The Fairfax Incident Read online

  I caught that last part. “Forgive me, Mrs. Fairfax, but you’ve just spent the last half hour telling me you two weren’t close. Now you’re saying he always confided in you. Which is it?”

  She squared her narrow shoulders and aimed all that breeding right at me. “There are degrees of closeness, Mr. Doherty, just as there are degrees of distance. Walter was not the kind of man who could maintain friendships. Most men found him dull and annoying, and chose to avoid his company whenever possible. However, as I’m sure you are aware, wealthy men hold a certain appeal to a certain kind of woman. Even men like Walter. I knew of quite a few such women over the years, as a matter of fact.”

  “That’s rare,” I said before I’d really thought it through. “Most women would have left him for that.”

  I didn’t think she could sit any straighter in her chair, but she pulled it off. “Most women aren’t married to Walter Fairfax, Junior, Mr. Doherty. I was his wife, and I’d be damned before I surrendered my marriage and my name to some harlot with designs on his fortune and the legacy of my children. Besides, Walter’s indiscretions were always mercifully brief. It was never about love, because Walter simply wasn’t capable of feeling love. Or receiving it. Both of us learned to find our comforts elsewhere long ago.”

  My respect for the old gal went up a few notches. Most people didn’t like to look at things the way they were, even when everyone else could see them plain as day. Having money helped keep ugly things like the truth hidden. Mrs. Fairfax had perfect vision.

  Against my better judgement, she was beginning to win me over to her side. “You’re really convinced that Walter didn’t kill himself, aren’t you? Even in spite of everything I’ve just told you.”

  “Given the hasty manner in which he did it and the lack of a suicide note? Yes. I would not be interested in hiring you otherwise. Don’t let my wealth fool you, Mr. Doherty. I am not in the practice of wasting my money on foolish notions.”

  If I had learned anything in the past year as a private detective, it was that rich people didn’t stay rich by pissing away their money. And they didn’t stay rich for long if they did.

  “Then you might as well tell me where you’d like me to begin, Mrs. Fairfax.”

  She took a long, cream-colored envelope from behind the pillow at her side and placed it on the table between us.

  I knew she expected me to take it, but I left it where it was. I wanted to hear what she had to say first.

  “Inside that envelope,” she told me, “you will find a list of Walter’s principle associates. I would suggest you contact them in the order in which I have listed them, but I will leave that up to your professional judgment. I have taken the liberty of contacting each of them and asking them to cooperate fully in your investigation. If any of them prove uncooperative, please let me know.”

  Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “I have also enclosed a personal check that should cover your retainer fee. Mr. Van Dorn advised me as to the proper amount.”

  But I already knew that he had.

  Mrs. Fairfax stood, effectively ending our meeting. “The Van Dorns spoke very highly of you, Mr. Doherty. They are grateful to you for bringing their son home alive and catching the men who killed their daughter. They assured me that you are both thorough and discreet, which is high praise coming from them. I hope I can rely on your abilities now in uncovering the true circumstances behind my husband’s death.”

  I shook her gloved hand, then slipped her envelope into the inside pocket of my suit jacket. “I promise I’ll do everything I can, Mrs. Fairfax. I’ll be in touch in a day or so to let you know what I’ve learned.”

  The butler was at my side before I knew it and guided me out to the vestibule. He handed me my hat and umbrella before quietly closing the door behind me. The rain had turned into a light mist by then, so I didn’t bother with the umbrella.

  Chapter 2

  I pulled out my cigarette case and lit up a smoke as soon as I hit the Fifth Avenue pavement. I drew the smoke deep into my lungs and held it for a long while before letting it out again. A quick check of my pocket watch told me it was only eleven in the morning, almost an hour before my next appointment.

  Right after Mr. Van Dorn told me I’d be working the Fairfax case, I asked a contact of mine at the New York Public Library to do some digging into Walter Fairfax’s past. She’d already pulled all the articles on the death for me, but I knew all about Walter Fairfax the victim. I wanted to know about Walter Fairfax the man.

