Too Soon Dead (31 page)

“Here’s the answer,” Brass said, peering over the far edge of the building. I went to look. There was about three feet of iron ladder leading down from the roof, and then nothing but blank wall.

“A ladder to nowhere,” I said.

“There was a fire escape here until recently,” Brass pointed out, indicating some rusty iron bolts still protruding from the wall of the building below the ladder. “My guess is that it rusted out and either fell down of its own accord or was taken down because it was too dangerous to use.”

“And von Mainard didn’t know it was gone,” I said.

“That’s my guess. And once they were up on the roof, they were trapped. There’s no entrance from inside this building, and they couldn’t go back into the clinic with all the police and firemen there.”

“They didn’t have to shoot it out,” Inspector Raab said. “We didn’t have that much on von Mainard. I don’t even know if we could have gotten a conviction.”

Brass went over to von Mainard. “He died an aphorism,” he said. “‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth.’”

“So that’s an aphorism,” Raab said. “I thought it was a proverb. Well, we would have been pursuing soon enough.”

“That’s so,” Brass agreed, staring down at the defunct doctor. “I think, as you go through the building, you’ll find more than enough to convict him for a variety of crimes. He certainly had Fox and Dworkyn killed, but I don’t know whether we’ll be able to prove it. If his henchman lives, perhaps we can establish it. But I guess that doesn’t matter now. Which reminds me—” He picked up von Mainard’s overstuffed briefcase and hefted it. “Perhaps it might be wise if I keep this for you and, ah, do a little editing before you have to turn it in as evidence.”

“That would be irregular,” Raab said. He paused, and added, “I’ll get it from you this evening.”

A stream of people emerged from the ladder to the other rooftop, carrying stretchers and medical bags and other paraphernalia, which made it a good time for us to leave. Downstairs we ran into a passel of policemen with thick layers of gold braid on their uniforms and hats. Two of them cornered Raab and insisted on a complete report then and there. We elbowed by and onto the sidewalk.

A short, bald, bemused-looking elderly man carrying an oversized doctor’s bag was being escorted up the steps by two detectives. “The safe’s in a downstairs office,” one of them was telling him. “How long do you think it will take you to get it open?”

Brass chuckled silently to himself as we headed down the street.

“What’s so funny?” I demanded.

“They won’t find anything in the safe,” he told me.

“Why not?”

“Shoes left carrying an overcoat, but he didn’t have one when we came in,” he said.

“Oh,” I said.

Garrett was waiting in the car, peacefully sleeping behind the wheel. Cathy was curled up in the backseat, covered by a red and white blanket, but she was awake. “What’s been happening?” she asked.

“You may tell William,” Brass said gently, “that those who sent him to heaven are now on their way to hell.”

B
rass spent the weekend pondering and considering and playing with his toys. He took the Lagonda out for a long solo drive to somewhere in Connecticut and back. I contented myself with deep breathing and lighting joss sticks. On Monday morning Inspector Raab called. Herr Vogel had fled the
Europa
when it docked at Southampton and asked for asylum in England even before Scotland Yard had gone after him. A steward on the ship, who also sought asylum, had warned Vogel that a Gestapo welcoming party awaited him at Bremen.

According to Vogel, he had taken the picture collection to his pal Herm as insurance, because he was beginning to suspect that Dr. von Mainard’s motives were not pure. You can believe as much of that as you like.

Dworkyn made the mistake of going to Dr. von Mainard, thinking that Vogel had snapped the pictures without von Mainard’s knowledge. Apparently Dworkyn had shown the same sort of reticence at explaining himself that he had demonstrated in Brass’s office, and von Mainard thought that Dworkyn was trying to blackmail him. The good doctor had tortured Dworkyn and gotten Vogel’s name as the picture supplier and Brass’s name as the person holding the other set. Vogel thought he had convinced Dr. von Mainard that Herman had stolen the pictures, but the steward’s story had shown him the error of his beliefs.

“Very efficient, the doctor,” Brass commented. “Sending Vogel home to be killed eliminates the problem of disposing of the body.”

