Brass Rainbow Read Free

seen Weiss since 3:00 A.M. last night. That made me wonder.
    No one sticks to the old places like a solitary gambler down on his luck, except a sailor. To a sailor the ship is home, mother and family. To a piece of flotsam like Weiss, home is his haunts.
    As a last resort I checked his room on St. Marks Place. I did not expect him to be there. He wasn’t. I stopped for a beer.
    Sammy was on the run or hiding. Without money he could not run far, and he could not get money because the police would know everywhere he could hope to get it. Without money he could not hide long, either. So he had more money than I had suspected, or someone was hiding him. It let me out. If he had stabbed Radford, only a lawyer could really help him. If he hadn’t stabbed anyone, he didn’t seem to need my volunteer aid.
    I went home and cooked a can of soup to warm me. I watched the snow outside the window. The tall buildings uptown were vague ghosts through the swirling flakes. I thought about Marty. I thought about going down to Philly to see her. But I would only be in her way. A girl trying to make it in her first real show doesn’t want a steady lover hanging around to scare off people.
    I got my coat. I couldn’t spend the day thinking about what Marty was doing in Philadelphia. At least I could find out how bad it was for Weiss. Not from the police. They would only figure I was in touch with Weiss and sweat me. I would investigate. At least keep busy.
    Maybe I was just curious. Being a detective gets to be a habit, and a murder is like a mountain—it’s there.

3
    T HE APARTMENT HOUSE on East Sixty-third Street where Jonathan Radford had lived was a massive, gingerbread gray building built in the twenties for the true rich. Its upper stories were lost in the heavy snow.
    â€œRadford apartment,” I said to the doorman.
    He was obviously under orders to keep the murder quiet. A foursome looking for a taxi appeared in the lobby. He didn’t even ask who I was.
    â€œApartment 17, left elevator, rear.”
    It was a small, self-service elevator that served only two apartments on each floor. It delivered me to a tiny foyer for apartment 17. I rang.
    The man who answered the door was tall, gray-haired, and looked something like the body in the morgue without the beard. He had a large nose, the pink face a man gets when he is habitually shaved by barbers, and a wrinkled neck he tried to hide by holding his head too high. I had a mental flash—I knew his face. How?
    â€œMr. Ames?” I guessed.
    â€œYes, I … What do you want? I’m very busy.”
    He passed his hand over his face. He seemed nervous, out of focus. His suit had wide lapels and an old-fashioned cut, but looked custom-made within the year. The cuffs of his shirt came four inches out of his sleeves and were linked with rubies. The cuffs, and his high collar, were starched stiff.
    â€œI’m a detective, Mr. Ames,” I said, not mentioning that I was private, or giving my name. Why ask for trouble from the police? “I’d like to ask some questions about the murder.”
    He nodded vaguely. “The murder, yes. I … I really can’t believe he’s gone. Jonathan. Dead! That stupid animal!”
    â€œCan I come in?” I said.
    â€œWhat? Oh, yes, of course. I don’t see what …”
    He trailed off. I walked into a living room as large as four of my rooms—an elegant, high-ceilinged room that had been lived in for a long and comfortable time. The furniture glowed. Most of it was from one of the French periods, but there were enough odd pieces to show that no hired decorator had laid it out.
    â€œNow, if you’ll …”I began, trying to sound official.
    Ames was staring at me. He was looking at my empty sleeve. Suspicion flickered in his eyes.
    â€œI was under the impression that the murderer of my cousin was being pursued. The Weiss person. A matter of