The Hour of the Cat (28 page)

A distant voice, a gentle nudge.

“Admiral, wake up. It's time for your lunch.”

Dunne stayed away from the Hackett Building until he was sure Brannigan wasn't about to pick up where he'd left off. Deciding it was safe to pay a visit, he searched the closet for a suit that was presentable. The nearest he came was a dark-blue poplin that Lily had picked out on one of those rare shopping trips she'd shanghaied him on. He pitched everything out of his traveling grip except shorts, sweat shirt and canvas shoes. He stuck the folder he'd rescued from Toby Butts beneath his gear and caught a cab.

For an instant, he thought he was in the wrong place. The lobby had been reborn, walls and ceilings re-plastered and painted, marble floors steam-cleaned and polished, a new brass-framed directory mounted by the entrance. There was no trace of the jerrybuilt receptionist's stand. An attendant wearing a red-trimmed gray uniform and a floorwalker's smile blocked the way to the elevator. He asked if he could be of help. His happy-to-serve-you face evaporated as soon as Dunne introduced himself.

“The landlord's been trying to reach you, Mr. Dunne, for some time,” he said. “Arrears in rent are remediable, if a payment schedule can be arranged, but visits from the police are disruptive to the other tenants and physically destructive of the premises. Regretfully, the landlord has decided to seek an official order of eviction.” The attendant backed away as he spoke, as if afraid of being grabbed by the throat, an outcome he might have already met at the hands of those to whom he'd given similar news.

Jerroff was on the phone with his door open. An electric fan was pointed in his face. He hung up when he saw Dunne and waddled into the hallway. A notice of eviction was stuck to Dunne's door and there was a dent in the jam where Brannigan and crew had pried their way in. Dunne pushed the door open with his foot. The contents of the desk and file cabinet had been emptied on the floor.

“I tried to warn you,” Jerroff said from behind. “I called you at home several times but never got an answer.”

“I took a vacation.” He ripped the eviction notice from the door.

“The landlord wants us out. I got a notice, too. Only a month or two behind in the rent. Since when is that a crime?”

Dunne walked over to open the window, leaving a trail of footprints on the carpet of files and papers. He started scooping them up and piling them on the desk.

“I listened for your phone when I could,” Jerroff said. “But I probably missed more than I answered. The messages and your mail are in my office.” He darted next door and returned with a stack of papers held together by a rubber band.

“Miss Corado was most anxious to reach you.”

There were a dozen “please call” messages from Elba, several from Roberta Dee, a few from bill collectors, the landlord, and one from Tommy Hines. The mail consisted of fliers and bills, and the envelope that he'd mailed himself after visiting Miss Lynch's apartment. He ripped off the end, shook the key into his hand, and put it in his pocket. Jerroff prattled on about the tenants who'd already been evicted and the jacked-up rents the landlord was demanding. Finally, he excused himself and went back to his office.

It took almost an hour to gather all the papers, put them in proper sequence, and refile them. He called Tommy Hines several times before he reached him. Hines had Roberta Dee's sheet. He said that it took a bit of searching—the name turned out to be an alias—and agreed to meet at Rostoff's at 3:00 P.M. Be a “service charge” of twenty bucks, which was “cut-rate cheap” compared to what he'd normally get, Hines said. “But you bein' an old acquaintance, I'm lowerin' the price.”

Dunne barely had the phone back in its black-sprocketed cradle when the doorknob rattled, as though someone were testing to see if the door were unlocked; it swung open with enough force to make the glass panel shake. Roberta Dee entered wearing a black dress and a black saucer-style hat with a half-veil of crisscrossed lace.

“People with manners knock,” Dunne said.

“I was afraid you might turn out to be a snake. I was wrong. You're a lot lower.”

“Let me guess. You paid the pipsqueak downstairs to call you when I came back.”

“Reprehensible, isn't it, spying on people like that?”

“You're in the wrong business. Should've been a private eye.”

“I couldn't stoop that low.”

“Have a seat.”

“I'd rather not. Let's get this over quick as possible. Elba can't believe you betrayed her. Wish I could say the same. Giver her money back or I go to the cops.”

“The money is gone, and you won't go to the cops because you know better.”

“I thought I'd already met the worst scum this city has to offer. Until now.”

“The cops stole Elba's money.”

“Come now, a major-league liar like you can do better than that.”

“They made it clear they don't want me near the Lynch murder, six stitches and a concussion clear.”

“You look tan and fit to me.”

Dunne bowed his head and pushed away the hair covering where Dr. Finkelstein had removed the stitches. “Believe it or not, I didn't do this to myself.”

Roberta lowered herself onto the edge of the chair, gingerly, as though it might be septic. “You're serious, aren't you?”

“Figured the best thing was to lie low and let 'em think I was scared off.”

“Meanwhile Wilfredo is a lot closer to being electrocuted.”

“Just have to work faster.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because it's the truth and because I'm already on the case and the next dick you go to will probably take you for a ride.”

“That's the best you can say for yourself?”

“Don't like it, there's the door. I'll mail Elba back her money as soon as I can raise it. Sorry if I've disappointed her. She's a sweet kid.”

“So sweet you took her to City Island to watch the sunset. Do you think I don't know what that was about?”

