A black Steinway dominated the far corner of the room. The chairs were works of sculpture, flowing in marble simplicity into lines that blended with the room's decor. Through the picture window, the men could see the red reflection of the setting sun glinting off the sides of passenger ships tied up in New York harbor.
Grover let out a low, long whistle and suddenly wished he had waited to reach the chief. The cigar in his mouth felt like an indictment against his rearing. He stuffed it, wet and sticky end first, into the pocket of his overcoat.
Reed just kept mashing his notebook into his hat.
Finally, the butler returned.
"Mr. Felton will see you gentlemen. If you'll follow me, no smoking please."
When the butler opened the door to the study, Grover knew he had made a mistake. This was not the East Hudson kind of person he was used to dealing with, not the mayor whom he had known as a shyster lawyer or the leading town physician who while drunk had once fumbled away the life of an infant.
It was a different breed of man who sat in the cherrywood chair, his legs crossed under a cashmere robe, a thin volume on his lap. His graying hair, immaculately groomed, seemed to highlight a strong-lined, somber face. His eyes were light blue and unmoving.
An aura of greatness and elegance seemed to permeate his being, as if his presence lent dignity to the book-lined walls. He seemed like what men should be, but never were.
"Mr. Felton," the butler said, "the two police gentlemen."
Mr. Felton nodded and the butler ushered them into the study. The servant placed two chairs near Felton's knees. To his right was a high-polished oak desk. Behind him, drawn curtains.
Mr. Felton nodded. The butler left. Grover sat down hesitantly. Reed followed.
"We're sorry to bother you," Grover said. Mr. Felton raised a hand in a gesture of reassurance. Grover shifted in his seat. His pants suddenly felt hot and wrinkled tight. "I don't know how to begin this, Mr. Felton."
The gray-haired man leaned forward and smiled benevolently. "Go ahead," he said softly.
Grover glanced at Reed's pad and nodded.
"A man was found about an hour ago in front of this building. From the way his body was crushed, we think he fell from one of these apartments."
"Someone saw him fall, you mean," Felton asked in a tone suggesting more of a statement than a question.
Grover tilted his head like a man suddenly seeing a door open where none had been before. "No, no," he said. "No one saw him fall. But we've seen a lot of these plungers and I'm almost sure, begging your pardon, that he came from this building."
"I'm not almost sure," the dignified owner said.
Reed demolished his notebook in his twisting hands. Grover swallowed again, his throat suddenly as dry as a summer sidewalk. He started to say something, but a motion from Felton's hands cut him off.
"I'm not almost sure, I'm positive," Felton said.
The two detectives sat motionless. Felton continued: "There have been several families in this building who have entertained rather... how can I say it... rather odd types. We have a careful screening process before leasing an apartment, but as you men know, you cannot always be sure of the caliber of tenant. I believe the man jumped or..." Felton lowered his head as if gaming strength to force the words out. He looked into the blinking eyes of Grover and said: "God forgive me, I believe he may have been pushed."
Felton stared at the thin volume of poetry on his lap. "I know how horrendous this may sound to you, the taking of a human life. But it is possible, you know. There are cases of it."
If their jobs had not been at stake, Grover and Reed would have been hysterical with laughter at someone telling two homicide detectives that murder actually existed in the world. But what could you expect from someone so refined, who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and who insulated himself against the world with books of poetry?
Felton went on. "I was on the balcony of my apartment an hour ago, leaning over and looking down at the street below when I saw the man fall. He came off the balcony of the eighth floor. My butler and I went down there, but it is an empty apartment. It has been vacant for some time. No one was there. If the man was pushed, his assailant had escaped. I was going to volunteer this information, but I was so unnerved I had to return here for a few minutes to regain my composure. What a terrible thing."
"Yeah. We know how rough it must be on you, sir," Grover said.
"Rough," Reed agreed.
"Terrible and frightening," Felton continued. "And to think that whoever pushed this person... if he was pushed... may be living in this very building now."
Felton looked into the eyes of the two detectives. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you a great favor. I've already told Bill and he's agreed."
"Bill?" Grover asked.
"Yes. Mayor Dalton. Bill Dalton."
"Oh, yes," Grover said. "Sure."
"That man who was in the street. The dead one."
"He's not dead," Grover said.
"Oh."
"He will be in a little while, but he ain't yet. Pretty bad though, you know, sir."
"Oh, how terrible. But this may help us. I want you to find out who he is, where he is from, as soon as possible. Before midnight if possible. We have extremely good references and background on all the people living here. If there is some connection, we might be able to find it."
The detectives nodded. "We already started a routine check," Grover said.
"Make it more than routine and I'll see you will be well rewarded."
Grover pushed out his fat, thick hands as though shoving away a second helping of strawberry shortcake. "Oh, no. We don't want nothing like that. We're just happy to..."
Grover didn't get a chance to finish his refusal. Felton had smoothly taken two envelopes from the pages of the volume of poetry. "My card is in here, gentlemen," he said. "Please call as soon as you learn something."
When the butler returned after ushering out the two policemen, he said: "You could have bluffed your way through. You didn't have to buy them off."
"I didn't buy them off, stupid," Felton said, flipping the poetry on the desk. He rose from the chair and rubbed his hands.
The butler shrugged. "What'd I say, boss? What'd I say?"
"Nothing, Jimmy. I'm kind of griped."
"What's to worry?"
Felton shot a cold glance at Jimmy. Then he turned his back on him and walked toward the curtains shielding the balcony. "Where'd he come from?"
"What?"
"Nothing, Jimmy. Fix me a drink."
"Right, boss. And one for me."
"Yeah, sure. One for you."
Felton parted the curtains and walked out into the twilight air, twelve stories over East Hudson, on the building he had created.
He brushed some spilled earth from a toppled potted palm with his white velvet slipper. It made a scratching noise against the white tiles of the balcony. He walked to the edge, rested his hands on the aluminum railing and inhaled the fresh air blowing off the Hudson.
The air was clean up there. And he had paid for every brick to get him that high into the cool refreshing breezes. It was free of soot, not like the streets across the river on the lower East Side with pushing crowds, vendors, factories and mothers screaming at kids-when mothers were home. Felton's had rarely been.
Of course, there had been the nights. He would feel a tap on his shoulder, look up, and see his mother and smell the stench of alcohol. There was always a man behind, outlined by the light of the hallway. There was no place else for him to stand. It was a small apartment. One room. One bed. He was in it.
She'd nudge and he'd go out in the hallway. "Hey, leave the pillow," she would yell. And he'd leave it and go outside into the hallway and curl up near the door. During the winter he would bring his coat.
He lived on the top floor then, too. But on Delancey Street on the lower East Side, the top floor was the bottom of the social ladder, even without a whore for a mother. There were no elevators on the lower East Side. The top meant walking.