The Brass Go-Between

Chapter twenty

The pain had eased a little by the time that Demeter and Fastnaught arrived. Perhaps the Scotch had helped after all, or it may have been because I had stopped thinking about what I had to do the next day. The thoughts had been more than unpleasant; they had been nasty ones born of apprehension and dread and they had burrowed into my mind like a small, wet furry animal with stainless-steel teeth and claws that scratched and chomped around in my head. The giddiness had gone, too, and when I answered the policelike banging on the door I was as sober and composed as one could hope to be on four very large drinks.

“There’s a bell,” I said when I opened the door, “or don’t you believe in them?”

“He’s drunk,” Demeter said. “You can smell it.”

“Come in, gentlemen. All by yourselves, I see.”

“If this is a joke, St. Ives, we want to enjoy it in private,” Demeter said, and pushed himself past me into the hall. Fastnaught followed, chewing on a stick of gum. His eyes looked more bloodshot than usual.

“You look like hell,” Fastnaught said.

“I’ve got a headache, but it’s better now.”

“All right,” Demeter said. “What’s the story?”

“Jack and Jill are upstairs on the third floor,” I said. “Jack and Jill are the thieves. They’re also the murderers, as nasty a young couple as our stricken society has yet produced.”

Demeter stared at me suspiciously. “Just sitting there waiting for us, huh?”

“They’re all tied up,” I said. “Securely.”

“Okay, let’s check it out, Fastnaught,” Demeter said. He produced a revolver from a shoulder holster and waved it vaguely toward the stairs. Fastnaught also drew his revolver and started up the stairs, still chewing his gum. “You coming, St. Ives?” Demeter said.

“Too far,” I said. “Far too far. And I’ve got a headache.”

I watched them slowly mount the stairs until they were out of sight on the second-floor landing. Then I went back into the living room and poured myself another drink, mentally assigning it curative powers that would have done credit to a dozen or so of the more progressive wonder drugs. I sat on the couch and waited. A few moments later there was a sharp sound as if someone had kicked in a door. Or maybe they had just banged it open against the wall. I took a sip of my drink and waited some more. In a few minutes I could hear them descending the stairs. Fastnaught came in first, his gun still drawn. He was followed by the girl with her hands handcuffed behind her. Then came the man, also handcuffed, and Demeter, still with his revolver in his hand.

“Ah, you caught them, Lieutenant,” I said. “Good work.”

“Shut up,” Demeter said.

Fastnaught turned and waved his gun at two chairs. “Sit down over there,” he said to the girl and the man. They moved over to the two chairs and sat down.

“The suitcase with the money is by that chair,” I said.

“I saw it,” Demeter said, reholstering his gun. “You count it?”

“No. Should I’ve?”

“Didn’t you even look?”

“No.”

“Take a look, Fastnaught.”

Fastnaught bent over the suitcase, turned it on its side, and opened it. The tens and twenties were still there, wrapped in neat brown paper bands.

“Jesus,” Fastnaught said, and I felt that there was pure reverence in his tone.

“All right, close it up,” Demeter said. He turned to me. “Now tell us all about it, St. Ives.”

“I got a call at my hotel, an anonymous tip. He said that the thieves and the money were at this address, all safe and sound. So I caught a cab over, found it to be just like the man on the phone said, and then called you.”

“You lying son of a bitch,” said the man who claimed that his name was Jack. “Two big niggers got us. They talked funny, like Englishmen. They were going to shove a curling iron up my ass if I didn’t tell ’em and he was gonna help.”

“Tell what?” Demeter said.

The man called Jack looked away. “Nothing. I don’t have to tell you nothing. But he’s a lying son of a bitch.”

“Strange,” I said. “They were both extremely talkative a few minutes ago. They were telling me how they had managed to steal the shield and do away with four persons — Sackett, Wingo, Spellacy, and your former classmate, Lieutenant Ogden.”

Demeter slipped his revolver back into its holster, looked around the room, picked out a chair, and eased himself into it slowly. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, found a cigar encased in a metal tube, and went through the ritual of lighting it. When it was well lighted he looked at me with black, beany eyes. “Nothing like a good cigar,” he said.

“That suitcase would buy a lot of them,” I said.

“What do you think, Fastnaught?” Demeter said to the sergeant, who had also tucked away his gun and was now leaning against the mantel of the fireplace, which looked as if it really worked.

“About what?” Fastnaught said.

“Do you think the suitcase would buy a lot of cigars?”

“Plenty,” Fastnaught said.

“Cigars for me, little girls for you, and punchboards for St. Ives here.”

“What about our two friends here, Jack and Jill?” I said.

“I don’t think their names are Jack and Jill really. What’d Ogden tell you just before he died? He said something about ‘Freddie and his whore,’ didn’t he?” Demeter turned to look at the man in handcuffs. “Are you Freddie and his whore, son?” he asked mildly.

