Ask the Right Question Page 2

  “Here’s a hundred dollars. How much trying will that get?”

  Business men have said things like that to me before, but I was astonished to hear it from Eloise Crystal. Maybe she was telling me something about the environmental father she’d grown up with.

  “You just hang on to that for the moment. If you’re interested, I charge thirty-five dollars per eight-hour day, plus expenses.”

  “Please take it. Please!” The hand holding the bill was wavering. “It’s mine. I didn’t steal it or anything. I have money. That’s not a problem.”

  I took the bill and put it on my desk.

  “I’ll keep it for you. But before I can even think about taking your case I’ve just got to have more information from you. What time do you get out of school tomorrow?”

  “Oh, I don’t have to go to school,” she said.

  I sighed. Some client problems are peculiar to minors. I said, “I have other things to do too. What time do you get out of school?”

  “I can be here about four. I—I didn’t come straight up today. I wasn’t … sure. You know?”

  “I know.”

  We had reached a plateau. Our mutual understanding flowed like wine. I decided to sip a little.

  “How did you get a blood sample from Leander?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” she said. “But if you want something bad enough, there’s usually a way. See you tomorrow.”

  She swept out of the office.

  Whatever else she was, she was quick on her feet.

  My quarters serve me admirably, but they are not in the right part of the building to let me watch a client leaving downstairs. My only window is in my living room and it fronts on Alabama Street. It gives me an eastern panorama over the White Star Diner and a Borden’s Ice Cream factory.

  The front of my building is on Ohio Street. The office next to mine has two fine windows overlooking Ohio, and they are very convenient. The office is vacant and has been for the last three years. My landlord can’t find a sucker to pay twenty dollars a month more for a two-window northern exposure than I pay for my one shot to the east. He’s suggested on occasion that I become that sucker, but I fend him off. Not that I couldn’t afford the twenty dollars, usually. But I am versed enough in lock manipulations to be able to get in there whenever I want to. For a bath, say, or to look at a client from above. Besides, I wouldn’t want to look out my window every day and see the Wulsin Building right across the street. And my ivies grow better in an eastern window than they would to the north.

  I didn’t know how fast Eloise Crystal would get down, so I hurried. I needn’t have. I’d been plopped on the windowsill for more than a minute when a prim little Miss Eloise appeared on the sidewalk below me and turned left. I opened the window and leaned gingerly out. She walked the three blocks to Meridian and there turned left again. Either she had conned me about having to go home or she had no car and was heading for a bus. If it was the bus I hoped she had something smaller than a hundred to give the driver.

  I closed the window and got up off the sill. I retraced the footfalls to my office. I closed my outer door, bolted it, and ambled to the inner room of my private life.

  But before I got settled I remembered my notebook. I went back to the office to get it. I also picked up the hundred-dollar bill and, for lack of a better place, I put it in my wallet. Then I went back to my living room.

  You can see how much I must have saved in bus fares since I decided to move into the back room here.

  2

  Eloise Crystal had left my office a little after five. By eight I had finished dinner and my daily housecleaning. It was evening project time and tonight had been assigned to work on crossword puzzles. Writing puzzles is one of the ways I supplement my income a little. Not that it is really lucrative, but if you have to pass the time anyway you might as well pick up a buck or two.

  I do a number of things besides detecting which bring in a little money from time to time. I’m a bit of a photographer, a bit of a carpenter, a bit of a gambler, and I sometimes do odd jobs for odd friends. But I am primarily a private investigator—that’s what my passport says. I’ve been at if for seven years and I’m proud.

  Seven whole years, a record.

  And in the whole time I’d never had a little girl come in and ask me for her biological pa.

  I chewed on my crossword pencil and thought about her for a while. What were the odds she wouldn’t show up again?

  Hard to tell. Maybe evens.

  And if she remembered to appear?

  Hmmmm. Tell her to take her problem elsewhere? I thought about the “problem.” Just how the hell would I set about finding a long-lost biological father anyway?

