“Anybody even vaguely connected with two unsolved murders might be... misunderstood.”
There were other people in the elevator. We walked through the lobby and she nodded at the doorman and when we were in my car, she said, “That was a terrible thing to say. I'm getting mad at you again.”
“Told you that for your own protection. What do you want to eat?”
“I don't care. Anything you want.”
“I want Italian food drowned in melted cheese.”
I drove over to the East Side and down to Twelfth Street, to a place called John's. Mrs. Turner was like me—a good eater— and we put away one of those satisfying heavy meals, from clams Casino to whipped-cream Italian pastry. I told her about Louise and Cliff, Franzino, ended up with, “Maybe Franzino and Al were right. I sure haven't come up with clue one. Only, Louise trusted me and I ...”
“You didn't ask them to.”
“But still, I threw them to the lions. God knows what Cliff is going through right this minute.”
“He's being beaten?”
“Maybe. And maybe I've just got the jitters.”
“Ed once told me how they picked up a Puerto Rican boy for a knifing and they tied him to a chair. When they changed tours, every man entering and leaving, punched him. It was after that I told him to stop telling me about his... job. But you shouldn't feel bad, you're only doing your duty.”
I laughed. “Hey, that's my pitch, don't give it back to me.”
She gave me a hot smile. “I like you, Barney. I liked you from the moment you tried to argue me out of hiring you.”
“Like can mean anything, or nothing. I like this pastry. I like most people.”
“Thanks,” she said stiffly.
“Look, this case is complicated enough and... I couldn't be just a friend to you, corny as that may sound.”
“I suppose you feel sorry for me.”
“Yeah. I feel sorry and sort of tenderly curious about you, Mrs. Turner.”
“Call me Mrs. Turner again and I'll scream!”
I nodded to the waiter for the tab. “A real scream would rip through that veneer you sport. Let's leave it at this. When the case is over, I'll drop around and we'll scream at each other.”
“That will be so big of you,” she said coldly. “You see, I don't know all the answers—like you do.”
“I try to know them. It's a rough world if you don't know what you want.”
“Barney, you're always so smug, so righteous. I... hate you!”
“Mrs. Turner, for now, whether you hate me or like me, that's not what we're here for. That's what I've been trying to tell you. First things first, and all that stuff.”
She sighed. “Then let's get back to business—what do you plan to do next?”
“Wait around, see what the police come up with. I don't know what else to do. Seems to me either Andersun or Turner were killed accidentally. In other words, one of the killings was planned, the other was something one of them walked into. Since Andersun was killed first, would seem Mr. Turner walked into it. But that doesn't figure. I mean, there's more chance Ed was mixed up in a shake-down, like these vice raids he cut himself in on. Only thing Andersun ever chiseled was a cigarette. Still, the cops would, or should know all about Mr. Turner's deals. Perhaps I'll try going over Andersun's background again, must be something there we've skipped. About time for me to call for my kid. Shall I take you home?”
“Can I come along—for the ride?”
“Of course.”
I paid the check and we drove over to the Westside Highway and up to the George Washington Bridge. Some fancy joker in a Packard roadster gave me the horn and passed me. I winked at Betsy and gave my Buick the gas and we whizzed by him, like he was standing still. I turned to her, asked, “How did you like that? This load can step.”
She looked a little nervous, but she was thinking about something else. She said, “Barney, does your daughter—does Ruth—know she's adopted?”
“Sure.”
“Why did you tell her?”
“Why not? She'd find it out sooner or later. We simply explained that anybody can be stuck with having a child, but to choose one, well, that's greater love. That was Vi's idea.”
“Vi—she sounds like a nice woman.”
I was amused at how everything was “nice,” or Betsy “liked”... things. I knew what was coming next. It came.
“And I think you're very brave to raise Ruth yourself.”
“What should I have done—tossed her back into an orphan home? For Christsakes, she's my kid. I'm attached to her— perhaps even more than Vi was.”
“I didn't mean...” She stopped and didn't say a word till we turned into the bridge and she said, “This is a beautiful sight: the water, the lights of the bridge against the dark of the sky.”
“Looks better when you're coming toward New York—more lights.”
“Barney, you mean your wife didn't want the girl?”
