The Gutter and the Grave (8 page)

“And if you found out Archese
wasn’t
playing around?”

Knowles shrugged.

“You’d rig a scene?” I asked.

“I hadn’t suggested that to my client. I doubt if it would have been necessary.”

“You mean Archese
was
playing around?”

“There were indications of that, yes,” Knowles said.

“I don’t believe you,” I said flatly.

“I never make mistakes,” Knowles said. “Bridges gave me a picture of Archese, and he gave me his address. Archese was living alone, so there were no mistakes. We followed the right man, and we were building a good case against him. Now you tell me he’s dead.”

“That’s right.”

“And Johnny is involved in it.”

“Sort of. His initials were written on the wall. Allegedly by the dead man.”

“Ouch!” Knowles said. He paused, thinking. “What kind of a guy is this Johnny Bridges?” he asked.

“Don’t you know? He’s your client.”

“Yeah, but he was always very mysterious. You know how some of them get. Embarrassed because they’re dealing with a detective. He wouldn’t even give me his address or phone number. Paid me a retainer in advance and then came in every week like clockwork to pay me for the past week’s work. He still owes me for last week. You think they’ll let him out on bail?”

“I hope so.”

“I hope so, too. I need that money. He usually calls me two, three times a week. If they let him out, I guess he’ll call, huh?”

“I guess so.”

I wanted a drink. I was very mixed up. Nothing seemed right anymore. I was beginning to think, if what Knowles said was true, that maybe Johnny Bridges
had
shot Archese. Maybe those initials on the
wall really did point to the killer. In which case everyone but Knowles was lying. Johnny was lying, and Christine was lying, and even Laraine was lying. It didn’t make sense.

“Did you work on this one personally, Dennis?” I said.

“No.”

“Who did?”

“One of my people. A girl named Fran West.”

“A girl?”

“Um-huh. A trick I learned. Put a female tail on a guy and he never tips that he’s being followed. I guess guys are naturally more suspicious of other guys, huh?”

“I guess so. One question, Dennis.”

“Shoot. And then get the hell out. I’m busier’n hell.”

“Have you been telling me the truth?”

Dennis Knowles smiled crookedly. “Now, Matt,” he said, “would I lie to you?”

* * *

I went downstairs past the African mask, past the country girls waiting and anxious to have their pictures taken nude for the cheese magazines, and then past the private gallery on the ground floor, the oils by an unknown Mexican artist decorating the window facing the street. It was only eleven o’clock but the sun had already turned on its wattage and the sidewalks were steaming. It was going to be another scorcher, and the pale blue sky held no promise of rain-relief. I loosened my tie and walked into the museum.

I don’t like to be puzzled. I think that’s why I became a detective in the first place. Puzzles bother me. I was always good in math in high school, mainly because I refused to become puzzled by the puzzle. I’d fit the pieces together until I got the right answer, and then I’d check the answer, and with mathematics it always worked. Life isn’t quite like math, but if you add two and two, you usually get four. I was adding two and two now and coming up with five. Or seven. Or nine. But never four. I kept trying to figure everyone’s stake in this thing, and the possible reasons for the possible lies. Nobody lies unless he feels he has to. Then why were all these people lying?

I needed a drink, but I settled for a cup of coffee from the museum’s shop. I went outside to drink it, sitting among the huge statues in the garden. It was very peaceful and relaxing there. Toni and I used to go to the outdoor garden often. If you want serenity in the midst of the busiest city in the world, that’s the place to find it. I found it that Wednesday morning, sipping at my coffee.

If Dennis Knowles had told me the truth, everyone else was lying—either by commission or omission.

Johnny had allegedly sought me to help him with some petty cash register pilfering. He’d never once mentioned that he was in love with Christine Archese or that he and she were trying to obtain a divorce from Dom. Nor had he mentioned going to Dennis Knowles for help.

Christine, when she’d learned of her husband’s death, had carried on like an Indian squaw ready to roll in the ashes. If she truly loved Johnny, if she were truly bucking for divorce, her hysterics had all been an act, a lie. Laraine had told me that Dom hired Knowles to watch his wife Christine. And Knowles had just told me it was Johnny Bridges who’d hired him.

