MONDAY, MARCH 7, 1932
VALLEY GREEN, NEW JERSEY
Dietz was right. The storm didn’t end until late the next afternoon. When I got up at five o’clock, the snow was just beginning to melt, and the sky was lighter than it had been in days. I had a late breakfast while Mrs. Conway fixed dinner. She told me, disapprovingly, that “the young people” had gone out again. After the meal, I checked the gun room and found everything as I’d left it.
Back in the kitchen, I gathered the newspapers and took a cup of coffee up to the library. The kidnapping still filled the front pages. The important item for me was on page six of the Daily Mirror under the headline DETECTIVE ON THE MEND. It said that Detective Eustace Hourigan had been found early Sunday morning two blocks from his Bronx precinct house, having fought off four men who were trying to steal a car, and having been wounded in the process. He had been taken to Royal Hospital, where he was expected to make a full recovery. His wife said she was very proud of him, and was happy that he was safe. “‘He’s my hero,’ she said, beaming at her husband’s bedside.”
So, there it was. She’d had her fun, yes, and now it was time to go back to being Mrs. Hourigan. I was still chewing that over when the telephone rang. It was Spence, sounding excited. “Good news. The pilot says we can be at Morristown Airport this time tomorrow.”
“Great. I’m tired of looking after your houseguests.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Flora’s pals. Cameron and Teddy and Titus. They’ve spent the weekend.”
I thought I could hear something unsettled in Spence’s voice. “Keep an eye on them. Don’t let them get into trouble. I’ll be back as soon as I can. This is almost over. I can’t wait to be home.”
I hung up, and was startled by a muffled thud close by. I found the catch that opened the door to the reading room. It took a few seconds to find the light, and I could hear movement in the darkness. I hit the switch and the light revealed a book on the floor. A moment later, the brindle cat walked out of the shadow and bumped against my leg as it sauntered out.
It was after midnight when Flora and her friends got back. They had company. I heard the sound of several engines approaching and waited behind the doors of the dark library, where I could watch the big room without being seen. There were more than a dozen of them, and they were drunk and loud. Some looked like college kids, judging by their age and dress. They seemed to be saying something about searching for the Lindbergh baby, and made a big show of peering behind the heavy furniture in the big room. A bunch of guys wearing dinner jackets and carrying instrument cases followed Cameron Rivers to the ballroom. And finally, after twenty or thirty people had streamed through the front door, Flora and Teddy and Titus came in. Strolling behind them were Chink Sherman and Sammy Spats Spatola.
This was bad.
Teddy tried to say something to Chink, but the older guy wasn’t paying attention. He was appraising the house and its grand furnishings like he was about to take possession. Sammy Spats wore a loud gray-and-yellow checked suit and a gold tie. The jacket was heavily padded in the shoulders, and cut loose to accommodate his guns and shoulder holsters. He walked right behind Flora, blatantly eyeing her shapely rear.
I waited until they’d all gone into the ballroom and I could hear music from the band before I gimped up the stairs, muttering curses all the way.
Mrs. Pennyweight was dressed and scowling in her room. The child slept restlessly. “Your daughter and her friends are having a party. They brought a band and a couple of their closest gangster friends.”
Mrs. Pennyweight sighed. “I thought that with marriage and a family she’d grow up. She’s doing this because she knows how it irritates me.”
“That’s not the half of it. She’s invited Chink Sherman and Sammy Spatola. Chink sells more hard drugs than anybody in New York, and Sammy is a sick puke who’s sniffing around after her. She really shouldn’t be alone with him.”
She waved it away. “That’s nothing. Teddy Banks consorts with all manner of colorful characters.”
“Chink and Spats are not colorful. They kill people for fun. They enjoy it. Believe me, you do not want them in your house.”
“Don’t be melodramatic. This sort of thing has happened before, and I can handle these men. Once they see me, they behave themselves. You stay here with young Ethan. Everything will be fine.”
She left slowly, confidently, her cane tapping a steady rhythm on the floor.
I considered my choices. I should get the kid out of there. It would be easy enough to take that sweet little green Ford coupe in Oh Boy’s garage, get Connie Nix to help with the boy, and run like hell, back to the Chelsea. Of course, technically it would be kidnapping, and that might be a problem.
So I’d have to stay here. But not alone.
I tucked the boy under my arm and left. Ethan turned out to be a heavy little brute. Damp, too. He woke up and gave me a strange look. I couldn’t blame him.
The narrow stairs at the end of the hall led up to the servants’ rooms on the third floor. That’s where I found Connie Nix, with Mrs. Conway and Mr. Mears buttoning and straightening their uniforms.
