In the Midst of Death

Page 18

 

  And if he hadnt, somebody else had. Someone may have seen Portia Carr enter the Barrow Street building on the night of her death. She hadnt entered it alone. Someone had seen her walk in arm in arm with the person who subsequently killed her.

  And that was the kind of thing a cop could have run down. The police department had two things that made that sort of investigation work for them- the manpower and the authority. And you needed both to bring it off. One man working alone was not going to get anywhere. One man, with not even a junior G-man badge to convince people they ought to talk to him, would not even begin to accomplish anything that way.

  Especially when the police would not even cooperate with him in the first place. Especially when they were opposed to any investigation that might get Broadfield out of the hot seat.

  So my approach had to be a very different one, and one that no policeman could be expected to approve. I had to find out who had killed her, and then I had to find the facts that might back up what Id already doped out.

  But first I had to find somebody.

  A small person, Kenny had said. Short, slender. Hollow cheeks. A great deal of forehead and an appalling absence of chin. A tentative beard. No mustache. Heavy horn-rimmed glasses…

  * * *

  I dropped by Armstrongs first to check. He wasnt there and hadnt been in yet that morning. I thought about having a drink but decided I could tackle Douglas Fuhrmann without one.

  Except that I didnt get the chance. I went to his rooming house and rang the bell, and the same slatternly woman answered it. She may have been wearing the same robe and slippers. Once again she told me she was full up and suggested I try three doors down the street.

  "Doug Fuhrmann," I said.

  Her eyes took the trouble to focus on my face. "Fourth floor front," she said. She frowned a little. "You were here before. Looking for him. "

  "Thats right. "

  "Yeah, I thought I seen you before. " She rubbed her forefinger across her nose, wiped it on her robe. "I dont know if hes in or not. You want to knock on his door, go ahead. "

  "All right. "

  "Dont mess with his door, though. Hes got this burglar alarm set up, makes all kinds of noise. I cant even go in there to clean for him. He does his own cleaning, imagine that. "

  "Hes probably been with you longer than most. "

  "Listen, hes been here longer than me. I been working here what? A year? Two years?" If she didnt know, I couldnt help her out. "Hes been here years and years. "

  "I guess you know him pretty well. "

  "Dont know him at all. Dont know any of em. I got no time to get to know people, mister. I got problems of my own, you can believe it. "

  I believed it, but that didnt make me want to know what they were. She evidently wasnt going to be able to tell me anything about Fuhrmann, and I wasnt interested in whatever else she might tell me. I moved past her and climbed the stairs.

  He wasnt in. I tried the knob, and the door was locked. It probably would have been easy enough to slip the bolt, but I didnt want to set the alarm off. I wonder if I would have remembered it if the old woman hadnt reminded me.

  I wrote a note to the effect that it was important he get in touch with me immediately. I signed my name, added my telephone number, slipped the piece of paper under his door. Then I went downstairs and let myself out.

  THERE was a Leon Manch listed in the Brooklyn book. The address was on Pierrepont Street, which would put him in Brooklyn Heights. I decided that was as good a place as any for a toilet slave to live. I dialed his number, and the phone rang a dozen times before I gave up.

  I tried Prejanians office. No one answered. Even crusaders only work a five-day week. I tried City Hall, wondering if Manch might have gone to the office. At least there was someone around there to answer the phone, even if there wasnt anyone present named Leon Manch.

  The phone book had Abner Prejanian listed at 444 Central Park West. I had his number half-dialed when it struck me as pointless. He didnt know me from Adam and would hardly be inclined to cooperate with a total stranger over the telephone. I broke the connection, retrieved my dime, and looked up Claude Lorbeer. There was only one Lorbeer in Manhattan, a J. Lorbeer on West End Avenue. I tried the number, and when a woman answered I asked for Claude. When he came to the phone I asked him if he had had any contact with a man named Douglas Fuhrmann.

  "I dont believe Ive heard the name. In what context?"

  "Hes an associate of Broadfields. "

  "A policeman? I dont believe Ive heard the name. "

  "Maybe your boss did. I was going to call him, but he doesnt know me. "

  "Oh, Im glad you called me instead. I could call Mr. Prejanian and ask him for you, and then I could get back to you. Anything else youd want me to ask him?"

  "Find out if the name Leon Manch rings any kind of a bell with him. In connection with Broadfield, that is. "

  "Certainly. And Ill get right back to you, Mr. Scudder. "

  He rang back within five minutes. "I just spoke to Mr. Prejanian. Neither of the names you mentioned were familiar to him. Uh, Mr. Scudder? Id avoid any direct confrontation with Mr. Prejanian if I were you. "

  "Oh?"

  "He wasnt precisely thrilled that I was cooperating with you. He didnt say so right out, but I think you understand what Im getting at. Hed prefer that his staff pursue a policy of benign neglect, if I can revive that phrase. Of course youll keep it between us that I said as much, wont you?"

  "Of course. "

  "You still remain convinced that Broadfield is innocent?"

