Fallen Sparrow (10 page)

The man said, “I’m Pierre.”

They made way for him to pass them and he did with his jaw tight. He went first, Pierre’s footfalls soft after him, Elise left empty-handed by the worthless trunk. There was no reason to feel the chill of sweat when the elevator door closed. One lift to the first floor and he was in the lobby, at the entrance door by his old friend, the big doorman. Kit didn’t look back. And he refused a taxi. If he were being watched this carefully, he wouldn’t trust a waiting cab. He’d walk a ways and make certain the cab was his choice, not chosen for him.

There was one safe place to go through these letters. A different cop was at the desk. Kit said, “Mind if I sit down? I’m waiting for a friend.”

The cop didn’t seem to care. He was hidden behind a tab just as his predecessor had been. Cops had learned to read since Chris’ time; since Tobin, Princeton’s gift to the finest, held sway.

Kit unfolded the pages one by one, studied them carefully. His mother’s. That mention of Louie’s death. Mention of Prince Felix, of the Skaases. Names that hadn’t stuck at the time, untied to events. Nothing in the single sheet from Barby, not even love. Three from Ab. He had mentioned Otto Skaas, casually, of no importance. Louie’s letters. Nothing to lead to murder. “Funny thing happened the other night. Tell you when you get back … I’ve met a girl …” That was—Kit examined the postmark—that was back in November, before Thanksgiving. Did it belong in or out? No names. Nothing to help. No fear in the pages.

Why was Louie dead? Kit answered himself slowly, realistically: Louie was dead because he had helped Kit escape from Spain. He was certain. And he knew it hadn’t been neuroticism; he must have heard steps. The wobble-footed man
had
followed to New York to find Kit, and in the search he had found Louie and Kit’s letter that thanked Louie for freedom. So Louie had been killed.

Suddenly it rushed up and smote Kit with dreadful clarity. He hadn’t escaped. He’d been turned loose. They had realized after two years that they couldn’t break him and they’d thrown him out. They’d allowed that letter to go through to Louie. They’d permitted him to steal the loaded Luger in case he had to shoot it out with any dumb underlings who couldn’t be trusted to know the truth. This way the men who worked for the man believed they could win. Kit had been watched from the start, while he snaked through the woods on emaciated hands and knees, shuddering at the lifted wing of a bird; watched through those creeping weeks when he made painful hidden steps to the Portuguese border.

He was shaken with sick anger. It must have amused them to follow his torturous wanderings through fear, enduring the fear only because of flickering hope, never certainty, of eventual safety. They must have smiled at his enduring his prison filth because he dared not stop long enough to scrub it away in the tempting mountain streams. They must have sniggered at him starving himself day after day because he dared not show himself to ask for food but must hide in darkness, wait to steal animal leavings. Their warm full bellies must have shook while he forced himself on, too haunted to accept the sleep he fevered for, almost mad with agony when sleep overcame him, waking palsied to creep on and on the endless way, doubling and trebling the grim miles to throw off any possible trackers. It must have been wearying for them to wait each day until he caught up with them and crawled further on his journey.

The smile hurt his face. They hadn’t won yet. He hadn’t gone near that hotel in Lisbon. He’d been that wise, broken as he was. He’d sailed on the neutral freighter, the long way home, more months of hell. Safe at last, he’d collapsed on Louie’s doorstep. But he’d never mentioned the hotel, not even to Louie.

He should have known they would never give up. They had been dormant, waiting these additional months, waiting for him to grow strong again, strong and careless and make the false move, the move to obtain the treasure.

They would never win. They’d killed Louie. He knew it now. Whatever the hand, he knew the agency behind it. The little man who would amuse himself with beauty. Never.

A gun could be used for other purpose than to defend. A gun could be used to kill. While the little man existed, only the laws of violence were valid. With need for no emotion save hate, he could deal out the violence they had taught him. For what had been done to him and to Louie, they should answer. He too could kill.

Why had Louie been marked for death? He had aided them to carry out their release of Kit. It must have been because he’d caught on, because he’d identified someone with Kit’s horrors. That someone was at Det’s refugee musicale. Someone in that outfit was working for the Wobblefoot. José knew the Wobblefoot. Kit’s shoulders hardened. He’d eliminate them one by one until he came to the top, to the deformed man. If he but knew from whom that billfold had come. It should have been on Louie’s body when he fell. Whoever had put it in Kit’s pocket, he, she, was either the murderer or knew the murderer. Only the murderer could have taken it from Louie, taken it before the killing. Was Louie already dead when he was thrown from the window? Kit hadn’t considered that. His stomach quailed. A twelve-story fall could conceal the cause of death.

