THURSDAY, MARCH 3, 1932
VALLEY GREEN, NEW JERSEY
That evening, I woke up still seeing the bloody doll and the pale figure and Fordham Evans’s cold, naked body hanging by his hands, and I was no closer to understanding what the hell any of it meant. Another hot shower and shave revived me, but I was still worried and confused. It was almost fully dark by the time I’d dressed in a warmer turtleneck and my good charcoal gray double-breasted. I put my notepad and fountain pen in a breast pocket, dropping the Detective Special in the right-hand coat pocket, knucks in the left pants pocket.
Mrs. Pennyweight called as I opened the door, and I went down the short hall to her suite. Across the balcony, the door to her daughter’s room was open. I could see an empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot upturned in an ice bucket and two more on the floor.
The door to the nursery was open too. It looked and smelled like a cleaning crew had been at work. The bloody table and curtains were gone, and the wall had been scrubbed clean.
In Mrs. Pennyweight’s rooms, a wall of louvered windows and French doors opened onto a terrace with a view of the lake. The wallpaper, furniture, and carpets were pale blue and light tan. Everything looked new. She had a desk, a low table, and a sideboard for her sherry and console radio. Her armchair faced a crackling fireplace. The tray that Connie Nix had been preparing that morning was on the table. Scattered around it were sections of the New York newspapers. I took the Daily News, the Mirror, and the Times. She had a robe tucked around her legs and wore a heavy sweater. She looked at me over glasses that had slipped down to the tip of her nose. I could see a bit of her bedroom through an open door. They’d moved the crib up to her room from the library. The baby was in it, playing with his feet.
The mantel was crowded with photographs. One was a formal portrait of an older woman draped in dark, heavy clothes. Given the style of her dress, I guessed she was Mrs. Pennyweight’s mother. There was also a wedding picture of Spence and Flora. The largest photograph, in the center of the mantel, showed two dazzlingly pretty teenage girls, Flora and Mandelina. They were wearing light summer dresses and laughing in the sunshine. Arms around each other, they seemed simply to be two happy girls, not stiff young ladies posing for a photograph. Mandelina was slimmer and a little shorter than her younger sister. I was about to pick up the picture when Mrs. Pennyweight said, “Please don’t touch that.”
There was no trace of her recently departed husband anywhere in the room.
“Did you hear about your friend, Fordham Evans?” I asked.
“Yes, I’ve spoken to Sheriff Kittner. I can’t for the life of me understand why anyone would want to mutilate that poor man.”
“Yeah,” I said, “took a pretty strong stomach.”
“Fordham simply wasn’t the type to inspire great passion. He pottered around with his poetry and drank far too much.”
“And broke into houses, and stripped naked from time to time.”
She waved me away. “He was simply befuddled by alcohol. The other thing was just eccentricity. Whatever may be threatening us, Fordham is not a part of it. Of that I am positive. What did you do to make the sheriff so angry at you?”
“I don’t like bullies. I really don’t like bullies with badges. What’s the story with him? Why does a place as small as Valley Green have a sheriff’s department?”
“Taxes. We weren’t getting our money’s worth from the county for services, so Ethan, Dr. Cloninger, and one or two of the other prominent landowners decided to carve the borough of Valley Green out of the county. There was a time when we could do things like that.”
“So the department is your private police force?”
“I hadn’t thought of it in those terms, but, yes, I suppose that’s the case. Kittner makes sure that our needs are met. But as you saw with the business of the ladder and that hideous doll, he’s overmatched. I discussed it all with Walter before he left. We agreed that we did not want Kittner and his clumsy deputies underfoot in this house.”
I thought that if Spence had any sense, he wouldn’t want young Parker around his wife, period.
“We needed someone we could trust, someone who was proficient with weapons. I don’t know anyone who meets those qualifications.”
“The trust or the guns?”
“Trust, of course.” Her lips stretched in a tight smile and she sipped her sherry. “Mrs. Conway tells me that you’re going ahead with your plan to instruct Nix in the use of firearms. That’s probably a good idea. Like all servants, she’s often lazy and requires supervision but she’s not flighty. I think in this situation she can be trusted.”
