Authors: William Hjortsberg
The front was dim and empty. There was a pile of unopened mail on the glass countertop. I checked it with my flash: a phone bill, several letters from herbal supply houses, a printed message from Congressman Adam Clayton Powell, and an appeal from the March of Dimes. On the bottom was a cardboard poster. My heart turned a sudden cartwheel. The face on the poster was Louis Cyphre!
He wore a white turban. His skin looked burnished by the desert wind. Across the top of the poster was printed: EL CIFR, MASTER OF THE UNKNOWN. The bottom bore this message: “The illustrious and All-knowing el Çifr will address the congregation at the New Temple of Hope, 139 West 144th St., Saturday, March 21, 1959. 8:30 P.M. The public is cordially invited to attend. ADMISSION: FREE.”
I slipped the poster inside my attaché case. Who can resist a free show?
THIRTY
After locking Epiphany Proudfoot’s apartment, I walked up to 125th Street and caught a cab outside the Palm Cafe. The ride downtown on the West Side Highway gave me lots of time to think. I stared out at the Hudson, darker than the night sky, the brightly lighted stacks of luxury liners like floating carnivals between the pier sheds.
A carnival of death. Step right up and see the voodoo death ceremony! Hurry, hurry, hurry; don’t miss the Aztec sacrifice! First time ever! The case was a sideshow. Witches and fortunetellers; a client who dressed in blackface like the Sheik of Araby. I was the rube on this macabre midway, dazzled by the lights and sleight of hand. The shadow-play events screened manipulations I could barely discern.
I needed a bar close to home. The Silver Rail on 23rd and Seventh was within crawling distance. If I left on my hands and knees at closing time, it’s something I don’t remember. How I found my bed at the Chelsea remains a mystery. Only the dreams seemed real.
I dreamt I was awakened from a deep sleep by the sounds of shouting on the street. I went to the window and parted the curtain. A mob seethed from curb to curb, howling and incoherent like a single, sinuous beast. Through this throng inched a two-wheeled cart, hauled by an ancient sway-backed nag. In the car were a man and woman. I got my binoculars from the attaché case and had a closer look. The woman was Margaret Krusemark. The man was me.
In a moment of dream magic, I was suddenly in the cart, gripping the rough wooden rail while a faceless mob surged all around like an angry sea. Margaret Krusemark smiled seductively from the other side of the lurching cart. We were so close it was almost an embrace. Was she a witch on her way to burning? Was I the executioner?
The cart rolled on. Over the heads of the crowd I saw the guillotine’s unmistakable silhouette rising above the steps of the McBurney Y.M.C.A. The Reign of Terror. Unjustly condemned! The cart jogged to a stop at the foot of the scaffold. Rude hands reached up and hauled Margaret Krusemark from her precarious perch. The crowd hushed, and she was permitted to mount the steps unassisted.
Among the front ranks of the spectators, one revolutionary caught my eye. He was dressed in black and carried a pike. It was Louis Cyphre. His Liberty cap hung at a rakish angle, crowned by a bold tricolored badge. When he saw me, he waved his pike and gave a mock bow.
I missed the spectacle on the scaffold. Drums rolled, the blade crashed, and when I looked up, the executioner stood with his back to me, showing Margaret Krusemark’s head to an adoring crowd. I heard my name called and stepped from the cart to make room for a coffin. Louis Cyphre smiled. He was having a swell time.
The scaffolding was slick with blood. I nearly slipped as I turned to face the taunting crowd. A soldier caught my arm and directed me almost gently toward the table. “You must lie down, my son,” the priest said.
I knelt for a final prayer. The executioner stood beside me. A gust of wind lifted the black flap of his hood. I recognized the pomaded hair and mocking smile. The executioner was Johnny Favorite!
I woke up screaming louder than the ringing telephone. I lunged for the receiver like a drowning man after a life preserver.
“Hello … hello? Is this Angel? Harry Angel?” It was Herman Winesap, my favorite attorney.
“Angel speaking.” My tongue felt several sizes too large for my mouth.
“Good God, man, where’ve you been? I’ve been calling your office for hours.”
“I’ve been sleeping.”
“Sleeping? It’s practically eleven o’clock.”
“I was working late,” I said. “Detectives don’t keep the same hours as Wall Street lawyers.”
If his feathers were ruffled, he was sharp enough not to show it. “I appreciate that. You must do the job as you see fit.”
