Act of Fear df-1 Page 8

  Now I was thinking clearly. Now I knew I had been wrong — I had nowhere to go. I knew nothing about Tani Jones or Stettin or Jo-Jo Olsen, but I was in this — and Andy Pappas was in it. With Pappas in it, and until I knew what it was all about, I could not go home. I could not go to Marty. They wanted to talk to me, and they would not let Marty or Joe just stand around watching. Until this was over, I had no friends. Not if I liked my friends. In that cab I never felt so alone in my life. Alone and scared.

  I left the taxi in the heart of Chelsea and walked around a few blocks before I headed for the Manning Hotel. I took a room at the Manning. It is a cheap hotel about two notches above a flophouse, but they ask no questions and don’t know my face. I took my key up to the room and locked myself in. The room was like a sweatbox, and the bed was hard and lumpy. The noise of the street came through the single open window with the blinking colours of the neon signs. There was no fire escape.

  I stood at the window for some time and looked down on the street and the people in the neighbourhood I did not really belong to any more but that was reaching out to pull me back. I thought about all I had studied and learned and that it did not add up to enough to teach me to stay out of trouble. I wanted peace and no waves like everyone else, but I had listened to a kid who wanted to find his friend when by all the rules he should have minded his own business. Now I was in something that involved Andy Pappas, and there is no peace that way.

  After a time I called Marty and Joe. I did not tell them where I was. I said I would be in touch. Then I sent down for a bottle of Irish and some ice and lay on the bed to think. What was I doing? I was looking for Jo-Jo Olsen. So was someone else. Who? There was a burglar, maybe. And a cop mugger, maybe. The burglar and the cop mugger could be the same man or they could be two different men. One or both could be looking for Jo-Jo. Or Pappas could be looking for Jo-Jo. Which could mean that Jo-Jo himself was either the burglar or the mugger.

  Or it could mean that Pappas was the burglar and/or the mugger. (I did not rule out Pappas no matter what Gazzo said, and no matter how much I thought Gazzo was right.) I did not think Pappas was either killer or mugger, or that he had ordered one or both, but someone had hired my two shadows. I was sure that the shadows were hired. We live more and more in a faceless world. Everyone works for someone and does not care who he helps or who he kills. All that counts is his efficiency rating and his credit rating. As a matter of fact, it was not important at the moment who had done what, but only who was looking for Jo-Jo.

  I took a long drink. If Pappas were looking for Jo-Jo he could be the killer, or think that Jo-Jo could tell him who the killer was, or think that Jo-Jo was the killer. If it was not Pappas who was looking, then it had to be either the burglar, the mugger, or someone I had not even learned about yet! I knew nothing about the mugger. I knew that the burglar had killed the woman of Andy Pappas, and that is enough to make a man run far and fast. It was also enough to make him hire men to find a witness. Except would a common burglar hang around to hire men, or have the power to hire men — especially to go up against Pappas?

  I took another drink. If Jo-Jo knew who killed Tani Jones, why not tell Pappas at least? The Olsens were tight with Pappas. What reason would Jo-Jo have to protect a killer from Pappas? Or from the police? Okay, to not tell the police was the code, although Jo-Jo did not sound like a boy who respected the code, but to tip Pappas was not against the code, and it would get the tipster a medal. If Jo-Jo were the killer, okay, but I did not see Jo-Jo as the burglar-killer. Then who was Jo-Jo protecting? If he was protecting anyone. If he knew anything. I took a big drink.

  Because it was all still nothing. Not a shred of actual proof of anything. All I had were unconnected crimes and facts, and a missing boy I was trying to find. Nothing more, except that someone else was also looking, for reasons unknown to me. I really knew nothing.

  No one was going to believe that. And there was my problem.

  I had asked questions. I seemed to be involved, and it is not what you are that counts, it is what you seem to be. It isn’t reality that matters, it is what people think is real and act on. Not what is true, but what people believe is true.

  So I was alone in a cheap hotel room. I was drinking alone and sweating alone. I was on a lumpy bed in a dark room in a world where I did not belong. A world that was pulling me back because I was looking for a missing boy. A world I could die in if I did not find that boy soon.

