City of Brass (7 page)

He thought about this, sizing me up all the while. “I’m not going to hurt him, not yet. This was just a warning. Hear that, mister?”

“What kind of warning? I don’t think I understand.”

He stepped in closer, only an arm’s length away. “This kind of warning. You tell Baine he’s not framing me for Cathy’s killing. You can tell him he’d better lay off or his wife will wish he had.”

My left arm shot out and I felt my fingers catch his shirt collar. “What do you mean by that?” I asked angrily, yanking him off balance. I thought I had him, but he was too experienced at that type of fighting. Before I knew what was happening his right hand was coming up under my arm, a sudden switch-blade catching the gleam from my headlights. It was only the girl’s scream of fright that warned me in time.

We broke, and then the girl was on him, pulling the knife arm back. “No, Zenny, you damn fool! Let’s get out of here.”

Apparently he was convinced, because he started backing away, letting himself be dragged back to the waiting car by the girl in the tight jeans. He flung back only one shout. “Remember it, mister. You and Baine both remember it.”

Then they were in the car, and it was jumping to life with the familiar cough of a souped-up engine. I watched until the red tail lights vanished around the curve and then went back to Simon.

“Tough guy,” I said.

“My friend, Shelly would not like the thought of mixing with knife-wielding thugs. You’re much too old for it.”

I started the car, carefully backing away from the ditch. “I was never the right age, believe me. I think I’ll head back to New York, where there’s nothing to kill you but the traffic.”

“We must stay another day, now. Things are moving to a head.”

“Sure they are. I’ll get knifed by Zenny tomorrow sure.”

“Perhaps not, my friend. Perhaps not. We will wait to see what tomorrow brings.”

And he would say no more. We drove slowly back to town, in silence. Behind us the night was dark …

Fourth of July.

Dawning bright, crackling with the odor of burnt powder, singing with the distant sound of a parade. A picnic, a walk in the park, a familiar political speech. Midsummer day—holiday time, vacation time. I rolled out of bed just before ten and stood looking out at the city of brass, watching great white clouds chart a brief path across the sky, past Baine University, past Baine Brass. They were like some unknown islands in the sky, always there, yet changing with every tide of wind that blew across them.

It was so in Paris and London, Los Angeles and Washington, and here in Baine City. Just another place under the sun, where men lived and died, and life went on because it had to. Even today there’d be shifts at the brass plant, running the great forming and polishing machines. There’d be men standing around, taking a cigarette break, cursing the foreman, reliving the previous night’s date with the well-stacked blonde. It was life.

And I wondered what life ever was to men like Simon Ark. Did he have a woman somewhere, anywhere, to rest him when the burden got too tough? Even as I thought it, there was a knock on the door and he was standing there, looking the same as yesterday, the same as when I’d first seen him twenty years ago.

“A pleasant morning,” he said.

“Pleasant.” I started dressing, turning over the random thoughts that were running through my mind. “Simon?”

He’d settled into one of the hotel chairs and crossed his hands as if in prayer. “Yes, my friend?”

“Have you ever had a woman, Simon? I’ve known you for all these years, and yet I really know so little about you.”

I don’t know what reaction I’d expected, but I was surprised when he dropped” his eyes to the carpeted floor. “A woman? Well, now it has been a long time … I am very old, you know, so very old …” And then his eyes lifted, and he went on. “Did you know, my friend, that in ancient Greece the women of the streets—prostitutes—sometimes carved messages on the soles of their sandals, so when they walked along they imprinted messages in the sand or dirt of the streets?”

“What kind of messages?”

“Usually something like
follow me
or words to that effect.”

“It’s a queer world.”

“Yes, and perhaps there is always a woman at its center. Perhaps woman is the real ruler of man. At least they need each other, and always will.”

I nodded and put on my shirt. “Until someone comes up with a foolproof method of artificial insemination.”

I’d said it mostly as a joke, but Simon didn’t smile. “Most methods of artificial insemination are quite immoral,” he said, and then fell silent a moment, as if deep in thought.