  She’s sixteen. So we would be looking for a human male known to have committed a brief act sixteen years ago with the mother of Eloise Crystal. That would be Fleur Crystal. That would be about seventeen years ago, nine months for gestation.

  And this human male is not the one most readily available, Leander Crystal.

  So what else is there?

  Nothing. We know nothing about the man. Not even that he is still alive. Not even that Fleur ever really knew him other than in the Biblical sense.

  No more facts at all.

  So add probability. Probably Fleur was extensively acquainted with the father of her child. Probably somebody somewhere knew of Fleur and the man and of the essence of their relationship, if not necessarily of the conception.

  Probability gave way to possibility. Possibly it all took place in Indianapolis. Possibly the man is still around, maybe someone client Eloise already knows. Like a friend of the family’s. Like a good friend …

  My speculations flickered and were blown out by the same breath that uttered the word “conceivably.”

  Replaced by more practical thoughts. What would one do to get a lead?

  Check friends of the mother to get an idea of what sort of woman she is, and was. What sort of things she did, where she went, the important periods in her life. And what she was doing about seventeen years ago.

  Replaced by more practical thoughts yet. The whole business would rest on the validity of Eloise’s blood test reports.

  But how do you check a family’s blood types? Send a nurse to the house to collect blood before breakfast?

  I went back to my crossword puzzle.

  Half an hour later, having reminded myself of the hundred dollars resting in the generous confines of my wallet, I decided to give Eloise the tentative benefit of the doubt. The benefit of a little simple background work, since I didn’t exactly have a whole lot else to do. Maybe by tomorrow if I was really sure I knew exactly what it was that she wanted me to do and why she wanted it done, maybe tomorrow if I could reassure myself about those blood tests, maybe tomorrow I would take the case, formally.

  Tonight, tentative, I hit the phone to Maude Simmons, the Sunday editor of the Indianapolis Star. I dialed her private line there, the one she uses for her private business.

  “Simmons.”

  I identified myself.

  “Berrtie! How the hell are you?” Rolling the r: I hate that. She knows it.

  “I’m down at police headquarters. They’re holding me for assaulting an editrix. I need somebody to keep the other prisoners from picking on me.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s nice. Pity I haven’t time. Can I help you with something else?”

  “Yeah. A little information.”

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  “On some people named Crystal.”

  “The rich Crystals? Leander and Fleur Graham?” She was ahead of me already.

  “I guess so, if they have a daughter named Eloise and live on Jefferson Boulevard.”

  “That’s them. How deep and when?”

  “How about whatever you know off the top of your head and now?”

  “Poor Berrtie. Don’t you ever get real jobs?” She paused. I thought she was waiting for me to answer that. I ignored the silence. I make my ow
n bed and I lie in it.

  But instead she said, “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “The pneumatic tube contraption here just presented me with today’s livestock report. Did you know that calves closed unchanged in Chicago? Eight hundred thousand dollars for a tube system and it brings me the livestock report. It’s enough to make you cry.”

  We gave it a few moments’ silence. Maude hates wastes of money.

  “You got your notebook?”

  “I have it.”

  “Well, first off they’re rich. I mean real millions, plural, rich. I can find out how rich if you want.”

  “No, thanks, little fella, not just now. What are they like?”

  “Well, pretty quiet.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning no current gossip pertaining to behavior the Star would consider immoral. And no past gossip that I remember. Is it a divorce gig? If so you’re in pretty big money.”

  I was ashamed to tell her that I was on the verge of being hired by the kid. “No divorce. Not sure what this is going to be yet.”

  “Poor Berrrtie.”

  “Tell me something interesting. Anything.”

  Well, I remember stories about Fleur’s old man. That was Estes Graham, and that’s where the money came from by the way. He died ’53 or ’54, but for years he gave big birthday bashes, and everyone in town would turn out for them. The only problem was that there wasn’t a drop of anything alcoholic at them. There’s a guy still on the paper who went to one, I think it was in ’50. He took his own hip flask. Old Estes Graham spotted it and he got his son-in-law, that would be Leander Crystal, he got Crystal to toss this guy out personally. But that’s about the only thing I have offhand. I can tell you that the Crystals, both of them, live very quiet lives. None of the usual society, charity stuff most folks with their kind of cash get roped into.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s all I have off the top of my head. I can put my staff on it and give you a lot more detail. We have quite a research organization, if you can give us a little help on whatever it is you really want.”

