Ghost of a Chance (5 page)

“Every big city should have one,” Jeff said. “That tattoo on Lorimer’s arm… a horseshoe with the name Belle inscribed across it. Belle meant good luck to Frank. He liked Belle. She meant a great deal to him.”

“Get that look out of your eyes, Troy.”

“Is there a look in my eyes?”

“It wouldn’t be practical for us to question every old girlie named Belle in the United States and Canada. It would take time and money that we don’t have. I’m sure you understand, Troy, don’t you? Please understand. We’re understaffed.”

“I’m leaving,” Jeff said, “before you and I start slugging it out. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you. As you say, you’re understaffed here now. Good-bye, Friend Hankins.”

“Good-bye, sweetheart.”

“And you will keep the routine on Frank jumping?”

“I will,” Hankins said, and he was serious. “So long, Mrs. Troy.”

“So long.”

We walked away from the police building on Centre Street, on across the great plaza of municipal, county and federal buildings that now, standing in the silence and the darkness of a winter Sunday night, were even more awe-inspiring than usual. We went on down into the Brooklyn Bridge station of the Lexington Avenue subway. We stood together on the nearly deserted platform, looking down at the cruel, shining rails of steel, thinking the same thoughts. “Jeff,” I said, “she mightn’t be dead yet. She might not be.”

“But Frank Lorimer is,” Jeff said. “And he was the only person in the world who could have told us who she is.”

“We mustn’t give up, Jeff. We can’t.”

“We haven’t.”

“No.” Then I said, “What is there to do, Jeff? There isn’t anything, is there?”

“I haven’t thought of anything.”

“We’re going home?”

“There doesn’t seem to be any reason not to, Haila.”

A train pulled into the station. Its door opened before us, closed behind us. We rode to Wanamaker’s and walked across Eighth Street toward Gay Street and home.

I found myself staring into the face of each woman we passed, wondering hysterically if it was she who was to be murdered. I wanted to stop each one of them and inquire politely if she expected to be shot or knifed or poisoned and, if she did, could we be of any help to her, my husband and I? And then I wondered for the first time if the woman knew that she was about to be shot or knifed or poisoned. Somehow it seemed to me that she didn’t. In a way that was better. If you were going to be murdered and nothing, nobody could prevent it, then in a way it was better not to know.

I looked up at Jeff and I felt a tiny hope stir inside me. I was worrying; that wasn’t doing any good. Jeff was thinking; that might do some good. It had before. It could again, it had to.

Very quietly, Jeff unlocked the door of our apartment. Gently, he swung it open. Our living room was dark; Aunt Ellie was in bed on the studio couch and, I fervently hoped, fast asleep. Jeff eased the door shut behind us, then started soft-footing it for our bedroom. A variety of things happened at once.

Jeff stumbled and sprawled headlong to the floor. A horrendous din of clashing pots and pans drowned out his heartfelt profanity. Aunt Ellie screamed. There was a rush of footsteps, the slam of a door. I got a light on.

Jeff was sitting up, disengaging his legs from our clothesline. He rose and, kicking my brand new colander out of his way, he stepped around the screen that shielded Aunt Ellie’s bed. Fortunately, it was empty. Jeff would have smothered her with her own pillow; he knew his Shakespeare. He looked at me.

“If you laugh,” he said, “if I hear as much as one titter from you, I’ll behead you with a dull, unsterilized knife.”

I believed him; I remained silent.

He tapped with a terrible gentleness on the bathroom door. “Aunt Ellie,” he caroled, “Aunt Ellie, you can come out now. It’s only me. Your nephew. Jeffie.”

Aunt Ellie squealed incoherently.

“What, Aunt Ellie?”

She opened the door a sixteenth of an inch. “How do I know it’s you? It might be a trap!”

“Open the door a little wider, Aunt Ellie,” Jeff said, “and I’ll show you my driver’s license.”

Bravely, Aunt Ellie opened the door and stepped into view. Jeff paled and fell back. Aunt Ellie had cornered the hair curler market and she was using all that she had. Her face was a blotch of unbecoming gray cream. A chin strap removed any remaining vestige of humanness from her appearance.

“Aunt Ellie,” Jeff said, “you needn’t have strung up that kitchenware trap to scare marauders away. You needed only to have left a light on.”

She whinnied in acute consternation and hurried behind the screen. She called out to Jeff, “You should have been more careful. You might have hurt yourself.”

“Aunt Ellie,” Jeff said steadily, “I think your precautions are unnecessary. Nobody is going to harm you.”

