The Fugitive Pigeon

Chapter 15

It just so happened we were both dummy at the same time. When Mr. Gross came in I was sitting at the table with my arms folded, watching my partner, the cook — whose name was not Curly but Luke — take a perfectly sensible contract of five hearts and grind it beneath his heel. I had always thought I was one of the world’s worst bridge players, but now I knew three worse.

Mr. Gross came in then, and I got to my feet. He said, “If you want to see me, why not merely ring the front doorbell?

It struck me he’d picked up our conversation exactly where it had been interrupted last time. And this time, would it be interrupted the same way, or would the interruption be screams and crashings as Chloe was discovered? It had been ten minutes since I’d seen her out the window, and so far not a sound.

Just as I had been forcing myself to concentrate on the cards, now I forced myself to concentrate on what I had to say to Mr. Gross. “I was afraid you wouldn’t talk to me. It’s a matter of life or death.”

“Life or death?” His mouth twitched; a fastidious distaste for melodrama. But how on earth could such a face convey fastidiousness about anything? And that wedding band on his left hand — what sort of female horror did it imply downstairs?

He said, in that voice again, “Whose life or death? Mine?”

“No. Mine.”

“Yours? But you came here with a gun.”

“To defend myself.”

“Rather than that,” he said, with twitching lips, “explain yourself.” The lips made a smile, in appreciation of the joke. His teeth looked soft, like bread.

“My name is Poole,” I told him. “Charles Robert Poole. Two men came—”

But he already knew the name. He took a step backward, his eyes widened, and if his face hadn’t already been as white as the belly of a fish, I think he would have blanched. “You killed the Farmer!”

“No! No! I didn’t, Mr. Gross. I want to explain—”

“And you came here to kill me!”

“Mr. Gross—”

“Damn!” said Luke. Our contract had just sunk without a trace, only a bit of oil skim on the water.

Mr. Gross said, “What possible point can there be in these murders? Do you think you can kill the whole organization?”

“Mr. Gross, I didn’t kill anybody. I swear I didn’t.”

“Her-bert!” Again from downstairs.

But this time he ignored it. “Of course it was you,” he said. “Who else would kill the Farmer? Who else would dare? Who else would want to?”

“I didn’t want to. Why would I kill him? I didn’t even know him.”

At the table, Luke was shuffling with unnecessary noise. The three of them sitting there were watching me with ill-concealed impatience. In any game, the worst players are always the ones most in a hurry to get at the next hand.

Mr. Gross was saying, “You found out he was the one who had sent Trask and Slade to kill you. Foolishly, you thought you could save your own life by ending his.”

“No, no. I just wanted to talk to him. I know better than that, Mr. Gross. I know it wouldn’t do any good to kill Mr. Agricola. Or those two men, either.”

“Trask and Slade.”

“Yes, sir, Trask and Slade. There would just be somebody else come after me, somebody else to send them, I know that.”

Gross frowned, making creases in his cheeks that looked as though they’d never pop out again. He agreed with what I was saying, but if that was what I already believed, then something had to be wrong somewhere. He said, “And if you were to kill me? Do you think then you would be safe?”

“No, sir. Even less safe. The whole organization would be out looking for the man who killed you.”

This was heady flattery indeed. He preened before me. “That is very—”

“Herbert!” Shouted this time from the doorway.

We both turned to look, and the woman there was undoubtedly six foot three in her bare feet, but at the moment she was wearing four-inch heels. She looked to be in her late twenties, a statuesque blonde, leggy and magnificent, with the body of a somewhat slimmer Anita Ekberg: a Copacabana chorine if there ever strutted one. Facially she had a cold Scandinavian beauty; ice-blue eyes and hollow cheeks and wide mouth and smooth complexion. Just as Gross’s ugliness was embarrassing, making you turn away in spite of yourself, this woman’s beauty had the same effect. It was too much beauty, larger than life, overpowering. It would take a man with absolute confidence in himself to climb into bed with her.

Or a fistful of money? Because this was surely the woman heralded by that wedding band.

Gross himself seemed impressed by her. He waved flaccid hands helplessly, saying, “Something’s come up, my dear.”

“I doubt that,” she said, with utter scorn.

Had Gross had blood in his veins, I’m sure he would have blushed. As it was, his face turned just slightly green. Formaldehyde? He said, “You must carry on without me, this cannot wait.”

“Bridge,” she told him, “is played with four players.”

He looked around helplessly, and saw Luke and the other two sitting at the table in silent agreement of the lady’s observation. “Joseph,” he said. “Go down and take my place for the moment. I will return as soon as possible.”

Joseph was the butler, whom I had initially thought of as Larry. And the chauffeur was not Moe but Harvey.

The quick look I now caught between Joseph and the lady of the house led me to believe this was not the first time, nor the first circumstance, in which Joseph had taken Mr. Gross’s place for the moment. In fact, it seemed to me I saw a similar exchange of glances between the lady and Harvey. Luke, I noticed, resolutely watched his hands shuffle the cards.

I had almost come to think of myself as invisible, the hidden observer, the one who sees everything but is himself unnoticed. I was, therefore, looking straight at the lady’s ice-blue eyes when they turned and looked straight back at me.

It was like being hit in the forehead with a piece of cold pipe. The eyes saw me, catalogued me, weighed me, considered me, and set me aside as being, at least for the moment, not worth the trouble. She turned — did I say her gown was low-cut, floor-length and shimmering gold? — and strode out of the doorway, followed immediately by Joseph.

Mr. Gross now sat down at the table at which we’d been playing cards. “You two,” he told Luke and Harvey, “stand over there by the door. If this young man tries anything, stop him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I won’t try anything,” I said.

“Come over here and sit down,” he ordered.

I went over and sat down, opposite him.

He raised a finger like a white sausage. “Nothing,” he said, “is senseless. That I learned long ago. If a fact is presented which appears to be devoid of sense, it means only that we must look again.” He paused, as though wanting comment.

I nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”

He pointed the white sausage at me. “You,” he said, “are discovered in perfidy. Trask and Slade are sent to dispatch you. You escape. You appear at the Farmer’s place, and the Farmer is murdered. You appear here, with a pistol in your pocket. The conclusion seems inescapable — you killed the Farmer and you intended to kill me.”

I shook my head vigorously. “No, I didn’t,” I said. “I didn’t—”

“Wait.” Five white sausages raised up to halt me, with a gesture like a traffic cop. “I told you, nothing is senseless. And yet, from appearances, your behavior is utterly devoid of sense. You know that killing Farmer Agricola will not save you, that killing me will not save you. The obvious course of events, therefore, is not necessarily the true course of events. Some other, or some further, explanation will be required.”

“That’s what I’m trying to—”

“No, no.” The sausages waggled; I had the uneasy feeling his fingers would fall off, but they didn’t. He said, “Let me do this in my own way. Order out of chaos. Now, if you did not kill Farmer Agricola, then someone else must have. And you must have had some purpose for going to see him other than his murder. And you must have had some purpose for coming here other than my murder. Now, the question is, what other purpose? And who else would want to kill Farmer Agricola?”

I’d always understood that big wheels in the organization were awash in enemies prepared to do them in, that violent ends were common among them and the practice of keeping bodyguards no mere affectation, but Mr. Gross seemed to think otherwise, and he was after all a big wheel in the organization himself and should know. So I let that question go, and tried the other one: “What I wanted to see—”

But it wasn’t my turn yet. “Ah ah ah,” he said. “One moment. Allow me please to see if this problem can be worked out with no more information than that which I already possess.”

I sat back and allowed him.

He thought it over, pursing his lips, which was a disgusting sight. After a minute he said, “There is, of course, also the daughter, who aided your escape. Her name?”

“Aided my—”

He snapped his fingers. It sounded like hitting two pork chops together. “Her name,” he said.

“Miss Althea,” I said. “But she—”

“Yes. Althea. Is this the explanation?”

I said, “She didn’t aid my escape, Mr. Gross. In fact, she tried to kill me. She thought I killed her father, and she came—”

“Please,” he said. “If you must lie, do so intelligently. The Farmer’s bodyguard, who himself has questions to answer, locked you away for safekeeping. This Althea person, the daughter, released you and gave you a gun. Further, she went away with you. The only term for this is my lexicon is ‘aided your escape.’ Yes?”

“No,” I said. “That’s all wrong. She—”

“Is undoubtedly somewhere nearby,” he said, “waiting for you to dispatch me and return to her arms.”

“But why?” I said. “Why would I do anything like that?”

“That,” he told me, “is the question with which I am currently engaging myself. What has been done is clear and obvious. Why is more complex.”

“Mr. Gross, I swear—”

“Don’t. Be still.”

I was still.

The wait this time was a longer one. Mr. Gross sat there with hooded eyes, like a white frog waiting for some beauty’s kiss to turn him into a green prince, and thought and thought, while I sat all atremble with corrections and emendations I wanted to make to his misinformation and incorrect conclusions.

Finally he spoke again: “Perhaps I begin to understand. The Farmer had tried always to keep the truth of his occupation from his daughter’s ear, which never ceased to strike me as snobbery. If a man’s own family cannot be taken into his confidence and be expected to spur him on in his professional endeavors, then God help us all. Be that as it may, to each his own, the Farmer wished his daughter to believe he was a farmer. An idiosyncrasy.”

He looked at me expectantly, but so far he hadn’t said much of anything, so there was nothing for me to reply to. I kept my silence, waiting for him to get to the parts that counted.

