Killing Orders (18 page)

The metal withdrew. I leaned back in the well-sprung plush seat and dozed. I must have fallen asleep in earnest; Gravel Voice had to shake me awake when the car stopped. “We take the blindfold off when you’re inside.” He guided me quickly but not roughly along a stone path and up a flight of stairs, exchanged greetings with a guard at the entrance, and led me down a carpeted hallway. Gravel knocked at a door. A faint voice told him to come in.

“Wait here,” he ordered.

I leaned against the wall and waited. In a few moments the door opened. “Come in,” Gravel told me.

I followed his voice and smelled cigar smoke and a fire. Gravel untied the scarf. I blinked a few times, adjusting to the light. I was in a large room, decorated in crimson—carpet, drapes, and chairs all done in matching velvets and wools. The effect was opulent, but not unbearable.

In an armchair by a large fireplace sat Don Pasquale. I recognized him at once from his courtroom appearances, although he appeared older and frailer now. He might be seventy or more. He was thin, with gray hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a red-velvet smoking jacket and held an enormous cigar in his left hand.

“So, Miss Warshawski, you want to speak to me.”

I stepped up to the fire and took an armchair facing his. I felt a bit like Dorothy in Oz, finally getting to meet the talking head.

“You are a very courageous young lady, Miss Warshawski.” The voice was old, but heavy, like parchment. “No man has ever fallen asleep while being driven to see me.”

“You’ve worn me out, Don Pasquale. Your people burned down my apartment. Walter Novick tried to blind me. Someone stabbed poor Mr. Herschel. I’m short on sleep now, and I take it where I can.”

He nodded. “Very sensible . . . Someone told me you speak Italian. Can we converse in that language, please.”

“Certo,”
I said. “I have an aunt, an old woman. Rosa Vignelli. Two weeks ago she phoned me in deep distress. The safe at the Priory of Albertus Magnus, for which she was responsible, was found to contain forged stock certificates.” I’d learned most of my Italian before I was fifteen, when Gabriella died. I had to scramble for some of the words, particularly a way to describe forgery. Don Pasquale provided a phrase.

“Thank you, Don Pasquale. Now owing to the Fascists and their friends the Nazis, my aunt has very little family left. In fact, only her son and I remain. So she turned to me for help. Naturally.”

Don Pasquale nodded gravely. In an Italian family, you turn first to one another for help. Even if the family is Rosa and me.

“Soon after that, someone telephoned me. He threatened me with acid, and told me to stay away from the priory. And eventually, in fact, someone did throw acid on me. Walter Novick.”

I picked my next words with utmost care. “Now naturally, I

am curious about those forged securities. But to be truthful, if they are going to be investigated and the facts about them discovered, it will be the FBI that does it. I don’t have the money or the staff to do that kind of work.” I watched Pasquale’s face. Its expression of polite attention didn’t change.

“My main concern is for my aunt, even though she is a disagreeable old woman. I made a promise to my mother, you see, a promise as she was dying. But when someone attacks me, then my honor is involved, too.” I hoped I wasn’t overdoing it.

Don Pasquale looked at his cigar, measuring the ash. He puffed on it a few times and carefully knocked the ash into a bronze cube at his left hand. “Yes, Miss Warshawski. I sympathize with your tale. But still—how does it involve me?”

“Walter Novick has ... boasted . . . of being under your protection. Now I am not certain, but I believe it was he who tried to stab Stefan Herschel two days ago. Because this man is old, and because he was helping me, I am obligated to seek out his assassin. That is two counts against Walter Novick.

“If it were clear to everyone that he is not under your protection, I could deal with him with a clear conscience just on the grounds of his stabbing Mr. Herschel. I would forget the attack on me. And I would lose all interest in the securities—unless my aunt’s name became involved in them again.”

Pasquale gave a little smile. “You are one woman working alone. You are very brave, but you are still alone. With what do you propose to bargain?”

“The FBI has lost interest in the case. But if it knew in which direction to look, its interest might be aroused again.”

“If you never left this house, the FBI would never know.” The parchment voice was gentle, but I felt the hairs prickle along the back of my neck.

I looked at my hands. They appeared remarkably small and fragile. “It’s a gamble, Don Pasquale,” I finally said. “I know now who called to threaten me. If your interests are tied to his, then it’s hopeless. One of these times, someone will kill me. I won’t always make it out of the burning apartment, or be able to break my attacker’s jaw. I will fight to the end, but the end will be clearly discernible to everyone.

“But if you and my caller are—business acquaintances only—then the story is a little altered. You’re right—I have nothing to bargain with. The
Herald-Star,
the Chicago police, even the FBI, all these would vigorously investigate my death. Or even a tale of forgery if I told it. But how many indictments have you avoided in the past?” I shrugged.

