What good would it do Boom Boom if I could prove Grafalk’s complicity in his death, or even in destroying the Lucella and the Poe Lock? Revenge brings only limited satisfaction, and I didn’t feel noble enough to act out of a disinterested sense of justice.
I stood up and looked around vaguely for a cab. A tall figure detached itself from the shadows and crossed the street to me.
“A satisfactory encounter?” Ferrant asked.
“You waiting around for me?” I said. “How about finding me a cab? Speaking as a detective, I guess it was satisfactory. But, as a human being, I can’t say it appealed to me much.”
“Look, how about dinner and you can tell me about it?”
“Roger, I’m too tired to eat and I don’t feel like telling anyone about it.”
He trotted over to State Street and flagged a cab there. He helped me inside and followed after.
“Look, you don’t have to tell me about the interview, but you’ll feel better after something hot to eat and another drink.”
I finally let myself be persuaded. He’d been very cooperative about looking into Grafalk’s records. If he wanted to hear the gory details of the rest of the case, why not?
We went to the Filigree, a restaurant in the Hanover House Hotel that resembles my idea of a men’s club: discreet tables with maroon drapes shielding diners from one another, a fireplace with a high marble mantel, and elderly waiters who seem to ooze a vague distrust of women diners: do they really appreciate the fine old vintages they’re drinking?
You go to the Filigree for steaks. Over a thick-cut T-bone and a bottle of Chateau St. Georges (1962) I felt myself reviving.
“Earlier this evening you said you weren’t really concerned about the locks or the freighters—that you were involved in this from a personal standpoint. What is that?”
I explained to Ferrant about my cousin and the problems down at Eudora Grain. “I was just visiting the woman he was dating the three months before he died. Her name is Paige Carrington. She’s a talented dancer, maybe not New York quality, but quite good. She is exquisite, the kind of woman you gawk at but who appears too perfect to touch. Anyway, it seems she’s been Grafalk’s mistress for a number of years. He arranged a party at which she could meet my cousin—said he wanted to buy some shares in the Hawks and asked Guy Odinflute to hold a party for him and the team. Boom Boom was always included in that kind of function and Grafalk saw to it that Paige had an invitation, too.
“Well, my cousin was easily as susceptible as the next man. When Paige made a dead-set at him, he responded—probably with enthusiasm. She’s that type of person. And she spent the next three or four months tracking what he was doing at Eudora Grain.
“When it became obvious that Boom Boom had discovered the extent of the problem there and was planning on blowing the whistle to Argus—Eudora’s chairman—Paige’s tender heart was touched: she got Grafalk and Phillips to try to buy off my cousin. Instead, they knocked him off.”
I drank some more wine and slumped back in my seat. I’d only been able to eat half the excellent steak.
I gestured with the wineglass. “This whole business with the freighters and the locks looks like something separate altogether. I wouldn’t even be interested if it didn’t seem to tie in with what happened to my cousin.” I finished my wine and poured myself another glass. At this rate I was going to be mildly sozzled; after the day I’d had, it felt good. Ferrant ordered a second bottle.
“I’ve got a couple of problems right now. One is, although Jeannine Phillips as good as told me that her husband pushed Boom Boom off the wharf, I don’t have any proof. She didn’t come out and say it in so many words, and nobody witnessed the drowning. I do have some skeletal proof about what was going on at Eudora. I could send that to Argus, but all it would do is discredit Phillips. Even if they make the tie-in with Grafalk stick, it doesn’t prove anything more criminal than taking kickbacks.”
The waiter took my plate with a contemptuous glance at the unfinished steak as the wine steward opened the second bottle of St. émilion for us. Like many very thin men, Ferrant ate a great deal—he’d consumed a sixteen-ounce sirloin while we talked, along with oysters florentine, a special potatoes Filigree, and a platter of beefsteak tomatoes. He ordered chocolate cheesecake; I passed on dessert and had some more wine.
“The one thing I might be able to get Grafalk on is murdering Phillips.”
Ferrant sat up in his chair. “Go on, Vic! Grafalk murder Phillips?”