Too Soon Dead Page 2

  The picture looked pretty much like what it was—a pornographic photograph—and nothing exceptional along that line. The girl was attractive as far as I could tell—and I could tell pretty far—but the man was, if anything, a bit chubby and a bit old for that sort of thing. I couldn’t understand what had provoked Brass’s reaction. I peered closely at the photograph.

  I whistled thoughtfully between my teeth as I realized what Brass had noticed. “Son of a bitch!” I said.

  2

  “Go retrieve the fat gentleman and bring him in here,” Brass ordered. “And stay in here with him when you return—I don’t think a private conversation would be useful.”

  “Gotcha, boss,” I said.

  “And don’t call me ‘boss,’” he told my back just as I reached the door. “And for that matter, you would do well to expunge ‘gotcha.’ The next great American novelist will probably not be a vulgarian.”

  He was hitting me where it hurt, but I didn’t wince visibly as I closed the door. When, fresh out of Western Reserve College and even fresher in New York, I had applied for the job with Brass, I had told him that my ambition was to be the next great American novelist. The next day, when he called me back, he had simultaneously offered me the job and strongly advised me not to take it. “It can’t do you any good as a writer,” he had said, “and it may destroy your talent and ambition.”

  “Jobs are not that easy to come by at the moment, Mr. Brass,” I had told him. “And I’ve never had any strong desire to become a lumberjack, or a coal miner, or a missionary, or any of those other jobs that writers are supposed to get so they can put it on the back of their book jackets. I’ve always thought that to learn writing one should be around writers.”

  “This isn’t writing that goes on here,” he had told me, “this is plumbing and mortising with words. This is a literary yard-goods store, not a fashion house.”

  “On the contrary, sir,” I had told him. “You have a terse, cleaft style that I’ve always admired.”

  “Style!” He had shaken his head. “You start on Monday.”

  And so I had. That was in September 1931, about three and a half years ago. I’m still at it. And I still admire Brass’s style. And I still haven’t written the Great American Novel. Oh, I’ve started it a few dozen times. As a matter of fact, I just started it all over again last week. I had about six pages done now.

  They call me Percival. I was born in a monastery in Brooklyn Heights. My mother, in an ecstasy of misplaced zeal, had joined the Order of Supplicants of St. Sebastian while she was carrying me, lying about her sex and possibly a few other things. The monks, being an introspective and essentially incurious crew, effected not to notice. Those few who did notice kept silent for reasons of their own.

  That’s how this version begins. I can’t decide whether to call it The Supplicant or The Uncivil War or Money Well Spent. Perhaps, as I understand they do with babies in primitive societies, I should refrain from naming it until I’m sure it’s going to live. Maybe I should give it another fifty pages or so.

  The fat gentleman was sitting in one of the four cane-bottom chairs in the reception room, shifting his weight impatiently from side to side. The chairs are French, done in the style of Louis XIV, or XV, or whichever Louis was into furniture. They’re copies, but they were copied so long ago that they’re antiques in their own right by now. They were given to Brass by a mobster named Francis “the Chin” Capitello in return for a favor Brass had done the mobster involving Capitello’s daughter Isabella and a trombone player named Sid. Brass had not considered what he did a favor for Capitello, but for the daughter, and he hadn’t wanted a reward, and he didn’t like the chairs much anyway, but there you have it. And if the fat man broke the chair he was sitting on, Francis “the Chin” would never understand it.

  “Mr. Brass would like to see you,” I told him.

  “I thought maybe he would,” the fat man said, pushing himself to his feet. The chair creaked, but it held. He marched into Brass’s office with all the grace of an indignant goose, and stopped in front of the big desk. He glanced down at the envelope, which was neatly centered on Brass’s desk blotter. “I thought you’d see me,” he said. “Send your errand boy out of here so’s we can talk.”

  Brass leaned even farther back in his swivel chair and examined the fat man, who stolidly met his gaze.

  “Mr. DeWitt stays,” Brass said. “If you want to talk to me, talk. If not, get out.”

  The fat man took a half-step backward and raised his hands in a mock gesture of warding off physical attack. “Sure, sure,” he said. “If you trust him in this kind of business…” He looked around him. “Got a chair?” he asked.

  I pushed a solid wooden chair over to the desk, and he plumped himself into it. Pulling a reasonably clean white handkerchief from his breast pocket, he mopped his face. “Let’s get down to business,” he said.

  “Start with your name,” Brass told him. “I always like to know to whom I am speaking.”

  “Not part of the deal,” the fat man said. “You don’t have to know my moniker for us to conduct business.”

  “Just what kind of business is this?” Brass asked. “Why did you give me that picture, and what do you expect me to do about it?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” the fat man replied. “You did recognize the john, of course.”

  Brass repositioned the envelope slightly with two fingers. “The man in the photograph has a superficial resemblance to Senator Childers,” he said. “But I don’t know how that resemblance was achieved.”

  “Superficial, hell,” the fat man said, sounding annoyed. “It’s him. You know it’s him.”

