Murder Among Children Read online

  “I never seemed to have the time.”

  “Well, you got kids of your own. I can’t have any. Thought it was Mrs. Donlon for years, but it’s me. Doctor said it’s me.” He rubbed his face again, and it came out as hard as it had been before. “But they grow up bad,” he said, “the most of them. Like that bunch you’re protecting in there. The smaller kids are all right, but later on they turn bad.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “What do I care?” He gnawed on a knuckle for a second, then shook his head and said, “On this other thing, we deal.”

  “You’ll lay off?”

  He spread his hands out, palms down, and said, “Everybody floats.” His eyes glinted.

  I didn’t trust him, there was something too sudden and electric about him, but I knew this was the best I’d be able to get from him, so I said, “Good. It’s a deal.”

  “Now,” he said, “everybody goes home.” He didn’t say it menacingly or like an order, but as though it followed naturally.

  Which it didn’t. I said, “Stop pushing.”

  He seemed confused for just a second, and then tightness came over his face and he said, “All right, Tobin, play your game, whatever it is. But don’t show your face.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Say good-bye to your guests for me,” he said, and walked around me, and pushed open the swinging door.

  I followed him down the hall to the front door. He opened it and went out, leaving the door ajar. I stood there in semi-darkness, my hand on the knob, and watched him walk out through belated twilight to a black Plymouth parked at the curb, unmarked but obvious; he was driving an official car on his unofficial business.

  When Donlon got into the Plymouth and drove away, I shut the door and went back to the living room.

  12

  THERE WAS CONVERSATION IN the living room now, animated conversation, the whole group busily explaining something or other to Kate, who was nodding and smiling and not understanding a word. They were all busily and unself-consciously being themselves, without that slightly guarded overlay that people almost always put on with me. Vicki was bursting and bubbling with speech, her words tumbling over each other, she herself bouncing up and down on the couch as though she were not a fat girl; Abe Selkin was as brisk and incisive as a reform candidate’s campaign manager; Hulmer was in the conversation and yet to one side of it, observant and self-aware and sympathetic and faintly amused; and Ralph Padbury, leaning slightly forward, was methodically inserting small neat footnotes into the seconds left empty by the others.

  The talk trailed off as I came into the room, and everyone looked at me. I said, into the raw new silence, “It’s all right, he’s gone.”

  Abe Selkin, in his clipped way, said, “You realize he followed one of us.”

  “Possibly,” I said.

  Hulmer said, “What happens now? He hangs on our tail?”

  “No. We’ve got a stalemate. He’s to lay off us and we’ll lay off him.”

  Hulmer smiled a thin curve of disbelief. “We lay what off him?”

  “We don’t try to make trouble for him being on the take.”

  Ralph Padbury, very prim, said, “It was never established that was what he wanted. We have no case there.”

  “I know that,” I said. “But we could still raise a little dust, something that would be remembered at promotion time. It’s worth it to him not to have us making a stink, even though,” with a nod to Padbury, “we don’t have enough to get him into a court of law.”

  Hulmer said, “Sounds like a shaky truce, man.”

  “It is.” I sat down. “But it gives us a little time,” I said, and picked up my notebook. Studying it, pretending the earlier flare-up with Ralph Padbury had never happened, I said, “I think we’ve finished with Irene Boles. Prostitute, heroin addict, no known connection with Terry Wilford or any of the rest of you.” I looked up. “Has anybody found out how she got in there?”

  My transition had worked; Padbury sat quiet and attentive in his chair, no longer prepared to revolt.

  It was Abe Selkin who answered my question, saying, “The police theory is, Terry let her in that morning because he knew her, because they had a thing going, and she was supposed to be out of there before he got back with Robin. But she was stoned, so she didn’t make it. So Terry and Robin went upstairs, Robin saw her there, and she flipped out and started slicing.”

  I said, “Do the police have any support for the idea that Wilford knew the girl?”

  No one answered me until Kate volunteered, saying, “Nothing that’s been in the paper, Mitch.”

