In the Midst of Death (Matthew Scudder #3)

In the Midst of Death (Matthew Scudder #3) Page 14

He hesitated, then shrugged. "You might as well know it all. It's a natural idea, cop books are big these days, but he might not have thought of it by himself."

"Portia Carr."

"That's right, Matt."

"She suggested it? No, that doesn't make sense."

"She was talking about doing a book herself."

I put my cup down and went over to the window. "What kind of a book?"

"I don't know. Something like The Happy Hooker, I suppose. What's the difference?"

"Hardesty."

"Huh?"

"I'll bet that's why he went to Hardesty."

He looked at me.

"Knox Hardesty," I said. "The U.S. District Attorney. Broadfield went to him before he went to Prejanian, and when I asked him why he didn't make much sense. Because Prejanian was the logical man to go to. Police corruption is his special area of interest, and it wouldn't carry much weight with a federal D. A."

"So?"

"So Broadfield would have known that. He only would have picked Hardesty if he thought he had some kind of an in there. He probably got the idea of writing a book from Portia Carr. Maybe he got the idea of Hardesty from the same place."

"What does Portia Carr have to do with Knox Hardesty?"

I told him it was a good question.

Chapter 9

Hardesty's offices were at 26 Federal Plaza with the rest of the Justice Department's New York operations. That put him just a couple of blocks from Abner Prejanian; I wondered if Broadfield had dropped in on both of them the same day.

I called first, to make sure Hardesty wasn't in court or out of town. He was neither, but I saved myself a trip downtown because his secretary told me he hadn't come in, that he was home with stomach flu. I asked for his home address and telephone number, but she wasn't allowed to give them to me.

The telephone company wasn't similarly restricted. He was listed. Hardesty, Knox, 114 East End Avenue, and a phone number with a Regent 4 exchange. I called the number and got through to Hardesty. He sounded as though stomach flu had been a polite term for hangover. I told him my name and that I wanted to see him. He said he didn't feel well and started to hedge, and the only decent card I had was Portia Carr's name, so I played it.

I'm not sure exactly what reaction I expected, but it certainly wasn't the one I got. "Poor Portia. That was a tragic thing, wasn't it? You were a friend of hers, Scudder? Be very anxious to get together with you. Wouldn't happen to be free right now, I don't suppose. You would? Good, very good. You know the address here?"

I figured it out in the cab on the way over there. I'd somehow managed to take it for granted that Hardesty had been one of Portia's clients, and I'd envisioned him hopping around in a tutu while she flailed at him with a whip. And men in public office with political ambitions don't usually welcome inquiries on their unorthodox sexual practices from total strangers. I'd expected outright denial that he knew Portia Carr ever existed, or some hedging at the very least. Instead I got a very eager welcome.

So I'd obviously added things wrong. The list of Portia's prominent clients didn't include Knox Hardesty. Theirs was a professional relationship, no doubt, but it was his profession that was involved, not hers.

And that way it made plenty of sense. And it fit in with Portia's literary aspirations and connected neatly to Broadfield's ambitions in that direction.

Hardesty's building was a prewar stonefront fourteen stories tall. It had an Art Deco lobby with high ceilings and a lot of black marble. The doorman had auburn hair and a guardsman's moustache. He established that I was expected and passed me on to the elevator operator, a diminutive black who was barely tall enough to reach the top button. And he had to reach it because Hardesty had the penthouse.

And the penthouse was impressive. High ceilings, rich, high-pile carpet, fireplaces, oriental antiques. A Jamaican maid led me into the study, where Hardesty was waiting for me. He stood up and came out from behind his desk, his hand extended. We shook hands and he waved me to a chair.

"A drink? A cup of coffee? I'm drinking milk myself because of this damned ulcer. I picked up a touch of stomach flu and it always aggravates the ulcer. But what will you have, Scudder?"

"Coffee, if it's no trouble. Black."

Hardesty repeated the order to the maid as if she couldn't have been expected to follow our conversation. She returned almost immediately with a mirrored tray holding a silver pot of coffee, a bone-china cup and saucer, a silver cream and sugar set, and a spoon. I poured out a cup of coffee and took a sip.

"So you knew Portia," Hardesty said. He drank some milk, put the glass down. He was tall and thin, his hair graying magnificently at his temples, his summertime tan not entirely faded yet. I'd been able to picture what a striking couple Broadfield and Portia must have made. She would have looked good on Knox Hardesty's arm, too.

"I didn't know her terribly well," I said. "But I knew her, yes."

"Yes. Hmmm. I don't believe I asked you your profession, Scudder."

"I'm a private detective."

"Oh, very interesting. Very interesting. Is that coffee all right, incidentally?"

"It's the best I've ever tasted."

He allowed himself a smile. "My wife's the coffee fanatic. I was never that much of an enthusiast, and with the ulcer I tend to stick to milk. I could find out the brand for you if you're interested."

