This Dame for Hire (30 page)

So who was her sweetheart? Immediately I was back at Brian Wayne. He’d told me his affair with Claudette ended a year before she died. That didn’t make it true. He could’ve been seeing her right up to the end. Or maybe he cut her off when she told him she was pregnant. But how did he hook up to Warner Garfield?

Wayne could’ve been afraid that Claudette might expose him so he’d arranged for an abortion. Either he knew of Garfield from an unknown source or Claudette told Wayne herself. So what’d that prove?

But if Wayne never laid eyes on Garfield why would he kill him? Maybe he was afraid Claudette had given Garfield his name and he wanted to clear the slate. That was possible.

Did he have an alibi for Garfield’s murder? I’d meant to find this out earlier, and now I really needed to have another talk with Dr. Wayne. The sooner the better.

THIRTY-THREE

Brian Wayne and I sat in a booth at Pete’s Tavern on Eighteenth Street. It was a neighborhood Italian restaurant that was cheap but had pretty good food. The story went that O. Henry wrote “The Gift of the Magi” there. Who knew if it was true or not? We each had a glass of Pete’s famous Original Ale in front of us. It was the middle of the day, and I wasn’t about to order a manhattan.

Wayne looked like hell. He had deep bags under his eyes, and the crags in his face were like cracks in a dried-up field.

“Ya look like ya haven’t been sleepin much, Brian.”

When he glanced at me, I saw that his eyes were small and red-rimmed. I thought of a rat.

“I’ve been under a lot of pressure.”

“Yeah? What kind?”

“Work.”

“How about yer girlfriend?”

“What girlfriend?”

“Whoever’s the current one.”

Our food arrived. Eggplant parm for me, and he had spaghetti with meatballs.

“I don’t have a current girlfriend. I’m trying to stop all that. I know it’s going to get me in more trouble. I’ve already lost my wife and children.”

“But not your job.”

“No.”

“Why is that, Brian?”

“No one has gone to the dean, I suppose.”

“And if they had, Dean O’Hara would sweep it under the rug, wouldn’t he?”

He took a slug of his ale. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Never mind.” I had a bite of my eggplant. The mozzarella was hot. I remembered my aunt Dolly saying, Always be careful cause there’s nothing hotter than hot cheese. I had often questioned this wisdom, but it had finally proved true. I’d burned the tip of my tongue. I put my forkful back on the plate and took a swig of ale instead.

“What’s wrong with you?” Wayne asked. “You have tears in your eyes.”

I waved a hand in front of my mouth. “Hot.”

“Oh.”

Oh?
Thanks a lot, Mr. Sympathy.

“Why did you want to see me again?”

“New developments.”

“What kind?”

“Another murder.”

“Who?”

I forked a new bit of eggplant, touched it with the tip of my finger, then popped it into my mouth. Delicious. Eggplant was a favorite of mine.

“Don’t interrupt savoring your ambrosia, but when you have time could you tell me who was killed?”

I bet dollars to doughnuts he’d think I didn’t know what ambrosia was. “The food of the gods, thought to confer immortality.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ambrosia.”

“Miss Quick, who was murdered?”

I told him about Warner Garfield.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“That’s why I’m here, Brian. I’d like to know if it has anythin to do with you.”

“I never heard of Warner Garfield.”

“You admitted to havin an affair with Claudette.”

“Over a year ago.”

“Yeah, that’s what ya said. But now I’m wonderin if maybe ya picked up where ya left off, ya know what I mean?”

“I do, and I didn’t.”

“Ya said Claudette confided in you.”

“Yes.”

“She tell ya she was gonna have an abortion?”

“I told you before I had no idea that Claudette was pregnant. So how would I know she was going to have an abortion?”

“I know exactly what ya told me before, but this is now. I’m givin ya a chance to set the record straight.”

He mashed out his cigarette. “I knew Claudette, I had an affair with her more than a year ago, I didn’t know she was pregnant or that she was going to have an abortion, and I’ve never heard the name Warner Garfield until today. That’s the straight record.”

“Where were ya night before last?”

“I was with my wife, begging her to take me back.” His humiliation and sense of shame showed.

“And is she gonna?”

“No.”

