Dondero stared. “That was a man?”
“That was, and is, a man.”
“Well,” Dondero said defiantly, “he could have fooled me!”
“Ah! But could he have fooled Falcone?”
Jan settled it. “He fooled me,” she said, taking Reardon’s hand fondly, “and believe me, I was looking for all the faults I could find.”
Reardon became serious.
“Look,” he said flatly, “how much fooling did Falcone need? He’d had a drink or two, and they never got to the strip bit.”
“Yeah,” Tom Bennett said, “but I still can’t see any weakling tossing Pete Falcone out of any window!”
“No? You think that routine on the stage won’t keep you in good trim?” Reardon snorted and then glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get moving. I want to grab him — or her — before any costume change. I want the bartender at the Cranston Hotel to see her in all her feminine glory.” He thought a moment. “We can all go over there with her and have another drink there. These aren’t anything to brag about.”
Dondero brightened and took Gabriella’s hand. “On the department?”
“On the department,” Reardon promised, and came to his feet. He raised his glass. “Here’s to crime — may we always be on the right side of it!”
“Whichever side that is,” Dondero said, and quaffed deeply.
Friday — 11:12 p.m.
The passage to the single dressing room the Belly-Button could afford from its limited square footage, was narrow and getting through was further complicated by the fact that it was also used as storage space for beer barrels. A twenty-watt bulb, unshaded, hung from a cord, furnishing what little light there was. The stocky detective rapped on the door to which some humorist had attached a star cut from toilet paper. An even voice called out.
“Who raps these days? On doors, I mean. Come on in.”
Reardon opened the door. Georgie Jackson, seated at a dressing table and facing the mirror, was wiping make-up from his face. His wig was off and neatly placed on a mannequin head beside him. His eyes came up incuriously, studying Reardon in the mirror.
“What’s your problem?”
“Hello, Georgie. That’s quite an act you have there—”
“Thanks.” Jackson’s voice was only slightly elevated; his tone was dry, his eye sardonic. “You don’t look like my usual appreciative member-of-the-audience club. So?”
“So I’d like to talk to you a minute.” Reardon started to settle himself against a second dressing table in the room, and then pulled himself erect at the startled expression facing him from the mirror. “What’s the matter?”
“You damn near sat in Skeet’s make-up kit, that’s the matter.” Georgie Jackson returned his attention to the removal of his make-up, reaching for more tissues. “All right, now, mister policeman, what did you want to talk about?”
“How did you know I was a cop?”
The large brown eyes looked at him sardonically. “The same way I knew today was Friday. I have a Ouija board in the drawer, here. What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing much.” Reardon’s tone was conversational; he smiled gently. “You heard about Pete Falcone being killed?”
“Who?”
“Pete Falcone. A friend of your ex-boss, Jerry Capp.”
Jackson grunted and screwed his face up to remove some pancake near his ear. “Friends of my ex-boss aren’t necessarily my friends. No, I didn’t know this what’s-his-name and I didn’t know he was dead.” His eyes rose in the mirror, innocent. “Why? Is somebody collecting for a wreath?”
“Don’t you read the newspapers?”
“No, and I also don’t watch TV. I’m strictly a hi-fi fan. Was his death ever cut on a record?”
Reardon held back his first comment, forcing himself to keep calm.
“I’d stop taking off that make-up if I were you,” he said evenly. “You’ll just have to put it back on again. I want a bartender over at the Cranston Hotel to see you all prettied up in your best bib and tucker, wig, make-up and all.”
Jackson’s sardonic look changed to a frown. He put his hands on the top of his dressing table, staring at the lieutenant in the mirror. He seemed to come to the decision that for what he had to say, facing the cop would be better; he swung about on his stool.
“You know, copper, I start to get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something. What’s the bit about the bartender at the Cranston Hotel? Wherever and whatever the Cranston Hotel is?”
“Mr. Falcone met a girl there the night he fell — or was helped to fall — from the fifteenth floor, where he lived. Just ten minutes after he went upstairs with her.”
“Oh.” Jackson nodded calmly. “And you think it might have been me in drag.” He looked curious. “Why me?”
Reardon shrugged. “Why not?”
“For one good reason, because I didn’t even know the creep,” Jackson said, and smiled in a friendly manner. He turned back to the mirror, starting to remove his long lashes. “I go to bars when I feel like going, and I don’t feel like going to any hotel named the Cranston this evening.” He paused, his eyes bright on Reardon’s face. “Unless, of course, you’ve got a warrant for my arrest?”
“It wouldn’t be all that hard to get,” Reardon said flatly. The interview wasn’t going the way he wanted, or even the way he had expected. Doesn’t anyone ever look guilty any more? he wondered. Here we go for those nine-to-thirteen odds again! “For being on horse, if for nothing else?”
“Horse? Me?” Jackson was shocked at the suggestion. “Why, I never bet on a horse in my life.”
“Very funny!” Reardon felt his temper rising. “Put on your wig and some make-up and let’s get going, because if I have much of an argument from you, so help me, you’ll do your belly dance in a cast for the next few weeks!”
“My, my! So masculine! So muscular!” Jackson sighed and came to his feet. He stretched; his muscles rippled. His voice dripped with sarcasm. “You great big strong man, you — I’d hate to have you beat me. I might have to resist an officer...”
“Let’s go!”
Jackson smiled, but his eyes were narrowed. “Before we go, aren’t you supposed to inform me of my rights?”
“I’m not arresting you, damn it! I’m simply—” Reardon suddenly smiled. “Actually, I’m inviting you out for a drink, is all. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. I’m flattered. In fact, when you put it so politely, I may even accept. However, before we go,” Jackson added politely, “may I inqure as to just when I’m supposed to have killed this what’s his-name? You’ve told me where and how, but forgot the when.”
It was a reasonable question, but there was also something in the tone of voice that told Reardon he should have taken up those nine-to-thirteen odds once again.
“Wednesday night. About eleven at night.”
“How odd! I don’t think I’ll accept your kind invitation after all,” Jackson said. “My act goes on her at 10:30 and one o’clock each night, and I wasn’t sick Wednesday. I was right here. I admit we don’t draw the biggest crowd on Broadway here at the Belly-Button, but we do get enough people in so that one or two should remember my being onstage.” He smiled politely. “Do you suppose there might be another Georgie Jackson masquerading as a female impersonator.”
Reardon took a deep breath. “Look. I don’t care where you say you were, and if a hundred people saw you there. I still want a certain bartender to—”