The Gutter and the Grave (7 page)

She fished into her purse for the key, and I held out my hand.

“I’ll go down for it,” I said.

“Thank you.”

Laraine leaned on the bannister while I went down the steps. I was unlocking her mailbox when I heard the scream from upstairs. And then the scream stopped suddenly as if someone had clamped a hand over her mouth. I took the steps up two at a time.

Muggers are not uncommon in this section, and this mugger was as big as life, his hand over Laraine’s mouth, his free fingers clutching for the purse she carried. I reached the landing, and he released her the moment he saw me. He drew back his fist and threw it forward at my head and Laraine screamed again as I backed off against the bannister, waiting for his blow. I threw up an elementary Judo block, my arm stiff, and then I clutched the material of his sleeve in my left hand, and I thrust my right hand out to grab the cloth on the right hand side of his shirt. Judo, contrary to popular belief, isn’t all a science of wrestling holds. If a
man is wearing clothes, you make use of them.

He was slightly off balance anyway, having just swung with his right fist. I pulled him further off balance with the grip I had on his shirt, and then I swung my right foot just behind and a little below the calf of his right leg, and I kicked and pulled simultaneously and he swung sidewards and started to fall. It was a simple throw. In the gym, I’d have held tight to my opponent’s sleeve, breaking his fall even though he was trained to fall properly. This was not the gym, nor was the mugger trained to fall, nor did I hold onto his sleeve. I slammed him down, and he landed on his wrist, hurting it but not breaking it, and then his back collided with the wooden floor, and he was sprawled across the tips of my shoes with me leaning over him. I brought up my left hand and sent the hard edge of it down across the bridge of his nose. If I’d hit him harder, I’d have sent bone splinters into his brain, killing him instantly. I didn’t hit him that hard. I only wanted to stun him, and stun him I did. He blinked and shook his head and then tried to get to his feet, and I hit him again, on the right shoulder this time, very hard, and he fell back against the floor unable to move his right arm.

I grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him off the floor and then shoved him down the steps in front of me. I threw him out into the street and then hurried back upstairs to where Laraine was trembling against the bannister.

“It’s all right,” I said.

“Matt…Matt…”

“It’s all right.”

“He just came from…from…”

“Where’s your key?” I said.

I helped her upstairs and opened the door for her. I flicked on the lights. It was a nice apartment, tastefully furnished. There was a police lock on the inside of the kitchen door. I put it in place, the bar leaning against the door to form a triangle with the heavy steel plate embedded in the floor. Then I found the liquor and poured two stiff shots for both of us. Laraine accepted hers gratefully.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For the whiskey?”

“For what you did out there.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you call a cop?”

“No. I’m trying to keep away from them.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

“If he does, there won’t be a third time.”

“Thank you,” she said again.

We stared at each other foolishly for a few minutes.

“I’ll make my phone call,” I said.

“The phone’s there.” She pointed to a small table at the end of the sofa. I looked up Knowles’ number and dialed it. No one answered. The office was apparently closed for the night. I checked the book again, but a home phone was not listed.

“No luck,” I said. “Do I still get the shave?”

“The razor’s in the bathroom,” she said. “Second
shelf of the medicine chest. I use it for my legs. I don’t know if there are any unused blades.”

“I’ll manage,” I said. “And I’ll clear out right after I finish.”

She got out of the chair and she came to me, and she put her arms around my neck, and she kissed me as soundly as I’ve been kissed in my life.

Then she said, “No. No, you will not get out.” She kissed me again, and I pulled her to me, and she turned her head aside with a little whimpering sound, and she said, “Oh, you bastard, why are you letting this happen?”

Knowles Investigations was on Fifty-third Street, directly opposite the Museum of Modern Art. The building was a converted brownstone that housed a private gallery on street level, a photographer’s agent on the first floor, a place that sold African
objets d’art
on the second floor, and Dennis’ establishment on the top floor.

