Smart Moves (23 page)

“How did you …”

“Wire tap,” explained Parker. “Walker. They were talking in code, simple code. D’Amato in the Washington Bureau listened to the wire recording and broke it in about five minutes, seemed upset that we bothered to bring such an easy one to him. The break in the concert should be about nine tonight, give or take fifteen minutes.”

“You stick with Einstein,” said Craig. “We’ll have men in the ballroom, outside the ballroom, serving drinks, drinking drinks, maybe even playing the piano.”

“Why not just cancel the concert?” I asked.

Craig and Parker looked at each other in mutual sympathy. “Because,” said Parker, “we’re not sure when or where the next time might be. We got a little lucky …”

“There was some skill and a lot of money involved here, too,” entered Craig.

“A lot of money, skill, people, machines, whatever,” agreed Parker. “It’s better to flush them out like …”

“Decayed pulp in a rotten tooth,” I tried.

They both looked at me as if I were not to be trusted or treated as a sane human being.

“That’s not the same way I’d put it,” said the birdlike Craig, cocking his head to one side. “But my partner’s not a manic dentist.”

“Just a manic-depressive,” said Parker. For some reason the joke got them both. They smiled at each other and at me. I smiled back.

“You guys make a mistake and my client and Robeson get killed,” I said, pushing away from the desk and removing the last of their smiles.

“We’ve got a pretty good record, remember,” Craig said.

“These guys aren’t Dillinger and Alvin Karpis,” I reminded them.

“You just stay with Einstein and leave the rest to us. Maybe we’ll send a couple of dozen cartons of Camels in your name to our boys overseas,” said Parker.

This was even better than “manic-depressive.” They both laughed and shook their heads, small laughs but definitely laughs.

“And …” I began.

“We’ve got one of our best men on Albanese,” Craig said, correctly anticipating what I was going to say. “But after the try on Einstein and Robeson tonight, the Chief …”

“J. Edgar …” Parker began.

“I figured,” I said, as Craig went on.

“… believes that Albanese won’t be of any interest to Zeltz. Zeltz won’t care who or what he identifies if he lives. The assassins will be on their way home through Canada or Mexico or on a submarine, or they’ll dig in so deep in a little town somewhere that his description won’t help. Any more questions?”

“No.”

“Then,” said Parker, pointing to the door, “goodbye.”

“And good luck. You’ve got time to take in the Easter Parade. We’ll see you at the concert, but you probably won’t see us.”

I left and made my way back to Shelly, who was out of the bathtub and sitting in a purple robe on his bed, a stack of pamphlets in his lap. He started to say something when I came through the door, remembered that he wasn’t talking to me, and held the pamphlet in his hands in front of his face. A belch of smoke from his cigar came over the top of the pamphlet. The empty tuxedo box was on the floor and I could see both tuxes on hangers in the open closet.

“I thought you wanted to meet Albert Einstein?” I asked Shelly.

The pamphlet came down slowly, suspiciously. “I met Paul Robeson last night,” he said cautiously. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. I didn’t even get a good look at his teeth. What are Einstein’s teeth like?”

“Not bad,” I said, trying to remember the scientist’s teeth.

“I’ve got some things I’d like to ask him,” Shelly said to his cigar.

“One man of science to another,” Shelly said, beginning to enjoy the idea. “I’d like that.”

“But …” I said. “There is something I’d like you to do.”

“Something you’d like me to do,” laughed Shelly. “But … aha. I knew it. Who do I have to let shoot at me? Or throw me off a roof? Or saw off my legs? Or …”

“Shell, forget it. I have to stick with Einstein this afternoon and tonight, and I thought you’d like to be with me. You could help. Don’t worry. I just met with the FBI and they know what time the Nazis are going to try to get to Einstein. You’ll be long gone by then, back in the room or taking in a play on Broadway.”

“Paul Muni’s in something that just opened,” Shelly said, getting out of bed. “Remember, in
Scarface
, he looked like a monkey? Tony, that was his name. I took Mildred to see that on our second date. I told her Muni looked like a monkey and she said he looked handsome. It was our first fight.”

“Young love.”

Now that Shelly and I were pals again, I called Einstein in Princeton. I wasn’t worried about Pauline being on the other end. She was home in Queens with mom. A woman answered on the fourth ring, and when I asked for Einstein after identifying myself, he came on about a minute later. I told him about Povey’s death and asked him how he planned to get to New York.

