Win, Place, and Die! Page 13

  Mrs. Delongo stared and gaped and finally walked to the bed and dropped her old bones on the upturned mattress.

  “Well,” she said wearily. “He seemed to be such a nice fellow, too.”

  “They always do,” I said.

  The strain of the past hour was beginning to tell on her. From somewhere down in the hall, a brassy timepiece tolled once, a flat and disturbing sound to Mrs. Delongo. “He certainly fooled me,” she sighed. “I suppose it was a combination of things that made him seem so convincing, don’t you see? He brought me the bad news about George. He arrived early in the morning, at about nine. When he told me about the suicide, how could I doubt him? A man who brings such bad tidings carries with him an air of respectability.” She spoke the line slowly, liking it, smiling at herself with an open regard for her descriptive talents. “That was it. That was why I believed he was from the police, of course. Who on earth do you suppose he was?”

  “Unless I’m mistaken,” I said, “his name is Leech. Chester Leech.”

  CHAPTER 16

  At 12:16 I returned to The Famous Cellar. Now the place bounced and bumped with activity, each small table crowded with revelers who drank tall drinks and blew great gusts of smoke into the air. A fog of gray hung over the big room. No air-conditioning machine cleaned this atmosphere. The customers in such a nest of roistering would prefer it this way. On the small stage, a weary and sloe-eyed lady sang a tropical tune, her hips moving in a slow, sinuous rhythm. Nobody listened to her. The tables buzzed and hummed in an impolite broth of noise. I searched the crowd for familiar faces. I found several.

  Hank Luchon sat alone at a table near the band. As I watched, one of the paid wenches approached him and leaned over him. He smiled at her and she sat with him. I saw his hand go up for a quick flip at the waiter. He was ordering a drink for her. But his heart didn’t seem warmed to the project. His restless eyes scanned the crowd. He held the entrance in a steady focus. The girl with him tried to make him happy. He gave her a small part of his attention. He managed to appear friendly and interested. But in the pauses, his roving eyes sought the door.

  At another table, almost hidden in the corner, sat Eustace Blackburn and Lisa Varick. Blackburn gurgled with gaiety. Blackburn bubbled with open affection for the beautiful woman at his side. She accepted his blandishments with a tired good humor. Against the background of overwhelming noise and confusion, they made a strange, incongruous tableau. The sugar daddy and the gold digger? The rich old man on the loose for joy and gladness? The scene was somehow removed from these cliché estimates of a beautiful and youngish woman cavorting with an almost old man. The scene contained the elements of something sad and hopeless. Lisa Varick’s gestures seemed calculated to convince Blackburn that he was an important heart throb, an essential lover, a man she would worship. It was this quality of sincerity that lifted Lisa Varick a long step above the rank-and-file concubine. Lisa worked hard at her job of satisfying a man’s ego. And Lisa made good at her chore. Eustace Blackburn was rapidly drinking himself into a deep pit of abandon. Yet, on the way down, he burbled and gushed over her. He was eating her with his eyes.

  I returned to the bar. Ruvulo’s door was closed now. Beyond the figure of the bartender, in the quiet shadows of the hallway, I could see the door only vaguely. But any crack of light back there would scream for attention. I was in a fine position for observing anyone entering or leaving Ruvulo’s office.

  My task was interrupted by Hank Luchon. He came out of the main room restlessly. He did not pause in the lobby. I gave him his head for a moment and then followed him into the street. I smoked and gabbed with the doorman while searching the pavement for Luchon. He was strolling up near the corner. Looking for somebody? His attitude revealed a jittery purpose, his head down slightly, scanning the cars along the curbing. He was looking for a car; that was it. He crossed the street and continued his search, walking fast. At the corner he turned to the right, and disappeared down a narrow side street. I meditated following him. But another figure caught my eye, approaching the canopy of The Famous Cellar.

  It was Buffo, easing his big frame out of a cab. He was a dapper figure in his black Homburg. He wore it rakishly, in the European style.

