The Death of Lorenzo Jones (5 page)

Lockwood drove to the club on 53rd and 1st. It was a tall, massive building, like a Rock of Gibraltar covered with grime.
Soot from the Con Edison coalstacks over by the Queensboro Bridge. Up near the roof, workmen on scaffolds were sandblasting
the brickwork. As he approached from the parking space Lockwood could see that the building had been a nice cream color.

Under the big blue canopy the doorman gave him the twice-over and with a smile of approval let him pass. Dressing well got
you in places.

Inside, it smelled like money, or maybe a mixture of greenbacks and silver polish. It was one of those exclusive men’s clubs
a person had to be born into; riches alone didn’t guarantee membership. Although the canopy said Athletic, Lockwood got the
feeling that the mature, reserved gentlemen with gray locks and liver spots who passed him as he walked along the maroon hall
carpeting tossed around money, not medicine balls.

He found the Tapestry Room. The tapestries were the best Lockwood had ever seen, outside the Metropolitan Museum. They were
either from the workshop of Raphael or damn good Flemish imitations. Latin script was woven into the fabric, and a wealth
of detail and color spoke of quality workmanship. As he stepped across the threshold into the immense quiet of the large sitting
room he smelled an increased scent of greenbacks and silver polish.

On a huge mantle over a fireplace that a family of gypsies could live in, trophies between two and five feet high stood. All
silver, by the look of them. On the elaborately lacquered tables, scattered about with dim lamps, sat silver ashtrays dotted
with occasional cigars. Oriental rugs.

Before he could get three steps, a butler with his nose up came forward to lead Lockwood to a set of Morris chairs. There
he found Gray and Cyrus Wade.

Wade stood, offered his hand. He looked somehow effeminate, but his handshake was strong and cold. Gray didn’t stand, just
pointed Lockwood to an unoccupied chair. Lockwood sank into its cushy softness. Nice, very nice.

So this was the character who was so cheap that he sent his secretary out to make sure his workmen weren’t being lazy. Here
was the guy who capitalized on a pitcher’s morbid fear of accidents to sign that pitcher to a contract by which he got half
his earnings.

Wade was an odd mixture. He was tall but rather pallid. Not robust yet he gave a sense of great strength. Curious. He was
also dressed well. Expensive, to put it mildly. Lockwood’s Brooks Brothers suit, while carefully fitted, was not as elegant
by half.

Wade’s chin jutted out like Mussolini’s, as if daring someone to take a slug at him. His long aquiline nose was flanked by
two watery eyes, which stared down his nose as if along a gunsight. Predatory, close little eyes like a vulture’s.

Hook was sure he recognized the butler from an English horror movie. Tall, gaunt, and dressed like somebody had died recently,
he had that look of disdain that got his type hired by people who liked to intimidate their less well-heeled guests. The butler
stood just behind Wade’s opulent chair. He gets ordered around a lot, Hook thought. But then again, he must be well paid for
it.

But maybe not. Wade seemed to spare no expense on himself, but he also had the look of a guy who tried to get away with penny-pinching
and robbing everybody else—people like Lorenzo Jones. Looking at Wade made Lockwood’s theory that Lorenzo had hurt his arm
and Wade had gotten rid of him to avoid losing money seem more plausible.

Lockwood had a mental flash Of Wade with money pouring out of his dainty little ears and piling up on the marble floor, but
quickly wiped it out of his mind. Lockwood disliked Wade instantly.

“You had no trouble getting in?” Wade said in a high squeaky voice that reminded Lockwood of a certain fence named Stymie.
No, not squeaky—slimy.

“They were looking the other way,” Lockwood said sardonically. “What’s on your mind?”

“Lockwood,” Gray interjected, “I was telling Mr. Wade that you believe the policy we have with Mr. Wade is most specific….”

What was Gray up to? Lockwood smiled as condescendingly as he could. Gray was using him as a threat.

Gray said to Wade, “Lockwood here is a Columbia Law graduate. What he has to say is often accurate. He has researched this
thoroughly, and we owe you nothing. It’s outrageous that you expect Transatlantic to bail you out financially. A ballplayer
has no right flying a biplane.” Lockwood cringed.

“What! He was covered for accidents—even in the air,” sputtered Wade.

“You should never have let him take off in bad weather,” Gray said firmly. Oh, brother!