Brass sent me to Senator Childers’s apartment with a photograph and a note commanding the senator’s presence in his office. The senator did not want to come to Brass’s office. People came to the senator, he did not go to them. But the photograph was a powerful incentive. Childers didn’t ask me any questions, he just put his jacket on and stomped to the elevator. He stormed out of his building and jumped into a cab, and if I hadn’t been quick it would have left without me. He did not speak to me or even look at me during the brief ride. But he hadn’t become a member of the country’s most exclusive men’s club without learning how to fight in the trenches.

“Just what does this mean?” Childers demanded, stomping to Brass’s desk and slamming his hand down on the polished walnut. With the other hand he waved the photograph at Brass. “What do you and your pinko newspaper think you’re going to do with this?”

Brass, who had been staring out at the Hudson when Childers came in, slowly swiveled his chair around to face the senator. “Sit down,” he said sharply.

Childers gave the desk a series of sharp slaps with his hand. “If you think this phony—this obvious composite is going to frighten me—”

“Sit down, Senator,” Brass repeated. “I have brought you here to ease your mind, not to add to your burden.”

Childers dropped into the chair. “What?”

“Although I don’t know why I should. I find your politics abhorrent, your ethics Byzantine, and your sexual practices repulsive. You almost deserve to continue thinking that you killed that girl.”

Childers jumped to his feet. “Excuse me, sir! What girl? Of just what is it you’re accusing me?” He leaned forward until his pugnacious nose was scant inches from Brass’s. “If you print one word of that libel, I’ll sue you for everything you’re worth! Bigger men than you have tried to harass me, accuse me of things, horrible things, but they all went away. I saw to it—and I can see to you!”

“Sit down, sir!” Brass bellowed, with a voice louder and deeper than I had ever heard come from his throat before. Childers slowly lowered himself back into the chair. “Among your other qualities, you don’t listen,” Brass said. He reached into his desk drawer and took out a stack of photos. Leaning forward, he lined them up on the desk in front of Childers, one by one, as though he were laying out a hand of bridge for his partner. “You have seen these before?”

“Clever forgeries,” Childers said, leaning back in his chair and staring at Brass.

“These show you making love to a woman,” Brass said, pointing to the first photos in the row. “These show you beating the same woman with a belt and—is that a squash racket? These show the woman dead from her beating. The photos are all genuine. I have had them looked at by an expert. I have seen the girl.” He added two photos to the line. “Her body is in the morgue at Bellevue.”

Childers started to say something, but the words didn’t come out. He slumped in his chair. “She was found then,” he said. “They assured me… no matter.” He gestured toward me. “Send him out of here. I want to talk to you.”

“Mr. DeWitt stays,” Brass said. “If you like, I’ll do all the talking. There is nothing you can tell me that I do not already know, except possibly some corroborating details.”

Childers stared at something on the desk for a while, and then he straightened up and stared out the window behind Brass. He wasn’t seeing anything. “I can tell you,” he said finally, “because you already know. But even so, it isn’t easy. God, how I’ve wanted to tell someone, but who?”

“I don’t need details,” Brass said hurriedly. “Please, spare me the details. In broad outline, you occasionally like to beat women as part of what, I suppose, we must consider sexual foreplay.”

“It’s not that I like to,” Childers said. He looked down at the floor and crossed his arms in front of him and hugged himself as though to equalize a great pressure from within his chest. “It comes over me sometimes, an irresistible impulse. But I’ve never actually hurt anyone before.”

“You mean you haven’t damaged them beyond the ability of your money to repair,” Brass said harshly.

Childers looked up at Brass, and then looked away. “Yes, I suppose…”

“But you were in a room with this girl in Dr. von Mainard’s clinic, and you lost control,” Brass said.

“Yes.”

“He gave you an injection first?”

Childers thought for a second. “Yes. He always did. Vitamins.”

“Vitamins. And during this—session—you beat her.”

“Yes. I remember hitting her, but not that badly. I must have gone into a rage. I blacked out.”

“And Dr. von Mainard had pictures.”

“Yes. Of me hitting her, and of her lying dead. I didn’t mean to kill her.”

“And Dr. von Mainard wanted something in return for his silence?”

“Yes. Sort of. He said he would occasionally come to me with a request. Nothing onerous.”

