(2) Tony had left behind a sizable insurance policy, the premiums on which the redoubtable Rhoda had maintained during the twenty-odd years of their stormy marriage. Had Anthony Gibson died a natural death, Rhoda would have collected a hundred thousand bucks in cool American currency. But the policy carried a double-indemnity rider, and since Tony had been foresighted enough to die in an automobile accident, Rhoda could now look forward to two hundred thousand as balm for her all-consuming grief. Once she collected, she planned to move back to her native state, California, where she would open a new business, spend part of the day decorating the homes of nouveaux riches actors, and the rest of the day swimming and playing tennis.
“Tony hated playing tennis,” she said.
“Mm,” I said.
“So now I’ve told you,” she said. “And now, naturally, you’re going to start thinking I arranged for someone to saw his axle almost in half, or force him off the road, or lock his steering wheel, or whatever the hell.”
“That sounds a bit too obvious, doesn’t it?”
“Policemen always look for the obvious,” she said.
“Was his axle almost sawed in half?”
“I have no idea. The car is at a place called Geraldi Body and Fender on Lowell Place. You can check it there, if you like.”
“About someone forcing him off the road...”
“I don’t know how he happened to hit that pillar,” Rhoda said. “For all I know, he was drunk. As usual.”
“Mrs. Gibson,” I said, “on the off chance that your husband’s death was something more than accidental...” (and this is where I began to lie again) “people who commit crimes of violence will often call the family of the deceased to gloat or to taunt or to—”
“No,” she said. “No one’s called me.”
“Not since the time of the accident last night?”
“That’s right. No one. No one’s even called to offer condolences. Would you like to know why? Because Anthony Gibson was a bum. Period.”
Seven
He didn’t look like a bum in the color photograph she gave me. The picture had been taken outside the Matthews Street brownstone. Gibson was standing beside a sidewalk tree in new leaf. He was wearing a pale-blue turtleneck, a blue blazer, gray slacks, and black loafers. His dark hair was windblown, his eyes were crinkled in a smile, his teeth were very white. He looked handsome and serf-assured, a man without a trouble in the universe. I put the photograph in my notebook, and then, hoping Coop was not out to lunch, found a stationery store and called him from a booth near the cigar counter. The desk sergeant told me his phone was busy and asked me to wait. I waited.
When he came on the line, he sounded harried and a trifle breathless. “All hell’s breaking loose around here,” he said. “We have a guy upstairs who blew off his wife’s face with a shotgun.”
“Then I don’t suppose you got a chance to call Auto.”
“I called them, Benny. No red-and-white VW buses. Anyway, your case is already closed.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“We found the body.”
“What?”
“We found a corpse that fits the description you gave me.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“In an empty lot on Tyrone and Seventh.”
“Forty-two years old, five-eleven—?”
“Yeah, yeah, about a hundred eighty-five pounds, dark hair.”
“Clothed or naked?”
“Clothed. A blue pin-striped suit.”
“Where’s the corpse now?”
“It was at the morgue.”
“Saint Augustine’s?”
“Yes, but your friend probably picked it up already.”
“What friend?”
“The undertaker. I called him the minute we found the stiff.” Coop hesitated. “Did I do something wrong, Benny?” he asked. “I didn’t cut you out of a fee or anything, did I?”
“No, no,” I said. “Actually, you did a very good job.”
“Okay,” he said, “I got to run. Take care, huh?”
As soon as he hung up, I called Abner’s funeral home. He answered the phone on the third ring.
“Hello?” he said.
“Abner, it’s Benjamin Smoke.”
“Ah,” he said, “good. I’ve been trying to reach you. Your housekeeper—”
“I understand Mr. Gibson has been located.”
“He has indeed,” Abner said. “I’ve just returned from the hospital mortuary, in fact.”
“It was Mr. Gibson then?”
“No question. I’ve already sent one of my drivers to pick up the body.”
“Well then, everything seems to have worked out well,” I said.
“Yes. I can’t thank you enough, Lieutenant.”
“Don’t thank me,” I said. “Thank the Police Department.”
“Well, you were the one who alerted them. I must confess I was a bit irritated when Captain Cupera called. I hadn’t gone to the police in the first place because I was—”
“I’m sure he handled it discreetly, Abner.”
“Oh yes, most discreetly. I have no complaints, Lieutenant, none at all. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you sent me your bill immediately so that—”
“No need for that, Abner. I hardly did anything at all.”
“Well... thank you again, Lieutenant.”
“Goodbye, Abner,” I said, and hung up.
I deposited another dime, called Henry Garavelli’s shop, and got no answer there. I then called Maria, got her instead of her service this time, and asked if she would care to join me for a late lunch. Maria said she’d be delighted. I made more change at the cigar counter, went back to wait outside the booth—which a fat lady in a flowered bonnet had usurped during my brief absence—and then called my apartment and told Lisette where I’d be if Henry tried to reach me. I didn’t want him to continue flogging a dead horse, so to speak.
I felt rather odd as I walked back to the car.
There was neither the disappointment of having cracked a case, nor the joy I’d hoped for in failure. There was, in fact, nothing at all.
Eight
Maria Hochs had inherited blond hair and blue eyes from her father, an exquisite profile from her mother, and hips and breasts that could claim ancestral influence both Latin and Teutonic. Her long legs were strictly American. She was a beauty, and bright besides, with an infectious sense of humor and a self-confident ease about herself as a woman. She was thirty-four years old, still taking acting lessons, still making the rounds daily, still working showcases in little theaters scattered throughout the city, still hoping to become an internationally famous star. One of the things I had to overlook about Maria was her interminable chatter about acting. Maria was always “up for a part.” Maria had always been “called back” to read again, Maria was always certain she’d have won the coveted role if only they hadn’t “really been looking for” a redhead. Or a brunette. Or someone shorter. Or someone taller. Or someone older. Or younger. Or black. Or Chinese. I suffered through her eternal optimism only because she was more mature and realistic concerning other aspects of her life.
She was now telling me about an audition she’d had that morning for a role in a television soap, while simultaneously demolishing a large order of osso bucco, a side order of spaghetti all’aglio, and a plate of rugula salad. I’d chosen this particular restaurant for our lunch date because I knew it wasn’t frequented by Mafia hoods. In my estimation, southern Italians know nothing at all about good food, and the worst cuisine in the world is Sicilian. If I know the Mafia eats someplace, I stay away from it because (a) I might get ptomaine poisoning, and (b) I might get shot. One never knows when the Family goons will decide to uphold their ridiculous code of honor by opening fire on two cheap thieves at a nearby table. Since I trust no one’s aim but my own, I normally try to avoid a rain of bullets fired by a cockeyed button man.