“I’m a woman, aren’t I?”

“I’m too tired to get into an argument about what you are. You’re safe, Aunt Ellie, sleep in peace.”

“I’m a woman, and a woman friend of Frank Lanson’s is going to be killed and I knew Frank Lanson very well. He delivered our milk for years and years.”

“Lorimer,” Jeff said, “not Lanson. Good night, Aunt Ellie.”

“Good night, Jeffie.”

“Jeff!” he shouted. “Jeff, not Jeffie!”

He limped away, slamming the bedroom door behind him. By the time I got Aunt Ellie tucked in and quieted down, Jeff was in bed. He wasn’t asleep and I could tell from his eyes that it was not annoyance with Aunt Ellie that kept him awake. He had forgotten her; it was a woman whom he didn’t know that he thought about now. I slipped into bed, turned out the light that was a glare in his face.

I didn’t expect to sleep; it must have been complete exhaustion that claimed me. It was still pitch dark when I found myself standing in the center of the bedroom, wondering why I was there. Then I heard the scream again. I relaxed and went in to Aunt Ellie.

“Someone’s in there,” she gasped, pointing to the bathroom. “Hiding in there.”

“Don’t be silly,” I snapped.

“Call Jeffie, call the police!”

“Be quiet,” I said.

I was moving toward the bathroom when I heard the sound from beyond its closed door. I hesitated and stepped back. The bathroom door opened and Jeff walked out.

Without a glance at Aunt Ellie, he started for the bedroom and then changed his mind. He turned to me.

“Haila,” he said, “I imagine Aunt Ellie will be screaming three or four more times before dawn.”

“What?” I said.

“Yes, at least three or four more times, I drank a great deal of beer.”

Jeff went back to bed and I followed him.

The next time I was awakened it was by the noise Jeff made in his effort to make no noise, it was still too dark for me to see the clock on the mantel, so dark that morning was still the future. It was unusual for Jeff to get up so early; it was even more unusual that he should be dressing as frantically as he seemed to be.

“Jeff, what is it?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Where are you going?” I piled out of bed, started flinging myself into some clothes. “What’s happening?”

“Haila,” he said, “I think there’s a chance that Frank Lorimer did live in that house on Bolton Street. I think we might even have been in his room.”

“Jeff!”

“Did you see that hat on the shelf in the wardrobe?”

“Yes, an old silk one. It looked like an opera hat.”

“No, it was an old coachman’s hat, Haila. Well, add that to the tattoo on Frank Lorimer’s arm.”

“A coachman’s hat and a tattoo equal… what?”

“That horseshoe,” Jeff said, “mightn’t have been a good luck symbol. I mean it might have been simply a horseshoe, and Belle might be a horse’s name, not a girl’s. A sentimental old coachman might have a tattoo like that on his arm.”

“It’s an awful long shot, Jeff.”

“Yes, I know.”

“But I’m praying you’re right.”

“If I am, that was Frank’s room we were in. And we’re getting some place.”

“But why would the landlady lie?”

“You won’t need to remind me to ask her that.”

“All right. I’m ready, Jeff.”

“If Aunt Ellie wakes up, I’ll scream.”

We managed not to disturb Aunt Ellie. We found a cab at the corner of Gay and Christopher Streets. At twenty to six we got into it, at nine to six we got out. The landlady was in front of her house. As we reached her, she pushed the last shovelful of snow from her narrow sidewalk into the narrow street.

“Good morning,” Jeff said.

She didn’t speak; she was not pleased to see us. It might have been that she had not yet had her coffee and wasn’t fit to live with until she had her coffee. Or it might have been something else.

Jeff smiled pleasantly at her. “We’d like to see Mr. Culligan.”

“Mr. Culligan?”

“Yes, he has that room there. First floor front.”

“He’s asleep now, still asleep.”

Jeff started up the steps. “I’ll wake him. It’s time Mr. Culligan was up and about.”

“Wait a minute,” the landlady said. Jeff waited; so did the woman.

She stood looking at him, her face knotted with worry. “What do you want to come around here for? Why don’t you mind your own business?”

“My business hours don’t start until nine-thirty,” Jeff said. “There isn’t any Mr. Culligan, is there? That’s Frank Lorimer’s room, and I’m going in.”

“What do you want to make trouble for poor old Frank for?”

“We couldn’t if we wanted to,” Jeff said. “Frank’s dead. We told you that.”

“Now he’s dead, let him alone. He never hurt no one. He was a nice, quiet old man, clean, nice.”

