The Paul Cain Omnibus (33 page)

There was silence for several seconds, then Green’s voice concluded dreamily:

“Don’t forget, Blondie, that Lew Costain has, or had, more enemies than any other picked dozen highbinders in this town. Maccunn had one, or at least you’re trying to hang his chill on one. Whether Costain reached Tony’s or not, he was headed there, and in some strange way that seems more important to me than the fact that Sallust wanted Maccunn’s blood. With all due respect to the Kessler theory, of course… . And don’t forget the fifty… .”

The phone clicked, an electric period.

Kessler looked like he was going to take a large bite out of the transmitter for a minute, then he hung up slowly and turned back to his typewriter with enormous disgust.

Harley, the City Editor, was working feverishly, trying very hard not to whistle. He, for one, had hated Maccunn as a slave driver, and now it looked like he’d be moving into the big oak-paneled office on the seventh floor and be writing M.E. after his name.

He looked up as Kessler hung up the receiver, yelled: “Anything new?”

Kessler shook his head. “Nothing new, only that guy Green is losing his mind.”

Solly Allenberg, short and fat, was sitting in his cab near the corner of Forty-ninth and Broadway, when Green crossed the street to him.

Allenberg stopped short in the middle of a yawn and his face lit up like a chubby Christmas tree.

“Hello, Mister Green,” he croaked heartily. “Where you been keeping yourself?”

Green leaned on the door.

“I’ve been around,” he said. “How’ve you been doing, Solly? How are the kids?”

“Swell, Mister Green, just swell. The wife was asking about you just the other night. I told her—”

Green interrupted quietly: “Lew Costain’s been murdered.”

Solly’s thick mouth fell open slowly. “Murdered? What the hell you talking about?”

Green’s head bobbed up and down.

“He was at Tony Maschio’s tonight when the firecracker went off—he and Gino… .”

Solly said: “I was just reading about it in the paper, but it didn’t say nothing about Mister Costain.”

“They hadn’t identified him when they snapped that Extra out.”

Green reached past Solly and clicked down the taxi-meter flag. “Let’s take a ride,” he suggested—“only let’s take it inside, where it’s warm and where we can get a drink.”

Solly tumbled out of the cab and they crossed the slippery sidewalk and went into the Rialto Bar. They both ordered rye. Green studied Solly’s reflection in the big mirror behind the bar.

“How long have you been working for Lew?” he began. Solly hesitated and Green went on swiftly: “Listen. I knew him pretty well, liked him. I intend to find who rubbed him out and you can help me, if you will… .”

Solly gulped his drink. “Sure,” he blurted—“I wanta help.” He glanced at his empty glass and Green nodded to the bartender to fill it up.

“I never really worked for him,” Solly went on. “He was scared of cars—scared to drive his own car in town. He got the batty idea two, three years ago I was a swell, careful driver, so he’s been riding in my cab most of the time since. Whenever he’d light anywhere for awhile or go home an’ go to bed or anything like that, he’d tell me an’ I’d pick up what I could on the side. He paid me a flat rate of a sawbuck a day no matter what the meter read an’ some days he wouldn’t use me at all, so it worked out swell.”

“Did you take him anywhere tonight?”

“Uh-huh.” Solly drank, nodded. “I picked him up at his apartment a little after midnight an’ took him to the corner of Bleecker an’ Thompson Street. He said he wouldn’t need me any more tonight.” Green tasted his rye, made a face and put a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.

Solly said, “Don’t you like it, Mister Green?”

Green shook his head and edged the glass along the bar with the side of his hand until it was in front of Solly.

Solly regarded it meditatively. “I’ll be damned,” he said, “a swell guy like Mister Costain getting the works like that… .” He picked up the glass.

Green was lighting a cigarette. “Who did it?”

Solly shrugged. “There is a lot of guys who never liked him, because they didn’t understand him. He was—uh—ec—” Solly stopped, tasted his fresh drink and tried again: “He was ec—”

“Eccentric?”

Solly bobbed his head.

Green persisted: “But who hated him enough and had guts enough to tip him over?” Solly drained his glass, then closed one eye and looked immeasurably wise. “Well, if you ask me,” he said quickly, “the guy who had plenty of reason to, an’ maybe enough guts to, was plenty close to home… . Did’ja ever meet a fella named Demetrios—something Demetrios? A Greek—tall shiny-haired sheik with a big smile?”

Green shook his head.

