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  “A witness, Mrs. MacGruder.”

  “But why, man? I take a nap, every day. Without witnesses.”

  “You could have left by the side door,” Dave said easily. “And returned for the continuation of your nap.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” she said simply.

  “You could have followed him uptown—and killed him.”

  “Way out!” she said angrily, leaning forward to shout the words at Dave. “Way out, man! You’re a wild one.”

  “You could have been very angry with Masterson for walking out on you, Mrs. MacGruder. Perhaps he was walking out with another woman. You wouldn’t have liked that, would you?”

  “Way out!” she said again. “He didn’t mean that much to me, mister. Not that much.”

  “Tell the truth, Mrs. MacGruder. Weren’t you in love with him?”

  “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “You don’t look ready for laughter. You were in love with him. Why not admit it?”

  His soft, even voice continued in the interrogation, a gentle knife, cutting deep into her womanly heart. He was a masterful quiz man. He sat back and waited for her collapse and it came as though on schedule. She broke down and sobbed lustily. She cried and cried. He said nothing when the flood of tears finally came. He only watched and waited, nodding at Harry Gahan knowingly.

  “Yes,” she said in a whisper. “Yes, man. I liked him. I liked him a lot.”

  “Of course you did, Mrs. MacGruder. And was he running off with another woman?”

  “Please. That’s crazy. His other women didn’t bother me. Jeff always had them when he wanted them. I made no deal with him. We got together now and then. I liked him to read to me. I liked his ideas. Sometimes, when he got drunk, maybe he’d sleep with me. Not much. I didn’t want it much. Look at me and tell me how could I? But he was good for me, good company. I guess I’m a crazy broad, right? He made me feel young again. That was the whole deal, all of it. When he left, I wished him luck. They’ve left me before and I never felt like killing any of them. Listen, I’m tired, man. You’re talking to Gretchen MacGruder, not Brigitte Bardot.”

  “And have you any idea, any idea at all who might have killed Masterson?”

  “It must have been a man. They all hated his guts.”

  “Any particular man?”

  “Too many,” she said sadly. “One for every girl. That figures, doesn’t it, man?”

  “It figures,” said Dave, and turned to me. “Any little thing you want to add, Steve?”

  ‘A few questions,” I said. “Mind?”

  “She’s all yours.”

  “About Fire Island,” I said. “Masterson knew somebody out there, Mrs. MacGruder. Any idea who it was?”

  “Fairy land,” she snickered. “He had friends there, sure he did. But not the queers.”

  “Who were his friends?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He went out there today,” I said and looked at the clock. “Yesterday.”

  “I never kept records, man.”

  “You’ve been there yourself?”

  “Off and on. Just for kicks.”

  “It was a house with a sapling fence,” I said. “Maybe he took you there?”

  “Picnics,” she said. “I never visited anybody with him.”

  I signaled Dave that I was finished and he let her go with the usual warning that he wanted her where he could reach her. Harry Gahan had ordered more coffee and some sandwiches and invited me to stay for the snack. They would be up for a while because there were things to do. Mrs. MacGruder’s testimony hadn’t opened any new doors. They were very much interested in the file documents on Masterson and Dave felt that a lead would open there. They were also very much interested in my Information about John Drummond’s trip to Fire Island and the sapling fence place.

  “He came back and bought new clothes and shaved his beard after Fire Island,” I said. “Something happened out there.”

  “No way to contact your friend Drummond?”

  “He’ll be away for a week, Dave. I’m not waiting for him.”

  “You’re going out there?”

  “Unless I can get my information in New York.”

  “It’s a trip,” Harry Gahan said. “Out to Bay Shore and then what? No ferries until early morning.”

  “I can get a boat,” I said.

  “Let me know what you dig up,” Dave said.

  “By all means,” I said.

  CHAPTER 14

  “… coming to see me. He was coming to see me.”

  Helen stood at the window and looked down at the street and continued to talk to herself. The first great shock had passed, the surge of tears, the reluctant acceptance of the death of Jeff Masterson. And after that, the brooding after thoughts, the time for quick memories and important questions.

  I brought her another drink and made her sip it and took her away from the window, gently.

  “… I don’t understand, Steve. I just don’t understand it. Jeff didn’t have enemies.”

  “You knew him that well?”

  “Knew him?” Her eyes still were misted and vague and out of touch with me. “I suppose I didn’t know him the way you mean. But he was too good-natured, too popular to have any real enemies.”

  “I can think of a few,” I said. “A man like Arthur Haddon, for instance. Arthur seemed dedicated to hating him.”

  “Oh, no,” she smiled. “Not Arthur. “He’s all talk.”

  “Or Gretchen MacGruder?”

  “Poor Gretchen. She was nothing more than a patroness for Jeff. He told me all about her, Steve. She insisted on helping him. He felt sorry for her. He didn’t want to hurt her by telling her to stop.”

  “Some women get pretty nasty when they’re told to turn off the affection.”

  “Not Gretchen,” she said. But she was beginning to consider my idea and it didn’t please her.

  “There could have been others, other women.”

  “There were no others, Steve.”

