New York Nocturne (12 page)

I turned back. Miss Lizzie limped around to the side of the front desk, looked down, adjusted her pince-nez, and frowned. She took a very large breath, her shoulders rising with it, and then came limping after us.

Outside, on Forty-Fourth Street, she said, “Keep walking.” Her voice was tight.

“What is it?” said Mrs. Parker.

“The desk clerk. Behind the counter. His throat was cut.”

“
Shit
,” said Mrs. Parker. She opened her purse and took out her flask.

Chapter Fourteen

“How long did you stay in Cartwright's room?” Mr. Lipkind asked.

“No more than a minute,” said Miss Lizzie.

We were back in her suite at the Algonquin—Miss Lizzie, Mrs. Parker, and I—where Mr. Lipkind and the diminutive Mr. Liebowitz joined us. It was now six thirty. Earlier today, before leaving John's apartment, Miss Lizzie had made arrangements to meet the private detective here at six, and shortly before we arrived back at the hotel, she had telephoned the lawyer from a pay phone and asked him to come over.

We were also joined by Mrs. Parker's Boston terrier. She had picked him up from her apartment, and now he sat on her lap, his small rectangular head turreting left and right as we talked. With her left hand, Mrs. Parker stroked his neck; in her right, she held a cigarette. On the table beside her, next to the ashtray, sat a glass of Scotch and water.

“Why stay that long?” Mr. Lipkind asked Miss Lizzie. Under his gray sport coat, he was wearing a colorful print shirt, the broad collar points lolling out across the coat's lapels.

“I wished,” she said, “to determine when she might have died.”

“You're not a medical doctor.”

“I am not a doctor of any kind. But I can tell the difference between fresh blood and dried blood.”

“And hers was which?”

“No longer fresh.”

Mr. Lipkind was stroking his handlebar mustache. “So a couple of hours,” he said.

Mr. Liebowitz ran his hand back over his shiny skull. “And you telephoned her at twelve.” He had been there, of course, at John's apartment, when she made the call. “Obviously, then, she died not long afterward.”

Exhaling smoke, Mrs. Parker asked, “But who would've wanted her dead?” The dog looked up at her, panting happily.

“Someone, possibly, who didn't want her to talk to you,” said Mr. Liebowitz to Miss Lizzie. “Who knew you were going to Miss Cartwright's room?”

“Albert Cooper,” she said.

“But if Albert didn't want her to talk to us, he could've just kept her name to himself,” I replied.

“That is quite true,” agreed Miss Lizzie. “And we've no idea to whom
she
might have spoken. She could have telephoned anyone. And anyone to whom she spoke could have decided to silence her.”

“Damn,” said Mr. Lipkind.

Mr. Liebowitz turned to him. “I'll talk to the desk clerk. At the Broadmore. He might remember her outgoing calls.”

“I am afraid,” said Miss Lizzie, “that that will not be possible.”

“Why not?” asked Mr. Lipkind.

“You're going to love this,” said Mrs. Parker flatly. She took a sip of her drink.

Looking at Miss Lizzie, Mr. Liebowitz said, “He's dead.”

Miss Lizzie nodded. “He was behind the counter, on the floor. His throat had been cut.”

Mr. Lipkind said, “Wait a minute. This guy snuffed the desk clerk,
too
? This was in broad daylight?”

“Yes,” said Miss Lizzie.

“See?” said Mrs. Parker and inhaled on her cigarette.

“Presumably,” said Mr. Liebowitz, “because the clerk
did
know the identity of whomever Miss Cartwright telephoned. Or he saw whomever it was that visited her.”

“Terrific,” said Mr. Lipkind. “That's just terrific. He walks into a hotel in Midtown Manhattan, in broad daylight, half a million people walking by, and he aces two people. Cuts their throats,
zip, zip
. One of them right in the
lobby
. And then he just walks away.”

“I told you,” said Mrs. Parker, exhaling smoke.

