The Gutter and the Grave (11 page)

“How do you know?”

“I just had a talk with them. They’re grabbing for straws. They even accused me of being a hired gun.
What it amounts to, Johnny, is that they’re still trying. They wouldn’t have let me loose if they had any positive leads. They’re either hoping I’ll turn up something, or they’re hoping I’ll betray myself or another party. In any case, this thing is far from solved.” I paused. “Now how about a little cooperation from you?”

“I’ve given you all the co…”

“Did you know that Dom Archese and his wife were separated?”

“Yes,” Johnny said unhesitatingly.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought I did.”

“You didn’t. As a matter of fact, you said that Dom knew you were going up to see Christine yesterday afternoon. You told me, and correct me if I’m wrong, that Dom had left a check for her and wasn’t sure if she knew where it was. He
sent
you there, you told me.”

“That’s right.”

“Where
did
he leave the check, Johnny?”

“In the mailbox.”

“Wouldn’t she have found it without your telling her where it was?”

“Maybe. Dom was fussy that way. He gave her a check every week, like clockwork, even though they were separated. He usually delivered it himself.”

“When I asked you why Dom didn’t phone her about the check, you said you didn’t know. You did know, Johnny. They were separated, and he probably didn’t want to talk to her. Isn’t that right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then you were trying to hide their separation from me.”

Johnny hesitated. “All right, I was.”

“Why?”

“Because it was none of your business.”

“Even with a dead man laying on the floor? Even with your initials on the wall beside him? What’s the scoop, Johnny? Have you been laying Christine?”

“No.”

“That isn’t the way I heard it.”

“I don’t care how you heard it. I’m telling you the truth.”

“You’re not in love with Christine Archese?”

“Of course not,” Johnny said.

“Then why’d you go to Dennis Knowles?”

Johnny looked at me blankly. “Who the hell is Dennis Knowles?”

“The private eye you hired to follow Dom Archese. How about it, Johnny?”

He no longer looked blank; he looked positively flabbergasted. “Are you crazy or something?” he said. “I never heard of the guy. Why would I hire anyone to follow Dom?”

“Because you wanted him to divorce his wife,” I said.

“Holy Jesus, where’d you get this…”

“Why else didn’t you tell me about the separation, Johnny?” I shouted.

“Because it wasn’t supposed to be common neighborhood gossip, goddamnit! And because I happen to have an interest.”

“In Christine?”

“No! In Christine’s sister. In Laraine Marsh.”

I pulled up short. I thought about what he’d said for just a few seconds. Then I said, “What kind of an interest?”

“I’ve been seeing her.”

“Object matrimony?”

“Maybe.”

“In spite of the fact that Dom Archese was playing around with her?”

“That’s a lie!” Johnny snapped.

The police guard at the door yelled, “Quiet it down there!”

I lowered my voice. “You don’t believe Dom was seeing Laraine? You don’t believe they might have been intimate?”

“No, I don’t.”

“How does Laraine feel about you?”

“I…I never asked her.”

“What was your reaction to Knowles’ report?”

“What report?” he said.

“About Dom and Laraine. Johnny, stop snowing me! If you want me to help…”

“I told you I don’t know any Hennessy Knowles…”

“
Dennis
Knowles,” I corrected.

“Dennis, all right, whatever his name is. I don’t know him, I never met him, I never hired him, and I don’t
know what report you’re talking about. The reason I didn’t tell you about Dom and Christine was because I might be in the family some day, who knows?”

“That didn’t stop you from accusing Dom of being a thief!”

“I didn’t go to the cops, did I? I came to you.”

“But first you went to Knowles!”

“Jesus, Matt,” he said, “what’s the matter with you? I’m telling you the truth! I’m here because I’m suspected of murder! Do you think I’d lie to the one person who might help me?” He seemed almost on the verge of tears. I looked at his face. His eyes were blinking, and there was a slight tic at the corner of his mouth.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do. Don’t get nervous. They won’t be lighting a fire under you for a while yet. Incidentally, they know I was with you when we found Dom. So you needn’t lie about that anymore. They also know why I was there.”

“You told them?”

“Yes.”

“But you said…”

“I know. I had to tell them.”

“You’re handling it,” he said. He smiled wanly. “Be funny if I got the electric chair, wouldn’t it?”

