Falling Angel (12 page)

Toots Sweet made page 3 of the
Daily News
. No mention of the murder weapon in what was slugged SAVAGE VOODOO KILLING. There was a photo of the bloody drawings on the wall over the bed, and one of Toots playing the piano. The body had been discovered by the guitar player in the trio, who stopped by to pick up his boss before work. He was released after questioning. There were no suspects, although it was widely known in Harlem that Toots was a longstanding member of a secret voodoo cult.

I read the morning paper on the uptown IRT, having left the Chevy in a parking lot around the corner from the Chelsea. My first stop was the Public Library where, after several misdirections, I asked the right question and came up with a current Paris telephone directory. There was a listing for an M. Krusemark on the Rue Notre Dames des Champs. I wrote it down in my notebook.

On my way to the office, I sat on a bench in Bryant Park long enough to chain-smoke three cigarettes and rehash recent events. I felt like a man chasing a shadow. Johnny Favorite had been mixed up in a weird underground world of voodoo and black magic. Offstage, he led a secret life, complete with skulls in his suitcase and fortunetelling fiancees. He was an initiate, a hunsi-bosal. Toots Sweet got knocked off for talking. Somehow, Dr. Fowler was a part of it, too. Johnny Favorite cast a long, long shadow.

It was nearly noon by the time I unlocked the inner door to my office. I sorted the mail, finding a $500 check from the firm of McIntosh, Winesap, and Spy. All the rest was junk I filed in the wastebasket before phoning my answering service. There were no messages, although a woman who refused to leave a name or number called three times that morning.

Next, I tried to reach Margaret Krusemark in Paris, but the overseas operator could get no answer after twenty minutes of trying. I dialed Herman Winesap down on Wall Street and thanked him for the check. He asked how the case was getting along. I said just fine, mentioning I wanted to get in touch with Mr. Cyphre. Winesap said he was meeting him later in the afternoon on business matters and would see he got the message. I said fair enough, and we both chirped our goodbyes and hung up.

I was struggling back into my overcoat when the phone rang. I grabbed it on the third ring. It was Epiphany Proudfoot. She sounded out of breath. “I’ve got to see you right away,” she said.

“What about?”

“I don’t want to talk on the phone.”

“Where are you now?”

“At the store.”

I said: “Take your time. I’m going out for something to eat and will meet you back in my office at one-fifteen. You know how to find it?”

“I’ve got your card.”

“Swell. See you in an hour.”

She hung up without saying goodbye.

Before leaving, I locked Winesap’s check in the office safe. I was kneeling there when I heard the doorstop’s pneumatic wheeze in the outer room. Clients are always welcome, that’s why COME IN is painted on the front door under the name of the firm. But clients usually knock on the inner door. When someone barges in without a word it’s either a cop or trouble. Sometimes both in the same package.

This time it was a plainclothes dick wearing a wrinkled grey gabardine raincoat unbuttoned over a brown mohair pipe-rack special with cuffs sufficiently shy of his perforated brogans to provide a sneak preview of his white athletic socks.

“You Angel?” he barked.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Detective Lieutenant Sterne. This is my partner, Sergeant Deimos.”

He nodded at the open partition door where a barrel-chested man dressed like a longshoreman stood scowling. Deimos wore a knitted wool cap and a black-and-white plaid lumberjacket. He was cleanshaven, but his beard was so dark it looked like powder burn under the skin.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” I said.

“Answer a couple questions.” Sterne was tall and lantern-jawed with a nose like the prow of an icebreaker. His face thrust forward aggressively above his stooped shoulders. When he spoke his lips scarcely moved.

“Be glad to. I was just heading for a bite to eat. Care to join me?”

“We can talk better here,” Sterne said. His partner dosed the door.

“Suits me.” I walked around in back of the desk and got out a fifth of Canadian whisky and my Christmas cigars. “This is all the hospitality I can offer. Paper cups’re over by the water cooler.”

“Never drink on duty,” Sterne said, helping himself to a handful of cigars.

“Well, don’t mind me. This is my lunch hour.” I carried the bottle over to the cooler, filled a cup halfway, and added a finger of water. “Cheers.”

Sterne tucked the cigars in his breast pocket. “Where were you yesterday morning around eleven?”

“At home. Asleep.”

