In the Midst of Death
Page 8

"Then why did he come here?"
"I have no idea. I'll tell you something. I distrusted him immediately. Not because he's crooked. We deal with crooks all the time. We have to deal with crooks, but at least they are rational crooks, and his behavior was irrational. I told Mr. Prejanian that I didn't trust Broadfield. I said I felt he was a kook, an oddball. I didn't want to get involved with him at all."
"And you said as much to Prejanian."
"Yes, I did. I would have been happy to believe that Broadfield had had some sort of religious experience and turned into a completely new person. Perhaps that sort of thing happens. Not very often, I don't suppose."
"Probably not."
"But he didn't even pretend that was the case. He was the same man he'd been before, cynical and breezy and very much the operator." He sighed. "Now Mr. Prejanian agrees with me. He's sorry we ever got involved with Broadfield. The man's evidently committed a murder, and, oh, even before that there was the unfortunate publicity which resulted from the charges that woman brought against him. It could all put us in something of a delicate position. We didn't do anything, you know, but the publicity can hardly work to our advantage."
I nodded. "About Broadfield," I said. "Did you see him often?"
"Not very often. He worked directly with Mr. Prejanian."
"Did he ever bring anyone to this office? A woman?"
"No, he was always alone."
"Did Prejanian or anyone from this office ever meet him elsewhere?"
"No, he always came here."
"Do you know where his apartment was?"
" Barrow Street, wasn't it?" I perked up at that, but then he said, "I didn't even know he had an apartment in New York, but there was something about it in the newspaper, wasn't there? I think it was someplace in Greenwich Village."
"Did Portia Carr's name ever come up?"
"That's the woman he murdered, isn't it?"
"That's the woman who was murdered."
He managed a smile. "I stand corrected. I suppose one cannot jump to conclusions, however obvious they seem. No, I'm sure I never heard her name before that item appeared in Monday's newspaper."
I showed him Portia's photo, torn from the morning's News. I added some verbal description. But he had never seen her before.
"Let me see if I have it all straight," he said. "He was extorting money from this woman. A hundred dollars a week, I believe it was? And she exposed him Monday, and last night she was murdered in his apartment."
"She said he was extorting money from her. I met her and she told me the same story. I think she was lying."
"Why would she lie?"
"To discredit Broadfield."
He seemed genuinely puzzled. "But why would she want to do that? She was a prostitute, wasn't she? Why should a prostitute try to impede our crusade against police corruption? And why would someone else murder a prostitute in Broadfield's apartment? It's all very confusing."
"Well, I won't argue with you on that."
"Terribly confusing," he said. "I can't even understand why Broadfield came to us in the first place."
I could. At least I had a good idea now. But I decided to keep it to myself.
Chapter 6
I stopped at my hotel long enough to take a quick shower and run an electric razor over my face. There were three messages in my pigeonhole, three callers who wanted to be called back. Anita had called again, and a police lieutenant named Eddie Koehler. And Miss Mardell.
I decided that Anita and Eddie could wait. I called Elaine from the pay phone in the lobby. It wasn't a call I wanted to route through the hotel switchboard. Maybe they don't listen in, but then again maybe they do.
When she answered I said, "Hello. Do you know who this is?"
"I think so."
"I'm returning your call."
"Uh-huh. Thought so. You got phone troubles?"
"I'm in a booth, but how about you?"
"This phone's supposed to be clean. I pay this little Hawaiian cat to come over once a week and check for bugs. So far he hasn't found any, but maybe he doesn't know how to look. How would I know? He's really a very little cat. I think he must be completely transistorized."
"You're a funny lady."
"Well, where are we without a sense of humor, huh? But we might as well be reasonably cool on the phone. You can probably guess what I called about."
"Uh-huh."
"The questions you were asking the other day, and I'm a girl who reads the paper every morning, and what I was wondering was, can any of this lead back to me? Is that something I should start worrying about?"
"Not a chance."
"Is that straight?"
"Absolutely. Unless some of the calls you made to find things out can work back toward you. You talked to some people."
"I already thought of that and sealed it off. If you say I got nothing to worry about, then I don't, and that's the way Mrs. Mardell's little girl likes it."
"I thought you changed your name."
"Huh? Oh, no, not me. I was born Elaine Mardell, baby. Not saying my father didn't change it a while back, but it was already nice and goyish by the time I came on the scene."
"I might come over later, Elaine."
"Business or pleasure? Let me reword that. Your business or mine?"
I found myself smiling into the telephone. "Maybe a little of both," I said. "I have to go out to Queens, but I'll give you a call afterward if I'm coming."
"Call me either way, baby. If you can't come, call. That's why they put- "
"Dimes in condoms. I know."
