Authors: William Hjortsberg
There was a lot of congestion in the two blocks between Fifth and Grand Central and traffic slowed to a near-standstill. “You shoulda seen it here yesterday,” Round-face said by way of explanation. “Saint Paddy’s Day parade. It was a mess all afternoon.”
Margaret Krusemark’s cab turned uptown again at the corner of Lexington Avenue, and I saw it pull to a stop in front of the Chrysler Building. The roof light went on. She was getting out.
“Right here is fine,” I said, and Round-face pulled over in front of the Chanin Building. It read a buck and a half on the meter. I gave him seven bills and told him to keep the change. He’d earned it even if he was a gouger.
I started across Lexington Avenue. The other cab was gone, and Margaret Krusemark was nowhere in sight. It didn’t matter. I knew where she was heading. Passing through the revolving doors, I checked the directory in the angular marble-and-chromium lobby. Krusemark Maritime, Inc. was on the forty-fifth floor.
It wasn’t until I stepped off the elevator that I changed my mind about confronting the Krusemarks. It was too early to tip my hand, not that I held anything worth betting on. The daughter found out I was looking for Johnny Favorite and ran straight to daddy. Whatever she had to tell him was too hot for the office switchboard or she’d have phoned. I was thinking how much I’d give to hear the small talk around the family conference table when I spotted a window washer on his way to work.
He was bald and middle-aged, with the retread nose of a retired boxer. He ambled down the gleaming corridor whistling last summer’s big hit, “Volare,” a halftone flat. He wore dirty green coveralls, and his safety harness dangled like a pair of unfastened suspenders.
“Got a minute, buddy,” I called, and he paused mid-note and regarded me with lips still pursed, as if waiting for a kiss. “Bet you can’t tell me whose picture is on a fifty-dollar bill.”
“What is this? ‘Candid Camera’?”
“Not a chance. I’m just betting you don’t know whose face is on a fifty.”
“Okay, wise guy; it’s Thomas Jefferson.”
“You’re wrong.”
“So? Big deal. What’s this all about?”
I got out my wallet and removed the folded half-century note I carry for emergencies and occasional bribes and held it up so he could see the denomination. “I thought maybe you’d like to find out who the lucky president was.”
The window washer cleared his throat and blinked. “Are you off your rocker or something?”
“How much do you get paid?” I asked. “Come on, you can tell me. It’s not top-secret, is it?”
“Four-fifty an hour, thanks to the union.”
“How’d you like to make ten times that? Thanks to me.”
“Yeah? And just what do I gotta do for that much dough?”
“Rent me your outfit for an hour and take a walk. Go downstairs and buy yourself a beer.”
He rubbed the top of his head although it needed no further polishing. “You are some kinda nut, aintcha?” There was a hint of real admiration in his voice.
“What difference does it make? All I want is to rent your rig, no questions asked. You make half a yard for sitting on your duff for an hour. How can you beat that?”
“Okay. You got a deal, buddy. Long as you’re giving it away, I’m a guy who’ll take it.”
“Smart move.”
The window washer jerked his head for me to follow and led me back down the corridor to a narrow door close by the fire exit. It was a custodial closet. “Leave all my gear in there when you’re done with it,” he said, unstrapping his safety harness and peeling off the dirty coveralls.
I hung my overcoat and suit jacket on top of a mop handle and pulled on the coveralls. They were stiff and smelled faintly of ammonia, like pajamas after an orgy.
“Better take off your tie,” the window washer cautioned. “Unless you wanna look like you’re running for office in the local.”
I stuffed the necktie into my coat pocket and had the window washer show me how to use the safety harness. It seemed quite simple. “You ain’t planning on going outside, are you?” he asked.
“You kidding? I just want to play a gag on a lady friend. She’s a receptionist on this floor.”
“Fine with me,” the window washer said. “Just leave the stuff in the closet.”
I tucked the folded fifty into his shirt pocket. “You and Ulysses Simpson Grant go have a party.” His expression was blank as a poleaxed beef. I told him to look at the picture on the bill. He sauntered off whistling.
I removed my .38 before stashing the attaché case under the concrete sink. The Smith & Wesson Centennial is a handy piece. Its two-inch barrel fits conveniently in a pocket and, being hammerless, there’s nothing to hang up in the fabric when you make your play. Once I had to cut loose with the gun still in my jacket. Rough on my wardrobe, but a lot better than being fitted for one of those backless funeral home suits.
