Terrell walked through the crowded lobby of the Weston, and took the elevator to Frankie Chance’s floor. He went along a clean, warm corridor to the apartment and rapped lightly with the back of his knuckles. Frankie pulled the door open and said, “Come in, snoop. I prayed you’d come. I swear to God, I prayed.” His voice was trembling softly and there was a look of murder in his eyes. “Get in here fast.” His hand was in the pocket of a gaudy dressing robe and Terrell knew he was holding a gun.
“There’s no point in being mad, Frankie,” he said. “I’m not here to needle you. I’m here to do you a favor.”
Chance closed the door and took the gun from his pocket. “What did you say about Eden? I want to hear it again, Terrell. I want to hear it before I bust all the teeth out of your head.”
“I’m here as a friend, Frankie, believe me.”
Chance’s eyes narrowed. “You’re trying to be wise, eh?”
“Not at all,” Terrell said. He smiled and sat on the arm of a chair. Lighting a cigarette, he glanced around for an ashtray. There was a fifth of whiskey on the bureau, and an assortment of medicine — aspirin, cough syrup and bottles full of variously colored pills. To his left was an alcove that had been fitted out as a dressing room; it was hung with clothes brushes, long leather shoe horns and two full-length mirrors. A dozen or so suits and sports jackets hung neatly above rows of glossy shoes and loafers.
“Don’t stall,” Frankie said. “What are you trying to tell me, Sam?”
Terrell glanced at him, still smiling faintly. “I could do this leisurely, but I never got my kicks pulling wings off flies. Your girl was murdered on orders from Ike Cellars. A thug named Nick Rammersky did the job with his ten little pinkies. That’s it, Frankie. The guy you work for, the big boy who tosses you your bones — he had Eden killed.”
“Shut up!” Frankie said softly. “You already said too much.”
“You probably know Rammersky,” Terrell said, watching the cold, mad rage working in Frankie’s face. “He’s new in town, but he’d stand out — he’s a big mug with a scarred forehead. Ike brought him in for the job. Did you meet him?” Terrell laughed softly. “I see you did. Had a drink, played a hand or two of gin with him maybe. Did you talk shop? The clean-up in Vegas, the mob shooting over in Baltimore. And did he mention that he choked the life out of your girl?” Terrell’s voice was suddenly harsh as a whiplash. “Did he toss that in as small talk?”
“You want me to shoot?” Frankie whispered the words in a queer, straining voice. His eyes were wet, and his body was shaking. “You want me to kill you?”
“Ask yourself one question, Frankie. Would I come here without proof?”
Chance stared at him for seconds, digesting this, and then he sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. “What’s your angle?”
“I like justice,” Terrell said drily.
“Proof — what kind of proof you got?”
“It’s an interesting and devious story,” Terrell said casually. “Eden Myles was peddling a few innocuous facts to Richard Caldwell. You follow me? Or do words like ‘innocuous’ tax you, Frankie?”
“You keep talking, or I’m going to beat it out of you,” Frankie said.
“She was peddling them on orders. You were probably in on it that far, Frankie. And Eden thought it was as simple as that, too — get Caldwell’s ear, give him a few bum tips. Wheels within wheels, a bit of standard political flimflam. But she didn’t see the end of the script,” Terrell said, watching Frankie’s hot dark eyes. “Ike planned to have her killed in Caldwell’s home — and frame Caldwell for her murder. Cellars had no animus against your girl, Frankie, but she could have been troublesome later. Maybe trouble seems too strong a word. A nuisance, at least. So that’s the story. Rammersky came in the back door and knocked Caldwell out. Then he strangled Eden and left.”
“You mentioned proof.” His voice trembled. “Where is it?”
“First, Rammersky was seen bolting away from Caldwell’s by a little cop named Paddy Coglan. Secondly, Connie Blacker heard Cellars explaining the phony deal to Eden. You know Connie, Frankie. And you know she’s straight.”
“She’s a square, an oddball,” Frankie said, but a tide of angry color was moving up in his smooth brown cheeks. “What’d she tell you?”
“She was at Eden’s apartment the night Eden was killed. Staying there as Eden’s guest. Cellars arrived about ten-thirty, and told Eden she had to put on an act at Caldwell’s that night. Get him drinking, and then start screaming and pretend that she’d been attacked and so forth. And as an added precaution, Cellars went on, one of his men would come in the back way and knock Caldwell unconscious, make it look as if he and Eden had struggled around a bit till he fell and hit his head. Cellars’ man would disappear — leaving Eden alone to face the aroused neighbors and eventually the police. Eden would testify that Caldwell had become abusive, and had attacked her. This, Cellars assured her, was all she had to do or say.” Terrell looked for an ashtray again, then shrugged and tapped a length of ash onto the floor. “Connie heard this conversation, and talked to your girl when she came into the bedroom to change. Eden was frightened. She thought the whole deal was raw. She didn’t know just how raw it was going to be.”
“They didn’t have to kill her,” Frankie said. Tears were starting in his eyes. “She never hurt anybody. She was kind to everybody. We were together for five years and she never looked at another guy. We were going to buy a six-flat over in Baycroft next year. Live in one flat, and live off the rent from the others. It was what she wanted. Something solid. A place of our own that we’d have if times got bad.”
“Did you know she was pregnant?” Terrell asked quietly.
Frankie twisted around to look at him. “Don’t lie to me,” he said. “Don’t lie to me.”
“The autopsy didn’t lie. She was three months pregnant. You didn’t know, eh?”
Frankie began to pound the foot of the bed with the flat of his hand, gently at first, but the blows fell harder and harder, until he was hammering the wooden bar with all the strength of his arm. “She wanted it. I didn’t.” The words came strangely through his quivering lips. “I was scared. For her. But she wanted it. And she was going to have it. She told me that it was fixed up, but she was going to have it.” The tears were running down his cheeks and a moaning little noise sounded in his throat.
“Play it for all it’s worth,” Terrell said. “Beat your breast and shout ‘Mama Mia.’ ” Contempt put an edge to his voice. “What were your plans for the kid? A job running numbers, or maybe selling programs and peanuts in a burlesque joint? Then take him back to Sicily to show the old folks how well you’d done in free, democratic America. Were those your dreams, you ginny bastard?”
Frankie seemed hopelessly confused; he opened and closed his mouth but he couldn’t manage anything but incoherent little grunts.
“Beautiful dreams,” Terrell said. “Then Cellars put his foot down, and there’s nothing left but a grease mark on the floor. And Ike goes on as if nothing happened.”
“I got to ask some questions around,” Frankie said, forming the words slowly and laboriously, as if he were just learning to speak. “I’ll find out how much truth you’ve told me.”
He dropped his robe on the floor and took down a raglan topcoat from the dressing room alcove. “Nobody ever talked to me the way you did,” he said. “So I’ll see you again, don’t worry.” He transferred the gun to the pocket of his topcoat and pulled a soft felt hat low on his forehead.