“It was bright and sunny,” Wade said.

“An untested plane.”

“No, a standard plane.”

“Nevertheless….” Gray wasn’t giving an inch.

Wade turned to Lockwood, looked him up and down, sighed, and leaned back in his cushy chair.

“Columbia, you say?” He was going to try out Lockwood now. Getting nowhere with Gray.

“Believe it or not.”

“We have the best of personnel, Mr. Wade,” Gray interjected. “All our top agents have law backgrounds.”

“Yes, yes, get on with it. How much does Transatlantic
want
to pay, Gray?” Wade wiggled his well-manicured hands in a gesture of exasperation. “Surely, you have a settlement offer?”

“Well, owing to the technicalities and the circumstances, I don’t believe it’s in our interest to pay
anything
against such a claim. There are suspicious circumstances, right, Lockwood?”

“I’ll say,” Lockwood said brightly. How did Gray ever figure to get away with this crap?

Mr. Wade was finding out that it was true:
Gray hated to pay
. Lockwood found himself feeling sorry for the millionaire —almost. Then again, there were still a few soup lines left, and
Wade didn’t look like he was about to go bankrupt.

Lockwood listened to Gray discourse on all the reasons why Transatlantic couldn’t (although they would like to, of course)
pay.

“I’ll sue you!” was Wade’s reply.

“Well, of course,” Gray said calmly. “Good day.”

Lockwood hadn’t seen Gray glare like this since he lost the big elevator case. “Come, Lockwood, time to go.”

“Yes, sir!” Lockwood followed his boss.

“Columbia,” Gray muttered disapprovingly, as they walked down the hall. “You’d never know it. There is something suspicious,
isn’t there, Lockwood? We don’t have to pay, do we?”

“I don’t know yet. I might be onto something. Someone’s tried to kill me.”

Gray stopped dead. “Kill you? Aren’t you exaggerating, Lockwood? What happened?”

Lockwood filled him in on the bomb and the attack by Half-Pint’s goons.

“Be careful, Lockwood. I don’t want to lose this case. Phone me twice every day. That way I won’t lose any information, in
case….”

“Sure.”

Gray smiled weakly. They exited to find it raining.

Gray popped into a taxi and then leaned out the window, pointing a finger at Lockwood.

“Come up with something within the week. We’re not paying you to hang about in bars with females.”

Lockwood smiled at the son of a bitch, and nodded.

Flushing Airfield was a joke not a field, with weeds propeller-high. He parked on a gravel lot, right by the runways, which
were muddy messes. But damned if a biplane didn’t buzz by and a second later, its motor chugging away painfully, land on one
of the strips. It taxied over the bumps and splashed through large puddles toward a hangar.

It was the smaller, dilapidated hangar with an old man sitting and whittling in front of it that Lockwood was interested in—H-2.
That was where the wreck was housed.

The gray, skinny fellow looked up from his whittling. Dull blue eyes met Lockwood’s, sized him up as someone official. He
stopped cutting at the wood. He stood up.

“Can I help you?” He didn’t look like he wanted to.

Lockwood gave him the pass he’d got for this purpose from the Federal Aviation Administration.

The old man studied it, and said, “Yep. This is the place.” He took out a big key, inserted it in the padlock, and with some
difficulty slid the door open far enough for Hook to slip in.

There it stood, or rather didn’t stand, a mess of twisted struts and metal. Not much left, really.

Lockwood found a wooden bench on which to lay his suit jacket and loosened his suspender clasps a bit. This job was going
to be murder on his suit, lots of sharp metal catching on the fabric. The geezer stood inside the door, watching.

Lockwood rolled up his sleeves. He was going to go into that junkpile and give it a good look. What he was looking for, he
didn’t have the slightest idea, but he had to start somewhere.

He had to pry a bit to get his hands into the pilot’s seat. Traces of dried blood. The leather seat was torn, and the seat
belt was cut, probably by rescuers trying to extricate the body from the burning wreckage. There was a hell of a lot of blackened
scrap with sharp edges, but he deftly avoided damaging his clothes. He hated the prying eyes of the geezer.

“Can’t you go play someplace else?” Lockwood suggested, turning to the old guy who stood a few feet behind him.

“What’re yer lookin’ for?” the old-timer asked, oblivious to Lockwood’s suggestion.

Lockwood sighed. “Whatever it is, I’ll find it better if you don’t stand on top of me.”

