“Why do you want to hire me?”
“His family will read the will, bury him, and forget him. They won’t care who killed him, the family goes on. Well, I care who killed him. I want the killer to take a big fall. For your record, I’m not in his will. He left me plenty, but in cash in my hands, so I didn’t have to kill him. I was in my other place all Monday morning. I can’t prove it; I was alone.”
“Okay,” I said. “The cops have Weiss convicted. If you want to rent me, you must have some other ideas.”
“One. A man named Paul Baron was trying to extort money from Jonathan over something Jonathan’s nephew had done.”
“Extort? Not collect a debt?”
“Extort is what Jonathan said.” She drained her brandy. “The nephew was mixed up in a racket with some B-girls. He set up dates between rich guys he knew and the girls. He got paid. Baron had pictures, checks, witnesses.”
It makes a man feel good to have guessed right. I hadn’t liked the gambling debt all along. Maybe there had been a debt, but only as a wedge for some kind of setup. It sounded like some cute variation on the badger game. That fitted Baron’s M.O.
“Jonathan pays, or Baron goes to the cops,” she said. “Jonathan was purple. He said he wouldn’t even talk to Baron. The last time I saw him, Saturday, he said Walter could rot.”
“He must have changed his mind, at least about talking to Paul Baron,” I said. “How did you meet him in the first place?”
“I worked a TV show with George Ames. I met Jonathan. Bang!”
“Did Jonathan mention anyone else in the blackmail besides Baron?”
“No, but there had to be some girls, right? And it sure looks to me like the nephew and his girl had plenty to lose.”
“Did Jonathan ever mention a Carmine Costa?”
“The guy he had closed up in North Chester? Sure. That was another of Walter’s little games.”
“Did he say anything else about Costa? Was there trouble?”
“Just that he closed him down.”
“All right,” I said. “Now do you want to tell me who told you about me?”
“No one. I’ve been sort of watching Jonathan’s apartment. I saw you. You’re easy to describe. I found out.”
“I’m still working for Sammy Weiss, too.”
“Just find that killer. That’s all I want.”
She became silent. I watched her stare at a big chair to my right. His chair, I figured. It was the first hint of sentiment I had seen in her. She came out of it:
“How much will you want now?”
Jonathan had left her plenty, according to her. I said, “A hundred a day and expenses. Three days now.”
She gave me a stare. I saw that she knew it was steep for a small-timer like me. But she went to her desk and came back with three hundred-dollar bills. She wanted the killer bad. She also wanted something else.
“Keep me out of it, right?” she said.
“If I can,” I said.
I left her drinking more brandy and looking at that big chair.
On the subway I felt a lot better. I had three hundred dollars, a client, and some real motives for murder. Money had been a thin motive for the Radford crowd, but the threat of dirty publicity, a messy trial, and jail wasn’t so thin. Only the Radfords still all had alibis.
I liked Paul Baron more, and now he had a solid motive. Maybe Jonathan had changed his mind about seeing or talking to Baron because he intended to blow the whistle. Costa was right: Jonathan Radford had been real power. Paul Baron might have realized that he had bitten off more than he could handle, and had needed to cover up. Baron’s alibi was pure smog. Both his witnesses were probably involved in the blackmail up to their girlish smiles.
All the way to my office I thought about calling Gazzo with my new information, but I wasn’t sure I had enough, so when I got to my desk I called my answering service first.
It was my day. When a case begins to crack, it sometimes opens up everywhere at once. My service had a message this time. Sammy Weiss had called at last. He wanted to see me now. He had given the service an address.
12
The house was the last in a row of ten that lined a short dead-end street a mile off the Belt Parkway at the edge of Jamaica Bay. There were no other streets near. The houses, all frame and old, were set like a single island in the bare salt marsh and bulrushes.
Jamaica Bay stretched bleak and frozen in the darkening afternoon as I parked the rental car in front of the isolated house. In the distance there were a few shacks on stilts, and a shiny new tract development that looked like an outpost in the desolate landscape of the moon. I was glad I had come alone, as instructed. No one could have approached the house unseen.
I went up the cleared path to the house and knocked. After a time the door was opened by an old man. He smoked a pipe.
“Can I help you, young man?” he said in a shaky voice.
“I’m looking for Mr. Weiss.”
“Weiss? An old fellow? Tall and thin?”
“Short, fat and forty-odd. He sent for me. I’m alone.”
The old man dropped the act. “Inside.”
I went into a dim hallway, and a young man appeared with a gun. He frisked me. He led me through the house into a kitchen. An old woman sat at the kitchen table. My escort nodded to her that I was okay, and she waved him out. She looked motherly. Her gnarled hand gripped the neck of a bottle of straight rye. She had two cold brown eyes.
“I don’t like visitors. I run a safe place. Seventeen years and no cop knows me.”
“You must come expensive.”
“No drunks, no hopheads, no women. In once and out once. No one comes back for a year if he’s hot.”
“And most of your guests are hot?”
“Flaming. They pay me to be safe. You’re here because Weiss paid high. When you leave, you never heard of the place. I’ve got friends.”
“Where’s Sammy?”
“Second floor rear. You’ll be watched, inside and out.”
As I went up, I thought about the old woman. She probably made a fortune. Every day of the year she sat in this house getting rich and stewed. She wouldn’t dare leave the place unwatched. She risked prison every day and slept with one eye open for money she would never spend because there was nothing she really wanted. Only the money.
Weiss opened the door to my knock. I felt like Stanley meeting Livingstone. He wore the same tie with the same stickpin. He hadn’t been out of his clothes since Monday. He tried to give me a tough sneer-the big man.
“So now you come? You must of heard I got a roll.”
“I’ve got a paying client,” I said.
He smelled of fear. From the look of the room he had been lying on the bed sweating ever since he had arrived here.
“What client?” he croaked.
“Agnes Moore.”
“Never heard of her. She in the Radford thing?”
“She is, and so are you.”
He grabbed my sleeve. “I’m not, Danny! I hit the guy! How could I kill a guy with one punch?”
“He was knifed, Sammy. Stabbed.”
He had my sleeve in both hands. “Knife? What knife? Paul never said nothing about no knife.”
I watched him. “This place comes high, Sammy.”
He sat down on the bed. “Five hundred a day, but it’s safe, and tomorrow I get out, right? You’re gonna help, right?”
“Did Paul Baron give you the money, Sammy?”
He grinned. “Paul don’t give it to me, he made a good bet.” He beamed at me. “It’s a sign, you know? My luck’s changed.”
“A bet? What kind of bet?”
“With Cassel,” he said. Cassel was a big horse-room owner. “The Baron laid the thousand he owed me for going up to Radford. A 25-1 shot at Caliente, and it came in!”
I suppose I stared. “Baron gave you $25,000? Cash?”
His dark eyes looked everywhere except at me. “It’s my break, the sign. I’m okay now.”