Death of an Old Sinner (7 page)

“My own humble sentiments,” the General said, and they proceeded to discuss the length and further content of the diary. The old man listened carefully. He wanted consistency as well as flexibility for his future action. And finally, cautioning both himself and the agent, he said: “Of course we shall want to keep our dignity in this. Nothing vulgar. And I must consider Jimmie and his career.”

“I was just wondering about him,” Fowler said. “How does he feel about the project?”

The General shrugged. “Neither one way nor the other.”

“In other words, you haven’t confided your…discovery to him.” The agent grinned. “I’ve not invested in your postmilitary career for nothing, General.”

“It’s time some of the profits went back into the firm then,” the General growled. He wondered if Fowler suspected the true composition of the diary. It would be just as well if he did; he would not dare say so, and a little caution there might edit his own exuberance.

“As soon as there are profits, General. When do I get to read this book of revelations?”

“Do you want to see it in manuscript?”

“Preferably not—but someone will have to authenticate it, besides yourself.”

“Of course! And someone will damn well have to pay for its transcription.”

“I can probably manage that,” Fowler said dryly. The General got to his feet. “It’s too bad,” Fowler went on, taking him to the door, “this Rocco business just now. Tell me, was Jimmie really on his way to the governor’s office, or was that press agentry?”

“Jimmie Jarvis
is
on the way to the governor’s office, Fowler.”

“Then you don’t think Rocco’s murder will seriously hurt him?”

“Rocco’s murder?” the General repeated.

“That’s the way I heard it on the radio this morning. Seems like he got taken on an old-fashioned ride, black limousine, the works.”

“A black limousine?” The General again echoed Fowler’s words. His brain seemed full of lightning thoughts, and not a one he could hold onto. “I’ll be in touch with you later, Fowler,” he murmured, and made his way quickly out and to the street. There he bought the latest edition of the papers. The Rocco murder was headlined. He took all the papers back to his club to read.

Jibber-jabber, most of it, all middle without head or tail, showing clearly but one thing, the bias of the paper: the story was slanted against Jimmie or in his defense, but every newspaper account pointed out the connection between the gangster’s murder and Jimmie’s political fortunes.

It was a matter of some curiosity, the General thought, that Nick Casey owned a black limousine. And while he, the General, had seen it on Manhattan’s east side after ten o’clock, he, the general, also knew that the distance between there and the Red Hook district of Brooklyn, where Rocco had been seen getting into a limousine at midnight, could be driven in less than an hour. He had done it himself not much earlier.

Very interesting.

The club lounge was filling up, the luncheon hour approaching. Another call came from his broker’s office. Flora was very persistent. This time he said he would call within the hour. He moved to a solitary place by the window. It was interesting, too, that by a strange combination of circumstances, Casey himself had the most honorable of witnesses as his whereabouts at midnight: he was in a police station pleading innocent to charges of prurient spying.

Oh yes, he must soon call Flora. But first he must call Jimmie, poor boy. The General drew a deep breath and with it caught in the fragrance of flowers. Carnations he thought, and looked about for the vase. True enough, green carnations. What a perpetration, turning to bilious green nature’s loveliest bloom. But of course, tomorrow was St. Patrick’s Day.

The General put through a call to Nyack. It was Mrs. Norris who answered. “Well,” he said, “how did you find your family? Or better, how did you leave them?”

“You no doubt want to speak to your son,” Mrs. Norris said, and it would have taken a hatchet to crack the ice in her voice. Surely Robbie had not betrayed him to her?

“Hello, father.” Jimmie’s voice sounded straining with tolerance.

“I’m sorry for all your trouble, my boy.”

“Then maybe you’ll tell me what you were doing in Brooklyn last night, father.”

“Brooklyn?”

“The District Attorney’s men got your license number. They are not unreasonable in the conclusion that either you were there—or I was.”

“But, but,” said the General, “you have witnesses to where you were, don’t you?”

“It so happens that I was home alone, here in Nyack, that I expected a phone call which I deliberately did not answer when it came.”

