New York Nocturne (20 page)

“You're convinced that Mr. Rothstein was responsible.”

“Hey. Don't you get it? He was Rothstein's
guy
. And no one's gonna hit Rothstein's guy without Rothstein sayin' it's okay. But if Rothstein wants someone dead, that person is dead.”

Miss Lizzie glanced at me. I looked down.

Walters said, “What's the deal with Burton anyways? How come you wanna know so much about Burton?”

“Curiosity,” said Miss Lizzie.

“Yeah, well. You know what curiosity did to the fuckin' cat, right?”

“I recall, yes.” She opened her purse again, slipped out her wallet, and removed some more money. “Here you are. Thank you.”

Walters seized the money and shoved it into his pocket with the rest. “One thing. You didn't hear none of this from me.”

“No,” she said.

“If I find out you talked . . .”

Mr. Cutter said, “You'll do what, Joe?”

Walters frowned, shook his head, and looked at Miss Lizzie. “Rothstein hears about this, and you're gutted, lady. You and the kid both. I mean that sincerely.”

“Fine, Joe,” said Mr. Cutter. “You take off now.”

Walters turned. “I gotta
walk
?”

“Find a taxi.”

Walters scowled again. “Yeah, a taxi, right.” He grabbed at the door handle and turned back to Miss Lizzie. “You never heard it from me.”

“No,” she said.

He opened the door, stepped out, slammed it shut. The stink of him fluttered like an evil bat around the interior of the car.

Mr. Cutter said, “Where to?”

“The Plaza, please,” Miss Lizzie said.

He turned around, started the car, and eased it out into the street.

I said to Miss Lizzie, “Is that what heroin does to people?”

“No. That is what Mr. Walters has done to himself.”

“He's an addict, though, isn't he?”

“Yes, but at the turn of the century, Amanda, half the patent medicines in the United States contained heroin: cough syrup, stomach tonics, pain pills. I imagine that many people became addicted to their cough syrup. But there was never an epidemic of . . . creatures like Mr. Walters.”

“But what happened to him?”

“He has been deliberately destroying himself for some time, I expect. I don't know why. Guilt, perhaps. Self-loathing, perhaps.”

“But the heroin helps.”

“I imagine it does, yes.”

“And John was helping Mr. Rothstein bring heroin to America.”

“Yes,” she said. “So it seems.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Narcotics?” said Mr. Liebowitz.

“Yes,” said Miss Lizzie. “John was apparently assisting Mr. Rothstein in arranging their importation. Morphine and heroin from Europe, opium from China.”

He ran his hand over his slick white scalp and turned to me. His small, neat body seemed to have shrunk. “I'm sorry, Amanda.”

The concern made my chest tighten. I inhaled, trying to loosen it. “I'm okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

“It must have been a shock for you—”

“I'm okay,” I said. “Really.”

“What did you learn at John's office?” Miss Lizzie asked him.

It was six thirty, and we were in her new suite at the Plaza. My own room was, once again, next door. The living room here was more luxurious than the one at the Algonquin: plush carpets, heavily padded furniture, framed landscapes on the wainscoted walls. Miss Lizzie and I sat on one of the two sofas, Mr. Liebowitz in one of the leather club chairs.

“Not a great deal,” he said. “John Burton was well liked. He was respected. He did his job, in a manner of speaking.”

“In what manner of speaking?”

“He didn't do it very often. He wasn't
there
, at the office, very often. He seems to have come and gone very much as he pleased.”

“His trips to Europe, you mean.”

“I mean in general. Throughout the year, throughout the week. He wandered in and out whenever he liked.”

“How did he manage to remain employed?”

“For one thing, he brought in clients. He made the firm money. That's not difficult right now, of course, with the market climbing the way it is. But even so, it counts.”

“‘For one thing,' you said.”

“Yes. For another, I got the impression that his employers had been encouraged to give him a certain amount of latitude.”

“Encouraged.”

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

“I don't know.”

“Mr. Rothstein, perhaps?”

“It's an old, established firm, Miss Borden. Not the kind of place, one would think, where a man like Rothstein would have any influence.”

