Fallen Sparrow (21 page)

The bartender jerked his thumb. There’d be a window somewhere in back. Kit pulled on the light in the designated cubbyhole. It was combination lavatory, broom closet, wardrobe, storeroom. There was a good sized window. He scraped off a bit of the soap; too dark to see what was outside. He wouldn’t venture forth another day without the flashlight. He doused the overhead, silently wrestled the window. It wouldn’t open without sound. He flushed the toilet as he wrenched it wide. An alley. Cautiously he stuck his nose into the air, one eye. No watcher. Pierre was still in front in the rain, waiting for him to emerge.

Again the light. He stripped off the wet Harris tweed overcoat, emptied its pockets into his jacket. He tore a twenty dollar bill in half, removed an old letter and scribbled on the envelope, “Return my coat, get the other half and your coat.” His name and address were on it. He flinched into the cold black of the battered slicker, left his tweed on its nail. In the dark again, he peered, climbed quickly. He fumbled to an areaway outlet, to the next street. Soggy hat pulled down over his ears, he shuffled slowly; shoulders hunched down and forward. At the intersection he hesitated, he could just discern the watcher on the corner. He crossed the street, forcing himself to maintain the slow shuffle. If he got away with it, he could circle back at the next corner.

He should have been successful, the bartender shouldn’t have gone snooping yet. He heard the raised voices on the corner and he slid forward. He hadn’t been discovered. He passed a dim church crowned with the cross. Too early for evening service. The church doors were never locked. He ducked back quickly, ran for it even as he heard feet running towards the corner. He shuffled down a side aisle guided by the dim red burning in the golden sanctuary lamp. He slumped in a pew; if the pursuers looked in they’d see the back of an old bum in refuge from the storm. With his eyes accustomed to the dark, he recognized the statue before him. The brown-robed friar holding the Infant. He hadn’t prayed on his knees for a long time, not since the memory had faded of trudging to Mass at Chris’s side. He slid forward, his heart spoke. “Saint Anthony, don’t let Toni be in this.”

He waited long enough. The street was clear when he scuttled out. No one pursued as he shambled, breath checked, through the unremitting rain: rounded the second corner, approached from the opposite direction the shabby dark brick. A taxi waited, engine idling, lights burning. Duck didn’t know him until he spoke. “Follow me in fifteen minutes.”

He needn’t have taken precautions. The man with the Z’s and X’s in his name hadn’t lived here since December. The police took him away the night of Louie’s death.

He was sodden, humbled. He squelched water into Tobin’s office, he oozed it on the hacked bench. Moore moved out of the way. Without words, Tobin opened a lower desk drawer, handed over an almost full bottle of Hennessy. Kit coughed, drank, coughed again, handed it back. He said, “I wish you’d tell me about it now.”

Tobin didn’t sound like a smart aleck. He said, “Anything you’d like to know.”

“Louie didn’t fall from Det’s apartment?”

“No.”

“Was he killed before he fell?”

“Yeah.”

He pleaded, “Why wouldn’t you tell me before?”

Moore said, “Anybody comes in here with a chip on his shoulder needn’t think Toby won’t knock it off.”

The Inspector’s grin was slow. “I’m Paddy’s pig Irish myself, Kit. You were spoiling for a fight and I was willing.” The grin went. “I don’t like cafe society to snot the police. I do my job. I don’t need any young wise guy telling me what to do out of some dream he’s found in the bottle. And I particularly don’t want anybody gumming up my job.”

Moore said, “Go on, tell him the whole truth.”

“All right.” Tobin looked at the pencil rolling between his palms. “I knew what you’d been through. I didn’t know how far you’d come out of it. I couldn’t trust you not to break again.”

Moore said, “He didn’t want no responsibility for putting you back to bed—you being Chris McKittrick’s kid.”

Tobin raised a belligerent chin. “I’m a cop. I wasn’t so hard up I had to use a sick guy to solve a case.”

“I only asked something to go on.”

“How could I put any faith in you? I’d been watching your little gang too closely to trust any of them. Far as I knew you didn’t come back from Arizona until you were damn good and ready, until more than a month after Louie’s murder. How did I know you weren’t just shooting off your big mouth when you did show up? How did I know that any of Old Chris’ integrity and guts were still in you?” He put his tongue into his cheeks. “If you did have any of Chris McKittrick’s qualities, I was pretty sure if I riled you enough, you’d resurrect them.”

