drinking he might just as well step into his box and let them screw him down. I thought maybe you might care to join me, but if you’re a non-drinking man, just say the word and I’ll go elsewhere.’

  Calhoun laid down the boat and sat forward.

  ‘You’ve come to the right man, mister, but I wouldn’t have thought whisky would have done an ulcer much good.’

  Leon produced a half-pint flask of Johnny Walker and waved it in the air. ‘A guy has got to show his independence,’ he said. ‘If I gave my ulcer what was good for it, it’d stay with me for the rest of my days. The whisky’s good for me so I drink it. Got a glass? Two might be an idea.’

  Calhoun produced two paper cups from a shelf.

  ‘Best I can do,’ he said apologetically, after blowing the dust from them. He watched Leon pour two liberal shots, and eagerly took one of the cups and sniffed it. ‘Good whisky, mister. Your very best health,’ and he took a long pull, sighed, smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the cup down.

  Leon scarcely tasted his, but leaned forward to refill Calhoun’s cup.

  ‘I’m your new tenant,’ he said. ‘The name’s Ed Leon. I’ve taken over the Alert Agency.’

  Calhoun looked surprised.

  ‘Glad to know you. I’m Tom Calhoun. Alert Agency, huh? That’s fast work.’

  ‘My mother was a fast woman,’ Leon said lightly. ‘It runs in the family.’ He frowned, shook his head, went on, ‘Business seems a little flat this morning. No one’s been near me.’

  ‘It’ll pick up,’ Calhoun said encouragingly, and took another drink. ‘I reckon that guy English knew what he was doing. He kept mighty busy. Why he shot himself beats me. Of course that shooting might damp things down for you, but not for long.’

  Leon took out two cigarettes, rolled one across the table and lit the other.

  ‘I was beginning to wonder if I had been sold a pup. With a face like mine, people treat me like I was a dog catcher.’ He shook his head gloomily. ‘Man! If you knew the pups some guys have tried to swing on me! You really think that’s good business?’

  ‘I’m certain sure of it,’ Calhoun said. ‘It stands to reason. Look at the people who went up there to see him, as many as thirty people on some days; if that ain’t brisk business then I’m a monkey’s uncle.’

  Leon regarded him with a kindly smile.

  ‘Not as bad as that, pally - maybe not his uncle, but as stepfather you’re doing all right.’

  ‘What was that?’ Calhoun asked, his bloodshot eyes popping.

  ‘Nothing. I was talking through my hat. See these?’ He took off his hat and pointed to the ventilation holes in the crown, stubbing at them with a long finger. ‘I had those put in so people could hear me better - deaf people, that is. It’s ideas like that that make a guy a fortune.’

  ‘I guess that’s right,’ Calhoun said, looking a little dazed.

  ‘Well, well,’ Leon went on and lifted his feet onto the table. ‘Mind if I get some blood up to my head? If I don’t do this some time during the day, I’m likely to pass out. My mother was the same. Come to that my old man hadn’t much in his head either. So it looks like I’ve come into a good business. Who were these people who came to see English?’

  Calhoun lifted his big, lumpy shoulders.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Some of them would come every week. Some of them were trash, but most of them looked as if they had a sack of dough.’

  ‘Were you in the building when he knocked himself off? Leon asked casually and leaned forward to fill Calhoun’s paper cup again.

  ‘Sure,’ Calhoun said. ‘Go easy on that stuff, mister. It’s got a lot of authority.’

  ‘Don’t tell me a big boy like you can’t drink a little Scotch,’ Leon said. ‘They tell me he shot himself between nine and ten-thirty. Did anyone call on him around that time?’

  ‘Three people went up to the sixth floor. But I wouldn’t know if they called on him. Why?’

  ‘I’m always asking questions,’ Leon said, and closed his eyes. ‘I like the sound of my own voice. What’s Sinatra got that I haven’t? You should see the way the frills fall over when I whisper in their ears. You don’t have to sing to get a frill in a tizzy. He opened his eyes and stared at Calhoun. Who were these three?’

  ‘Two guys and a girl,’ Calhoun told him. ‘I took them up to the sixth floor myself. I’ve seen the girl before, but not the two guys.’

  ‘Who else is on the sixth floor?’

  ‘Well, there’s the Associated News Service. Maybe you’ve already heard their teleprinters. Hell of a racket they make. Then there’s your office, and then there’s Miss Windsor.’

  ‘What’s she do?’

  ‘She’s what they call a silhouette artist,’ Calhoun told him. ‘She cuts out your silhouette in paper, mounts and frames it. What else she does up there I don’t ask, but I do know she has only men clients.’

  Leon perked up, his eyes showing interest.

  ‘Like that, is it? he said. ‘And my next door neighbour. Well, well, maybe I’d better go along and let her look at my silhouette. She might even show me hers.’

  ‘She’s a nice dish,’ Calhoun said, ‘but it’s strictly for cash. Me - I prefer to waste my money on horses, but it takes all types to make up the world.’