  She told me she should have all the information I needed by the time my appointment was over, so I began the long, slow walk down Fifth Avenue toward the library. I could have taken a cab, but I wanted to use the time to clear my head.

  It was a mild morning in early March, and the air smelled of the recent rain. The vague smell from the cook fires wafting out from the Hooverville in Central Park drifted across the avenue, giving a certain sweetness to the air. It wasn’t entirely an unpleasant smell, so long as I didn’t think of the poor, ragged bastards who were cooking around it. Or what they were cooking.

  But I was in no position to pity anyone because I knew I had just taken on a case that would be nothing but trouble.

  I never would’ve taken it if Mr. Van Dorn hadn’t already ordered me to do so. Maybe “order” was too strong a word. He was always too polite to flat-out order me to do anything. He preferred to politely ask me to look into various problems that friends of his were having. And Mrs. Fairfax happened to be a very close friend of the Van Dorn family.

  The previous year, I had defied Chief Carmichael’s orders by working on the murder of Mr. Van Dorn’s daughter, Jessica, and the kidnapping of his son, Jack. Since the chief had put me out to pasture as part of his new, clean image with Governor Roosevelt’s reformers, I had originally wanted the case so I could get on Mr. Van Dorn’s good side. I hoped I’d uncover something unsavory about the family that would lead to a nice chunk of hush money for yours truly.

  But the case quickly became more than just a payday for me. I realized the Van Dorn family wasn’t just another of those wealthy New York clans who cared more about their name than their kids. Mr. and Mrs. Van Dorn both genuinely loved their children and each other. The case stirred something in me that I thought had died with my own marriage and self-respect years before.

  I killed the men who’d taken Jack and killed Jessica. The newspapers had called it the “Grand Central Massacre.”

  Sure, I’d brought Jack home alive, but three railroad detectives had gotten killed by the kidnappers I’d been chasing. Chief Carmichael blamed my recklessness for their deaths. The fact that I’d brought Jack home alive was forgotten by everyone except the Van Dorn family.

  Carmichael cited my long ties to Tammany Hall and my “careless disregard for public safety” as reasons for kicking me off the force. He conveniently forgot to mention he was every bit as crooked as I had been. I guess the truth gets blurry when justice is involved.

  But Mr. Van Dorn pulled some strings, saving my pension as thanks for saving his son’s life. His gratitude went further than I had expected.

  He offered me a job.

  The deal: Mr. Van Dorn set me up in my own private detective practice. He paid for everything. Bills, a place to live, and a guaranteed client base among his wealthy friends. I even got to keep anything my clients paid me.

  The catch: Mr. Van Dorn saw everything about every case before the client did. Photos. Records. Everything.

  I figured Mr. Van Dorn had his reasons for building files on his friends, but his reasons were none of my business. I’d been a Tammany hack my whole life, so I knew how valuable leverage could be.

  Most of the cases he sent my way were easy. Tracking down wayward kids on a bender with their parents’ money. Divorce snoops. A few extortion cases where I convinced the blackmailer to walk away. Sometimes, the blackmailer wasn
’t able to walk after our discussions.

  It was easy work and I had no complaints. I saw more money in one month than I had in my previous three years on the force, payola included.

  This Fairfax case was the first curveball he’d thrown me, because I knew there was no question that Walter Fairfax had taken his own life. The only question was why Mr. Van Dorn wanted me to take it.

  The initial report my ex-partner Floyd Loomis had shown me was solid: Fairfax got into the office at nine in the morning, took a phone call at nine fifteen, closed the door, stuck a gun in his mouth, and, at nine thirty, pulled the trigger.

  Alone. No one in his private bathroom. No one hiding under his desk.

  It was suicide. Plain and simple.

  The papers all ran it as a tragic accident, just a brief mention in the first paragraph of a long obituary featuring Walter’s many achievements and charity work. But just because it was in print didn’t mean anybody actually believed it. After all, insurance executives usually didn’t clean guns in their office first thing in the morning.