Solly leaned closer. “He worked as a kind of bodyguard an’ all-around handyman for Mister Costain. Mister Costain liked him… .” Solly’s voice dissolved to a hoarse stage whisper. “I happen to know that Demetrios an’ June Neilan, Costain’s girl, was like that”—he held up two grimy fingers pressed close together—“right under Costain’s nose.”

Green’s brows ascended to twin inverted Vs. “That’s a good reason for Costain to hang it on the Greek,” he objected, “but not the other way around.”

“Wait a minute. You don’t get it.” Solly’s face split to a wide grin. “I happen to know this Demetrios has tried to let Costain have it in the back a couple times, only it went wrong, an’ Costain didn’t even tumble to who it was. I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“Why didn’t you tell Costain?”

Solly stared hard at his empty glass.

Green smiled faintly. “Did Demetrios pay off?”

Solly nodded sheepishly. Green rapped on the bar and the bartender filled both glasses.

“It’s just like it always is,” Solly croaked philosophically. “Costain was crazy jealous of everybody except the right guy, an’ distrusted everybody except the guy who was holding the knife.”

“Where did Costain live? Some place on West Ninetieth, wasn’t it?”

“Uh-huh. Three thirty-one.”

Green picked up his change and Solly gulped both drinks and they went out and started across the slippery sidewalk towards the cab.

A slight, white-faced man with his coat collar turned up and the brim of his soft black hat turned down as much as possible to cover his face came up to them and said, “Hello, Solly. Hello, Mister Green,” in a soft muffled voice. He took a short snub-nosed revolver out of his overcoat pocket and shot Solly in the stomach twice. Solly slipped and fell side-wise against Green and they both fell; Solly took two more slugs that were intended for Green. The cold magnified the roar of the gun to thunder. The wind whipped around the corner and the brim of the white-faced man’s hat blew up and Green recognized Giuseppe Picelli, Number Three Barber.

Then Green and Solly were a tangled mass of threshing arms and legs on the icy sidewalk and Picelli turned and ran east on Forty-ninth Street.

On the third floor of the rooming house at Three thirty-two West Ninetieth, directly across the street from Three thirty-one, a man sat motionlessly at the window of the large dimly lighted front room. He had taken off the tweed Chesterfield he had worn when he left the Boston train at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, and his suit coat; he sat in his deep-pink silk shirtsleeves on the edge of a heavily upholstered chair, leaning forward to peer steadily through the slit under the drawn window shade.

From time to time he lighted a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last, glanced at his watch; these were the sole disturbances to his rigid immobility, his entirely silent vigil.

At two thirty-six the phone rang. He picked it up from the floor with his eyes on the slit, grunted: “Yeah.”

He listened silently for perhaps a minute, then said: “What the hell difference does it make whether Green recognized you or not if he’s dead? … Oh, you’re not sure. They both fell, but you’re not sure”—his tone dripped sarcasm—“Well, you’d better make sure. I don’t care how you do it, you’ve had your orders. Check on it some way and then come on up here, and be careful when you come in.”

He put the phone on the floor, lighted a fresh cigarette.

Demetrios said: “I don’t know nothing about it.”

Doyle glanced swiftly at the detective lieutenant who had accompanied him. “Well, we figured you’d want to know,” he mumbled. Demetrios pulled his bright-yellow dressing gown more closely around his shoulders, shivered slightly, nodded.

They were in Demetrios’ small apartment on Seventy-sixth Street. He’d been in bed, asleep; Doyle and the lieutenant had pounded on the door for three or four minutes before they’d succeeded in waking him.

The detective lieutenant stood up, stretched, yawned extravagantly.

Someone knocked at the door.

Doyle opened it and Green came in. He nodded to Doyle and the lieutenant, jerked his head at Demetrios.

“I don’t know this gent, but I want to have a little talk with him,” he said. “Will somebody please introduce me?”

Demetrios stared at him unpleasantly. “Is this guy a dick?”

Doyle grinned, shook his head. “Huh-uh. This is St Nick Green. He’s a nice fella. You two ought to know each other.”

Demetrios stood up angrily. “What the hell you mean coming into my house like this?” He whirled on Doyle and the lieutenant. “You, too. You got a warrant? I don’t know nothing about Costain—”

Doyle clucked: “Tch, tch, such a temper!” He smiled at Green. “Don’t mind him. We woke him up an’ he’s pouting.”

Green sat down on the arm of a chair.