“I no longer know what to think, not when it comes to Mr. Rothstein and his influence.”

“So far as I was able to determine, there's no link between the firm and Arnold Rothstein.”

She nodded. “You were going to speak with John's lawyer.”

“James McCready, yes. I did.” He turned to me. “He wants to talk to your legal representative.”

“Mine?”

“Yes. I told him that Morrie Lipkind would be in touch.”

“But why?”

“He wouldn't say. But I'd guess that you've been named as one of John's beneficiaries.”

“I don't want anything from John.”

“It's only a guess, Amanda,” he said.

“I don't
want
anything.”

“Well, let's see what Morrie learns.”

He turned to Miss Lizzie. “So, what do we do next?”

“I should think it obvious.”

He smiled. “Obvious?”

“Yes. I shall have to speak with Arnold Rothstein.”

His smile vanished. “You can't do that, Miss Borden.”

“Indeed I can,” she said.

They continued arguing. It was not dangerous, Miss Lizzie insisted. She would speak with Mr. Rothstein at Lindy's, a delicatessen, a public place where they would be surrounded by witnesses. He would not dare to harm her there.

Mr. Liebowitz pointed out that once Mr. Rothstein knew about her, about her interest in him, her life would be in jeopardy. Miss Lizzie pointed out, as she had to Mr. Cutter, that Mr. Rothstein almost certainly knew about her already.

“But what do you hope to gain?” he said.

“I hope to gain a confession,” she said, “to the murder of John Burton.” She smiled wryly. “But I admit that I am not entirely sanguine about my prospects.”

“Then what's the point?”

“The point is that no one, not Mr. Rothstein,
no one
, can be allowed to kill another human being without being compelled, at the very least, to confront what he's already done.”

He looked at her for a moment. Perhaps he was remembering that Miss Lizzie had herself been arrested and put on trial for the murder of her parents.

“That's a nice sentiment,” he said, “but—”

“It is my sentiment, and I will not change it.”

“You don't know that Rothstein killed him.”

“I suspect that he didn't. Not with his own hands. From what we've heard, I suspect that he arranged for someone else to do it.”

“He'll never admit that.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Definitely not.”

“It still seems to me imperative that he be confronted.”

“It's crazy.”

“Perhaps.” She smiled again. “But who knows? He may suffer an attack of whimsy and reveal everything.”

“Yes, and then turn himself over to the police.”

“Perhaps not that.”

“I'm coming,” I said.

“No,” said Mr. Liebowitz.

“No,” said Miss Lizzie, “you are not.”

“If it's safe for you,” I told her, “then it's safe for me.”

She said, “Amanda—”

“Miss Lizzie,” I said, “it was
my
uncle who got killed.
I'm
the one who found him. If Mr. Rothstein did it, then I want to meet him, face-to-face. Maybe John was a gangster and a drug dealer and whatever else. But he was still my uncle, and if Mr. Rothstein killed him, then I want to hear what he says.”

“As I said, I don't believe that he actually—”

“Or
had
him killed,” I said.

“No,” she said. “It is absolutely out of the question.”

“If I can't go with you, then I'll go on my own. I know where he'll be. He'll be at Lindy's, that delicatessen on Broadway. Seven nights a week, Miss Dale said. You can't stop me, not unless you tie me up and lock me in a room. And even if you do, I swear I'll get loose. I'll—”

“I have no intention,” she said, “of tying you up and locking you in a room.”

“Then I'm going.”

“Miss Borden,” began Mr. Liebowitz, leaning forward.

She held up her hand, quickly, imperiously. He sat back, frowning.

She looked at me, her gray eyes unblinking behind the pince-nez. She folded her hands together on her lap. “Amanda,” she said, “you are a spoiled and willful child. I am quite certain that if you ever succeed in growing up, which seems increasingly less likely with every passing day, you will become a spoiled and willful woman.”

“I'm going,” I said.

She nodded. “On one condition.”

“Miss
Borden
,” said Mr. Liebowitz.

“What condition?” I asked her.

“That no matter what Mr. Rothstein says, no matter
what
, we will leave New York tomorrow morning, you and I. We will take the first train to Boston.”

“Fine,” I said.