“What goes on, Rollo?”

He looked up at the bland voice. Tobin stood in front of him. His hat was pushed back on his head and he had a cheap stogie in his teeth.

Kit shoved the letters into his overcoat pocket. He didn’t have to worry about a gun being drawn on him here. He said, “I’ve been waiting for you. I want to ask you some more questions.”

“What about? How to climb fire escapes at three
A.M.
and stay out of the jug?”

Kit’s mouth opened like a window. Tobin dropped down on the bench. “‘Just a boyish prank,’ he said.”

“How’d you know I was the one?”

“Even an old man can have some tricks up his sleeve.”

Kit said, “You’re not so old.”

“My mistake. From the way you lisped the other afternoon, I thought the hair dye had rubbed off.” He flipped open his penknife, clicked it together. “Well, do you want to tell me what you were up to or shall I have the boys take you down where you’ll talk?”

Kit pushed back his hat. “I’ll trade. You first. How did you get on to me?”

“Elemental, Watso. What name stuck out on Patrolman Peter’s first list? Kit McKittrick. What name was missing on the second alarm? Kit McKittrick. Your turn.”

“Not yet. Circumstantial evidence all wrong again. I wasn’t the only one who’d left the apartment.”

Tobin jutted out his chin, stogie and all.

“One visitor wasn’t on the list. And he went before I did.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know his name.” Kit spoke slowly. Even speaking of it here made those icy inner hands grip at him. “I’ve never seen his face. I’ve heard him—walk.”

Tobin didn’t take his eyes away. He probably knew about Kit’s adventure; everyone in New York seemed to. And Louie had worked for Tobin.

“Where was he hid out?”

Kit let go a breath. “My guess is that he was visiting a fellow called José Andalusian.”

Tobin snapped, “Fergus, bring me that report from East Fifty-sixth Street last night.” He said to Kit, “Come on.”

Kit followed to the back office. Moore was playing mumblety-peg solitaire on the nicked bench. Tobin sat on the edge of his desk. He waved Kit to Moore’s playground. “Give.”

Kit didn’t know whether or not to tell the truth. He decided yes. He wasn’t afraid but if anything should happen to him—it wouldn’t, but just in case—no sense letting Wobblefoot go unquestioned. He said curtly, “I was following that man.”

“Up the fire escape?”

“No.” He wouldn’t go into those ramifications again. “I got in the only way possible for me.”

“Who is this mysterious guy?” Tobin was skeptical. It was in his nostrils, in his acceptance of the manila folder.

Kit spoke belligerently against that wall of indifference. “I don’t know his name. I don’t know his face. I know how he walks, that’s all. Splay-footed with the wobbles.”

Tobin didn’t even look up. “José Andalusian was alone.”

Kit said more belligerently, “The coppers didn’t search the rooms. They asked questions outside the doors.”

The inspector slapped the folder together. He did it a second time. “Give.”

“What do you want?”

Tobin’s eyes were hard as the muscles under his too tight blue suit. “This guy?”

“I didn’t see him. I heard him go down again.” He shook his head angrily. He wouldn’t let his throat gulp again when he mentioned that sound. He was the strong one now. He brazened, “I decided to pick a time when the cops weren’t around. I didn’t see him.” His voice faltered without reason. “I’ve never seen him.”

Moore asked mildly, “Then you screamed down the fire escape?”

Kit said nothing.

“Was that the only way you could get out?” Tobin’s mouth was a lemon rind.

Kit said slowly, truthfully, “It seemed the safest way.”

The Inspector yawned. “What’d you come down here for? Want us to put a tail on your mystery man?”

He asked cautiously, “Did Louie ever mention him?”

“How would I know?” Tobin flipped the papers. “Give him a tag and I’ll tell you.”

He tried to be patient. “I tell you I don’t know his name.” No name had ever been given him. He was very careful not to permit his stomach to turn over again. “Did—did Louie ever speak of a man who walked—like that?”

Tobin moved slowly to his revolving chair. He put his heels on the desk. “Louie didn’t go in for fairy tales. He wasn’t a college man.”