Unless Knowles was lying…

This was a possibility. He’d taken the broken nose like a true sport, and I suspected his good fellowship. A man who breaks down doors for a living isn’t exactly the kind of man who’ll easily forget a ruptured proboscis. But at the same time, he’d sounded honest and sincere when he’d professed his respect for me. And I’d known many a louse who, contradictorily, held high ideals and standards in a very personal narrow area of emotion or thought.

Why the hell
should
he lie to me?

The nose. All right, maybe he did harbor a grudge over the nose and was enjoying a private revenge by screwing me up with a completely crazy story. That was possible.

On the other hand, he knew I wasn’t getting paid for my legwork, and the only person who’d suffer from his misinformation would be Johnny Bridges whom I was trying to help. If Johnny hadn’t hired Knowles, he had no reason for wanting to injure a perfect stranger. And if he had, he certainly wouldn’t want to foul up a client who still owed him money.

There was a faint breeze in the garden. The breeze found the open throat of my shirt, lingered there like a warm caress. I sipped at my coffee, and I kept my mind away from other times in this same garden, but it was impossible to shut out the thoughts, impossible to squelch the picture of Toni that managed to sneak in wherever I went, whatever I did.

I put down the coffee cup.

I got off the bench and walked back into the museum. I didn’t much feel like working right then, but I also didn’t feel like being puzzled. Knowles had said a girl named Fran West worked on the case. If he’d been lying to me, she’d know it. Provided she was willing to talk about it. Provided Dennis hadn’t already reached her and filled her in on the lie. Provided she was listed in the phone book. Provided she was home.

I found a listing for Francine West on West 10th Street in the Village. I waited while a fat woman in the phone booth spoke to a Mr. Arbiter about the Roualt print she’d bought and would it go in the living room over the chartreuse sofa?

“But it has a
lot
of colors,” she insisted, in answer to something he said. “Well, of course there’s some chartreuse in it. Would I have bought it if there weren’t any chartreuse in it?”

I waited.

Eventually, the woman and Mr. Arbiter both seemed satisfied. She came out of the booth, smiled and said, “My God, it’s hot, isn’t it?”

I nodded. The smell of her perfume was still in the booth. I left the door open, deposited a dime and dialed Fran West’s number. A phone call can often save a very long journey. I let the phone ring four times. It was answered just as the fifth ring started.

“Yes?” the woman said.

“Miss West?”

“Yes?”

I hung up and headed west.

I like Greenwich Village.

It’s close to home, home being the Bowery, and maybe that’s why I feel comfortable there. It’s got a large quota of phonies, but it’s also got some of the liveliest and most devoted people in the city. And if you cut your way through the deviates and the fakes starving in attics because they want to pretend they’re artists, you’ll find people of talent and grace, and there’s little enough of that in the world today. You’ll also find a lot of ordinary working stiffs who commute to jobs in midtown Manhattan every day and who live in the Village because they like this feeling of a small town within a big town. The Village is gaudy sometimes, and sometimes it’s violent, and sometimes the things you see there can make you want to vomit. But most of the time it’s just a place where people live, and most people are all right.

Fran West’s street was quiet and hot. The building in which she lived had air-conditioners sticking out of one window on each floor, and I thanked God and hoped hers would be working. An old man was sweeping the front steps when I came up. He stepped
into my path and rested one hand on the broom as if he were handling a rifle.

“Who you looking for?” he said.

“Francine West,” I told him.

“Third floor,” he said. “You a friend of hers?”

“Business associate.”

“I own this building,” the old man said. “I don’t go for shenanigans. You got business with Miss West, you get it done fast and come down fast. Else, I’ll be up.”

“You had me fooled for a minute,” I said.

“Huh?”

“You shaved off the mustache, didn’t you?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you’re still alive.”

“Huh?”

“Or where you’re hiding, Adolph.”