  “All right.” I made a note to try and check that out, and said, “Now, I’ll want to talk to other people who knew Wilford. Friends and enemies, old girl friends, relatives, anybody that you four think it would be worth my while to see.”

  Selkin said, “What’s the point?”

  “Somebody murdered him,” I said. “The odds are in favor of it being somebody who knew him.”

  Selkin said, “Why not somebody who knew the girl? The Boles girl.”

  “Possibly,” I said. “But Wilford was murdered at home, so he’s more likely to be the prime target. The murderer could also turn out to be the connecting link between the two of them, somebody who knew both Terry Wilford and Irene Boles.”

  With that faint smile of his, Hulmer said, “Somebody like me, maybe?”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “But I don’t subscribe to the theory that all Negroes know each other.”

  In quick succession he looked surprised, angry, and delighted, accompanying the last with laughter and saying, “Touché, man. I’ll lay off.”

  “Good.” I poised pencil over notebook. “Now I want Wilford’s relatives.”

  Selkin said, “None local.”

  Vicki Oppenheim bubbled in, saying, “Nobody was really born in New York, you know. Except people like Abe and Hully, and they don’t count. Terry came from Oregon, some little town in Oregon.”

  “All right,” I said. “What about enemies?”

  Vicki shook her head. “Everybody liked Terry,” she started.

  She would have gone on, but I’ve heard that paragraph from survivors before, and I didn’t particularly want to hear it again, so I interrupted, saying, “No. Everybody has enemies, even the saints.”

  Vicki laughed, saying, “Ho-oh, nobody ever said Terry was a saint.” Then, belatedly, it occurred to her to worry about whether she should have said something like that about someone recently dead; she put a hand over her mouth and blinked solemnly at us all.

  Selkin distracted us from Vicki’s embarrassment, saying, “Jack Parker, there’s one.”

  I wrote the name down while Vicki, forgetting to be embarrassed, was saying to Selkin, “Oh, Abe, no! That was all over six months ago.”

  “They were never exactly buddies after that,” Selkin told her.

  I said, “After what?”

  Selkin turned to me. “Jack was going with a bird,” he said. “Terry took her away, then she went back with Jack.”

  I said, “What’s the girl’s name?”

  “Ann,” said Vicki. “But Jack Parker isn’t mad at Terry any more, Abe, he really isn’t. I mean, he wasn’t. Not for months.”

  Selkin shrugged.

  I said, “What’s Ann’s last name?”

  It turned out none of them knew; she was just a girl named Ann. I said, “Do you know any way I can get in touch with her?”

  “Sure,” said Selkin. “She’s living with Jack again. They’ve got a place on Sullivan Street, below Houston.”

  I took down the address and said, “Anybody else? Any more enemies?”

  They all thought for a while, and then Hulmer said, “Well, there’s always Bodkin.”

  Selkin frowned at him and said, “You’re reaching, Hully.”

  Vicki leaped on that, saying, “No more than you did with Jack.”

  Not wanting them to disintegrate into bickering, I broke in and said, “Tell
me about Bodkin.”

  Hulmer said, “When Terry first came to the city he roomed with this guy Bodkin. They knew each other in college or something. And Bodkin was a mooch, you know? Borrow your clothes, your booze, your bread, everything. Hang around when you’re with a bird, all like that. Terry had a short once, some old Morris Minor, Bodkin took it out and racked it up on Seventh Avenue in the rain. Near that Esso station below Sheridan Square, you know? Left it there, stuck in the trunk of some parked Lincoln, some doctor’s Lincoln, made Terry all kinds of grief.”

  Vicki said, defensively, “Terry had every right to do what he did.”

  “Sure he did,” Hulmer said agreeably. “That isn’t the point, honey.”

  I said, “What did he do?”