Good for her. No wonder he looked the way he did. “I can easily find out if that’s true or not.”

“Help yourself.”

“You were there the whole night?”

“No. I left our . . . her house about ten o’clock and went to the San Remo to get drunk.”

“Did ya?”

“Get drunk? Yes.”

“Ya remember what ya did when ya got drunk?”

“I didn’t black out, Miss Quick.”

“Okay, so ya went to the San Remo. Did ya meet anybody there?”

“I went there so I
wouldn’t
meet anybody. San Remo is a working-class bar.”

“Did any of the smelly workin class speak to ya?”

“No. And I’m not implying that—”

“Can it. Would anyone remember that you were there?”

“I don’t know. The bartender might.”

“What was his name?”

“Vic, I think. Or maybe Vinnie.”

I jotted this down in my notebook.

“I wouldn’t advise you to go in there, Miss Quick.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a little . . . well . . . rough around the edges. Not a place for a girl.”

“Thanks for the tip. So after gettin plastered at the San Remo, where did ya go?”

“I went back to my room.” He chewed at the inside of his cheek.

“Which is where?”

“Across the street from the San Remo on MacDougal. I rented a little place. Pretty dingy, if you want the truth.”

“I always want the truth. Anybody see ya there?” I worked on my eggplant while noticing that Brian had taken only one bite of his spaghetti. “Somethin wrong with your food?”

“I’m not hungry.”

It looked pretty good to me. Especially the meatballs.

“You want it?”

“What?”

“My food.”

“Brian. What makes ya think such a thing? I haven’t finished my own meal.”

“It looked like you were coveting it.”

“Well, I wasn’t.” I gave my fork a rest though. “So anyway, did anybody see ya at yer place?”

“No. Of course not. It was about two in the morning.”

“So you just went to your crib and went to sleep?”

“My crib?”

“Yer room. Yer apartment.”

“Why do you call it a crib?”

“I dunno. That’s just what it’s called. Ya went home and went to sleep?”

“I passed out. On the floor.”

“Nice.”

“Believe me, I’m not proud of it.”

I figured he was telling the truth. Much as I wanted it to be true, I didn’t have too much hope that he’d killed Garfield.

“And ya swear ya never heard the name Warner Garfield from Claudette?”

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I had?”

“Lots of reasons. Ya wanna hear my theory?”

“No.”

He wasn’t gonna get off that easy.

“You’re the father of the now-deceased child Claudette was carryin, and you wanted her to have an abortion by Garfield. She said she would but then she changed her mind, so you whacked her. Then Garfield, who knew you were the father, started blackmailin you, so ya whacked him, too.”

“Can I go now?”

“Yeah, beat it.”

You’d think I was a boozehound the way I was going from one bar to another. I met Marty Mitchum at Smitty’s around four o’clock. He had a boilermaker, and I had a Coke.

When he started off complaining about his wife, Bridgett, I didn’t want to hear it and told him so. He was another one cheating on his wife. I was turning into a cynic, and I didn’t like it.

“Ya never minded before, Faye.”

“Yeah, well now I mind.”

“Why?”

“I dunno.” But I did. I knew it was cause I was thinking about a guy for the first time in a long time and I didn’t wanna foul it up with a dim view of the opposite sex.

“Tell me about Garfield?” I took out my notebook.

“Yeah. He’s got a sheet. Small stuff.”

“Abortion?”

“Nah.”

“Anything on his whereabouts the night he was croaked?”

“Nobody seen him that night.”

“Except for whoever knocked on his door, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“How many guys who do abortions just open their doors to anybody, ya think?”

“I’ll take a wild guess. None.”

“That’s what I’m thinkin.”

“So ya sayin Garfield knew his killer?”

“Sounds like it to me,” I said.

“So who was that?”

“That’s what I wanna know. It could be almost anyone, Marty, but I think it was somebody familiar, somebody has a tie with Claudette.”

“How’d ya get there?”

“She knew Garfield at HeartsinArts, an actin company, and she was scheduled for an abortion the day after she died. And ya know how much I like coincidences.”

“Bout as much as I do. But if the man did abortions for a lotta girls, they all had boyfriends, probably fathers, and maybe brothers.”