“Be hilarious,” I said. “I’ll be in touch with you. Stop worrying.”

“Sure,” he said, and I left.

Miskler’s tail picked me up downstairs. He was a tall blond guy with shoulders like Primo Carnera. He
wasn’t designed to be missed. Detective Miskler wanted me to know I was being followed. I didn’t really mind too much. The wrestler behind me was undoubtedly carrying a gun, and his gun might come in handy some day. In the meantime, since I had no intention of leaving the city, I made no attempt to dodge the tail.

I went uptown to Laraine’s apartment, the wrestler with me every inch of the way, keeping a respectable twenty-five feet or so behind me. I was going up the front steps when Laraine and Dave Ryan came out of the hallway. They were both bouncing along as if the world were made of pink cotton candy.

“What happened?” I said.

You could have cut Ryan’s grin with a meat cleaver. “Tell the man, honey,” he said to Laraine.

“We’ve got a big audition,” she said.

“Tammy’s Tavern,” Ryan cut in, unable to contain himself. “In New Rochelle. Steady work every night of the week, and it’s the jumpinest joint you ever saw! High-class, but solid. Man, there ain’t a band in New York that wouldn’t flip over this gig.”

“You’re going to New Rochelle now?” I said, disappointed.

“No, no,” Ryan said. “The audition’s being held at our rehearsal hall. Hey, man, what time is it anyway?”

I didn’t own a watch, so I didn’t lift my arm. Laraine read the time from her wrist. “Six-thirty,” she said.

“The audition’s at seven. Tammy himself is coming down. Oh, man, I’m as nervous as a cat.” He crossed
his fingers and then grinned again. “You want to come hear us, Cordell?”

I decided against it. “No. Will I see you later, Laraine?”

“I should be home by eight,” she said.

“I’ll be there.”

“You’re welcome at the audition if you want to come,” Ryan said.

“No, thanks. I’ve got a stop to make.”

“Well, come on, puss,” Ryan said to Laraine. He took her arm and was hustling her off when she turned to me.

“Eight o’clock, Matt? You’ll be there?”

“I will.”

She smiled. “Good,” she said, and Ryan almost yanked her off her feet, dragging her after him.

I sighed and headed for Christine Archese’s apartment. In all truth, I still didn’t know whose story to believe. I wanted to talk to Laraine but I couldn’t very well ask her to miss an important audition. Besides, the talk could wait until eight o’clock. In the meantime, Christine might be able to fill me in on just what her relationship was with her husband and Johnny. Somebody was lying, that was for damn sure.

My tail stayed with me all the way. When I went into the building, he parked himself on the front stoop. I went up to the second floor and knocked on the door. I waited a few minutes and knocked again. There was no answer. “Christine!” I called. There was still no answer.

I yelled “Christine!” again, and then tried the doorknob. It turned easily. The door opened, and I stepped into the apartment. The apartment was very still.

“Christine,” I whispered. No answer.

I walked into the living room. The door to the bedroom was ajar, and I went to it and pushed it all the way open. Christine Archese was wearing a sweater and slacks. The slacks were black and the sweater was white except for the red stains where three bullets had been plunked into her chest. Her eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. A pool of blood was seeping onto the floor in a steadily widening circle, spreading so that it almost touched the pillow which lay some two feet away from the body. I stooped and looked at the pillow. There were three holes in it, and the powder burns on the white pillow case told me that someone had wrapped the pillow around the muzzle of the gun as effectively as a silencer, muffling the explosions that had killed Christine.

I went downstairs. The wrestler was still on the front stoop, smoking a cigarette.

“Hi,” I said.

He looked up, startled.

“You’d better come with me,” I told him. “We’ve got another homicide.”

I wasn’t at all worried.

It isn’t that I’m brave or anything, but this was one garland they could not hang around my neck. I had spent the entire day with various people. My alibis were solid to the core. Nonetheless, my wrestler called Detective Miskler, and I hung around until he arrived.

“You do this, Cordell?” he said.

“Not a chance. I’ll give you a timetable even the Long Island Railroad can’t beat.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Nine-thirty a.m., left an East Side apartment for…”

“Whose apartment?” Miskler asked.

This was no time for chivalry, not when a corpse was in the bedroom. “Laraine Marsh’s.”

“Spend the night there?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead.”