  “That’s just what I don’t know, sir,” Brass said. “I don’t know the provenance of that photograph. Perhaps it’s a clever composite. Perhaps it’s merely a chance resemblance. Perhaps it’s an actor made up to look like the senator. I don’t know. Do you?”

  “It’s no composite,” the fat man said. “I got the negative—I could tell. A chance resemblance? Hell, it would have to be his twin brother. An actor? What would be the point?”

  “What is the point?” Brass asked.

  The fat man sat upright in his chair. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I bet I’m going to find out. I have some ideas.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a rubber-band-wrapped packet of photographs, which he tossed on the desk. There were, perhaps, thirty of them. “Take a look at these,” he said.

  Brass took them up and shuffled slowly through them, examining each one closely. Three of them he peered at for a long time before going on. “Very, ah, imaginative,” he said finally, looking back up at the fat man. “Why are you showing me these? I won’t pay you anything for them. If you try selling them to anyone else, you might get some money, but you might be buying a lot of trouble.”

  The fat man grinned. “I’m not selling you anything,” he said. “I’m making your life more interesting.” He leaned forward and pushed several of the photographs toward Brass with a pudgy forefinger. “A United States senator, a big-shot lawyer, and a judge. All playing bury-the-pickle with girls who are certainly not their wives, whatever else they may be.”

  “And the others?” Brass asked. “There are photographs of seven or eight different men here.”

  “I haven’t found out yet,” the fat man said. “Judging by the company which they are in, I figure they are important persons. I figure you can look them up for me. I figure you won’t be able to resist doing just that.”

  “Is that what you want from me?”

  The fat man shook his head. “I want you to hold these pictures for me until I come back for them. Then we can exchange information. You can tell me who these other gents are, and I can tell you where these photos came from. Or then again, I might not. You might say I’m buying insurance.”

  Brass leaned back and put his hands together in front of him, fingertip to fingertip. “I see,” he said.

  “I thou
ght you would,” the fat man said, “you being such a wise guy.” He leaned forward. “I don’t know enough about those pictures yet, but I intend to find out. I’m leaving them with you as a sort of insurance policy. You can’t use them unless I tell you more about them. Like you said—they might be faked. Although we both know they’re not. So I’ll come back and tell you more about them. Or I won’t. Depending.”

  Brass stared into space somewhere over the fat man’s left shoulder. “I don’t like being used,” he said. “It goes against my policy. If I let one punk use me once, there’ll be a line of them outside the door tomorrow.”

  The fat man waved his hands in front of him like a first-base umpire trying to decide whether the runner was safe or out. “You offend me,” he said. “I see this as a sporting proposition. In return for temporarily sticking some pictures in your desk drawer for a while, an act which costs you no sweat, and maybe taking a glom through your photo morgue, you get a shot at a story that could be right up there with Fatty Arbuckle.”

  “I don’t know what kind of insurance you think I’m giving you. These pictures,” Brass said, poking at the nearest one with his finger, “pictures like these—they can’t be used for anything even if they are real. At least not by me. You do realize that?”

  “Of course,” the fat man said. “You being an honorable guy. But you don’t get it yet.” He leaned forward, putting his chubby palms on the desk. “The tale I’m offering you is not these old guys humping the broads, no matter who they are. It’s where they came from. It’s who took the pictures—and why.”

  “Who did?” Brass asked. “Didn’t you?”

  “Gracious sakes, no,” the fat man said. Honest, that’s what he said. I didn’t expect it either. “Gracious sakes, no.” Perhaps he had been an altar boy.

  “Gracious sakes, no. But I think I know who did. At least, I know who knows who did. And that tale may well be worth telling.”

  “How did you get the pictures?”

  “That would be telling.” He stood up. “I must go now. You will be hearing from me shortly.” He gestured toward the pile of photographs on the desk. “Keep those,” he said. “Don’t show them around. Don’t tell the cops. And don’t try to find out who I am. That could be trouble for both of us, if you go nosing around. Even me nosing around is liable to create some waves, and I got a sensitive nose. Give me time to get some more info. Maybe a couple of days—maybe a couple of weeks. I’ll be in touch.” The fat man headed for the door.

  Brass pushed himself up from his chair. “I make no promises,” he said.

  “I’ll be in touch,” the fat man repeated over his shoulder.

  Brass watched the door close behind the fat man and then picked up the in-house phone and jiggled for the operator. “Give me the city desk, will you?” he asked.

  “Ben? This is Brass. Any legmen loose at the moment?” He stared thoughtfully into space. “Billy Fox? Good. Can I have him for a couple of hours? No—no trouble, just a tailing job. It may be a story, I can’t promise. Thanks. Stick him on the phone.” Brass drummed his fingers on the table. “William? This is Alexander Brass. I want you to tail someone for me. Find out who he is and where he goes. But don’t let him know. Lose him if you have to. Right. Bring whatever you find out up here to me. I can’t promise a story, but I’ll give you a buck-an-hour bonus and I’ll stand you to dinner. Right. He’s headed down in the elevator right now. Fat man in a blue double-breasted. Not very neat. You can’t miss him. Just run down three flights and pick him up in the lobby. Okay. Good luck.”