“Where’s Flora?”
The question pissed her off. “Her old friend Cameron Rivers and some of their school chums came by to cheer her up. Lord knows when they’ll be back.”
“So she’s got over being terrified of kidnappers?”
Mrs. Pennyweight rolled her eyes. “Apparently that’s the case today. Tomorrow, who can say?”
Flora, it seemed, could turn from concerned mother to flaming youth without missing a beat.
As I left, I saw Connie Nix coming up the stairs with a tray of the weird foods for the baby. All business, she wouldn’t meet my eyes as she passed. She paused at the door, tapped it lightly, and went in.
Mrs. Pennyweight sounded exasperated. “Finally. There you are. Did you and Mrs. Conway make sure that these are the right supplements? We don’t want a repeat of the last time.”
Downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs. Conway banged her pots around the stove. She was not happy to see me. “The chicken won’t be ready for another hour, so don’t bother to ask. The soup is done but that’s all.”
I sat at the table and spread out the newspapers. “I see you’ve got some bread. If I could have a couple of slices and a bit of cheese, I’ll be fine. And some mustard, please. And perhaps a drop of Mr. Mears’s dago red.” Mr. Mears, who’d been staring blankly at the table, looked up and cupped a hand protectively around his glass.
Mrs. Conway harrumphed but cut three slices of warm bread along with a wide wedge of cheddar. She also put a crock of mustard on the table before taking one of the newspapers. She read the latest kidnapping news avidly, following the words with her finger.
“Oh my dear sweet goodness, look at this, the baby’s diet.” Her voice was sad as she read aloud. “‘A quart of milk, three tablespoons of cooked cereal twice a day, two tablespoons of cooked vegetables, an egg yolk, a baked potato or rice, two tablespoons of stewed fruit in the morning, half a cup of prune juice after his nap, fourteen drops of viosterol vitamins.’ The poor dear.”
She looked over at the shelves of imported baby food and muttered, “If Little Ethan were to be taken, it could be the death of him.”
Oh Boy sidled inside, going directly, quietly to the stove. Without looking up, Mrs. Conway said, “Stay away from there. It’s not ready yet.”
“Jimmy’s having dinner,” he complained.
“Bread and cheese. It’s there on the counter.”
“Is there any devil’s food cake left?”
“Have you tended the furnace?”
“Oh, boy,” he sighed theatrically, slumped his shoulders, and left.
Upstairs in the library, I lit a fire, poured a shot of Spence’s rye, and added a splash of soda from the siphon. I picked up the telephone and asked the local operator for New York information. The operator connected me to J. Richard Davis, attorney at law. A woman answered. I asked to speak to Dixie. A few seconds later he said, “Jimmy, where the hell are you?”
“I’m at Spence’s place in New Jersey. What have you found out?”
“A name. Hourigan. Detective Eustace Hourigan. Mean anything to you?”
“Nothing. He’s not on my payoff list.”
“He wouldn’t be. You were right. He works out of the Bronx. Morrisania.”
“Then where the hell does he get off trying to close down my place?”
“Nobody knows. He’s a complete straight arrow, one of those guys you can’t deal with. And now he’s disappeared, nobody’s seen him. He hasn’t been back to his station house since Tuesday afternoon.”
“Dixie, this doesn’t make any damn sense. You’re sure he’s the guy?”
“Sure enough, yeah. Do you want me to keep working on it?”
“Of course, I gotta know why, and when I know why, I’ll come back and do something about it.”
“Be careful, Jimmy. He’s a cop. He may have broken the rules by busting up your place but he’s still a cop.”
“I’ll worry about that when I know what he’s up to.” I gave him Spence’s number and hung up before I called my place.
“Frenchy, it’s me.”
“Hello, boss. You still in Jersey?”
Even through the long-distance static, I could hear the babble of conversation from the bar. Things usually picked up early on a Thursday, so word must’ve got out that the place had reopened.