  Hulmer told me, “Beat on Bodkin a little. Took Bodkin’s tape recorder and some other stuff to pay for the Morris, kicked him out on the street. Bodkin tried to get the fuzz on him, so Terry stopped covering for him about the Morris, and Bodkin didn’t have any license. He wound up with thirty days in the Tombs.”

  “What happened after that?”

  Hulmer shrugged. “Nothing. Bodkin never came around any more.”

  Selkin said, “This all happened a year and a half ago. If Bodkin was going to make trouble he’d have done it long ago.”

  I said, “What’s Bodkin’s first name?”

  “Something weird,” Hulmer said. “Vicki, what was it?”

  “I’m trying to think,” she said, frowning mightily, and abruptly snapped her fingers and cried, “Claude!”

  “Right! Claude Bodkin!” Hulmer turned to me, grinning, and said, “How’s that for a name?”

  “Good,” I said, writing it down.

  “You’re one to talk,” Vicki said to Hulmer.

  “Hulmer Fass? What’s wrong with Hulmer Fass?”

  “Cut it out,” Selkin told them. “This is serious.”

  They both sobered at once, and Hulmer almost managed to look contrite. Into their silence I said, “What about friends? Any close friends outside this group?”

  “Willy Fedders,” Selkin said, “but he’s off in summer stock.”

  Vicki said, “Whatever happened to that girl Chris? Remember her?”

  Hulmer said, “She married some guy in the Navy, moved out to California or some place.”

  Ralph Padbury, somewhat diffident, leaned forward to say, “What about Ed Regan?”

  Selkin said, “Right.” To me he said, “Ed’s a guy lives in the building where Terry lived before he moved in over Thing East.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “On Eleventh Street, East Eleventh Street. What is it? Three-eighteen A. It’s a building in back, you go through three-eighteen and it’s behind there.”

  “Fine. Anybody else?”

  They thought it over, tossed names back and forth a little, and then decided there weren’t any more close friends of Wilford’s in town right now. Casual acquaintances, but no one who could do me any good. So I moved on, saying, “About Thing East. Whose idea was it to begin with?”

  Vicki said, “Terry. He talked to Abe about it first, didn’t he, Abe?”

  “He talked to George first,” Selkin said. “He and George came to me, and then the three of us talked to Ralph. Well, the four of us, Robin was there, too.”

  Ralph Padbury leaned forward again, saying carefully, “Of course, I was never actually a partner in the enterprise. They came to me for advice about some of the legal aspects.”

  “I understand that. Did Terry know about the available building when he got the idea?”

  Vicki said, “That’s what made him think of it. Ed told him about these religious nuts, and the building, and all.”

  “Ed. You mean Ed Regan?”

  Selkin said, “Ed’s mother is in this religious group.”

  “All right. So Terry got the idea, and went first to George Padbury. Why him first?”

  Ralph Padbury answered for his brother, saying, “George worked in a couple of coffee houses, he knew about running them.”

  “He was a manager?”

  “No. He was a cook.”

  “All right. Then the two of them came to you,” I said to Selkin. “Why you next?”

  Selkin rubbed thumb and first finger of his right hand together. “Money,” he said. “They knew I had some money, and I’m the business type. I’m the manager.”

  “And Robin was there because she was Terry’s girl friend, is that it?”

  Vicki said, “And she’s a waitress. I mean, she was. She and me, we’re the waitresses.”

  “Who brought you in?” I asked her.

  “Robin. We’ve been friends since way back in high school.”

  I turned to Hulmer. “What about you?”

  “Same as Abe,” he said, smiling. “I had some money. Besides, these days you’ve got to have a spade whatever you start up. It’s token integration.”

  Selkin said, “Hulmer’s a mechanic and a hi-fi repairman and everything else like that. He picked up all the kitchen equipment and the tables and everything, fixed everything up.”

  Nodding, Hulmer grinned at Selkin and said, “That, too, Abe. I’m just putting the man on. He’s hip.” He turned to me, saying, “Aren’t you, Mr. Tobin?”

  “Nobody you call mister is hip,” I told him.