I arrived there at ten a.m. on Wednesday morning. Laraine had washed and ironed my shirt and pressed my suit. I looked fairly decent. I felt pretty good, too. I don’t know how much Laraine had to do with that, but I imagined it was a great deal. We’d had breakfast together that morning before she left for the five and ten. She’d sat opposite me in a bra and half-slip, and we’d drunk orange juice and coffee, and this had been the first morning in a long while that I hadn’t started the day with a belt from a bottle. We talked while she dressed. I told her I would probably be busy downtown all day, and she made me promise to eat lunch someplace. She also insisted that I return to the apartment by six o’clock. She would have dinner waiting, she said. I helped her zip up the back of her dress. I always suspect this to be a feminine trick designed to
make a man feel more masculine. There are, after all, countless American females who live alone, and they don’t run around with the zippers lowered at the backs of their dresses. They are,
ipso facto
, capable of doing the zipping themselves. But feminine trick or not, I enjoyed it. Laraine kissed me before she left the apartment. I enjoyed that, too. I had a second cup of coffee, and then headed downtown for Knowles’ office.

A couple of young farm girls with hayseed sticking out of their ears were waiting outside the photographer’s agent’s door. They looked up at me hopefully when I came up the steps, and then turned away disdainfully when I plowed on past. A big African mask decorated the door on the third floor. It scared hell out of me.

Knowles had a very nice office on the top floor. The business of breaking down hotel doors had apparently been thriving since last I’d seen him. I entered a cozy reception room with a cozy brunette receptionist, and I walked to her desk and said, “I’d like to see Mr. Knowles, please.”

The brunette looked up from her emery board. “Who’s calling, please, sir?”

I debated the advisability of using my own name. Dennis and I had never seen eye-to-eye even when things were going good for me. If he heard Matt Cordell was here, he’d probably come out of his office raging. I decided to reactivate my old cab-driver friend.

“Joe Phillips,” I said.

“Won’t you have a chair, Mr. Phillips,” the brunette said. “I’ll see if Mr. Knowles is free.”

I had a chair, and she had a conversation on the telephone. When she put the receiver back onto the cradle, she said, “Go right in, won’t you?”

I opened the door to the private office, closed it quickly behind me, and then leaned on it. Knowles looked up, registered little if any shock, smiled, and said, “Joe Phillips, huh?”

“Hello, Dennis,” I said.

He was sitting behind his desk, a big man in a lightweight sports jacket. By big, I mean six-two and about 200 pounds, which is not unusual for a detective. Most detectives I know are tall and heavy, and Knowles was no exception. His broad shoulders were silhouetted by the bank of windows behind him. There was a small terrace outside the windows, fronting on Fifty-third. I wondered if he went out there to meditate on how best to splinter a door. He studied me now with a slight smile still on his face. He had good teeth, and a strong jaw. His brown eyes were shrewdly intelligent. His nose had once been broken in a fist-fight. I happen to know this because I’m the guy who broke it.

“Sit down, Matt,” he said, and I instantly suspected him. I took the leather-covered chair alongside his desk. Knowles offered me a cigar from the humidor on his desk. I took it, but I didn’t light it. I stuck it in the breast pocket of my jacket instead.

“You’re looking good, Dennis,” I said.

“Thanks.” He lit his cigar, filling the office with smoke. “What’s on your mind, Matt?”

“Just like that?”

“What would you rather discuss? My nose?” he grinned.

“The slight hook gives you character,” I said.

“Thanks. Such character I could have done without.” He paused. “I never thought I’d see you again. Am I supposed to apologize for having insulted your wife that time?”

“The way I figure it, the broken nose makes us even.”

“The way I figure it,” Knowles said, “the only thing that makes a broken nose even is another broken nose.”

“Meaning, Dennis?”

“Meaning let’s stop playing footsie. What the hell do you want in my office?”

“Ahhh,” I said, “there’s that old Dennis Knowles fire.”

“I’m a busy man,” Knowles said. “If you came here to chat, I’m not a big talker. If you came for a handout, business is bad. If you came for another swing at my nose, I wouldn’t try it again. What’s on your mind?”

“A woman named Christine Archese,” I said.

“What about her?”

“Are you tailing her?”

“Goodbye, Matt,” Knowles said, and he rose and slammed the lid of his humidor shut. He looked bigger standing—but not that big.