“Yeah, I’m still here. How’s the house?”
“Nice crowd. Nice.” That probably meant that the bar was busy but not packed two-deep, also that maybe half the booths and tables were filled. On this dark evening, they’d have the lights turned up a little, but not much. Nobody wanted to see too clearly in Jimmy Quinn’s.
“Any problems?”
“Nothing serious, boss. We replaced a table and three chairs from the stuff we had stored in the attic. Had to clean the carpet, too. Other than that, just the usual. Norris and Cheeks got their envelopes. Whaddya want me to do about Sergeant Marks?”
Norris and Cheeks were the beat cops who patrolled the neighborhood. Marks was their sergeant. Their captain’s weekly payoff was included with Marks’s money.
“Have Marks’s envelope ready if he comes in tonight, and it’s a good bet that he will. If he doesn’t, he’ll be in tomorrow. Did Pauley make his delivery?” Pauley was our beer guy.
“Uh-huh.” Somebody close to the telephone laughed and others picked it up. The faint sounds cheered me. The laugh sounded like Kerwin, a reporter for the Daily News who held forth nightly, usually entertaining an appreciative crowd of regulars, lying to them about things he knew but couldn’t print.
Of course, later in the night, some of those same guys would be puking in the potted palm or passing out in the bathroom. Even so, the good tended to outweigh the bad with the joint. At least, that’s what I told myself after I finished cleaning the potted palm.
“I just talked to Dixie Davis. He says the cop who busted things up is named Hourigan, Detective Eustace Hourigan. Works out of the Morrisania station in the Bronx. That mean anything to you?”
After a thoughtful pause Frenchy said, “Nah, I don’t think so, but like you said, I know I seen him before.”
“That’s all Dixie’s got, so why don’t you ask around. See if you can dig up anything else about the son of a bitch. You learn anything, call me.”
“Will do, boss.”
“Is Connie there?”
“Yeah.”
She must’ve been standing right next to the telephone, and took it right away. “Jimmy, I’ve been so worried about you. Marie Therese told me what happened but I don’t understand why you’re in New Jersey and not here. They said a cop came in the other night and busted things up and they arrested you but then they didn’t really arrest you. What’s going on?”
She sounded worried, but I thought I heard something strained and nervous in her voice. “It was just a mistake with the cop. I’m taking care of it. I’m in New Jersey because of something else. Did I mention an old friend of mine, Walter Spencer? Spence? No? Well, from the time I was a kid, he and I have known each other. We were real close but then a few years ago, he married this rich girl out here in New Jersey. They’ve got a swell place, I’ll show it to you sometime. But, see, Spence had to go out of town for a few days, and this whole Lindbergh thing has got his wife so upset that he thought she and their kid needed some protection. So he asked me, as a friend, to stay out here while he’s gone.” Even as I was talking, it sounded crazy as hell. “It doesn’t have anything to do with the cop.”
“Is he coming back?”
“Nah, and even if he does, there’s nothing to worry about. Fat Joe won’t let him in again. What’s the matter, you scared?”
“Well, I don’t want to be arrested.”
“I know, but I can’t come back right now. Look, why don’t you pack up your things and move into my room at the Chelsea. You’ll feel better there, it’s closer to work, and I’ll feel better knowing you’re comfortable. What do you say?”
She piped up right away. “Sure, Jimmy, I’d like that. I’d like it a lot.”
“I’ll call the front desk and tell ’em you’re coming,” I said, but I knew something was bothering her.
Still troubled, I mixed another rye and soda and took it downstairs to the gun room. Most of the rifles displayed in the glass case were hunting pieces, the kind that old Ethan Pennyweight used to bring down Cape buffalo and rhinos. A few showed some signs of wear. All were well-oiled and clean. None had been fired recently. They were powerful, heavy, and completely useless for my purposes.
I found what I was looking for on the workbench. It was a simple Winchester 92 carbine with a short barrel, probably the one that Mandelina was holding in the photograph. It was the least expensive, least exotic weapon of the bunch. It looked like someone had been cleaning the gun, and left it there on the bench with a cleaning rod, rags, solvent, and oil. The lever action seemed to work smoothly, but I couldn’t really say because I’d never used a rifle myself.