"Awww, you know all my best jokes," she said. "You're no fun at all."
MY subway car had been decorated by a lunatic with a can of spray paint. He'd had just one message for the world and he had taken pains to inscribe it wherever the opportunity had presented itself, restating his argument over and over again, working in elaborate curlicues and other embellishments.
WE ARE PEOPLE TWO, he informed us. I couldn't decide whether the last word was a simple spelling error or represented some significant drug-inspired insight.
WE ARE PEOPLE TWO.
I had plenty of time to ponder the meaning of the phrase, all the way out to Queens Boulevard and Continental. I got off the train and walked for several blocks, passing streets named after prep schools. Exeter, Groton, Harrow. I eventually got to Nansen Street, where Broadfield and his family lived. I don't know how they named Nansen Street.
The Broadfield house was a good one, set a ways back on a nicely landscaped lot. An old maple on the strip of lawn between the sidewalk and the street left no doubt about what time of year it was. It was all on fire with red and gold.
The house itself was two stories tall and thirty or forty years old. It had aged well. The whole block was composed of similar houses, but they differed sufficiently so that one didn't have the sense of being in a development.
Nor did I have the sense of being within the five boroughs of New York. It is hard to remember, living in Manhattan, just how high a percentage of New Yorkers inhabit one-family houses on tree-lined streets. Even politicians sometimes have trouble keeping this in mind.
I walked up a flagstone path to the front door and rang the bell. I could hear chimes sounding inside the house. Then footsteps approached the door, and it was drawn open by a slender woman with short dark hair. She wore a lime-green sweater and dark green pants. Green was a good color for her, matching her eyes, pointing up the shy wood-nymph quality she projected. She was attractive and would have been prettier still if she hadn't been crying recently. Her eyes were rimmed with red and her face was drawn.
I told her my name and she invited me inside. She said I would have to excuse her, that everything was a mess because it had been a bad day for her.
I followed her into the living room and took the chair she indicated. Despite what she'd said, nothing seemed to be a mess. The room was immaculate and very tastefully furnished. The decor was conservative and traditional without having a museum feel to it. There were photographs here and there in silver frames. A book of music stood open on the upright piano. She picked it up, closed it, put it away in the piano bench.
"The children are upstairs," she said. "Sara and Jennifer went to school this morning. They left before I heard the news. When they came home from lunch I kept them home. Eric won't start kindergarten until next year, so he's used to being at home. I don't know what they're thinking and I don't know what to say to them. And the telephone keeps ringing. I'd love to take it off the hook, but what if it's something important? I would have missed your call if I'd taken it off the hook. I just wish I knew what to do." She winced and wrung her hands. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice steadier now. "I'm in a state of shock. It's made me numb and jittery at the same time. For two days I didn't know where my husband was. Now I know that he's in a prison cell. And charged with murder." She made herself take a breath. "Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot. Or I could give you something stronger."
I said that coffee with whiskey in it would be good. She went to the kitchen and came back with two large mugs of coffee. "I don't know what kind of whiskey or how much to put in," she said. "There's the liquor cabinet. Why don't you pick out what you like?"
The cabinet was well stocked with expensive brands. This did not surprise me. I never knew a cop who didn't get a lot of liquor at Christmas. The people who are a little diffident about giving you cash find it easier to give you a bottle or a case of decent booze. I put a healthy slug of Wild Turkey in my cup. I suppose it was a waste. One bourbon tastes pretty much like another when you pour it in coffee.
"Is it good that way?" She was standing beside me, her own mug held in both hands. "Maybe I'll try some. I don't normally drink very much. I've never liked the taste of it. Do you think a drink would relax me?"
"It probably wouldn't hurt."
She held out her mug. "Please?"
I filled her mug and she stirred it with her spoon and took a tentative sip. "Oh, that's good," she said, in what was almost a child's voice. "It's warming, isn't it? Is it very potent?"
"It's about the same strength as a cocktail. And the coffee tends to counteract some of the effects of the alcohol."
"You mean you don't get drunk?"
"You still get drunk eventually. But you don't get tired out en route. Do you normally get drunk on one drink?"
"I can usually feel one drink. I'm afraid I'm not much of a drinker. But I don't suppose this will hurt me."
She looked at me, and for a short moment we challenged one another with our eyes. I didn't know then and do not know now precisely what happened, but our eyes met and exchanged wordless messages, and something must have been settled on the spot, although we were not consciously aware of the settlement or even of the messages that preceded it.
I broke the stare. I took the note her husband had written from my wallet and handed it to her. She scanned it once quickly, then read it through more carefully. "Twenty-five hundred dollars," she said. "I suppose you'll want that right now, Mr. Scudder."