Brass Rainbow (11 page)

“Sit down, Miss Devine,” Gazzo said.

She perched. Her mini-skirt left little unseen. She had young, hard, fresh legs. I looked. Gazzo didn't. That seemed to scare her more. Men usually stared at her legs.

“Tell me where you were Wednesday night, Miss Devine?”

“Wednesday?” She watched Gazzo's face. “Gee, I think I was with Paul.”

“Paul Baron?” Dark lines grooved between Gazzo's eyes. He was surprised. So was I. I was also hopeful.

“We went to dinner. Sure, that was Wednesday,” she said.

“And after dinner?” Gazzo said.

“He took me home. He had to go somewhere.”

“Where is home?”

“University Place. Number 47, apartment 12-C.”

“What time did he take you home?”

“Maybe ten-thirty. He had to go somewhere by eleven.”

“He went to see me,” Gazzo said. “He left here about one
A.M.
Where did he pick you up after that?”

She fluttered her lashes. “You mean that same night? He didn't pick me up again. He hasn't been around since he took me home Wednesday. Paul's like that. He comes, he goes.”

“You didn't see Baron after ten-thirty Wednesday night?” Gazzo said. “You're sure? We'll find out, Miss Devine.”

“I didn't, honest. Has … has Paul done something?”

I leaned toward her. “You were with Baron in his Fifth Street apartment at one-thirty Wednesday night. You saw Baron pay off a man named Weiss for a bet.”

She gave me her big brown eyes. “You mean Sammy Weiss? Gee, that wasn't Wednesday night. That was maybe a week ago. I don't go to that Fifth Street place much. Misty lives there. I saw Sammy Weiss there a week ago, maybe; only there wasn't no bet.”

It was hard to believe that she was lying. Gazzo wouldn't believe it. He would believe that Weiss was lying.

Carla Devine said, “Is Paul is trouble?”

I said, “Baron said he was with you Monday afternoon. Was he?”

“Sure, he came …”

“Baron's dead,” I said. “He doesn't need an alibi now.”

“Dead?”

Gazzo snapped, “Was he with you Monday afternoon?”

She nodded. “Yes, but … not when I said. He came about two-thirty, not one-thirty. He told me to say one-thirty. Dead? He's dead?”

Her knuckles whitened on her bag, and she slipped off the chair in a dead faint. Gazzo jumped as if bitten. If it was an act, it was good. Gazzo bawled for his female sergeant.

“Take care of her. When she comes around, get a statement.”

The sergeant got some help, and they carried Carla Devine out. I watched her go. She was taking Weiss's chances with her.

“He's lying all the way, Dan,” Gazzo said.

“The girl lied before.”

“For Baron. Maybe Baron did kill Radford after all, but he's dead. Why would she lie now?”

Gazzo said it almost bitterly. A good detective like Gazzo works close to danger. He works even closer to something else—the edge of sanity that yawns like an abyss for men who must decide, in essence, who lives and who dies. Gazzo is not a pitiless man, and that makes it hard for him to have to decide what a piece of human debris like Weiss is, or is not, guilty of doing. That gives a man scars inside, makes him bitter.

We both sat silent for a time. Then I said:

“How did Radford happen to have a list of the bills?”

“Who knows? Maybe he always did it when he had a lot of cash around, or maybe it was a trap for Baron. You tell me it was a blackmail con, not a bet. Maybe Radford was being cute.”

We sat in another silence. I couldn't think of anything else to ask, or to object to. After a while I got up and put on my duffle coat. Gazzo watched me.

“Weiss is guilty, Dan. Let it go.”

“Maybe,” I said. “I'd like to find those weapons, you know? Stir the water. That's detective work, right?”

“Damn you,” Gazzo said.

He would work on it, as I would, but maybe he'd never know for sure. Only the D.A. would be sure. The D.A. had to be elected, and he would tell himself that he was sure.

I went down to the street and got into my car. It was bitter cold. I sat and watched the Annex entrance. I smoked too many cigarettes.

It was nearly dawn before Carla Devine came out. Gazzo was an honest cop; he had sweated her hard. She had not changed her story. If she had, she would not have been coming out.