  He laughed and said, “There you go, Abe. You see what I mean?”

  I said, “Who approached you about the coffee house, Hulmer?”

  “Terry,” he said. “Him and George, they came to see me where I was working.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Stereo Fixit, on Eighth Street.”

  “Did you people all quit your jobs for this?”

  “Had to,” said Selkin. “It’s full-time work, opening a place like that.”

  “I guess it would be. All right, let’s move on. Keys to the front door. I suppose each of you has a key.”

  “Not me,” said Padbury.

  “That’s right, you wouldn’t have. But the rest of you do.”

  They all nodded agreement.

  I said, “Anybody else? Besides the six partners, you three and Robin and Terry and George, did anybody else have a key?”

  They shook their heads, and Selkin said, “There wasn’t any reason for anybody else to have a key.”

  I said, “What about this religious organization you rented the place from? Don’t they have a key?”

  “That’s right!” Selkin shook his head, irritated with himself. “I’m sorry, I never even thought about that.”

  “Anybody else?”

  This time they thought more carefully, but they finally decided no, there weren’t any more keys around but the ones already mentioned, so I said, “Who do you deal with from the religious organization?”

  “We go straight to the top,” Hulmer told me, straight-faced. “The bishop his own self.”

  Selkin told me, more usefully, “Walter Johnson. Bishop Johnson, he calls himself.”

  “What’s the religion’s name?”

  “New World Samaritans,” Selkin said. “They’re over on Avenue A now, got a store front facing the park.”

  “Tompkins Square Park?”

  “Right.”

  “All right.” I looked over my notes, and it seemed as though I’d covered everything I could. I said to Selkin, “Would you call Bishop Johnson and tell him I’ll be coming to see him? Explain I’m on your side.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Ed Regan, too. Also, would you all give me your addresses and phone numbers before you leave? I might want to talk to one of you again later on.” I looked at Hulmer, saw he was preparing a remark, and said, “For a variety of possible reasons, Hulmer.”

  He grinned at me. “I didn’t say a word, mister.”

  Kate said, “Is that all now, Mitch?”

  “All I can think of. Unless one of you has something I missed.”

  None of them did, so Kate said, “Then maybe everyone would like some refre
shments. Iced tea?”

  They took iced tea, and cookies, all but Ralph Padbury, who was still ill at ease to be in such nonconformist company, and who made jumbled excuses before backing hurriedly into the night. The other three stayed on, chatted with Kate much more companionably than they could possibly talk with me, and a strangely party-like aura settled over the house.

  They left around eleven, all three making blanket offers of assistance, which I had no intention of taking up, and once they were gone Kate gave her opinion that all three were excellent youngsters, adding, “You don’t think any of them had anything to do with it, do you?”

  “I don’t think anything yet,” I said.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Make a couple of phone calls and go to bed. I can’t start on any of this tonight.”

  “Mitch,” she said, “I’m glad you’re doing this.”

  “I know you are,” I said, and went off to make my phone calls, two of them, to old friends on the force, men I could still think of as friends even with things as they are. I wanted to know if the investigating detectives had any reason other than theory to believe that Terry Wilford and Irene Boles had some connection prior to the murders. I asked my two friends to see if they could find out for me, both promised to try but gave no guarantee they could learn anything, and then I went to bed.

  I couldn’t get to sleep. I was thinking about the murders now, despite myself, and my head was full of short thin straight black lines, all disconnected. Sooner or later they would come together, like magnets, and form an arrow, and the arrow would point at a face, but for now they were only lines, each separate, some no doubt extraneous, each a stray name or stray fact. I lay looking at the ceiling, watching the lines float in my head.

  The phone sounded a little before midnight. It was Hulmer. “I’m at Vicki’s,” he said. “Donlon followed us. He’s outside somewhere.”

  “Did he do anything besides follow you?”

  “No.”

  “He’s trying to scare you, keep you from making trouble.”

  “I’m staying here tonight,” he said. “I don’t want that weird cat bugging Vicki.”