  ‘Don’t go philosophical on me,’ Leon said. ‘Let’s get back to these two guys and the girl. They could have called on either Miss Windsor, this News Service or English - that right?’

  ‘The girl went to see English,’ Calhoun said. ‘I’ve seen her a number of times before.’

  ‘What’s she look like?’

  Calhoun sipped his Scotch and eyed Leon doubtfully.

  ‘You’re asking an awful lot of questions, mister. What makes you so interested?’

  ‘Now look, let me do the talking. You’ve got the Scotch, so try to make yourself useful.’

  Calhoun shrugged.

  ‘Well, okay, it’s no skin off my nose. She had sort of light brown hair, a good figure, and she was pretty enough to be in the movies.’

  ‘What a description! Do you realise there are two million frills within a thirty-mile radius of this damn city who look just like that? How was she dressed?’

  ‘She was pretty smart,’ Calhoun said, screwing up his eyes as if trying to create a picture of the girl in his mind. ‘She wore a black coat and skirt w
ith wide white lapels, black and white gauntlet gloves and a black and white skullcap affair for a hat. And she had one of those charm bracelets. You know the ones, a gold chain with little charms hanging from it.’

  Leon nodded approvingly.

  ‘Now you’re talking. That’s fine. You’ll make a detective yet. How about the two guys?’

  ‘One of them was just a punk, a kid about eighteen. He had on a leather jacket and flannel trousers. He had a parcel under his arm. I have an idea he was going to the News Service, but the other one was in the money. He was a youngish fella, around twenty-seven or eight, in a brown suit and a brown slouch hat. I noticed he wore his handkerchief in his sleeve - a nice touch, that.

  If ever I could lay my hands on a clean handkerchief, that’s where I’d wear it. He was chewing gum, and I thought at the time he was letting himself down. When a guy can afford clothes like that, he shouldn’t chew gum.’

  Leon sighed.

  ‘You should write a book on etiquette. There’s a big market for a book that’d tell you not to chew gum in a brown suit.’ He lowered his feet to the floor. ‘Just to get the record straight, when did these people arrive - who came first?’

  ‘The girl, then the guy in the leather jerkin, then the guy in the brown suit.’

  ‘What time did the girl arrive?’

  ‘It was nine-fifty,’ Calhoun said. ‘I know because she asked me the time.’

  ‘And the other two?’

  ‘The fella in the leather jacket was waiting to go up as I came down from taking the girl up. The guy in the brown suit came along about fifteen minutes later.’

  ‘Did you see any of them leave?’

  Calhoun shook his head.

  ‘I take them up, but I don’t reckon to bring them down. That’s what they’ve got legs for.’

  ‘I guess that’s right,’ Leon said and stood up. ‘The automatic elevator wasn’t working?’

  ‘I lock it up at seven o’clock. I like to know who comes into the building after that time.’

  Leon nodded again.

  ‘Well, that’s very interesting. You’d better keep what’s left of that half-pint. If I took it up with me I’d be laying myself open to temptation. I guess I’d better go along and call on Miss Windsor. Nothing like being neighbourly. Who knows? She might even be lonely.’

  ‘If that dame’s ever lonely, then I’m Judy Garland’s mother,’ Calhoun said. ‘And watch it. It’s strictly for cash.’

  Leon propelled his lanky frame to the door.

  ‘Not for me, brother,’ he said, pausing at the door. ‘I’m going to explain to her the principles of lease-lend, and he continued on his way to the elevator.

  III

  As Leon stepped out of the elevator, he saw a short, shabby-looking man in a wrinkled blue overcoat and a dusty grey hat, knocking on his office door. The shabby man looked quickly over his shoulder as he heard the grill close. He was a man of about sixty, grey-faced, tired-looking with a scrubby, grey moustache. He looked uneasily at Leon as he wandered along the passage, then he rapped on the door again, and turned the handle. Finding the door locked, he backed away, obviously surprised, and in two minds what he should do.

  ‘Hello, pally,’ Leon said, coming to rest beside the shabby man. ‘Looking for me?’

  The shabby man gave Leon a startled look, and backed against the banister rail.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t you I was looking for. I wanted to see Mr. English. Never mind. I’ll come again. He doesn’t seem to be in.’

  ‘Maybe I can do something,’ Leon said. ‘I’m looking after Mr. English’s affairs at the moment.’ He took out his door key and pushed it into the lock. ‘Come on in. It’s all right,’ the shabby man returned, and his tired, bloodshot eyes showed alarm.

  ‘I wanted to see Mr. English. It’s a personal matter. Thanks all the same,’ and turning, he walked hurriedly toward the head of the stairs.

  Leon started after him, then stopped as he remembered the hidden microphone in his office. That room wasn’t the place in which to persuade someone to talk. He turned and made quickly for the elevator, stepped into it and sent the cage down to the ground floor.

