Dead in a Bed Page 3

  Then I had hightailed it to Finch and had ruffled his feathers. He was all for moving in at once but I talked him out of that. Possession of stolen goods was something but it wasn’t enough: I preferred we caught up with Hockin Chynik on the whole deal, caught up with him redhanded. Finch went with me to the District Attorney and we laid out a plan (I made no mention of Mike the Pea either to Finch or the D.A.). Our plan had three parts, as follows. One, if the girl turned State’s evidence and cooperated there would be no press of charge and she would be granted immunity. Two, four of the D.A.'s investigators were to be assigned to me and ready for action whenever I called. And three, it was my job to discover Chynik’s next job and blow the whistle on him. The District Attorney wanted to know how I intended to accomplish that last and, although I was polite, I told him to mind his business while I minded mine. The D.A. added two provisions: one, that I accomplish my end within thirty days and, two, that he put a couple of men on Hockin Chynik around the clock. That was our deal with everybody smiling especially Finch, and then I took off for Mike the Pea.

  He lived in the Hotel Brittany, Suite 606, on West Eighth Street in Greenwich Village. Even in those days he was a smart cookie who knew on what side he was buttered. Up until then he had avoided entanglement with the law and he hoped to continue disentangled. He was a rough kid with a quick temper and a fast man with a blade. It was known that he had cut up a few people and it was suspected that he had murederd a few people but he had never as much as been arrested. Now I laid out my story line and quickly he jumped over to my side.

  “I’ll see to it that the girl omits any reference to you,” I said, “but from here on out you’re going to be the fingerman—for me! But first, let’s hear the deal, and I want the whole megilla.”

  It was simple. He was the fingerman for twenty percent of the proceeds of the loot and naturally he was certain he was being cheated. His end of the job was to spot a fancy dame sparkling with fancy rocks in one of the fancy clubs he frequented. He was to find out who she was, where she lived, and with whom. He would pass on his information to Chynik, Chynik would do his own surveillance for a while, and then hit.

  “The cops are on him right now,” I said. “If you want to stay clear, you’ve got to earn it.”

  “Like how?”

  “I want to know who’s scheduled for the next hit; how, when, where, the works.”

  There was nothing slow about Mike the Pea. “Mrs. Jennifer Moore,” he said. “Four-forty-four East Fifty-fourth, apartment 4 B. Her husband is a stockbroker, there are no kids, and there’s a personal maid whose day off is Thursday. The hit is set for this coming Thursday. Remember your promise to keep me clean. That goes for the coppers but that goes for Chynik too, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else I can do?”

  “I’d advise you get out of town for a while.”

  “I intend to do just that. Thanks for the advice anyway. You’re a nice guy, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Nuts,” I said. “Now I’m nice because now I can use you. Another time I’ll knock you flat on your ass and make you like it.”

  “And vice versa,” he said.

  “Would you care for a little preliminary rehearsal right now?”

  “I’d care, but I’d be stupid to make you mad at me in the middle of your doing me a good turn.”

  “You’re doing me the good turn—by fingering my pigeon. Actually, I’m doing nothing for you. You’re the fingerman but we can’t pin it on you. Anything the girl might say would only be hearsay, and any two-bit shyster could get you off. So you shot your mouth off and did me a good turn but you’re not as smart as you think you are, are you, pal?”

  “I’m smart enough, Mr. Peeper.”

  “One day we’ll catch up, Mr. Peabody.”

  “I’m looking forward,” he said, and I got out of there.

  We took no chances. We staked out 444 East 54th from the moment I brought in my confidential report that Jennifer Moore was set for the hit, and on Thursday Hockin Chynik in consort with Angelina Pisk made the hit, and then as they emerged from the building, we made our hit, but strong. The rest was mop-up.