“Oh,” said the General, grabbing anything that might float him. “The phone is tapped, is it? We had better not talk then. I’ll explain everything when I see you.”

“The phone is not tapped!” Jimmie said, “and I don’t care if it is.”

“Where was Mrs. Norris when you needed
her
last night?”

“She stayed over with her sister until this morning. Father, where were you?”

“I’m sorry not to have been there, my boy. I was at my club most of the night as a matter of fact. I spent the night here. I want to help you every way I can, you understand…”

“All right, father, stow it. Are you going to review the parade tomorrow or not?”

“Would you doubt it? I’d march for you if I had but one leg.”

“You won’t have to march,” Jimmie said wearily. “Now listen to me. I’ve engaged rooms for us at the Mulvany Hotel, adjoining rooms. We’ll be right on Fifth Avenue. You can check in any time you like. I’ll have Mrs. Norris pack your things and I’ll bring them. Here’s Mrs. Norris. Tell her what you need…”

“ ‘Tell her what you need,’ ” the General mimicked. He had hired her as a nurse for his son, and he was damned if he was going to have her turned into a nurse for him forty odd years later. She would right now be full of tears and self-recriminations for having let the boy down. The General could not resist giving a jab with the needle: “Your brother-in-law must have been highly entertaining last night, Mrs. Norris.”

“He was not at home, sir. Indeed, it’s why I stayed. My sister was very worried when he did not come home from his work till long after his usual hour.”

“Could he not have called at least?” said the General, remembering the wealth of telephones in Robbie’s establishment.

“I think that’s a good question for all of us to ask ourselves, sir.”

The General cleared his throat and named a few items she was to pack for him. Plainly he had walked into something foul yesterday, up at least to his pockets. And it was just as plain he had to get out of it quickly or else pull Jimmie in with him. He probably needed the help of a confidential investigator, and for that he needed money. He took the small bag of toilet essentials he kept at the club with him, got his dispatch case from the safe, looked to be sure the diary and ink were in it, and went to the Mulvany Hotel. The hotel arrangement was fine: a private club was not private enough for some transactions.

He debated with himself while waiting the preparation of his room, which of his calls to make first and decided on Fowler. Having a dime, he made the call from a public phone. He caught the agent on his way out to lunch, and came directly to the point: “Augie, for one thousand dollars cash this afternoon, I am willing to sign over to you one half my interests in the diary.”

There was a long pause before the agent spoke. “Where is the diary now, General?”

“I will deliver it into your hands by five o’clock this afternoon.” Long before then, he thought, he could make the entries of his and Robbie’s composition.

“Then I will make you a personal loan against the publisher’s advance on the property, General. However, the customary ten percent of your earnings on it will satisfy me.”

“You are an honest man, Augie.”

“In some things I suppose I am,” the agent said dryly. “See you at five.”

The General decided he had better do his copy work immediately. There was an unsteadiness to his hand he did not like. With more stress it would not improve. He took a warm bath, came from it relaxed, satisfied as to his ability to do such exacting work, double-bolted the doors and set to the task. Only when it was finished did he turn to the other call he had to make. Flora seemed a very long time answering.

N
OT FOR A MOMENT
did Jimmie believe that the district attorneys of three counties were out to get him, and he told Mike Zabriski as much that afternoon. It was one thing to reopen an investigation for political purposes, but quite another to pin a murder on a man.

“I wouldn’t say that was being done to you, young fella,” Mike said.

“The afternoon papers come mighty close to it.”

“Bread and butter headlines,” Mike said.

“Mike, why was Judge Turner so determined to get me home by eleven last night?”

Mike rolled a protruding lower lip even lower. “I guess the Judge would be the one to answer that, Jimmie.” He nodded toward the conference room adjoining his office. “Look here now, don’t get any notions like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like that the Judge had information that Rocco was going to be bumped off,” Mike said bluntly.

“If I allowed myself to think that for an instant,” Jimmie said, “I would resign—if possible from the human race itself.”

