Jimmy the Stick (22 page)

She was as drunk as Cameron Rivers, and like a lot of drunks, she thought she had everything figured out.

“Well, you don't know anything,” she slurred. “None of you know anything about what's going on, but you'll see, yes you will.”

She wagged a finger at me. Cameron Rivers took her arm and whispered something that made her smile in a snotty, childish way. I realized again how incredibly young she was.

The deputy's eyes never left Flora as the two women weaved their way inside. He was stuck on Flora, all right. I leaned on his open window and said, “Did you find anything about that bucket that came from the butcher?”

“Yeah,” he glanced over at me. “Bartham says somebody stole it from his shop, and I believe him.”

“So you think it was somebody local who's pissed at the Pennyweights?”

He shrugged. “Probably.”

“OK, there's something else. The other night I saw someone watching the house from the trees down by the lake.”

“Did he try to get in?”

“No, he backed off when I opened the window.”

“Did you tell Dietz about it?”

“Yeah, he said I saw a deer.”

“Then you saw a deer. Nothing goes on around these woods that Dietz doesn't know about.”

I still didn't buy that, so I told Parker about the car and truck I'd seen circling the house for the past two nights. “Could they be cops? Would Kittner have men patrolling these roads?”

He frowned. “No. The sheriff is in Hopewell,” he said, sounding tired and resigned. “I'm in charge while he's gone. These vehicles, where do you see them?”

“The lake side of the house.” I didn't mention the one that Oh Boy ran off the road yesterday morning.

“That's the township road,” he said. “Always has traffic.”

“No, they show up every ten, fifteen minutes or so, moving in opposite directions. Sometimes they stop together.”

The deputy shoved the column shift of his car into reverse. “I'll swing by tonight. Probably nothing.” He turned around and left.

All the headlines in the
Times
covered kidnapping news. I read them over coffee as Mrs. Conway fried eggs and turned up the radio.

Oh Boy had brought in four of the New York papers along with the local
Daily Record
. Taken together, the stories remained mystifying. Nobody knew what was really going on.

There was “Red” Johnson, palling around with Betty Gow, the Lindberghs' nurse, the young woman who had discovered the disappearance of the baby. According to the
Times
, Johnson was about to confess. But the
Daily Record
said that the police had cleared him completely.

Suspicious customers were everywhere. In Chicago, a bunch of detectives called “the Secret Six” busted into a rooming house to question people but were unable to beat useful answers out of anybody. New York cops got a tip that the kid was with the hobos in the Hooverville at Thirty-Ninth Street and Twelfth Avenue. They rousted everybody, with no results. New Jersey cops suspected a gypsy camp in Linden and gave it a thorough going-over. The gypsies were probably used to it. They sympathized with the Lindberghs, and offered one of their own babies to replace the missing boy.

I still hoped a woman was involved, as they'd first reported. I know some women can be as murderous as men but it still seemed to me then that the kid had a better chance if he was with a woman. If only one guy, or even a couple of guys did the job, they had probably already killed the little boy.

Connie Nix was putting another breakfast tray together. Oh Boy and Mr. Mears spooned sugar and cream into their coffee. Mrs. Conway cut a slice of last night's ham and put it on my plate with eggs and toast. The brindle cat showed up and bit me again. I left it alone after that.

Mrs. Conway sat down across the table. “Did I hear Flora and Cameron coming home just now?”

“It looked like they had a long night.”

Oh Boy said, “Did they leave the car in front of the house?”

I nodded. Oh Boy shook his head and muttered, “Oh boy, oh boy,” and got up to move the Pierce-Arrow into the garage.

“Deputy Parker followed them in,” I added. Another distressed look passed across Mrs. Conway's face. “He said that Sheriff Kittner has gone to Hopewell to lend his vast crime-fighting experience to the investigation. One way or another, he'll prove that Fordham Evans was part of the Lindbergh kidnapping.”

Mrs. Conway just shook her head. “Saints preserve us.”

A bell sounded and the number one lit up. Connie Nix jumped up to answer. I went out with her and followed her up the servants' stairs. She stopped at the first floor and said, “You should use the front stairs. These are for staff.”

“So what? Do you think I'm not working? Don't I eat in the kitchen? C'mon, I'm tired. Let's go.”

