South Wind (2 page)

“We’ll do the best we can, Maje,” said Tracy cheerfully.

He stepped into the outer office and leaned over Butch’s cauliflower ear.

“Take this guy over to the San Pueblo. After you’ve parked him, go up to Snitch Collins at the desk and tell him I said to keep his hooks off the major. Tell him if he doesn’t I’ll send someone over there that’ll take him by the ears and smash every—chair in the lobby with his heels! Tell him that from me.”

Butch made a slow spittle-noise with his lips. He pulled his unfailing joke, a high-pitched falsetto: “Is that a promise?”

He went out with the major and Tracy walked to the window and stared across at the dirty façade of the Times Building.

He put on his bat after a while and went out.

Typewriters were clicking busily in the
Planet’s
big news room. Hennessey looked up from the city desk as Tracy breezed by.

“Hi, Jerry! Get any belly laffs outa the old gempmum?”

“Shut up, you ape, or I’ll raise a high hat on your skull!” Tracy grinned. “Patsy around?”

“Where d’yuh get that Patsy stuff? Lay off! I happen to know she don’t like it.”

“Brrr! You happen to know? You wouldn’t know if your collar was unbuttoned, Dave. See you later when you got money.”

He turned a corner, went down a corridor and stepped into the third cubby on the left.

“Hawzit, Patsy?”

“H’lo, Bum.” She sat back. “Lousier an’ lousier. This place makes me sick. I could be fired right now for what I think I’ve been toying with the quaint notion of expunging myself from the payroll”

“So what? And if same occurs?”

“I could try newspaper work for a change.”

“Ouch! That hurt!” He looked at her with alert eyes.

“No kiddin’, Jerry,” she said gravely.

She was tall and slim, almost loose-jointed. Nice face, dark hair and eyes, small mouth. She dished up society news and could write with a cruel, jewel-like hardness when the need arose. It seldom did. Her customers rode in the Bronx Express and liked prose poems about Piping Rock. She could turn that stuff out in her sleep. She and Jerry were the twin stars that made the circulation manager of the
Planet
sing in his bathtub. Doris Waverly’s Chat, syndicated …

She bad been born in a beery flat on Tenth Avenue. Kicked loose, saved up, pulled a grim A.B. out of Vassar—talked nice to strangers and tough to friends. Her real name was Veronica Mulligan. Tracy called her Patsy and she liked it. Hennessey, the city editor, tried it once and she curled him like Cellophane with a brief, pungent description of his type, straight out of the Elizabethan drama.

“Ever hear of Lola Carfax, of the ole Southern Carfaxes?” Tracy asked her.

“Ah reckon Mistuh Beauregard. … Why ask me? You’ve got the rat assignment, Jerry.”

“Come, come, child! Poppa wants the dirt.”

“Want it brief?”

“Uh, uh.”

“I’ll say it slowly. She’s a wise, crooked, honey-drawlin’, little—”

“I getcha. B as in bird-dog.”

“And not the Poppa, either. … ” She grinned. “Why the sudden interest?”

“Her grand-pappy’s in town. The real name, if you’d like to know, is Alice Anne Fenn. Take a long look and say yes or no.”

She studied the photograph.

“It’s Lola, all right. That’s one dame that can make the hackles rise on me. She and her pretty brother!”

“What’s he like, this brother? Wait—don’t talk! Has he got nice strong, white teeth and a big laughing voice?”

“That’s Buell. Add the professional drawl and the phoney courtly manner and he’s yours.”

The columnist’s smile cut a little crease in his face.

“What makes you think I want him? Listen, Patsy! She married him when he was Jeff Tayloe, when she was shy and seventeen, in the dear old deep Southland.”

“Tell me some more,” Patsy said slowly. Her dark eyes were like agate.

He told her a lot. When he had finished she nodded.

“I’ve often wondered about Buell Carfax,” she admitted. “He’s only been on the scene for a year or so. Her graft is no mystery but I never could figure brother Buell. They’re smooth workers. Right now I’d say they’re both definitely in the inner sanctum. I’ve only heard one ‘no’ since Lola gave Park Avenue the office. It came from old Miss Lizzie Marvin of Sutton Place. Somebody said: ‘Dear little Lola! Such a sweet child!’ And the ancient virgin from Sutton Place smiled her wise old smile. ‘The little girl in white? Ah, yes. … She fairly stink-ks of Southern charm!’ I had all I could do to keep from hugging the old war-horse!”

Jerry lit a cigarette, leaned over the desk and blew smoke against his trick Panama.