Brass shook his head. “You are a fool,” he said. “Von Mainard was a Nazi, working for the German government. We found documentation; the Germans, apparently, keep records of everything. God knows what he would have asked—demanded—of you. First, you were given a powerful drug that released your inhibitions. And we already know where that would take you, don’t we? But, second, you didn’t kill the girl.”

“But I… the body.”

Brass passed Childers two more pictures. “This is the damage you did. It’s not pleasant, but notice that when these photographs were taken the girl was very much alive. Dr. von Mainard decided that a very badly beaten corpse would be a much stronger hold over you.”

“So he—”

“That’s right. And then he realized that a photographer he used was stealing negatives. And so several more people died. But you didn’t kill the girl.”

Childers was silent for a long time, his gaze shifting about the room. And then he said to Brass, “What do you want?”

“I’d like you to leave the senate, but I suppose that’s too much to ask,” Brass told him. “I’m not going to blackmail you. But I am going to hang on to a selected few of these pictures. If I hear of you assaulting another woman, I will consider using them. You can’t buy me off, and you can’t buy this girl off; she’s dead.”

Childers stood up. “I won’t offer to shake your hand,” he said. “But you have relieved me of a terrible burden, and I thank you.” He went to the door, and then paused and turned back to Brass. “I am thinking of remaining faithful to my wife henceforth,” he said. “She is an Epping and, like all of her clan, has a will of iron. I wouldn’t dare touch her. I am afraid of her.” And so he left.

“How on earth,” I said to Brass, “did you figure all that out?”

Brass shrugged. “There were two or three other possibilities,” he said, “but that was the most probable.” He stared out the window for a minute and then said over his shoulder, “Go open the mail and let me think. I have a column to get out, and I have no idea what to write about.”

* * *

A few last notes: Brass made a date with Bobbi Dworkyn to fill her in about her brother. He may have had more than talk in mind, since he didn’t have to take her to the Sky Room for conversation, but Brass keeps his personal life very personal and I want to keep my job. Cathy is singing at the Opal Room, backed by a quartet called the Spirit of Swing, and is packing them in. Glen Miller has made her an offer to front his band, but he’s on the road all year and she’s not sure she’d like that. She’s still thinking it over. I’m up to page forty-three of the novel. I’m still seeing Elizabeth, but—well, that’s my business. Garrett is writing an opera for dogs called
The Barker of Seville.
Gloria is—Gloria. Inscrutable as always. And a good thing, too.

I
would like to acknowledge the material assistance of Sharon Jarvis at a time when I truly needed assistance. And I thank Keith Kahla for intelligent editing that improved the book.

M
ichael Kurland is the author of more than thirty books, but is perhaps best known for his series of novels starring Professor Moriarty. The first volume,
The Infernal Device
, was nominated for an Edgar Award and the American Book Award, and received stellar reviews, including this from Isaac Asimov: “Michael Kurland has made Moriarty more interesting than Doyle ever made Holmes.” It was followed by
Death By Gaslight
,
The Great Game
,
The Empress of India
and
Who Thinks Evil
, published over a period of more than thirty years.

Kurland is also well known as a science fiction writer, and is the author of
The Unicorn Girl
, as well as the bestselling T
en Little Wizards
and
A Study in Sorcery
, fair-play detective stories set in a world where magic works. He has edited several Sherlock Holmes anthologies and written non-fiction titles such as
How to Solve a Murder: The Forensic Handbook
. He lives in California.

Two-Headed Mary, the philanthropic panhandler who dresses like a society matron when she approaches theatergoers for donations to nonexistent charities, is missing. So is sidelined hoofer Billie Trask, who disappeared from the cashier’s office of K. Jeffrey Welton’s hit show Lucky Lady with the weekend take. Could either of them have followed a third Broadway babe, Fine and Dandy chorine Lydia Laurent—whose strangled, nude body, accompanied by two complete suits of clothing, has been found in Central Park? If this seems like an awful lot of women in jeopardy, Two-Headed Mary turns out to have enough separate identities to populate a small European monarchy: She’s claimed under various guises by a Broadway hanger-on, a daughter, a husband, and a big-time con man, the Professor, who’s got even more cover stories than she does. Since the police are as helpless as they always are in 1935, it falls to New York World columnist Alexander Brass and his cheerfully wide-eyed sidekick Morgan DeWitt to dig up the truth.