  Everyone knew it was suicide. Why couldn’t Mrs. Fairfax see that? Why couldn’t a smart woman like her realize that?

  That’s when it hit me; I stopped walking, dead in my tracks.

  Mrs. Fairfax wasn’t asking the right question.

  She knew he had killed himself. What she really wanted to know was why.

  That was why she had given me a list of people she wanted me to interview, and in a certain order, too. A list of people who knew Walter best, people who might be able to tell me the answer to the one question that lingered.

  Why?

  The police hadn’t bothered to investigate Fairfax’s motive. Why would they? It had been officially ruled an accident, courtesy of Chief Andrew J. Carmichael’s office. Case closed. My old partner Loomis saw no reason to put up a fight. He’d never been a fighter anyway. If the brass wanted to say it was an accident, then it was an accident.

  Mrs. Fairfax’s list started to burn a hole in my pocket, and I picked up the pace toward the library. The sooner I read through Walter’s background, the better prepared I’d be to talk to the people on the list.

  The late morning strollers walked past me as I dug out the envelope and opened it. Her check for the retainer was the first thing I saw.

  I let out a low whistle as I saw the amount she’d written on the check. The number was larger than what I’d made in a year on the force, even when I was on the take. Christ, if I’d known there was this much money in being honest, I would’ve gone straight a long time ago.

  A strong breeze kicked up, so I tucked the check back into my pocket for safe keeping. I opened the list of names and saw Mrs. Fairfax’s handwriting was every bit as neat and legible as I’d expected it to be. The four names were:

  Dr. Matthew Blythe: Personal Physician - New York Athletic Club

  Mr. Jeffrey Hess, Esquire: Fairfax Liability Corporation

  Mrs. Beatrice Swenson: Walter’s personal secretary

  Mr. Eric Frank: Captain of our yacht

  Mrs. Fairfax had told me to interview each person in the order they appeared on her list. Her brother, Dr. Matthew Blythe, was first, so I’d start with him. Mr. Van Dorn had already told me that Blythe wasn’t just Walter’s brother-in-law, but his physician and friend. If anyone knew why Walter had taken his own life, the good doctor was a good place to start. Mrs. Fairfax’s list said he was at New York Athletic Club. I’d see if I could reach him there after I spoke to my contact at the library.

  I put the list and the check back into the same envelope and slid the whole thing into the inside pocket of my suit. I was feeling a bit better about where things were headed now that I’d figured out what Mrs. Fairfax was really after, even if she didn’t know it herself. Maybe things weren’t looking so bad after all.

  The flow of traffic onto Fifth Avenue made me stop at the next corner, on 67th Street. I caught a glimpse of myself in the window of a passing car and was reminded what a difference a year could make.

  I was almost tall enough not to be considered short. I was still pretty thin despite being well past forty. They’d first cropped my hair close when I’d gone into the Marines back in the war, and I’d kept it that way ever since. It had been darker back then, of course. It was salt and pepper now.

  My double-breasted suit was from Brooks Brothers, and I had eight more just like it in my closet in the bedroom of the brownstone apartment Mr. Van Dorn had given to me. No seedy office with a bottle of booze in the bottom drawer for Charlie Doherty. I had money to spare and a damned cozy setup in the bargain. Yes sir, what a difference a year—and the Van Dorns’ influence—could make.

  Traffic turning onto Fifth eased up enough for me to cross the street and I began walking south again, looking forward to a nice, quiet stroll on my way to meet with my contact at the library.

  But there’s really no such thing as a nice, quiet walk in Manhattan. Trucks were always backfiring. The sound of pneumatic hammers pounding away at concrete or asphalt was never too far away. Car horns honked and people cursed. Throw in the flutter of pigeon wings for good measure and that was as tranquil as New York City got.

  It’s a whole lot of different sounds all mixed together in one big urban symphony, but it’s usually the same sounds heard over and over.

  That’s why when you heard something new, you knew it.

  And I’d just heard it.

