They took the elevator up from the basement and Andy’s scowl wiped the curious look from the operator’s face. The judge seemed to be feeling better, though he leaned on Andy’s arm down the length of the hall.
Shirl opened the door for them. “Judge—is something wrong?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Nothing, my dear, just a touch of the heat, fatigue. I’m not getting any younger, not at all.” He straightened up, concealing well the effort this required, and moved away from Andy to lightly take her arm. “I met Detective Rusch outside, he was good enough to come up with me. Now, if I could be allowed a little closer to the cool breath of that air-conditioner and permitted to rest a moment …” They went down the hall and Andy followed.
The girl was really good to look at, dressed like something out of a TV spectacular. Her dress was made of a fabric that shone like woven silver—yet appeared to be soft at the same time. It was sleeveless, cut low in the front and even lower in the back, all the way down to her waist, Andy saw. Her hair was brushed straight to her shoulders in a shining russet wave. The judge looked at her too, out of the corner of his eye, as she guided him to the sofa.
“We’re not disturbing you, are we, Shirl?” he asked. “You’re dressed up tonight. Going out?”
“No,” she said, “I was just staying home by myself. If you want the truth—I’m just building up my own morale. I’ve never worn this dress before, it’s something new, nylon, I think, with little specks of metal in it.” She plumped a pillow and pushed it behind Judge Santini’s head. “Can’t I get something cool for you to drink? And you too, Mr. Rusch?” It was the first time she had appeared to notice him, and he nodded silently.
“A wonderful suggestion.” The judge sighed and settled back. “Something alcoholic if possible.”
“Oh, yes—there are all kinds of things in the bar, I don’t drink them.” When she went to the kitchen Andy sat close to Santini and spoke in a quiet voice.
“You were going to tell me what you were doing in the cellar—and how you know my name.”
“Simplicity itself—” Santini glanced toward the kitchen, but Shirl was busy and couldn’t hear them. “O’Brien’s death has certain, shall we say, political ramifications and I have been asked to follow the progress being made. Naturally I learned that you had been assigned to the case.” He relaxed and folded his hands over his round belly.
“That’s an answer to one half of my question,” Andy said. “Now, what were you doing in the cellar?”
“It’s cool in here, almost chill you might say after being outside. Quite a relief. Did you notice the heart that had been drawn in the dust on the cellar window?”
“Of course. I was the one who found it.”
“That is most interesting. Did you ever hear of an individual—you should have, he has a police record—by the name of Cuore?”
“Nick Cuore? The one who has been muscling into the rackets in Newark?”
“The very one. Though ‘muscling in’ is not quite correct, ‘in charge’ would be more accurate. He has taken over there, and is such an ambitious man that he is even casting his eyes in the direction of New York.”
“What is all this supposed to mean?”
“Cuore is a good Italian word. It means heart,” Santini said as Shirl came into the room carrying a tray.
Andy took the drink with an automatic thank you, scarely aware of the other’s conversation. He understood now why all the pressure was being brought to bear upon this case. It wasn’t a matter of pity, no one seemed to really care that O’Brien was dead, it was the why of his killing that really counted. Had the murder been a brutal accident as it appeared to be? Or was it a warning from Cuore that he was expanding into New York City? Or was the killing a power move by one of the local people who was trying to put the blame on Cuore in order to cover himself? Once you entered the maze of speculation the possibilities expanded until the only way the truth could be uncovered was by finding the killer. The interested parties had pulled a few strings and his full-time assignment had been the result. A number of people must be reading his reports and waiting impatiently for an answer.
“I’m sorry,” he said, aware that the girl had spoken to him. “I was thinking of something else and I didn’t hear you.”
“I just asked you if the drink was all right. I can get you something else if you don’t like that.”
“No, this is fine,” he said, realizing that he had been holding his glass all this time, just staring at it. He took a sip, and then a second one. “In fact it’s very good. What is it?”