Хал Эллсон - Masters of Noir - Volume 3

“What about his background?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Well, he’s only married six-seven months. If it was hard guys he was playing around with before that, they’d know just what a set-up he was for a snatch. Maybe he even blabbed after he was married.”

“Maybe. We’ve checked the background, of course. Usual thing for a good-looking kid alone in New York. Ran around a lot. Night club stuff and things. Handsome kid, picked the best-lookers in gals. Nothing special in hard guy friends.”

“Nice selection of zeroes we’re coming up with, aren’t we, Lieutenant? What about that aunt and uncle?”

“Harry Fleetwood was the brother of Florence’s father, pappy with all the bucks. Pappy supported him and Aunt Ethel. When Pappy died, he left his all to lady Florence. Florence continued the support, but was somewhat more firm on the purse-strings. You met that Aunt Ethel, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Something, eh?”

“Quite.”

“Twenty years younger than Uncle Harry, and Harry’s fifty-nine.”

“She looks older.”

“It’s the white hair, which she dyes that color. Now that’s a switch, isn’t it? I’ve heard them go from grey to blonde, but that one’s a natural blonde who goes to grey. Quite a dame, Aunt Ethel. Used to be married to a British peer. Gave that up because she thought Harry had the kind of dough the Fleetwood name conjured up. Wound up being a ward of Pappy’s. Nice.”

I lay back and I said, “Yeah.” Then I said, “I’m in it, Louie.”

“So?”

“Mind if I stay in it?”

“Real polite. As if I could keep you out.” He stood up. “But, at least you remember what too many private eyes forget.”

Sweetly I said, “And what’s that, Lieutenant?”

“That it’s not a solo performance. That we work together.”

“Sho nuf, Lieutenant.”

“Real spry, for a guy that recently harbored bullets.”

“Spry enough to ask a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“There’s a girl by name Trina Greco—”

“Isn’t there always?”

“Lives on Christopher Street.”

“So?”

“Would you get in touch with her — don’t scare her — just get in touch. Tell her where I am, and that I’d like a visitor. Okay?”

“Okay, pal. You’ll get your visitor.”

I got her the next afternoon, Trina Greco, tall in a green suit shaped to her figure, black hair a shining Italian whirl on her head, black eyes enormous and a little frightened.

“Easy does it,” I told her. “A little virus. I’ll be out in a few days.”

“Reluctant hero.”

“There she goes again, my Greek philosopher.”

“It’s not virus. It’s bullets. I inquired, and I was told. Something I can do, Peter?”

“Lots of things you can do, Trina. But for now, just sit down, cross those lovely legs, and prattle. Make with the small talk.”

She told me about the ballet rehearsals, she told me about how much she liked me, she told me about the fact that she was in the process of moving to a new apartment and how excited she was about that. I lay back and I looked at her and you could tell that I was sick, because it was soothing. Once I asked her to kiss me, which she did, lightly, and next thing I knew, I was asleep. When I woke up, she was gone.

Anger and well-being seem to run hand in hand, and as your health improves, so your anger mounts. By the time I was out of the hospital, I was as tense as a piano-wire and fit to bust wide open. First visit was to the Reed mansion where the maid informed me that Mr. and Mrs. Reed weren’t home, they were downtown, passports, something like that. I asked her for Uncle Harry’s address and she gave it to me.

Uncle Harry lived in an apartment house on Fifth Avenue and Twelfth Street and Uncle Harry was wearing a monocle this trip: purple lounging pajamas, purple slippers, purple dressing gown, and a monocle. His greeting was cool. I asked about developments and he said there were none. Then he said, “Anything else?” And he said it curtly.

“How’s Mrs. Reed?”

“She’s fine.”

“How’s she taking the loss of all that dough?”

“She hopes it will be recovered. If it isn’t—” he shrugged — “then she writes it down as a loss and it’s over. She has had losses before.”

“And how’s Aunt Ethel?”

“Very well. Now... is there anything else?”

“Don’t you like me, Uncle Harry?”

“I neither like you nor dislike you, Mr. Chambers. You are, I trust, a fine young man. But your calling on me is, in essence, an intrusion. We are not friends, and we have nothing in common. You were hired for a purpose, and you served your purpose. Now... is there anything else?”

“Nothing else.”

“Then good afternoon, Mr. Chambers.”

I went back to the office and sat on my hands. I was wearing a gun now, and turning to look behind me wherever I went. I sat on my hands and waited for a call, but no call came. It burnt me, but there was nothing I could do about it. I’d put in a couple of phone calls to Nickie Darrow but Nickie-boy didn’t seem to think I was important enough to call back. I got off my hands and attended to routine but routine was duller than a one-horse race, so I kissed it off. Finally, at six o’clock, I was back at the Reed place on Gramercy Park and this time the maid showed me in. The living room was dimly lit by a couple of lamps and first thing Florence Reed did was raise a finger to her lips; then she pointed. I followed the point to a long lean lad snoozing softly on a couch.

“Abner?” I whispered.

She said, “Yes.”

She crooked the finger and I followed her into a smaller room. “He’s napping,” she said.

“How is he?”

“Very well.”

“How’s his throat?”

“Coming along fine. Now, is it anything special, Mr. Chambers? Maid tells me you were here earlier in the afternoon.”

“No. Nothing special.”

Her thin lips grew thinner. “Uncle tells me that you called on him too. I don’t quite understand, Mr. Chambers. Is it something about your fee?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

In a sense, she had me there. I said, “I was just wondering if I could be of any help...”

“Help? Oh. Perhaps you don’t know. We’ve been to the police, just as I told you that night. He was returned to us in the morning, and within an hour we were in touch with the police. They say they’re working on it, and we’re doing our utmost to co-operate. There’s just no help needed.”

Once more she had me. I said, “I thought perhaps I could be of some assistance.”

“None whatever, Mr. Chambers. The matter is in the hands of the proper authorities. I do wish to thank you for not going to the police with your private troubles that night, and if you feel there should be some added recompense for that...”

“No ma’am. No added recompense.”

Then I was out of there and I knew I wasn’t coming back. And I knew if I did come back I’d be thrown the hell out of there. And I knew that even that would be right because I had no business coming back there. So I had dinner in a quiet restaurant and I longed for Trina Greco but I wouldn’t call her because I was a target for somebody and there was no sense pulling her in as innocent bystander. I called Nickie Darrow again but he wasn’t in. I asked for Johnny Hays but he wasn’t in either. A good deal of hate was being dammed up inside of me and it had no outlet. I went down to Parker and chewed the fat. He didn’t have a thing on the Reed snatch, and it was growing stale. It’s a big city and there are a lot of crimes and they overlap and Parker was a busy man. So, since it was nighttime, I got on my broom and made for the Club Trippa.