The Darkest Hour

6

The building was a handsome brownstone in a quiet block east of Park, a street of neat iron grill-work and well-kept window boxes. The apartment number was 4 B, and the name on the tiny white card was Dixie Davis. This was where Red Evans had told the laundryman to deliver his shirts.

Retnick paused in the small lobby, smoothed down his thick black hair and brushed the snow from his shoulders. He pressed the buzzer then, knowing there was nothing to do but move ahead and hope for luck. Everything else was gone from his mind; his wife, Lye and Hammy, these were phantoms he could dissolve with an exercise of will. A tiny, scratching noise sounded from the speaker and a girl’s voice said, “Hello?”

“This is a friend of Red Evans,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you.”

“Talk away, friend,” she said indifferently; her voice sounded as if it hadn’t registered surprise in a long, long time.

“I’d rather make it private. Can I come up for a minute?”

There was an interval of silence. Then she said, “Where’d you know Red?”

“At the docks. At the North Star Lines.”

Again she hesitated. Then: “Okay, friend.”

She stood in the doorway of her apartment, a small redhead with very cold blue eyes. There was no interest or friendliness in her pale face; she studied him with instinctive caution as he walked down the short hallway from the landing. She was in her late twenties, he guessed, and nobody’s innocent little doll. The sharp blue eyes, points of light under the red bangs, had seen more than their share of fakes and deadbeats and frauds.

He said, “I hope I’m not breaking up your schedule.” She wore a blue silk robe and slippers, but her eyes and face were made up for the street.

She shrugged her thin shoulders, dismissing the apology as irrelevant. “When did you see Red last?” she said.

“Not for quite a while.” Retnick glanced at the closed doors along the hall. “I’d rather not talk about it out here. It’s pretty important.”

“Okay, come on in.”

The room was small, but attractively furnished with conventional modern pieces. Everything was primly neat and clean; magazines formed orderly designs on the coffee tables, and the tiny felt pillows on the sofa were lined up as neatly as marshmallows in a box. The only personal note was a floppy Raggedy Ann doll which was propped up on an ottoman before the small television set.

“Mind if I smoke?” he said as she closed the door.

“Go ahead. What’s so important about finding Red?”

“How about you?” He offered her the pack, but she shook her head and sat down in a deep chair beside a liquor cabinet. A door stood open behind her, and Retnick noticed an overnight bag on the bed and, beside it, a slip and nylon stockings. A pair of anklestrap sandals were placed neatly together on the floor. He lit his cigarette and glanced around for an ashtray.

“On the coffee table,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“Let’s get on with it,” she said. “Why’d you come here looking for Red?”

“I’ll level with you,” Retnick said. “I don’t know Red. I never met the guy. But I want to find him.”

She stared at him, one foot swinging slowly, her eyes shining and cold in her pale face. Then she said, “I don’t go for jokers like you. What’s your angle?”

“I want to find Evans. It’s simple as that.”

“Are you a private cop or something?”

Retnick shook his head. “I just got out of jail. My name’s Retnick. Does that mean anything to you?”

She shook her head slowly. “Should it?”

“Not particularly. Before I went up I gave some cash to a man I thought I could trust. A man by the name of Ragoni. Ever hear of him?”

“We must move in different crowds, friend,” she said.

“You’ll never meet Ragoni. He’s dead,” Retnick said. “He got killed about the time Red Evans disappeared from the docks. I learned that from some buddies of mine at the pier. I guess you see why I’m looking for Evans.”

“You think maybe he’s got your dough?”

Retnick smiled slightly. “It’s worth checking, don’t you think?”

“How’d you find out I knew him?”

“From his landlady. He gave her this address for forwarding mail.”

“That’s my redhead,” she said, with a bitter little smile. “Give me one of those cigarettes, will you?”

“Sure.” Retnick held a light for her and she murmured a thank you and let her head rest against the upholstered back of the chair. The bitter little smile was still on her lips. “So Red uses me as a forwarding address, eh? That’s like him. He’s a guy who takes over. And then he takes off. I can’t help you, mister. I haven’t heard from him since he walked out on me.”

“That’s too bad,” Retnick said.

She laughed shortly. “It’s the kindest thing he ever did. He took me for plenty, including what was left of my girlish dreams. I met him at the place I work, which is a saloon that calls itself a rendezvous. Okay, he’s good-looking, and he’s got a nice line. I buy it. Pretty soon he’s moved in on me, which wasn’t bad. We were a permanent deal, he said.” She smiled cynically and shook her head. “I’m believing all this, remember. We were going to Canada where everything was new and fresh. He wanted to raise cattle or something. You should hear him on the evils of cities. Corny, eh? Well, girls like corn, mister. It makes them fat and sleepy. One day he didn’t show up, and I found the three hundred bucks gone from my piggy bank.” She spread her hands. “End of story. No Canada, no good life on the plains. If you find him, mister, you got my permission to use his head for a golf ball.”

Retnick frowned slightly. “You think he might have gone to Canada alone?”

“I wouldn’t know. He talked like he’d discovered the damn place, but he could have got all that from a book.”

“Would you get in touch with me if he shows up again?”

She smiled at him, swinging one foot in a little circle. The silken robe slipped apart at her knees, revealing slender, chalk-white legs. “Was it a lot of money, mister?” she said slowly.

“It’s enough for two people to have some fun with,” Retnick said. “How about it?”