I slipped the little five-shot into my coveralls and transferred the contact mike to the other pocket. Bucket and brush in hand, I strolled down the corridor toward the impressive bronze and glass entrance of Krusemark Maritime, Inc.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The receptionist looked right through me as I crossed the carpeted lobby between glass-cased tanker models and clipper ship prints. I winked at her, and she spun away on her swivel chair. The frosted doors to the inner sanctum had bronze fouled anchors mounted in place of handles, and I pushed through humming a sea chanty under my breath. “Yo ho, blow the man down …”
Beyond was a long hallway with offices opening off either side. I ambled along, swinging my bucket and reading the names on the doors. They were all the wrong names. At the end of the hall was a large room where a pair of Teletypes clattered like robot secretaries. A wooden ship wheel stood against one wall, and more clipper ships hung on the others. There were several comfortable chairs, a glass-topped table spread with magazines, and a pert blonde slicing envelopes with a letter opener behind an L-shaped desk. Off to one side was a polished mahogany door. At eye level, raised bronze letters said: ETHAN KRUSEMARK.
The blonde glanced up and smiled, spearing a letter like a lady D’Artagnan. The stack of mail beside her was a foot high. My hopes of being alone with the contact mike went right out the window, an image I would soon regret.
The blonde ignored me, busy with her simple task. Clipping the bucket to my belt harness, I pulled open a window and closed my eyes. My teeth were chattering, but it wasn’t from the rush of cold air.
“Hey! Please hurry up,” the blonde called. “My papers are blowing all over the place.”
Holding tight, I ducked under the bottom rail and sat backward on the sill, my legs still inside the security of the office. I reached up and hooked one strap of the safety harness to the outside casing. There was only the thickness of glass separating me from the blonde inside, but she might as well have been a million miles away. I switched hands and clipped in the other strap.
Standing up took everything I had in me. I tried remembering wartime buddies in the Airborne who walked away from hundreds of jumps without a scratch, but it wasn’t any help. The thought of parachutes only made it worse.
There was barely room for my toes on the narrow ledge. I pushed down the window, and the comforting sound of the Teletypes inside was lost in the gusty wind. I told myself not to look down. That was the first place I looked.
The shadowed canyon of 42nd Street yawned beneath me, pedestrians and traffic reduced to ant specks and crawling metallic beetles. I looked east to the river, past the vertical brown-and-white stripes of the Daily News Building and the glistening, green slab of the United Nations Secretariat. A toylike tugboat steamed along, hauling a string of barges in its silver wake.
The strong, icy wind stung my face and hands and tore at my clothing, making the wide cuffs on my coveralls snap like battle flags. It wanted to tear me from the face of the building and send me sailing out over the rooftops, past the circling pigeons and billowing smokestacks. My legs trembled with cold and fear. If the wind didn’t take me, I would soon vibrate free from my white-knuckled perch. Inside, the blonde sliced open the mail without a care in the world. As far as she was concerned, I was already gone.
Suddenly, it seemed very funny: Harry Angel, the Human Fly. I remembered a circus ringmaster’s stentorian hoopla, “… where
angels
fear to tread,” and laughed out loud. Easing back against the safety harness straps, I found to my joy that they supported me. It wasn’t so bad. Window washers did it all day long.
I felt like a mountain climber on an incredible first ascent. Several floors above, radiator-cap gargoyles jutted from the corners of the skyscraper, and beyond them, the building’s stainless steel spire tapered into the sunlight, shining like the ice-clad summit of an unconquered peak.
It was time to make my move. I undipped the righthand harness strap, bringing it over and attaching it to the same fastening which held the other. Then, inching along the sill, I undipped the inner strap and reached across the void to the casing on the next window over. I blindly felt the brickwork until I found the fastener and clipped my strap to it.
Secured to both windows, I stepped across with my left foot. Unclip, clip, step over with the right foot: done. The entire traverse took no more than seconds, but it might have been a decade.
