The Big Kiss-Off of 1944: A Jack LeVine Mystery (13 page)

The train crawled into Thirtieth Street Station for about twenty minutes: stopping, starting, stopping again. The soldiers cursed loudly and I cursed softly. It was nearly two o’clock and I took the expression “banker’s hours” seriously. Savage might be on the golf course already. We did the last three hundred feet into the station at a maddening pace, with everyone up and shoving their way down the aisles. The train finally wheezed to a stop and the bodies, mainly the ones in khaki, flew out the doors like paper streamers. I got jammed up behind a man in a green suit who was trying to pull his suitcase off the rack. The delay fouled me up good; by the time I reached the bank of phones inside the terminal, all were in use, and dozens of people milled outside the booths. I beat it out of the station and found a greasy spoon across the street. It was small and had a dull gray sign that said: EAT. I opened the door and got a funny kind of look from the gray-haired counterman. I was the only white man in there.

“Phone?”

“Right in back of you, mister.”

“It work?” I asked stupidly. The counterman grunted and turned back to his grill, more interested in the hamburger patties than a guy who couldn’t quite believe that the phone in a colored joint might work. I elbowed past a couple of tall brown men who were wearing the speckled white overalls and white caps of house painters, and got to the phone. It was an old-fashioned number with the mouthpiece mounted on the trunk and the ear piece separate. Looked like the original.

I took out my wallet and removed the clipping of Dewey and Savage. Quaker National Bank prexy, it said. Information gave me the bank’s number. I dialed and asked for Mr. Savage.

“Which one, sir?” asked the middle-aged female voice at the other end.

“Number one. Eli W. himself.”

“Eli Junior or Eli Senior?”

“How old is Junior?”

“Oh, Junior must be around thirty-five by now,” she told me. It was like chatting around a pot-bellied stove.

“Then give me Senior.”

“I’ll ring it for you. Good luck.”

From the folksy, talkative, and democratic lady down at the main switchboard, I was thrust miles up the social ladder, past all the ordinary Joes and Janes who spent their lives doing Quaker National’s arithmetic, past all the unctuous loan officers and nervous vice-presidents, up through all the wires to that domain where the air is thin and executives speak in assured and pear-shaped tones. I got Savage’s secretary. If the switchboard lady was the general store, then Savage’s secretary was the Ritz.

“President Savage” was all she said.

I played it for laughs. “Could I speak with him please?”

“Excuse me?”

“President Savage. I’d like to speak with him.”

“You see Sugar Ray last night?”

“He boxed the man outta the
ring.
”

I stuck a finger in my ear. Maybe this wasn’t the best place to call from. I felt a tap on my shoulder. A stocky Negro in a cream-colored suit and a red shirt smiled at me and pointed at the phone. I pulled the finger out of my ear and held it up, gesturing “one minute.” He smiled again and turned back to the counter.

“Sir, are you still on?” came the voice.

“Yes, can President Savage be spoken with?”

“May I have your name and business.”

“I’m Jack LeVine, the private investigator, and I must see President Savage in connection with some personal matters of concern to him.”

“I see.” She didn’t. “I’ll connect you with President Savage’s private secretary. Hold on, please.”

“I’m calling from a …” but I was marooned on “hold.” There was another tap on my shoulder. His smile was less sincere this time. So was mine.

“Hello,” came a frosty female voice.

I tried again. “I’m Jack LeVine, a private investigator from New York, and I’ve come to Philadelphia to speak with President Savage regarding a personal matter.”

She didn’t sound too impressed. “Roughly what does this personal matter concern, Mr. LeVine? I’m the president’s private secretary and I assure you I have his confidence. In what area, roughly, does your inquiry fall?”

I leaned back and threw the high, hard one, letter high. “It concerns President Savage’s daughter.”

Her voice froze up solid—it could have split the
Titanic.
“I cannot imagine what you are talking about, sir. Good afternoon.”

I listened to the hum at the other end. I looked at the ear piece and felt the warm breath of Red Shirt in back of me. I handed him the ear piece. “It’s all yours.”

“Sound like someone give you the shuffle.” His voice was rich and mellow, like a radio announcer’s. The bass notes hung in the air.

“Everybody gives me the shuffle.”

He laughed heartily and shook his head, then called to the counterman.

“Hey George. Everybody givin’ this fay the shuffle. Why don’t you feed him?”

I realized I was pretty hungry, so I asked Red Shirt what I should get.

“Hi, sweetie,” he said into the phone. “No, I’m at George’s. Hold on.” He smiled at me. “George makes the best fried egg sandwich in Philly.”

I ordered one. George made the best fried egg sandwich in Philly or anywhere else. I don’t know what he spiced it with, but it was a genuine fire-eating sensation. Belching happily, I lurched out into the street. My breath was so foul I couldn’t have gotten in to see a newsboy on his day off, much less Savage.

So I went over to the Quaker National Bank.

Q
UAKER NATIONAL’S MAIN OFFICE
was a predictable fifteen-story limestone affair on Chestnut Street. It was pretty clear that I’d never get in to see Savage unless everything fell into place in a big hurry. The best I could do was stay in the general area until it did. I stood around the marble lobby for a while, buying some gum and reading the
Inquirer
, but a security guard started looking at me like I was the guy who chucked the Haymarket Square bomb. When he went over to talk to another guard, I figured it was time to get out of the lobby. I either had to blow, ride the elevators up and down, or see if I could crash the fifteenth floor, where the Quaker big domes had their lair. There was only one way I could stay on fifteen for more than two minutes without getting bounced and it involved a ploy so transparent and juvenile that it positively embarrassed me. I decided to try it.