  I met him on the sidewalk. I held out a hand to him and for a fleeting moment he didn’t seem to recognize me. Then his face lit up with its accustomed professional smile.

  “We meet again,” he chirped.

  “It’s a small world, Buffo.”

  “You going into The Famous Cellar?”

  “I’ve been inside,” I said. “Just stepped out to breathe clean air. But what brings you here?”

  “Ah?” His facile mind had the answer at once. He would be the sort of ad lib artist who never failed in an emergency. “I’ll tell you a little secret about The Famous Cellar. Have you tasted their food? Well, they have the best, the absolute best chef in New York working here.” He winked at me. “Ferdinand. Have you tried his duckling?”

  “I’ll handle it later.”

  “I’m going to buy him away from this cave,” said Buffo with a conspiratorial air. “I’ll offer him twice, even three times what he now gets. Cooks can never resist money.”

  “Who can?” I asked myself, watching him bounce through the door.

  I resumed my perch at the bar. Ruvulo’s door fascinated me.

  The bartender was busy now. Orders poured in from the main room, the waiters slapping the bar and muttering coaxing, cajoling oaths at him. Throughout it all, he gave me his cordial disregard. His attitude had changed during my two hours’ absence. His former smiling friendliness was gone. Instead, he eyed me with a touch of distaste, as though I might be an annoying drunk. From the moment of my return he seemed hell-bent on avoiding me completely. I tapped the bar with my glass.

  “I’m empty,” I said. “I want another of these Cellar Flips.”

  “Coming up,” he said from the other end of the bar.

  “And pass me those nuts.”

  He glared at me and for a moment I thought he would attempt to slide the bowl my way. But there were three customers in the gap between us. He grudgingly lifted the bowl and carried it to me.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Somebody puncture your ulcer?”

  “I’m busy,” he said. “Can’t you see we’re loaded?”

  “You were loaded a while ago.”

  “Listen, bud, don’t bother me.”

  “I’ve got news for you.”

  “News?” He paused halfway down the bar. He stepped back. “Forget the news, will you? Go home.”

  “I’ve got sad, sad news,” I said.

  “So forget it, like I said. I don’t want any part of it.”

  “It’s about poor old George.”

  He was all mixed up. He had been tipped off to avoid talking to strangers. Somebody must have disciplined him during the past two hours. But nobody on earth can put a checkrein on gnawing curiosity. He frowned at me. He shook his head at me. And then he stepped slowly my way. “Bad news about George?” he asked.

  “Bannerman is dead. Suicide.”

  The bartender gulped. His eyes slid toward Ruvulo’s door. Was he watching for Ruvulo? He plucked a tall glass off the shelf and dropped fresh ice in it. He tried desperately to busy himself, so that his nervousness would die.

  “The poor old guy,” he said. “How did it happen?”

  “He jumped off the Manhattan Bridge.”

  “Ah? What a way to die. And such a nice old guy.”

  Through the hallway, Ruvulo’s door showed a thin crack of light. The shadow of a man moved back there. The man came out of the office. He stood before the door, a vague gray shape whispering something to somebody back beyond the door. The thin slip of light died.

  “Ruvulo is in now?” I asked.

  “Listen, bud, why don’t you forget about Ruvulo?”


  “Why should I?”

  “Your health,” he said. He continued to mix my drink, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Ruvulo doesn’t want to be seen. Not tonight.”

  “He told you that?”

  “That’s the talk around here.”

  “Suppose I go back and knock at his door?”

  “If you get to the door.”

  “I’ll get there.”

  I crossed the bar before him and started for the hall. The bartender seemed frozen in his pose, his head half-cocked over the glass, but not intent on it. His eyes slid to me, following me along the lobby. At the turn to the small hall, I discovered the reason for his worry.

  A man blocked my way. He was a familiar figure, the pose relaxed, the body leaning against the door frame. Up close, the voice identified the man immediately. It was Leech.

  “We meet again,” he said.

  “Monotonous, isn’t it?”

  “So it is. Don’t you ever learn, West?”

  “I’m slow,” I said. “And I’m stubborn.”