  As he stepped into the lobby, he could hear the shabby man running down the stairs. He had one more flight to go before he reached the lobby. Moving quickly, Leon went into the street and took up a position in a nearby shop doorway.

  He watched the shabby man come out into the spring sunshine and set off along the street. He moved slowly, his feet dragging, and walked for some time toward 22nd Ward.

  Leon moved along behind him, taking care to keep out of sight. He saw the shabby man pause outside a cafe, hesitate, then walk in. As Leon passed the cafe, he glanced in. There were only three or four people in the cafe and he spotted the shabby man sitting at a table at the far end of the room.

  Leon waited a few seconds, then pushed open the door and walked in. The shabby man glanced up, but didn’t seem to recognize Leon. He was stirring a cup of coffee aimlessly, his face frowning and his eyes worried. Leon inspected the other people in the cafe. There were two men at a table by the door, a girl reading a paperback book at a table near the counter, and a man hidden behind an open newspaper at the end of the room on the opposite side to where the shabby man was sitting.

  Leon sat down at the shabby man’s table. The shabby man looked up and stared at him. Recognition swam into his eyes, and his face went a greyish—white. He half started up, then dropped back onto his chair, nearly upsetting his coffee as he did so.

  ‘Keep your clothes on,’ Leon said and smiled. ‘I’m not going to bite you.’ He turned and waved to the girl behind the counter. ‘Bring me a cup of Java, honey, and put some coffee in the water, will you?’

  The girl poured the coffee, flounced over and slapped the cup down in front of him.

  ‘I’ll have you know we serve the best coffee on the street,’ she said. ‘If you don’t like it, you can go elsewhere.’

  ‘Thanks, honey,’ Leon said, and smiled his slow, lazy smile. ‘Maybe I’ll just rinse my hands in it.’

  She tossed her head and returned to the counter where she watched him, her eyes angry.

  ‘No sense of humour,’ Leon said to the shabby man. ‘Well, well, can’t always expect to get a laugh. What did you want to see English about?’

  The shabby man ran his tongue over his dry lips.

  ‘See here, mister,’ he said with feeble fierceness. ‘You have no right to follow me. Mr. English and me have a private deal on. It’s nothing to do with you or anyone.’

  ‘It is to do with me,’ Leon said. ‘I’ve taken over the business. English isn’t with us anymore.’

  The shabby man stared at him.

  ‘I wasn’t told,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

  ‘I’m telling you,’ Leon said, stirring his coffee. ‘I’m in charge now. Come on, what’s it all about?’

  ‘You mean you’re taking the money in the future?’

  ‘Don’t I keep telling you?’ Leon said roughly. ‘What do you want me to do, set it to music and sing it to you?’

  ‘Where’s Mr. English then?’

  ‘He’s gone to a warmer climate. Are you going to deal with me or do you want to get tough?’

  ‘That’s all right,’ the shabby man said hurriedly. ‘I just didn’t know.’ He took out a soiled envelope and slid it across the table. ‘Here it is. Now I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Sit still!’ Leon snapped, and picked up the envelope. On it was scribbled: From Joe Hennessey. $10.

  ‘Are you Hennessey?’ he asked.

  The shabby man nodded.

  Leon ripped open the envelope and took out two five-dollar bills. He studied Hennessey for a long moment.

  ‘What’s this in aid of?’ he asked at last.

  ‘What do you mean? It’s all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe. I wouldn’t know. What are you giving me this for?’

  Hennessey’s f
ace began to glisten with sweat.

  ‘Give me back that money!’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘I knew you were a phoney. Give it back to me!’

  Leon slid the money across the table.

  ‘Don’t spill your milk. I don’t want it,’ he said soothingly. ‘I just want to know why you’re parting with this dough. From the look of you, you can’t afford to give ten bucks away.’

  ‘I can’t!’ Hennessey said bitterly. He stared at the two bills lying before him, not touching them. ‘I’m not going to talk to you! I don’t know who you are.’ He began to push back his chair.

  ‘Take it easy,’ Leon said, and flicked one of his cards onto the table. ‘That’s who I am, pally, and I can help you if you’ll let me.’

  ‘A copper!’ Hennessey said when he had looked at the card. His eyes went dark with alarm. ‘No, thank you. There’s nothing you can do for me, mister. I’ll be getting along.’

  ‘Sit still!’ Leon said, and, leaning forward, went on, ‘English is dead. He shot himself three nights ago. Don’t you read the newspapers?’

  Hennessey stiffened, his fists clenched and his mouth fell open.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘I can’t help that. It was in the papers,’ Leon said, and half turning in his chair, he spotted a pile of newspapers on a table. ‘Maybe the account is in one of these.’ He got up and went over to the newspapers, shuffled through them, found what he wanted and brought it over to the table. He dropped it in front of Hennessey and sat down again.

  Hennessey read the account, his breath whistling through his nostrils. Then when he had finished, he dropped the newspaper on the floor and drew in a long, deep breath. The look of fear went out of his eyes like the light in a window when the blind is drawn.