Free Fallen Sparrow by Dorothy B. Hughes Page A

it. “It was no grudge.” Jake had tried to find out. It wasn’t a hood; Jake could get a line on hoods.
    “How did Louie get mixed up with the swells?”
    Jake’s shrug was slight.
    “Couldn’t have been here at Fifty?”
    “Could be.” Jake’s cigar had aroma.
    Kit was annoyed. “Don’t be so loquacious.”
    He sounded honest. “Louie dropped in to see me now and then. But not to see the customers, Kit.” He deposited a banker’s ash on the scarlet stand.
    “Louie liked women, Jake. Beautiful women.”
    “Yes.” He regretted his brother’s weakness.
    “Toni Donne come here?”
    “I know so few by name, Kit.” He was bland. “Barbara Taviton comes here.”
    Kit’s jaw was tight. “All right. I made a mistake once. I introduced Barbara Taviton to Louie. When I was sick. Before I went West.” His throat ached. Barby, who didn’t know any better, being used. That’s how they got on to Louie. Jake wasn’t just thinking up customers. Barby mentioning, causally, meeting Lieutenant Lepetino in Kit’s room. Mentioning with stupid casualness that after all these years Kit still had the little detective for friend. Louie awed that day in the bedroom by Barby’s exquisite contours. Louie humbly pleased at being remembered by Barby, meeting her escort, Otto Skaas. Louie meeting Toni Donne, her grandfather, the old Prince who was seen by invitation only? Louie not suspicious. But they knew, knew Kit communicated with someone. They didn’t know that Louie’s knowledge was incomplete. Why was he killed? Because he wouldn’t tell them all he didn’t know? Or because he’d learned too much about them? Because he knew they were stalking Kit?
    They. Whom was he accusing of the crime? The old Skaas was in sight of a roomful of guests. The young one not even on the floor. Prince Felix didn’t leave his Riverside apartment. If Louie’d been killed with a gun, it could have been a man; but it wasn’t a gun, it was a shove, and what was Louie doing while the guy pushed? No one but Toni Donne could have done it and Toni Donne could not have done it. Kit was looking for a dame to kill Louie, but not Toni Donne. It wasn’t in her face.
    He heard Jake’s voice consulting a millionaire’s silver-thin gold watch. “Content goes on in a few moments—you want to hear her?”
    He stood. “I’ve taken enough of your time, Jake.” He looked around. No sea shells in this pristine decorator job. He didn’t know how to ask; he didn’t want Jake messing with his job. It wasn’t something Jake could handle. Then he laughed. “Louie ever show you what I sent him from—” he hesitated “—from Spain?”
    “No.” Jake was wondering.
    He didn’t satisfy the curiosity. He said, “See you soon,” and unescorted followed the corridor in the opposite direction, dressing-room direction. He stopped at one ajar. “I’m looking for—”
    José lowered out of ebon eyes. “You are looking for Miss Hamilton. She is singing. She will not see anyone.”
    Whatever the setup was, José didn’t know him. Nor was he interested in one of Content’s chasers.
    “This her dressing-room?” Kit looked around, insolent, assured, a rich young man on the loose.
    “This is not her dressing-room.” The accent was Spanish. “You disturb me. Go your way. Go.” He brandished the violin from his knees.
    “O.K., kid.” Kit turned on his heel, at the door flung over his shoulder, “Hasta la vista, mi amigo.”
    The ears pricked like a faun’s. Kit shut the door, continued down the corridor to sound, to stand behind the golden-starred curtains of makeshift wings. Content was singing. The lyric was no more audacious than the voice, the sheath of gold glittering her smallness. She came behind on applause, hissed, “Where’s José?” and asked, “When did you sober up?”
    He grinned. She returned momentarily to insistent hands and he felt the warmth of José looming behind him. He said to the curtain, “Fiddlers can’t ski.