Brass Rainbow Page 9

  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 s
aid 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.”

  “When was all this? A timetable.”

  “I met Paul about seven months ago as I told you. I started with the girls about three months ago. Paul revealed his dirty scheme last Sunday.”

  “And sent Weiss to collect on Monday? He must have called Jonathan first to show his hand and put on the pressure, and he told Weiss it was only a gambling debt.”

  “I don’t know what he did. I thought he was waiting.”

  “So the blackmail was really on Jonathan, for the family. He had to move while his evidence was hot.”

  “I told him Jonathan would not pay!”

  “He should have listened to you,” I said dryly. “Now tell me where you were on Wednesday night. All night.”

  He glared at me. He seemed like a man writhing in a net. Not scared or nervous, but desperate, unhappy.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I’ll hound you until I find out.”

  “Oh, very well. I had tickets for the theater. I’d had them for weeks. I didn’t think we should go the night before the funeral, but Mother said why not? Deirdre agreed. I have the theater stubs, I can describe the show. We stopped for drinks at Downey’s. We know the waiter. We had some supper and came straight home here. George was here. We all went out for the funeral in the morning.”

  “What time did you get home here?”

  “About two o’clock.”

  George Ames picked that moment to make his entrance. He must have been waiting in the wings. He swept into the room in an impeccable gray tweed suit with a wide black band on the sleeve. A tweed coat was draped over his shoulders, the arms hanging free.

  “You are a busy man, Mr. Fortune. I once played Sherlock Holmes and barely moved from a chair all night.”

  “Different times, different methods,” I said. “What time did you get home on Wednesday night, Mr. Ames?”

  “Wednesday? Let me see, that was the night I talked to you out in North Chester, correct?”

  “That was the night.”

  “Yes. I came home early that night. It had been a strain with the family. I’d say I arrived here about midnight. I needed rest for the funeral.”

  “So from two A.M. on only you two and Deirdre Fallon were here to alibi each other?”

  “Are you implying a family conspiracy?” Ames snapped.

  “Baron was a con man squeezing the clan,” I said. “You would all have considered him vermin to be expunged.”

  “Then I suggest you prove that one of us was elsewhere.”

  “There are other members of the family. You could have hired Baron killed.”

  “You have much to work on.”

  “Did you introduce Jonathan to Agnes Moore?”

  “So you are a detective. Your appearance makes people underestimate you, doesn’t it?” Ames said, studying me. “Yes, I failed to strike a chord in Agnes, but she liked Jonathan instantly. She and I did a TV special on old-style burlesque. I did a music hall routine. Not my forte, really, but I rather enjoyed …”

  I heard reminiscences coming. “You knew he was seeing her?”

  “I surmised he was, yes.”

  “Who else knew or surmised?”

  “No one, I should think. He kept his private needs quiet, as we all do, don’t we?” He began to draw on a pair of gray gloves. “I enjoy talking to you, Mr. Fortune, but I’m late for the club. Routine is the opium of the elegant aged. Walter?”

  Walter was at a window looking out. He was looking at the city below, but I guessed that what he saw was inside his head. His hands at his sides were clenched into fists again.

  “Walter?” Ames repeated. “Shall I see you for dinner?”

  “What?” Walter turned. “Oh, I don’t know. I … it depends on what Deirdre wants to do.”

  “Let me know, will you?” Ames said. He inclined his head to me, and strode from the room. It was a good exit. Ames was always onstage, and I wondered about him. Maybe he had needed some fast money and had learned about Walter’s sideline.

  I said to Walter, “Can I talk to Miss Fallon?”

  “She’s out.” He was back at his window. “Go away, Fortune.”

  “Sure,” I said, “but I just had a funny idea. What if the blackmail was only a cover? You cooked it up with Baron to have your uncle murdered, and then got rid of Baron. Tricky, eh? But I can’t get it out of my mind that you seem to gain most from both murders.”

  He turned. “When I got my money within a year anyway?”

  “Yeh, that’s the stumbling block, but I’ll work on it. Of course, maybe it was to get the company. That you wouldn’t have inherited until Jonathan was dead.”