“Scene changes. What about this Doctor Altman? Profile, please.”

Her lips curled.

“There’s a suspicious nose in the profile, but the good doctor is Church of England. Edgar Louis Altman. He gets around. Surgeon, polo, squash—maybe Lola Carfax.”

“Why maybe?”

“There’s always a big maybe about matrimony—did I tell you the girl was smart? She’s been in the money for months, but like old Robert E. Lee, she wont surrender without a ceremony. If I were you I’d bet on matrimony. Altman has sunk enough dough already to make a wedding look like good economy. He’s chasing her hard, Jerry.”

“I’ll make a note of that,” he grinned. “The little girl is chased!”

She said irritably: “Stay sober. How about Buell Carfax? The big brother with the nice teeth.”

“You asking me, Patsy? A nice boy like Jeff Tayloe gets out of a North Carolina jail, sees something in a rotogravure, reads something else in the social chatter, picks a few pockets and comes North. What a lovely reunion
that
must have been! I’d say the split was 50-50, but we know Lola is smart so maybe he’s only cutting a straight 10 per cent. Even at that, he could play ball—it’s a life job, Patsy, and a handsome brother with a smooth line is worth 10 per cent of anyone’s dough.”

Her face clouded. “And the old grand-pappy’s in town? He sounds nice. It’s nice to find someone that’s McCoy once in a while. … Where’s he parked?”

Jerry chuckled. “You’d never guess. San Pueblo. Nice and quiet, he says.”

“Holy cats! Well—what are you going to do?”

“None of your damn’ business.”

“I’d like to talk to the old fella.”

“You’d
better like
it,” he said. “You’ve been talking to too many phonies lately. It spoils your temper. Go on over and pump him. It’s a tonic. Tell him I’ve got a lead. If you have time you might drop in on the Carfax suite and smell the air. … What would you like to do tonight?”

“You wouldn’t understand, you heel.”

“The hell I wouldn’t! I’ll shoot an arrow, just to show you. Let’s go yokel for the evening.”

“Are you kidding?”

He pulled on his Panama, snapped the trick brim, waited.

“A corned-beef dinner,” said Doris Waverly, Inc. “With cabbage, or you can go to hell! A ride on the Staten Island Ferry. We’ll sit on the top and you’ll keep your mouth shut and hold my hand. Did anyone ever tell you you talk too much?”

He leaned over and kissed her on the tip of her sharp nose.

“You simple-minded ape,” he said, and went out the door, grinning.

She’s got the summertime heebies, he decided mentally. The poor kid looked seedy, tired. He’d siphon a coupla drinks into her tonight and try to wisecrack her out of the gloom.

But Patsy wasn’t to be blarneyed. She was glum over the corned-beef, sour on the boat ride. She borrowed his butts and stared morosely at the lights of St. George. The boat thudded monotonously; the vibration added their feet.

“How’d you enjoy Lola and the boyfriend?” he inquired.

“Dead fish,” she snapped. “Must be a few more in the Harbor tonight. Get dat sweet whiff! Do you s’pose it’s true that Indians used to paddle around this lousy burg in clean water before the smell era?”

“Don’t go Noble Redman,” he grinned. “Friend of mine went to Taos once. According to him, the Injun kids learn to smell long before they learn to eat.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. … I saw a clean show today, Jerry.”

“You’re telling me! How’d you like the old fella?”

He watched the slow smile come and go.

“Ni-i-ce. An old-fashioned road show crammed full of hoke. … I don’t think it was good for me. Made me think of Dennis Aloysius.”

“Do I know Dennis?”

“Why should you?” she said, sweetly. “He was the respected sire. The ancestor. Tenth Avenue. Waterfront whiskey. Beer by the scuttle for a chaser.”

Her cigarette end glowed jaggedly, once, twice, and then went over the rail in a long arc.

“You’re swell company,” said the columnist feebly.

They stood outside the gaunt cavern of the South Ferry Terminus and a hackman threw open his door invitingly.

Tracy said: “You need a coupla highballs, cheerful!”

“No.” She hesitated. “But if you knew where we could get a tall glass of good old-fashioned beer—”

Tracy grinned. “With pretzels.”

“And some Roquefort and crackers—and a slice of Bermuda onion.”

Jerry turned to the chauffeur.

“Okey, Rocco. Click us uptown till you hit Third Avenue. I’ll tell you where to stop.”

They downed a couple of tall ones, found out they were hungry, and fixed that too. They walked over to Fifth.

On the downtown bus the girl said, suddenly: “What are you going to do about Anne and the last of the Fenns?”