An idea struck me and I turned away from the window. “Simon, we know that Wilber has been working on experiments concerning birth and the life process. Is it possible that when we saw him bending over the coffin yesterday he was really studying Cathy’s skull? Is it possible he intends to attempt to bring her back to life?”

Simon smiled a bit at that. “All things are possible in this world, my friend, but I fear you are being overly influenced by the current offerings of movies and television. I doubt very strongly if Professor Wilber is contemplating anything like that.”

“So, where do we go from here?”

“It’s a holiday. Why go anywhere?”

“Seriously, Simon, who do you think killed her?”

“If I told you, I doubt if you’d believe me. I hardly believe myself.”

“Then you know!”

But he shook his head. “I have a suspicion, nothing more. A suspicion that cannot yet be put into words.”

The phone buzzed and I picked it up, wondering who’d be calling us on this holiday morning. It was Henry Mahon, downstairs in the lobby and waiting to come up. I told him to come ahead.

“Mahon,” I told Simon.

“Interesting.”

“Very.”

He came, a few moments later, looking somehow worn and red-eyed. I wondered if he’d been drinking the night before. “Good morning,” he mumbled, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed.

“Hello, Hank. What brings you down here at this early hour?”

“I … well, I thought you might have gotten the wrong idea about our conversation yesterday. I do care about my sister-in-law’s death, really! I don’t want to give the impression that I’m more interested in raising money for the University than in tracking down her killer.”

He was nervous today, even more so than the last time we’d seen him, and all the familiar wildness seemed gone from him. Perhaps Cathy’s death had hit him harder than we’d thought. Perhaps, but I doubted it.

“We have some leads,” Simon told him. “Despite our reluctance to act as detectives, we have uncovered a few interesting facts.”

“Oh, have you?” He was interested now, and I couldn’t help feeling that this information had been the real purpose of his visit. I sat back and let Simon take it from there.

“Yes,” he said, like a cautious hunter laying out the bait, “we’ve learned quite a bit concerning Professor Wilber, for instance. We followed him yesterday and saw him return to the funeral home during the supper hour. Amazing thing—he was in there all alone with the body.”

“Alone?”

Simon nodded. “He was running his fingers through her hair.”

Mahon was in the act of lighting a cigarette when Simon spoke the words, and his fingers faltered. “What? Why would he do that?”

“My friend here believes he might be planning to bring her back to life.”

He looked at me as if I were crazy. “You really think that?”

“Well, not really. It was sort of a joke.”

“Is this whole thing a joke? Do you know who killed her or don’t you?”

“Sometimes life is a joke,” Simon answered, “but we know who killed her.”

“Who?”

Simon closed his eyes. “The murderer will be at the funeral tomorrow morning.”

“That’s all you’ll say?”

“That is all I’ll say.”

Mahon sighed as if disappointed and got up to leave. It was obvious that he was unhappy with the state of the interview, but there was nothing much for him to do about it. After mumbled thanks and promises to see us later he departed.

“There’s a guy who’s really changed,” I observed. “He’s certainly not the rich playboy type any more.”

“Men change for a reason,” Simon said. “Find the reason and you learn much.”

“I gather from your conversation with him that we’re staying for the funeral tomorrow. Right?”

“Right. One extra day, might make a great difference. I want you to do certain things for me while I am busy elsewhere today.”

“What kind of things?” I always hated chasing around on missions for him like some third-rate Doctor Watson, but I could see I had little choice.

“You must contact Quinn, the detective. Tell him to be at the funeral tomorrow morning. Tell him he must have some of his men in the crowd.”

“He’d probably be there anyway,” I said. “Why do I need to tell him?”

“Just so he’ll be prepared. Do it, will you?”

“OK. Where are you going to be?”

“At the University, with Professor Wilber. I believe a conversation with him might clear up the last of the haziness.”

We went downstairs for breakfast and then separated. I was sorry to see him go, especially since I had only a vague knowledge of my real mission. Was it possible that Simon somehow suspected Quinn of being mixed up in the affair and wanted to scare him into the open. I’d met the man only briefly, but now I remembered the conflicting stories about his acquaintance with Cathy Clark. Well, stranger things had happened. Maybe Quinn was involved in some way.