I opened the pistol drawer and saw the box of .44–04 bullets right away. But the little Mauser pistol wasn’t there. The cutout space was empty. I thought back to the night before. After the first crazy business with Fordham Evans and the ladder and the doll, we came down there and I offered it to Oh Boy but he said no, so I put it inside the cutout. I remembered doing it distinctly. Was there a chance that Oh Boy changed his mind and took it? No. I stared at the empty space.
What did this mean? Had the person I saw outside the house managed to sneak in, take the pistol, dash into the woods, and force Evans’s Marquette off the road? Then had this same person made Evans take off his clothes, shot him, and then nailed the poor bastard to the tree? Oh, yeah, that made a hell of a lot of sense.
I was standing there, still confused, staring stupidly at the open drawer when Connie Nix came in. I asked her if she’d been in the room that day.
She shook her head. “No. This place is Mears’s responsibility. I don’t think he’s been here for months.”
“Dietz?”
“No, he just shows up for meals and to dip into the kitchen whiskey. His room is in the garage with Oliver.”
“What about Flora and her friends?”
“No. Miss Rivers and the others were in Mrs. Spencer’s room upstairs for a couple of hours before going out. I’ve never seen Mrs. Spencer here.” Her eyes were wide, and I could tell that she was worried by my questions.
“OK.” I explained that Spence had given me the small pistol, and now it had disappeared. “How difficult would it be for someone to get into this house?”
Connie Nix tapped her front tooth as she thought. “The kitchen door is locked at night. The doors to the terrace have been locked ever since I came to work for the Pennyweights. The only trouble we’ve had was last night.”
“Yeah, I saw that it’s been cleaned up. Was that your work?”
“No. Mrs. Pennyweight called some maids in Morristown.”
“Did they come downstairs?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, hell, compared to the other crazy stuff that happens around here, I guess one missing pistol isn’t that much to worry about.” But I did worry.
“Speaking of that, was Mr. Evans really naked?”
“As the day he was born. Not even socks and garters.”
“And he was nailed to a tree?”
I nodded and held my hands about six inches apart. “Nails about so long. They pulled ’em out with pliers.”
“Really?” Her eyes were wide with amazement.
“Really.” I gave her a few more of the details before we got down to business. When I showed her the rifle, she said, “That’s a Winchester. My father has one, but his is different.”
“Then you’re more familiar with it than me. Know how to load it?”I turned on the lights in the shooting range and clipped a fresh target onto the pulley. She fed the bullets smoothly into the rifle, cocked it, and said, “What do you want me to do?”
“Just shoot. This is a pistol range, so it won’t be hard.”
She pulled the stock tight against her shoulder, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger. Both of us flinched at the first sharp report. The rifle kicked but she held it firmly, cocked, and fired again. I admired the strong set of her shoulders and the curve of her waist and hips, or what I could see of her beneath the heavy black dress.
When she’d finished, I hit the switch and the target whirred back. All eight rounds hit the target, most near the center.
“Do you want to try the pistol?”
She looked hesitant. “Yes, I suppose so.”
I gave her the Detective Special and showed her how to hold it. “Use your left hand to support your right. You sight it just like the rifle.” I put a fresh target on the pulley and ran the cardboard figure back.
Her aim wasn’t as sure as before but she hit the target with all five shots. She said she was more comfortable with the rifle.
As I reloaded, I said, “If anything happens and we have to break out the guns, you try to stay with the kid. They seem to think that the library is the safest place in the house. If that’s where you wind up, put him in the corner farthest from the door and shoot whoever comes through the door. Unless it’s me.”
She smiled in a nice wicked way. “Oh, I know a better place to hide there.”
Upstairs in the library, she went straight to a corner section of the bookcase near the fireplace.“I found this the first time I cleaned in here,” she said, still smiling. “When the light hits the carpet in just the right spot, you can see the marks.”
