Free Fallen Sparrow by Dorothy B. Hughes

combination of liquid Italian and adenoidal New York.
    Kit knew the front room, the green velvet, tasseled cover on the golden-oak upright; on the trellised wall paper, the reproductions in gloss and color which Murillo and Raphael never visioned; the starched Batenburg curtains and crocheted antimacassars, the dustless roses on the rug. He was more at home here than in Geoffrey’s museum piece. He and Louie might have just run upstairs for a piece of bread. He could call, “It’s me. It’s Kit.”
    They were fat and sad but their brown eyes spoke pleasure in his coming. They didn’t know why Louie should die. They had but one answer: “Eet was the cops.” Momma rubbed her fingers over her spotless apron. Poppa’s shirt sleeves rolled up nearer his sweaty underarms. “Yes, eet was the cops.” He pulled at his brigand moustachios. They were sad. Louie, not the first born, but Louie, the prop, was gone.
    Kit said, “I’m going to find out what happened, see? I’m going to put the skids on whoever did this. But I’m going to find out why first.” He had to find out why. If Louie was murdered because Kit had sent him a souvenir from Lisbon, he had to know. There weren’t any sea shells in the room where Louie had slept. Not among the parlor’s bric-a-brac. He questioned but Momma and Poppa didn’t know what he was talking about.
    And he insisted, “Louie didn’t jump out that window, did he?”
    Louie didn’t. He was buried in sanctified ground. But they didn’t know anything save: it was the cops.
    He walked away from the jangling street, hailed an uptown cab. “Number Fifty.” This cabbie wasn’t suspicious. Kit looked like a fare for Number 50.
    The head waiter gave him the glass eye. He said something about dinner clothes. Kit laughed in his swarthy face. “I don’t want a table in your stink hole. Tell Jake I’m here. Kit McKittrick.”
    Jake had a swell joint. That was a name band, did commercials. Those were Gropper murals on the wall, Kober limericks. The suckers were café crowd. That meant high society and high crooks. Jake said from behind and below his shoulder, “Didn’t think you’d remember me, Kit.”
    Jake lite first born. Learned food from Uncle Carlo. Started his wad with prohibition. Poppa helped him. That was before Louie joined the force. Learned the ropes from his first joint. The Silver Bell didn’t cater to the café crowd, but the band became name band after while, and there were three zanies who later made Broadway lights. Now Jake was café crowd. He was almost as fat as Poppa and Momma and Uncle Carlo but his tailor didn’t let you know. His white tie was unblemished, his graying hair well cut. Under his eyes was the Lepetino sadness.
    Kit said, “Your strong arm wouldn’t let me sit down.”
    Jake spoke to the major domo. “Mr. McKittrick is to have the best of service whenever he honors us,” or something like that. Kit understood enough Italian.
    He said, “I didn’t want to—tonight I’m waiting for Content.”
    Jake talked like a gentleman. “She’ll be through her number soon. Have a drink with me in the office while you’re waiting.”
    He followed, sank into a splendor of chromium and red leather. A white coat came to the private bar. Jake sat on the scarlet couch. There was no office equipment, not even a desk. He said, “You’ve heard about Louie?”
    Kit said, “I just came from Poppa’s.”
    Jake’s eyes were unconsciously wide with surprise. They weren’t sad any longer. He was apologizing with manicured hands. “We thought you did not care, Kit. It took you so long to come. You did not even send flowers.”
    Kit scowled. “I found out by accident. I was West.”
    “Yes.” Jake’s eyes were slits. “Your health—is regained?”
    “Yeah.” He took the glass from the servitor, tasted, good as Geoffrey’s stock. “Who got Louie?”
    Jake’s shoulders were expansive. “If I knew.” If he knew he had friends who would take care of