Too Soon Dead (11 page)

“You will forgive us,” Grosfeder said, doing his best to bow an apology from a sitting position. “We are not used to working together on anything. It is why we accomplish so little.” This threatened to set off another round of German vocal exercise, but Grosfeder managed to squelch it before it got out of hand. When silence again reigned, he nodded to the man on his left. “You will speak what is necessary for us, Professor Eisen, yes?”

Eisen nodded and stood up. “I apologize for our uncivility,” he said. “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Brass. You, through your writings, have done much to teach we poor, confused émigrés what it means to live in America.”

Brass looked up with his “don’t kid a kidder” expression, his hands wide apart on the desk, a broad smile on his face. “Yes, valuable lessons about American life,” he said. “Gangsters, bootleggers, chorus girls, crooked politicians, nightclubs—”

“That is not the lesson,” Professor Eisen said, jumping in as Brass paused to take a breath. “You write also about the good things of America: about people of different nationalities working together, about a policeman who climbs a tree to rescue a kitten for a little girl.”

“Oh yes, the kitten story,” Brass said. “I got more letters about that—But the point of the story was that the cop got stuck up the tree himself, and they had to call the fire department to get him down.”

“Your point, perhaps,” Professor Eisen said. “But a policeman who rescues kittens is not a policeman who breaks windows and beats people up because they are socialists or communists or Jews.” Eisen sat down as though he were suddenly very tired.

Keis buttoned the top button of his blue suit jacket, sat up straight, and took a deep breath. “The truth is, Mr. Brass, that we are afraid of asking your help,” he said. “But then, we are afraid of everything. We have learned to live with fear, as others learned to live with a toothache or a wooden leg. But constant fear is a debilitating disease, and its primary symptoms are indecision and uncertainty. And so we go around even more indecisive and ineffectual than usual, and bicker among ourselves because there is a certain amount of pleasure in being able to yell at someone and a certain amount of safety in not agreeing on any course of action.”

“What are you afraid of,” Brass asked, “and in what way do you think I can help?”

“That is two separate questions,” Grosfeder broke in. “What we want you to do is investigate the murder of William Fox, and show—prove—that Max von Pilath had nothing to do with it. In which fact, I assure you, there is nothing but truth.”

“It is that the police are holding von Pilath under the suspicion of murdering William Fox,” Professor Eisen said. “And it is that Max von Pilath is not capable of killing anyone, and besides had absolutely no reason to wish this
New York World
reporter harm. But it is also that we would not be useful in speaking to the police. They will put his name on the ICPB, and the Berlin police—Max is from Berlin—will discover several crimes for which he is suspected, or even possibly convicted. And if we try to help directly, the results will be the same. I will become a bank robber in Frankfurt. My friend Keis here will be a man who molests small children in Munich. Perhaps the German police will even demand that we be exported.”

“Deported,” Grosfeder said.

“The German police would make up lies about you?” Brass asked, looking around at his guests. “I have always heard that the German police are among the most competent and efficient in the world.”

“The German police will do what the German government tells them to,” Grosfeder said. “Obedience to authority is one of their finest traits. And the government of Herr Hitler and his cronies does not encourage dissent.”

“So I have heard. You want me to intercede for you with the police in their investigation of Max von Pilath?”

“Yes,” Grosfeder said. “That is it.”

“We want you to tell the investigators that Max could not have done this,” Schulman said, his protruding eyes round with the earnestness of his words. “And further, that Sebastian Velo is a Fascist.” With each of these assertions Schulman stabbed the desk repeatedly with his ring finger, causing an impressive staccato of thumps.

“Sebastian Velo?”

“The man who runs the Madrid Travel Agency, which is located in the building across the street from our office,” Eisen said. “The man who swears to having seen Max and Mr. Fox together. The man who found the knife. He is a Spanish Fascist. And the Fascists and the Nazis have been known to do each other favors. For thirty years there was a dry-cleaning establishment in that shop. Then, eight months ago the Verein für Wahrheit und Freiheit rented an apartment to use as an office, and six months ago the dry cleaner went out of business and this Fascist moved in.”