She reached around a book to the back of the case. I heard a click and a section of shelves popped open. She tugged with both hands so that a part of the cabinet pivoted away from the wall, revealing a dark, narrow doorway. She scrunched her shoulders to get through. I followed.
She hit a switch and warm light filled the hidden room. The lampshade was made of ornate colored glass suspended from the ceiling above a threadbare tasseled armchair and a footstool. Beside the chair was a table with a clean ashtray and a yellowed stack of Police Gazette magazines. In a corner stood a small sink and toilet, along with a second table holding a humidor, a bottle of brandy, and a dusty glass. One wall was made of brick. It was the side of the fireplace and the chimney. Roughly built shelves held more magazines, books, and stacks of photographs.
I picked up one of the books. It was filled with tinted pictures of naked women, very nice naked women. “So this is Spence’s little hideaway.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Mr. Spencer hardly ever uses the library. This was Mr. Pennyweight’s room.”
We were close together in the small space. She didn’t try to back away. I leaned closer and tried to peer into the shadows.
“You’re right. This is the place to stash the boy if anybody tries anything.”
“Do you really think that’s going to happen?” Her tone was serious, as was her face. I tried to concentrate but was sharply aware of her body.
“Hell, Spence has been gone less than twenty-four hours and somebody has tried to break into his house and somebody nailed one of his neighbors to a tree. Is there something else I should know?”
Her words came out rushed like she was afraid. “Something . . . something is wrong. I think I’ve known ever since I came here. It doesn’t have anything to do with Lindbergh. It’s just I’m worried and . . . something’s wrong. I don’t know what it is but . . . oh, forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She’d chosen a good time and place to make her case, whatever it was. Standing there in front of me, so close, her eyes were even with mine. If I’d thought about it, I might have remembered that I’d just told Connie Halloran to move into the Chelsea. But I didn’t think about it.
We went back into the library, and I heard a loud thump outside, then the slow, haunted opening trumpet notes of “Meet Me in the Shadows” echoing on an Electrola.
I told Connie Nix to stay put until I knew what was going on, checked the Detective Special in my coat pocket, and hurried out.
The front door was closed. The wide double doors at the other side of the hall were open, with weak light and music flickering through from the big ballroom. The part of the floor I could see was big black-and-white squares of polished marble. The light came from wall fixtures. There was a dark chandelier above, with no bulbs. The room would nicely suit a jazz band. I could imagine fancy parties with flappers, dowagers dripping with diamonds, and stout gents smoking expensive cigars—the moneyed men who rode the Millionaires’ Express into the city.
More light shone from candles on a piano in a corner of the room where Flora and another young woman were dancing. A couple of chairs and a chaise were carelessly strewn about like they’d been taken from another room. A slim young guy in a blue blazer and baggy Valentino slacks had four cocktails on a tray. Another man, a big long-haired guy, almost fat but not quite, stood by the Electrola cabinet, sorting through discs. He’d dragged the big record player in from another room, banging it across the threshold. That was the thump I’d heard.
Flora’s friend, Cameron Rivers, was dressed as a man in a black-and-white striped jersey, tight black pants, and a beret over marcelled black hair. Flora wore a long yellow dress, slit up one leg past the knee, with a matching open jacket. The two women were doing a French Apache number. Even though Cameron was shorter, she whipped Flora around with exaggerated violence. She threw the other girl to her knees, grabbed her hair to pull her back, entwining their legs, and then flinging her away again. Both were breathing hard but seemed to be having a hell of a good time.
Something similar happened at my place one night when some guy started playing a squeezebox and two half-plastered women tangoed to the music. I remembered how the guys in the crowd got real quiet and intense as they held each other close. The women wanted attention and they got it. We had a couple of fights before closing that night. You run a speak, you see things like that.
Flora and her friend circled each other only to fall into a spinning embrace. The smaller woman grabbed Flora’s head with both hands, pulling her into a slow open-mouthed kiss. They broke apart, staring at me as I approached, the sound of my cane on the marble floor muffled by its rubber tip.