This hall was narrower than the one on the second floor. The lights were dimmer, the rooms smaller. I could still hear the band on the first floor.
Mrs. Conway was giving orders and stopped when she saw me. “What are you doing with little Ethan?”
“Do you know what’s happening downstairs?” I asked.
“Miss Flora is having an impromptu party. When she and Miss Mandelina were younger, this kind of thing happened constantly. The guests will be wanting refreshments, and we will provide.”
I thought about Mrs. Pennyweight and realized that I could never explain Chink and Spats to Mrs. Conway, either. So I just said, “There are too many strangers here. Let’s keep the kid in the kitchen, where he’ll be safe. I’ll help with the eats.”
Downstairs Mrs. Conway put the boy in a highchair with some of his special grub, and told me to slice bread and cheese. Connie Nix worked with crackers and potted meats; Mears was assigned sardines and cream cheese.
I brought the bread to Connie and kept my voice low. “We may have trouble. Couple of guys are here that shouldn’t be here. If anything happens that you don’t like, take Ethan to the reading room. I’ll put the rifle there.”
She nodded. I pushed the largest cart to the dumbwaiter and followed Mears upstairs, where we rolled the carts to the ballroom.
The band was really jumping. Flora was in the middle of a mob of dancers, shimmying wildly with Sammy Spats. Dozens of revelers descended on the carts like hungry pigeons. A side table was filled with bottles and glasses, and the general level of merriment was getting crazy. It took me a while to spot Chink, sharing a pile of cocaine with Cameron and Teddy back in a corner. Mrs. Pennyweight was not around. No one noticed me.
I went straight upstairs to Mrs. Pennyweight’s room for the Winchester. I checked the load and took it down to the reading room. Back to the kitchen, the two women were still working on food. I gave Connie the high sign. The nasty feeling in my stomach was growing worse. Nothing good could happen with Chink and Spats around. Mr. Mears returned with two carts. The women loaded them up with more food. Ethan ate more of his food, smiled, and pounded on the highchair.
The noise upstairs gradually lessened, and the band packed it in around six in the morning. Mrs. Pennyweight came down to collect Ethan then. Connie carried him upstairs for her.
“You see,” Mrs. Pennyweight said, “there was nothing to worry about.”
“Has everyone gone, then?”
“I think so,” she said, and I followed her up to the first floor.
Party litter spread out into the hall. It would be hell to clean up. I went through the rooms, checking locks on the exterior doors and turning off lights. The library and reading room were undisturbed. There was no sign of Spats or Chink anywhere. The Pierce-Arrow and a couple of other cars remained by the front door. I could still smell exhaust in the cold air. Standing there, I felt tired, and I was ready to be home at the Chelsea.
Back inside, I locked the front doors and climbed the stairs, leaning heavily on my stick. But even as done-in as I was, I was still uneasy and keyed-up. In bed, I couldn’t make my mind slow down. Those crazy ideas you get when you’re not quite asleep whirled around until they settled on Mandelina Pennyweight, out at Cloninger’s nuthouse. What the hell was going on? Even if she wanted to be there, why the tombstone? And what did Chink and Spats have to do with anything? Their showing up couldn’t be a coincidence. Not that it mattered, assuming they were gone.
I woke at twilight with the same strong sense of things gone badly wrong, even with Spence due back within hours. I put on the leg brace and dressed carefully—the gray suit with the chalk stripe so faint you couldn’t see it unless you got close enough to touch. After packing my Gladstone, I loaded up notepad and pen, knucks, money clip, and pistol, then checked the room for anything I might have missed. It was clean.
The mess had been cleared downstairs, too. Mrs. Conway was finishing the dishes from the party. The radio was on. She turned from the sink to me. “Have you heard? The kidnappers made contact with the Lindberghs. The baby is all right!”
And there it was also in the Times: “Baby safe, say messages.” I saw no need to state the obvious. What the hell else would the guy claim? But you didn’t want to anger the cook when she’s about to make your breakfast.
After eating, I went up to library, walked in, and saw that I’d been right. Things had gone badly wrong. There was Chink Sherman with his feet up on Spence’s desk. He put down the newspaper he was reading and said, “Can you believe the balls on this fucking guy that took the Lindbergh kid? If he pulls it off, he’s gonna make a mint.”
Before I could answer, I heard a noise behind me and somebody slammed into my back, knocking me to my knees. I got my arms around my head to protect myself from the worst of the beating as a knee was planted in my back and wide fists did their work. I heard labored breathing, and knew it had to be the big asshole Titus. I thought, dammit, this is where I came in, with some big lug beating the hell out of me.