Brass Rainbow (2 page)

“Yeh,” Mitch said. “I remember that part about ‘the third.'”

I wasn't really surprised, or I wouldn't have been there in the morgue.

“Can I see him, Mitch?”

“Make it fast. The docs'll be down soon.”

There are 128 storage crypts in the morgue. New York is a big and violent city. The crypt Mitch opened contained a muscular man of medium size in his late fifties or so. He had been a handsome man with regular features, thick gray hair and an imperial beard, small eyes, and a thin, hard mouth. Weiss had been right. Radford looked rich and tough, like old Kaiser Wilhelm.

“Can I see the report, Mitch?”

“Is it important?”

“It could be.”

“Okay, I'll look at it for you. Wait over in Phil's.”

I went across the wide avenue to Phil's luncheonette. The snow was thick and blowing. I ordered two eggs and coffee. Mitch arrived before my second coffee. He sat down and read from a pad:

“Jonathan Ames Radford III; age 59; 146 East Sixty-third Street. Dead on arrival at his home of 17th Squad detectives called by George Foster Ames of the same address. Death was from a single knife wound in the left ventricle.”

I sat up. “A knife, Mitch?”

“That was it. The wound was funny, some kind of knife with a wavy edge. It wasn't found.”

“What about the time?”

“Cops got there at six-ten
P.M.
That was last night. The Doc estimated time of death between around noon to two-thirty P.M.”

“Any other wounds or bruises?”

“No, and that's funny. In knifings they usually get bruises.”

I paid Mitch his ten dollars and went back out into the wind on the avenue. (What Mitch does isn't legal, but he has six kids and the taxpayers hate to pay people they can't see working directly for their own benefit.)

In the driving snow I walked downtown toward the Lower East Side. I wanted to find Sammy Weiss. It could be that the police only wanted Weiss as a witness. That was not the way Freedman had acted, but you could never tell with a man like Freedman. Any chance to make Weiss sweat would be a pleasure for Freedman.

Sammy was not a violent man. He was, if anything, a soft man. On the other hand he hadn't seen anything like $25,000 in a long time, and if Radford had tried to welsh …?

One way or the other it was murder, and, witness or suspect, Weiss's only play was to turn himself in. There's nowhere to run from murder.

He had come to me, and while I owed him nothing, everyone needs someone on their side. There are always gray areas, even in murder. It was possible that Weiss didn't even know that Radford was dead. Someone had to tell him, and better me than Freedman.

I plodded through the snow of the Village and the Lower East Side for the better part of the morning. I tried all Weiss's haunts I could remember: taverns, poolrooms, Turkish baths, horse rooms, and the dingy cafeterias where lone men like Sammy eat. Freedman had been most places before me. No one had seen Weiss since 3:00
A.M.
last night. That made me wonder.

No one sticks to the old places like a solitary gambler down on his luck, except a sailor. To a sailor the ship is home, mother and family. To a piece of flotsam like Weiss, home is his haunts.

As a last resort I checked his room on St. Marks Place. I did not expect him to be there. He wasn't. I stopped for a beer.

Sammy was on the run or hiding. Without money he could not run far, and he could not get money because the police would know everywhere he could hope to get it. Without money he could not hide long, either. So he had more money than I had suspected, or someone was hiding him. It let me out. If he had stabbed Radford, only a lawyer could really help him. If he hadn't stabbed anyone, he didn't seem to need my volunteer aid.

I went home and cooked a can of soup to warm me. I watched the snow outside the window. The tall buildings uptown were vague ghosts through the swirling flakes. I thought about Marty. I thought about going down to Philly to see her. But I would only be in her way. A girl trying to make it in her first real show doesn't want a steady lover hanging around to scare off people.

I got my coat. I couldn't spend the day thinking about what Marty was doing in Philadelphia. At least I could find out how bad it was for Weiss. Not from the police. They would only figure I was in touch with Weiss and sweat me. I would investigate. At least keep busy.

Maybe I was just curious. Being a detective gets to be a habit, and a murder is like a mountain—it's there.