“I wanted her to tell me about Wilfredo. She did. That was it.”

“Just because a snake didn't strike doesn't mean it wasn't poised to.” Roberta lifted the veil from her face, plucked a silver cigarette case from her purse, lit one, and threw the matches on the desk.

“Suppose you tell me your real interest in this case,” Dunne said.

She put the cigarette to her lips and took several short puffs. The chair made a loud cracking noise as she leaned back in it. “You need new furniture.”

“Don't change the subject.”

“I'll do whatever I can to help her save her brother.”

“Too bad he won't do the same for himself. I went to see him. The state won't have to pay anybody to strap him into the electric chair. He'll do it himself.” Dunne picked up the matchbook. The cover was embossed with a champagne glass. Above it was a pair of dice showing a five and a two, lucky seven; beneath, in fancy script, BEN MARDEN'S RIVIERA, FORT LEE, NEW JERSEY
.

“Play it straight, that's all I ask.” She crossed her legs. Her ankles and calves, hosed in black silk, were every bit as shapely as Elba's.

He pushed up his sleeves. “No tricks, see.”

“Wasn't your sleeves I was thinking of.”

“How about I buy you dinner?”

“Where?”

He handed back the matches. “Ben Marden's.”

“You can read.” She dropped the matches in her purse. “But can you drive?”

“Seems you can.”

“My last time to Ben Marden's was with Clem Babcock. His chauffeur drove.”

“Mine's on vacation.”

“Pick you up at eight.”

“Your car?”

“No, but I'm resourceful. I know where to get one.”

“One other thing,” Dunne shuffled some papers on his desk. “I need an advance.”

“So you can take me out to dinner?”

“That and some other things.”

She opened her purse and laid several bills on his desk. “Do me a favor. Try to hold on to them until tonight.”

“Thanks.” He folded the money and stuck it in his pocket. “Hope you don't mind me saying so, but you look like you're on your way to a funeral.”

“Coming from. There was a memorial service for Clem Babcock at St. Thomas's Church on Fifth Avenue. The funeral was private, so friends and acquaintances could say goodbye. Clem's secretary was decent enough to call me. I'm glad I went. There were eleven people in the church.”

“Not a lot of regard in this town for the dead.”

“Or the living.” Softly, Roberta closed the door behind her.

 

 

Rostoff's was almost deserted, the post-lunch lull disturbed only by the rattle of dishes as the tray boy cleared the tables. Tommy Hines was in the back, hands around a glass of iced tea. He surveyed the room as Dunne took a seat.

“Got the money?”

“Nice to see you too, Tommy.”

“Yeah, sure. Only doin' this as a personal favor 'cause you were a cop. Can't be sure who to trust nowadays, with Dewey and his crowd pokin' their noses everywhere. My uncle goes on trial soon. Gettin' harder and harder to make a decent livin'.”

Dunne reached in his back pocket to get his wallet. A hand grabbed his knee.

“Under the table,” Hines said in a harsh whisper, “put it under the table.” Dunne passed the money to him. Hines lowered his eyes and counted the bills. Only a ten and two fives but it seemed to take him a moment to tally. He slid the file into Dunne's hand. “Don't pull it out till I'm gone. Fifteen minutes, I'm back and the folder is right here on this table, where I forgot it. After that I'm thinkin' to myself, ‘Ain't that a coincidence, bumpin' into Fintan Dunne again?'” He jabbed Dunne's shoulder. “Fifteen minutes. Over that, there's an extra charge, and no discount.”

The name on the filing tab, Rosalinda Dorsch, was followed by a trio of AKAs: Linda Doors, Rosa De Marco, and Roberta Dee. Dunne recognized the story inside as interchangeable with thousands of other files filled with crimes and misdemeanors.
Born Rosalinda Dorsch, November 22, 1901, on Essex Street. Mother's occupation: seamstress. Father deceased. Charged in Brooklyn Magistrate's Court with vagrancy and truancy, September 1916. Arrested March 1917, after having run away from the reformatory for loitering for the purposes of prostitution. Charges dismissed. Defendant ordered returned to Cedar Knolls. Arrested April 1920 while riding in a stolen vehicle with Lenny Moskowitz (AKA Lenny Moss). Pled guilty to being an accessory. Sentenced to 60 days in the Women's House of Detention. Arrested November 1923 on the premises of Georgia Hurfritz's boarding house at 420 Sterling Place on suspicion of prostitution. Gave false identification to arresting officer, using alias of Linda Doors. Charges reduced to disorderly conduct. Sixty days in the Women's House of Detention. Arrested July 1926, in Mickey Luria's Angel Club, 370 Ludlow Street, an unlicensed nightclub serving illegal alcohol on the premises. Gives false identification to the arresting officer, using alias of Rosa De Marco. Charged in Manhattan Magistrate's Court with resisting arrest and soliciting for the purpose of prostitution. Pleads guilty to reduced charge of disorderly conduct and loitering on the premises of an illegal establishment. Ninety days in the Women's House of Detention. Arrested December 1930, on the premises of Rita Vander's at 112 Water Street. Gives false identification to the arresting officer, using alias of Roberta Dee. Charged in Criminal Court with being employed in a house of prostitution. Case tried March 28 & 29, 1931. Disposition: acquittal.