“A colleague will bring me in his car,” Einstein said. “I don’t drive. I plan to get to the Waldorf Hotel about six.”

“I’ll be waiting at the front entrance,” I said. “One more thing. The FBI says that a group of Nazis is planning to kill you and Paul Robeson tonight at the break in your concert. If you want to call it off …” I didn’t tell him that the FBI had got this information by tapping Walker’s phone.

“So they can try again when the FBI is not ready for them?” he asked.

“They made the same point,” I told him.

“It’s nice to know that Mr. Hoover can be so logical,” he said with amusement.

“Tell him about me,” whispered Shelly behind me. I didn’t look back, but I could smell his cigar breath over my shoulder. “I have a friend with me, a Dr. Minck, who’d like to meet you when you get here,” I said.

“Fine,” replied Einstein and hung up.

I hung up and turned to Shelly.

“What’d he say?” Shelly asked. “About me?”

“That he had heard of you and was looking forward to hearing your ideas about space, time, infinity, and gum surgery.”

Even Shelly wouldn’t buy that, but I had him hooked so he didn’t push or pull. I told him we had someplace to go before lunch, that it was safe. He wasn’t sure whether to believe me but he had gone in for the ride now. He put on his clothes, selected some dental brochures to show Einstein, and plunged them into his jacket pocket in case we didn’t get back to the room to change into our tuxedos.

“Ready,” he said.

Shelly wanted to take a cab, but I was already thinking of what my expense account for this case would look like. I asked the doorman how to get to Bellevue Hospital by subway. It sounded easy.

We were in the hospital lobby about a half hour later, at four o’clock according to my Dad’s watch, eleven according to the clock over the reception desk.

“My name’s Alfredo Albanese,” I said with a fake Italian accent. “This is my brother Franco. We come to see his son Alex.”

The woman behind the desk looked at us suspiciously. Her white hair was stylishly piled up to show nice white ears and pearl earrings. Her white blouse had a nice billow at the neck and a gold cross dangled from a thin chain around her neck. She looked from me to Shelly, who squirmed, fixed his glasses, and said, “That’s right.” If my attempt at Italian dialect was bad, his was early Chico Marx.

The FBI might have a no-visitor-of-any-kind notice on Albanese, or they might just let us up and grab us at the door, or maybe we could make it to the bedside if we were lucky. Part of me wished we didn’t make it. Part of me wanted to believe the Bureau could do no wrong, but Craig and Parker did not inspire confidence.

“Room two-thirty-one,” she said, putting down the phone and handing us a card. “Elevator at the end of the hall. He is no longer critical but the doctor in charge says you should stay for no more than five minutes.”

“Thanks,” I said with my least sincere smile.

“Blessa you, lady,” Shelly said, clasping his hands together. I grabbed his arm and pulled him down the hall toward the elevator.

“Pretty good, huh?” he said, beaming and looking back at the receptionist, who had turned to another visitor.

“Best supporting actor,” I agreed.

We got up to two with no trouble. At the nursing station we showed our pass and we were escorted to Albanese’s room by a burly blond guy with muscles, who was dressed in hospital whites. I figured him for FBI, figured that he would march us to the guy in charge, and I’d have to explain about Craig and Parker. They’d call Craig and Parker, find out I was all right, and then boot Shelly and me out of the hospital. But the orderly led us right to Albanese’s room.

“Craig and Parker called, right?” I guessed.

“I wouldn’t know,” the blond said with a slight Southern accent. “You’ve got five minutes. I’ll be right out here waiting.”

We went in and I closed the door behind us. Albanese was alone in the room, on his back, his eyes closed. The small Philco table-model radio next to the bed was turned on and a bass announcer’s voice was saying, “against the Chinese and British lines. And that’s the eleven
A.M.
news bulletin from the
New York Times
. Stay tuned every hour on the hour to WMCA, 570 on your dial for the latest news.”

I turned off the radio and looked down at Albanese, Shelly at my side, breathing heavily. I think it was Shelly’s breathing that woke Albanese. His eyes clicked open, focused on the ceiling, then turned in our direction, while his head kept pointing upward. Only when he saw us did he start to slowly crank his head toward us. Shelly was a puzzle to him. His eyes said I looked vaguely familiar. He looked even younger lying there than when I had first met him.