“I asked a civil question, Dennis.”

“What gives you the right to ask?”

“Haven’t you seen the morning papers?” I said.

“I never read the papers,” Knowles answered. “They make me nervous.”

“Dom Archese was shot dead yesterday.”

Knowles sat down. He wasn’t shocked or anything. I guess he was just tired. He sat down, flicked ash from his cigar, puffed on it again, and uninterestedly said, “Yeah?”

“Twice in the chest. At his tailor shop. Was Christine playing around?”

“What’s your interest?”

“A friend of mine may be involved.”

“You practicing again?”

“No. I’m doing a favor for a friend.”

“The Good Samaritan,” Knowles said. “There’s such a thing as protecting the confidences of a client, Matt. You know that as well as I do. You’ve also got a hell of a lot of gall, if you don’t mind my saying so. The last time I see you, you break my nose for mentioning what’s in all the goddamn newspapers anyway. Now you come around and ask me to betray a client’s confidence.”

“Your client is dead, Dennis,” I said.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you hear me? Dom Archese was shot yesterday.”

“Archese isn’t and wasn’t my client,” Knowles said.

I looked at him and blinked. He didn’t blink back.

“Okay,” I said. “If you won’t help me…”

“I’m telling you the truth, Christ knows why,” Knowles said. “You sure as hell don’t deserve it. But you’re the only bastard who ever threw a punch at me and didn’t get sent to the hospital. I respect fists. I’m not afraid of you, but I respect you. I hope you understand the difference.”

“I understand it.” I paused. “Archese wasn’t your client?”

“No.”

“Who is?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

I sighed and wiped a hand over my jaw. “Look, Dennis, a friend of mine is in pretty serious trouble. Archese was his partner.”

“His
partner
!” Knowles said.

“Yes. What…”

“Your friend isn’t Johnny Bridges, is he?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Well, for Christ’s sake,
he’s
my client!”

The room went very still. Dennis sucked in smoke. I scratched my head.

“Johnny?”

“Yes, yes, Johnny.”

“Your client?”

“My client.”

“Why?”

“Oh, what the hell’s the sense in keeping anything from you?” Knowles said. “He came to me about three months back. Walked into the office and said, ‘My name is Johnny Bridges. I’d like you to do some work for me.’ž”

“What kind of work? Cash register thefts? Was that it?”

“No, no, why the hell would I get involved in something like that? You know the kind of work I do. Well, that’s the kind of work he wanted.”

“But Johnny isn’t married,” I said.

“I know he isn’t. Look, are you sure he’s a friend of yours?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“I’ll check the next time he calls, you know.”

“He isn’t going to be calling, Dennis. The police have him.”

“That’s great,” Knowles said. “He still owes me money.”

“What did you do for him, Dennis?”

“He’s in love,” Knowles said. “With a blonde.”

“Named?”

“Christine Archese.”

I was beginning to get puzzled. I admit it. None of this tied in with what I already knew. Either Dennis was lying or a lot of people before him had lied. Or maybe it had been too long since I’d had a shot of whiskey.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “Johnny Bridges, according to you, is in love with Christine Archese.”

“That’s what the man said. That’s why he hired me.”

“To do what? Write love poems?”

“No. To get the goods on Dom Archese.”

“Oh, come on, Dennis! What the hell are you giving me?”

“Do you want it or not?” Knowles said.

“I want it.”

“Okay, so shut up. I’ll tell you what one of your biggest faults is, Matt. You don’t listen. A good investigator knows when to shut up.”

I shut up. Knowles nodded, sucked in on his cigar, and said, “Apparently this Dom Archese knew all about the big torrid love affair and refused to give Christine a divorce. About six months ago, to show him she meant business, she kicked him out of the apartment. He still wouldn’t come across. Johnny and Christine sat it out for a while, hoping he’d change his mind. About three months ago, they decided he’d never change his mind. Johnny came to me, determined to do something about it.”

“What did he hope to do?”

“He was working on the assumption that everyone has a skeleton in his closet. Archese had been separated from his wife for three months. Was it not reasonable to assume he might have started something with another frail during that time? Johnny wanted me to find out.”