“And on occasion,” Keis added, “a man is sitting in the window of the shop with a very expensive Leica camera, taking pictures of everyone who goes in or out of our building.”

“This is what we know,” Grosfeder said. “We do not know who killed Mr. Fox, but we believe that the Nazis are using the opportunity of his death to discredit us. They would rather kill us, and may get around to that, but this will suffice for the moment. In the process, of course, the truth of the death of Mr. Fox will be lost.”

“Von Pilath refuses to say where he was when Fox was killed,” Brass said. “Do you know?”

They all looked at one another. Professor Eisen leaned forward. “If the information is essential, we must share it. We have an apartment some blocks away that is our”—he searched for the word—“safety house. Most of the members know we have it, but only a few know where it is. Max was there.”

“Alone?”

“He was helping a family get settled into it, which is where they will be for the next few weeks.”

“Then why don’t they come forward and say so?”

“They are not in this country legally. They would be sent back to Germany. Besides, who would believe them? They would obviously say anything for the man who saved their lives.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “Their lives?”

Keis turned to look at me. “They are wanted by the Gestapo.”

“The whole family?” I asked.

“The Gestapo does not make fine distinctions,” Keis said.

“Did you get von Pilath a lawyer?” Brass asked.

“Not yet,” Grosfeder said.

“Well, you’d better do that next.” He stood up. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

They accepted dismissal gracefully and, after a few final words, they all stood up, put their hats and coats on, and filed out of the office. I followed them to see them out the door. They began a conversation in German while waiting for the elevator, and by the time it arrived their voices were raised and their hand gestures had become emphatic.

I returned to Brass’s office. Gloria and Cathy were putting the extra chairs back against the wall, and Brass was staring out the window. “They’re as nutty as fruitcakes,” I said.

Brass turned. “You think so?”

“Sure. What else? I don’t think they had anything to do with Bill’s murder, but they’re not making much sense about it. You’re spying against them, I’m spying against them. The police are in league with the Gestapo. The guy in the travel agency is sneaking pictures of them through the window.” I dropped into my chair. “Paranoid.”

“All of them?” Brass asked.

“Why not?” I asked. “Maybe they attract each other.”

“I thought they were very sincere,” Cathy said. “And they didn’t seem crazy, just frightened.”

Brass turned to Gloria. “What did you think?”

“They convinced me,” she said. “They’re afraid of something, and it’s very real to them. I think we ought to tread carefully.”

“I think I’ll tread downstairs and get a little lunch,” I said. “Unless you need me for something?”

“A good idea,” Brass said. “Go to Danny’s and bring back sandwiches and coffee for everyone. Put everything on my tab.”

Being the amanuensis of a world-famous columnist offers a wide variety of exciting job experiences. I took out my notebook. A pastrami on rye with a side of potato salad for Brass, egg salad on white for Cathy, a cup of naked tuna fish and a tomato for Gloria. I left.

D
anny’s Waterfront Café occupies the southwest corner of Tenth Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, two blocks from the water. It moved two years ago from its original location fronting the water, but Danny decided not to change the name. The café was opened in 1901, which makes it thirty-four years old. Danny was born in 1902. Manny, her father, opened the café during his wife’s pregnancy and named it after his impending son. When his son turned out to be a daughter, he shrugged, smiled, and named her Danette. Manny still works there occasionally, but Danny runs the place, and he’s gradually turning over the ownership to her. She now owns, as she puts it, all of the chairs and most of the tables. The place is open until at least two in the morning every day but Sunday, and many a night Brass and I have grabbed a late-night meal before Brass went off to some early morning cabaret and I went down to one of the Greenwich Village coffeehouses I sometimes hang out in, or, more often, home to bed.

I straddled a stool by the cash register and yelled my order to Danny, who was balancing five or six plates of food on her way over to one of the tables. The rule in the place was that everyone did whatever had to be done, and that included the owner. There were no separate waiters or busboys. Everyone waited tables, bussed tables, cleaned, mopped, and insulted the customers equally.

Danny nodded, mouthed a kiss in my direction, juggled the plates onto the table, and disappeared back into the kitchen. About five minutes later she emerged with a large brown bag and handed it to me. “Give my love to your boss,” she said. “I don’t see him much anymore. He talks about the Copa and the Sky Room in his columns, but he doesn’t come here.”