“I appeal only to your sense of honor, your sense of family, to understand why I’ve done what I’ve done, and why I want what I want.” To the myth of the Mafia, I thought. To the myth of honor. But many of them liked to believe it. My only hope was that Pasquale’s view of himself mattered to him.

The ash on the cigar grew long again before he spoke. “Ernesto will drive you home now, Miss Warshawski. You will hear from me in a few days.”

Gravel Voice, or Ernesto, had stood silently by the door while we talked. Now he came to me with the blindfold. “Unnecessary, Ernesto,” Pasquale said. “If Miss Warshawski decides to tell all she knows, she will be unable to say it.”

Once again the goose pimples stood out on my neck. I curled my toes inside my boots to control the shaking in my legs. Trying hard to keep my voice level, I bade the don good-night.

I told Ernesto to take me to the Bellerophon. By now Phil Paciorek was right. I was in no condition to drive a car. The strain of talking to Pasquale, on top of the other stresses of the day, had pushed me over the edge of fatigue. So what if driving me home showed Ernesto where I lived. If Pasquale wanted to find me, this would only cut a day or two off his time.

I slept all the way back. When I got to the Bellerophon, I staggered up the stairs to the fourth floor, kicked off my boots, dropped the new dress on the floor, and fell into bed.

Chapter 20 - Going to the Cleaners

IT WAS PAST eleven when I woke up again. I lay in bed for a while, reveling in the sense of rest, trying to reconstruct a dream I’d had in the middle of my sleep. Gabriella had come to me, not wasted as in the final days of her illness, but full of life. She knew I was in danger and wanted to wrap me in a white sheet to save me.

I had an urgent feeling that the dream held a clue to my problem or how to solve it, but I couldn’t grab hold of it. I had very little time, and needed whatever prodding my subconscious could give me. Don Pasquale had said I would hear from him in a few days. That meant I might have forty-eight hours to straighten matters out to the point that any action of his against me would be superfluous.

I got out of bed and took a quick shower. The burns on my arms were healing well. Physically I was in condition to run again, but I couldn’t bring myself to put on my sweats and go into the cold. The fire in my apartment had upset me more than I would admit to Roger. I wanted some security, and running through winter streets didn’t feel like a way to get it.

I pulled the clothes out of my suitcase. The laundered ones still smelled of smoke. I put them away in the closet that housed the Murphy bed. My mother’s wineglasses I set on the little dining table. That done, I’d moved in.

I bundled up the remaining clothes to take to a dry cleaner and went downstairs. Mrs. Climzak, the manager, saw me and called to me as I was walking out the door. She was a thin, anxious woman who always seemed to be gulping for air.

She came out from behind the lobby counter and hurried over to me with a brown paper bag. “Someone left these for you this morning,” she gasped.

I took the bag dubiously, fearing the worst. Inside were my red Magli pumps, forgotten in Don Pasquale’s limousine last night. No message. But at least it was a friendly gesture.

After so much breathless protesting that I could have walked the four flights up to my room and back, Mrs. Climzak agreed to keep them downstairs for me until I returned. She came running up behind me as I was going to the door to add, “And if you’re taking those to a dry cleaner, there’s a good one around the corner on Racine.”

The woman at the cleaners informed me triumphantly that it would cost me extra to get the smoke out. She made a great show of inspecting each garment, clucking her teeth over it, and writing it down on a slip with the laboriousness of a traffic cop writing a ticket. At last, impatient, I grabbed up the clothes and left.

A second cleaner, sharing a dingy storefront with a tailor several blocks down, was more obliging. The woman at the counter accepted the smoky clothes without comment and wrote up the ticket quickly. She directed me to a lunch counter that served homemade soup and stuffed cabbage. Not the ideal choice for the day’s first meal, but the piping hot, fresh barley soup was delicious.

Using their pay phone to check in with my answering service, I learned Phil Paciorek had called several times. I’d forgotten all about him, Murray Ryerson. Detective Finchley.

I called Illinois Bell and explained my situation. They agreed to switch my number over to the Bellerophon. Also to charge me for the stolen phone. I called Freeman Carter and said I’d seen Uncle Stefan and would make a statement to the police if they would drop charges. He agreed to look into it. I called Phil and left a message with the hospital that I would get back to him. I saved Murray and the police for later.

Once downtown I retrieved my car and headed for the Pulteney Building. The mail piled in front of my office door was horrendous. Sorting through it quickly for checks and letters, I tossed the rest. No bills until my life had stabilized a bit. I looked around me affectionately. Bare, but mine. Maybe I could move in a mattress and a little sink and stove and live here for a while.

