He faltered, and seemed on the verge of another crying jag-
“It certainly is hard to believe,” I said, and he squeezed my wrist gratefully.
“Yes, yes, you knew Ernest, you know he could never do a thing like that. But the others, they don’t care, they just want to sweep it under the rug.” Rivulets of sweat streamed down his naked skull. “But I know Ernest could never have done it, never. Oh, my God! His face, his beautiful face…” His hands ripped deeper into the bedspread, bunching it between his fingers.
“If Ernest was killed,” I said carefully, “it might be connected with something he was working on. Did he mention anything to you?”
His voice was choked.
“No, no I don’t remember, I can’t think straight, I just came home a few hours ago, and there he was, in the tub, lying there— ”
“He never mentioned anything about say, jewelry, anything like that?”
“No, no, we never really discussed his work, there was so much else we had in common…” He started to blubber again. I sat silent, letting him get it out of his system, and finally, snuffling, he looked up at me.
“There was one thing… about a month ago I think it was, he seemed very excited about something, he wouldn’t tell me what it was. All he’d say was, ‘Just wait, I’ll have a real surprise for you in a couple of days,’ and he’d go on about how they were all fools down at the precinct, shortsighted fools, and he’d found out something that would make him famous. But then nothing happened and I got the feeling he was disappointed. At least, he never said anything more about it.”
Which means, I thought, you may just manage to stay alive.
“Was Ernest home last night?”
He blew his nose with his fingers.
“No, no, but we’d had a little tiff at breakfast and sometimes he’d just like to go out on his own, I’d never try to stop him.” Suddenly he half sat up in bed, his eyes bulging. “But that had nothing to do with it, nothing, Ernest would never have destroyed himself over a silly meaningless thing like that. Never! We were supposed to go away together this weekend, to the beach…” He collapsed back on the pillows and started twitching again. “To the beach. Oh, God, his face, his beautiful face…”
That was all I’d get from him.
In the living room Magnusson raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Curiosity satisfied?”
I grunted, and glanced toward the bathroom.
“Do you have a make on the gun?”
“Police Special. His own.” Magnusson frowned. “Look, Ed, why don’t you level. What’s your line on this?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. Like you said, just curiosity.”
I left before he could remind me about the cat.
The car had been ticketed while I was gone, the least of my worries, and I left it and walked over to a spaghetti joint I knew on Bleecker. The bartender, Sal or something, gave me the glad-hand and started running off about the rape in Queens, but I ignored him till he went away, leaving me my thoughts and a double Scotch. Neither afforded much consolation. After a couple of rounds I ordered a plate of fetuccine at the bar and dug in halfheartedly while I struggled to fit the pieces together. I’d been looking at this thing in career terms, worrying about the penalty for failure, when all along I should have thought about the penalty of success. Which, the way it looked now, could be death.
I shoved the half-eaten plate across the counter, ordered another Scotch and took it to the phone booth in back. Kohler didn’t seem particularly relieved to hear from me.
“I just finished a check on the subvert files, old Resistance types, Christies, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Freemasons, Jap sympathizers, every malcontent in metropolitan New York. Most of them were under surveillance anyway, and nobody fits the bill. How’d you do?”
“Great. I’ve got him here with me, he’d” say hello but he only knows Yiddish.”
“Save the funnies for von Leeb. How’s it going?”
“Nowhere, so far.” I glanced at the dial. “Look, we’ve got a lousy connection, can you call me back?”
“You sound clear to me.”
“I think the trouble’s on your end. In fact I’m sure of it. My number’s TR 5-4625.”
There was a pause while it sank in.
“Okay, I’ll get back to you.”
I waited a couple of minutes while he found an outside phone.
“All right, what the hell is it?”
“You out of the building?”
“I’m in a fuckin’ candy store, what’s going on?”
“We’re not the only ones on the case.”
There was a long silence.
“You sure?” His voice was hoarse.
“Definite. Two guys called for Fiske at work yesterday and he never came back. He was found dead in his apartment today, face blown off with his own gun, apparent suicide. Very slick.”
“No chance…”
“None at all. They planted phony extortion photos for motive, just about tore his cock off during interrogation. He must’ve spilled what little he knew, because they didn’t touch his roommate.”
“Jesus. Who…?”
“I don’t know. But somebody’s tidying up all the neat ends. Remember the pirates who used to bury their treasure on desert islands, then throw in the sailors who’d dug the hole? Well, we’re both holding shovels.”
I could hear his breathing.
“I’ve got to think… When can I see you?”
“I’m meeting a grasser at the Garden tonight. How about the information booth at Penn Station, about half past ten?”
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up, looked at my watch, and dialed von Leeb at the Neue Adlon. There was no answer.
By the time I got back to the Opel I’d decided that either I wasn’t being tailed or somebody was doing a damn professional job of it. Along the way I’d gone through the whole bit, quick stops, reflections in store windows,
sudden turns through deserted side streets, but nobody tripped over my heels. Which, of course, didn’t prove shit. If they were there they were keeping their distance, probably an interchangeable tail with one guy on foot and the other in a car.
The patrolman was gone outside Fiske’s place, along with the crowd of neighborhood ghouls. I drove cross-town to Hudson and up along Eighth, parking outside the Angriff offices on Fifty-fourth. As I got out I automatically pulled down the visor with my NYPD tag to avoid another ticket, feeling like an asshole when I caught myself. As if that were all I had to worry about. The sun was just beginning to set across the Hudson, and it was still muggy. I felt like a drink, I needed a drink, but that was out for the duration. A clear head was about all I had going for me right now.
The sports lovers were already inside the Garden so the streets were fairly empty, but I couldn’t spot anybody behind me as I strolled down to Fifty-first. The tickets were waiting like Larsen had promised, but the first bout was still going on so I killed a few minutes lounging at the back of the hall smoking a Lorelei and half-watching the action. It was even hotter inside despite the cooling system, the air heavy with smoke and the musky locker-room smell of ten thousand sweating, screaming fans. This must have been a big one, maybe a Team elimination, because the place was packed to the rafters and even the aisles were jammed with standees. For all I knew Jubala himself could be on, but I’d never been much for blackfights outside of an occasional match on the viddy, and now I just hoped for a quick decision so I could get to Larsen. The loudspeakers were drowned by the mob’s screaming, but by the shape of the fighters it looked like I wouldn’t have long to wait. It was hard to make out too many details from this far back, but the taller of the two pugs seemed to have already lost his left eye and the other side of his face was scraped into wormy pink hamburger. He seemed pretty badly slashed around the upper arms too, and now his opponent, a squat pyramid resembling a black sumo wrestler, ducked under a flailing right and raked his Claw in a shining arc across the other buck’s neck. Everybody jumped to their feet then and I lost sight of the action, but he’d obviously missed the jugular because when the crowd slumped back into their seats the tall one was still standing, blood cascading down his chest, feebly flailing out with bare lefts. He was game, all right, but then Fatso’s Claw lashed out again, gleaming silver in the spotlight, and the big buck’s right arm fell uselessly to the side, half torn from his shoulder, his own Claw effectively immobilized. The fans went wild again, scenting their kill, and I ground out my cigarette and started struggling down the aisle.