  “The company? I didn’t want the company. I still don’t.”

  “Somebody could have wanted it for you. They’re pushing you.”

  “You’re insane! Crazy!”

  I said, “Or maybe the blackmail was legitimate. Just for kicks. You helped Baron work it to watch Uncle steam, and to make a fast buck. You thought it was fun to work with those girls. But it got out of hand, Uncle got killed, and you had to cover by erasing Baron. Now that’s not bad. I like that.”

  He stared at me and chewed his lip. I gave him a grin and walked out. My guessing at him had been pure fantasy, but it was all possible, and if there was a grain of truth in it anywhere, I might worry him into some move. That was the idea, anyway.

  He looked worried enough when I left.

  16

  NUMBER 47 University Place turned out to be where Deirdre Fallon had sent me to look for Paul Baron on Tuesday night. In the daylight it was a gray building without style or character. The typical New York apartment house—no taste, only floor space. I went up to 12-C. It was the same apartment I had been to on Tuesday. This time I got an answer.

  An older woman who looked like a cleaning woman, and held a dust mop to prove it, opened the door. I asked for Carla Devine. She told me to wait, she’d go ask the girls. I waited.

  The large room was rich and bright, with a deep-pile yellow carpet. Everything was expensive, thick and pastel-colored. You could have seen a speck of ash for a mile. It was all arranged in separate furniture groupings like a series of private waiting rooms. There were even magazines on the coffee tables.

  It was the kind of apartment where a group of girls band together to live better than most men could ever keep them. That is a way of life in New York. Most of the girls are from out of town and have ambitions. They are office workers, sub-professionals, or fringe artists serving commerce, and what they really want is “fun” and, eventually, a man who makes more money than their fathers did.

  Some of these girls change along the way, usually the most beautiful. Their work becomes a token, the men they meet have a great deal more money than Dad, their fun becomes expensive fun, and they begin to make a little profit on the fun. They have to be taken to the Colony for a hamburger. When they ask for money for the ladies’ room, they expect ten dollars and give no change. For this they render a reward, and that moves them across the shadow line between amateurs and at least semi-pros.

  I was sure that these were the girls Walter Radford had worked with, and I was thinking about Walter and his rich friends, when an inner door opened and Deirdre Fallon came into the room.

  “You again, Mr. Fortune,” she said.

  She wore a black suit, a high-necked black sweater, and a smile. The suit showed her off better than even the white dress had. She walked
toward me. She wore black knee boots that did things to my backbone. Her eyes were amused. I suppose I had the look of a man slapped in the face with a flounder. We all think in stereotypes.

  “Maybe you’re following me,” I said.

  “No, this happens to be where I live. Or it’s where I lived until Walter’s mother invited me out to North Chester. You’d have learned sooner or later in your wanderings.”

  “You live here?” I was asking about more than her address, and she knew it. Her smile became wider. I really amused her.

  “How do you think I met Walter? A man with your experience shouldn’t jump to conclusions on so little evidence. This isn’t 1900; the world is a lot more fluid.”

  “It’s not 1900,” I agreed. “You met Walter when he started to work with the girls here?”

  “No, earlier. Paul Baron brought him to a party soon after they met. Six months ago. We liked each other.”

  She thought about it, and frowned at her thoughts. She sat down on a pink couch and held her hand out. “Do you have a cigarette?”

  I gave her a cigarette and lighted it. She went on with her silent thinking. Outside the high windows heavy clouds were moving in a blanket across the sun from the north. I could hear the wind shake the windows. She smoked like a man, slow and steady.

  “Genteel poverty,” she said. “The very common story of my first sixteen years. The proud and proper Presbyterian Irish. If you want to observe false pride on its narrowest level, have a good look at a minority within a minority. My father was prejudiced against everyone who wasn’t Irish, everyone who was Irish if also Catholic, and everyone who mistook him for a Catholic Irishman. The only group he didn’t feel superior to was the English aristocracy, and he wasn’t always sure about them. He had a high opinion of himself, my mother was delicately well-bred, and I got a fine polish with the aid of richer friends. With it all, we didn’t have a penny to put on the eyes of the dead.”