Mr. Liebowitz again turned to Miss Lizzie. “You didn't leave any fingerprints at the scene?”

“I wiped them away. From the doorknob, from the light switch.”

“You probably wiped away the killer's, too,” said Mr. Lipkind.

“In the circumstances, I felt that I had no choice. And it seemed likely to me that he had already wiped them away himself. None were left, you will recall, at John Burton's apartment.”

“Same guy, you figure?” said Mr. Lipkind.

“I expect so, yes.”

“Did anyone,” asked Mr. Liebowitz, “see you enter or leave the hotel?”

“No. I don't believe so.”

He turned to Mrs. Parker. “There was no one around?”

“No one who paid us any attention,” she said, exhaling smoke. She ran her hand along the dog's back. The dog preened. “But we're used to that,” said Mrs. Parker. “Aren't we, Woodrow?”

“Amanda?” said Liebowitz.

“I didn't see anyone,” I told him.

He nodded. “How are you holding up?” he asked me.

“I'm okay.”

“Three murders in three days. You're sure you're all right?”

“I think so, yes.”

“I'm all right, too,” said Mrs. Parker and took a sip of her drink. She smiled wryly. “Thanks for asking.”

He smiled at her bleakly. “I'm glad to hear it, of course, Mrs. Parker.” He turned back to Miss Lizzie. “Have you reported Miss Cartwright's death?”

“I thought it best to speak with you first. But having done so, I really
should
report it. The woman will have friends, relatives. They must be told.”

“By now,” said Mr. Lipkind, “someone's stumbled onto the desk clerk.”

“No doubt,” she said. “But possibly no one has found Miss Cartwright.”

“I'll call it in to the cops,” said Mr. Lipkind. “Anonymously. When I leave.”

Mr. Liebowitz turned back to Miss Lizzie. “You said earlier that you gave your room number to Daphne Dale. Was that wise? Suppose she phones here and asks for Miss Cabot?”

Miss Lizzie nodded. “Before we left the Brevoort, I telephoned here myself and spoke with the manager. He'll arrange to send up any calls for a Miss Cabot and for any messages to be taken. He understands the need for discretion.”

“Have there been any messages? Did you check?”

“I checked, yes. There were none.”

He nodded. “And you think Miss Dale was lying about her argument with Mr. Burton on Friday night.”

“I suspect she was, yes, but I've no proof.”

“Well,” he said, “I believe there's one thing we can safely assume about her.”

“Yes. That Miss Dale does not know whatever it was that Miss Cartwright knew. Or that someone believes she doesn't.”

“Right,” said Mrs. Parker. “She's still alive.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “This is getting extremely creepy.”

“It is possible, of course,” said Miss Lizzie to Mr. Liebowitz, “that whoever killed Miss Cartwright is unaware of Miss Dale. It's also possible that Miss Cartwright's death has nothing to do with John Burton's.”

“A hatchet,” said Mr. Lipkind. “A knife. A knife twice. Sounds like the same guy to me.” He shook his head. “Extremely creepy is right. This is turning into a first-class rat's nest.”

Miss Lizzie turned to him, a bit stiffly. “If you would rather,” she said coolly, “I will make arrangements to employ another lawyer.”

“Hey,” he said and raised his hand. “I was handing in an opinion. Not a resignation. Don't worry. I'm here for the long haul.”

“Very good,” she said. “You said something the other day about talking to the police commissioner?”

“Vandervalk. Yeah. Talked to him this morning. Read him the riot act. I'm pretty sure the cops'll leave us alone for a while.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” She turned to the private detective. “What about you, Mr. Liebowitz? Did you learn anything from your search of the Burton apartment?”

“Nothing useful,” he said. “But I did find this.” He reached into his inner coat pocket. “It was in the top drawer of his dresser, in the bedroom.”

He took out a worn passport and handed it to Miss Lizzie.

As she leafed through it, he said, “Since the war, he's been all over the world.”