After a few seconds he nodded as though we’d come to agreement on something, and went on: “Somehow, the daughter learned the truth. Hearing it from outsiders, undoubtedly in a distorted and prejudiced manner, and at a highly impressionable age, the truth affected her badly. Particularly since the Farmer had given credence to the idea of his guilt and ill feelings by hiding this truth from his child so many years. A vigilante feeling came over the child. She must atone for her father’s sins by destroying the organization herself, with her own two hands.”

Again he stopped, and this time I did have something to say. “That’s wrong, Mr. Gross. She still doesn’t believe the truth. I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”

He smiled, pityingly, which was horrible to see. “You are very young,” he said, “and inexperienced at lying. However, let us go on. This daughter, this child, this young girl, feeling herself helpless to destroy such a large and powerful organization, sought assistance in her scheme, and that’s where you came in.”

“Mr. Gross! For—”

“Be still! When I have done, you may speak, you may rebut, you will be given your chance.”

All right then. I shrugged, and folded my arms, and sat back in the chair, all in an attempt to give the impression I was listening to utter nonsense and would be able to prove my case in a twinkling once my turn to speak had come. I wondered if I could.

Mr. Gross said, “Somewhere you two had met, the beautiful daughter of the gangland leader and the drifter, the ne’er-do-well, the useless nephew in his useless job. You understand, I mean nothing personal.”

I shrugged. It wasn’t yet my turn to speak.

“I am only,” he explained, “being vivid. In any case, you two met. She, purposeful, strong, beautiful. You, purposeless, weak, willing to be led. The two of you formed an alliance, and began your efforts to undermine the organization, and ultimately to destroy it.”

I shook my head, but didn’t say anything.

“At first,” he said, ignoring my shaking head, “you were content to be a informer, passing information on to the police, but after a—”

“No! I didn’t, Mr. Gross, I did not! What infor—”

“Be still! When I am done you may speak!”

I subsided. “I’m sorry,” I said, more calmly. “That was just... I’m sorry.”

“Very well.” He had himself become a bit ruffled. He smoothed his lapels — how astonishing that his hands didn’t leave a trail of white slime on the black cloth! — and took a deep breath. “After a while,” he said, “it became evident this was not enough. I cannot guess what your plans were before last night, but once you realized we were on to you, you suddenly intensified your program of attack. You attempted first to murder your own uncle, but were foiled. You then” — he gazed at me sternly till I stopped sputtering — “proceeded to Staten Island, murdered the Farmer, joined forces with your beautiful partner, and came here to kill me. That, as I see it, is the sum and essence of your activities.”

I said, “May I speak now?”

He waved two clusters of sausages airily. “The floor is yours.”

“All right. Number one, I did not come here to kill you. I came— No. That isn’t number one.”

“Take your time,” he said. “Organize your thoughts.”

“May I stand up?”

“Certainly. Pace the floor if you wish. Except near the door, of course.”

“Thank you.”

Moe and Curly — I mean Harvey and Luke — had been fading away into somnolence over by the door, but now that I was on my feet they suddenly became very alert again, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the doorway, gripping their guns tightly, glaring at me as though daring me to get funny. It was my own personal feeling that if I said, “Boo,” to those two, they’d turn tail and run to Montauk Point, but that didn’t matter. My job wasn’t to escape, but to plead my case.

How to do it, though, how to do it? I prowled around the room, trying to think. After a minute I stopped and said, “Can I ask a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Is that why you sent your two men to—”

“Trask and Slade.”

“Yes. Trask and Slade. Is that why you sent them to kill me? Because you believed I was giving information to the police?”

“Naturally,” he said. “An adequate enough reason, I believe.”

“Sure. Can I ask another?”

“Ask as many as you wish.”

“What made you think it was me? That was giving information to the police.”

He shook his head, with that pitying smile on it again. “We checked,” he said. “Naturally. The police were obviously in receipt of information concerning shipments of various commodities. There were at least, two instances, and perhaps more, when particular shipments which went through your hands, and which were perfectly safe before reaching you, had developed a police tail after leaving your hands.”

“You mean packages I kept in my safe.”

“Certainly.”

“What makes you think it was me?”

“As I say, we checked. I spoke to Mahoney myself, asked him to find out, and the word came back it was the bartender. You.”

“Who’s this Mahoney?” I said. “I don’t know any Mahoney.”

“Our liaison on the police force.”

Mahoney. It was a name I wanted to remember, for future reference. But I would also want it narrowed down more than that, so I said, “Would that be Michael Mahoney?”

“No,” he said. “Patrick.” Then he frowned, as though wondering why he’d told me that.

Before he could think long enough to realize he’d been psyched, I said, “How can you be sure you can trust this guy Mahoney?”

“Of course we can trust him. We bought him, years ago.”