She hurried along the iron-cold street away from me. I got out and followed. She was huddled in a fur coat like something that had forgotten to hibernate. The door of a battered gray coupe swung open in front of her. I ran. She saw me, and jumped into the car. I got my hand on the door handle. The coupe ground gears and pulled away, dragging me. Her great brown eyes stared up into my face from inside. A thin, pale, wild-haired young boy was behind the wheel, his lips skinned back from his teeth.

One thing a one-armed man can't do is get the door of a moving car open, or hang on when the car gets above 20 m.p.h. The speed turned me around backwards. I had to let go, and landed hard on my back in the street. I didn't bother to see where the car had gone. I wasn't going to get the number in the dark.

After a time I got up. I drove the rental car home. I went to bed. What could I have gotten from Carla Devine anyway?

15

S
OMEONE WAS CRYING.
I stumbled naked through the snow and saw that it was my arm huddled behind a garbage can. Then it wasn't my arm crying, it was Sammy Weiss. Three big men appeared and began to pound the lids of the garbage cans into Sammy's face. I began to moan. Then my father was clutching at my empty sleeve, and I was telling him to get lost, get lost, get lost.…

I woke with sun in my eyes, and knew that it was Weiss who I wanted to get lost, go away, vanish.

I lighted a cigarette. I lay in bed feeling empty. I was at a dead end, literally. I had worked hard on the vague hunch that Weiss had not killed Jonathan Radford. I had just about been sure that Paul Baron had killed the man. Now Baron was dead, and the case against Weiss was stronger than ever.

Was he lying? I didn't know. All I knew was that if I had killed two men, I'd lie all the way.

I got up and plugged in the coffee. I turned on my heaters. I sat at the kitchen table. All right, I was at a dead end because there were too many variables, too many possibilities. Science has a method of tackling problems with too many variables and not enough facts. Scientists assume certain variables to be fixed, and then make an hypothesis to explain the facts they do know. The hypothesis may not be true, but it gives them a start.

I waited until the coffee was ready, and poured a cup. My assumption, my fixed variable, was that Weiss was telling the truth. My hypothesis was that Paul Baron had killed Jonathan Radford. It might not be true, but it fitted the facts enough to be workable, and it gave me a simple line of reasoning to follow: why had Baron been killed?

Radford is dead. Then what? Revenge? The family would have let the law handle Baron if they knew he had killed Jonathan. My client, Agnes Moore? She had a reason, and probably the hate and the courage. It was possible. I could work on that.

Radford is dead. Baron starts to frame Weiss. The frame seems to work well, the cops go howling after Weiss. Baron still has the material to blackmail Walter Radford. Did he try to use it again, go on with the squeeze with Walter now rich? Or did someone just think he might try to go on, and move to stop him? Remove the threat once and for all?

Or had some associate of Baron's, some friend, become scared after Radford's murder and decided that Baron was too dangerous to have around? Someone who was involved with Baron and no longer trusted Baron after Radford's murder?

Or maybe some associate of Baron's had decided to keep the blackmail all to himself. A partner who got greedy.

Partner?

Another rule of science says look at the facts, no matter how ridiculous they seem. No man would frame another man for his own murder. But that was exactly what Baron had done. Two facts that could not both be true, and yet were. One answer: Baron had not known what he was really doing. He had been manipulated.

Someone had changed the plan, had fooled Baron into framing Weiss for Baron's own murder. Someone close enough to Baron, and to the whole scheme, to know everything that Baron did, and even to control much of what Baron did. A person who must have been working with Baron all along. An unknown partner.

The proof was staring at me: the message Baron had sent to Weiss to contact me. Weiss hadn't questioned the message because as far as he knew only Baron knew where he was. But Baron had been long dead when that message was sent to Weiss.

I began to dress. Someone who knew that Baron was dead had sent the message. To flush Weiss out, to lead me to Weiss, and, eventually, to Baron. Once I heard Weiss's story, there were only two ways I could act: go and find Baron, as I had done; or turn Weiss in to the police. Then the police would find Baron. Once Baron was found, no one would believe Weiss's story. Everything would point to Weiss as Baron's killer. Mission accomplished.