“Indeed he has,” she said. “Germany. England. France. My goodness—China. Last year. For a month. And then, more recently, Europe again. He was in Germany in February, and he returned to the states on . . .”—she peered through her pince-nez—“. . . the fifteenth of March.”

“Maybe,” said Mrs. Parker to Mr. Liebowitz, “it was business travel. Can't you ask at his office?” She finished off her drink and put the glass on the table.

“I can,” said Mr. Liebowitz, “and tomorrow morning, I will.”

“And what shall we do in the meantime?” Miss Lizzie asked.

“‘
We
,' Miss Borden?”

“We, Mr. Liebowitz. Although that would depend upon Amanda, naturally.”

“What would?” I said.

She turned to me. “I believe it very likely that the person who killed your uncle is the same person who killed Miss Cartwright and that poor man in the hotel. And I believe that he killed Miss Cartwright because she might have revealed something to us. If I'm right, she mentioned my telephone call to someone else. One way or another, I believe, this led to her death.”

“We don't know that,” said Mr. Liebowitz, “to be a certainty.”

“We don't, no. But I feel that our wisest course, just now, would be to act as though it were. If we're wrong, nothing is lost. If we're right, however, then Amanda is possibly in jeopardy.”

“Me?” I said. “Why?”

“Because of what you might know.”

“But I don't know anything.”

“The person who killed your uncle can't be certain of that. You spent a week with John, the last week of his life. You were the last person to see him alive, apart from the murderer. And you were there, in the apartment, when he died.”

“But if I'd known something, I would've told the police.”

“Perhaps you know something without being aware of it. Perhaps you saw something, or heard something, that might reveal his identity. I'm not saying, Amanda, that you actually did. I am saying only that the killer may believe it to be true.”

“So what should we do?” I asked her.

“We have two alternatives,” she said. “We can go to Boston, the two of us. Once we are there, I can arrange for you to be protected.”

“A good plan,” said Mrs. Parker. “Can I come along?” Using a gold lighter, she lit another cigarette.

“Cops won't like it,” said Mr. Lipkind. “Amanda scramming like that.”

Miss Lizzie smiled. “I believe,” she said, “that I have sufficient resources in Massachusetts to deal with the New York City Police Department.”

“If we leave,” I said, “the police probably won't find out who killed John.”

She nodded. “I am not sanguine about their prospects, no.”

“They don't have any,” said Mrs. Parker, exhaling smoke.

“What's the alternative?” I asked Miss Lizzie.

“We continue to do what we've been doing. We attempt, on our own, to learn the identity of the murderer.”

“A good plan,” said Mrs. Parker. “Can I still go to Boston?”

“But Miss Borden,” said Mr. Liebowitz, “you said it yourself. If Amanda stays here, she may be in jeopardy.”

“Yes. If we stay, we shall still need to see about some sort of protection.”

“Robert,” said Mr. Lipkind and stroked his big mustache.

Mr. Liebowitz turned to him, frowning.

“I beg your pardon?” said Miss Lizzie.

“Robert. My chauffeur. You met him yesterday. He's good. He's smart, he's tough, and he's got a carry permit. He packs a rod.”

“I'll bet he does,” said Mrs. Parker.

Mr. Lipkind turned to her.

Innocently, she said, “I mean, you'd expect him to carry a gun, wouldn't you?” She took the dog's head in her left hand and spoke down to him. “Right, Woodrow?”

“There are places in New York City,” said Mr. Liebowitz to Miss Lizzie, “that Robert won't be able to go.”

“Why not?” I asked him.

“Because he's a Negro,” he said.

“I know a guy,” said Mr. Lipkind. “White guy. He can fill in when you need him.”

Mr. Liebowitz frowned again. “You mean Cutter.”

“He's very good.”

“He's dangerous.”

“Some situations, that's very good.”

“Does he pack a rod?” asked Mrs. Parker.

“Yeah,” said Mr. Lipkind. “He does, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh good,” she said, stroking the dog.