“Lady, we were friends of Frank’s.”

“No.” She shook her head emphatically. “You’re from the police.”

“Why would the police be interested in Frank?”

“You ask so many questions. Just like the cops.”

“Look…”

“I kept Frank from being bothered when he was alive. I’ll keep on doing the same now. Good-bye.”

“Wait,” Jeff said. She stopped on the steps and looked down at him. “You were a friend of Frank’s, weren’t you?”

“An old man like that, alone, he needs a friend.”

“Who was trying to bother him? Who did you keep away from him?”

“I don’t want to talk. Good-bye.”

“Flow long was Frank with you?”

“Six or seven years.”

“You must have known him well, learned things about him. Did he ever tell you anything about himself?”

The woman laughed dismally. “What do people like Frank and me have to tell? You learn not to ask questions. It’s nicer not to know, maybe. You’re young yet.”

Jeff said, “We’ll look through his room. Maybe we can find something.”

“No!” She spread herself across the door. “I won’t let you in his room, poking through his things. No.”

“All right,” Jeff said. “But there must be someone who knew about Frank. His family should be traced and told. Don’t you know anyone who was closer to Frank than you? Didn’t he ever mention anyone?” The woman sized Jeff up, then looked me over. She made a decision.

“Only one person I know. A fellow that works uptown in one of them big houses on Fifth Avenue. The house is shut up now. He’s the caretaker.”

“Is he a relative of Frank’s?”

“Maybe. A friend anyway.”

“Where on Fifth Avenue?”

“Sixty-ninth Street. It’s closed up. You’ll see it.”

“Thank you,” Jeff said.

“I hope I’m doing right.”

“You are.” Jeff said. “Sixty-ninth and Fifth?”

“You’ll see it,” the woman said.

We had no trouble at all finding the house on Fifth Avenue. It was the only one in the neighborhood that was boarded up. It was indeed boarded up. It seemed to have been carefully, lovingly wrapped in wood so that it would stay unsullied and beautiful for the return of its flighty family. The windows on each of its elegantly narrow four upper floors were sealed; the street door was completely encased in a sturdy false front. The place gave the impression of being loaded with treasure.

Across the Avenue, Central Park lay pure white in the early morning sun, a fairy tale park. Today its picture would appear in all the papers, amateur photographers would swarm it as they tried for prize winning shots. It was a photographer’s paradise and I saw Jeff appraise it longingly.

But he turned away and faced the vacated mansion. Its sidewalk had just been cleared and swept, a shovel and a broom were propped beside the ajar false door. As we walked toward the door it was bumped open wider and a hand stretched out for the snow tools. Jeff shouted and a man stepped into view.

He was young, in his thirties, but that many years seemed too many for his long, thin frame. He was stooped into a position that set his head forward and out of line with his shoulders. This and his prominent nose and jutting chin gave the impression that, although he was standing stock still, he must be continually moving toward you. But the broad grin and his wide blue eyes belied the menace of his bearing.

“Hello,” he said. “Something I can do for you?”

“We’re friends of Frank Lorimer’s,” Jeff said.

“Of Frank’s? Well!” The man shook hands with Jeff and nodded down at me. “What’s your name?”

“Troy,” Jeff said. “Haifa and Jeff Troy.”

“Mine’s Joyce,” the man said. “Eddie Joyce. Say, I hope Frank’s not in any kind of trouble.”

“Well…” Jeff hesitated.

“It’s serious, huh?”

“Frank’s dead.”

“Dead,” Joyce said. After a moment he said, “Was it an accident? I know Frank was old, but he was in pretty good shape. It must have been an accident.”

“He was killed by a subway train,” Jeff said. “But we don’t think it was an accident.”

Joyce frowned. He said, “Come downstairs and tell me about it. I got a room fixed up downstairs. I’m glad you came to me. I’ll lead the way.”

We followed him into a reception hall whose elegance could not be hampered even by the semi-darkness. We walked after our guide through a streamlined kitchen and to the door of the basement. He switched on a light at the head of the stairs, led us down them to a light-filled doorway in the rear of the cellar. He stepped aside and bowed us into his diggings.

I saw a roll-top desk, an easy chair with a footstool before it, a bridge lamp beside it. That was all there was time for me to see before the door banged shut behind me. I wheeled around. It had not been a draft that slammed shut the door. Jeff and I were alone in the room. Frank Lorimer’s friend, Eddie Joyce, was out in the corridor. Jeff flung himself at the door. He was too late. Joyce had already shot a bolt into its lock.