3

T
HE APARTMENT HOUSE
on East Sixty-third Street where Jonathan Radford had lived was a massive, gingerbread gray building built in the twenties for the true rich. Its upper stories were lost in the heavy snow.

“Radford apartment,” I said to the doorman.

He was obviously under orders to keep the murder quiet. A foursome looking for a taxi appeared in the lobby. He didn't even ask who I was.

“Apartment 17, left elevator, rear.”

It was a small, self-service elevator that served only two apartments on each floor. It delivered me to a tiny foyer for apartment 17. I rang.

The man who answered the door was tall, gray-haired, and looked something like the body in the morgue without the beard. He had a large nose, the pink face a man gets when he is habitually shaved by barbers, and a wrinkled neck he tried to hide by holding his head too high. I had a mental flash—I knew his face. How?

“Mr. Ames?” I guessed.

“Yes, I … What do you want? I'm very busy.”

He passed his hand over his face. He seemed nervous, out of focus. His suit had wide lapels and an old-fashioned cut, but looked custom-made within the year. The cuffs of his shirt came four inches out of his sleeves and were linked with rubies. The cuffs, and his high collar, were starched stiff.

“I'm a detective, Mr. Ames,” I said, not mentioning that I was private, or giving my name. Why ask for trouble from the police? “I'd like to ask some questions about the murder.”

He nodded vaguely. “The murder, yes. I … I really can't believe he's gone. Jonathan. Dead! That stupid animal!”

“Can I come in?” I said.

“What? Oh, yes, of course. I don't see what …”

He trailed off. I walked into a living room as large as four of my rooms—an elegant, high-ceilinged room that had been lived in for a long and comfortable time. The furniture glowed. Most of it was from one of the French periods, but there were enough odd pieces to show that no hired decorator had laid it out.

“Now, if you'll …”I began, trying to sound official.

Ames was staring at me. He was looking at my empty sleeve. Suspicion flickered in his eyes.

“I was under the impression that the murderer of my cousin was being pursued. The Weiss person. A matter of time.”

“The police say Weiss killed him?”

“Of course! Who else … You did say you were a detective?”

“Private,” I admitted.

“Private? You mean for hire?” He was all alert now. “Is there some factor involved that I am not aware of?”

“I'm not allowed to discuss my client, Mr. Ames,” I said, which was more or less true—if I had had a client. “Perhaps you could tell me about yesterday?”

It is amazing how much the rich, the secure, accept without bothering to question. They're not used to being deceived, and they aren't afraid of much. What can hurt them? Ames didn't even ask for my credentials. All he did was show annoyance. He seemed confused by the whole affair, and I was a flea under his collar.

“What? Oh, yes, yes. What do you want?”

“Was your cousin expecting any visitors besides Weiss?”

“He wasn't expecting anyone. He had a slight cold or he would have been at his office as usual.”

“So he made the appointment with Weiss yesterday morning?”

“I don't know when he made it. I didn't see him after breakfast. When Walter and I left, Jonathan was out.”

“Walter Radford lives here?”

“No, no,” Ames said testily. “Walter has his own apartment. I presume he came to talk to Jonathan. After Jonathan went out, Walter came back to my rooms and suggested we share a taxi as far as my club. He knows I always lunch at the club if I'm not working in a show.”

Then I knew where I had seen him before. “I've seen you on television, haven't I? Broadway, too. I saw you play a high commissioner of a British colony. You were good.”

“Why, thank you.” He beamed now. “It's gratifying to be recognized, although it says more for your sharp eyes than my fame. I'm not exactly in demand. TV bits, mostly. An actor has to work.”

“Rich men don't often go in for acting.”

“The one thing in my life I am really proud of, Mr.… What did you say your name was?”

He had me. If you want to stay anonymous, don't praise a man. People always want to know who is flattering them.

“Fortune,” I said. “Dan Fortune.”

“My pride, Mr. Fortune, is that I tried to carve my own place in a hard arena. Most of our family tend to regal indolence. Not that I'm rich. Through devious twists of family history, Jonathan and his brother, Walter Senior, were the rich ones. The rest of us are not impoverished, but we are not rich. I shared this apartment with Jonathan for twenty-five years, but he owned it.”

