Ed McBain - Downtown (15 page)

There were four Charles Nicholses listed in the Manhattan telephone directory, but none of them had an R for a middle initial.

Which meant that none of them was the Charles R. Nichols who was no relation to Jack Nichols the big movie star. Charles R. Nichols, who had been on _Mister _Ed years ago, and who had played a ghost's voice in Crandall's latest, as-yet-unreleased film, _Winter's _Chill. Connie suggested that perhaps the Nichols they wanted was listed in the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, or Staten Island directories instead. In which case, she and Michael could run over to Penn Station and check out the phone books there.

"The police will be watching the

217 railroad stations," Michael said. "Then I'll go alone." "The police know what you look like, they saw you driving me away from Crandall's office," he said. "Connie ... maybe I ..." "No," she said. "What I'm trying to say ..." "You're trying to say you love me." "Well ..."

"And you're worried about me. That's so nice, Michael. You say the sweetest things, really." "Connie, the point ..." "But I'm not afraid," she said. "So you don't have to ..." "I _am," he said. She looked at him. "Afraid," he said. She kept looking at him.

"The time to be afraid," he said, "is when you don't know what's happening. And when you feel helpless to stop whatever _is happening." "Then what we have to do is find _out what's happening. And _stop it from happening. Then you won't be afraid anymore and we can just make love all the time." He took her in his arms. He hugged her close. He shook his head. He sighed. He hugged her again.

"What was that other man's name?" she asked. "What man?"

"The one Crandall's wife told you about. The one who put up all the money for his war movie." "Oh. Yes."

"She told you he looked like a rabbi ..." "Yes, tall and thin and hairy ..." "Magruder!" Connie said. "No." "Magruder, yes!" "Connie, there are no rabbis named Magruder." "Then whose name is Magruder?" "I have no idea. But that's not _his name." "Then what _is his name?"

"I don't remember. It had something to do with the movie." "Yes, he put up the money for ..." "Yes, but not that. Something about _War _and-- _Solly's War! His first name is Solly! No, Solomon! _Solomon something!"

"Magruder!"

219 "No!" "I'm telling you it's Solomon Magruder!" "And I'm telling you no!" "Then what?" "I don't know." "Gruber!" she shouted. "Yes!" "Solomon Gruber!" "Yes!" "The phone book!" she said. "Be there," he said. "Please be there."

There were no Solomon Grubers listed in the Manhattan directory. There were a lot of S. Grubers, but no way of knowing which of them, if any, might be a Solomon. There was, however, a listing for a Gruber Financial Group, and another listing for a Gruber International, and yet another for a Gruber Foundation, all of which sounded like companies that might have had twelve million dollars to invest in a flop movie eleven years ago. Michael tried each of the three numbers. No answer. This was Christmas Day. But in studying the S. Gruber listings a second time-- "Look!" Connie said. "I see it."

"_This S. Gruber has the same address ..." "Yes."

"... as the Gruber Financial Group."

"But a different phone number," Michael said. "Let's call him." "Let's eat first," Connie said.

The S. Gruber whose address was identical to that of the Gruber Financial Group lived in Washington Mews, which was a gated little lane that ran eastward from number 10 Fifth Avenue to University Place. Connie explained that they were still in what she considered downtown Manhattan.

"As far as I'm concerned," she said, "it's all downtown till you get up to Forty-second Street. Then it starts to be _mid-town. This is the Sixth Precinct here. Driving a limo, I like to know where all the precincts are, in case I get some weirdo in the back. The precincts are funny in this city. For example, the First starts at Houston Street on the north and ends at Battery Park on the south. Which means if you

get killed, for example, on

221 Fulton Street, you have to run all the way uptown and crosstown to Ericsson Place to report it. Anyway, this is the Sixth, which is mostly silk stocking." They were walking up what could have been a little cobblestoned lane in a Welsh village. Doors that only appeared to be freshly painted flanked the pathway, their brass knockers and knobs gleaming in the noonday light. The cobblestones had been shoveled clean of snow. There were wreaths in the windows, electrified candles in them. The twinkling multicolored glow of illuminated Christmas trees behind diaphanous lace curtains. Classical music wafting through a street-level window opened just a crack. Swelling violins. And now a clarinet. Or maybe a flute. Dying with a dying fall on a Christmas Day already half gone. Michael wished he could identify the composition. Or even its composer. There were so many things he wished. Down in Sarasota he read __The New York _Times all the time, and he listened to WUSF 89.7, which was the public radio station, but he never could tell one piece of classical music from another. To him, they all sounded like somebody practicing. "A penny for your thoughts," Connie said.

"I was just vamping till ready," Michael said.