“Sure is great being self-employed,” Sterne cracked out of the side of his mouth to Deimos. The sergeant just grunted. “Why is it you’re snoozing when the rest of the world is at work, Angel?”

“I was working late the night before.”

“Where might that have been?”

“Up in Harlem. What’s this all about, Lieutenant?”

Sterne got something out of his raincoat pocket and held it up for me to see. “Recognize this?”

I nodded. “One of my business cards.”

“Maybe you’d like to explain how come it was found in the apartment of a murder victim.”

“Toots Sweet?”

“Tell me about it.” Sterne sat on the corner of my desk and tipped his grey hat back on his forehead.

“Not much to tell. Sweet was the reason I went up to Harlem. I needed to interview him regarding a job I’m working on. He turned out to be a cold lead, which I half-expected. I gave him the card in case anything came up.”

“Not nearly good enough, Angel. Give it to me again.”

“Okay. What I’ve got going is a missing persons’ operation. The party in question took a walk more than a dozen years ago. One of my few leads was an old photo of the guy posing with Toots Sweet. I went uptown last night to ask Toots if he could help me out. He played cagey at first when I talked to him at the Red Rooster, so I tailed him down to the park after dosing time. He went to some kind of voodoo ceremony over by the Meer. They shuffled around and killed a chicken. I felt like a tourist.”

“Who-all is ‘they’?” asked Sterne.

“About fifteen men and women, colored. I’d never seen any of them before except Toots.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. Toots left the park alone. I tailed him home and got him to talk straight. He said he hadn’t seen the guy I was looking for since the picture was taken. I gave him my card and said to call me if he thought of anything. Like it better this time?”

“Not much.” Sterne looked at his thick fingernails with disinterest. “What did you use to get him to talk?”

“Psychology,” I said.

Sterne raised his eyebrows and regarded me with the same disinterest he lavished on his fingernails. “So who is the famous party in question? The one that walked?”

“I can’t give out that information without the consent of my client.”

“Bullshit, Angel. You won’t do your client any good downtown, and that’s just where I’ll take you if you dam up on me.”

“Why be disagreeable, Lieutenant? I’m working for a lawyer named Winesap. That entitles me to the same right to privacy as him. If you pulled me in, I’d be out within the hour. Save the city carfare.”

“What’s this lawyer’s number?”

I wrote it out on the desk pad along with his full name, tore the sheet loose, and handed it to Sterne. “I told you all I know. From what I read in the paper, it sounds like some of Toots’ chicken-snuffing fellow parishioners put him away. If you make a pinch, I’ll be happy to look him over in the lineup.”

“That’s white of you, Angel,” Sterne sneered.

“What’s this?” It was Sergeant Deimos asking. He’d been wandering around the office with his hands in his pockets, checking things out. He was asking about Ernie Cavalero’s law degree from Yale. It was framed on the wall over the filing cabinet.

“That’s a law degree,” I said. “Used to belong to the guy that started the business. He’s dead now.”

“Sentimental?” Sterne muttered through his tight ventriloquist’s lips.

“Adds a touch of class.”

“What’s it say?” Sergeant Deimos wanted to know.

“Beats me. I don’t read Latin.”

“So that’s what it is. Latin.”

“That’s what it is.”

“What difference would it make if it was Hebrew?” Sterne said. Deimos shrugged.

“Any further questions, Lieutenant?” I asked.

Sterne turned his dead cop’s gaze on me again. You could tell from his eyes that he never smiled. Not even during a third-degree session. He was just doing his job. “None. You and your ‘right to privacy’ can go eat lunch now. Maybe we’ll call you, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. Just another dead jigaboo. Nobody much gives a shit.”

“Call if you need me.”

“Sure thing. He’s a real prince, right, Deimos?”

We all wedged into the tiny elevator together and rode down without saying a word.

TWENTY-FOUR

Gough’s Chop House was across 43rd Street from the Times Building. The place was packed when I got there, but I squeezed into a corner by the bar. I didn’t have much time, so I ordered roast beef on rye and a bottle of ale. Service was fast in spite of the crowd, and I was laying the ale to rest when Walt Rigler spotted me on his way out and came over to jaw. “What brings you into this scribbler’s den, Harry?” he shouted over the din of newspaper shop-talk. “I thought you ate at Downey’s.”

“I try not to be a creature of habit,” I said.

“Sound philosophy. So what’s up?”

“Very little. Thanks for letting me raid the morgue. I owe you one.”

“Forget it. How goes your little mystery? Digging up any good dirt?”

“More than I can handle. Thought I had a strong lead yesterday. Went to see Krusemark’s fortunetelling daughter, but I picked the wrong one.”

“What do you mean, the wrong one?”

“There’s the black witch and the white witch. One I want lives in Paris.”

“I don’t follow you, Harry.”

“They’re twins; Maggie and Millie, the supernatural Krusemark girls.”

Walt rubbed the back of his neck and frowned. “Someone’s pulling your leg, pal. Margaret Krusemark’s an only child.”

I gagged on my ale. “You sure of that?”

” ‘Course I’m sure. I just checked it out for you yesterday. Had the family history on my desk all afternoon. Krusemark had a daughter by his wife. Just one, Harry. The
Times
doesn’t make mistakes in the vital statistics department.”

“What a sap I’ve been!”

“No argument on that score.”

“I should have known she was playing me for a sucker. It was too pat.”

“Slow down, pal, you’re way ahead of me.”

“Sorry, Walt. Just thinking out loud. My watch says five after one, is that right?”

“Close enough.”

I stood up, leaving my change on the bar. “Got to run.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” Walt Rigler grinned his lopsided grin.

Epiphany Proudf oot was waiting in the outer room of my office when I got there minutes later. She was wearing a tartan plaid kilt and a blue cashmere sweater and looked like a coed.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said.

“Don’t be. I was early.” She tossed aside a well-thumbed back issue of
Sports Illustrated
and uncrossed her legs. On her, even the second-hand Naugahyde chair looked good.

I unlocked the door in the pebbled-glass partition and held it open. “Why did you want to see me?”

“This isn’t much of an office.” She picked her handbag and folded coat off the table holding up my collection of out-of-date magazines. “You must not be such a hot detective.”

“I keep my overhead low,” I said, ushering her inside. “You pay for getting the job done or you pay for interior decoration.” I shut the door and hung my coat on the rack.

She stood by the window with the eight-inch gold letters, staring down at the street. “Who’s paying you to look for Johnny Favorite?” she asked her reflection in the glass.

“I can’t tell you that. One of the things my services include is discretion. Won’t you sit down?”

I took her coat and hung it next to mine as she settled gracefully into the padded leather chair across from my desk. It was the only comfortable seat in the place. “You still haven’t answered my question,” I said, leaning back in my swivel chair. “Why are you here?”

“Edison Sweet has been murdered.”

“Uh-huh. I read the papers. But you shouldn’t be too surprised: you set him up.”

She clenched her handbag on her lap. “You must be out of your mind.”

“Maybe. But I’m not dumb. You were the only one who knew I was talking to Toots. You had to be the one who tipped off the boys that sent the gift-wrapped chicken foot.”

“You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Do I?”

“There was no one else. After you left the store, I called my nephew. He lives around the corner from the Red Rooster. It was him hid the claw in the piano. Toots was a blabbermouth. He needed reminding to keep his trap shut.”

“You did a good job. It’s shut for keeps now.”

“Do you think I’d be coming to see you if I had anything to do with that?”

“I’d say you were a capable girl, Epiphany. Your performance in the park was quite convincing.”

Epiphany bit her knuckle and frowned, squirming in the chair. She looked for all the world like a truant hauled onto the carpet by the school principal. If it was an act, it was a good one.

“You have no right to spy on me,” Epiphany said, not meeting my gaze.

“The Parks Department and the Humane Society would disagree. Quite a gruesome little religion.”

This time Epiphany looked me straight in the eye, her glance black with fury. “Obeah doesn’t need to hang a man on the cross. There never was an Obeah Holy War, or an Obeah Inquisition!”

“Yeah, sure; you’ve got to kill the chicken to make the soup, right?” I lit a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. “But it’s not dead chickens that worry me; it’s dead piano players.”

“Don’t you think I’m worried?” Epiphany leaned forward in the chair, the tips of her girlish breasts straining against the thin weave of her blue sweater. She was a tall drink of water, as they say uptown, and it was easy to imagine quenching my thirst on her tawny flesh.