“She wanted Ruthie, but it was like a fad, a hobby, to her. Vi had to work hard at everything. Reason she got along with a turtle like me was, she'd just recovered from a nervous breakdown when I met her. Realized she had to slow down, stop pushing so hard. Used me like a brake. She did slow down, gave up most of her insurance agency, but Ruthie took its place. Vi tried too hard with the girl.”
“Do you mind if I ask what she died from?”
“You've already asked. Cancer.”
She said she was very sorry—all in the proper sorrow-tone of voice. We drove the rest of the way in silence and when I walked her into Jake's place, Betsy was not only a surprise, but a sensation.
Jake has a one-family house, everything about it old and mostly homemade, because he's a handy oscar with wood. But it has the warm feeling of a house lived in by people who enjoy living. They were all grouped around the TV set—Jake and Grace, Ruthie and the two boys, one a string bean of ten and the other real big for his twelve years. The youngest, “the surprise baby,” as Jake called her, a two-and-a-half-year-old girl, was sprawled half asleep in a big chair.
Soon as we entered, Betsy replaced the TV screen as the target of all eyes. Grace fussed with her apron, her hair, said, “Barney, you should have told me you were bringing a guest.”
“This is my employer, Mrs. Turner,” I said very formally, so they wouldn't get the wrong idea. I introduced Betsy around and when I came to Ruthie, Betsy bent over and said in that silly cooing voice adults seem to think kids want, “What a lovely big girl. Barney has been telling me so much about you, Ruth.”
Ruthie gave her a polite smile, then asked loudly, “You the lady my Daddy has been spending all these nights with?”
Heavy silence hung in the room like a fog till Jake's oldest boy broke it with a snicker and I said lamely, “I'm on a case for Mrs. Turner and the only time she can see me is in the evening.”
Grace said, “Of course,” and glared at the oldest boy when he giggled again. There was more of the embarrassing silence till the little girl suddenly woke up, stared at me, then wailed, “Uncle Barney.... Present? Present?”
I tried to lift her up, but she pulled away and bawled. I told her, “I really didn't forget, Gloria, just left your present in my office. Next time I come I'll bring two presents.”
That didn't silence her and finally Jake told her, “Go to sleep, Gloria. People don't have to bring you gifts all the time. I'll drive back with Uncle Barney and get the present. You'll find it here in the morning.”
Grace said, “It's way past her bedtime, that's why she's so cranky,” and took the wailing kid upstairs, while Jake made us some weak drinks and the boys asked if I cared to tear a phone book in half. I told them I was too full for stunts, and Ruthie immediately wanted to know if I'd eaten out and where. Betsy, who was sitting next to Ruthie, said we'd had a snack on the way out. Then Ruthie decided she must see the pleats in Betsy's skirt that made the swirling effect, pulled up the skirt and the solid thighs weren't missed by any male in the room, including the ten-year-old one. Betsy examined Ruthie's dress, and they started to talk about clothes, just as if they were two grown women. The rest of us watched some cowboy drama on the TV.
Grace came down—she'd changed into another dress. When she got herself together Grace was a pretty woman—only most times she dressed as if she'd just jumped out of bed. She said, “Turn off that darn set so we can talk. TV is making everybody antisocial. Jake, where's my drink? All right, sit down, I'll get it.” She grinned at Betsy. “Jake's a postman so I try to save him steps.” She headed for the kitchen, called, “Barney, see who needs a refill and help me.”
Of course nobody needed a refill except Betsy, and the boys wanted some more root beer. Soon as I got into the kitchen Grace sprang on me and gave me a tight hug as she whispered, “Oh, Barney, she's lovely. And notice how she and Ruthie hit it off? I'm so happy for you.”
“Aw Grace, stop it. I'm working for her—that's all.”
“That's work? Even if you're only bedding together, good for you. But I think she's sweet and so young and...”
“Jeez, no wonder your kids are so sexy-minded. Look, it's only a job with me. Her husband was murdered a couple weeks ago.”
That stopped her—for a moment. She made the drinks, including a double shot for herself, and as we headed back to the living room Grace whispered, “Well, she'll want a husband soon and no woman could do better than getting you.”
“Now you know I've been waiting for Jake to fall into a mailbox so we two can get together.”