All four in the group stared silently at me. The bigger guy had a football player’s build, with wide shoulders that strained his jacket. Even loosened, his tie looked like it was too tight around his thick neck. He glared at me. The second man wasn’t as large, with glistening fair hair and a dewy mustache. He passed the cocktails to the others. Both guys were familiar.
Several liquor and champagne bottles were scattered around the end of the hall. Remembering the ones I saw in Flora’s room, I figured this group had been sucking it up all afternoon. The heavyset guy moved directly behind Flora, his hand resting on her shoulder. The smaller one drained his drink, fished out a cherry and chewed it. “You see, Cousin Titus, I told you it was him. I’ll wager he doesn’t even remember us.” He had a mush-mouthed Southern accent.
Cousin Titus stepped away from Flora. He had a nasty look on his face. What the hell was going on? Flora’s friend Cameron Rivers whispered in her ear, and they smiled at their shared secret. Flora’s eyes were bright—too bright, I thought—and her lipstick was smudged. Her mother was right. The fear of kidnappers had been forgotten.
“We’re looking for more champagne,” Cameron Rivers said with a put-on British accent. “You’re a bootlegger. You must know where it is. Teddy . . . that’s Teddy over there. Teddy says that Walter keeps the best bottles in the butler’s pantry. I think that’s ridiculous. What do you think?”
I switched my cane to my right hand and leaned on it. Something phony was going on.
Teddy put an arm around Cameron Rivers’s shoulder. “You don’t remember us, do you, Quinn?”
The big one tried to look tough.
“Refresh my memory. Have you been in my place?”
Teddy said, “That’s right. You threw us out over a silly little misunderstanding.”
“I’ve thrown a lot of people out of my speak. I don’t remember all of them.”
Titus bunched his shoulders. “It wasn’t right. I don’t get thrown out of dumps like some common field nigger. I sit with Chink Sherman at the Swanee. Owney Madden saves his best table at the Cotton Club for me. It wasn’t right what you did.”
He was even more mush-mouthed than Teddy.
Teddy said, “I think he should apologize,” walking quickly behind me so he stood between me and the door.
“An apology? That’s what you’re looking for?”
“No, I don’t need no fucking apology. I just want a fair fight.” Titus pulled off his jacket to reveal a shirt that was even tighter across his chest and shoulders.
I slipped my free hand into my pocket and strolled over to them. Flora looked hopeful, expectant, still flushed from her wild dance.
That’s when I remembered them. “You’re the assholes who were in blackface,” I said, and the big guy got even angrier.
“That’s why I didn’t recognize you,” I said. “You’re Yale men, aren’t you? Or you were. They kicked you out. It was a Friday night. You sang a song, something about the good times you had at a lynching. It was supposed to be funny, and that’s when the trouble started. We told you to pipe down and then you”—I pointed my cane at Titus—“you tried to manhandle the cigarette girl.” Connie was there that night. That’s how it started.
“She was just a whore,” Titus muttered. “And then the bartender sucker-punched me. None of you could have taken me man-to-man, not in a fair fight.”
I ambled closer and said, “Now you want . . .”
“A fair fi—”
I smacked him in the mouth with the brass knucks. Blood and teeth sprayed out. I came in as fast as I could and hit him again under his right eye. Choking up on the cane, I got him twice across the forehead and split the skin. More blood flowed into his eyes as he staggered backward. I shoved the big lug over a chair. He went down hard. His head cracked on the marble floor, and he stayed there.
I turned around and, sure enough, there was Teddy holding a champagne bottle by the neck. He danced in, nimble and light, and snapped the bottle at my face. He was fast, I’ll give him that.
He connected, but he was so intent on bouncing out of range that the blow didn’t really hurt. I still saw sparkles and stars, and lost my balance for a brief moment.
Teddy weaved from side to side, zipping in for another shot that came up short. I brought the cane tip in front of his face. The Detective Special was still in my pocket, but I knew if I pulled it out, I’d kill him. And I didn’t want to do that. He wasn’t threatening Spence’s kid, and dealing with a body would be complicated.