I left him on the front step scratching his head. I pressed the buzzer for Francine West, apartment 3C, and then opened the inner door when she answered my ring. The lobby of the building had been knocked down and done over with a huge glass panel facing the street. But inside the entrance doorway, the original wooden bannister swooped upward with the original rickety steps. I took the steps leisurely. On the third floor, I looked for 3C, found it, and pressed my thumb to the ivory stud set in the door jamb.

From behind the door, a voice said, “Who is it?”

“Matt Cordell,” I answered.

There was a pause. “I don’t know you.”

“Dennis Knowles sent me.”

“How do I know?”

“You don’t. Open the door and take a chance. Daylight rapes are very uncommon.”

Behind the door, Fran West stifled a laugh. I heard the bolt being thrown, and then the door opened a crack, held by the night chain. In the crack, Fran West said, “What do you want, Mr.…”

“Cordell. I want to talk to you about Dom Archese.”

“What about him?”

“Won’t it be easier inside?”

“It’s pretty easy the way it is,” Fran said.

“Your neighbors might overhear us. This is pretty confidential.”

“I’ve only got one neighbor and he leaves for work at six-thirty in the morning.”

“Dennis won’t like the way you’re treating a new member of the firm,” I said.

“Are you working for Dennis?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Since this morning.”

“Then you won’t mind if I call him to check, will you?”

“Not at all.”

“Your name is Cordell?”

“Matt Cordell, that’s right. If you’re going to call him, please hurry, will you? I don’t like standing in hallways.”

Fran thought about it for a moment. Then she said, “You sound okay,” and she took the chain off the door. It was thirty degrees cooler inside. I felt the chill instantly and almost shuddered. Fran didn’t seem to mind the cold. She was wearing a black sweater and black slacks, tapered to hug her ankles. She wore black slippers, and her hair was as black as her costume, blacker, the richest blackest hair I’d ever seen on a woman. Her eyes were brown, and she wore no makeup, no powder, no lipstick, so that the wide brown eyes became the focal point of what was essentially a plain face.

“Come on in the living room,” she said, and I followed her into a room with a fireplace on one wall and yellow nylon drapes on another. Dramatically, she went to stand by the draped wall instantly, a black shadow against the bright lemon yellow. “Sit down.”

“Thank you.” I sat. A cigarette box was on the table, so I lifted the lid and had one.

“What about Archese?” she said.

“He’s dead.”

“Killed or dropped?”

“He was shot.”

“That’s nice,” Fran said. She walked to the table and speared a cigarette for herself. Gallantly, I lighted it. She blew smoke at me and asked, “When did this happen?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“I guess I should have the morning papers delivered,”
she said. “I’m a late sleeper. By the time I get the news, it happened four days ago. How’d you get into this?”

“Dennis hired me. I used to work with him a long time ago,” I lied.

“What’s the matter? Didn’t he like the job I was doing?”

“He liked it fine. But murder complicates it a little. He feels a man ought to be around now.”

“Why?” she said, and it was a damn good question because I know of very few private investigators who will mess around with murder. The minute a homicide intrudes into a case, the private eye will pick up his fee and steal into the desert night.

“Johnny Bridges is involved,” I said. “He’s still the agency’s client until he notifies us otherwise. We may be able to save him a lot of trouble if we can establish where he was, what he was doing…”

“Cut the gobbledegook,” Fran said, “and tell me why Dennis thought he had to bring in somebody else on this.”

“He’s worried about you,” I said in a final stab.

“Ha!”

“He is. With a murderer running around, who can tell?” I shrugged in what I hoped was a realistically concerned manner.

“The day Dennis Knowles starts worrying about anyone but himself is the day I’ll run out to buy a padded bra,” Fran said. The image was not wasted on me. The girl’s bosom was high and full beneath the
black sweater, a natural softness crowding the wool, a softness foam rubber could never hope to achieve.

“You have a point,” I said, “but Dennis hired me anyway, and since we’re all in the same boat now, couldn’t we drop the suspicion and get down to brass tacks?”

Fran shrugged. “There’s only one brass tack, and it looks like I just sat on it. Dennis is dissatisfied with my work.”

“That’s not so,” I said. “Nor is it uncommon for more than one person to work on the same case. You should know that. How long have you been doing investigation work?”