  While Brass was talking I went over to the table and took a look at the pictures, leafing through them one at a time. There was little to attract the connoisseur of smut to them. Were it not for the prominence of some of the practitioners, they were trivial and repetitious examples of the art. The only conclusion I reached was that stout elderly men should not allow themselves to be photographed in compromising positions; they looked ridiculous. One of them was actually young and handsome, and fairly athletic-looking. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Three of the oldsters also looked like they were having fun; the remaining few looked grim, as though it was a difficult job, but somebody had to do it. The girls—and each fellow seemed to be with a different girl—were uniformly young, well built, and happy-looking.

  I tossed the pictures back on the desk as Brass got off the phone. “If this is the latest thing in calisthenics,” I said, “it ought to sweep the country.”

  “What do you think of our friend?” Brass asked.

  I shook my head. “He’s using you for something.”

  “So he intimated. But what are his goals, his motivations? What, if anything, does he see in these pictures besides couples coupling? Is he a simple blackmailer? But then, why give me the pictures?”

  “I give up,” I said.

  Brass handed me the photographs. “Go down to the morgue and see if you can identify these men. I’m pretty sure about two of them, but I’d like it verified.” He tapped the picture of the handsome young man. “In this case,” he said, “I think the identity of the lady is what will interest us.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “I thought it was obvious,” Brass said.

  I grunted and headed for the door.

  3

  The research department of the New York World, which we experienced newsies called “the morgue,” a huge room punctuated by two rows of pseudo-Greek columns, took up much of the sixth floor. It was the domain of Michael Fredric Schiff, a skinny old man with large ears, a thin, pointed nose and chin, oversized, arthritic knuckle joints, and an encyclopedic knowledge of everything that had happened in the world for the past half century. Schiff guarded his rows of file drawers full of clippings and photographs with the zeal of a mama bear guarding her cubs, and he always seemed to be able to go right to any required bit of information. After thirty years in this country he still spoke with a vaguely middle-European accent. The rumor was that he had been a college professor in his native land, but had been forced to flee when he was caught in the bed of the daughter—or, some said, the wife—of an anti-Semitic government official.

  Schiff kept the room cold, probably to discourage loitering, and wore a dark brown wool sweater with a row of tiny buttons, keeping all but the top one buttoned so that just the knot of his tie peeked out. He sat behind his battered oak desk and peered at me as I posed the problem to him.

  “Let me see the pictures,” he said, pulling over a swinging-arm desk lamp and snapping it on. “I might be able to save you some time.”

  “I’m not sure if I should show them to you,” I said.

  “You might as well,” he said. “They’re going to end up in here sooner or later anyway.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “These are—different.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Like that. We’ve got those in here too, my boy. Listen, you see that cabinet?” He pointed to a dark corner of the room.

  “Which one?”

  “Never mind which one. It is sufficient for you to know that it exists: a cabinet full of pictures that would shock a Swiss pimp.”

  “Are they particularly unshockable?” I asked him.

  “So it is believed where I come from,” he told me. “But if you don’t want me to see your photographs—”

  “Here,” I said, passing them over to him.

  He examined each one carefully, dragging a magnifying glass out of the top drawer to take a closer look at a couple of them. He said, “Hah!” He said, “Humm.” His expression gave no indication that he thought anything in the pictures the slightest bit unusual. He went over to the bank of filing cabinets near the hall door and began pulling drawers out and leafing through the files, pausing to pull up an occasional picture and compare it with one of those in his hand.

  After a couple of minutes Schiff returned to his desk and, taking a thick, stubby fountain pen from his shirt pocket, printed a list of names on a sheet of yellow paper. �
�I have numbered the pictures in pencil,” he told me, “very small, on the back. Here are the names to go with the pictures; all but two. That is, I have identified all but two of the people, who are, let us call them, the primary subjects of interest in these pictures.” He held up one from the back. “I assume that in this one, while you might like the name of the young man with the large member, what you are primarily interested in is the woman’s name.”

  “Mr. Brass assumes the same thing,” I told him.

  “Good. It’s on the list. Leave these two pictures with me, and I’ll see what I can do about putting names to them.” He capped the fountain pen. “A notable assemblage. I assume that these photographs were taken for purposes of blackmail. Is that so?”

  “I don’t know,” I told him.

  Schiff folded the yellow sheet neatly in half and handed it and the pack of photographs to me. He shook his head. “Imagine that it was ingestion instead of fornication that was taboo,” he said. “Then people would have illicit trysts with ham sandwiches, and elderly men would be held up to ridicule for lusting after young, shapely Bartlett pears.”

  I put the photographs in my pocket. “And sharply dressed men would accost you on street corners,” I suggested, “offering hamburgers.”

  “Just so,” he agreed. “With not too French, french fries.”

  * * *

  I pulled the morgue file on each name on his list and took the assortment back upstairs to Brass. He was swiveled around in his chair facing the typewriter and staring with murderous intensity at the blank page. It would not be a good time to interrupt him. I left the files and the photos neatly on a corner of his desk and retreated to my own office to ponder the possibilities. There were six names on the list: