Chapter 4
So far, Daisy was not impressed with the American police. If Rosenblatt and Gilligan were typical, no wonder J. Edgar was prepared to listen to advice from Scotland Yard on reforming his department.
Daisy wondered whether Rosenblatt, whom she assumed to be the district attorney, was more competent.
Failing that, she could only hope that they would somehow muddle through to a solution without involving her more than absolutely necessary.
Since she had once more—by absolutely no fault of her own—landed in the middle of a murder investigation, she wished Alec were in charge.
However angry, he would at least start with a presumption of her innocence.
On the other hand, this was her chance to prove to him that she was quite capable of coping without him. Maybe she could even work out who was the murderer and help the local police collar him. What a coup that would be! Alec would never again be able to claim she impeded his investigations.
Rosenblatt and Gilligan, conferring, kept glancing at her. Of course, she was the only witness both present and compos mentis, as long as she didn’t faint from starvation. Mrs. Shurkowski had returned long since from her errand, but so far the promised “bratwurst on rye” had not materialized.
Right now, Daisy would be happy to devour any old brat, best or worst, on barley, or millet, or any other grain available. She had to assume the “rye” in the order was not yet more whisky.
The editors had remained in an uneasy, whispering huddle around the recumbent Thorwald. Daisy saw several of them nod, as if they had come to an agreement. High heels clicking, Mrs. Shurkowski moved towards her while the rest drifted unobtrusively away.
Rosenblatt looked round. “Mr. Pascoli?” he queried; and when the Town Talk editor stopped, “Stick around, if you wouldn’t mind, sir.”
“I have work to do,” Pascoli complained, “and Sergeant Gilligan didn’t seem too interested in what I had to say.”
“But I am. I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
Pascoli pulled a face and came to join Daisy as Mrs. Shurkowski said to her, “Honey, us girls have to stick together. You want me to stay and hold your hand?”
“Thank you, it’s very kind of you, but I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work. I’m sure I shall be all right.”
“Don’t you just love the way she talks?” Mrs. Shurkowski said to Pascoli. “Now, you mind what you say to them, honey, and call a lawyer pronto if they try anything on you. Your sandwiches’ll be here any minute.”
“Thank you so much,” Daisy said sincerely.
Mrs. Shurkowski went off to edit the Ladies’ Gazette. Pascoli sat down in a chair beside Daisy. “Cigarette?” He offered a gunmetal case.
“No, thanks.”
“Whoops, pardon me, don’t English gals smoke?”
“Some do. Not awfully many.”
“O.K. if I light up?”
“I don’t mind,” Daisy lied. She disliked cigarette smoke almost as much as cigar smoke, but she felt guilty about her continued presence here and the disruption of work, as though her propensity for falling over bodies was actually responsible for the latest crime.
What she longed for was the comforting smell of Alec’s pipe.
“Is there really a federal dimension to the case besides Mr. Lambert’s being a witness? ” she asked.
“Sure thing!” Pascoli became earnest. “Carmody spent the last several years in Washington, D.C., digging up the dirt on the Harding administration, and he didn’t have to dig far, trust me.”
Daisy recalled a comment about Augean stables. “So I’ve heard.”
“His articles tweaked a whole lotta noses. President Coolidge is already cleaning house and lotsa people are getting the can because of what Otis Carmody wrote. It wouldn’t surprise me one little bit if one of them came to town looking for revenge.”
“It does seem possible.”
“It’s a dead cert.”
“What about the article he wrote for you?” Daisy suggested. “Wouldn’t that upset people?”
Pascoli grinned. “Sure would. He’s written three so far,
every one calculated to get up someone’s nose. But none of ’em has been published yet.”
“Still, he must have talked to lots of people to get his information. It couldn’t be kept secret. Perhaps someone wanted to stop him before he dug any deeper.”
“Or scare me into not publishing,” Pascoli said soberly. “You got a point there, ma’am.” He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder at Gilligan and Rosenblatt.
“The articles are about Tammany? Who is Tammany?”
Pascoli lowered his voice. “It’s a what, not a who.
Leastways, Tammany was an Indian chief way back, but he hasn’t anything to do with today’s politics.
Tammany Hall’s the building that’s come to stand for the Democratic machine that runs this burg.
Crooked as anything President Harding’s Republican pals were mixed up in, but much harder to oust. Heck, half the population owes their jobs to them, including Rosenblatt over there, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. ”
“He is the District Attorney, is he?”
“Deputy D.A.”
“That’s a political appointment?”
“Got it in one. So are garbage collectors, and a whole lotta folks in between.”
“Garbage collectors? Dustbin men? Heavens, it sounds to me as if it will be just as well if the federal investigators take an interest in the case.”
“You’ve said a mouthful, sister! Where’s this guy Lambert? No kidding, I wanna stand behind him.”
Daisy rather doubted Lambert would be much protection, but she didn’t have time to say so as Rosenblatt and Gilligan came over to them. Gilligan, chewing on his dead cigar, looked truculent, Rosenblatt worried.
“Mrs. Fletcher? Rosenblatt, Deputy District Attorney. Say, who’s this guy Lambert? What’s his connection with this business?”
“You’ll have to ask him, Mr. Rosenblatt.” Daisy wasn’t going to let herself be drawn into any complications. “I only know that he told Mr. Thorwald and me that he is a federal agent. All I can tell you is what I saw.”
“Yes, we’ll get to that in a minute, ma’am. Mr. Pascoli, you know something about the federal connection, sir?”
“Not exactly,” Pascoli hedged. “Nothing to do with the Justice Department specifically, more of a general Washington connection. Otis Carmody ruffled plenty of feathers in the capital. He was an investigative journalist, see, and a good one.”
“A muckraker,” said Rosenblatt, depressed. “Probably had half of the last administration out for his blood.”
“Got what was coming to him,” Gilligan grunted.
“Maybe,” Rosenblatt snapped, “but we still have to pin it on someone. What was he doing in New York?”
“He, uh, wanted to write for the magazine I edit,” Pascoli said evasively.
“Which magazine is that?”
“Town Talk,” admitted Pascoli with obvious reluctance.
Rosenblatt gave him a hard stare. “I know Town Talk. That’s an opposition paper.”
Pascoli shrugged. “Hey, I don’t set policy. You don’t like it, you talk to my publisher.”
“Had Carmody written anything for you yet? Leopards don’t change their spots. What’s he been writing?”
“Ever heard of the First Amendment, buddy?”
“Say, listen,” interpolated Sergeant Gilligan, “maybe we don’t wanna know …”
“Samwidges!” A boy in a cloth cap and a jacket several sizes too large ducked under the arm of the plainclothesman on duty at the doorway to the hall. He bore a white cardboard box in his hands. “Samwidges and coffee for Thorwald.”
“At last,” sighed Daisy, reaching for her bag.
“I’ll get it,” said Pascoli. “It’ll come out of petty cash, don’t worry.” He went over to the boy.
“Say, listen,” Gilligan repeated, “maybe we don’t wanna know who the stiff was digging up the dirt on here in Noo York.”
“We gotta find out,” Rosenblatt said gloomily. “The Feds are sure to. And we gotta clean this up quick, with the election next week, or the Hearst papers will wipe the floor with us again.”
“You think that’s what this guy Lambert’s after, sir? Maybe he ain’t got nuttin to do with what Carmody was up to in Washington. Maybe he’s here to make trouble for us.”
“No doubt we’ll soon know,” said the D.A. as the door of Thorwald’s office opened and Lambert came out.
He and the sandwiches reached the round table at the same moment. “Food!” he exclaimed, sniffing the air. “And coffee. Gee whiz, I could kill for a cup of coffee.”
Pascoli glanced at Thorwald, now whuffling gently in his sleep. With a sigh, he pushed one of the sandwiches and a large mug of coffee across the table towards Lambert.
Meanwhile, Sergeant Gilligan was staring suspiciously at Lambert. “Kill?” he growled, his right hand sliding inside his jacket. “You talk mighty easy about killing. Is that maybe what you was sent from Washington for? To croak the guy that blew the gaff on your boss?”
Lambert’s mouth, open to take a bite of sandwich, stayed open though the sandwich came to a halt in midair. After a horrified moment, he squeaked, “Who, me?”
Daisy recalled that Lambert had been given back his automatic, and she knew all New York police were armed.
Was it time to dive under the table before a gun battle erupted?
She hastily swallowed the bite of sandwich in her mouth, just in case (rye had turned out to be a darkish, sourish bread and bratwurst a sort of German sausage, the consumption of which made her feel vaguely unpatriotic).
“Yes, you, mister.” Gilligan drew his gun from his shoulder holster.
Lambert dropped his sandwich and put his hands up. “I didn’t! Mrs. Fletcher, tell him I didn’t.”
“I can’t,” Daisy said regretfully. She did not honestly think the inept agent had shot Carmody, but he had, after all, rushed on stage brandishing a pistol immediately after the murder.
“Lemme pinch him, sir?” begged Gilligan.
“Holy mackerel!” Rosenblatt exclaimed. “You can’t go arresting a federal agent without evidence, Sergeant, just like he was anyone. Not without landing us all in deep … er,”—he glanced at Daisy and amended whatever he had been going to say—“in big trouble. It’s no go.”
“Rats! But how do we know he’s really a Fed?”