I looked into the office of Ethan Krusemark as I fastened the left-hand safety strap to the opposite casing of his window. It was a large corner room with two more windows on this wall and another three on the Lexington Avenue side. His desk was a vast, oval slab of Pentelic marble, completely bare except for an executive six-button telephone and a patined bronze statuette of Neptune waving his trident above the waves. A recessed bar near the door glittered with crystal. French impressionists hung on the walls. No clipper ships for the boss.
Krusemark and his daughter sat on a long beige couch set against the far wall. A pair of brandy snifters glistened in front of them on a low marble table. Krusemark looked much like his portrait: a ruddy-faced, aging pirate crowned with a mass of well-combed silver hair. To my way of thinking, the resemblance was more Daddy Warbucks than Clark Gable.
Margaret Krusemark had abandoned her solemn black outfit in favor of a peasant blouse and embroidered dirndl, but she still wore the upside-down gold pentacle. Occasionally, one of them looked straight across the room at me. I brushed soapy water on the glass in front of my face.
I got the contact mike out of my coveralls and plugged in the earphone. Wrapping the instrument in a large rag, I pressed it to the glass and pretended to wipe the window. Their voices sounded so clear and sharp, I could easily have been sitting next to them on the couch.
Krusemark was speaking: “… and he knew the date of Jonathan’s birth?”
Margaret toyed nervously with the golden star. “He had it exactly,” she said.
“It would be no trouble to look up. You’re sure he’s a detective?”
“Evangeline Proudfoot’s daughter said he was. He knows enough about Jonathan to have gotten to her asking questions.”
“What about the doctor in Poughkeepsie?”
“He’s dead. Suicide. I called the clinic. It happened earlier this week.”
“Then we’ll never know if the detective spoke with him or not.”
“I don’t like it, Father. Not after all these years. Angel knows too much already.”
“Angel?”
“The detective. Please pay attention to what I’m telling you.”
“I’m digesting it all, Meg. Just give me time.” Krusemark sipped his brandy.
“Why not get rid of Angel?”
“What good would it do? This town is crawling with two-bit private eyes. It’s not Angel we need to worry about, but the man that hired him.”
Margaret Krusemark gripped her father’s hand in both of hers. “Angel will be back. For the horoscope.”
“Draw it up for him.”
“I already have. It was so much like Jonathan’s, only the birthplace differed. I could have done it from memory.”
“Good.” Krusemark drained his brandy. “If he’s any good at all, he’ll have found out you have no sister by the time he comes back for the chart. Play him along. You’re a clever girl. If you can’t trick the information out of him, slip a drop of something in his tea. There are many ways to make a man talk. We must know the name of his client. We can’t let Angel die until we find out who he’s working for.” Krusemark stood up. “I have several important meetings coming up this afternoon, Meg, so unless there’s something else …”
“No, there’s nothing else.” Margaret Krusemark got to her feet and smoothed her skirt.
“Fine.” He draped an arm around her shoulder. “Call me as soon as you hear from the detective. I picked up the art of persuasion in the Orient. We’ll see if I’ve lost my touch.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Come, I’ll walk you out. What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I thought I might go over to Saks and do some shopping. After that —” The rest of it was lost as the heavy mahogany door closed behind them.
I stuffed the rag-wrapped contact mike into my coveralls and tried the window. It was not latched and opened with a little effort. I undipped one side of the safety harness and swung my trembling legs inside. A moment later, I had the other strap undipped and was standing in the relative safety of Krusemark’s office. The risk had paid off; playing window washer was a picnic compared with finding out about Krusemark’s Oriental artistry first-hand.
I shut the window and glanced around. As much as I wanted to do some snooping, I knew there wasn’t time. Margaret Krusemark’s brandy snifter sat barely touched on the marble table. No drop of something slipped in that. I breathed its fruity aroma and took a sip. The cognac slid like velvet fire across my tongue. I downed it in three quick swallows. It was old and expensive and deserved much better treatment, but I was in a hurry.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The blonde secretary merely glanced at me when I slammed the polished mahogany door. Perhaps she was accustomed to window washers having the run of her boss’s office. I bumped into Ethan Krusemark himself striding back down the long corridor with his chest thrust forward like he had a row of invisible medals pinned to his grey flannel suit. He grunted in passing. I suppose he expected me to tug my forelock. Instead, I said, “Fuck you!” but it rolled off him like spit off a duck.