“Ten a.m. arrived at office of Dennis Knowles, private investigator. Since Knowles later called you, you know damn well I was there.”

“Skip the commentary,” Miskler said. “Just give me the timetable.”

“Right. Eleven a.m., left Knowles’ office, went to Museum of Modern Art across the street. Purchased a cup of coffee and sat drinking it in the outdoor garden.”

“Who saw you?”

“The guy who sold me the coffee.”

“Go ahead.”

“Eleven-fifteen a.m., called Fran West, investigator for Knowles, from a public phone booth in the museum.”

“Did you go see Frannie?” Miskler asked, and his tone and his use of the diminutive with her name told me he was familiar with her.

“Yes.”

“You know what she does for Knowles?”

“She’s an investigator.”

“Horse manure,” Miskler said. “She poses in bed.”

Chalk up another liar, I thought. Some girls are fresh and honest, I thought. Matt Cordell, appraiser of character. Fran West posed for pictures in divorce cases. She didn’t pose for cheesecake mags, as she’d said. How do you do, Miss West? Welcome to the Liars Association of Eastern America.

“What time did you get there?” Miskler said.

“About eleven-thirty.”

“What time did you leave?”

“About twelve-thirty.”

“Where’d you go then?”

“To a bar uptown. I was there about a half-hour when your patrolman picked me up. Check with the
bartender. The rest of my day I was with you, Johnny Bridges, and your tail. Am I clean?”

“You’re spotless,” Miskler said. “The tail’s still with you. Get the hell out of here. We’ve got work to do.”

I started to leave. Miskler’s voice stopped me at the door. “I’m going to check with Fran West, and also with the bartender where we picked you up. You might keep that in mind.”

“What for?” I said. “My innocence is as a child’s.”

“Shnook,”
Miskler said, and I left the apartment with my tail wagging behind me. I waited for him in the street. When he came out of the building, I walked over to him.

“This is stupid,” I said. “Why don’t we walk together?”

He stuck out his hand. “Arthur de Ponce,” he said, “detective 3rd/grade. I’m Puerto Rican. Any objections?”

I’m sure if I had any, he’d have knocked me on my ass in the gutter. Luckily, I didn’t have any. “Matt Cordell,” I said, taking his hand. “I’m Irish. Any objections?”

De Ponce grinned from ear to ear. With his blond hair and his bright blue eyes, he could have passed for an Episcopalian minister any day of the week. He chose instead to set me straight from go. His precaution was wasted on me, but I was certain many a loud-mouthed hater was taken slightly aback when De Ponce failed to fit into his stereotype of swarthy skin and long sideburns.

“Where to, Cordell?” he said.

“An audition in a rehearsal hall on 116th Street. You been on the force long?”

“Four years,” he said.

“A detective so soon?”

“I’m a good cop,” he said flatly, and I didn’t doubt it for a minute. “Who’s at the rehearsal?”

“A girl. Sister of Christine Archese.”

“Where to from there?”

“Her apartment.”

“You had dinner yet?”

“No,” I said.

“Want to join me?”

“I’d hoped to eat with the lady.”

“Mind if I pick up some sandwiches and Joe?”

I’d never met a civilian who used the military term “Joe” for coffee. “What branch of the service were you in?” I asked.

“Marines,” he said. “I’ll eat at the audition if it doesn’t bother anybody.”

“Who’s going to argue with the New York City police?” I said.

We picked up the sandwiches and coffee and then went down to the basement room. The band was in full swing. A short fat guy in a brown Dupioni silk suit sat against one wall. He looked more like a pig than any human being I have ever met. He had a short pig’s snout, and dull black pig’s eyes, and thick little pig paws. A pinky ring sparkled on one of the paws. He wore an orange silk shirt under the brown silk suit, and
the letters T.T. were monogrammed onto the left breast of the shirt where it showed beneath the open jacket. This, then, was Tammy Somebody. A nobody in a grey seersucker sat next to Tammy. As the band played, Tammy made an occasional comment to the seersucker suit. De Ponce and I sat at the rear of the room, and he commenced polishing off his sandwiches and coffee. Laraine sang a song, and then the band played a jump tune, and a cha cha cha, and then Laraine sang a torch song, and Tammy stood up in the middle of the song and said, “Okay, that’s enough.”