The servants' stairs reached the second floor at the far end of the hall, away from Mrs. Pennyweight's rooms. The dim steps went on up to the third floor and the staff quarters, but I was in no mood to explore.

In my room, I stretched out under the covers but sleep came slowly. The wind was still rattling around, and I couldn't get images of Vinnie Coll out of my head. Him slamming against the back of the bloody phone booth. Vinnie and Spats that first day in Lansky's garage. The picture in the
Daily News
of four guys standing in the rainy mud of St. Raymond's cemetery with Vinnie's coffin on their shoulders. And there was Mandelina's gravestone beside them. Then Vinnie became little Ethan with his sweating red face in the car, and that turned into the Lindbergh baby and the bloody doll in the nursery, and then Connie Halloran and Connie Nix were part of it too.

When I finally did get to sleep, I didn't dream.

That evening, I put on my oldest and most comfortable light-gray suit, another turtleneck, and loaded my pockets with pad, pen, knucks, and pistol before I headed downstairs. The kitchen was filled with the warm, wonderful smell of a meaty stew.

On the shelf where Mr. Mears kept his wine, a new jug of dago red had appeared. I poured a glass and refreshed Mr. Mears's. The old guy smiled for the first time since I'd been there, raising his glass with a shaky hand.

Connie Nix was preparing two trays that appeared to hold only tomato juice, dry white toast, and two large carafes of water. For the Sisters of Isadora when they awoke, no doubt.

Mrs. Conway said, “There you are, Quinn. It's customary for the staff to gather for dinner on Saturday night. You're welcome to join if you like.” She looked at the clock over the numbered grid. “We'll serve in half an hour.”

“Thanks.” I turned to Mears and said, “Two days ago, I saw a man delivering coal in the morning. Is the furnace on this floor?”

He nodded.

“Show it to me.”

Mears drained his wine, then stood, leaning heavily on the table. He straightened his tie and shirtfront, and pulled at his coat as he shuffled off.

We went down a short hall to a door. He opened it with a key that was in the lock and pulled a cord to turn on a hanging bulb. Two wooden steps led down to a windowless furnace room. The smelly coal was piled on one side, with the furnace, boiler, and water heater taking up the rest of the space. Near the ceiling a little door, measuring about eighteen inches square, was shut tight.

I asked if it could be locked. Mears shook his head.“But that larger door is locked?”

He nodded.

“Always?”

The old man's eyebrows rose as he started to get steamed at the obvious question, and he nodded again.

Back in the kitchen, we met Connie Nix hurrying to deliver trays to Flora and Cameron. The big kitchen table was set for six, and Dietz and Oh Boy were hovering near the stove. Mrs. Conway pulled loaves of bread out of the oven as Mears headed for his dago red and poured two glasses.

I looked at my watch. Things would be jumping at my place now, on a Saturday night. I wondered if Connie Halloran was there, and somehow knew that she wasn't. I hadn't seen her since Tuesday, hadn't talked to her since Thursday afternoon. Best to call Frenchy later, see if he'd found out anything.

Dietz pulled a blue flask out of his coat and filled a glass with something yellowish and oily-looking. “Want a
real
drink, gunman?” He laughed and knocked back the coffin varnish.

“I'll call Cloninger when you're struck blind, groundskeeper,” I said.

Dietz smiled, revealing gaps between his teeth. “I've no need of his mercies.”

Connie Nix came in, wiping both hands on her apron, and went straight to the stove, where she picked up the stew pot to set it in front of Mr. Mears's chair. I reached for a slice of bread but Mrs. Conway slapped my hand. “Mr. Mears will say grace.”

The old guy mumbled something while Dietz and Oh Boy bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Connie Nix and I looked at each other. Mrs. Conway peeked up at us and frowned. The brindle cat bumped my leg and stared at the stove.

It was the best stew I ever tasted, with onions, potatoes, carrots, and turnips, and seasoning I couldn't recognize. I stopped at two bowls. After the meal, Mrs. Conway poured coffee and tea. Dietz fired up his pipe. Mr. Mears lit a stogie, and Oh Boy rolled a cigarette. I took my coffee to the sink, where Connie Nix washed dishes.

“I see that you delivered trays to the two party girls. How are they doing?” I asked.

Before she could answer, Mrs. Conway snapped, “And what business is it of yours? We don't gossip about our betters.”

“Betters? Hah! Are they going out or staying in? That's all I care about, how many people are going to be in the house tonight.”

Connie Nix looked at Mrs. Conway. The older woman nodded. “They're staying here, as far as I know.”

Up in the library, I poured some of Spence's rye, and took the word list I'd made from the day's newspapers over to the big dictionary.

unavailing

proffers

reticent

scantlings

I'd guessed right, more or less, on the first three, but “scantlings,” that was a pip. The papers had said that a lumber expert examined the ladder the kidnapper had used to get to the Lindbergh baby's bedroom. It had been hammered together from “scantlings of yellow pine.” A scantling turned out to be “a measured or prescribed size, especially of timber or stone.”

Nice word, that, I thought as I finished my drink. Then, since I couldn't put it off any longer, I had the operator call my speak in New York.

Frenchy answered and it sounded loud and profitable. He yelled, “Boss, how the hell are you?”

“I'm fine. Have you got any news?”

“Yeah, Dixie was in earlier. He says that everything about what happened here on Tuesday has vanished from the police record.”

“Good. What else?”

“He says Hourigan is a bull out of the Morrisania station in the Bronx, forty-one years old, married. Back when Dutch and Vinnie were going at it, Dutch promised the Bronx cops that if one of 'em killed Vinnie, he'd give that guy a nice house in Westchester. Apparently Hourigan was interested.”

“Well, he wasn't there when Vinnie got killed, I can tell you that. Anything else?”

“Yeah, Sergeant Marks said he'd heard that a cop—and he wasn't sure it was the same guy—was drinking at the Drum, in the Bowery.”

“Christ, that dump?”

The Drum served the cheapest slop you could pour out of a bottle, worse than Dietz's swill. Half the guys you'd see there looked like they'd be dead by morning.

Frenchy said, “The cop's been in there every night this week and he's spoiling for a fight, challenging the rummies to take him on.”

Finally I asked about Connie, and he said she hadn't been at work. I told him to have Marie Therese call me when things slowed down. I was working on a second rye when the phone rang about forty-five minutes later.

Marie Therese hemmed and hawed for a few minutes before she explained. “Connie's scared about what happened the other night. She said she thinks she ought to go back home until you're here again.”

I told her I'd given Spence my word that I'd stay at his house. But then I started to get mad. Goddammit, why couldn't the woman understand simple facts. “There's nothing to be scared of.”

“I'll talk to her,” Marie Therese said, and then, “if I can find her.”

“If you can find her? Isn't she at the Chelsea?”

“Yeah, she moved her things in. But she hasn't spent much time there.”

I hung up the phone, as troubled as I'd ever been. And I realized that I could think about it all night and be no better off than I was. Hell, hell, hell.

Later, when I'd checked all the doors again and climbed the stairs to my room, I could hear music from Flora's room, a radio or phonograph playing “Meet Me in the Shadows,” again.

I stood by the window, staring at nothing until I finally knew what I had to do.

SATURDAY, MARCH 5, 1932

VALLEY GREEN, NEW JERSEY

I knocked on Catherine Pennyweight's door a few minutes later. She was by the fireplace with the kid on the carpet near her feet. She turned down the radio music as I entered the room.

“I told you I've got problems with a cop. Well, I think I know where he is now and maybe I can take care of it tonight, but I promised Spence I'd look after little what's-his-name here. So,” I said, “grab your coat, wrap the boy in his woolies, tell Oh Boy to bring the Duesenberg, and we'll go into the city.”

Her eyes lit up. She clapped her hands and said, “What a wonderful idea! An adventure.” She pushed a button on a box on her desk, calling Oh Boy, I guessed. “Where are we going?”

“To the Bowery, but we gotta make other stops first.”

“Lovely.”

Back in my room, I found my lug-soled shoes and opened the Gladstone for the brace Sam had made for me. I hadn't worn it much in the past year. As long as I wasn't lifting stuff or moving heavy things, I didn't need it. The stick was enough to get around. But not tonight. I sat on the bed, took off my right shoe, and rolled up my pant leg to fasten all the straps and buckles. When I stood up, the brace felt fine. Creaked a little when I walked, but it felt fine.