Mr. Liebowitz turned back to Miss Lizzie. “Miss Borden—”

“It is not my decision to make,” she said. She turned to me. “Whoever he is, Amanda, this person is ruthless. He has probably murdered three people, all of them brutally. If we stay here, you may be in danger. Even if Mr. Lipkind can provide us with some level of protection, we'll have no absolute guarantee of safety. I am perfectly happy to leave with you for Boston. Tonight, if you wish.”

I looked around the room, at Mrs. Parker, Mr. Liebowitz, Mr. Lipkind. I looked back at Miss Lizzie.

“It is,” she said, “entirely up to you.”

I thought of John, sprawled in that library chair. Alone. Abandoned there like a piece of rubbish.

“I want to stay,” I said.

Chapter Fifteen

At twenty minutes to ten that night, Mr. Lipkind's shiny black Cadillac drew up in front of the Algonquin, where Miss Lizzie and I stood waiting.

Robert opened the driver's door. Moving with his dancer's grace, he stepped out, walked around the back of the car, took off his cap, opened the door to the passenger compartment, and held it open with one large brown hand. “Miss Borden,” he said, his deep bass voice rumbling. He smiled down at me. “Miss Amanda.”

“Good evening,” said Miss Lizzie. “Thank you, Robert.”

“Hi, Robert,” I said.

Miss Lizzie stepped into the car first and then, using the walking stick to help her, she shifted over to the far side of the seat. I got in and Robert shut the door. He strode around the car again, slid inside, and pulled the door shut.

He looked up into his rearview mirror. “El Fay, Miss Borden?”

“Yes, please,” said Miss Lizzie. “Mr. Lipkind has explained our situation?”

“Yes, ma'am. He said you might need my help for a few days.”

“We won't be imposing on you?”

“No, ma'am.” He turned his broad shoulders and smiled back at her. “Be an interesting change.”

“You do realize,” she said, “that it could be dangerous?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He smiled again. “But I've been dodging New York City traffic for four years now. Anything else will be easy.”

“I do hope so.”

“Yes, ma'am. You comfortable back there?”

“I'm fine, thank you.”

“Miss Amanda? Comfortable?”

“Yes. Thank you, Robert.”

“Then here we go,” he said and turned to face the front.

Earlier, after a bit more arguing with Mr. Liebowitz, Miss Lizzie and I had made our plans. She wanted to retrace the route that John and I had taken on Friday night. Except for the appearance of Daphne Dale, to whom we had already spoken, nothing of note had happened at Chumley's, where John and I had eaten dinner. Miss Lizzie, therefore, felt that we should begin at El Fay, the big dance club on West Forty-Fifth Street. Mr. Liebowitz would join us there at ten o'clock.

Mrs. Parker wanted to be there as well. (“If Robert's coming, I figure we'll be safe. He packs a rod, you know.”) She asked whether she, too, could join us at ten, after she met some people for dinner. Miss Lizzie told her that she would be most welcome.

El Fay was only one block north of the hotel. We could easily have walked the distance, but Mr. Lipkind and Mr. Liebowitz had both insisted that Robert drive us for the entire evening.

“Robert?” said Miss Lizzie as we eased away from the Algonquin's awning.

“Yes?”

“You mentioned that you had a friend at the Cotton Club?”

“That's right, ma'am.”

“Have the two of you spoken?”

“Not yet, ma'am. I'll try again tonight. We'll be going up there afterward, Mr. Lipkind said. Is that right?”

“Yes,” she said. “If there's time. When you see your friend, I wonder if you could find out something for me.”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Mr. Lipkind said that Mr. Madden, the owner, was in prison until last year. From the sound of it, the Cotton Club would be an expensive proposition, both to purchase and to provision. I'd like to know where Mr. Madden obtained the money.”

“Yes, ma'am. I'll ask about that.”

Within minutes, we were at El Fay. As he steered the big car toward the curb in front of it, Robert tilted his head slightly back and to the side. Over his shoulder he said, “You understand, Miss Borden, that I won't be going inside?”