“That’s my brave young fella,” Mike said. He was once again proud of his candidate. He pointed to the phone on his desk. “Try the General again.”

Jimmie swore softly and dialed the Mulvany Hotel. It was the third time he had tried to reach his father, having had to go himself directly to Mike’s office to a Party executive conference. Again the hotel switchboard reported that General Jarvis was not taking any calls. What really worried Jimmie was that his father might have been trapped into some sort of complicity either by flattery or the lure of money; he was always in great need of both. Jimmie shook his head.

“I don’t see much point in doing anything till you get that straightened out,” Mike said.

“There’s one thing needs to be found out if they don’t already know it,” Jimmie said, “what Rocco has been doing lately.”

Mike nodded his head ponderously. “I guess you know I’ve got an informant in the D.A.’s office?”

“I know such characters exist,” Jimmie said. He knew damn well Mike had inside information.

“It’s a funny sort of business they haven’t really got hold of—it looks like he’s been running a protection racket for bookies.”

Jimmie whistled. “No wonder they haven’t got hold of it. It’s too hot.” After all, who did bookies need most protection from? The police. Jimmie got up and rubbed his hands together. “Mike, do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to offer my services as a special investigator to the D.A.’s office.” Mike nodded approval. Jimmie asked: “What do you say we give that to the newspapers?”

“Better see first what comes out of this meeting,” Mike said, getting up, checking his watch, and leading the way into the conference room.

A hasty session of the Party executives in New York at the time had been called. They sat now, their eyes downcast. Jimmie wondered if he would be ditched there and then. But all that happened was that a policy chairman, pro tem, was elected, through which activities and news releases affecting the party must be cleared. In other words, Jimmie thought, from now on, he must live as though even moths and flies had camera eyes. How poetic a thought! His champion of the hour was Madeline Barker. And since, as well, she was put in nomination by Mike for the chairmanship, and the move to close nominations was made by the Judge, Jimmie certainly could not oppose her. But he remembered well her behavior at Albany. And Helene’s remark about blackmail…he had not had the chance to pursue that. Well, she might be a fragile Barker—Miss Madeleine, but she had got herself a convoy of some mighty sturdy old men-of-war.

She approved his offering of his services to the District Attorney, but with one qualification: “unless your father—the old dear—is implicated.”

If his father—the old dear—was implicated, Jimmie swore, taking a cab crosstown to the Mulvany, he intended to know it within the hour. The bags he had sent ahead were already in his and the General’s rooms. The old dear had answered his bell for that all right. Jimmie watched the clerk get him the key to 517. He was about to turn away when he saw the key lying in the next box. “Doesn’t my father have room 519?”

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said, glancing at the box. “The General seems to be out at the moment.”

“Without leaving a message for me?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“Or word as to when he would return?”

“No, sir, no word at all.”

The villainous rogue, Jimmie thought, and then tried to restrain his judgment until he reached his own room and looked to see if there were a message under the door there. But there was none.

Jimmie looked at his watch. It was almost five. He would have liked very much to get on with his investigative offer today, so he sat down to sweat out his father’s return. When the General had not returned by six, Jimmie called his club. He was not there. At seven Jimmie called Mrs. Norris. She had not heard from him. Jimmie promised to call her back. By eight o’clock Jimmie’s anger was being tempered by concern. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how little he knew of his father’s activities. He was reasonably sure the old man had a mistress, but both he and his father respected each other’s privacy. It was, Jimmie thought grimly, the only possible way they could live together. He wondered then if Mrs. Norris would know. She knew a good many things she considered unmentionable. He called her again.

“Do you think he has a friend he might be with?”

“A female friend?” Mrs. Norris asked.

God, Jimmie thought, but the English language was ugly when used like a blunt instrument. “That’s what I had in mind,” he said.

“If I have your permission I’ll go through his things and call you back,” she said.

Jimmie thought of his father’s wrath at the discovery of that exploration. “I don’t think I’d better be a party to that, Mrs. Norris.”