“Speaking of Costain,” he said softly, “has he turned up yet?” He turned to Doyle. “Something tells me he wasn’t at Tony’s and that he’s still in one piece.”

They were all looking at Green; Demetrios and the lieutenant with more or less puzzled expressions, Doyle with a broad grin.

Doyle laughed. “You’re a little behind the times, Nicky,” he boomed. “They found what was left of Costain on the New York Central tracks at a Hundred an’ Twenty-first Street a little while ago. No mistake about it this time. He was identified by a lot of papers an’ stuff in his pockets.”

The lieutenant said: “That’s why we woke up his nibs, here. We thought he might know something about it.”

Demetrios turned and closed the window savagely. “I don’t know nothing about it,” he snarled. “I told Lew I didn’t want no part of it. I been in bed since ten o’clock an’ got a witness to prove it. There’s been three phone calls through the switchboard, so the operator knows I was in.”

Green asked gently: “Told Lew you didn’t want any part of what?”

“Any part of nothing! Me an’ him was washed up. He’s been screwy for the last week. He thought everybody was trying to double-­cross him.”

Green purred: “Everybody probably was.”

Doyle repeated: “Any part of what, Demetrios?”

Demetrios sat down. “He was tipped off yesterday that Gino an’ Tony were juggling the books. One of Tony’s barbers called him an’ said instead of the syndicate going into the red like it’s supposed to been going the last few weeks, it’s been cleaning up important money. Costain never paid any attention to the business. He didn’t have no head for figures. He furnished the original bankroll an’ trusted Gino an’ Tony to take care of the business.”

The lieutenant muttered: “Christ! what a character shark! Trusting Gino and Tony!”

“They were going to take a powder, according to Lew’s info,” Demetrios went on. “Gino was going to shag a boat out of Boston for Havana an’ Tony was going to Florida by rail an’ meet him there. Between them they were supposed to have about four hundred grand. Lew told me about it an’ said he’d made a date to meet both of them at Tony’s at a quarter after one tonight. He wanted me to go along, but I couldn’t see it. It looked like a dumb play. Anyway, me an’ him was washed up and I been in bed since ten o’clock.”

The lieutenant snapped: “You’re good enough for us, Demetrios, as a material witness. Get on your clothes.”

“That’s what I get for trying to help you dumb bastards,” Demetrios bleated. He got up and went into the bathroom.

Green stood up, crossed quietly to Doyle and the lieutenant, whispered: “Don’t pick him up. Tell him to stand by for a call in the morning and let him go. I’ll lay six, two, and even he doesn’t go back to bed, but goes out. We can wait outside and if he doesn’t lead us somewhere I’m a Tasmanian watchmaker.”

Doyle looked doubtful, but the lieutenant seemed to like the idea.

He called: “Let it go, Demetrios. But stick around for a call in the morning.”

Demetrios appeared in the bathroom doorway in his pajamas. He looked a little bewildered.

“Can I go back to bed?”

Doyle said: “Sure. Get some sleep. You’ll probably need it. After all, we wouldn’t be getting nowhere in figuring out what this’s all about if it wasn’t for you.”

Demetrios nodded glumly, went over and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Doyle grunted, “G’night,” and he and Green and the lieutenant filed out.

Demetrios sat silent for two or three minutes and then got up and went to the door, opened it and looked up and down the hall. Then he closed the door and crossed to the private telephone that stood on the stand beside the bed, beside the regular house phone. He sat down on the bed again and dialed a Schuyler number, said:

“Hello, honey. Listen. The big news just came through. They found ‘im on the New York Central tracks, uptown. Uh-huh. I guess he left the pinwheel at Tony’s an’ picked up Gino on the Boston train. Only Gino saw him first… . A couple coppers just stopped by an’ told me. They thought I might like to know.”

He laughed quietly. “Sure, I gave ’em enough so they know he blasted Tony’s. They can figure the rest of it out for themselves. Now, listen. They’re probably waiting for me outside, but I’m going to duck out through the basement.” He glanced at the alarm clock on the dresser. “It’s a quarter of three. I’ll be over there in half an hour at the outside unless they tail me an’ then I’ll have to lose ’em. You throw some things in a bag an’ be ready to leave. We’ll take a little trip. Someplace where it’s cool… . Okay, baby—’Bye.”

He hung up, dressed swiftly and took a traveling bag out of a closet, began stuffing clothes into it.