“What did the dirty ripper do? Row around the harbor to scatter the pieces far and wide?”
“Tide might carry a leg out of the Gowanus to Governors, caught it just right. Arm was probably dumped in with it. One drifted; the other stuck in the mud. We might have to dredge a bit. For the rest of him.”
The Sergeant wiped foam off his lips. “I knew I should not of put them grappling irons away in mothballs. Shall we be up and doing?”
“Another little errand for you, first.”
“Would it be a trip to the yacht to see Lady Itchy-britches, perchance?” The Sergeant tapped the rim of his glass. “A couple of these under my belt and I feel like a new woman.”
“Doesn’t concern the female of the species. Hop over to Pier Nine. Ask that super, Hurlihan, if he’s seen or heard from Merrill Ovett. What he was doing Sunday morning, around noon. Bigwig Berger, at the Line offices, claims Joslin was with Hurlihan at the Sulgrave Hotel. But Joslin says he was with Merrill Ovett. Maybe all three of them got together. Like to know about that.”
A City News legman strolled past, chewing on a toothpick. “They’ll be fitting you birds out with depth charges, now, won’t they, Lieutenant?”
“Yair? Why?”
“Didn’t you hear? Flash just came through. One of those new super-subs was sighted only a few miles off Fire Island Light, just after dark last night. By those survivors the Algonquin brought in.”
“Ah! Somebody probably saw some wreckage moving in a tide-rip, — thought they’d spotted the grampa of all periscopes. Don’t get the public gidgety over a report like that.” He dismissed it with an offhand gesture and the newshawk moved on.
But there was nothing offhand about the urgency with which Koski put his call through to Coast Guard Intelligence...
XVIII
Henry Sutlee Fross marched briskly down the marbled corridor of the thirty-eighth floor, past an arched door with the unobtrusive inscription:
He used a pass-key, opened a door bearing no lettering nor any number. The furnishings of the room were somewhat unusual for an office building. In a blue-tiled fireplace embers glowed cheerfully; the pungent tang of hickory was evident. A chaise longue was arranged at one side of the tile hearth, a chair in cinnamon-colored chintz on the other. Carafes and bottles on a midget bar glistened under the soft light of a lime-shaded table lamp. The paintings on the walls were cubist still lifes; the frames wide and unpainted.
Fross took off his rubbers, placed them neatly on the floor of the tiny lavatory, scrubbed his hands vigorously with a silver nail-brush, craned his neck up to a heavy, circular mirror. What he saw through his pince-nez was a round moon-face with chastely pink cheeks, a clipped military mustache above small, thick lips. He brushed his hair back from its mathematically centered part, went out into the private cubicle, still brushing.
A cherry-wood box was murmuring: “...gentleman has been waiting fifteen minutes, sir... says it’s urgent and he knows you’re in...”
Fross tapped a switch. “Don’t be obscure, Herman. What gentleman?” The switch clicked once more.
“...Morrie Schlauff, sir... says you will want to see him...”
“He hopes.” Fross curled up the corners of his lips, unsmiling. “Two minutes. In the office. I’ll be out to anyone else.”
“How’re you today, Mister Fross?” The man who came in was thin and alert; there was practically no chin under his sleazy mustache; his front teeth protruded like those of a rodent. “You’re harder to get to than the box-office man at a hit show.” He carried a folded newspaper in his right hand, slapped it against his thigh, as he spoke.
“I’ve been at court. What’s so urgent?”
“Dough.” Morrie Schlauff sat down, crossed his legs. “The purse is starving for dough.”
“You’ve already received your... ah... retainer. We agreed on that.”
“Past tense.” Schlauff waggled the toe of a worn, brown oxford. “This is present. I’m upping the price. I want three hundred dollars an’ I got to have it now.”
Fross put on a patient expression. “I’ll have to get hold of the client.”
“Do we have to go over that same routine again? I told you I know who the client is. You’re the client. So go ahead. Tell yourself to come across with three hundred more. On account.”
“You’re in error, Morrie.” The lawyer made his eyes smile. “I’m acting for a client.”
“I know who you’re acting for. Do I get the money?”
Fross chuckled. “I presume you’ve earned it?”
“You presume right.” Schlauff held the newspaper in his lap, smoothing the fold.
There was a pause. Fross laughed outright. “I’m waiting to see if it’s worth an advance, Morrie.”
“You’ll grow roots in that chair, then, Mister Fross. I got something and it’s red hot. But it cost me to get it. There might be more where that came from and that’ll cost, too.” He waved the newspaper. “If you don’t want it, I know where I can peddle it.”
The lawyer tilted his head to one side, shook it once. “You’re a very difficult person to deal with.” He slid open the top right-hand drawer of the desk, leaned over it and said: “Herman.”
“...yes, Mister Fross?”
“Three hundred dollars. In fives and tens. Debit to the Schlauff entry. Have it ready there.” He closed the drawer. “If I’d known at the beginning—”
“You’d still have hired me. Or someone like me. You couldn’t have gone to one of the big agencies. So why bellyache now! Maybe if I’d known what I was getting into I wouldn’t have taken the business, myself.”
“Difficulties?”
“I never run into such a flock of plainclothes cops in my life. All kinds, — city police, Uncle Sams, private guards. They been in my hair.”
Fross registered mild surprise. “Why all the commotion?”
“A mere matter of homicide, is all.”
The lawyer’s face showed no emotion. “Mrs. Ovett?”
“Uh, uh. Man. That suitcase thing. It’s in all the papers.” He giggled. “I should be telling you. You probly know more about it than I do.”
“I know nothing about it.”
“Here.” Schlauff unfolded an afternoon edition, tossed it on the desk. “Second colyum. Halfway down.”
The lawyer read it swiftly “This doesn’t tell me anything. Who was he? Who killed him? How does it concern the subject of our investigation?”
The fox-faced man held up a finger. “Ansel Gjersten, late engineer aboard the good ship Seavett.” His second digit went up. “Nobody knows. Least, the cops or the G-boys don’t seem to be sure. They’re running around in circles, masterminding.” A third finger joined the first two. “My private, off-the-stand opinion is, a certain M.O. gave him the bump. On account of Mrs. O.”
Fross put his tongue between his lips as if he was trying something on his taste buds. “Rather complicates the situation.”
“Not as long as I’m the only one who knows it. You wanted something on M.O. I cased the Wyatt end, north and south. There might be something to it, but it would be tough to establish. M.O.’s been out of town most of the time. He has a residence up on Riverside. The Wyatt girl hasn’t ever been there, or to his yacht or anywhere else with him except spaghetti joints around the waterfront. So that wouldn’t amount to much if you were figuring to use it as a lever for... whatever you want it for.”
Fross smiled pleasantly. “For a client.”