  Chapter 10

  I woke up with a hangover and a knot in my stomach. I had not slept well. I had dreamed of running alone down a long dark street chasing my missing arm as it floated ahead of me just out of reach. I had a drink. I had two drinks until the knot in my gut eased and my hands stopped sweating. Then I got up and dressed and slipped out and down the back way. Because I had to do something more than hide in a cheap room.

  The Trafalgar Travel Bureau was on the second floor of a big midtown building. I was camped outside the door when the staff began to arrive. The first to show was a middle-aged lady, grey and belligerent. She unlocked, and I followed her inside. She asked if she could help me. I told her I wanted the manager. I looked as dangerous as I could. (I look more dangerous than I am after a bad night.) She considered my missing arm and retreated. She vanished somewhere, but I sensed her watching me.

  Four more females arrived in due time. They came in order of good looks, the best-looking last, which gave me some idea of what the boss was like. I mean, an office worker in New York will take every liberty he or she can get away with, and in this office it looked like the prettier the girl the more she could get away with. This did not surprise me. Each girl gave me the eyes up-and-down as she came in, and then looked at the grey one, who shrugged. My man arrived promptly at nine forty-five. I figured he ran a loose ship.

  ‘You the manager?’ I asked, trying to sound official.

  ‘Walsh,’ he said. I’m the manager. What…’

  ‘It’s private,’ I said.

  He hesitated, then nodded. ‘Okay, come on in.’

  His office was nothing to brag about, but it was private and it had four windows. He took his time about getting settled and asking me to sit down. I saw the pictures of his wife and kids, three, on his desk and a pretty good-sized cabin cruiser beside them. The picture of the boat was better framed than the picture of his wife. He waved me to a seat, and the telephone rang. While he answered I had a good look at him. He was tall, handsome, in a seedy way, and well dressed. His face was heavily tanned, which helped him a lot. It tended to hide the bald spot on his skull and gave him an athletic appearance. His face was thin, he wore a pencil moustache, grey now, and he had a habit of rubbing his bicep with his free hand. He seemed to be feeling his own muscle.

  ‘So,’ he said when he hung up, ‘what can I do for you, Mr…?’

  ‘Dan Fortune. You can tell me where I can find Miss Driscoll.’

  ‘Nancy-?’

  His voice gave him away when he tried to stop. The ‘Nan’ part of Nancy came out fast and surprised. The end of the name was modulated and trailed off. His jaw muscles clamped hard to prevent any more involuntary sounds. I could see the knots of muscle along his jaw. I had also seen the surprise. The name had hit him unprepared. Exactly why it was a shock I didn’t know, but I could guess. Judging from the way he ran his office, Mr Walsh liked young ladies. But I was not interested in the manager’s love life unless it related to Jo-Jo Olsen.

  ‘Miss Nancy Driscoll, right,’ I said as if remembering some official report that had sent me here to the travel bureau. ‘I’d like to talk to her.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not here,’ Walsh said.

  There was a tone in his voice that started a small alarm in my brain. Walsh was being cautious. And something else. The manager had a faint question in his voice. The caution could be caused by his interest in the girl, if he had an interest. But what was the question I heard?

  ‘When do you expect her?’ I said. I decided to be cautious too.r />
  ‘I, ah, couldn’t say, Mr Fortune,’ Walsh said. ‘May I ask what your interest is?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ I said as brusquely as I could, trying to sound like a policeman. ‘But I have to talk to her. Maybe you can tell me where she is.’

  Walsh squeezed at the bicep muscle of his left arm with his right hand. ‘Well, I’m not sure…’

  I had a thought. ‘How long since she’s been to work, Mr Walsh?’

  ‘What?’ the manager said. ‘Oh, well, about a week. Yes, this is Friday, and she hasn’t been in since last Friday. I mean, she was here all day last Friday, but not since.’

  ‘In other words, she didn’t show last Monday and hasn’t been in all week.’

  ‘Yes,’ Walsh said. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Has she called in?’

  ‘Er, well, no,’ Walsh said.

