“On what subject?” Matilda asked, looking alarmed.
“On the subject of Trench Molder,” Stone said, sitting up. “We need to know everything about him, especially how often he hires assassins to kill people he doesn’t like, such as my own self.”
“Okay, let’s see,” Matilda said. “I met him at a party at somebody’s house on the Upper East Side.”
“Whose party?”
“I don’t remember the name. A girlfriend had been invited, and she took me along. I do remember the host had a grand piano, because somebody was playing it, and somebody else was singing.”
“Was either of them Trench?”
“No. Trench was sitting on a stool at the piano, next to me.”
“Doing what?”
“Trying to sing along, until the piano player told him he couldn’t carry a tune and to shut up.”
“Did he have the pianist beaten up or killed?”
“I don’t know. Maybe, since I never saw him again.”
“What were your first impressions of Trench?”
“A little drunk, funny, cute.”
“Did he introduce himself?”
“He did. And he gave me a card, which I have since discarded, before you ask for it.”
“What kind of work does he do?”
“I believe work is what he would call a four-letter word. He lives the life of luxury, thanks to a relative. An uncle, I think.”
“Do you know this uncle’s name?”
“He never mentioned it.”
“Was there anything threatening or sinister about Trench?”
“No, except that once he learned my name, he seemed to think he had taken possession of me. If another man tried to enter our conversation, he became surly. That proved to be a reliable indicator of his future attitude toward me.”
“Did he ever mention having committed a crime?” Dino asked.
“He mentioned having beaten up a couple of people who intruded on his company with a woman.”
“Did he say if he hired someone to do that for him?”
“Sort of, but I don’t remember what words he used.”
“Did it surprise you to learn, when you learned, that he would hire someone for that purpose?”
“It surprised me that the man he hired had a gun, which indicated that he planned to shoot somebody, probably Stone or me.”
“Was Trench mad enough at you to have you killed?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see inside his head.”
“Did he mention ever having done that before?”
“He managed to give me the impression that he did not suffer competition gladly.”
“And Stone was the competition?”
“That’s my guess, given what ensued.”
“Was Trench watching what happened?”
“He was still upstairs at Herb Fisher’s party, so there is a chance he could have been looking down on us. I didn’t catch him doing it. I was already inside the car when the trouble started.”
“After the police arrived and people were swarming around the crime scene, did you see Trench among them?”
“No, I didn’t get out of the car until we reached Lenox Hill.”
“Did you see Trench hanging around Lenox Hill?”
“No, but I wasn’t looking for him.”
Dino paused in his questioning.
“Dino,” Matilda said. “I think you’ve pumped me dry on the subject of Trench. Is there something else you’d like to question me about?”
“Ah, no,” Dino said. “I grant you bail. But I may want to talk to you more later.”
“Gee, I hope I can make the bail.”
“You’ll have to forgive Dino,” Stone said. “When he gets excited about an interrogation, he tends to hyperventilate and has to breathe into a paper bag for a while. He’s almost at that point now.”
“I remain at your beck and call, Commissioner,” Matilda said.
“That’s how I like my witnesses,” Dino said. “No paper bag necessary.”
Chapter 11
Trench Molder walked into the weight room of the East Side Athletic Club and looked around. He hoped to give the appearance that he was looking for Huff to help him with the weights. Huff’s assistant manager, known as Bozo, approached.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Molder.”
“Good afternoon, Bozo. Is Huff off today?”
“I take it you have not watched the morning news or read the Post.”
“You are correct, but why are you concerned with my viewing and reading habits?”
“Because, if you had been viewing — or reading, for that matter — you would know that Huff was shot dead on Park Avenue last evening.”
Trench’s eyes widen. “Surely, you jest.”
“I do not,” Bozo said. “All we know is that he seems to have hit someone with a blackjack — I know he had one, because he showed it to me, once — and the man’s driver pulled a gun and shot him dead.”
Trench sat down heavily on the bench and put the back of a hand to his forehead.
Bozo lowered his voice, and said, “I know, I know. This was nothing to do with the club. This was freelance work that Huff sometimes took on. I assisted him, once or twice.”
“Was his killer arrested?” Trench asked.
“Apparently not. According to the Post, he was questioned at the scene, then released to drive his employer — who had suffered the blackjack attack — to the ER. Then he was questioned again and released again. The police judgment was that the shooting was legal and justified, in the circumstances.”
“Who was the man Huff attacked?”
“Someone named Barrington, a lawyer.”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“Apparently, Huff knew him well enough to hate him.”
“Do you know why?”
“No, sir, I don’t.” Bozo looked around to be sure no one was within earshot. “I would like you to know, though, that should you require the kind of assistance you once received from Huff, I would be glad to step into the breach.”
“Good to know, Bozo,” Trench said. “I think I’ll skip my workout today and just hit the showers.”
“I understand, sir,” Bozo said.
Trench left the club, freshly showered, but still pretending to be upset about Huff’s fate. He was, in fact, upset. How could Huff get close enough to the man to blackjack him, but not to finish the job? It didn’t make any sense. He made a note to himself that Barrington’s driver was armed and dangerous to anyone who approached.
Trench walked the few blocks to his apartment building. As soon as he was in the elevator, he shook off his pretense of mourning and assumed his normal mien. With Huff gone, he needed new help. He wondered if Bozo was a reliable person. He sat down in his study and made a call to a little man named Joe Rouche, who did errands for him.
“Good morning, Trench,” Joe said. “What can I do you for?”
“I want a thorough check on a man who works at my gym. He’s called Bozo. I don’t know his proper name.”
“I’m on it,” Joe said. “You want it in writing, or just oral?”
“Oral will do,” Trench replied. “I just need to know if he’s a reliable man. If I can trust him with, ah, work of a confidential nature.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Joe said, then hung up.
Joe already knew who Bozo was, and something about his character, which he would describe as dubious. Still, he used his computer to do some research, taking written notes as he worked. He already knew about Huff, too. He imagined that the man had been on an assignment from Trench Molder when he met his fate, and now Molder wished to replace him.
He called Bozo.
“Hey, Joe,” the man said.
“Hey, Bozo. I’ve had a request from an old client to take a look at you and report back. What would you like me to say?”