He must have thought we were shuffling along ahead of him in the crowd. He kept on going, taking life easy, and we stayed with him all the way to Broadway.
Then Maddy went into her act.
We picked up a little speed and moved even with him, Maddy on the inside. Just as we moved into the mainstream of pedestrian traffic Maddy brushed up against him and let out a yell they could have heard in Secaucus. Everybody within three blocks turned and stared at her. The little guy stared, too, and his eyes popped halfway out of his pudgy head.
So it was my turn. I yelled: “You rotten son of a bitch!” Then I grabbed him with one hand and hit him with another. He bounced off the side of the building and looked at me with the sickest expression anybody ever had.
“Horrible,” Maddy kept telling the world. “Dirty little pervert. Put his hands all over... oh, horrible!”
The jerk looked the part. He had runny eyes and a weak mouth and glasses half an inch thick. When I hit him the second time he lost the glasses. They landed on the sidewalk and somebody ground them into the pavement.
I was still hitting him when a cop turned up. He was big and rosily Irish and he wanted to know what the hell I was doing. I didn’t have to tell him. The crowd — a big one, and all rooting for me, defender of chastity and feminine virtue — let him know just what was happening and why. He gave our shadow a very unhappy look.
“I could take him in,” he said. “But it’s a heap of trouble. You’d have to swear out a complaint and make an appearance in court. And I’d have to come in and testify. Work for everybody.”
I commiserated with him.
“I’ll tell you,” the cop said. “Why don’t you just belt him a few times and forget him? He won’t pull a stunt like that again, I’ll tell the world. And my eyes will be open for him from now on.”
That sounded like a good idea. I stood the shadow up against the wall and hit him in the face. He lost a few teeth and his nose started to bleed.
“Tell Bannister to go to hell,” I told him.
I hit him again. Then I piled Maddy into a cab and we left him there.
“I wish you’d put that thing away,” Maddy was saying. “It scares me stiff.”
I’d been checking the Beretta to make sure it was loaded. It was. I put it back together and gave it a pat, then dropped it back in my jacket pocket.
“Take off your jacket,” she said. “Relax.”
I hung my jacket on a doorknob and sank down again on the couch. We were in Maddy’s apartment where the cab had dropped us. It was late.
“Poor Ed,” she said. “How do you feel now?”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Bad?”
I nodded. “The cognac wore off,” I said. “I can feel my stomach again. I should have stopped for a bottle.”
“Look in the kitchen.”
I gave her a long look, then stood up and went into the little kitchen. Red and white linoleum covered the floor. A gas stove sat in one corner and looked dangerous. An antique refrigerator sat in another corner and looked undependable. There was a rickety table between them, painted to match the linoleum, and on top of it there was a bottle of Courvoisier. A pint, unopened.
I picked it up gently and carried it back to the living room. Maddy had a smile on her face and a gleam in her eyes. “This,” I said, “was not here yesterday.”
“The great detective is right.”
“And you’re not much of a brandy drinker. You didn’t buy this for your own consumption, Madeleine.”
She blushed beautifully. “The detective is right again,” she said. “I bought it this afternoon before I went detecting for you. I sort of hoped you’d be up here soon. Now pour yourself a drink while I sit here and feel wanton.”
I opened the bottle and poured drinks for both of us.
I gave her about an ounce and filled my glass to the brim. I drank off some of the brandy and told my stomach it could relax now. Then I gave Maddy her glass and sat on the couch with her, sipping and smoking, while the world got better again.
She said: “You’re not going home tonight.”
I started to say something but she didn’t give me a chance. “Don’t flatter yourself, Ed. I don’t have any designs on your virtue. Not in your condition. It would probably kill you.”
“Sounds like—”
“—a good way to go. I know all about it. Don’t hand me a hard time, Ed. You’re staying here tonight You can’t go back to your apartment. You’d be a sitting duck and God knows how many people want to shoot you.”
“Not too many,” I told her. “I could always take a hotel room.”
She said NO very emphatically. “It’ll take you hours to find one and hours to fall asleep. And this is the best hotel in New York, Ed. Here you get congenial companionship, room and board, and the use of an untapped phone. What more could you ask for?”
“That’s plenty. You make it sound sensible.”
“It is sensible,” she insisted. “And you’re staying. Agreed?”
I agreed. I slipped an arm around her and took a sip of the cognac. I was getting tired but I didn’t feel like sleep. I was too comfortable to think about moving.
“I’ve got a feeling,” she said suddenly. “I don’t think you should be on that Peter Armin’s side.”
“Oh? I thought you liked him.”
She bit her lip. “I do, kind of. But he’s a crook, Ed. He wants to make an illegal profit on stolen jewels. If you get the briefcase back are you going to give it to him?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Even though it’s illegal?”
I took a sip of the cognac. “We made a bargain,” I told her. “Besides, I’m looking for a killer. Not a batch of jewels. A murderer.”
“But—”
“And the murderer’s all I give a damn about,” I went on. “Why in hell should I care what happens to the jewels? Armin’s as much entitled to them as anybody else. Who do they belong to? Wallstein’s dead and buried. His widow shouldn’t get them — they weren’t his to give her and she wasn’t married to him legally, anyway. The original owners are either dead or lost. Who’s next in line? The government of Argentina, as a reward for harboring a Nazi?”
I took a breath. “I don’t care about them. Armin may be as crooked as a corkscrew. As far as I’m concerned he’s welcome to the briefcase and the jewels and whatever he can get out of this mess. All I care about is a killer.”
“Then why did you ask for five thousand dollars?”
“Because otherwise he would have thought I was insane. And because Bannister’s boys ruined my home and my appetite. I’ve been shot at and followed and slugged. Hell, I don’t have a client — I might as well get a little compensation one way or the other. I can use five grand.”
She nodded, digesting this. I couldn’t tell whether she approved or not. Hell, I’m not a plaster saint. Single men in barracks don’t grow into them.
“What I wonder now,” I said, “is how much of Armin’s story is true.”
“You think he lied?”
“I’m sure he lied. It’s a question of degree.” I shrugged. “I can’t swallow that routine of his about being a clever operator waiting in the wings to make a neat profit. It’s too damned cute. I’d like to know where he fits in.”
“Any ideas, Mr. London, sir?”
“A couple,” I said. “Notice how formal he is? You’re not the only one who calls me ‘Mr. London.’ He’s never called me anything else. He even refers to our boy Clay as ‘Mr. Bannister.’”
“It’s a common affectation, Ed.”
“Sure. But Sheila-Alicia was always just plain ‘Alicia’ to him. I’ve got a hunch he knew her when. Think back a minute. He talked about her almost reminiscently. Remember?”
“I didn’t notice. But now that you mention it...”
I grinned. “Now that I mention it, I think he’s one of the jewel thieves. Or Alicia’s buddy from the past, hooking up with her again to pull a quick one.”