Men In Blue Read online

  Karl Kruger’s report on Philadelphia, telexed three days later, would not have pleased the Greater Philadelphia and Delaware Valley Chamber of Commerce. Mr. Kruger suspected, correctly, that Stanford Fortner Wells III wanted to know what was wrong with Philadelphia, not get a listing of its many cultural and industrial assets.

  Mr. Wells’s first reaction to the report would not have pleased the chamber of commerce either. He judged, from what he read, that Philadelphia was no worse, certainly not as bad as New York City, than other major American cities, and a lot better than most. But in people’s minds, it was something like Phoenix, Arizona, or Saint Louis, Missouri, not the Cradle of the American Republic and the nation’s fourth largest city. Mr. Wells thought that if he was in Philadelphia (that is, if he owned a newspaper or a television station there), the first thing he would do would be clean out the chamber of commerce from the executive director downward, and hire some people who knew how to blow a city’s horn properly.

  Mr. Kruger’s report had nothing to say about an apartment. Mr. Wells instructed his secretary to get Mr. Kruger on the horn.

  “I thought maybe you’d be calling, Fort,” Mr. Kruger said. “How’ve you been?”

  “You didn’t mention anything about housing, Kurt. Still working on that, are you?”

  “I found, I think, just the place, but I thought it would be easier to talk about it than write it down,” Mr. Kruger said. “You got a minute?”

  “Sure. Shoot.”

  “How well do you know Philadelphia?”

  “I went there to chase girls when I was at Princeton; I know it.”

  “It’s changed a lot, I would suppose, from your time,” Kruger said. “You know the area near Market Street from City Hall to the bridge over the Delaware?”

  “Around Independence Hall?”

  “Right. Well, that whole section, which they call ‘Society Hill,’ is pretty much a slum. Been going downhill since Ben Franklin moved away, so to speak.”

  “Can you get to the point of this anytime soon?”

  “It’s being rehabilitated; they’re gutting buildings to the exterior walls, if necessary, and doing them over. Luxuriously. Among the people doing this, you might be interested to know, is the Daye-Nelson Corporation.”

  The Daye-Nelson Corporation was something like Wells Newspapers, Inc. Stanford Former Wells III was aware that in Philadelphia, Daye-Nelson owned the Philadelphia Ledger, WGHA-TV, and, he thought he remembered, a couple of suburban weeklies.

  “Come on, Kurt,” Fort Wells said, impatiently.

  “They put together a couple of blocks of Society Hill,” Kruger explained. “Knocked all the interior walls out, and made apartments. It looks like a row of Revolutionary-era houses, but they are now divided horizontally, instead of vertically. Three one-floor apartments, instead of narrow three-floor houses. You follow me?”

  “Keep going,” Wells said.

  “Both sides of this street, twelve houses on a side, are all redone that way. And their title people did their homework, and found out that the street between the blocks had never been deeded to the city. It’s a private street, in other words. It’s more of an alley, actually, but they can, and do, bar the public. They hung a chain across it, and they’ve got a rent-a-cop there that lowers it only if you live, or have business, there. If you live there, they give you a sticker for your windshield; no sticker and the rent-a-cop won’t let you in without you proving you’ve got business, or are expected. Sort of a doorman on the street.”

  “Secure, in other words?”

  “Yeah,” Kruger went on. “And they leveled an old warehouse, and made a park out of it, and made a driveway into what used to be the basement for a garage. It’s ten, twelve blocks from WCBL, Fort. It would be ideal for your—”

  “Daughter’s the word, Kurt,” Wells said. “How much?”

  “Not how much, but who,” Kruger said. “What Daye-Nelson wants is long-term leases. And I don’t think they would want to lease one to a single female.”

  “So?”

  “The real estate guy told me they’ve leased a dozen of them to corporations, where the bosses can spend the night when they have to stay in the city, where they can put up important customers . . . there’s maid service, and a couple of restaurants nearby that deliver.”

  “How much, Kurt?”