I said, “Well, this time he’s lying. Mr. Gross, before I got that job out at that bar, I was just a drifter, just a bum, living off my mother all the time. My Uncle Al got me that job, and it just suited me right. All I wanted out of life was to go on running that bar. I never looked inside any of the packages or envelopes I was asked to hold for a while, and I never asked anybody any questions about what was inside them or about anything else, because I didn’t want to know. I never wanted a lot of money, I never wanted revenge, I never wanted anything but to go on running that bar.”

“Until,” he said, “Miss Althea Agricola came into your life.”

“No, sir. No, sir, that isn’t right.”

He shrugged and shook his head. “Tell your story,” he said.

“Just let me get it straight. I want to tell you everything in chronological order.”

“Take your time.”

I went over by the window and glanced out, and here came the black car, the same old black car. I stared, and saw it pull to a stop with the other cars parked out front, and they got out of the car, the two of them, and hitched their trousers and shifted their shoulders inside their coats and pushed their hatbrims around a little and looked at each other and up at this window and moved toward the front door.

Trask and Slade.

So I couldn’t take my time after all. Before he’d come back up, Mr. Gross had contacted Trask and Slade, told them to come out here.

I turned and said, “Trask and Slade. They just drove up.”

But he waved a fat hand to indicate it didn’t matter. “They’ll wait downstairs until called for,” he said. “Go on with your story. In chronological order, I believe you said.”

“Yes, sir.”

I went back to the table and sat down, and started: “Like I said, I never gave information to the police because I never had any information to give them and never wanted to give them any information anyway. So last night when those two guys — Trask and Slade — when they came in and put that card with the black spot down on the bar, I thought they were kidding. It was just dumb luck I got away. I went to see my Uncle Al to ask him to help me, because the organization wanted to kill me and I didn’t know why, because I didn’t do anything wrong, but he was too scared to even talk to me. So I went to see Mr. Agricola to find out from him—”

“Excuse me,” he said, holding up a wad of bread dough shaped somewhat like a hand. “If you were so devoid of information, how did you know to find the Farmer’s farm? From the Farmer’s daughter, perhaps?”

“No, sir. Trask and Slade mentioned the name to my Uncle Al, I heard them when I was hiding in the stairwell. Then I went to a friend of mine, he used to sell pills for Mr. Agricola and he knew he lived out on Staten Island, and so I went out to Staten Island and found him in the phone book.”

“The phone book?” He seemed startled.

“Yes, sir.”

He shook his head. “One never knows. Very well, go on.”

“Yes, sir. When I got there, he was dead. That was the first time I’d ever seen him or his daughter or that farm. A man named Clarence locked—”

“The bodyguard,” he said, in a tone that indicated trouble for the bodyguard in the near future.

“Yes, sir. He locked me in the barn, and then Miss Althea came with a gun and unlocked the door and tried to shoot me, because she thought I’d killed her father. She took two shots at me.”

“And missed you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How very fortunate for you.”

“It happened,” I said.

He smiled — pityingly, again — and said, “Go on, go on.”

“I got the gun away from her, and outside I found my friend that had told me where Mr. Agricola lived, he’d come after me to see if I was okay, and we got away together. We took Miss Althea with us for a hostage, but she wouldn’t believe me when I told her the truth about her father, and she got away back on Sunrise Highway and my friend went after her and I haven’t seen him since. Either of them.”

“How sad. I never, never had the privilege of meeting the Farmer’s child, and I had been looking forward to your introducing us. Is this the end of your story?”

“I came here,” I said, “to talk to you, to find out why you wanted me killed, and to try to convince you I didn’t do whatever it was you thought I did. I didn’t give anybody any information, I’m not in cahoots with Althea Agricola, I didn’t kill Mr. Agricola or anybody else, and I didn’t come here to kill you. I don’t know about this Mr. Mahoney, if he’s lying on purpose or he just made a mistake, but whatever it was what he said is wrong.”

“I see. Is that all?”

I could tell by his face, by his voice, that he didn’t believe me. “And to ask you,” I said, “to give me a chance to clear myself.”

“Very touching,” he said. “In other words, you would like me to let you go.”

“Yes, sir. So I can prove I’m telling the truth.”

“Surely you can see—”

“All right, everybody!” shouted a female voice from the doorway. “On your feet and get your hands up!”

Mr. Gross and I both scrambled to our feet and stuck our hands in the air. Behind me, over by the door, I could hear two thumps as Luke and Harvey dropped their guns, one of which was Tim’s little pistol.

The female voice said, “Not you, you dummy, you’re on my side, remember? Put your hands down.”

I turned around and it was Chloe there in the doorway, as wild and beautiful as a cheetah, holding the automatic in both hands. I smiled at her, put my hands down, and picked up both guns.

“Ah,” said Mr. Gross. “The beauteous Miss Althea. How do you do?”