Kit’s jaw was rock. Just flip Louie off like that. He wouldn’t come back to Tobin again; he wouldn’t ask the question now he’d come to ask. He’d never find out here how she’d accomplished it, how Toni Donne could have pushed Louie out a window. The police were too sure that Louie had jumped. He turned his back and started away.

Tobin drawled, “Thought you wanted to ask some questions?”

He swung his heels. “How’s this one? Why do Louie’s folks blame you cops for what happened?” That one shook them up. Tobin’s heels came noiselessly to the floor and Moore’s face was blank as a new griddle.

Tobin shouted, “Do you mean to stand there and tell me—”

“They say it was the cops.” He walked out. Let them sneer that one over. He wouldn’t ask them any more questions. Not even what happened to the stuff in Louie’s pockets. He was sick of questions and lies. He’d do it on his own. He’d ask Momma about Louie’s pockets. He’d get the yarn of Louie’s fall from Toni Donne herself.

He wouldn’t mind having a look at Det’s library. If she were out.

She wasn’t. She looked too old. She’d been resting; her hair was disturbed; she didn’t apologize for her man’s gray robe.

He said, “I didn’t mean to bother you—”

“You’re no bother. I’m tired these days. I left the shop early. I have to go out tonight.” She was wary. “Is this, a call or is it something you want of me?”

He wouldn’t pretend with her. He said, “I’d like to see where Louie—”

She looked older. “Come along, Kit.” The library was nicer than Geoffrey’s, more comfort, and the books were less austere and proud. She said tiredly, “That window,” and sat down in the purple chintz chair. She pushed a bell. He felt her eyes on the back of his head while he stood there looking out. She said, “You’ll have a drink, Kit?” and spoke to the maid.

He said, “Yes,” and curiously, “There’s a guard on this window.”

“Yes, Kit.” She was spiritless. “That night there wasn’t. It was being repaired.” He took the rose wing chair opposite her. The fire the maid had lighted was beginning to redden the logs. Det’s stubby hand lay on her cheek. “The guards in all the apartments were being tested that week. Some new building inspector pushing an old ordinance. It was cold, little danger of anyone leaning out a window.”

He couldn’t ask her if Toni Donne killed Louie. She was Toni’s tigress. He accepted the highball. But he could ask, “How did Louie happen to be here that night, Det? I didn’t know you knew him.”

“I didn’t. Though I should have. I remember old Giovanni’s flower carts.” She hadn’t answered him; he waited. “Toni brought him.”

“How did he happen to know Toni?” He made it so casual; you wouldn’t think it mattered; you’d think it nothing but idle curiosity.

She answered almost coldly, “She met him”—her eyes narrowed—“at Barby Taviton’s.” Then she softened the blow. “War work makes for wide acquaintance, Kit. Your friend Louie was working with refugee placement. Italians and Spanish in particular. He spoke those tongues.”

He still couldn’t get “it was the cops” out of his head. How could that make sense unless Louie were mixed up with wrong ones? Louie couldn’t have been. And yet—the goad kept drilling into a sensitive spot—Kit hadn’t escaped; he’d been released, and through Louie’s help. He demanded, “Who handled the investigation, Det?”

“Inspector Tobin. Toby himself.”

“Yes.” That could explain why Toby resented Kit’s interest. It wasn’t just a lot of bilge that Tobin was the smartest inspector that had ever headed homicide. The records proved it. Yet how could Tobin not have seen through the holes in this accident unless he were investigating with shut eyes? Even that couldn’t resolve: “it was the cops.”

He took another swallow. “I feel bad about it,” he said, as if that would cover his interest in Louie.

She said, “Chris was that way, Kit. A friend was a friend.”

No matter what, her inflection stated. Was she trying to tell him that Louie wasn’t worthy? He asked quickly, “What do you mean?”

Her eyes were lidded. “I was engaged to Chris once, Kit.” She smiled. “You might have been my kid if I hadn’t—gone fancy.” She looked at him now. “But he never held it against me—running off that way. And when I came back—he put me on my feet. He helped found Det’s.”

He hadn’t known this past history; he’d never been curious. It explained things; his mother being so much younger than his father. Chris had carried the torch for Det long enough, or lost faith in women for a long time. It explained why Chris’s advance from cop to Tammany tycoon came later than most come-uppers, after forty. Beatrice McKittrick had been the prod; she’d ambitions to be in the better circles even then. It explained Bea’s ability to forget McKittrick days, to forget old Chris; she hadn’t been of real import to either. It didn’t explain why Det should be telling this now.