  “Nine hundred a month, on a five-year lease, with an annual increase tied to inflation. That includes two spaces in the garage.”

  “You’ve seen them I guess?”

  “Very nice, Fort. There’s one on a third floor available, that’s really nice. You can see the river out the front window, and Independence Hall, at least the roof, out the back.”

  “Call the real estate man, Kurt; tell him Wells Newspapers will take it. I’ll have Charley Davis handle it from there. Do it now.”

  “And what if Louise doesn’t like it?”

  “She’s a dutiful daughter, Kurt,” Wells said, and laughed, “who will recognize a bargain when she sees one.”

  ****

  The barrier to Stockton Place consisted of a black-painted aluminum pole, hinged at one end. A neatly lettered sign reading STOCKTON PLACE — PRIVATE PROPERTY — NO THOROUGHFARE hung on short lengths of chain from the pole. A switch in the Colonial-style red-brick guard shack caused electric motors to raise and lower it. The Wackenhut Private Security officer flipped the switch when he saw the yellow Cadillac convertible coming. It was too far away to see the Stockton Place bumper sticker, but there weren’t all that many yellow Cadillac convertibles, and he was reasonably certain this had to be the good-looking blonde from the TV, whom he thought of as “6-A.”

  The barrier rose smoothly into the air. It was only when the car passed him, moving onto the carefully re-laid cobblestones of Stockton Place, that he saw she was not driving, but that a cop was. And that the convertible was being followed by a police car.

  He was retired from the Philadelphia Police Department, and it automatically registered on him that the numbers on the car identified it as being from the Second District, way the hell and gone across town, in the northeast.

  The first thing he thought was that they’d busted her for driving under the influence, and the lieutenant or whoever had decided it was good public relations, her being on the TV, to warn her and let her go, have her driven home, instead of writing her up and sending her to the Roundhouse to make bail.

  But when the convertible stopped in front of Number Six and she got out, she didn’t look drunk, and she walked back to the police car and shook hands with the cop driving it. And 6-A didn’t look like the kind of girl who would get drunk, anyway.

  He stepped out of the guard shack and stood by the curb, hoping that when the police car came back out, they would stop and say hello, and he could ask what was going on.

  But the cops just waved at him, and didn’t stop.

  Louise Dutton closed the door of 6-A behind her by bumping it with her rear end, and sighed, and then went into her bedroom, and to the bathroom. She saw her brassiere and panties where she’d tossed them on the bed. A plain and ordinary cotton underwear bra and panties, she thought, which she’d taken off to replace with black, filmy, damned-near transparent lingerie bra and panties after Captain Dutch Moffitt had called and she had gone to meet him.

  She leaned close to the mirror. She had not removed her makeup before leaving the studio, and there were streaks on her face, where tears had marred the makeup. She dipped a Kleenex into a jar of cold cream and started wiping at the makeup.

  The door chimes sounded, and she swore.

  Who the hell can that be?

  It was 6-B, who occupied the apartment immediately beneath hers.

  Six-B was male, at least anatomically. He was in his middle twenties, stood about five feet seven, weighed no more than 120 pounds. He paid a great deal of attention to his appearance, and wore, she suspected, Chanel Number Five. His name was Jerome Nelson.

  “I was going to bark,” Jero
me Nelson said, waving a bottle of Beefeater’s gin and one of Johnnie Walker Black Label scotch at her. “It’s your friendly neighborhood Saint Bernard on a mission of mercy.”

  Louise didn’t want to see anyone, but it was impossible for her to cut Jerome Nelson off rudely. He wasn’t much of a Saint Bernard, Louise thought, but had puppylike eyes, and you don’t kick puppies.

  “Hello, Jerome,” she said. “Come on in.”

  “Gin or scotch?” he asked.

  “I would like a stiff scotch,” she said. “Thank you very much. Straight up.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, of course,” he called over his shoulder as he made for her bar. “And I wouldn’t think of prying. I will just expire right here on your carpet of terminal curiosity.”

