“What kind of business connections?” I said.
“I don’t know,” Lorenzo said. “He’s a shrewd guy, a smart apple, and he sits very strong with some of the best people.”
“By the best people, I take it, you mean the worst people.”
He shrugged, smiled. “He’s fixed tip-top in the connections department. He’s a good guy to stay away from, if you want my advice.”
“I’m not here for advice.”
“That’s all I know about Steve Pedi. For free.”
“What do you know about Mousie and Kiddy, not for free.”
He studied buffed fingernails, looked up and cocked his head at me. “I don’t get you,” he said. “I think you know about as much as I do about those two. Why are you trying to throw your money away?”
“I don’t want to know about their past history. I want to know about their present. Are they here in New York?”
“Yes.”
“How long they been here?”
“Oh, about a month, I think.”
“Why are they here?”
“I don’t know why they’re here — yet. I’ll know, sooner or later, but I don’t know yet. You want to be in touch with either one of them?”
“You know where?”
He rubbed his hands together. “I sit worth a thousand bucks to you?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Lorenzo doesn’t kid. You know that.”
“And what do I get for my thousand bucks?”
“You get where they’re staying, you get under what names they’re staying, and you get information about the brand new gal Kiddy’s palsy-walsy with.”
“Deal,” I said.
“Cash?” he said.
“What else?” I said. “You call at my office tomorrow at four.”
“Excellent, dear Peter.” He sat back, clasped his hands over his stomach, and closed his eyes as though he were communing with the spirits. His eyebrows came together in concentration as he said, softly. “Mousie is Emanuel Larson. Kiddy is Kenneth Masters. They have a suite at the Montrose Hotel, Fifty-seventh and First, Suite 916. Kiddy’s new gal is a waitress, works in a fish restaurant on Fulton Street called Old Man Neptune. She’s a red-head with a terrific shape, and she ought to be in a pleasant mood these days, because she’s a user and Kiddy keeps her well supplied with the stuff. Her name is Betty Wilson, three room apartment at 244 West 65th Street, first floor, rear apartment to the right; there are four apartments on each floor, two in front and two in the rear; its an old brownstone, a walkup, and you don’t have to ring downstairs if you don’t want to because the entrance door is on the fritz and it doesn’t snap shut on its lock.” He opened his eyes. “Okay?”
“Wow,” I said in wonderment.
The Montrose was one of those newly-built thousand-room monstrosities, tier upon jagged tier of stone and chrome, brick and steel. I stalked through the lobby as though I belonged there, went into one of the shiny-doored elevators, got out at nine, marched to 916, put my finger on the doorbell and squeezed.
Nobody answered.
I took the elevator back down to the main floor. I wanted a look-see into Suite 916. I was right there at the premises, and you never can tell what a look-see can turn up, even a fast look-see.
I went directly to the desk.
It was long and wide with a white marble top. There were five clerks behind it. I reached across and grabbed the lapel of the youngest of the three, a slender kid with a butch haircut, sad eyes, a white face and a black bow tie.
“I’m Jack Larson,” I shouted. “I got a brother here. Emanuel Larson. 916.”
“So what?” said the slender kid. “Leggo, will you, Mac?”
Two other clerks moved over. One was a portly, white-haired man with glasses.
“My brother called me,” I shouted. “Called me, threatening suicide. I got here fast as I could.”
“Suicide?” breathed the slender kid.
“You heard me. Suicide.”
I let go of the kid and he sagged. “Suicide,” he breathed, wetting his lips.
The white-haired man took a ring of keys quickly, came out from behind the desk quickly, said, “All right, Mr. Larson, come along with me.”
He was sprightly for a fat man. We ran across the lobby and into an elevator. “Nine,” he said to the elevator boy, “and no other stops.”
Upstairs, he opened the door of 916. All the lights were on. We went through a small square foyer into a large square sitting room. It was an expensive suite. But something in the middle of the ankle-deep carpet completely destroyed the decor of the room: Mousie Lawrence, fully dressed, and very dead. He lay, face up and hideous, his upper lip shot away and writhed back in a bullet-destroyed broken-toothed grin. His eyes were open in an unblinking fish-stare. His forehead and ears were stamped with the wax-yellow of death.
The white-haired man gasped, retchingly, as he bent to examine him. I did not have to bend to examine Mousie to know he was dead. Instead, I went through to the bedroom. That, too, was brilliantly lighted, but it was uninhabited. A shoulder holster, with pistol, was on the bed. Another holster, belt-type, and also with pistol, hung on the knob of the closet door. I opened the closet door. Clothes, nothing else. I went back into the sitting room. The white-haired man was on the phone, chanting, “Yes, yes, dead, Mr. Larson; no, Masters is not here...”
I went to the door. I took the elevator down; I crossed the lobby and walked out into the street.
I walked all the way from Fifty-seventh and First to Forty-second and Park where the Automat stayed open all night. I had a cup of coffee and smoked many cigarettes. Whoever had killed Mousie had been a friend. Guys like Mousie and Kiddy didn’t keep their artillery in the bedroom unless they were entertaining a friend in the sitting room — a friend, someone whom they trusted, that is, unless it was Kiddy himself who had put the blast on Mousie. That sort of thing has happened before: they both toss off their holsters, but one of them has an extra piece on his person and that is the piece he uses to put a splash on the ankle-deep carpet and spoil the decor of the sitting room. But why should Kiddy Malone kill Mousie Lawrence? Then again, why not? People fall out, even animals of the stripe of Mousie and Kiddy, and I could inquire into that because I knew where to catch up with Kiddy Malone. Where else would Kiddy Malone be, but with his brand new girl friend, Betty Wilson. There was no rush, however; I had time: I wanted Kiddy Malone well bedded-down before I called upon him. I sighed, grunted, pressed out my cigarette, mopped up the dregs of my coffee, went out into the street, found a cab and asked to be taken to 115 East 64th Street.
Parker’s keys were as welcome as penicillin in a bordello. Everything worked smoothly. One key opened the downstairs door, and in the vestibule a gander at the bell-brackets produced 4C as the Frayne apartment. Upstairs, another key opened the door of 4C. I put on the lights and I approved, noddingly, as I stalked about as appreciatively. Vivian Frayne, before the holes, had done very much of all right for herself. She had had a beautifully-appointed two-room apartment, rich and elegant: somebody with money and taste had furnished it, or perhaps someone else had had the money and Vivian had had the taste. Nevertheless, although it was an ocular delight, my inspection of apartment 4C added not a whit to my investigation into the death of its occupant. I put out all the lights, all but the foyer light, and I was just about to switch that, when I heard the sound.
Somebody was poking at the lock.
I flicked off the foyer light and, in darkness, I took up a station behind the door. I panted through an open mouth, feeling the perspiration bristle against my skin. I waited, and waited, and waited...