  “He sold you a big bill of goods,” I said. “He was a master salesman. You’re still sold on him, even though your mind tells you that you were only another name on his long list of girls. Don’t interrupt me now, Helen. Stop to think about his last few hours on earth. He was on the run. He had shaved off his beard and looked for anonymity with his new face. He bought a fresh outfit, to completely hide the Bohemian identity he had established so carefully in the Village. Why? Why was he running? Have you asked yourself that question?”

  “I can’t understand it.”

  “Let’s explore it. He was desperate. He was afraid. Will you buy that much?”

  “He must have been frightened.”

  “Of what? Of whom?”

  She was sitting beside me on the studio couch, but up to this moment she could have been on a barge in Bombay. She had been lost to me until now. And now she looked more frightened than ever.

  “My brother,” she whispered.

  “Not quite, Helen.”

  “Grippo?”

  “Naturally. Grippo was always the threat, remember?”

  She whispered the name to herself, upset by it.

  “Of course, of course,” she said. The horror of the thought seemed too much for her to bear. She was remembering the source, remembering that Luigi had always issued the orders to move Grippo. The picture didn’t please her. “Luigi wouldn’t tell Grippo to kill anybody, Steve.”

  “Grippo has a big name in the mayhem industry.”

  “Not through Luigi.”

  “Why don’t we find out, Helen?”

  “Please, Steve. I’d rather not.”

  “Afraid brother dear may be involved?”

  “I need some time. I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Ti
me?” My annoyance with her had begun at the point when she reacted to Grippo. She would continue to slide now, continue to speculate and consider the angles leading to brother Luigi. But I had no patience with that kind of logic. Not anymore. The chips were all down for me. I saw Grippo as the key, the quiet slasher, the man who must have cut down Max Ornstein by mistake, because he looked so much like Jeff Masterson on a darkened stairway. Grippo had been sent out by Luigi to frighten Masterson, only to scare him. But Grippo’s record proved him to be no intellectual with a knife. He could have lost his temper easily. Killing would not mean too much to a thug like Grippo.

  “Where can I find Grippo?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “You’re worried about Luigi.”

  “Your theory is all wrong,” she said nervously.

  “Prove it.” She was on the emotional skids now, fumbling with another drink and giving me the back of her pretty head. I grabbed her roughly and turned her my way. “Or do you want me to tie this thing up the legal way?”

  “The legal way?”

  “I can call my friend Cushing at the police.”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Why not? I can convert this into a real Mardi Gras, Helen. Cushing would be delighted to meet you. Cushing would enjoy knowing that you were a pretty close friend of the corpse they found down on the street. Cushing will treat you to a session down there a quiz game that will cost you weight. Is that what you want? Or would you rather play it my way?”

  “Which way is that, Steve?”

  “Grippo. Steer me to Grippo.”

  “He lives in the Granger Hotel, downtown.”

  “That’s better,” I said. “Let’s you and I pay him a little visit.”

  The Granger Hotel was an ancient place, probably a fashionable hotel when the carriage trade came here at the turn of the century. Now it sat on the dirty outskirts of the Village, asleep among the surrounding tenements and factories. The area blossomed with foreign sights, sounds and smells, a mixture of simple Italian, Puerto Rican and a suggestion of Irish. At this hour of night only a scattered few of the residents lolled on the stone porches, leaned out windows, or decorated the fire escapes. The heat had been building all day and there was the heavy smell of rain in the air, an occasional rumble of thunder to the south.

  “What a horror.”

  Helen was commenting upon the appearance of the Granger Hotel lobby, a dank and airless place, complete with archaic and over stuffed furniture out of the Salvation Army showrooms. In one corner, deep in snoring slumber, an old derelict sprawled on a sofa, newspapers over his body, his bare feet exposed. A battle-scarred cat prowled the frayed rug. From somewhere deep within the walls a woman screamed thinly, a door slammed, a baby cried. At the far end of the lobby a door opened and a girl walked out, arranging the buttons on her blouse and humming a tune. She eyed me with professional concern as she moved out to the street.

  There was a bell board to the right and Carmen Grippo’s name appeared on the second row, apartment 2B.

  “Must I go up, Steve?”

  “I’ll need you.”

  “I may be sick.”

  “Save it,” I said. “Save it for when I finish with friend Grippo.”

  Helen did as I instructed, knocking timidly on Grippo’s door. There was a pause and then the door opened a crack and a woman’s voice said, “What do you want, sister?”

  “Mr. Grippo.”

  “Not in.”

  “Are you sure? Tell him Helen Calabrese is here to see him.”

  “Not in,” said the woman. I couldn’t see her because I stood to the right of the door while Helen made the play. Her voice was hoarse and muffled. If her face matched her voice, she would be an additional risk. The automatic in my pocket began to feel good to me.

  A man’s voice said, “Let her in, stupid.”

  Then Helen was stepping inside with me right behind her. The room was remarkably big, one of the original hotel suites. Grippo sat on the bed at the far end. He was fully dressed. He was also fully surprised to see me, bouncing to his feet immediately and muttering a foul word at his lady friend. He added a few extra fond names for her when he saw my automatic.

  “Your gun, Grippo.”

  “What the hell is this?”