"I live in a hotel, Mr. Hardesty. When I want coffee I go around the corner for it. But thank you."

"Well, you can always drop in here for a decent cup of the stuff, can't you?" He gave me a nice rich smile. Knox Hardesty didn't live on his salary as United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York. That wouldn't cover his rent. But that didn't mean he walked around with his hand out. Grandfather Hardesty had owned Hardesty Iron and Steel before U.S. Steel bought him up, and Grandfather Knox had followed a long line of New England Knoxes in shipping. Knox Hardesty could spend money with both hands and still never have to worry where his next glass of milk was coming from.

He said, "A private detective, and you were acquainted with Portia. You could be very useful to me, Mr. Scudder."

"I was hoping things might work the other way around."

"I beg your pardon?" His face changed and his back stiffened and he looked as though he had just smelled something extremely unpleasant. I guess my line had sounded like the overture of a blackmail pitch.

"I already have a client," I said. "I came to you to find something out, not to give information away. Or even to sell it, as far as that goes. And I'm not a blackmailer, sir. I wouldn't want to give that impression."

"You have a client?"

I nodded. I was just as glad I'd given the impression I did, although it had been unintentional on my part. His reaction had been unequivocal enough. If I was a blackmailer he wanted no part of me. And that generally means the person in question doesn't have reason to fear being blackmailed. Whatever his relationship with Portia, it wasn't something he would have trouble living down.

"I'm representing Jerome Broadfield."

"The man who killed her."

"The police think so, Mr. Hardesty. Then again, you'd expect them to think so, wouldn't you?"

"Good point. I'd been given to understand he was virtually caught in the act. That's not the case?" I shook my head. "Interesting. And you'd like to find out- "

"I'd like to find out who killed Miss Carr and framed my client."

He nodded. "But I don't see how I can help you toward that end, Mr. Scudder."

I'd been promoted- from Scudder to Mr. Scudder. I said, "How did you happen to know Portia Carr?"

"One has to know a wide variety of people in my line of work. The most fruitful contacts are not necessarily those persons with whom one would prefer to associate. I'm sure that has been your own experience as well, hasn't it? One sort of investigative work is rather like another, I suspect." He smiled graciously; I was supposed to be complimented that he saw his work as being similar to mine.

"I heard of Miss Carr before I met her," he went on. "The better sort of prostitutes can be very useful to our office. I was informed that Miss Carr was quite expensive and that her client list was primarily interested in, oh, less orthodox forms of sex."

"I understand she specialized in masochists."

"Quite." He made a face; he'd have preferred it if I'd been less specific. "English, you know. That's the English vice, so-called, and an American masochist would find an English mistress especially desirable. Or so Miss Carr informed me. Did you know that native-born prostitutes oftimes affect English or German accents for the benefit of their masochistic clients? Miss Carr assured me it's common practice. German accents for the Jewish clients in particular, which I find fascinating."

I freshened my cup of coffee.

"The fact that Miss Carr's accent was quite authentic increased my interest in her. She was vulnerable, you see."

"Because she could be deported."

He nodded. "We have a good enough working relationship with the fellows in Immigration and Naturalization. Not that it's often necessary to follow through on one's threats. The prostitute's traditional tight-lipped loyalty to her clientele is as much a romantic conceit as her heart of gold. The merest threat of deportation is enough to bring immediate offers of full cooperation."

"And that was the case with Portia Carr?"

"Absolutely. In fact she became quite eager. I think she relished the Mata Hari role, garnering information in bed and passing it on to me. Not that she managed to supply me with too terribly much, but she was shaping up as a promising source for my investigations."

"Any investigation in particular?"

There was just a little hesitation. "Nothing specific," he said. "I could just see that she would be useful."

I drank some more coffee. If nothing else, Hardesty was enabling me to find out just how much my own client knew. Since Broadfield had chosen to play coy with me, I had to get this information in an indirect fashion. But Hardesty didn't know that Broadfield hadn't been completely straight with me, so he couldn't deny anything that I might have presumably learned from him.

"So she cooperated enthusiastically," I said.

"Oh, very much so." He smiled in reminiscence. "She was quite charming, you know. And she had the notion of writing a book about her life as a prostitute and her work for me. I think that Dutch girl was an inspiration to her. Of course the Dutch girl can't set foot in the country because of the role she played, but I don't really think Portia Carr would have ever gotten round to writing that book, do you?"

"I don't know. She won't now."

"No, of course not."

"Jerry Broadfield might, though. Was he terribly disappointed when you told him you weren't interested in police corruption?"

"I'm not sure I put it quite that way." He frowned abruptly. "Is that why he came to me? For heaven's sake. He wanted to write a book?" He shook his head in disbelief. "I'll never understand people," he said. "I knew that self-righteousness was a pose, and that made me resolve not to have anything to do with him, that more than the sort of information he had to offer. I simply couldn't trust him and felt he'd do my investigations more harm than good. So then he popped over to see that Special Prosecutor chap."