“You don’t want to raise cattle and live the good life, by any chance?”

Retnick smiled and shook his head. “I’m a city type. I like my cattle with french-fries on the side. Do we do business?”

“So what can I lose?” she said. “If the bum shows up I’ll let you know.”

“Fine.” Retnick took a pencil from his pocket and wrote his number on the back of a packet of matches. “You can get me there,” he said, dropping the matches on the table. “And I know where to find you.”

She stood and smoothed down the front of her robe. “This is a business deal, I think you said.”

“That’s right,” Retnick said, smiling into her small hard eyes. “If you want to change the rules, let me know.”

“Fair enough,” she said, moving to the door. “Good luck, big boy.”

“Thanks.” Retnick walked past her into the short hallway and started down the stairs. When he heard her door close he stopped and listened to the silence for a moment or two. Then he went quietly back to her apartment and put his ear against the door. She was speaking to someone in a low, urgent voice, but he couldn’t distinguish the words; her voice was a blur of anxious sound.

Retnick went down to the street then and walked a block before hailing a cab. “This is a tail job,” he said to the driver. “Is that okay with you?”

The driver, an intelligent-looking old man, looked around at him. “Are you a cop?”

“I’m a husband,” Retnick said. “Okay?”

“All right, get in,” the old man said without enthusiasm.

Retnick lit a cigarette and settled back in the seat. From there he could see the entrance to Dixie’s building. He felt reasonably certain that she was still in contact with Red Evans; her version of their relationship didn’t fit her type. Things happened that way to some girls, but not to hard-shelled little characters like Dixie Davis.

She came out of her building about five minutes later and glanced at her watch as she started toward Park Avenue, picking her way awkwardly through the slush in high-heeled shoes.

“That your wife?” the driver said, shifting into first.

“Yes. Give her a little lead.”

Dixie Davis crossed Park and stopped on the corner, obviously looking for a cab. “She’s going downtown,” Retnick said. “You’d better get ahead of her.”

“I got you,” the driver said. He swung into Park and stopped at the canopied entrance of an apartment building. The doorman came out from the lobby, but the driver held up a street-guide, and called, “Just checking an address, buddy.”

The doorman nodded and went back to the lobby. In the rear-vision mirror Retnick saw Dixie climb into a cab that had pulled up for the red light. “Pick up the first Yellow that passes us,” he told his driver.

“All right.”

They followed the Yellow across town to the Pennsylvania station, and the driver said, “They’re heading into the back tunnel. You want to go down?”

“Let a couple of cabs get ahead of us,” Retnick said. When they stopped for a light he gave the driver a bill and waved the change.

“I hope this is where she told you she was going,” the old man said, looking back at Retnick.

Retnick smiled slightly. “She’s running true to form.”

In the brightly lighted tunnel Retnick waited until Dixie had paid off her cab and started for the revolving doors that led to the station. Then he went down the ramp and signaled a Red Cap. “I’ve got a job for you,” he said. “It’s worth five bucks. Okay?”

“Sure, if it’s legal,” the Red Cap said.

“Come on with me.” Inside the vast waiting room Retnick saw Dixie heading for the coach ticket windows. He pointed her out to the Red Cap and said, “Find out where she buys a ticket to. I’ll wait here.”

Retnick was able to follow Dixie’s bright red hair through the crowd without difficulty. He saw her stop briefly at the ticket window, and then hurry toward the train shed with short quick steps. The Red Cap came back and said, “She’s going to Trenton, sir. At least she bought a ticket there.”

“Thanks very much,” Retnick said, and gave him his money.

“Thank you, sir.”

Trenton, Retnick thought, as he walked toward a rank of telephone booths. Was that where Red Evans had holed up? If so, one small part of the problem was solved. But the greater part remained: to establish who had paid him to do the job. Even then Retnick knew he might be no closer to the man who had killed Ventra. He was suddenly swept with a sense of oppressive futility. And when it was all over, when he had proved that a cop named Retnick had been framed, what the hell would it mean? Where would he be? Still sitting in a cheap bedroom, or standing at a cheap bar, as isolated from humanity as he was right now. For a moment or so he stared at the crowds passing him, experiencing a curious bitter loneliness. Some of the people looked happy. He wondered what they knew. Or what they didn’t know. Finally he shrugged and stepped into a telephone booth. He called Kleyburg at the Thirty-First, and got through to him after a short wait. “You said to yell if I needed anything,” he said.

“Sure, Steve. What is it?”

“Take this down.” Retnick gave him Dixie Davis’ name and address. Then he said, “I’d like to know all about her. Where she works, what her days off are, who she sees, and so forth. Is that possible?”

“I can manage it. She lives in the Twentieth, but I’ve got some friends over there. Between us we’ll get a fix on her. Look, I’ll have to cut this short. We’re busy today.” He hesitated, then said, “Maybe you haven’t seen a paper.”

“No, what’s up?”

“They found old Jack Glencannon’s body a couple of hours ago. On a siding just off Twelfth Avenue.”

“What happened to him?”

“Nobody’s sure yet. But it looks like a homicide.”

Retnick sat in the booth for a moment or so, staring at the bustle and commotion in the cavernous station. There was a hard little smile on his lips. This would tighten the screws on Nick Amato, whether he was responsible for the old man’s death or not. The papers would set fires under the cops and unions now. The pot would boil and the public would want a victim or two tossed into it. That was fine. Let them all burn.