The car stopped.

“Yes,” she said. “We understand.”

He turned around. “Mr. Lipkind said to tell you he's got someone in there.”

“Mr. Cutter?” I said. Naturally, I was curious about the man.

“That's right, miss.”

“So we'll be meeting him?”

“Only if he wants you to.”

“Why is that?”

He smiled. “If you meet him, miss, you'll find out.”

Mr. Cutter was sounding increasingly more mysterious.

Robert got out of the car and came around to open the passenger door. I stepped out; Miss Lizzie followed. After he shut the door, Robert said to her, “I'll be around, Miss Borden. When you come back out, just look for me.”

“Thank you, Robert.”

Mr. Lipkind had made reservations for us, and the hostess, a tall blond woman in a red satin dress, led us to a table for five. We were obviously between shows; the house lights were up, and beneath the sallow haze of cigarette smoke, the crowd was murmuring complacently to itself.

Mr. Liebowitz was already at the table, wearing a black two-piece suit. I confess, seeing him out in public like this, I was once again shocked by the glistening scalp and shiny brows. His small, round face seemed naked, unprotected, stripped as it was of the standard defenses with which most faces came supplied.

He stood up as we approached, greeted us, and then sat down when we did.

“Would you like dinner menus?” asked the hostess.

“No, thank you,” said Miss Lizzie. We had eaten in the Algonquin's dining room. “Unless, Amanda, you'd like something?”

“No. Thanks.” I had not been able to eat much, only a few sips of soup. The dead Miss Cartwright had been sitting invisibly beside me, and she was still hovering nearby now.

“Mr. Liebowitz?” said Miss Lizzie.

“No, thank you.”

“I'll send a waiter over for your drink order,” the hostess said.

Miss Lizzie thanked her.

As she walked away, Mr. Liebowitz said to Miss Lizzie, “Your friend Mrs. Parker hasn't arrived yet.”

“It is early yet. She will be here. I am sure of it.”

“If she can manage to find the place.”

“Pardon me?”

“Well, Miss Borden, you do have to admit that this afternoon she'd already had a fair amount to drink.”

She frowned. “Mr. Liebowitz, earlier in the day, she had walked into a room that held a woman whose throat had been cut. It seems to me that Mrs. Parker can be forgiven for having a drink or two.”

He smiled faintly. “I'm not entirely sure,” he said, “that Mrs. Parker actually requires a dead woman.”

Miss Lizzie nodded. “You do not drink yourself, do you, Mr. Liebowitz?”

I noticed then that the glass in front of him held only a clear liquid, probably water.

“No,” he said. “It doesn't agree with me.”

“And neither, I am afraid, do I. If Mrs. Parker drinks perhaps a bit too much, she may very well have good reason for doing so.”

He shrugged. “Whatever you say, Miss Borden.”

She nodded once and then smiled. “Thank you so much for humoring me.”

He grinned. “My pleasure.”

The waiter arrived then, an overweight young man in black slacks, a ruffled white shirt, a black bow tie, and an elastic black garter snugged around his upper left sleeve. He asked Miss Lizzie if she would like anything to drink.

“I should very much like,” she said, slowly, deliberately, “a Ramos gin fizz.” She said it without looking at Mr. Liebowitz. I looked at him, and I saw that he was watching her, another smile on his lips.

When the waiter asked me, I said that I wanted nothing. Mr. Liebowitz told him the same.

As the waiter tucked his order book into his garter, Miss Lizzie said, “Excuse me.”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Is Mr. Fay in the club at the moment?”

“And who's asking, ma'am?” he said.

“I am.”

He smiled uneasily. “Yes, but—”

“You may tell him,” she said, “that a relative of John Burton wishes to speak with him.”

“John Burton,” he said. He nodded easily. And then, all at once, his face tightened. “Okay. I'll see if he's here.”

“Thank you.”

After he walked away, Mr. Liebowitz said, “He knows the name.”