  Chynik did not talk as he languished in a cell preliminary to trial but a good deal of the loot was recovered from the apartment and through various underworld weasels who had the word that the insurance companies were offering solid rewards without questions. I was a witness at the trial giving some of the details of my investigation on behalf of Hudson of America and then Angelina Pisk, simmering softly, cooked his goose. He was represented by Arnold Kulik, as keen a regal legal beagle as exists, and after the State put in its case, Arnold called for a conference which called for a two-day adjournment. Then Arnold pulled a couple of political strings and when Court convened again Kulik shook a fist at Pisk but withdrew his defense, pleaded his client guilty, and Chynik was sentenced to five years instead of twenty.

  Miss Pisk, scot-free, joined up in unholy unmatrimony with Maximilian Bartlett in an unbridled bridal suite of two rooms and a kitchenette at 202 West 23rd Street and, except for one convivial evening of good music, bad jokes, and unmitigated wassail at El Barracho four years ago, that had been the last I had seen of her before I saw all of her, totally unexpected and unexplained and dead, naked in my bathtub.

  THREE

  WHILE I WAITED for the burnished coppers I shaved electrically in the bedroom and dressed eclectically but I remained as un-showered as a spinster without hope because to shower would disturb Angelina Pisk which disturbance would cause displeasure amongst the impending coppers and I am not one to cause such displeasure which could rankle to my detriment. Coppers finally descended like pennies from heaven in the persons of Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker, three grim-visaged minions, and one smiling doctor from the Medical Examiner’s office. I led them to my toilet where they grew busier than four plumbers tackling a gusher from a main artery leak. At length Detective-lieutenant Louis Parker joined me in the living room and pronounced, “Dead of a broken neck. Dead about nine hours. What time is it?”

  I consulted my wrist watch. “A quarter to ten.”

  “Where were you at a quarter to one this morning?”

  “Drinking up a storm with Alfred Surf.”

  “Who is Alfred Surf?”

  “He’s a book publisher.”

  “How long were you with him?”

  “From nine yesterday evening until about five this morning.”

  “He’ll corroborate you on this?”

  “Of course he will.”

  “Who’s the dame in the tub?”

  “Angelina Pisk.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  “Hardly even an acquaintance.”

  “Where are her clothes?”

  “I said hardly even an acquaintance. How would I know where her clothes are?”

  “Hardly even an acquaintance but she is in your bathtub.”

  “But without my consent, knowledge, or invitation.”

  “Now what the hell is this all about, Pete?”

  “I woke up, I went to take a shower, and there she was. I called downtown for you specifically.”

  “Why me specifically?”

  “Because you’re Homicide, because you’re a friend, because you’re intelligent, and because I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t draw some big-badged blockbuster who would want to prove himself by shoving me around.”

  “But this is crazy, Pete.”

  “You bet it is.”

  “You got any ideas?”

  “I have.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Ever hear of Hockin Chynik?”

  “Who’s Hockin Chynik?”

  “A burglar who got stashed about five years ago.”

  “That’s not my department. Like you said, I’m homicide. Burglars don’t mean a thing to me until they kill somebody.”

  “It’s my hunch this burglar did kill somebody.”

  “Whom?”

  “A
ngelina Pisk.”

  “I thought you said he was stashed?”

  “Would you check that, please, Lieutenant?” I gestured politely toward the phone. “Feel free.”

  He frowned but he went to the phone. He was thick, round, short-legged, and cobby with a square face, black bristly hair, and a powerful chest. He was all cop and a yard wide; he was a distinguished policeman who had made his record; he was bright, quick, resourceful, honest and honorable; he was an old-fashioned cop who went by the adage that it was his job to ferret for the slow truth rather than the fast pinch. He was an admirable man whom I was proud to know, proud to have worked with, and proud that he considered me a friend and a colleague. He made the call and came back to me. “The guy finished his term two weeks ago.”

  “Figures,” I said.

  “What figures? What hocks with this Hockin?”

  I told him everything I knew as concerned Hockin Chynik.

  “So?” he said but he showed more interest than a gilt-edged bond.