“Barney, I'm serious. She looks like a fine, young...”
“You don't know how young, how much of a kid she is. I'm serious too—Grace honey, take the shotgun out of my back.”
When I sat down again, Ruthie told me, “Daddy, Betsy has a sewing machine and knows all about making dresses. She's going to make me a peppermint-stick skirt, and let me run the machine!”
“Now, Ruthie, don't bother Mrs. Turner,” I said, trying to give the kid the eye to shut up.
“It's no bother, really, I love to sew,” Betsy said, and Ruthie gave me a I-told-you-so look.
The boys had turned on the set again and we sat around and tried to talk and watch the screen, and Grace brought out some sort of pastry that tasted like Shredded Wheat filled with nuts and dipped in honey, and after a while I said we'd better go and Ruthie said it was Saturday night and I said, “Come on, it's nearly ten, and take us time to get home.”
I stood up and Grace told Betsy she must come out again, in the afternoon, to see her flowers, openly hinting I should bring her out. The boys came over and asked if I'd seen some 3-D private-eye movie, sort of recommending it to me as an instruction book—I think.
Jake said, “I'll drive to the drugstore, buy something for the baby. That kid, what a memory—Grace must have been frightened by an elephant.”
“Oh, stop bragging,” Grace said.
Ruthie and Mrs. Turner got into my car and we followed Jake to a drugstore. I got out and said I'd get the kid something and Jake said nonsense, it was his idea, and we got into one of those silly arguments. As I held Jake's money hand and bought a glass plane filled with candy, Betsy joined us, asked, “Is it all right if I buy Ruthie an ice-cream cone? I suggested it and she wants one.”
“Sure.”
While we waited for her, Jake said, “So you're on a murder job.”
“Two of them.”
“A double header,” Jake said, awe in his voice.
“Fellow named Franklin Andersun and Mr. Turner were ...”
“Remember reading about that. I was interested. Turner was a cop, a ...” He turned and blinked at Betsy. “Gee, excuse me, Mrs. Turner. It was stupid not to realize you were... I'm sorry.”
Betsy half smiled to show him it was okay. Jake added, “Reason I read about it, was this Andersun. Had a fellow on my route with the same name. Franklin Andersun, even spelled it with a «. But it wasn't him, of course.”
I stared at Jake's moonface. “There was a Franklin Andersun on your mail route?” I repeated, that odd tingling feeling you get when you've finally found the break in a case welling up inside me.
“I even bought two morning papers to see the guy's picture. Didn't look anything like the one on my route. My Andersun had bright red hair. Odd way he spelled his name, maybe a relation to the dead one. See, when I was making out a registered receipt for him, I made a point of asking if the spelling was right. Nasty guy, too. Thought the mails ran just for him.”
“A registered letter?”
“Passport, they always come registered. So damn impatient to get it. Kept asking, in this twangy voice of his, if the letter had come. I'd tell him...”
Grabbing his shoulders, I lifted him onto a fountain stool, said in a choked voice, “Sit down, Jake. Let's you and me chatter.”
MARTIN SAT up in bed, drinking his third cup of black coffee. Lund was sitting at a table, holding his head and nibbling on a thin loaf of bread. He asked, “Okay, so I can probably sell my car—so what?”
“Sam, it was your crack about selling our passports that gave me the idea—came to me clear and cold through my drunken haze. Your car brings fifteen hundred dollars. Between Therese's savings and my cameras I can come up with a thousand,” Martin said, talking fast, the hang-over punishing his head. “We return to the States, hang around for six months— maybe less if we play our angles right. Hardly any calculated risk, the way I see it.”
Lund gave him a bloodshot stare. “Marty, one thing at a time. About selling our passports, I don't like...”
“We're not selling ours. Too risky. Only mean ten thousand and we'd probably be thrown out of France anyway. Might get more if we sold them in Germany, but then we'd be stuck in Germany or sent straight back to the States. No, Sam, we're going to return here with a dozen other passports and sell them for sixty thousand bucks!”
“Aw Marty, we both have big heads this morning, or is it afternoon? How are we going to steal all those passports?”
“Steal? No, we'll get them all kind of legal-by applying for them! That's the idea that hit me. What do you do when you want a passport in the States?”