Freddie, or Jack, told Demeter to go fuck himself. Fastnaught sighed, left his spot at the mantel, crossed over to the man and struck him twice across the face with an open palm. Fastnaught seemed neither to like nor dislike striking the man. He said nothing after he had done it and a moment later he was back leaning against the mantel, rubbing a corner of it into the spot between his shoulder blades where the itch seemed to persist. The man’s face had crumpled again and I saw that he was crying. He didn’t like being hit.

“I asked you a question, son,” Demeter said. “Is your name Freddie?”

The man sat with his head bowed. He was almost through crying. The girl looked at him blankly and then giggled.

“Fred,” he said.

“Fred what?”

“Fred Simpson.”

“All right, Fred Simpson, what about the girl? She your wife?”

“No.”

“He’s my pimp,” the girl said. “He’s my pretty little pimp. Freddie the pimp.” She giggled again.

“What’s your name, lady?” Demeter said.

“Wanda.”

“Wanda what?”

“Wanda Lou Wesoloski.”

“A Polack,” Freddie said. “A dumb Polack.”

“Tell us about it, Freddie,” Demeter said.

“I want a lawyer. I don’t have to say nothing.”

“That’s right, Freddie, you don’t,” Demeter said, and shifted his gaze to me. “You say that Freddie was talkative a little earlier?”

“Extremely,” I said.

“You sort of just breezed over it before, St. Ives. Why don’t you let us have it again with a little more detail?”

“All right,” I said, and I told them what Freddie had said as Mbwato stood there, looking for some place to put the curling iron. I didn’t mention either Mbwato or Mr. Ulado. For some reason I always thought of the slim, dark young man as Mister Ulado.

When I was through Demeter grunted, looked for some place to dump his ash, and found a tray on a table next to him. “And Freddie here told you all that, huh? You must have been a hell of a good reporter at one time, St. Ives.”

“Just fair,” I said. “People confide in me.”

“He’s a lying bastard,” Freddie said in a dull tone. “There were two niggers. They had a curling iron. He was gonna help them shove it up — ask her. Ask Wanda.”

“What about it, Wanda?”

The girl looked at him blankly. “What?”

“Was there a curling iron and two spades?”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Sure. And the shield of Komporeen.” She giggled again.

Demeter sighed. “Like I said, that suitcase would buy a lot of cigars. How much is a third of two hundred and fifty thousand, Fastnaught?”

“I’ve already figured it out,” Fastnaught said. “It’s $83,333.33.”

“Sounds like a lot of money,” Demeter said. “Sound like enough to you, St. Ives?”

“What happens to your two friends over there?”

“I guess they could try to escape. But like I said, is $83,333.33 enough?”

“Not for me,” I said.

“I didn’t think it would be,” he said. “Not for a New York go-between. When you come right down to it, it’s not even enough for a Washington cop.” He turned to Freddie. “What kind of car did you put the shield in, Freddie?”

“I don’t know what kind of car it—” He stopped quickly. “I don’t have to talk to you,” he said. “I gotta right to get a lawyer.”

Demeter rose. “You’ll need one,” he said. “A good one. On your feet; we’re going to take a little ride. Bring the suitcase, Fastnaught.”

“Don’t you think that should go back to the museum?” I said.

“What’s the matter, St. Ives, you worried that maybe a hundred and twenty-five thousand each might be enough for a couple of cops?”

“I don’t worry about anything,” I said.

“I bet. Let me make something clear. The money is the only evidence we got. Without the money all we got is your song and dance about what these two told you. And that’s hearsay. Now I’m going to call the Wingo woman when we get down to headquarters and tell her that we’ve got the money and two suspects. Are you happy now?”

“I’m happy,” I said.

“Let’s go,” Demeter said.

Fastnaught moved over to the handcuffed couple and jerked his head at the door. I was on my feet and when Freddie drew abreast of me, he stopped. “Whyn’t you tell ’em about the two niggers, man? Why d’you have to be such a lying son of a bitch?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Freddie.”

His face started to crumple and I thought he would cry again. But he didn’t. “You lie, man!” he shouted. “You lie.”

“Oh, shut up, Freddie,” the girl said.

“Let’s go,” Fastnaught said to the pair, and herded them out through the door into the hall.

Demeter paused at the door. “You want a ride, St. Ives?”

“No thanks,” I said.

“You got a date downtown at ten tomorrow, you know.”

“I know.”

He nodded. “You can see homicide first and then drop by my office. I’ll need a statement, too.”

“All right.”

“Tell me something,” he said.

“What?”

“Were you and the two spades really going to shove a hot curling iron up the kid’s kiester?”

“I don’t know anything about a curling iron, Lieutenant. Or two spades.”

He nodded and puffed on his cigar twice. “Tell me something else. Just how big would it have to be for a three-way split? I mean for a big-time New York go-between.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “How big would it have to be for a robbery-squad lieutenant?”

“I don’t know either,” he said. “I don’t really know. I hope to God I never find out.”