  “Vengeance springs eternal. Two witnesses put the screws to him—me and Angelina Pisk. He puts her in my bathtub and puts me in the middle and like that he’s even-up. If I wriggle out, he can still come and get me. Back there during the time of the trial, preliminary probation report had him set up as a weirdo, a guy who fancied himself a fancy-dan, a guy with a kooky kink to his imagination, and a guy good with a gun, good with an ice-pick, and good with his hands. All of that fits. Also, he’s an expert front-door man. So, some time during the night he tests that I’m not here, makes some pretext for bringing the girl along, opens my door and walks in with her, breaks her neck, strips her, lays her away in my bathtub, and walks out with her clothes. He’s sprung out of the can and he’s available for this action. Why not, Lieutenant?”

  “Yeah why not? So first check should be that bartender.”

  “You’re reading me real good, Lieutenant.”

  He gave instructions for the removal of Angelina Pisk and we went together to 202 West 23rd Street. On the way down I inquired as to whether he knew anything about the embezzlement of a hundred thousand dollars from the New York National and the disappearance of Charles R. Medford. He did not because New York is a big city with thousands of cops and he was Homicide and his business was murder and not embezzlement and vanished bankers.

  I smiled for him and said, “I was only asking on the off-chance, Lieutenant.”

  “No off-chance. I only know what I read in the papers. What’s your interest?”

  “Medford is a friend of mine.”

  “You and your cockeyed friends.”

  “You’re a friend, Lieutenant.”

  “Maybe I’m cockeyed too. Who isn’t?”

  At 202 West 23rd Street we knocked on the door of 2A which was Bartlett’s apartment but there was no answer. “This time of day,” I said, “a bartender figures to be home.”

  “You stay here,” said Parker. “I’ll get the janitor.”

  “Nowadays they’re called super.”

  “Super is for a market. Janitor is for a house. That’s the way I was brought up. I’m older than you. Stay here and I’ll go get the janitor.”

  The janitor quaking under the stress of a flashed badge shakily opened the door for us and we located Maximilian in bed dressed in yellow silk pajamas which were perforated by three bullets all of which were in him. He was in a coma but he was alive and we called for an ambulance and rode with him to the hospital. Parker watched while they operated but I stayed in a waiting room drinking coffee which did nothing for my jitters. Booze would have been more ameliorative but they do not serve booze in a hospital unless you are the patient. I drank my coffee and stomped about quietly and then an attendant came for me and led me to a sick-smelling room tainted with ether where Max lay surrounded by three doctors and Parker. Max was conscious and recognized me and smiled and winked bravely and when I asked about Chynik he drew a deep breath and said weakly, “He come last night. I had the night off. It was maybe twelve o’clock. Me and Angie was in bed and all of a sudden he was there with a gun in his hand. He made her get up and get dressed. Then he says goodbye to me and lets go with the gun. It hurt a lot. I couldn’t move. Once or twice I woke up and I tried but I couldn’t move. Now what about Angie? I want to know. Is she all right. The bastard didn’t hurt her, did he? If he did, I promise you … I promise …” Whatever the promise it was to remain unfulfilled. His body arched from the bed in a taut spasm, he sighed quiveringly, and he died. One of the doctors performed the last examination and then closed the lids of his eyes. Softly the doctor said, “That’s it, gentlemen. This poor guy’s worries are over.”

  Outside, Parker said, “You’re in the clear with me which puts you back on the spot as concerns this kookie Chynik. He’s knocked off the gal, he’s knocked off the guy who took his gal, but he’s missed out on implicating you. I think you’re smart enough to know how to watch your step.”

  “I think so, Lieutenant.”

  “This Chynik is now exclusively my business, Pete.”

  “Yes sir, Lieutenant.”

  “I said exclusively.”

  “I heard you, Lieutenant.”

  He took hold of my arm, but gently. “I know you, Peter. All too well. He dumped the gal in your tub so you consider it a personal affair. Will you kindly leave the guy to me?”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He let go my arm. He shrugged. “We seem to be dealing with a crazy bastard, a dangerous bastard. I’d hate to lose you, Pete. Why don’t you leave well enough alone? We’ll take care of this kook. I promise you we’ll concentrate like all hell.”

  “I promise the same, Lieutenant.”