  There it was again. The caution and question in the voice of the manager. Did he think I was a snooper hired by his wife? That was more than possible. He was nervous about something. I began to think that the manager had more than a passing interest in Nancy Driscoll. He was acting very much like a man with a lot on his mind and a hot potato in his pocket. But just at that moment I had more on my mind than an office scandal.

  The Driscoll girl had not been to work all week. She had not called in sick, if Walsh were telling the truth. And Jo-Jo had done his fadeout last Friday. I felt a lot like swearing. After all I had done so far it could turn out that Jo-Jo Olsen was just off with the Driscoll girl. There could be a hundred reasons why he would not tell about it. No, there had to be more. My two shadows were looking for Jo-Jo for some reason. Still, it was possible that Jo-Jo had planned to run far and stay long and had taken the Driscoll girl along.

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘suppose you give me her address.’

  ‘Well, I…’ Walsh began.

  ‘I think you’d better,’ I said.

  Walsh considered me. ‘She lives at 145 West Seventy-Fourth Street, apartment 2B.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  All the females watched me go. The grey-haired harpie gave me a smug look as if she was sure that her Mr Walsh had handled my type. I grinned all around, and they became busy. I glanced back. Walsh had forgotten to close his door behind me. I saw him through the open door. He was talking fast on the telephone. I had not heard it ring. Walsh was calling someone. I had a good hunch that it was about me.

  All at once another possibility occurred to me. I did not like the thought. Maybe my two shadows and the mayhem so far on Pete had no connection to Stettin or Tani Jones but to Nancy Driscoll. It was possible. Maybe Jo-Jo had run off with the Driscoll girl and someone did not like that. My two hard types could be looking for Jo-Jo about Nancy Driscoll. It was as good a theory as any other I had come up with. With the little I knew, it was a fine theory.

  It was also a dangerous theory. If it had any germ of truth in it, Walsh was probably calling down the wolves on me.

  I got out of that office and out of the building. Once I reached the crowded midtown street I felt better. Somehow daylight and sun and crowds make a man feel safer. What can happen in broad daylight on a street full of innocent people? Plenty, that’s what can happen. I can name six unsolved killings that took place in broad daylight on a city street. Caution was indicated.

  So I took the short subway ride up to Seventy-second Street, with a careful and watchful change at Columbus Circle, and went warily up out of the station into the heat.

  I walked north on Central Park West in the shadow of the Dakota Apartments. The park was across the street to the right. It was still early and the park was green and bright in the sun. New York, in summer, is always at its best before eleven o’clock in the morning. The air is clearer then, the heat not yet an oven.

  I turned left down Seventy-Fourth Street. It was a street of nursing homes and renovated brownstones. As I reached Columbus Avenue I began to watch all round. I was wary. Crowds can be a help when you want to hide or fade away, but they can also hide men looking for you. Columbus Avenue was crowded. The one-way traffic thundered down with the staggered lights like a massive herd of roaring animals. I crossed on the green, and approached 145 on the far side of the street.

  This block between Columbus and Amsterdam Avenues was far different. It was a polyglot mess of rooming-house brownstones, old and shabby brown-stones, renovated brownstones, refaced brownstones, and a few tall modern apartment houses. There was also a school and a cheap hotel at the Amsterdam Avenue corner. I passed 145 across the street and walked casually on to the corner. But I had had a good look at 145.

  It was a renovated pair of brownstones combined into one apartment house but still with two entrances. I knew that 2B would be the parlour floor rear — about the best apartment in the building. With two apartments on the floor, it would be a small apartment. I waited for a time at the corner. I saw no one who seemed interested in me and no one suspicious. I had come to talk to Miss Nancy Driscoll. I walked back to 145 on its side of the street, and went down into the vestibule.

  It was a small vestibule. The kind with an outer and inner glass door, coloured tiles on the floor, and the row of mailboxes between the two doors. There was no mail in Nancy Driscoll’s mailbox, which could mean that she had not gone away, or had come back. It could also indicate that she did not get much mail. I pressed the bell of 2B and waited. In the tiny vestibule I was feeling as exposed and nervous as a fish in a fishbowl. There was no one on the street outside who looked suspicious or dangerous, but I had that tingling in the arm that wasn’t there that comes when I sense that all is not right. The door buzzed and I pushed it open and went in. It was a good sign. Nancy Driscoll was at home. I needed some good signs about now.