I doodled on my pad. “Yeah, I know. And there are a lotta guys connected to Claudette. But not a one of them knew she was pregnant, accordin to them. Except her uncle, and he didn’t know who the father was.”

“So somebody’s lyin is yer thinkin?”

“That’s it. I mean, this wasn’t an Immaculate Conception.”

“That ain’t what the Immaculate Conception is. Everybody gets that one wrong. You think it has to do with Jesus, right? And Mary had him without . . . ya know.”

This seemed like the wrong time for catechism. But once Marty got hold of something you’d do best to hear it through. Otherwise, he’d sulk and keep bringing it up anyway. “What is it then?”

“It has to do with Mary bein born without original sin. That’s the Immaculate Conception.”

“No kiddin?”

“That’s it.”

“Fascinatin, Marty.” And it was, for another day. “But I gotta focus on the case.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“The point is, Claudette had to sleep with somebody to get pregnant.”

“I’d say that’s a good bet.”

“So I’m thinkin that the father of the baby went to Garfield’s with Claudette to set up her appointment and that’s how Garfield knew him.”

“And then what . . . so he went with her . . . so?”

“I think Garfield was blackmailin him cause he knew the guy knocked off Claudette.”

“Why would the guy kill Claudette if she was havin an abortion?”

“That’s where I get caught in a goat’s nest.”

“What are ya doodlin there?” Marty reached for my pad.

I tried to stop him, but I wasn’t fast enough.

“Who’s Johnny?”

“Nobody.”

“Ya can’t fool me, Faye. C’mon, who’s Johnny? Hey, what’s wrong? Ya look like ya seen a ghost.”

I was staring across at the pad. I’d been scribbling Lake’s name, but I’d also been doodling
M
’s, the initial Anne saw when she touched the undershirt.

“Excuse me, Marty, I gotta make a call.”

“Ya leavin?”

“I’ll be back. I gotta get to that phone booth down the street.” I raced out like I was being chased by a bear and made it to the booth.

I found a dime in my pocket, dropped it in, and dialed.

Anne answered on the second ring.

She said, “I’m so glad you called, Faye. I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

“I tried an item of clothing from someone else and there were no battle scenes.”

“Great but—”

“No, listen. Then I gave another go at the undershirt you left with me.”

“Yeah?”

“Battle scenes.”

“So?”

“I think they mean something. I don’t believe they’re random after all.”

“From two tests?”

“You know me better than that. I collected a bunch of items on the street—bottle tops, an old sock, an envelope, things like that.”

“And?”

“No battle scenes. But when I went back to the undershirt, there they were again.”

It probably did mean something, but all I could think of was my question. “Okay, Anne, I hear ya. But I gotta ask you a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“You remember the
M
ya saw flashin?”

“When I did the undershirt? Sure.”

“Did it happen again?”

“Yes, it did. Something like that doesn’t change.”

“Well, here’s my question, Anne. Could that
M
have been a
W
?”

She was silent for a second.

“Well, sure. Why not?”

“That’s all I wanted to know. I’ll call ya later.”

I hung up and stood on the corner for a minute. When I’d looked across the table at my pad the
M
’s I’d doodled looked like
W
’s. If
W
was an initial, this case had a lotta those. Starting with West.

THIRTY-FOUR

I went back to Smitty’s, picked up my pack of Camels, said goodbye to Marty, and went to my office.

“So,” Birdie said, “the protocol daughter returns.”

“Any news?”

“Not a whiff.”

“Calls?”

“Lots. I put em on your desk.”

“Thanks.” I hurried into my office. There were a dozen pink memo slips waiting for me. I shuffled through them and put them all to the side cause not a one was important. There were none from Johnny, but that made sense. Why would he call me if we were gonna see each other that night? Only to cancel, so I was glad there was nothing from him.

I got out my yellow pad, picked up my fountain pen, and started making my
W
list.

Porter West

Myrna West

Brian Wayne

Cornell Walker

Gladys Wright

It was a leap . . . let’s face it, a long jump . . . to believe Porter West woulda killed his own daughter. It’s not unheard of, but the police woulda ruled him out first thing. And his motive? He didn’t know Claudette was pregnant until the autopsy, and he didn’t know Warner Garfield existed. And why hire me when the case was so cold?