“But Miss Borden,” said Mr. Liebowitz.

She turned to him. “Do
you
want to tie her up?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Robert drove us.

He picked us up at nine thirty that night in front of the Plaza. Mr. Lipkind's Cadillac looked as though nothing had ever happened to it; the driver's side window had been replaced and the car had been washed and waxed. If there had been bullet holes in the metalwork—I had not thought, last night, to check—they were gone now.

Robert looked as he always had: tall and broad and handsome in his neatly tailored chauffeur's uniform.

“Robert?” said Miss Lizzie after we got into the car.

“Yes, ma'am?” he said, his deep voice rumbling.

“You and Mr. Liebowitz were both splendid last night.”

“Thank you, ma'am. Like I told you, I'm glad I was there to help.”

I asked him, “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

“In the army, miss. In the war. I was with General Pershing.”

“Was it bad, the war?” I realized, the moment that the words stumbled out of my mouth, how inane they were.

For a moment he said nothing, and I was beginning to believe that he had not, thank God, heard me. But then he said, “It was the worst thing that ever happened, miss. It changed everything. It changed everyone.”

No one spoke. The silence expanded to fill the car. And then Robert said, “How is Mrs. Parker, ma'am?”

“She's well.”

Miss Lizzie had called her before we ate our dinner at the Plaza. Without mentioning where we were going tonight, she had told her that we would be leaving tomorrow morning. Mrs. Parker said that she would try to come over to the hotel to say goodbye.

“You know, Robert,” she said now. “You were something of a disappointment to Mrs. Parker.”

“Yes, ma'am, I know that. But it couldn't be helped.”

“No, of course not. But you've been nothing like a disappointment to Amanda and me. I thank you, once again, for everything you've done.”

“Me, too,” I said.

We were telling him this, I suspect, because we still had an opportunity to do so. Despite Miss Lizzie's assurances, to me and to Mr. Liebowitz, and possibly to herself, we really had no idea what would happen when we confronted Arnold Rothstein. Perhaps, afterward, there would be no time for gratitude, no time for anything.

“You're welcome, ma'am,” he said. “And you, too, miss.”

All along Broadway, lights glittered and glared—from theater marquees, from restaurants and nightclubs, from the beams of the endless cars that swept up and down the busy street, their sleek sides darkly glistening beneath the streetlamps.

Lindy's Delicatessen was just south of Fiftieth. Above the wide window at the front was a long illuminated sign that read
World Famous Cheesecake
. Surely, with a sign like that outside, nothing unpleasant could happen inside.

Robert drove up to the curb, parked, stepped out, and came around to open the side door. I left the car, and then Miss Lizzie followed, using her walking stick to maneuver herself onto the sidewalk. People strode swiftly by, utterly indifferent to us—huddling couples, gawking families, predatory-looking young men, swaggering bands of well-dressed youths—all of them cocooned within their own dreams and debts and destinations.

“I'll keep circling, ma'am,” Robert told her. “I'll be nearby when you come out.”

“I know you will, Robert. Thank you.”

“Are you sure you want to do this, ma'am?”

We had not mentioned Mr. Rothstein to him. Robert had obviously heard something from Mr. Lipkind, who had no doubt heard something from Mr. Liebowitz.

“I am quite sure, yes,” said Miss Lizzie.

“Mr. Lipkind told me to ask you if maybe you'd reconsider, ma'am.”

“I think not, Robert.”

He smiled sadly. “Yes, ma'am. That's what he said you'd say. Good luck, ma'am. Miss Amanda.” He tipped a finger against his cap, nodded gravely, then walked around the car, opened the door, and eased himself back in. We watched as he drove away, the Cadillac's red taillights smoothly swerving into that glistening, implacable river of traffic.

She turned to me. “Well,” she said, “are we ready?”

I glanced through the passing pedestrians at the restaurant's window and peered inside. The place was packed: hundreds of customers and potential witnesses. Certainly, as Miss Lizzie had said, no one would dare harm us there.

I took a deep breath, inhaling that heady, urban nighttime air thick with automobile exhaust and frying food, laced with thin ribbons of perfume left lingering by the jostle of the crowd.