“Yes,” said Miss Lizzie. “But we already knew that John was a regular customer here.”

After ten minutes or so, the waiter returned with Miss Lizzie's drink balanced on a round metal tray. He set the tall glass in front of her. It was filled with what looked like a vanilla milk shake, a red paper straw speared through its white froth. He stood back and said to her, “Mr. Fay is busy right now, but he'll see you in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” she said. Bending forward, she took the straw between her fingers and deftly tucked the end of it into her mouth.

It took half an hour—and Mrs. Parker still had not arrived—but at last the waiter returned. The band was playing a slow tune, and couples were swaying across the polished wooden floor, each of them tightly knotted together. The waiter leaned toward Miss Lizzie and said, “Mr. Fay will see you now.”

“Thank you,” she said and stood up. So did Mr. Liebowitz and I.

The waiter looked around the table. “All of you?” he said.

Miss Lizzie nodded toward me. “She is the relative. I am her guardian. This gentleman is my friend and consultant.”

“Well,” said the waiter, “I don't know. . . . I thought it was just gonna be one of you.”

Miss Lizzie smiled. “Perhaps Mr. Fay should decide.”

“Yeah, well, okay. Follow me.”

Miss Lizzie and I picked up our purses and, with Mr. Liebowitz beside us, we followed the waiter around the dance floor, out into the entryway, and down a narrow, dimly lit corridor. Outside an expensive-looking mahogany door stood a man whose shoulders appeared to be three feet wide. Stuffed into a dark suit, he stood there immobile, his thick arms crossed over his thick chest. Running across his left cheek was a wide pink scar.

The waiter told him, “They all wanna go in.”

The other man studied us, one by one, and then jerked his head toward the door. “Ask 'im,” he told the waiter.

The waiter knocked on the door, then opened it, stepped in, and pushed the door shut behind him.

The man said nothing more, merely looked down at the floor, ignoring us, waiting. We waited with him.

After a few moments, the door opened, and the waiter stepped out, pulling the door shut. “He says it's okay.”

“Right,” said the man. “Take off.”

The waiter left, and the man let his arms fall from his chest and turned to look down at Mr. Liebowitz. “You packing, shorty?”

Mr. Liebowitz reached into the left side of his coat, eased out a small semiautomatic pistol, and handed it over.

The man bounced it twice on his broad palm then said to Mr. Liebowitz, “A twenty-five caliber. A sissy gun.”

Mr. Liebowitz nodded. “I shoot a lot of sissies.”

I giggled; I could not stop myself.

The man glanced at me, his eyes hooded above that impressive scar. He looked back at Mr. Liebowitz. “Yeah,” he said. “Funny.” He slipped the pistol into his coat pocket and turned to Miss Lizzie.

“I have only this,” she said, holding up the walking stick. “Without it, alas, I tend to be quite useless.”

“The bag,” he said. “Open it.”

Miss Lizzie's face went pink, and she pressed her lips together. “Please,” she said.

“Come again?” said the man.

“Open the purse, please,” said Miss Lizzie.

The man looked at Mr. Liebowitz, at me, and then back at Miss Lizzie. “Huh?”

“Open the purse,
please,
” said Miss Lizzie.

“Oh, right,” said the man. He grinned. “Right. Sure.
Please
.”

She nodded, slipped the purse off her arm, opened it, and held it out for him to look inside.

He peered down into it, nodded, and then turned to me. “Okay, kid. The bag.” He glanced at Miss Lizzie, looked back to me, and grinned again. “Please,” he said.

I held open my purse, wishing, ridiculously, that my crumpled handkerchief were not lying there, as I knew it was, curled up in one corner like a dead mouse.

He looked in, leaned back, crossed his arms, then jerked his head toward the door. “Go ahead.”

Smiling, Mr. Liebowitz opened the door and waved his arm toward it, gesturing for Miss Lizzie to go ahead. She did, and I followed her, and Mr. Liebowitz followed me.