I went out to the nearest Riker's for breakfast. Gazzo would say that there had been no message, that Weiss had cooked up the story to convince me that he didn't know Baron was dead. Gazzo could be right, but my assumption was that Weiss was not lying. That meant there was a partner. Leo Zar had known where Weiss was, but Leo didn't fit my picture. He was too obvious, he would have had to work in a different way, and I didn't see him as a partner or double-dealer. He was a subordinate, a soldier for Baron, the loyal retainer. I could be wrong.

While I waited for my eggs, I called the Radford house in North Chester. The butler said that Walter was not home, but Mrs. Radford was. I waited and heard a click on the line. No one spoke. A moment later Mrs. Radford came on.

“You again, Mr. Fortune?” she said.

“Sorry. Can you tell me if everyone was up there Wednesday night, late? Between midnight and five
A.M.
Start with yourself.”

“You're a direct man. I presume I was in bed. Has something more happened?”

“A man named Paul Baron was shot. Didn't the police call?”

“Why would they call? I told you I knew no Paul Baron.”

“Walter knew him.”

“Then I suppose they would call Walter.”

“Was he at home Wednesday night?”

“No, he and Deirdre went to New York. They stayed the night with George, I believe.”

“How about your daughter?”

“Morgana? Why, I think she was here. Yes, I'm sure.”

“How sure?”

“Really, Mr. Fortune, you spoke to her yourself that evening. But, of course, she does have her own cottage. I don't watch her. That was the night before the funeral. We buried poor Jonathan yesterday. I'm sure she was here.”

I thanked her and listened to her hang up. I waited. The line did not go dead at once. There was a brief pause before it clicked dead.

I went back to my eggs.

Walter Radford answered the door of the East Sixty-third Street apartment. His face was drawn, and his chip eyes were smaller than ever. His lip twitched, and his manners were down.

“What do you want?”

“Some more questions.”

His smile seemed to hurt him. “Go away.”

He tried to stare me down, but it wasn't his character. I stared back and pushed in past him. I detected changes already. There were two tall brass lamps with gaudy shades, a fustian armchair with footstool, and a carved smoking stand. The balance had been ruined. A bachelor Victorian gentleman fussiness had crept into the room. It looked like George Ames was out from under the hand of Jonathan.

I turned on Walter. “I know what the $25,000 was really about. So do the police, although I doubt if they'll do much about your lying, seeing who you are, and that they figure the case is solved.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Just how much did Baron have on you?”

“Baron had nothing on me. You can't prove he did.”

“You mean with Baron dead it can't be proved? Lucky.”

He clenched his fists, took a step toward me. I grinned. He had two hands, but I had seen him swing at Costa. It isn't often I feel in command of a physical situation. His hands dropped.

“Go away, Fortune. Please.”

His voice was as plaintive as that of a small boy asking a domineering father to leave him alone.

“The way it stands you had the prime motive to kill Baron. If he murdered Jonathan, he'd have wanted money for a fast fade. Did he go on with the squeeze? Did he contact you?”

“Of course not! And I didn't know he was dead until the police called this morning. I lied about the blackmail, yes. Why admit I'd been involved in illegal business? I had no idea that Paul might have killed my uncle. I don't know that he did. The police seem to think that Weiss killed them both.”

“And that suits you fine.”

“I don't really care one way or the other.”

“You're rich, and Baron is dead. End of the affair?”

“Why not?”

“Whoever killed Baron has what he had against you.”

His lip twitched again, but he said nothing.

“Was one of Baron's witnesses Carla Devine?”

“Yes. The little bitch was in love with Paul.”

“Who else? Misty Dawn?”

“No one else, not as a partner, if that's what you mean. He had names, places, checks, photographs.”

“Tell me how he worked it.”

“We played poker and I lost. Not $25,000; about $5,000. He was nice about it, but he said he really needed the money. I told him I couldn't get any more from Jonathan. He said he understood, but he was in trouble and couldn't wait. He said he had an idea of how I could pay it off fast. There were some girls he worked with who would pay for contacts. I had plenty of rich friends. If I arranged dates, the girls would pay me, and so would the men if I worked it right. I liked the idea. I'd use my sacred family position to make money. So I contacted old friends and acquaintances, especially those in companies who entertained out-of-town customers. Everyone was happy. I made money. Then Paul lowered the trap.”