  A combination of sounds that caused my instincts to kick in and send me diving for the pavement.

  The squeal of brakes followed by a clean, metallic clack.

  The roar of a Thompson cut through the air above me just as I hit the sidewalk. Dozens of rounds slammed into the stonework of the apartment building on my left. I lay as flat as I could—maybe even flatter—as the bullets scored the façade and shattered windows. I heard women scream and dogs bark as the Tommy gun cut loose.

  When the firing stopped, I heard something else. Someone running past me. Who the hell ran in the middle of gunfire, especially in Manhattan? People stayed low, they didn’t get up and run. Unless they knew for certain the shooting was over.

  I reached for a gun I forgot I didn’t carry anymore. My Fifth Avenue clientele didn’t carry guns, so why should I?

  I looked up in time to see someone had run past me. A skinny little bastard in a gray overcoat. Fast, too. He hopped into a Ford that had pulled up just down the street before the car sped off down Fifth. I ran into the street to get a better look at the car, but no luck. The Ford took the next right turn into Central Park and was gone from view.

  A doorman from the apartment building was just getting to his feet as I picked my hat off the sidewalk. “You all right, mister?”

  I smacked at some of the scuff marks on my suit, but other than that I was fine. At least physically. No one had shot at me in a long time, and the idea took some getting used to. “Don’t worry about me. What did you see?”

  “Not a damned thing, mister,” the doorman said. “I ducked back inside when the shooting started, mister. Had all my hero notions pounded out of me in France during the war.”

  I put the crease back in my hat and swiped dirt from the brim. “Yeah, me, too. What about that guy who ran past me and into the Ford? You get a look at him?”

  “Not really. Gray coat, best as I could make out. Little fella. Kinda like you.”

  The last thing I needed was a fat doorman making wisecracks. “Thanks a lot, Slim. More alert citizens like you, we’d have every crook behind bars in a week.”

  I placed the hat back on my head and started walking south again. I was just about halfway down the block when the doorman called after me: “Say, you think those guys were shooting at you?”

  “No,” I yelled back over my shoulder.

  I lied.

  Chapter 3

  When I got to the library,
I didn’t see any reason to tell Mary Pat about my run-in with the Thompson uptown. Besides, she was too taken with the pastrami sandwich I’d just brought her to care.

  “Doesn’t Lindy’s make the best sandwiches in the whole wide world?”

  The kid’s sincerity almost made me forget about just getting shot at. Almost. “It’s the mustard. And the bread.”

  But I didn’t think she heard me. She was lost again in the splendor of her meal.

  Mary Pat Dennehy was a sweet, lonely kid who’d started sending me fan letters during the Grand Central Massacre business. While I was getting torn apart in the papers, Mary Pat wrote me long letters, telling me how much of a hero I was for bringing the Van Dorn boy home alive. She wrote that she prayed for me every night before she went to sleep and once more when she woke up the next morning before school.

  It might not sound like much now, but back when it felt like the whole world was against me, her letters helped keep me going. After a while, I responded to one of them, and we kind of became pen-pals.

  Mary Pat had graduated back in June and got a job as a clerk in the central library on 42nd Street. Now, for the price of a pastrami on rye from Lindy’s and a little conversation, she’d research anything I needed. I would’ve felt like a heel using her like that if I didn’t think she was a sweet kid.

  She was a shy, heavy girl with bad skin and thick glasses. She’d gotten teased a lot in school, and even more so by her old man at home. But even though she was only nineteen years old, I could see her entire life was already planned. She’d spend her youth looking after the cantankerous old bastard who’d driven away her mother because he had no one else to wash his clothes and make him dinner. She’d continue to live at home, enduring his teasing about her weight and the quality of her cooking. She’d grin and bear it, telling herself she was saving up for the day when she could finally move out on her own. But she’d never leave him. Nineteen would become twenty-nine, and thirty-nine would follow soon after. The old bastard would have the decency to die one day, but not before he took the best part of her life from her. And if he died too soon, he’d break her heart forever.