  "More now than ever. "

  "And this man Fuhrmann holds the key?"

  "He might. Things are starting to come together. "

  "It sounds fascinating," he said. "Well, I wont keep you. If theres anything I can do, just give me a ring, but do lets keep it confidential, shall we?"

  A little later I called Diana. We arranged to meet at eight-thirty at a French restaurant on Ninth Avenue, the Brittany du Soir. It is a quiet and private place where we would have a chance to be quiet and private people.

  "Ill see you at eight-thirty then," she said. "Have you been making any headway? Oh, you can tell me when you see me. "

  "Right. "

  "Ive done so much thinking, Matthew. I wonder if you know what its like. Ive spent so much time not thinking, almost willing myself not to think, and its as though something has been unleashed. I shouldnt say all this. Ill just frighten you. "

  "Dont worry about it. "

  "Thats whats strange. Im not worried. Wouldnt you say that was strange?"

  ON my way back to the hotel I stopped at Fuhrmanns building. The manager didnt answer my ring. I guess she was busy with some of the problems shed alluded to. I let myself in and climbed the stairs. He wasnt in and evidently hadnt been in- I could see the note Id left him under his door.

  I wished Id taken down his phone number. Assuming he had a phone- I hadnt seen one on my visit, but his desk had been cluttered. He could have had a phone under one of those piles of paper.

  I went home again, showered, shaved, straightened up the room. The maid had given it a cursory cleaning, and there wasnt much more I could do. It would always look like what it was, a small room in an unprepossessing hotel. Fuhrmann had chosen to transform his furnished room into an extension of himself. I had left mine as I found it. Initially I had found its stark simplicity somehow fitting. Now I had long since ceased to notice it, and only the prospect of entertaining a guest within it made me aware of its appearance.

  I checked the liquor supply. There looked to be enough for me, and I didnt know what she preferred to drink. The store across the street would deliver until eleven.

  Put on my best suit. Dabbed on a little cologne. The boys had given it to me for a Christmas present. I wasnt even sure which Christmas and couldnt remember when Id used it last. Dabbed some on and felt ridiculous, but in a way that was not unpleasant.

>   Stopped at Armstrongs. Fuhrmann had been in and out an hour or so earlier. I left him a note. Called Manch, and this time he answered the phone.

  I said, "Mr. Manch, my name is Matthew Scudder. Im a friend of Portia Carrs. "

  There was a pause, a long enough one to make his reply unconvincing. "Im afraid I dont know anyone by that name. "

  "Im sure you do. You dont want to try that stance, Mr. Manch. Its not going to work. "

  "What do you want?"

  "I want to see you. Sometime tomorrow. "

  "What about?"

  "Ill tell you when I see you. "

  "I dont understand. What did you say your name was?"

  I told him.

  "Well, I dont understand, Mr. Scudder. I dont know what you want from me. "

  "Ill be at your place tomorrow afternoon. "

  "I dont- "

  "Tomorrow afternoon," I said. "Around three. It would be a very good idea for you to be there. "

  He started to say something, but I didnt stay on the line long enough to hear it. It was a few minutes past eight. I went outside and walked down Ninth toward the restaurant.

  Chapter 13

  We sat in a booth. She wore a simple black sheath and no jewelry. Her perfume was a floral scent with an undertone of spice. I ordered dry vermouth on the rocks for her and bourbon for myself. The conversation stayed light and airy through the first round of drinks. When we ordered a second round we also gave the waitress the dinner order- sweetbreads for her, a steak for me. The drinks came, and we touched glasses again, and our eyes met and led us into a silence that was just the slightest bit awkward.

  She broke it. She extended her hand and I took it, and she lowered her eyes and said, "Im not terribly good at this. Out of practice, I guess. "

  "So am I. "

  "Youve had a few years to get used to being a bachelor. Ive had one little affair, and it wasnt really very much of anything. He was married. "

  "You dont have to talk about it. "

  "Oh, I know that. He was married, it was very casual and purely physical, and to be honest it wasnt even that wonderful physically. And it didnt last very long. " She hesitated. She may have been waiting for me to say something, but I remained silent. Then she said, "You may want this to be, oh, casual, and thats all right, Matthew. "

  "I dont think we can be casual with each other. "

  "No, I dont suppose we can. I wish- I dont know what I wish. " She lifted her glass and sipped. "Im probably going to get a little bit drunk tonight. Is that a bad idea?"

  "It might be a good idea. Shall we have wine with the meal?"

  "Id like that. I suppose its a bad sign, having to get a little drunk. "

  "Well, Im the last person to tell you its a bad idea. I get a little bit drunk every day of my life. "

  "Is that something I should be worried about?"

  "I dont know. Its damned well something you should be aware of, Diana. You ought to know who youre getting involved with. "

  "Are you an aloholic?"

  "Well, whats an alcoholic? I suppose I drink enough alcohol to qualify. It doesnt keep me from functioning. Yet. I suppose it will eventually. "