I took the opportunity of his better humor. “Can you tell me anything more, Mr. Ames? For instance, what led the police to Weiss?”

“I found his name on Jonathan's desk calendar.”

“Careless of him to leave his name.”

“I presume he isn't a mental giant. Besides, it seems clear that he struck, probably, in anger. I suppose he panicked.”

It was a pretty good description of Weiss, and of the only way he might have killed a man.

“You didn't see Jonathan again after the morning?”

“No. I came home at half-past five. When he did not appear for our cocktails at six, I went to his study. I found him on the floor in a pool of dried blood. I'm afraid I was sick. I had a drink. Then I called the police.”

“Where did he go that morning? When did he get back?”

“We learned later that he had been to lunch with Deirdre. She says they returned here at about one o'clock.”

“Who's Deirdre?”

“Deirdre Fallon, young Walter's lady friend. She actually let Weiss into the apartment before she left.”

“What time was that?”

“She says about one-fifteen. When Gertrude, Walter's mother, came to call at about two o'clock, she got no answer.”

I made a mental timetable. Radford had been alive at one-fifteen when Weiss came. Say fifteen minutes or so for Sammy in the study: one-thirty. At two o'clock no one answered the door. I wasn't sure I wanted to find Weiss. Not if they were all telling the truth.

“What about enemies? Business troubles? Who gets rich now?”

But I had lost him. He might have been shaken by the murder, and I had flattered him for a moment, but he was not a fool. His eyes had hardened while I was thinking over the timetable.

“Are you working for this Weiss, Mr. Fortune?”

“In a way,” I admitted.

His voice was flint. “I see. You believe him innocent?”

“I want to hear a real motive.”

“Isn't $25,000 enough for a man like that?”

“You mean the money Walter owed him? Why would he …?”

“I mean the $25,000 he stole, Mr. Fortune.”

So there it was. If I were the police, I would be after Weiss.

“The money was taken from the apartment?” I said.

“From a drawer in the study,” Ames said. “Weiss was here to collect the money, Mr. Fortune. He was here at the time of the murder. The weapon was at hand. The money is gone.”

I said nothing. What could I say?

“Now you come to ask questions while Weiss is apparently still at large,” Ames said. “When a rich man is murdered, only a fool fails to consider anyone who might gain by his murder. I've thought about it all night. There is no one. You can believe me when I tell you there was no one with a good enough reason to murder Jonathan. There is only your Weiss.”

I nodded. “Can I look at the study?”

“I believe I …” he began angrily, and stopped. He hesitated. “Very well. I don't see why not.”

The study was down a small corridor. It was book-lined and leather-furnished. A stain on a large rug showed that the body had been partly behind the desk. There were four windows. They were all closed and inaccessible from outside except to a bird. The room had one door, and it had been thoroughly searched.

I went out and stood in the small corridor. To the right it led into the kitchen. There was a back door to the kitchen. It was locked inside by a spring lock. Through it was the usual back staircase for garbage, deliveries and fire. The lock did not seem to have been tampered with.

I returned to the living room and thanked Ames. He nodded. His well-tended face was frosty. I was nosing, unasked, into his affairs. There's nothing like self-interest to bring a man out of shock or sorrow.

In the lobby I braced the doorman. “What time did Radford come home yesterday afternoon?”

“Around one o'clock, with the Fallon girl. I already told the Captain. I seen the fat guy go up maybe one-fifteen. Miss Fallon come down right after that, like I said.”

He was eying my missing arm. He assumed I was a cop, and the arm probably made me look like a tough cop.

“When did the fat guy come down?”

“I didn't see. I had to help old lady Gadsden with her groceries. Two million bucks, and she carries her own stuff.”

“Where do the back stairs open out?”

“Alley in the rear. It locks inside, only you know.”

I knew. Half the time it would be open. I went out into the snow. It was still coming down, but not as heavy. I started up to the corner, thinking about what I could do next. George Ames had sounded pretty certain about no one else killing Radford. He could be right—as far as he knew. But there was another side to the coin, a side Ames might not know.