"I hope you're ready now," she said, "because here it is." A black door. A brass escutcheon on it. Solomon Gruber, engraved in script lettering.

To the right of the door, set into the doorjamb, a heavy brass bell button. Michael pressed his forefinger against it.

Inside, chimes began playing a tune you didn't have to be Harold Schonberg or even Newgate Callendar to recognize.

The tune was "Mary Had a Little Lamb." They listened to it. It sounded nice on the frosty Christmas air.

When the chimes reached "fleece as white," the door opened. The man standing there in the doorframe was not tall and thin and hairy, and he did not look like a rabbi, either. The man standing there was wearing a red

turtleneck sweater with a black

223 velvet smoking jacket over it. He had a very bushy handlebar moustache, which may have been why Albetha Crandall had thought he was hairy. Otherwise, he wore his hair in a crew cut that made him look like a German U-boat commander. Why she'd thought he was tall and thin was anyone's guess. Perhaps she'd meant in comparison to her husband, who was short and chubby. Solomon Gruber, if that's who this man turned out to be, was of medium height and build. Compact, one might say. Chunky. Like a bulldog. "Yes?" he said.

He looked as if he expected them to start singing Christmas carols. He looked as if he would close the door in their faces if they did. Or run up to the roof to pour boiling oil on them. "Mr. Gruber?" Michael asked. "Yes?" he said again. "My name is Michael Bond, I'm with __The New York _Times, I wanted to talk to you about _Winter's _Chill. This is Constance Keene, my assistant." Gruber blinked. "Come in," he said at once, and stepped aside to allow them entrance. "_Mary!" he shouted. "Come quick, it's __The New York _Times! Come in, come in, please," he said. Michael wondered if it was a crime to impersonate a person from __The New York _Times. Gruber's townhouse was furnished the way Michael hoped one day to furnish the house in Sarasota, now that Jenny was out of it and living with her fucking branch manager. In recent months, he had browsed through enough home furnishing magazines to know that the extremely modern furniture here in Gruber's living room was either Herman Miller or Knoll, all leather and glass and chrome and wood. The house in Sarasota was at the end of a dirt road that ran alongside the groves. Behind the house was a man-made lake that had been dug by the former owner of the groves. Sliding glass doors opened onto the lake. Modern furniture would look good in that house. He knew Connie liked modern because of the way her apartment was furnished. Now he wondered if she'd like the Sarasota house.

The walls in the Gruber living room

225 were done in rough white plaster, except for the fireplace wall, which was done in black marble, with a chrome surround for the hearth. A painting that looked like a genuine Matisse hung on one of the white walls. Another that looked like a real van Gogh hung on the wall adjacent to it. A Christmas tree was in the far corner of the room, near the windows facing the lane outside. A woman came in through a rosewood swinging door that led to the kitchen. She was wearing a long red gown that matched Gruber's red turtleneck sweater. She was taller than Gruber, and she had blonde hair--but she was not the woman who'd conned Michael in the bar last night. It occurred to Michael that there were a lot of blondes in the city of New York. Just as there seemed to be a lot of Charlies. Which was why he was here. "Mr. Gruber," he said, "I ..."

"Mary, this is Michael Bond," Gruber said, "and his assistant, Constance Keene." "How do you do," Mary said. Which was why the doorbell played "Mary Had a Little Lamb," Michael guessed. "Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Bond?" Gruber said. "Some hot toddy?" Mary said. She was smiling like one of the women in _The _Stepford _Wives. Michael wondered if she had wires and tapes inside her.

"Mary makes a great hot toddy," Gruber said. _He was smiling like a shark approaching a Sarasota beach at the height of the season. Probably because __The New York _Times was in his living room.

"I'd like to try a hot toddy," Connie said. "I've never had one." "One hot toddy coming up," Mary said. "Mr. Bond, what will you have?" "A diet Coke, if you've got one." "Will a diet Pepsi do?" "Yes, thank you."

"One hot toddy and one diet Pepsi coming up," she said, and went out into the kitchen. "From what I understand," Michael said, "the Gruber Group put up all the financing for Arthur Crandall's new film." "Boy oh boy oh boy, __The New York _Times," Gruber said, shaking his head. "On

Christmas _Day, no less. You guys

227 have sources not to be believed." "That's true, though, isn't it?"

"Yes, the Gruber _Financial Group-- it's Gruber _Financial Group, not Gruber _Group." "Yes, sir, Gruber _Financial Group." "Maybe you ought to jot that down," Gruber said. "Yes, sir, have you got a pencil and some paper?" "I've got some," Connie said, and reached into her shoulder bag and took from it a bill pad with the lettering CHINA DOLL LIMOUSINE across its top. She handed this to Michael together with a ballpoint pen that had tobacco shreds clinging to its tip.