“You want a mention?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “No way,” she said. “I’m happy with the customers I got, and I don’t think that the ones who would come because of a mention in ‘Brass Tacks’ would do anything but crowd the place. But I like talking to Mr. Brass. He’s got an interesting head. Why don’t you and him come in some evening, late, so I’ve got time to sit down and argue with Mr. Brass. I’ll fry you a couple of steaks.”

“I’ll drag him down myself,” I promised her. “But you’ll have to forgive him the nightclubs. They’re a dreadful duty that he must perform to do his job. Just ask him.”

I told Danny to put the bill on Brass’s tab and ran back across the street clutching the paper bag. Gloria and Cathy were not in the office when I got back, having run over to the bank to deposit Cathy’s fortune, and Brass was staring at his typewriter in a splendid imitation of work, so I set the bag down and retreated to my own office. I hadn’t sharpened more than half a dozen pencils when the girls returned.

We all gathered in Brass’s office to eat. Brass, as usual, read tear sheets from one of the news wires while he ate—he had an insatiable curiosity about what was happening everywhere else. Gloria was reading a book:
The Good Earth
by Pearl S. Buck. I asked her what it was about, and she said, “China,” so I went back to my sandwich. Anyone who doesn’t recognize a conversational ploy when it is waved in front of her nose is not worth talking to. Cathy ate her egg salad and drank her orange juice staring into space, but she did eat, and that was a good sign.

After a minute Gloria closed her book. “What’s ‘Tacks’ going to be about today?” she asked.

“Celebrities,” Brass told her. “I talked with a couple at the Stork Club last night, and they gave me enough material to write a few thousand words without serious thought. Which is good, because I’m not sure I’m capable of serious thought today.”

“Who’d you see?” Gloria asked.

“Jimmy Durante and Mae West.”

“Together?” Cathy asked.

“No. Durante was at a table with a few of his cronies, telling bad jokes at the top of his voice—well, considering his voice, it was probably somewhere around the middle—to an ever-increasing circle of diners who looked thrilled to have their meals interrupted by a precocious, middle-aged, loud-mouthed imp.”

“Don’t be malicious,” Gloria said. “Be satirical. Remember, you’re the word slinger who skewers his victims with barbs of satire rather than cleaving them with the meat ax of malice.”

She was quoting a recent
Time
magazine profile that Brass had found more than usually offensive.

Brass grinned. “I like Jimmy,” he said. “I will neither skewer him nor cleave him. As a person. He’s friendly, loyal, reasonably honest. It’s as an entertainer that I can’t stand him, but that’s not his fault. And I am obviously in the minority.”

“I met him once when he played at the Hotsy Totsy Club,” Cathy said. “He was a gentleman.”

Gloria sniffed. “At the Hotsy Totsy Club a gentleman was any man who didn’t molest the help.”

“There is that,” Cathy agreed.

Brass said, “Jimmy came by my table on his way back from ‘taking a whiz.’ His words. He asked me why I haven’t mentioned ‘Jimmy da man—Jimmy da Human Bean’ in my column for the past six months and four days—not that he’s counting. I told him to say something funny so I can quote him.”

“Did he?” Cathy asked.

“He did his whole act for me right there. One of his sidemen wheeled a piano in and he plunked himself down at it. He sang two choruses of ‘Jimmy the Well-Dressed Man,’ and continued with half an hour of nonstop Durante. He said he figured there has to be something funny in it; people were laughing. And they were. Everyone in the place gathered around in a big circle, the center of which was Durante and his piano. And after a couple of minutes his manic energy transmitted itself to the crowd, and they were clapping and singing and stamping their feet along with him. I felt like I was watching Aristophanes, and I was the only one in the room who didn’t speak Greek. They all got it; I didn’t.”

“That’s a good story in itself,” Gloria said.

“I know,” Brass said. “After Durante left a silence seemed to settle on the room, like the aftermath of a hurricane, when everyone’s too exhausted to talk just from having been close to this great force of nature.”