“I can take a hint,” the geezer replied, not miffed at all. “You want to look around yourself.” He retreated, limping, back
toward the door. Maybe he had been too rough. The old guy probably didn’t have much company, but he was driving him nuts.

Lockwood continued to rummage through the wreckage. It looked like parts of the wings had been wooden, but they were gone
except for the supporting girders. They were bent back from the heat of the fire. The fuselage was sooty and black.

He climbed up on the supporting girder of the left wing and peered into what was left of the cockpit. The glass was completely
gone except for little tooth-like edges. Lockwood promised himself not to fly in the near future. Not much to look at, just
an Esso map, probably used to get bearings in the air, that lay singed on the floor. He found a lunch box, top open, jammed
against the floor by a piece of metal. He reached down and wrenched it out, dirtying his hands and shirt cuffs. Inside was
a half-eaten box of crackers, partly burned, an unopened Beech-Nut gum package, a shaving brush, soap, some blades, and a
razor. Just a little travel kit filled with snacks. Yeah.

But there was a big empty space in the kit. Hook tried to remember what was usually put there. He saw a spring clip, used
to hold something so it wouldn’t drop out once the lid was opened. What was missing?

Insurance investigators didn’t carry lunch pails to work, but he had been on picnics. Suddenly, he realized—the thermos. Sure,
a cylindrical thermos, held in place by that clip.

Well, it was probably somewhere else in the wreckage. He looked about. He found an unopened knife, the kind Boy Scouts use,
with a corkscrew, a scaling blade, and other assorted doodads. He opened it. No blood on the blades. Well, what had he expected?

By throwing his whole weight into it, he was able to get the leather seat out and onto the ground. There was dried blood on
it, and lots more—dark reddish brown—under it. The place where the head had hit when the plane smashed into the ground had
the brightest stains of all. Ugly.

Ugly, but nothing was really out of the ordinary. Hmmm. Still no thermos.

He continued to search the wreckage. He found a small socket wrench—could that be anything? Also some French post cards, the
kind he had bought in France after the World War. The grossest sexual poses imaginable. Totally illegal, but most guys had
a couple lying around.

Where was that damned thermos? Maybe the geezer has a bag of stuff stowed away that they took out of the plane. Lockwood gave
up. He hated getting so sooty. He checked to see if his cuff links were still there and then climbed down off the wing.

Back outside, he asked the old guy, “Did they take anything out of the wreck? Maybe a separate box for small articles?”

“Naw. That’s exactly the way she come in. They ain’t done with it; I knew you’d be back. You’re FAA, too, right?”

“Did someone take a thermos out?” Lockwood asked, ignoring the question.

“Not a damned thing. They never do, sonny. You should know that. Crash happened here a year ago. Same thing. Dragged it back,
left it for six months, finally took it to the junker.”

“Thanks.” Lockwood was getting nowhere. Did the missing thermos mean anything?

In his hotel lobby Lockwood tipped Tom, who was always hanging around to wipe the car. Then he went upstairs to make his own
exterior more presentable.

Robin seemed more radiant than ever when he picked her up. He was all spiffed up himself in a new, white Arrow shirt and his
dark blue pin-striped suit. They both told each other how swell each other looked, and she stepped into his Cord.

It was a bit cool, but under a short fox stole she wore a low-cut black dress that made her look even slimmer and more svelte.
Her blond hair was up, not down on her shoulders, held in place by a rhinestone-studded barrette, simple but elegant. Her
soft features and her high cheekbones were lightly accented with rouge. The kind of dame you would be proud to take anywhere.

The car looked all right, if not downright great. The kid had done a good job. The 12-cylinder beauty seemed almost to glow
in the dark, and Hook felt at that moment as good as he’d ever felt in his entire life. A beautiful broad and a beautiful
car, what more could a man want?

Toots Shor, the owner of the restaurant, knew Hook well. He stood inside the entrance and greeted Hook warmly. “Hiya, bum.”
Toots turned to Robin, “Actually, he’s the greatest guy I know.” He boxed Hook a fake punch to the jaw, and yelled to the
maitre d’, “Best wine on the house for Hook tonight.”

They were seated up front, the best part of the floor. The place was packed, and groups of well-dressed people chattered and
laughed loudly around them. The feeling of great excitement in the air made Robin’s eyes shine brightly.