Kit took off the spongy hat, slapped it. “What made you change your mind now?”

Moore and Tobin exchanged grins. “You weren’t fooling this evening whatever you were after,” the Inspector said. “A guy going through the motions wouldn’t be as wet as you are. He wouldn’t have been able to give one of our best men the slip.”

Kit looked aslant.

Tobin said, “Even if I itched to smack you down every time you opened you big bazoo, I had to do my duty. I couldn’t let you get bumped off too. I put Pierre on you the day you arrived.”

Kit took it. The delayed letter. “Did he read my mail?”

“I did.”

Kit asked then, fingering his head, “Who was Elise’s visitor last night?”

“Andalusian. Pierre took him up and waited for him. What did he want with her?”

“Nothing.” José must have whammed him with the violin case. “Just knock her around a little because she hadn’t had better luck with me.” He said, “No better luck than I had this afternoon looking for the guy who spilled the wine on Otto Skaas’ shirt front.”

Moore volunteered, “We put him away a long time ago.”

“I found that out.”

Tobin elucidated, “We wanted him for a sure witness. He’s got a safe job upstate until we call him.”

Kit sighed. “You never thought it was an accident?”

“We knew it wasn’t an accident. Louie resigned from the force secretly early in December to join the F.B.I. That way he could act when he was ready; he didn’t have any authority over espionage as a cop. He worked from here as a blind. He knew he was on the right track; he knew there were men in this city that you’d run into in Spain.”

Kit said, “I told Louie about the Wobblefoot.”

“That night before he went to pick up the Donne girl he dropped by. He was going to get a chance to go through Dr. Skaas’ papers. It had been arranged through the girl, I gathered, though he wouldn’t say anything against her.”

Louie had fallen too. Kit admitted his own heart now.

“He believed that he’d get the real dope there, what he needed to act. After it happened, we went right on accepting it as suicide. That way we could investigate without setting the alarm and without being ridden by every editorial writer with an anti-administration publicity axe to grind. The trouble’s been that we haven’t got far.”

“But you know that—”

“We believe that he was pushed from the window on the floor above Det’s, from Christian Skaas’ room. We know Otto was changing his shirt next door to that room. We know the thing was worked with machine tool precision, from the moment Otto’s elbow upset the waiter’s hand until we were called. We don’t have the gun from which the slug between Louie’s eyes came. It was a Colt automatic. Maybe they didn’t think we’d autopsy someone who’d taken a thirteen story fall. It isn’t easy to do. But we have the bullet. There wasn’t any blood in the room, no fingerprints but those of the Skaases. We’ve been watching, waiting, while the F.B.I. has been trying to catch them at espionage. That’s more important than a murder, and Louie was certain these men were engaged in espionage. We wouldn’t have had anything on which to hold young Skaas if we’d arrested him. We couldn’t chance spoiling bigger game.”

“And Ab?”

“None of us knew he was working on it. We could have kept an eye on him if we’d known.”

He was congealing to a chill. He couldn’t risk pneumonia tonight, not even a bad cold. He’d need all of his faculties to carry through now. He shook out the hat again.

“I was a heel. But I won’t take back one thing I said.” His smile widened. “When I wrap up the murderer and toss him in your lap, you’ll call it murder, won’t you?”

Tobin gurgled. “Have another drink.”

He was warm and clean and well fed. Content wasn’t underfoot blaming him with her round blue eyes. Lotte hadn’t given him hell for being late. She’d cooked a Sunday night dinner as if it were the regular routine. Elise had served him without sullenness. She actually looked happy; maybe because she knew this job was about over.

The rain decreased to a soft swish against the window. The radio caroled; he had time for his pipe and a book and a bottle. He didn’t have to go out tonight. And his heart drummed: Toni. He flung the book at the crooner’s lovesick lyrics. He had to see her. He had to know just how deeply she had involved herself. Her name was high on Tobin’s list. He couldn’t let her be held for murder, not unless there was true guilty participation. And that could not be.

He dialed.

She said, “I didn’t think you’d call tonight.” She’d hoped he wouldn’t.