The ploy required breeziness and assurance, so I loosened my tie and let the sweat trickle from my hat without bothering to mop it. As the doors parted on fifteen, I pasted on the famous humble grin and confronted a steely brunette who sat behind the reception desk. I strode out of the elevator, jaunty and composed, my hat thrust back on my head. The rugs were so thick I felt I was on a pogo stick and the reception area was Goy Traditional, all browns and grays, walnut, hunting scenes, and discreet lighting. The room was of a modest size, nothing like the upholstered parking lot Butler called an office.

The brunette looked at me alertly. Hanging behind her was an oil of Eli W. Savage, arms crossed, red drapery. He stared straight at you, his hair combed out in little eagle’s wings over the temples. There was a Latin inscription on the frame. Translated, it meant: Your Payment Is Overdue.

“Can I help you?” the brunette asked. Her expression said, “Either you’re delivering a package or you’re on the wrong floor.”

“Building inspection, m’am.” I flashed an old inspector’s card and hoped for the best. The card has been mine since a bleak and windswept day in 1942 when I encountered a dead building inspector on a rooftop in Williamsburg. His death wasn’t so surprising, since he had been trying to play cute with some very unpleasant people, and I pocketed his card with a great lack of emotion. I’ve had it ever since, and use it maybe twice a year. Lawrence D’Antonio, #3674.

“What do you have to inspect?”

“Routine check: fire, structural weakness, sanitary conditions. Nothing to worry about.”

“I meant what offices in particular?”

“All of them. I’ll bet it’s been a long time since the president of the bank had his office looked at.” With my luck it was yesterday, but the brunette appeared thrown for a small loss and I breathed a little easier. She smiled.

“You know, I suppose you’re right. Could you wait a minute?” She picked up her phone and dialed three digits. There was a pause and then some dull squawking over the wire.

“Madge, I’ve got a building inspector out here. We haven’t had an inspection yet this year, have we?” She listened for a second, then looked up at me. “You have an appointment?”

I laughed. Mr. Civil Service, taking a little pad out of his pocket.

“Not allowed to let you know in advance. That’s the law, m’am. I’m sorry. Oh, excuse me.” I took off my hat. Maybe I was overdoing it, but the brunette seemed to be swallowing it in chunks.

She spoke into the phone. “He says they’re not allowed to make appointments. It’s the law.”

I looked around the room, nodding my head, impressed. The brunette looked up and asked me to sit down. “President Savage’s secretary will be out in a moment. You’ve caught us quite by surprise.”

“We always do.” I chuckled and took a seat in an overstuffed red leather chair. The elevator doors opened and two gray-haired men emerged. I checked the painting: neither of them was Savage. The brunette greeted them: “Mr. Miller, Mr. Sampson.” They looked at me, saw that I was nobody and turned away, veering off to the right.

“Is the president in yet, Kay?” asked Miller.

“He had lunch in his office, Mr. Miller, and he doesn’t wish to be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon.”

“I see.” Miller looked sad. Sampson looked happy that Miller looked sad. Swell guys. I crossed my legs and wondered why Savage wasn’t leaving his office today. Heckle and Jeckle went off to their carpeted cages as a door opened on the left and a stern fiftyish number with blue hair and a tweed suit walked out.

“Madge Durham is the president’s private secretary,” said the brunette. “Madge, this is Mr.…”

“D’Antonio.” I flashed the card again. “This shouldn’t take very long.”

“You’re quite sure you couldn’t come back tomorrow, Mr. D’Antonio?” Miss Durham asked. She had on fake pearls and her glasses hung around her neck by a cord.

“I’m sorry, but it’s the law, like I said before.”

“Well, I suppose the law shall be served,” she said, trying to look comfortable and failing miserably. “But
must
you inspect President Savage’s inner office today? He’s been in an extremely important meeting all day and, really,” she checked her watch, “it should continue for another few hours.”

I smiled. “Mr. Savage is an extremely important member of the community, Miss Durham. I’ll see what I can do.”

She practically fainted with relief. “That would be very much appreciated.” This was very, very nice. Miss Durham pushed the door open and then another door and I was in a long carpeted corridor. Seascapes lined the walls. I gawked obviously enough for Miss Durham to notice.

“The president picked these all out himself. He’s quite a collector.”

“Yes,” I said, “and quite a giver. Friends of mine in the Republican Party speak so very highly of him.”

“You’re a
Republican?
” she crooned.

“Sure. We’d be lost without Mr. Savage here in Philly.”

“Not just in Philadelphia, I can assure you,” she assured me. We went through a large outer office with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked downtown Philly. Three secretaries sat mutely behind their desks, dictaphone plugs stuck in their ears, their fingers rapidly skimming their typewriters. One was a tootsie deluxe: a blonde whose open suit jacket revealed a tight blue sweater that was being stretched to its limits. Maybe old Eli himself was grooming her for the presidential sack. She looked at me and wet her lips. I suppressed a soft moan. The other two women were pieces of dried fruit with beady little eyes that stayed fixed upon the keyboards.

“This is my office,” Miss Durham said proudly as we came to a small room with a frosted-glass door marked “Private.”

“Fine,” I said, whipping out the little notebook. “I’ll start in the outer corridor. There are fire escapes here, of course.”

She lost a little of her color again. “Fire escapes. I can assure you they are all quite adequate.”