“Have I got to tell you that again? None of your damn business.”

“You always were a consistent rat!” she said with cold rage.

Tracy chuckled without rancor.

“Here’s the schedule. Go over to see Massa Geo’ge Fenn tomorrow morning. Tell him that Old Sleuth Tracy knows all and that the search has been successful. Take him over to the Consolidated Ticket Offices and if they roll Pullmans as far as Thunder Run, say Pullman as though you meant it.”

“Any other little jobs?”

“Sure. Check him out of the San Pueblo. See that Snitch Collins behaves himself on room extras. Then I’ll let you bring the major over to me. I’ll be in the Times Square hideout. Any questions? Dismissed!”

He pressed the stop buzzer.

She wrenched around to look at him. Her voice was a whisper, a mere thread.

“You lousy heel, if you do anything or say anything to hurt that old man, I swear to I’ll—”

“My corner. I get off here,” said the columnist.

He tipped his hat, swayed down to the rear of the bus and swung off. He called up from the sidewalk: “So long, Babe.”

She leaned over the rail and gave him a furious farewell—a loud and rather fruity bird.

“Ding, ding,” went the bell. The grinning conductor leaned way out to stare. He hung like a swaying chimpanzee for the next five blocks.

Mr. Beull Carfax was tall, handsome, with cold eyes and a small ashblond mustache. He bowed briefly to Tracy and shot a quick flicker at the stolid Butch. Tracy had forgotten to mention Butch over the wire.

“I hardly think, Mister Tracy,” said the courtly brother of Lola, “that Mis’ Carfax would care to be interviewed. Any news of plans, social engagements and so fo’th is, of co’se, sent to yo’ readers regularly by Mis’ Carfax’s secretary.”

Tracy said: “This is different.”

“If there is anything that I personally might—”

Tracy said, again: “This is different.”

The cold eyes focused on him. After a moment they blinked.

“Very well. This way, please.”

Nobody said anything to Butch. He trailed after Tracy. Lola Carfax was standing on the far side of the room, examining a small hunting print on the wall. She didn’t turn around.

Buell said, in his stately drawl: “Lola, honey, here’s that newspaperman.”

She paid no attention. Tracy walked swiftly across. His smile was as thin as a hacksaw blade. He stood and looked at her back for a moment. He caught her eye reflected in the glass of the picture frame.

He said, deliberately: “Turn around, you cheap little grifter!”

She whirled. Her beauty was like the flash of a blinding ray. Tense, wordless, carved in ice. Her red lips were parted slightly, she seemed scarcely to breathe. Her eyes had the cold, hard glaze of a cat’s.

Across the room, Buell Carfax gave a thick bellow of rage.

“Why, dam’ yo’ filthy Yankee—”

As he sprang forward his hand came away from his vest pocket. The light glinted on the muzzle of a tiny derringer. Butch’s hand thrust out with the speed of a striking snake. His hairy fingers closed around the slender wrist and bent arm and weapon upward.

There was a muffled report; a short, straining tussle; Carfax squealed shrilly as his pinioned arm snapped.

Butch’s left hand caught the slumping man by the throat and pinned him upright against the wall. He held him there almost casually. His attention was on the little derringer in his own right palm. Butch had never seen a toy like that before. He stared at it with the absorbed curiosity of a monkey.

Tracy smiled into the lovely eyes of Lola. She was lifeless, stiff, except for the candle-flame in her eyes. There was something eerie and horrible in the intensity of her fright. Her voice was barely audible.

“Is this a hold-up?”

“You’re damn’ right”

“What are you after?”

“Everything you got.”

They were like conspirators whispering together in a dark cave.

“You can’t get away with this. You must be insane. You’re a madman.”

He said to her: “No, I’m not—Mrs. Jeff Tayloe.”

The flame he was watching was quenched for an instant and then blazed up brighter than before.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yes you do, baby.”

There was no humanity in Tracy, either. Two lumps of ice whispering together.

He paused a moment.

“Thunder Run,” he said. “It’s in North Carolina. No comment?”

She watched him with that horrible immobility.

“Just an old-fashioned story about an old-fashioned gal. Once upon a time there was a gal. Pretty name. Alice Anne Fenn. Lots of brains but no judgment. She was always a sucker for white teeth and a big bass voice. So she married a lousy hill-billy home from the wars, name of Jeff Tayloe—and Jeff carved a yaller gal in a particularly nasty way and went to jail—and little Alice Anne saw the Big Town beckoning, packed her cotton underwear and scrammed North.”