“What’s so important you couldn’t leave a message?”
“You mentioned yesterday wanting to get together with Mr. Cyphre?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, he suggested lunch today.”
“Same place as before?”
“No. Mr. Cyphre thought you might enjoy dining at Le Voisin. It’s at 575 Park.”
“What time?”
“One o’clock. You can still make it if you don’t fall back to sleep.”
“I’ll be there.”
Winesap hung up without his customary elaborate farewell. I dragged my aching self out of bed and limped to the shower. Twenty minutes of hot water and three cups of black coffee had me feeling almost human.
Wearing a pressed brown worsted suit, a white shirt crisp from the laundry, and an unstained necktie, I was ready for the snootiest French restaurant. I drove uptown on Park, through the old railway tunnel under Murray Hill and over the auto viaduct that swept around either side of Grand Central like a divided mountain highway. Four blocks further, the New York Central Building’s cupola top punctuated Park Avenue like a corbeled-Gothic exclamation point. The ramp inside spilled traffic onto upper Park, an avenue metamorphosing from a uniform canyon of brick and masonry to an antiseptic cordillera of glass-walled towers.
I found a parking spot near the Christian Science Church on the corner of 63rd and Park and walked east across the avenue. Le Voisin’s awning boasted a Park Avenue address, but the entrance was on 63rd Street. I went in and checked my coat and attaché case. Everything about the place suggested the excellence of its customers’ Dun & Bradstreet ratings.
The headwaiter greeted me with diplomatic reserve. I gave him Louis Cyphre’s name, and he led me past the pastry tray to a table on the banquette. Cyphre stood up when he saw us coming. He was wearing grey flannel slacks, a navy blue yachting blazer, and a red-and-green silk foulard ascot. The embroidered insignia of the Racquet and Tennis Club adorned his breast pocket. Highlighting his lapel was a small gold star. It was upside down.
“Good to see you again, Angel,” he said, gripping my hand.
We sat down and ordered drinks. I had a bottle of imported beer in deference to my hangover; Cyphre asked for Campari and soda. We made small talk while waiting. Cyphre told me of his plans for a trip abroad during Holy Week Paris, Rome, the Vatican. He called Easter Sunday in Saint Peter’s a truly splendid ceremony. An audience with the Pope was scheduled. I stared at him without expression and pictured his patrician face crowned by a turban. El Çifr, Master of the Unknown, meets his Holiness, the Supreme Pontiff.
We ordered lunch when the drinks arrived. Cyphre spoke to the waiter in French, and I couldn’t follow what was said. I know enough of the language to stumble through a menu and ordered
tournedos Rossini
and an endive salad.
As soon as we were alone, Cyphre said: “And now, Mr. Angel, a full report to date, if you please.” He smiled and sipped his ruby-red drink.
“There’s a lot to tell. It’s been a long week, and it’s not over yet. Dr. Fowler is dead. Officially, it’s suicide, but I wouldn’t place any bets on it.”
“Why not? The man was exposed, his career in jeopardy.”
“There have been two other deaths, both murders, and both connected to this case.”
“I take it that you haven’t found Jonathan?”
“Not yet. I’ve found out a lot about him, none of it very endearing.”
Cyphre twirled his swizzle-stick in his highball glass. “Do you think he’s still alive?”
“So it would seem. I went up to Harlem Monday night to interview an old jazz piano player named Edison Sweet. I’d seen a photo taken of him with Favorite years ago, and it got me interested. I did some snooping and found that Sweet was a member of an uptown voodoo cult. This was the real thing: tom-toms, blood sacrifice, the whole bit. Back in the forties, Johnny Favorite was part of it, too. He was shacked up with a voodoo priestess named Evangeline Proudfoot and was heavy into the mumbo-jumbo. I learned all this from Sweet. The next day he was murdered. It was supposed to look like a voodoo killing, but whoever did it wasn’t up on his vévé.”
“Vévé?” Cyphre raised an eyebrow.
“Mystical voodoo symbols. They were smeared all over the walls in blood. An expert spotted them as phony. It was a red herring.”
“You mentioned a second killing.”
“I’ll get to that; it was my other lead. I was curious about Favorite’s society girlfriend and did some digging in that direction. It took me a while to find her even though she was under my nose the whole time. She was an astrologer named Margaret Krusemark.”
