"Yes, good morning, sir." He held out his hand and we clasped firmly. "I'd rather you use only the first half of my name," he added. "Hyphenated family names have always annoyed me, and since I am burdened with one myself I find it expedient to shorten it. You are Mr. Hammer?"
"That's right."
"And from New York. It sounds as though one of you is important," he laughed. Unlike his butler, his voice had a good solid ring. He pulled a chair up to mine and nodded for me to be seated.
"Now," he said, "what can I do for you?"
I gave it to him straight. "I'm a detective, Mr. Berin. I'm not on a case exactly, but I'm looking for something. An identity. The other day a girl was killed in the city. She was a redheaded prostitute, and she doesn't have a name."
"Ah, yes! I saw it in the papers. You have an interest in her?"
"Slightly. I gave her a handout, and the next day she was killed. I'm trying to find out who she was. It's kind of nasty to die and not have anyone know you're dead."
The old man closed his eyes slightly and looked pained. "I understand completely, Mr. Hammer." He folded his hands across his lap. "The same thought has occurred to me, and I dread it. I have outlived my wife and children and I am afraid that when I pass away the only tears to fall on my coffin will be those of strangers."
"I doubt that, sir."
He smiled. "Thank you. Nevertheless, in my vanity I am erecting a monument that will bring my name to the public eye on occasions."
"I saw the picture of the vault in the papers."
"Perhaps I seem morbid to you?"
"Not at all."
"One prepares a house for every other phase of living... why not for death. My silly hyphenated name will go to the grave with me, but at least it will remain in sight for many generations to come. A bit of foolishness on my part, yes; I care to think of it as pride. Pride is a name that has led a brilliant existence for countless years. Pride of family. Pride of accomplishment. However, the preparations concerning my death weren't the purpose of your visit. You were speaking of this... girl."
"The redhead. Nobody seems to know her. Just before she was killed your chauffeur tried to pick her up in a joint downtown."
"My chauffeur?" He seemed amazed.
"That's right. Feeney Last, his name is."
"And how did you know that?"
"He was messing with the redhead and I called him on it. He tried to pull a rod on me and I flattened him. Later I turned him over to the cops in a squad car to haul him in on a Sullivan charge and they found out he had a license for the gun."
His bushy white eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown. "He... would have killed you, do you think?"
"I don't know. I wasn't taking any chances."
"He was in town that night, I know. I never thought he'd act like that! Had he been drinking?"
"Didn't seem that way to me."
"At any rate, it's inexcusable. I regret the incident extremely, Mr. Hammer. Perhaps it would be better if I discharged him."
"That's up to you. If you need a tough boy around maybe he's all right. I understand you need protection."
"That I do. My home has been burgled several times, and although I don't keep much money on hand, I do have a rather valuable collection of odds and ends that I wouldn't want stolen."
"Where was he the night the girl was killed?"
The old gent knew what I was thinking and shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid you can dismiss the thought, Mr. Hammer. Feeney was with me all afternoon and all evening. We went to New York that day and I kept several appointments in the afternoon. That night we went to the Albino Club for dinner and from there to a show, then back to the Albino Club for a snack before returning home. Feeney was with me every minute."
"Your chauffeur?"
"No, as a companion. Here in the country Feeney assumes servant's garb when I make social calls, because others expect it. However, when we go to the city I prefer to have someone to talk to, and Feeney wears mufti, so to speak. I'm afraid I have to tell you that Feeney was in my company every minute of the time."
"I see." There was no sense in trying to break an alibi like that. I knew damn well the old boy wasn't lying, and the hardest guy to shake was one whose character was above reproach. I had a nasty taste in my mouth. I was hoping I could tag the greaseball with something.
Mr. Berin said, "I can understand your suspicion. Certainly, though, the fact that Feeney saw the girl before she died was coincidence of a nature to invite it. From the papers I gathered that she was a victim of a hit-and-run driver."
"That's what the papers said," I told him. "Nobody saw it happen, so how could you be sure? She was somebody I liked... I hate like hell to see her buried in a potter's field."
He passed a hand over his face, then looked up slowly. "Mr. Hammer... could I help in some way... for instance, could I take care of decent funeral arrangements for her? I... would appreciate it if you would allow me to. Somehow I feel as though I should. Here I have everything, while she..."
I interrupted with a shake of my head. "I'd rather do it; but thanks anyway. Still, it won't be like having her family take care of her."
"If you do need assistance of any sort, I wish you would call on me, Mr. Hammer."
"I might have to at that."
The butler came in then with a tray of brandy. We both took one, toasted each other with a raised glass and downed it. It was damn good brandy. I put the glass on a side table, hating myself because it looked like everything stopped here. Almost, I should say. The greaseball was still in it, because he might possibly know who the redhead was. So I made one last stab at it.
"Where did you get this Last character?"
"He came well recommended to me by a firm who had used his services in the past. I investigated thoroughly and his record is excellent. What connection could he have had with the deceased girl, do you suppose?"
"I don't know. Maybe he was only making use of her services. Where is he now, Mr. Berin?"
"He left for the cemetery with the nameplate for the tomb early this morning. I instructed him to stay and see that it was properly installed. I doubt if he will be back before late this afternoon."
There was as much here as I wanted to know. I said. "Maybe I'll run out and see him there. Where's the cemetery?"
He stood up and together we started walking towards the door. The little old butler appeared from out of nowhere and handed me my hat. Mr. Berin said, "Go back towards the city for ten miles. The cemetery lies west of the village at the first intersection. The gate-keeper will direct you once you reach it."
I thanked him for his time and we shook hands again. He held the door open for me and I ran down the steps to the car. He was still there when I pulled away and I waved so-long. In the rear-view mirror I saw him wave back.
The gate-keeper was only too happy to show me all the pretty tombstones and the newly dug graves. He took over the right seat of the car like a tour guide on a sightseeing bus and started a spiel that he hardly interrupted by taking a breath. It was quite a joint, quite a joint. From the names on all the marble it seemed as if only the rich and famous died. Apparently there were three prerequisites necessary before they'd let you rot under their well-tended sod: Fortune, Fame or Position. Nearly everyone had all three. At least very few went to their reward with just one.
It was easy to see that the winding road was leading to a grand climax. In the north-east corner of the grounds was a hillock topped by a miniature Acropolis, and the guide was being very particular to keep my attention diverted the other way so it would come as a complete surprise. He waited until we were at the foot of the hill, then pointed it out with a flourish, speaking with awed respect in his voice.
"This," he said, "is to be a great tribute to a great man... Mr. Arthur Berin-Grotin. Yes, a fitting tribute. Seldom has one done so much to win a place in the hearts of the people." He was almost in tears.