  “I can’t talk you out of this, kid?”

  “You wouldn’t want me to lie to you, would you, Louie?”

  He shrugged again. “You’ll keep in touch?”

  “You bet,” I said.

  FOUR

  PARKER HAVING departed upon his business (and mine), I walked until I found a saloon (always a short walk in New York City) and had two swift drinks in memory of Maximilian Bartlett. I checked for the time: it was eleven-thirty. I checked for loose change: I had none. I gave the bartender a bill and he returned coins and I closed myself into the tavern telephone booth. I called the Brittany in Greenwich Village and asked for Michael Peabody and a sultry Southern voice said, “Just one minute, please,” and there ensued the usual ear-splitting jiggles and then the voice came back and said, “There’s no answer at Peabody, suh.”

  “Will you take a message, please?”

  “Most certainly, suh.”

  “Peter Chambers called.”

  “Is that you, suh?”

  “Correct. Mr. Peabody is to call me back at my office at any time after twelve o’clock. If I leave the office before he calls, I’ll call you again and give you a number where I’ll be. Got that?”

  “Yes suh, is that all?”

  “That’s it, thank you.”

  “Thank you, suh.” And she pulled the plug before I could hang up.

  I resisted the temptation to have one more drink in memory of Maximilian Bartlett, exchanged the cool comfortable confines of a saloon at noon for the seething tumult of the money-earners out-of-doors, flagged down one of our Lilliputian New York taxis, twisted my spine in acrobatic ingress, was cowed by the imperious sidelong glance of the driver, and whispered from the tangle of my knees and elbows in a space that would have cramped the muscles of a miniature midget: “New York National, 500 Fifth.” The lurch of the cab set my coccyx to the floorboards where I dwelt ruminatively on my journey to the bank. Once arrived I clambered forth, joints creaking back into outraged sockets, straightened up manfully, paid, and realigned my ego by the gift of a large gratuity (perhaps that is the reason behind the invention of public conveyances suitable only for spry dwarfs).

  I marched into the bank and once more my ego was pierced by more splinters than can rear their pointed heads at a Democratic rally in the Deep South. Have
you ever attempted an audience with the President of a Bank? An audience with the Pope in Rome is simple by comparison. I was pilloried from post to post until I arrived at an Executive Secretary, male, with all the attributes of a fluttering female worried about a delay in the menstrual cycle.

  “And why would you wish to see Mr. Sloan?” she, I mean he, said.

  “I would wish to see Mr. Sloan about Mr. Charles R. Medford who, it has been bruited about, has scampered off with like a hundred thousand clams.”

  “Oh about that,” said Executive Secretary and levitated out of foam-rubber-bottomed chair and for one extravagant moment I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead, wrinkling his nose, he sailed past me and frothed through a wood-paneled door and, dimpling, reappeared and said, “If you will kindly come this way, my dear sir.”

  In appreciation I patted his foam-rubbered-bottom and he fairly flew into the presence of Donald P. K. Sloan, foam-rubber seated on a highbacked swivel-throne, and in a falsetto trill of thrilling pronouncement intoned, “Mr. Sloan, this is Mr. Chambers.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Goldenfish,” said Mr. Donald P. K. Sloan.

  “Very welcome indeed, sir,” said the Goldenfish and flapped his fins and bowed and swam back to his foam-rubbered perch and I was alone with El Presidente.

  He was a skinny little guy, flap-cheeked and entirely bald, and his ulcer came through in a seemly series of hollow-echoing burps, all conservatively proper. Nobody can be the president of anything without appropriate flatulence, let alone the President of a Bank. He put fire to a king-sized filter-tip, laid upon me a long cold pontifical presidential stare, and then said, “Mr. Goldenfish has informed me that you are here, Mr. Chambers, because you may throw some light on the unfortunate incident involving Mr. Medford and a hundred thousand dollars of the bank’s money.”

  “Not quite,” I said, “but I’m going to try.”

  “Beg pardon? Try what?”

  “Throw some light on the unfortunate incident etcetera.”