“Yes,” I said. “I'm ready.”

We walked over to the entrance, slipping past the people walking by, and I opened the door and held it for her. We stepped into blue cigarette smoke, glaring lights, and the rumble and drone of chatter.

The crowd was as Miss Dale had described it. Theater people, most of them laughing loudly. Clusters of men, some in checkered suits, some large and bulky like prizefighters. Young couples. A few vivid young women with tired eyes and tired mouths. All the tables appeared to be full.

A harried waiter, a sheaf of menus wedged beneath his arm, a pencil slotted behind his ear, scuttled up and told us breathlessly that seats would be available in only a few seconds.

“We shan't need them, thank you,” said Miss Lizzie. “We're here to speak with Mr. Rothstein.”

“Um . . .” he said. He blinked at her, in surprise or confusion. “Ah,” he said.

“He's in the back, I believe,” she said. “We'll find him ourselves. Thank you so much.”

I followed in her wake as she limped, slow but inexorable, through the brightly lit dining area, through the clutters of conversation and raucous laughter. Her walking stick tapped lightly at the white tile floor.

At a corner in the rear was a kind of alcove. Two men were standing at its entrance smoking cigarettes and blocking my view of the booth inside. There was another booth adjoining it, beside us to the right, and that was empty.

One of the men—tall, lean, and dark, with a handsome, narrow face—saw us approach. He inhaled on his cigarette and held up his hand like a traffic policeman. “Sorry, ma'am,” he told her and smiled pleasantly. “These seats are taken.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “By Mr. Arnold Rothstein. I should like to speak with him, please.”

At the mention of Rothstein's name, the two men turned toward the alcove. Now I could see into the booth. On the far side of it, sitting alone in the center of the red leather bench seat, was a tubby little man in thick-lensed horn-rimmed glasses and a lumpy black suit.

On the near side was another man, but only part of him was visible above the back of the bench—the shoulders of a white linen suit coat, and above those, a pair of slightly protuberant ears on a head of slicked-down, thinning black hair.

The tall man who had stopped Miss Lizzie now leaned toward this man and whispered something. The man in the booth whispered something back. The tall man turned back to Miss Lizzie. “Your name, ma'am?”

“Lizbeth Borden,” she said. The tall man's eyes flickered once, very briefly, and then he leaned toward the man in the linen jacket and whispered again. The man in the jacket nodded, raised his left hand, pointed a finger at the tubby little man across from him, and jerked his thumb back toward the restaurant and us.

The tubby man nodded quickly, and then he shifted and bobbed his heavy body from the bench. Still nodding, he stepped between the two men standing guard and then scurried between Miss Lizzie and me. He seemed pleased to be leaving. A droplet of sweat fell from his round chin.

The tall man said to Miss Lizzie, “If you'll have a seat, ma'am. You, too, miss. Right in there.” He nodded to the empty bench.

I slid in first. As Miss Lizzie eased herself in, I looked at Arnold Rothstein.

In his early forties, a few pounds overweight, he was smiling pleasantly at me, his pale, oval face looking open and friendly. His hair was combed back from a smooth, round forehead. His eyes were brown and alert, beaming with intelligence. There was a faint, self-indulgent puffiness around his cheeks, but his features were regular: a sharp nose, a small mouth, and a sharp chin. Beneath the linen jacket, he wore an off-white silk shirt and a sky-blue bow tie. On the table before him was a tall glass of milk, a small black leather notebook, and a Montblanc pen.

He did not look like the “Napoleon of Crime,” like someone who could organize an international smuggling ring, like someone who could arrange a man's death. He looked like a very well-dressed bank clerk.

“Miss Borden,” he said and smiled at her. His upper teeth, as Miss Dale had said, were false—brilliant white, slightly too large, slightly too even. “I've been expecting you.”

“I assumed so,” she said.

He turned to me. “And you must be Amanda.” His face screwed up with concern. “Hey, listen, I'm really sorry about your uncle. He was a swell guy.”

I said nothing.

He turned to the tall man. “Jack—”

The man stepped forward.

Rothstein looked back at Miss Lizzie. “Oh, sorry. This is a friend of mine. Jack Diamond. Jack, say hello to Lizzie Borden.”