“I had a need of you, my beautiful.” He could sound as carefree as if only a dame were on his mind. “The rain’s let up.” He couldn’t bring her here; too many other women had the run of the place. He couldn’t go to her apartment; he wanted the truth from her, not truth tempered by fear of reprisal. “If I came by and tootled, would you join me for a cup of coffee?”

Always she hesitated for the nod from someone in the room. “Yes.”

Duck would be steaming over pinochle in the basement with Pierre. Kit had found that out. His playing detective had netted him that one important item. He called down on the house phone. “Meet me at the front door in five minutes.”

The rain was mist. On Riverside he said, “Sound it, Duck, and you bring her out.” He wasn’t afraid to go up but he didn’t want to be trapped yet; he must hear Toni’s truth of it first.

She was waiting inside the vestibule door. It didn’t look as if they were followed.

“Where you wanna go, Boss?”

He didn’t know. A safe place. A place where conversation couldn’t be overheard. It was about ten o’clock. He decided, “Carlo’s. Carlo Lepetino’s on East Fifty-second.”

Her fingers clasped at the name.

It would be deserted at this hour on Sunday. A booth far back. No one would start pushing him around there. He wasn’t going to be pushed around. He’d be calm and ready when it came; he wouldn’t take it unawares.

He said, “We’ve a lot to say to each other tonight, Toni.”

Her eyes were smudged as they were when she’d learned of Ab’s murder. He knew then, knew his warrant had been signed.

He smoothed the glove from one of her hands. Her skin was cold to touch. “We may not ever be together like this again.”

Fright moved into her face. Her hand was limp.

“There’s no need for lies between us now. You and I know that. Tonight, for this little time, we are alone in the world.”

She said, “You need not say more. I understand. Ask what you will, I will not lie. If I may not answer, I will not lie.”

Carlo Lepetino himself carried the coffee cups. His steamy smile was romantic. He didn’t know who she was. He went away and there was quietness between them; they could hear the bartender polishing glasses far up front at the bar.

“I’m not going to ask you about yourself, Toni. That is your own to keep as long as you wish.”

“What would you know?” Fright hadn’t gone from her but it wasn’t important; the sadness, the hopelessness was.

“About Louie Lepetino.”

She said nothing.

“You didn’t see him fall from that library window. He wasn’t in that room. He was in Christian Skaas’ room when he was murdered.”

She said nothing.

“You know this.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You helped kill him.”

“No.” There was anguish in her denial. “I knew nothing.”

Now he waited.

“I didn’t know what had been planned. I was told to go into the library before José encored the Tsigane. To open the window and wait there. I must do as I am told.”

“There is a hold over you?”

“There is a hold over me that I dare not question.” Doomed finality darkened her voice. He didn’t ask what; there were too many horrors he could envision, too many worse ones he had known.

She went on, “I thought some documents would be given me, some message, that the opened window would be clue to my identity. I did as I was told. I raised the window and I saw—I screamed. I didn’t know who.”

“You suspected.”

“I was afraid. I didn’t know there’d be murder. I was sick after that, for days. They told me he fell. They told me what I must say. They wanted to keep me useful. If I lost my mind, I wouldn’t be useful. But when Ab Hamilton was killed—”

“Who informed you of that?”

“I heard Dr. Skaas and the Prince discussing it.”

“He is not your grandfather?” The evil old one.

“No. I did not meet him until the day we sailed. I had heard of him but I didn’t know he was alive. My name isn’t Toni Donne. They gave me that.”

“You are German.”

“I was a Parisian.” There was pride in that. “At the University.”

“Do you know who shot Louie Lepetino?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t know he died that way.”

“It must have been Otto.” The others were alibied. “Do you know who killed Ab?”

“No.”

“Nor I.”

“What was your real reason in putting Louie’s folder in my pocket?”

She was quiet. “I wanted you to be on your guard. I didn’t want any more—killing—misery. I knew that Det loved you as if you were her own son. I knew that they were discussing you, as they had discussed Louie. When I learned on which train you were to arrive—”

“Where did you really get it, Toni?”

“I cleaned Dr. Skaas’ apartment after the Prince arranged for him to move to Riverside Drive. It was on the desk.” She asked now, “Are you employed by your government?”