So I moved in slowly, keeping my weight on my good leg. I feinted low with the cane, and when Teddy dropped his guard, I jabbed him hard in the throat. He gasped, dropping the bottle as he staggered back. I closed in with the knucks to his breadbasket. Three fast shots took the starch out of him. When he bent over, I straightened him with an upper cut and caught him again with the stick. That put him facedown on the marble floor.
It took a moment for the excitement to calm down. I felt it every time I had to get rough but took no pleasure from it. It’s bad business to beat up your clientele, but then, they were assholes, so that made it kind of satisfying.
The women had been perched on the chaise. As soon as they realized that the rough stuff was over, they bounced up, jazzed by the action. I’d seen the same thing before. The girls pretended not to like it when boys mixed it up. But they caused most of the fights, and they enjoyed what came after. Flora tried to get the big guy to his feet, but he wasn’t moving.
I slipped off the knucks and flexed my fingers. Everything was fine, but the big guy had gotten some blood on my sleeve and lapel—dammit.
Dr. Cloninger’s ambulance arrived eight minutes after I called. Nervous attendants scurried in with two canvas stretchers. Cloninger followed slowly, hands deep in his overcoat pockets.
The attendants struggled to get Titus’s bulk strapped onto a stretcher. The right side of his face had swollen to the size and color of a grapefruit. The doctor strolled around the big hall, looking up at the dark chandelier.
“It’s been years since I was in this room,” he said. “I’d almost forgotten how grand it looks. A pity there’s so little need for it now.”
He turned to me. “You have had a busy day, Mr. Quinn. First Mr. Evans and now these two unfortunate young men.”
I ignored the doctor’s suggestion that I’d plugged Evans and asked how the half-frozen naked guy was doing.
“I predict he will make a full recovery. The cold kept him alive, you know. It slowed down the body’s many functions. The wound itself was neither deep nor serious.”
“You got the slug out of him then. What caliber?”
“Oh, I’m afraid I know nothing about firearms, but it was very small.” He held two fingers close together.
So it could’ve been a .22, like Dietz’s rifle, or a .25, like the missing Mauser.
They got Titus onto one stretcher and loaded Teddy onto the other. Cloninger turned to me again. “You haven’t told me the nature of this altercation, but I must say that it strikes me as odd. Mr. Bullard is an excellent football player. Yet you seem to be unharmed. A slight scrape above one eyebrow perhaps.”
He leaned down and pretended to examine my wound. I didn’t flinch even though the doctor had a strong medicinal smell that made me a little sick. “Teddy Banks is exceptionally fast and proficient. And you are a cripple. Curious.”
“They were drunk.”
“As was Mr. Evans last night.”
“I know. There’s a parade of dipsomaniacs in this joint. Maybe that’s why Spence asked me to keep an eye on things. He knows I’m experienced with uncooperative drunks.”
The ambulance attendants returned to pick up Teddy. As they approached, Cloninger held up a hand and they stopped immediately.
Teddy stirred. His eyelids fluttered open, focusing on the doctor. Then his chest heaved, his eyes bulged, and a panicked look came over his face. He strained against the leather straps.
Cloninger demanded another swab and whipped out his handy hypodermic to give Teddy a needle to the neck. The kid was out in a second.
While we were dealing with the injured, the two young women got into another bottle. But their whispers and giggles ended as Mrs. Pennyweight appeared in the doorway. Behind her, Connie Nix held the baby boy.
“Flora, come here. We need you upstairs. Cameron dear, I think it’s time for you to say good night.” Her tone was even, but she expected to be obeyed.
“It’s far too late for Cameron to be driving,” Flora slurred. “She’s going to stay the night, aren’t you, darling.”
Cameron Rivers walked more steadily than Flora and stopped in front of me. She had a fine sparkle of sweat across her cheeks and her eyes were bright. She laid a warm hand on my chest. “Thank you for a wonderful ending to a wonderful day.” The phony English accent had vanished. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again very soon. I can’t believe that Walter knows someone like you. How did you ever become friends?”