  She had to smile.

  “I gather you saw the cops bringing me home?” she asked. “Let me finish getting this crap off my face.”

  He came into the bathroom as she was cleaning off what she thought was the last of the makeup, and leaned on the doorjamb.

  “You missed some on your ear,” he said, delicately setting two glasses down. “Jerome will fix it.”

  He dipped a Kleenex in cold cream and wiped at her ear.

  “There!” he said. “Now tell Mother everything!” She smiled her thanks at him and picked up her drink and took a good swallow.

  “Whatever it was, it was better than the alternative,”

  Jerome said. “What?” “The cops come and haul you off, rather than vice versa,” he said.

  “I was a witness to a shooting,” Louise said. “A policeman tried to stop a holdup, and was shot. And killed.”

  “How awful for you!” Jerome Nelson said.

  “Worse for him,” Louise said. “And for his wife and kids.”

  “You sound as if you knew him?”

  “Yes,” Louise said, “I knew him.”

  She took another swallow of her drink, and felt the warmth in her belly.

  He waited for her to go on.

  Fuck him!

  She pushed past him and went into the living room, and leaned on the wall beside a window looking toward the river.

  He floated into the room.

  “Actually, I was going to come calling anyway,” he said.

  “Anyway?” she asked, not particularly pleasantly.

  “To tell you that I have discovered we have something in common,” he said.

  What, that we both like men? she thought, and was ashamed of herself.

  “Actually,” Jerome said. “I’m just a teensy-bit ashamed of myself.”

  “Oh?” She wished he-would go away.

  “It will probably come as a surprise to you, but I am what could be called the neighborhood busybody,” Jerome said.

  The reason I can’t get, or at least, stay, mad at him is because he’s always putting himself down; he arouses the maternal instinct in me.

  “Really?” Louise said, mockingly.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said. “And I really thought I was onto something with you, when you moved in, I mean.”

  “Why was that, Jerome?”

  “Because I know this apartment is leased to Wells Newspapers, Inc.,” he said. “And because you are really a beautiful woman.”

  I’ve had enough of this guy.

  “Get to the point,” Louise said, coldly.

  “So I went to Daddy, and I said, ‘Daddy, guess what? Stanford F. Wells has an absolutely gorgeous blonde stashed in 6-A.’ “

  “What the hell is this all about, Jerome?” Louise demanded, angrily.

  “And Daddy asked me to describe you, and I did, and he told me,” Jerome said.

  “Told you what?”

  “What we have in common,” Jerome said.

  “Which is?”

  “That both our daddies own newspapers, and television stations, and are legends in their own times, et cetera et cetera,” Jerome said. “My daddy, in case I didn’t get to that, is Arthur J. Nelson, as in Daye hyphen Nelson.”

  She looked at him, but said nothing.

  “The difference, of course, is that your daddy is very proud of you, and mine is just the opposite,” Jerome said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Why do you think? My daddy knows the odds are rather long against his becoming a grandfather.”

  “Oh, Christ, Jerome,” Louise said.

  “I haven’t, and won’t, of course, say a word to anyone,” Jerome said. “But I thought it might give us a basis to be friends. But I can tell by the look on your face that you are not pleased, and I have offended, so now I will take my tent and steal away, with appropriate apologies.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” Louise heard herself say.

  “Pissed off I can take,” Jerome said. “Pity is something else.”

  “I knew the cop who got shot,” Louise blurted. “More than just knew him.”

  “You were very good friends, in other words?” Jerome said, sympathetically.

  “Yes,” she said, then immediately corrected herself. “No. But I went there, to meet him, thinking that something like that could happen.”

  “Oh, my,” Jerome said. “Oh, my darling girl, how awful for you!”

  “Please don’t go,” Louise said. “Right now, I need a friend.”

  FOUR

  Brewster C. (for Cortland) Payne II, a senior partner in the Philadelphia law firm of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester, had raised his family, now nearly all grown and gone, in a large house on four acres on Providence Road in Wallingford.