Cyphre leaned forward like an eager back-fence gossip. “The shipbuilder’s daughter?”
“The one and only.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure she and her father were the pair who took Favorite out of the clinic in Poughkeepsie. I went to her pretending to be a client wanting a horoscope, and she managed to send me on a wild-goose chase for a time. When I finally got things straightened out, I went back to her apartment to see what I could find, and —”
“You broke in?”
“I used a twirl.”
“A what?”
“A skeleton key.”
“I see,” Cyphre said. “Please continue.”
“Okay. I let myself into her apartment, planning on going over the place with a fine-tooth comb, only it didn’t work out that way. She was in the living room, dead as a side of beef. Someone cut her heart out. I found that, too.”
“How revolting.” Cyphre wiped his lips with his napkin. “There was no mention of any heart in the papers today.”
“The homicide boys like to leave out certain details so they have some way to judge all the crackpot confessions that come in.”
“Did you call the police? I saw no mention of you in what I read.”
“No one knows I was there. I skipped. It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but the law already has me connected to the Sweet killing, and I didn’t want to set them up with a double-header.”
Cyphre frowned. “How exactly are you connected to the Sweet killing?”
“I gave him my business card. The cops found it at his place.”
Cyphre didn’t look happy. “And the Krusemark woman? Did you give her a card as well?”
“No. I’m clean on that score. I found my name on her desk calendar and a horoscope she’d drawn up, but I took them with me.”
“Where are they now?”
“They’re in a safe place. Don’t worry.”
“Why not destroy them?”
“That was my first thought. But the horoscope may lead somewhere. When Margaret Krusemark asked for my birthdate, I gave her Favorite’s.”
At this point the waiter arrived with our order. He uncovered the plates with a magician’s flourish, and a wine steward materialized bearing a bottle of Bordeaux. Cyphre went through the ritual of cork sniffing and mulling a sample swallow before nodding his approval. Two glasses were poured, and the waiters withdrew as silently as pickpockets frisking a crowd.
“Chateâu Margaux forty-seven,” Cyphre said. “Excellent year for the Haut-Medoc. I took the liberty of ordering something I thought would go well with both our meals.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m not much up on wine.”
“You’ll like this.” He lifted his glass. “To your continuing success. I trust you were able to keep my name out of things when the police contacted you?”
“When they tried to strong-arm me, I gave them Winesap’s name and said I was working for him. That way I was entitled to the same right to silence as a lawyer.”
“Quick thinking, Mr. Angel. And what are your conclusions?”
“Conclusions? I have no conclusions.”
“Do you think Jonathan killed all those people?”
“Not a chance.”
“Why not?” Cyphre speared a forkful of
pâté
.
“Because the whole deal seems made-to-order. I think Favorite is being set up as a fall guy.”
“Interesting hypothesis.”
I sipped a swallow of wine and met his glacial stare. “Trouble with it is, I don’t know why. The answers are buried in the past.”
“Uncover them. Spadework, man.”
“My job would be a whole lot easier, Mr. Cyphre, if you’d stop holding out on me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You haven’t been much help at all. Everything I know about Johnny Favorite I had to find out on my own. You never gave me a clue. Yet you were mixed up with him. Had a deal going. You and this simple orphan kid who cuts pigeons apart and carries a skull in his suitcase. There’s a lot you won’t tumble to.”
Cyphre crossed his silverware on his plate. “When I first met Jonathan he was working as a busboy. If there were skulls in his suitcase, I knew nothing of them. I’ll be more than happy to tell you anything you care to ask.”
“Okay. Why are you wearing an upside-down star?”
“This?” Cyphre glanced at his lapel. “Why, you’re right, it’s on crooked.” He turned it carefully upright in his buttonhole. “It’s the insignia of the Sons of the Republic. One of those zealous patriotic organizations. They made me an honorary member for assisting with a fund drive. It never hurts to appear patriotic.” Cyphre leaned forward, his smile whiter than a toothpaste ad. “In France, I always wear the tricolor.”
I stared at his dazzling smile, and he winked at me. An icy nightmare terror ran through my body like an electric current. I felt frozen, unable to move, mesmerized by Cyphre’s immaculate smile. It was the smile at the foot of the scaffold.
In France, I always wear the tricolor
.
“Are you all right, Mr. Angel? You look a bit pale.”