The desk top was covered with a film of grime. Whatever pollution the L exudes had filtered under the window. I filled an old coffee cup at the hall drinking fountain and scrubbed the desk with some Kleenex. Good enough.

Using one of the envelopes I’d just pitched, I made out a “To Do” list:

1. Inspect Mrs. Paciorek’s private finances & papers

2.         Ditto for O’Faolin

3.         Ditto for Pelly

4.         Find out if Walter Novick had stabbed Uncle Stefan

5.         If yes, bag him

I couldn’t figure out what to do with the first three items. But it should be easy enough to take care of four. Five might follow, I called Murray at the
Herald-Star.

“V.I.—you ain’t dead yet,” he greeted me.

“Not for lack of trying,” I answered. “I need some photographs.”

“Wonderful. The Art Institute has some on sale. I tried calling you last night. We’d like to do a story about Stefan Herschel and your arrest.”

“Why talk to me? Just make it up. Like your story of a couple of days ago.”

“Trade you photographs for a story. Who do you want?”

“Walter Novick.”

“You figure he stabbed Herschel?”

“I just want to know what he looks like in case he comes after me again.”

“All right, all right. I’ll have your pictures at the Golden Glow around four. And you give me half an hour.”

“Just remember you’re not Bobby Mallory,” I said irritably. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“What I hear, you don’t tell Mallory much either.” He hung up.

I looked at my watch. Two o’clock. Time enough to think of a way to get at the papers I wanted to see. I could disguise myself as an itinerant member of Corpus Christi and go knocking on Mrs. Paciorek’s door. Then, while she was praying intensely, I could find her safe, crack the combination and.

And . . .
I could disguise myself.
Not for Mrs. Paciorek, but for the priory. If O’Faolin was out there, I could take care of him and Pelly in one trip. If the disguise worked. It sounded like a lunatic idea. But I couldn’t think of anything better.

As you go along Jackson Street to the river, you pass a number of fabric shops. At Hofmanstahls, on the corner of Jackson and Wells, I found a bolt of soft white wool. When they asked how much I needed I had no idea. I sketched the garment and we settled on ten yards. At eight dollars a yard, not exactly a bargain. They didn’t have belts and it took close to an hour of wandering around leather stores and men’s shops to find the heavy black strap I needed. A religious-goods store near Union Station provided the other accessories.

As I walked back across the slushy streets toward the Golden Glow, I passed a seedy print shop. On an impulse I went in. They had some photographs of old Chicago gangsters. I took a collection of six to mix in with the shots of Novick that Murray was bringing me.

It was almost four—there wasn’t time to get to the little tailor on Montrose before meeting Murray. But if I didn’t make it there today, it would have to wait till Monday and that was too late. Murray would have to come with me and talk in the car.

He obliged with ill grace. When I came in he was happily absorbed in his second beer, had taken off his boots, and was warming his socks on a small fender next to the horseshoe mahogany bar. While he bitterly pulled on his wet boots I picked up a manila folder from the bar in front of him. In it were two shots of Novick, neither in sharp focus, but clear enough to identify him. Both were courtroom shots taken when Novick had been arrested for attempted manslaughter and armed robbery. He’d never been convicted. Pasquale’s friends seldom were.

I was relieved at not recognizing Novick’s face. I’d been half afraid that he might have been the man I’d kicked last night— if he was that close to Pasquale there was no chance the don would turn him loose.

I led Murray down the street to my car at a good clip.

“Damn it, V.I., slow down. I’ve been working all day and just drank a beer.”

“You want your story, come and get it, Ryerson.”

He climbed into the passenger seat, grumbling that the car was too small for him. I put the Omega in gear and headed for Lake Shore Drive.

“So how come you were visiting Stefan Herschel the day he got knifed?”

“What’s he say about it?”

“Damned hospital won’t let us in to talk to him. That’s why I’m stuck asking you, and I know what that means—half a story. My gofer at the police station told me you’d been booked. For concealing evidence of a crime. What crime?”

“That’s just Lieutenant Mallory’s flamboyant imagination. He didn’t like my being at Mr. Herschel’s apartment and saving his life. He had to charge me with something.”

Murray demanded to know what I was doing there. I gave him my standard story—about Uncle Stefan being a lonely old man and my just happening to drop in. “Now when I saw him at the hospital—”

“You’ve talked to him!” Murray’s shout made the little car’s windows rattle. “What did he say? Are you going there now? Did Novick stab him?”