  Wallingford is a small Philadelphia suburb, between Media (through which U.S. 1, known locally as the “Baltimore Pike,” runs) and Chester, which is on the Delaware River. It is not large enough to be placed on most road maps, although it has its own post office and railroad station. It is a residential community, housing families whom sociologists would categorize as upper-middle income, upper-income, and wealthy, in separate dwellings, some very old and some designed to look that way.

  What was now the kitchen and the sewing room had been the whole house, when it had been built of fieldstone before the Revolution. Additions and modifications over two centuries had turned it into a large rambling structure which fit no specific architectural category, although a real estate saleswoman had once remarked in the hearing of Patricia (Mrs. Brewster C.) Payne that “the Payne place just looked like old, old money.”

  The house was comfortable, even luxurious, but not ostentatious. There was neither a swimming pool nor a tennis court, but there was, in what a century before had been a stable, a four-car garage. The Payne family swam, as well as rode, at the Rose Tree Hunt Club. They had a summer house in Cape May, New Jersey, which did have a tennis court, as well as a berth for their boat, a 38-foot Hatteras, called Final Tort IV.

  When Mrs. Payne, at the wheel of a Mercury station wagon, came down Pennsylvania Route 252 and approached her driveway, she looked carefully in the rear-view mirror before applying the brake. Two-Fifty-Two was lined with large, old pine trees on that stretch, and the drives leading off it were not readily visible. She did not want to be rear-ended; there had been many close calls.

  She made it safely into the drive, and saw, as she approached the house, that the yard men were there, early for once. The back of the station wagon was piled high with large plastic-wrapped packages of peat moss.

  She smiled at the yard man and his two sons, pointed out the peatmoss to them, and said she would be with them in a minute.

  Patricia Payne was older than she looked at first glance. She was trim, for one thing, despite four children (the youngest just turned eighteen and a senior at Dartmouth); and she had a luxuriant head of dark brown, almost reddish hair. There were chicken tracks on her face, and she thought her skin looked old; but she was aware that she looked much better, if younger meant better, than her peers the same age.

  The housekeeper—the new one, a tall, dignified Jamaican—was on the telephone as Patricia Payne entered her kitchen and hea
ded directly and quickly for the small toilet off the passageway to the dining room.

  “There is no one at this number by that name, madam,” the new housekeeper said. “I am sorry.”

  Ordinarily Pat Payne would have stopped and asked, but incredibly there had been no peat moss in Media, and she’d had to drive into Swarthmore to get some and her back teeth were floating.

  But she asked when she came out.

  “What was that call, Mrs. Newman?”

  “It was the wrong number, madam. The party was looking for a Mrs. Moffitt.”

  “Oh, hell,” Patricia Payne said. “Did she leave her name?”

  “No, she did not,” Mrs. Newman said.

  “Mrs. Newman, I should have told you,” Patricia Payne said, “before I married Mr. Payne, I was a widow. I was once Mrs. Moffitt—”

  The phone rang again. Patricia Payne answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. John Moffitt, please,” a familiar voice asked.

  “This is Patricia, Mother Moffitt,” Pat Payne said. “How are you?”

  “My son Richard was shot and killed an hour ago,” the woman said.

  “Oh, my God!” Patricia said. “I’m so sorry. How did it happen?”

  “In the line of duty,” Gertrude Moffitt said. “Like his brother, God rest his soul, before him. He came up on a robbery in progress.”

  “I’m so terribly sorry,” Pat Payne said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I can’t think of a thing, thank you,” Gertrude Moffitt said. “I simply thought you should know, and that Matthew should hear it from you, rather than the newspapers or the TV.”

  “I’ll tell him right away, of course,” Patricia said. “Poor Jeannie. Oh, my God, that’s just awful.”

  “He’ll be given a departmental funeral, of course, and at Saint Dominic’s. We hope the cardinal will be free to offer the mass. You would be welcome to come, of course.”