"Gruber Financial Group, yes, sir," Michael said, and wrote it onto the pad.

Mary came out of the kitchen. She was carrying a tray with a mug and a glass on it. The mug had a cinnamon stick poking up out of it like the periscope on a miniature submarine.

"Here you are," she said, and extended the tray. Connie picked up the mug. Michael picked up the glass.

Mary put down the tray and said, "We were in Japan last year, Miss Keene. It's a lovely country."

"Thank you, I've never been there," Connie said, and sipped at the toddy. "This is very good," she said. "Would you like to taste this, Michael?" "No, thank you," Michael said. "Mr. Gruber, do you know a man named Charles Nichols?" "Huh?" Gruber said. "Charles R. Nichols." "What part of Japan do your people come from?" Mary asked. "I'm Chinese," Connie said. "Oh, dear," Mary said.

Gruber shot her a look that said _Now look what you've done, you've offended a Chink on the fucking _New _York _Times! Mary started to shrink, as if he'd thrown water on a witch. Michael hoped she wouldn't melt right down into the carpet, leaving only her red gown behind. Gruber turned back to Michael.

"Are you doing a piece on _Charlie?" he asked. There was a look on his face that said there was

no understanding the ways of __The New

229 York _Times. Charlie Nichols, who had been on _Mister _Ed years ago, and who now played the voice of a ghost in _Winter's _Chill? Of all the actors in the film, _this was who __The New York _Times had singled out for a piece? Incredible.

"Do you know where we can reach him?" Michael asked.

"Is this for the Arts and Leisure section?" Gruber asked. "Yes," Michael said. "That's the approach you're taking, huh?" "We thought we'd like to talk to him."

"I mean ... look, I certainly don't want to tell __The New York _Times what approach it should take. Far be it from me. But what _is the approach you're taking? I mean ... why _Charlie, of all people?" "Because of his _Mister _Ed affiliations," Michael said.

"He wasn't the horse or anything," Mary said.

"That's right, thank you, Mary," Gruber said. "I mean, he didn't do the _horse's voice, you know. He was just a regular actor."

"He had a bit part, in fact," Gruber said.

"This is all very good stuff," Michael said, writing. "It is?" Mary said, looking astonished.

"This begins to hit you after a while, doesn't it?" Connie said, and took another sip of the toddy. "You're supposed to stir it," Mary said. "With the cinnamon stick." "Oh," Connie said, and began stirring it.

"All he does is play one of the ghosts in _Chill," Gruber said. "One of the voices," Mary said. "There are ghost voices," Gruber said. "Trying to make her crazy." "The character." "The woman Jessica plays."

"Jessica Wales," Gruber explained.

"They're trying to make her crazy," Mary said.

"Like in _Gaslight," Michael said, nodding. "Oh _no!" Gruber said at once.

"No, no, no," Mary said. "Not at _all

like _Gaslight."

231

"This is a highly suspenseful film about a woman on the cutting edge of terror and deceit," Gruber said, sounding like the headline of an ad for the movie. "Is she mad or is she only too sane?" Mary said, sounding like another headline. "This makes your fingers sticky, doesn't it?" Connie said.

"A true departure for Arthur," Gruber said. "I don't know if you saw _War _and _Solitude, but ..." "No, I didn't."

"A beautiful film," Mary said, looking soulful.

"Wonderful, the man's a genius," Gruber said. "We lost a fortune, of course, but does this take away from the man's genius? Does _Jaws take away from the genius of Steven Spielberg?"

"But _Jaws didn't _lose money, did it?" Michael said.

"Exactly," Gruber said. "This beautiful film went down the tubes ..." "Not _Jaws." "No, _Solitude. Because of Vincent Canby's lousy ... excuse me, I bear no ill will toward the _Times, believe me. I lost twelve million dollars plus another two million in advertising and promotion, but Canby is entitled to his opinion, would I deprive a man of his right to free speech? I notice, of course, that six years later he thinks _Platoon is a masterpiece, but listen, bygones are bygones, we're talking about _Winter's _Chill now, am I right? Despite the fact, by the way, that in Cannes _Solitude almost walked off with all the marbles and _Cahiers called it the best war film ever made. This was six years _before Mr. Canby decided to fall in love with _Platoon, a genius before his time, Arthur Crandall, mark my words. And _Chill is an even better film." "There are murmurings, however," Michael said, and he saw panic flash suddenly in Gruber's eyes, "that whereas Crandall's last film was a class act"--quoting Albetha now--"this new one is crap, you'll pardon the ..." "Nonsense!" Gruber said. "Why, he's being compared to _Hitchcock!"