“Lizbeth,” said Miss Lizzie. “Miss Lizbeth A. Borden.”

Mr. Rothstein grinned. “Say hello to Miss Lizbeth A. Borden, Jack.”

“Miss Borden,” said Jack and nodded. No expression crossed his thin, dark face.

“How do you do?” she said.

“Okay, Jack,” said Mr. Rothstein. “Herd 'em back for a while. Keep 'em there.”

Jack nodded and stepped away.

Mr. Rothstein looked at Miss Lizzie. “You want anything? The cheesecake here is terrific.”

“No, thank you.”

“Amanda?”

“No. Thank you.”

His hand dipped into the right pocket of his suit coat and emerged with a small white paper bag. He opened it and held it out to Miss Lizzie. “How about a fig? They're good for you.”

Miss Lizzie shook her head. “Thank you, no.”

“Amanda? Come on, try one. Look.” He reached into the bag, plucked out a dried fig, popped it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Safe, see?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

“Fine.” He shrugged, a bit petulantly, I thought. “You don't want anything, you don't get anything.” He closed the bag, slipped it back into his pocket, and put his hands together on the table, one atop the other. They were beautiful hands, nearly as white as the glass of milk, the fingers long and slim, the nails manicured. He looked at Miss Lizzie. “Okay,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“You can tell us why John Burton was killed.”

He nodded. “You've been asking a lot of people the same question, I hear.”

“We have, yes. And some of them have responded to it very badly.”

“The circus in the park last night?” He nodded. “I heard about that, too.” For an instant, contempt flashed across his face. “Pure stupidity.”

“On our part or theirs?”

“Theirs. Someone got spooked, didn't think things through. They overreacted. Muscle over brains. Stupid.”

“Whom do you suppose that might've been?”

He shrugged. “Lot of idiots out there.”

“Well, then. Perhaps you can answer the question for us. Why was John Burton killed?”

He raised those graceful hands lightly off the table, palms toward us. “How would I know anything about it?”

“Wherever we inquire, Mr. Rothstein, everything seems to lead directly to you.”

He smiled and let his hands fall to the table again. “That's flattering, naturally, but I've got to tell you, Miss Borden, you've been misinformed.”

“Shall I tell
you
what we know?” she said.

“Sure,” he said agreeably. He leaned back against the bench. “You do that.”

“We know,” she said, “that John Burton worked for you. We know that in the past he helped arrange deliveries of contraband liquor. We know that recently he was helping you arrange deliveries of contraband drugs: heroin and morphine from Europe and opium from China.”

“Wow,” he said, eyebrows raised. “That is really some kind of story.” He grinned at me then at Miss Lizzie. “China, huh? Where'd you get all that?”

“What we don't know is why you had John Burton murdered.”

“Oh, I was the one who did it, was I?”

“I believe so, yes. What we should like to know is why.”

His face settled into seriousness, and he nodded. “Okay. Let me ask you this, Miss Borden.”

She waited.

“Even if all that stuff was true,” he said reasonably, “which it isn't, naturally, and even if I did have John Burton killed, which I didn't, naturally, because I personally liked the guy a lot, why would I tell you anything?”

“You've nothing to lose by telling us. You have my word that I won't go to the police.”

He was amused. “Your word?”

She raised her head. “My word, yes. And consider that if I were to violate that, if I were to go to the police, of what use could my information possibly be? I've no proof of anything.”

He smiled. “Okay,” he said, “then tell me this. If you don't want to go to the police, how come you want to know all that”—he lightly waved a hand—“all that weird, fantastic stuff?”

“Amanda was fond of her uncle. She has a right to know why he was killed.”

He glanced at me then looked back at Miss Lizzie and smiled. “Well, I'm a great believer in family, you know. I really am. But sometimes the best thing in a case like this is just to let it go. You know what I mean? You do your grieving, and you move on.” He turned his cunning brown eyes to me. “Sometimes that's the best thing.”

“All we want,” said Miss Lizzie, “is to know why John was killed. And the name of the man who killed him.”

He smiled. “And why d'you want the name?”