  “A weak combination,” Leech said.

  “Sometimes. But it works for me. I get around and meet all kinds of people, interesting folks like doormen and old ladies who run boardinghouses. Did you ever meet any old ladies in boardinghouses, Leech?”

  Leech didn’t answer. His face lay shadowed and remote from me. It would have been good to catch his expression.

  “Ever meet a Mrs. Delongo, Leech?”

  “Go away, my friend. You bother me.”

  “Mrs. Delongo was charmed with you.”

  “You’re charming me, West.”

  “She’d like to see you again, Leech,” I continued. “She’d like to ask you what you were looking for up in Bannerman’s room. Matter of fact, I’m curious about it myself. And I’ll bet anything my friend Sam MacGruder will be curious, too.”

  “You’re blocking the hall,” Leech said.

  “Let’s unblock it. Let’s you and I go for a ride, Leech. Over to Mrs. Delongo’s. I’d like her to have a look at you.”

  “You’re blocking the hall,” Leech said again.

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “I’m on my way in to see Ruvulo.”

  “Not right now you’re not.”

  “Somebody in there I know?”

  “You ask the most inane questions,” Leech said softly. “And you’re about the nosiest character I’ve ever met.”

  “You don’t know the half of it, Leech. You should see me around the water. I have the nose of a water spaniel, the schnozzle of a retriever. I can smell things a mile away, especially on the water.”

  “Why don’t you go smell yourself a beer, West?”

  “Water,” I said. “I’m a water smeller.”

  “That’s just dandy.”

  “Is it? I smell all kinds of things on water, Leech.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Sad,” I said. “Sad as hell, really. This morning I was sniffing around the East River. You know what I smelled? I caught the whiff of a phony suicide, Leech. Man named Bannerman floating around under the docks. The cops called it suicide. But not I. The way I saw it, this character Bannerman was pushed off the bridge. The way I saw it, the cops can grab the pusher easily. All they have to do is visit an old lady named Mrs. Delongo.”

  Leech twitched slightly. The gun, however, still remained steady on my chest.

  “A real nasty sniffing dog,” Leech said.

  There was a dull clatter from the kitchen, off to the left. We stood in a pocket of quiet, removed from the blare of the rumba music beyond the bar. Nobody would pass here, unless one of the kitchen help decided to call on Ruvulo. The customers were limited to the other end of the lobby, where the ladies’ lounge and the gentlemen’s room were located. Leech stood on a line with the wall, about ten feet back from the lobby. His figure set up an irritation in me. It would be good to move him. It would be a tonic to repeat the little foray we had engaged in back at Buffo’s. But Leech was aware of my intentions. He lifted his left hand slightly. The subdued light was strong enough to catch the glittering highlight on his automatic.

  “Why don’t you buy yourself a drink, West?”

  “I will, after I see Ruvulo.”

  “That could mean after breakfast,” Leech observed.

  “Seff won’t be in there that long.”

  Leech stiffened and straightened and pulled away from the wall, a step closer to me. From the kitchen, the steady din had subsided. Somebody had finished with the pots and pans in there. Now the hall seemed a closet of echoes from the dull beat of the rumba drums, the conversational buzz from the main room, the occasional tinkle of a glass at the bar. But rising out of the welter of muffled noise, like a high, strange note in a minor symphony, a falsetto voice came through the hall. Or was it hitting me by way of the wall? Leech must have heard it when I did. The effect of the sound worked on him in a zany way. He began to talk, as if to bury the noise with his voice.

  “Let’s get out of here, West,” he said, moving still closer and letting me feel the muzzle of his automatic. “Let’s go somewhere where we can be more intimate. How about a drink? I’ll buy. We can chew it over at the bar. Move. Move back and out of here, will you?”

  His monologue seemed strained and forced, an unusual speech for a man accustomed to simple statements and short sentences. He had me where he wanted me and pushed his advantage. The gun was pressing me back, step by step, out of the area of the hall and into the lobby. Here the bounce and bump of the dance music rapped at my ears. Here nothing remained of the other sounds but the fast-fading memory of my first impressions. But I had heard enough.