  I moved in and took his gun from him, motioning him to step to the wall behind him. His girl joined him there, a rather dowdy type, almost past the age of glamour, her face a mask of cosmetic shine, her body larded at the edges of her corseting. She stood there glaring at me. They made a nice package, these two, a nice package for a garbage dump.

  “Listen, Helen,” said Grippo. “Luigi won’t like this.”

  “Stuff Luigi,” I said.

  “You’ll be sorry, smart boy.”

  “Turn around and put your hands behind your back, Grippo.”

  “A regular flatfoot,” he grumbled. But he followed my order. It was a routine piece of police procedure, a precaution with thugs like Grippo who were given to sudden leaps, lunges and other devices for avoiding arrest. He would be hard to handle in any position, but this one minimized his animal cunning. I indicated to his girl that she should do the same. She spat at me and joined him against the wall.

  “Now tell me about last night,” I said. “After you left Gretchen MacGruder’s.”

  “I already told you.”

  “Tell me the truth this time.”

  “You’re wasting your time, smart boy.”

  “I’ll give you a few minutes, Grippo. After that, I’ll break your foolish head.”

  “Real tough,” said Grippo.

  “Exactly three minutes.”

  It was a little bit corny and melodramatic and maybe unrealistic, but a forced silence sometimes works with the cheap intellects like Grippo. It gave me time to look around and breathe a bit. Helen stood near the window and stared at them as though they might be crawling things. I went over to her and squeezed her arm and tried to give her the strength to stay with me for the rest of the scene. She smiled a bit and her smile satisfied me.

  Three minutes is a long time. I took a good look around. Grippo had lived here for quite a while. Somebody had draped and curtained the place in orange and green, an Italian fiesta motif. The furniture was sensible, reasonably modern and in good taste. He had a chest of drawers in the corner, topped with personal belongings. On the wall behind the chest, a row of photographs, the usual cheese shots of mammary models from the wolf magazines. All but one photo.

  It was a picture of Mari Barstow. It lay on the chest top and there were no tack marks on it. It was a specially posed studio shot, a deluxe type of photograph done by an upper-class portrait man. Helen saw it when I did. She eyed it with great curiosity and for a moment my guard was down and Grippo had his chance at me.

  “Steve!”

  Helen screamed, but before she got the warning out he made his move. It was a skilful dodge, a slide to the left and an attempt to tackle me. He clipped me low and I went down like a log. There was a splintering crash as I hit a chair and slammed back, off balance, tail over teacups. But I still had the gun and I used it as soon as I could measure him. I slapped him hard with the butt, behind his ear. He muttered an unkind word and his hands went soft and loose around my legs and I had time to hit him again in the same spot. He clapped his hands to his head and wilted, folding and bending into a stupid heap.

  “On your feet, Grippo. We’ll play it again.”

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  “Up,” I said. “Back to the wall.”

  “Why don’t you get this punk out of here, Helen?” He was on his knees, still holding his head.

  “Up,” I said, and prodded him until he returned to the wall. “Now we’ve really got someth
ing to talk about, Grippo. Tonight. Where were you tonight?”

  “Ask her,” he grumbled, indicating his lady friend.

  “With me,” the woman said. “Since we ate, maybe six, six-thirty.”

  “Where?”

  “Bianchetti’s,” she said without a pause.

  “How long?”

  “Maybe nine, maybe later.”

  “Call Bianchetti’s, Helen.”

  “Now you’re acting like you got brains,” Grippo said.

  Helen made the call. I took the phone and spoke to a man who identified himself as Tony Bianchetti, the owner of a Village pizza palace. I knew the place by reputation only, a family type of restaurant frequented by customers who enjoyed basic, garlicked Italian foods unencumbered by any formalities or refinement. It seemed to me that Bianchetti answered my questions without guile. He certainly knew Carmen Grippo. He certainly remembered Grippo eating there earlier. And he was willing to guarantee the length of Grippo’s stay because of the fact that Bianchetti himself served the man. All of this information was offered to me on a level of sincerity, a temperamental Italian integrity that came through as honest. Yet, the little doubt remained with me. There was always the chance that Bianchetti had been set up as an alibi.

  “How long do you know Bianchetti?” I asked Grippo.

  “I eat there all the time.”

  “Dandy. What did you eat tonight?”

  “Manicotti,” he said, after a pause.

  Bianchetti verified the dish and I hung up. It was a dead end, a meaningless bit of testimony, almost nonsensical. Bianchetti could have been set up to cover for him on a permanent basis. It was pat, my experience told me, too smooth, too easy to be immediately acceptable. Yet there was no time for digging or probing.

  “You finished now, smart boy?”

  “Stay where you are, Grippo.”

  “Knock it off,” he grumbled. “Let my girl go. She’s clean, isn’t she?”

  “Not yet she isn’t. You still smell to me. Even if you didn’t butcher Masterson.”

  “Who?” He turned his head, putting on an amateur show of befuddlement, as obviously phony as his integrity. He had neither the actor’s brain nor instinct. His animal eyes slid at once to Helen, favoring her with the quick and wide-eyed stare of a small boy caught stealing. “Master—who?”