“No, I’m not going there now. I don’t know if Novick stabbed him. The police story right now is that this was random housebreaking. Since Novick runs with the mob I don’t see him as a housebreaker unless he does his own thing on the side. I don’t know.” I explained about the silver collection, and how eager Uncle Stefan was to shower people with tortes and hot chocolate. “If someone rang the bell, he’d just assume it was the neighborhood kids and let them in. Maybe it was the neighborhood kids. Poor old goon.” I had an inspiration. “You know, you should talk to his neighbor—Mrs. Silverstein. She saw a lot of him. I bet she could give you some good tips.”

Murray made a few notes. “Still, I don’t trust you, V.!. It’s just too damned pat, you being there.”

I shrugged and pulled up in front of the cleaners. “That’s the story. Take it or leave it.”

“We had to drive all this way so you could get to the cleaners? That’s your emergency? You’d better be planning on getting me back to the Loop.”

“Some emergencies are more obscure than others.”

I took my parcel of fabric and went into the little store. The tailoring part of the shop was a jumbled array of old spools of thread, a Singer that must have dated to the turn of the century, and scraps and snippets of cloth. The man huddled crosslegged on a chair in the corner, hunched over a length of brown suiting, might have gone back to 1900 as well.

Although he jerked a sideways glance at me, he continued to sew, When he’d finished whatever he was doing, he folded the fabric tidily, put it on a heaped table to his left, and looked at me. “Yes?” He spoke with a heavy accent.

“Could you sew something for me without a pattern?”

“Oh, yes, young lady. No question about it. When I was a young man, I cut for Marshall Field, for Charles Stevens. Those were the days before you were born, when they made clothes right there in the store. I cut all day long, and made, with no patterns. What is it you want?”

I showed him my sketch and pulled the wool from its brown wrapping. He studied the picture for a moment, and then me. “Oh, that would be no problem. No problem at all.”

“And—could I have it by Monday?”

“Monday? Oh, the young lady is in a hurry.” He waved an arm in the direction of several heaps of cloth. “Look at all these orders. They thought in advance. They bring their work in many weeks ahead of you.
Monday,
my dear young lady!”

I sat down on a footstool and negotiated in earnest. At last he agreed to do it for double his normal fee, payable in advance. “Forty dollars. I cannot do it for a penny less.”

I tried to appear incredulous, as if I thought I was being gouged. The fabric alone had cost double that. Finally I pulled two twenties from my wallet. He told me to stop in at noon on Monday. “But next time, no rushes.”

Murray had left a note under my windshield wiper, informing me that he’d caught a cab downtown and that I owed him sixteen dollars. I tossed the paper in the trashcan and headed for Skokie.

Uncle Stefan had been moved to a regular room that afternoon. That meant I didn’t have to go through a routine with nurses and Metzinger just to see him. However, the police guard had also been removed—if his attackers were ordinary B & E men, he wasn’t in any danger, according to the cops. I bit my lip. Caught by my own story, damn it. Unless I told the truth about the forgeries and the Mob, there was no way to convince the police that Uncle Stefan needed protection.

The old man was delighted to see me. Lotty had been by in the morning, but no one else was visiting him. I pulled out the photographs and showed them to him. He nodded calmly, “Just like
Hill Street Blues.
Do I recognize the mug shots?”

He selected Novick from the pile without hesitation.

“Oh, yes. That face is not easy to forget. Even though this picture is not totally clear, I have no doubt, no question. That is the man with the knife.”

I stayed and talked with him for a while, turning over in the back of my mind various possibilities for his protection. If I just gave Novick’s picture to the police . . . but if Pasquale wasn’t willing to let him go, then he’d get both me and Uncle Stefan without any compunction or difficulty.

I abruptly interrupted a reminiscence of Fort Leavenworth. “Excuse me. I can’t leave you here without a guard. And while I can stay until the end of visiting hours tonight, it’s just too easy for someone to get in and out of a hospital. If I call a security service I trust and get someone over here, will you tell Dr. Metzinger it’s your idea? He may think you’re a paranoid old man, but he won’t turn your guard out the way he will if I put it to him.”

Uncle Stefan was disposed to be heroic and fought the idea, until I told him the same hoods were gunning for me: “If they kill me, and you’re dead, there isn’t a soul on earth who can go to the police for me. And our detective agency will vanish.” Put as an appeal to his chivalry, the idea was palatable.

The service I used was called All Night—All Right. In a way, its employees were as amateurish as their name. Three enormous brothers and two of their friends made up the entire staff, and they only took jobs that appealed to them. No North Shore weddings, for example. I’d used them once when I had a load of rare coins I was returning to an Afghani refugee.