  In the last slow step backwards, I had made up my mind that there was a woman in there with Ruvulo.

  “What’ll you have, West?”

  “Do you mind if I make a phone call?”

  Leech elbowed me to the booth and opened the door for me. “In here, you look good. Like a bird in a cage.”

  I dialed Fennisong. His office phone told me that the place was empty, but I had made the call deliberately, so that I might observe Leech while dialing. Leech stood a few feet off to the right, out of earshot. He rocked on his heels, back and forth, not bothering to hold me in focus. I muttered a dirty name at him and dialed Fennisong’s home number.

  “Hello?” The voice was sandpapered with sleep.

  “West talking,” I said. “Grab hold of yourself, Fennisong. Are you awake?”

  “I’m listening, my friend.”

  “I’ve got a job for you.”

  “Now?” Fennisong wailed. “At this hour?”

  “We made a deal, didn’t we? I need you now. Put your pants on and get down to The Famous Cellar. I want you to follow a man. Here’s his description.” I paused to observe Leech carefully out in the lobby. “He’s a middle-sized character, wearing a gray suit with neat white stripes. Businesslike and well-tailored. He wears no hat. He’s pale and scholarly-looking and sports heavy horn-rimmed glasses. His glasses will tab him for you. They’re bifocals. He’d be blind without them. He has on a simple white shirt, but his tie is a giveaway. It’s a bowtie, college style, with the thin ends. The color of the tie is blue, bright sky-blue. Is that enough?”

  “I can see him clearly.”

  “How long will it take you to get here?”

  “Give me twenty minutes.”

  “Stay with him, Fennisong.”

  “And where can I reach you?”

  “I’ll reach you,” I said, and hung up.

  Leech was waiting for me when I left the booth. He escorted me back to the bar, his pale face alive with wicked humor. The sight of him alongside me built the scene into an incongruous tableau. Around and about us, the barflies laughed and drank, accepting us as two casual friends, just two more customers. They would consider Leech an average
patron. Only the bartender seemed aware of Leech’s reputation. He gawked at us openly, unable to bury his obvious awe of Seff’s henchman. But the reaction dissipated itself quickly as the bartender busied himself with his mixing, deliberately turning his back to us. In the mirror, I studied Leech’s face, adjusting myself to it slowly, trying to kill the anger that bubbled in me. Leech, in the close-up, was certainly a commonplace type. He could have been a drug clerk, on the loose for a gay time in the Village. He could have been a plumber, a mailman, a bank teller or a delivery man. There were several characters at the bar who were moulded closer to the pattern of menace than this simple-faced man who leaned into me and let me feel his gun I made a mental note to revise my characterizations of evil in the next book I wrote.

  “You didn’t order, West,” he said.

  “I’ve lost my thirst.”

  “Order.”

  He spoke to me by way of the mirror. He smiled at me. It was as though he had known me for years and wanted to please an old friend.

  In the far side of the mirror I could see the end of the hall. Somebody was passing through, headed for the lobby. It was a woman. She came quickly past the edge of the bar, behind Leech, a fleeting figure who moved toward the main room, a flash of blonde hair and naked shoulders, well browned by the sun. She was Lisa Varick. Did Leech see her exit from Ruvulo’s office? He no longer leaned into me. Something had happened to the gun. He was smiling at me now in the mirror, the same sly and meaningless grin, yet freer now, as though he was moved to chuckle over a task well done.

  “Give Mr. West whatever he wants, Chuck,” Leech told the bartender. He tossed a bill on the bar and backed away. He seemed to hesitate a few paces from me, awaiting my next move.

  Then he was gone, ambling across the lobby, and finally pushing through the door to the street.

  “You want another Flip?” the bartender asked.

  “I’ll take a rain check on the drink. Who was the blonde?”

  “Which blonde?”

  “The one who came out of Ruvulo’s office.”

  The bartender shrugged, putting on a great show of honest chagrin. “I didn’t see anyone come out of there, bud.”