  The cellar door was directly in front of me at the end of a short hall. There was no elevator. I checked the cellar door and found it open. That was a good thing to know, just in case. Inside, it was a typical West Side apartment house, the hall and stairwell empty and silent with everyone out at work in the morning. I went up the stairs slowly. There was one short flight, a landing, another short flight, and the first floor. The first floor turned out to be no more than a small landing with two doors at right angles and the stairs going on up. The door to 2B was directly in front of me. I listened but heard no sound inside. I pressed the doorbell.

  The door opened instantly.

  A man stood there.

  There was a pistol in his right hand.

  I tried for the stairs down.

  ‘Don’t try!’

  I stopped.

  ‘Inside.’

  I turned and walked into the apartment. The man followed me down the narrow kitchen, the pistol steady in his hand, and into the living-room, which had a fine old fire-place and high ceiling. One look told me that Nancy Driscoll, wherever she was, had been a girl who wanted things — Things, you understand? The living room was filled with all the proper pieces of furniture: a small bar stocked with all the proper glasses, the whiskey in decanters with little metal name tags; there were the proper candle-sticks, bric-a-brac, prints on the walls; the bookcases were filled with elegant sets that looked as if they had never been cut and rows of best-sellers jacketed in plastic. Nancy Driscoll was a girl who wanted what everyone else in the middle had or wanted.

  ‘Against the wall! Hands flat on the wall. Lean.’

  I leaned against the wall with my lone hand flat on it. I felt his hand give me a quick but complete frisk for weapons. I came up clean, and he stepped back.

  ‘Okay, sit down.’

  I sat on a cheap modern couch facing him. Up close, the couch and everything else in the apartment was cheap, shoddy, built to look elegant but made of boxwood, pegboard and tacks. And I guessed that Nancy Driscoll had spent most of her salary for a lot of years to get together this pitiful show of what she yearned to have but could have only in shoddy imitation. I was getting a picture of Nancy Driscoll. A sad picture.

  My captor put his pistol away in a small
belt holster.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want with the Driscoll dame?’

  He was a man of medium height and weight. His suit was old and had not cost more than fifty dollars new. His shoes were worn and half-soled. His hat had not been blocked for years. His socks drooped. His face was pale and tired. I looked at him and knew who Walsh had called. A man who looked and acted like this man and who had the right to carry a gun could only be a policeman. The cheapest hood would not have been so poorly dressed or so tired. He had detective written all over him, and he had been waiting for me.

  ‘Fortune,’ I said. ‘Walsh tipped you, right? I’m a private operator.’

  ‘Good for you,’ the man said. ‘Now tell me about the Driscoll woman.’

  ‘A case,’ I said. ‘The trail led here. Call Captain Gazzo at Homicide if you want to check, Lieutenant…?’

  ‘Sergeant Doucette,’ he said. ‘The girl wasn’t very important, Fortune.’

  I heard the word. ‘Wasn’t?’

  ‘Yeh, she’s dead. I figured you could…’

  The sergeant stopped and shrugged. I knew how he felt. He needed a break. I felt worse. I seemed to be moving fast backwards. Every lead turned into a new crime, and I was no closer to Jo-Jo Olsen. Except that this time I knew that Jo-Jo was connected to the Driscoll woman, and I now had a real reason for a man to run. It was not a happy thought.

  ‘When?’ I said.

  ‘I thought you could tell me,’ Sergeant Doucette said. ‘I guess we better go talk to the lieutenant.’

  ‘I’d rather talk to Captain Gazzo.’

  Doucette shrugged again. ‘From here you go to the lieutenant. After that he’ll tell you.’

  He walked behind me out of the apartment and down the stairs. I decided that Doucette had been a detective long enough. He believed nothing and no one. He took no chances. In his work that was a good rule.

  Gazzo clasped his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling of his office. I sat and smoked. The captain again did not look as if he had slept. But then, he always looked like that. Why would a man bother to sleep when the clock in his brain never moved from midnight and it was hard to tell if the faces that passed before him were real or in a dream?