Baine City Police Headquarters was an old sandstone building badly in need of a cleaning. Outside, flanking a short stretch of steps, stood two battered brass lamp posts surmounted by green glass globes. It was the police station of the twenties brought strangely back to life, and as I entered I half expected to see a chorus line of flappers being booked for indecent exposure, or a bootlegger paying his token fine. All was dusty with neglect, like a library in a country of the blind. Maybe that was it—maybe there just wasn’t any crime in Baine City. No crime but murder.

“Is Captain Quinn around?” I asked the man behind the desk, taking a wild guess at his rank.

“You mean Sergeant Quinn?” he asked with a slight smile. “Yeah, he’s around somewhere. Have a seat.”

I lowered myself onto a long dusty bench to wait. Presently one of the distant doors opened and I saw Quinn approaching with a well-dressed woman. It was Mrs. Foster Baine.

“Fellow’s waiting for you, Sarge,” the man at the desk said.

If Quinn was surprised to see me he didn’t show it. He said goodbye to Mrs. Baine and came over to me with an outstretched hand. My eyes followed her out of the place but she purposely avoided glancing my way.

“Well,” Quinn said, “good to see you again. Can I help you?”

I was still puzzled by Mrs. Baine’s strange appearance, but I tried not to show it. Obviously Quinn wasn’t planning to discuss her visit with me. “Simon Ark asked me to talk with you,” I said. “He has a lead on the Clark killing.”

“Ark? The man who was with you yesterday?”

“That’s right. He said to tell you the killer will be at the funeral tomorrow morning. You should be there with some men.”

Quinn made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. “Is your friend Ark going to unmask the killer at the funeral—pull him like a rabbit out of the hat? Maybe get the corpse to stand up and point an accusing finger like in Poe?”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen Simon do stranger things.”

“I’ll be there, don’t worry.”

I started to turn away and then paused. “Say, didn’t you tell us you’d never met Cathy Clark?”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I just heard from somebody that you knew her.”

I’d tried to make my tone casual, but he wasn’t having any. I was like a fisherman who finally gets a bite and finds it’s a whale. “Who?” he rasped, seeming to tower over me as he spoke. “Who told you that?”

“A kid named Zenny.”

He nodded. “Cathy’s friend. You know him?”

“We’ve met.”

“He’s a nut. Be in trouble someday. Know why they call him Zenny?” I shook my head. “He’s trying to be one of those beat characters like you have in New York. You know—Kerouac and all that. He reads books about Zen Buddhism and stuff, so his gang started calling him Zenny. He liked it and it stuck.”

“He said you rescued Cathy from them one night. Took her home or something.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I did. I usually try to get a girl out of their clutches, unless she’s asking for it. Cathy Clark might have been one of them.”

It was hard to decide whether or not he was telling the truth. Certainly he was an honest, educated man—and probably a good cop as well. I was inclined to take his word for it. “Then you’ll be there tomorrow—at the funeral?”

“I’ll be there.”

With that he turned back toward his office and I left him, heading for the street. My mind was still on the conversation with Quinn when I saw Mrs. Foster Baine waiting for me outside. It startled me so that I couldn’t be certain she was really after me until she spoke, calling me by name.

“Could I talk to you?” she asked.

“Any time. This is a surprise, after last night.”

“I’m sorry about last night. I can explain it.”

She was edging me toward a cream-colored convertible I’d noticed on my way in. It was parked in a striped
No Parking
zone not twenty feet from Police Headquarters, but I suppose that didn’t bother people like Mrs. Foster Baine. “Your car?”

She nodded. “Want a ride?”

“Where to?”

“Just around. While we talk.”

“What will your husband think?”

“There comes a time when it just doesn’t matter much any more,” she answered, opening the car door for me.

“And this is the time?”

“Maybe. I thought about it all night, I couldn’t sleep.” She went down the main street, in a direction I didn’t know, driving with a skill that surprised me.

“It’s been a good many years,” I said. “What have you been doing?”

She twisted her lips into a sort of smiling sneer. “I got married.”

“And pretty well, too—Baine Brass isn’t just the corner drugstore.”