“You haven’t seen him?” Joe asked.
“I didn’t say I hadn’t seen him.”
“Then don’t be cute with me,” Joe cautioned. “When was he here?”
“Ten minutes ago, maybe fifteen minutes,” the night clerk said. “He came in, bought a paper, then went out.” The clerk nodded towards the stacked editions on the desk.
“He went out to eat?”
“That’s right. Next door he went.”
“Many dear thanks,” Joe said.
“No thanks at all,” the night clerk said. “Thank City Hall what gave you the badge.”
Solly Druze sat in the big and nearly empty cafeteria eating pineapple-cheesecake, which is not a breakfast item. On Solly’s inverted calendar it was a go-to-bed goodie. He pushed the last bit on his fork with his little finger. He seemed pleased with the pineapple-cheesecake and not tired at all, for he blew his nose with great force in his paper napkin. He shoved his newspaper aside and got up, replacing his reading glasses with his ordinary ones. At the fountain against the wall he drank some water, swishing it in his mouth, decisively. He was a decisive fellow, Solly. He paid his check and walked outside. He went through the lobby of the adjacent hotel and into the waiting elevator there. And this was where Joe chose to join him.
“Good morning, Solly.”
The elevator began to climb. It was not a rapid one, but grilled and fancy and old, rocking leisurely in its ascent. The car was lined with mirrors which at certain angles displayed more Solly Druzes than you would need to stuff a jail. Retired from sinful habit, and ostentatiously reformed (if you could believe it), Solly had once been a thief of staggering consequence. Not yet 50, he was stylish and healthy, and by reputation, brave. Carefully now he appeared to examine his beard in one of the mirrors. It had prospered through the night.
“And good morning to you, young man,” said Solly finally.
The tone was forced, Joe knew. The elevator stopped and they got out together. Together they walked along the figured carpet of the long, long corridor.
“This is a pinch,” Joe said. “I’m the man with the lock and key.”
Solly laughed. “You’d better go home an’ squeeze some of the custard out of your head. Stop botherin’ me.” He began to open the door of his apartment.
Joe shoved Solly and the door with calculated violence. Solly fell down on a rich throw-rug with force enough to make it slide on the polished floor. His glasses fell off. Joe walked ahead of him with a large I-am-the-boss-of-this-thing stride through all the rooms of the apartment. It was very beautiful.
“This is your office, huh?”
The office faced on Broadway and the morning light came into it big. It was all glass brick, like in a dentist’s. It was as nice as you’d want.
“I wish I could live this fancy,” Joe said.
Solly called him a blistering number of obscene things. The puffed and dry saliva appeared like cotton pellets in the corners of his mouth. Solly had hot been forcibly kicked loose from his dignity in many years. He wore his hatred like a bright flag. Yes, Solly could kill a man, Joe thought; with hate this high it would hurt him no more than to swallow an orange pit.
“Did Kennedy bounce you around, too, Solly?” Joe asked quietly. “After he gave you the money back, that is.”
The words hit Solly like a flat plank in the face. There was no mistaking the shock. In Joe’s own head the notion cracked like a knuckle: Freddie Gelb never told him I knew. Freddie didn’t dare tell Solly, and in due time, as insurance, Freddie would have attempted to get me,
“Freddie Gelb never told you I saw him give Kennedy the money? Don’t stare at me, Solly. These things get complicated and require attention. There’s always another patch of dust that you have to sweep under the rug. Like, for instance, here.”
Joe knelt on the deep pile of the broadloom carpeting. It was the color known in decorating shops as “greige.” Solly watched him, blinking, but, evidently, could see nothing.
“Put on your reading glasses, Solly.”
“What is that?”
“It sure isn’t dandruff, Solly,” Joe said. “Never mind what it is. You should have told the lady to vacuum the rug a couple of times, at least.”
“You’re talkin’ mumbo-jumbo,” Solly said. “You’re makin’ it up.” The cotton puffs were bigger in the corners of his mouth.
“Relax, Solly,” Joe said. “I’ve known since Tuesday, and yet the cops gave you no more than a routine check. You’d be clear as Kennedy’s own wife — except for me.”
Solly stepped back, his tongue rinning over dry lips. “Tell me more.”
“Well, that’s as far as I go with the things I know about. I figure Kennedy not only gave you back the dough, but let you know he was turning you in, and maybe himself as well. My guess is that Freddie killed Kennedy for you, because it was neat, out-of-doors, and it required better eyesight than you’ve got yourself. Shooting Freddie in his own bed was closer to your talents. You figured you wrapped up the package tight. You just didn’t know about me.”
“I know about you now,” Solly said. He spoke very softly. His breathing, deep in his chest, seemed louder than his speech. “How much do you want?”
“I’ll be expensive, Solly, but I won’t be like Kennedy. I won’t come marching back with it. Ten won’t buy me. But it could be a nice down payment.”
“Don’t boss me,” Solly shouted. “Don’t be so big. You’ll take what you get. If you’ve kept your mouth shut this long, you can’t afford to talk much now.”
Joe reached for him and caught the lapels of his coat. He lifted Solly and pulled him over the top of the desk, turning him like a sack of grain. “Talk to me like that and I’ll jump on your face.” He held him very close. “Get the money now,” he directed, then let Solly go.
It was that way. It took time, while they appraised one another. There was no more to be said. After a while Solly shrugged. He opened a bottom drawer in his desk, turning the key. He tried to smile for the sake of prestige, but the smile was sick and flat on his face. He tossed a packet of money disdainfully on the desk.
“Here’s the ten,” he said. “Go buy a cigar.”
20s, 50s, 100s. Joe picked it up, as he had a few nights before at Kennedy’s. He fanned through the crisp green notes.
“Look, Solly, look. This isn’t dandruff, either. These are wood fragments you didn’t see or didn’t bother to get rid of. They’ll check in the lab with shavings and grindings they found in Kennedy’s pockets.”
“You’ve got the dough,” Solly said. “So what?”
“I don’t want it the way you thought I wanted it. Now’s the hard part, Solly, for you, for me, and the Kennedys. George was at least a part-time crook, you’re a full-time one, and me? I don’t know what I am.” But he was certainly not happy. “Let’s go peacefully,” he said.
Solly Druze did not go peacefully. In a foaming rage he threw a punch that missed. He crippled his hand against the desk. Joe punched him competently in the mouth and knocked him over the swivel chair. Joe walked around after him and Solly screamed like a woman. Solly reached for the drawer where the money had been but was inept and fumbling with frantic haste. Joe saw the revolver in Solly’s hand and shot him twice. It was the first time he had killed a man. The powder smell hung heavy. The silence was deep. Joe turned away from the body. He picked up the telephone.
They gave Kennedy an “Inspector’s funeral” in the big church east of Broadway. They cut off traffic on the one-way street and you could see the cops in dress parade, their white gloves swinging in the sunlight, pretty as a squad of scrubbed cadets.