He tried to push the newspaper clipping off the picture, but I caught his heavy hand. “Leave it—the clipping has hidden the tip of her nose. With blonde hair—who is this?”
“Looks like somebody I've seen in the movies or...”
“It's Margrita! I'd better enroll in that mail-order badge school Anita was attending, get the rust out of my brains. She bobbed her nose, dyed her hair, changed her name— to get away from her call-gal past. Damn, should have figured that from the start This is going to be my lucky day.”
“Don't overplay yourself. You've found the gal, but you still got nothing that will convict Franklin, Go to court with that bullet business and they'll stick you in a padded cell.”
“I haven't even got the diamond sliver any more, but at least I know what I'm looking for, and that's half the case.”
Bobo waved a strong hand, as though clearing the air. “Hal, that beating you got last night must of kayoed your common sense. All you need now is a motive. And if you find that, then all you got to do is hang a conviction on one of the most powerful monkeys in the country—'Cat' Franklin.”
“I got... something else waiting for the 'Cat',” I said, getting the telegraph office on the phone, wiring Guy Moore in St. Louis that I'd found Marion Lodge.
7
The newspaper stories on the killings carried the home addresses of Shelton and Brody—they both lived in Will's neighborhood, within walking distance of the bank.
Brody's was a modest brownstone, the kind of a house he picked up cheap in 1931-32, when the banks were foreclosing and trying to sell houses for the balance due on the mortgage. He could have managed it on the sixty a week the bank probably paid him, even made a few bucks if he took in roomers. They had roomers: there were three bells in the doorway—Mrs. Ralph Brody had the basement. A plain, faded woman of about fifty-five, answered my ring. “Mrs. Ralph Brody?”
She said yes and I had a sinking feeling I was on the wrong track, Franklin would only kill for money, big money, and she looked like she'd never seen anything larger than a ten-buck bill in her life. I showed her my badge, identification card, told her, “In handling a matter for a client, I've stumbled across something that may throw some light on your husband's death. Can I talk to you?”
She fumbled in her old print dress for her glasses, gave me the once-over. For once in my life I was grateful for my half-pint size, harmless-looking baby-puss.
“Why, yes. Come in.” She had a mild, dull voice that went with her personality. Bobo was sitting in the car, just in case I never came out of the house, and I nodded to him with my noggin, followed her inside.
It was a neat little apartment, everything old and spotless. There was an ancient, bulky radio, but no TV set, and there wasn't a piece of furniture newer than ten years. It was obviously the home of a couple just getting by on a weekly salary. She motioned toward a cane chair, sat down opposite me.
Choosing my words with care, I said, “Mrs. Brody, I may be off on a wild-goose chase, so until I'm... a... positive of my suspicions, I can't give you the name of my client, tell you much. But if you'll answer a few questions, I might be able to find your husband's killer.”
“I don't mind talking. Don't have much chance any more. I'm sure Ralph was killed by a youngster. Children are so wild these days, no security, and all this violence in the world tempts them to try anything. Even rob and kill for a few dollars.”
“You have any children?”
“Mr. Brody and I were never blessed with any.”
“Know this is personal, but did Mr. Brody bet the horses, gamble... play around?”
She gave me a flat, timid smile. “For the last twenty-three years Mr. Brody left this house at exactly 8:25 every morning to go to the bank, returned at noon for lunch, returned again at a quarter to five in the afternoon to putter around our back yard, have supper. In the evening he either read, played cards with me, or worked at his hobby —soap sculpturing. Sometimes on a Friday night we went out to a movie, or on Sundays we might visit an art museum. Does that answer your question, young man?”
Completely. One thing more, shortly before his death, did your husband mention anything about coming into any money? Perhaps a stock market deal, or a relation leaving him an estate?”
Every Friday Mr. Brody handed me his pay envelope and I gave him an allowance of eight dollars. That's all the money he ever had, ever needed.”
I looked at this dull woman, thought of her mild uneventful life, wondered if she'd ever been young and passionate looking, if she'd been happy. Yet in her dull way, she'd probably been happier than a Louise, or an Anita, or even Margrita. I wondered if a marriage like that was boring, or was this contentment, the real thing?
Standing up, I said, “Well, thank you, Mrs. Brody. I'll let you know when I have something definite about the shootings. By the by, was Mr. Brody friendly with Mr. Shelton?”
“Indeed he was. Mr. Shelton and his daughter often came here for Christmas and Thanksgiving.”
“Aha. Did Mr. Brody have any brothers or sisters who might have been involved in gambling or...?”
“We were both only children.” She got to her feet with an effortless motion that somehow seemed to reflect the whole pattern of her life. “Would you care to see his statues? Ralph was really very talented, always meant to give more time and effort to his hobby. But the bank took up most of his time, became a rut for us—a comfortable rut. Here, let me show you. Would you care for some lemonade?”
“Have anything stronger?”
“I'm sorry, but we never touched liquor.”
“Lemonade will be fine.”
She smiled at me, showing even white teeth. “That last question was a trap, wasn't it? Wanted to know if we drank, didn't you?”
“Yeah, I'm a clumsy detective.”
“We never drank anything except some wine at Christmas,” she said as I followed her into a short hallway, through a large, scrubbed kitchen, then into a glass-enclosed porch that opened on a back yard full of flowers. The porch held a showcase that had a number of small models of ships and dogs, a few heads of famous people—I recognized FDR as one—all carved out of cakes of soap. There was an old-fashioned icebox, with a pan under it to catch the dripping, near the door, and Mrs. Brody took a pitcher of lemonade out of the box, poured out two glasses.
It wasn't bad, either.
Pointing to the statues she said, “These mean so much to me. And those certificates on the wall—prizes Ralph won in contests. He once won a toaster, too. Yes, these little figures are all I have left of him. When two people live close lives and one of them suddenly... departs... at first the loneliness is unbearable. The bank had given Ralph, all its employees, a small insurance policy. I thought I'd sell the house, move to California. But somehow, I'm as busy as ever every day, doing the same things I've always done. Time passes and I'm still here. Probably never move, this house is my world.”
“How big was that policy?” I asked, bending to get a closer look at the soap figures. I'm not the artistic kind— soap was ringing a different kind of bell in my mind.
Mrs. Brody gave me a tight smile again. “Imagine being brash is part of your work. The policy was for $1,500. But you're not nearly as crude as that other detective. Mr. Brody was furious...”
I straightened up like I was goosed. “Mr. Brody...? You mean a detective was here before the shootings?”
“Oh yes, and a rather nasty man. Let me see that was... oh, about three weeks before the... Ralph's accident. I mean the hold-up. This man rang the bell one morning, waved a badge and practically forced his way into the house. Said he was from the banking department, I believe. He searched the apartment very thoroughly. I was afraid of that man, why, he hardly put things back in the drawers. Left before Ralph came home for lunch and when I told Ralph, well, never did see him so mad.”