“How are you doing?” I said. I could see how he was doing.

“I was shot,” he said softly, so that I had to lean toward him to catch the words. “I believe it was you who shot me.”

“What did he say?” asked Shelly.

“He thinks I shot him,” I explained. Then to Albanese I said, “I didn’t shoot you. It was a guy named Povey, the one you thought was a movie director.”

Albanese looked around anxiously. I put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” said Shelly with a smile. “Povey’s dead. Knife this big right through him.” Shelly’s hands were spread far enough apart to hold a baseball bat. Albanese looked even worse.

“Can you answer a few questions?”

Albanese nodded, closed his eyes, and opened them again. “Yes, I believe I can. The doctor said I’d be laid up rather a long time. I’ll probably lose my part in
Othello
. I would have made a most convincing soldier.”

Since he didn’t know he had been on the verge of a pink slip when Povey shot him, I nodded in sad support.

“We were in it last night,” Shelly said proudly. “Soldiers. I think Toby played your part. We weren’t professional enough. Robeson said he really could have used you on that stage. I had one of those pike things. Like this.” Shelly spread his hands the same distance apart as he had for the knife that had killed Povey.

“Shell, go ask the orderly if we can get a cup of water for Alex.”

“Sure,” said Shelly, fixing his glasses. And then to Alex, “you’ll be fine, fella. I’ve seen them in worse shape than you.” With these words of comfort, Shelly left the room.

“He’s a doctor?” Albanese asked in confusion.

“A dentist,” I said. “But some of his patients are in worse shape than you are.”

“I’ve mucked things up, I’m afraid,” he said, closing his eyes and starting to drift off. “No role, no moving picture.”

“You saved my life,” I said. “And you helped catch a Nazi assassin. You can do more, too. You can give me information to catch the rest of the gang or spy ring, or whatever it is. Just slowly, carefully tell me whatever you can about the other people who worked with Povey on the movie you were in …”

“
Axes to the Axis
,” he recalled with a smile. “I really did have several fine scenes in the film. Pity they’re gone.”

“Pity,” I agreed, leaning even closer as the lids of his closed eyes began to flutter. “Tell me what you can about the people who made the movie.”

He talked. I missed some of it. He repeated some. Some didn’t make much sense. I didn’t interrupt, even when he gave me the plot of the movie he didn’t make. When he was finished, I asked a few questions. He answered. The last word he said before he drifted into sleep was “hair.”

The door behind me opened and the blond orderly stepped in. “Time’s up,” he said.

Shelly tried to move past him into the room, but the orderly filled the door and kept him out.

“I try to tella him I gotta get in, buta no,” said Shelly.

“Drop it, Shell,” I said. “Let’s go.”

The orderly stepped back and moved to check on Albanese. “Hold it,” he called.

Shelly looked like he was going to run. I grabbed his jacket and held on tight. The orderly checked Albanese and, satisfied, turned to us. “Okay. You can go.”

I didn’t have much to say on the way back to the subway, and even less on the train. I let Shelly talk. He didn’t seem to notice my silence. He pondered on the possibility of a joint career, dentist and actor. “The acting dentist,” he tried, trippingly on the tongue. “The first acting dentist.”

“Edgar Buchanan,” I muttered. “He’s a dentist.”

“Nothing wrong with being second,” mused Shelly as we rocked uptown. In spite of Easter, the subway wasn’t very crowded. The few passengers were better dressed than we were, but neither of us seemed to mind. We got off the subway two stops early and ate hot dogs and Pepsis at the corner stand. Shelly breathed in three koshers with the works. I looked at the clouds.

“Let’s get back and brush our teeth,” Shelly said, after gulping down his second king-size Pepsi.

“I just rinsed my mouth with cola,” I said.

“Not the same thing,” he said.

“I’ve got other things on my mind,” I said, starting up Broadway toward the hotel.

“More important than your teeth? More important than your body? Your teeth go and then …”

“… your mouth, your gums, your whole body. And then where are you?”

“Right,” he said, “where?”

“In New York trying to figure out how to outsmart a killer.”

“That’s changing the subject,” said Shelly, with the superior smile he usually reserved for helpless patients reclining awkwardly in his dental chair back in the Farraday Building.