  “I’m afraid that for the moment I’ll have to leave it at that. How much?”

  “Oh, just a token. Whatever you think is fair. Generous, but fair.”

  We hung up.

  I went to my living-room desk and got an envelope. I thought about putting a dime in it, but for the future’s sake I decided not to fun around. I wrote out a check for five dollars and sent it to Miss Simmons, care of the Indianapolis Star.

  Maude is quite a gal. Ancient, profane, hard-drinking and avaricious. She’s also a boon to the thirty or so private-detective offices in Indianapolis. From her nerve center as Sunday features editor at the Star her real business is supplying news to private parties. The stuff that’s not fit to print: personal backgrounds, credit information, household secrets. She has a network of people with ears and talents. And she makes money with it. Not usually from two-bitters like me, though I’ve done some real business with her too. She says the police have used her services; I am not accustomed to disbelieve.

  I left my notebook at the phone table, but my mind was just not on the crossword wavelength. I wished it were Thursday, instead of Wednesday. Not so much because I would know better where I stood with Eloise et al., but because the Pacers would be playing. First game of the season as defending champs of the American Basketball Association. I am a basketball fan and the Pacers’ radio broadcasts come in very handy for passing the long winter nights. Sometimes, when I am lucky and the sports photographers are indisposed, I get a call to take some basketball pics. I develop black and white in my office closet, and apart from spot free-lancing, the camera stuff helps in the PI work too. Bits of a life can dovetail.

  I tried to put aside my thoughts of Crystals. But there weren’t too many concrete thoughts to put aside. From what Maude had given me it seemed that Fleur was a quiet one. And therefore, perhaps, dangerous?

  And Eloise? A girl-woman. Adolescence makes for a biologically based dual personality. Perhaps the real question was: Which half was the one that wanted to hire me? And how much chance there was that the blood typings turned out to be exactly as advertised. But mine was not to weep and wonder. I could wait until the morrow.

  I set aside my crossword puzzle for the last time and wrote a letter to my daughter. I told her about some rabbits and bears I talked to recently. Very nice, unsymbolic rabbits and bears who got along well and slapped their knees after they told jokes. My daughter is nine now. Maybe a little old to talk to rabbits and bears. Fathers can’t be expected to know everything.

  Taking the book I’d used in the afternoon, I went to bed.

  3

  I woke up about eight and made myself a cheese omelet. It was a poor imitation of the ones my ex-wife used to make but one makes sacrifices to preserve integrity.

  I thought about how to pass the day. Not real thought; I’d already decided to put in a little time on Miss Crystal against the chance I took her offer of employment. It’s not that I had anything more notable to do.

  I did decide to do it easy and with a little class. No stress and no strain. I gathered my notebook and writing instrument and went out for a leisurely stroll. West down Ohio Street to Pennsylvania Avenue. Then North up Pennsylvania. The route took me through Indianapolis’s ideological heartland. Within oblique sight of the Soldiers and Sailors Monument in the Circle. On a clear day you can see for blocks from the top. Past the post office and Federal Building, the Star-News Building, and the YWCA. Past the World War Memorial, a graveled city block with and obelisk in the middle and cannons on the corners. Past the National Headquarters of the American Legion.

  And finally to St. Clair Street. Where I entered, at long last, the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library.

  I spent a lot of time there as a kid. It was cool even in the summers and it was quiet. And of all those books, each one representing hundreds of hours of work, some had even worked for me.

  But I hadn’t come at nine o’clock to be first in line for the latest worst seller. I headed immediately for the microfilm files of the Arts Division on the second floor.

  There are six microfilm viewers on the south wall of the Arts Division. But at that time in the morning there wasn’t much demand for them, so I got one of the two at the right, next to the microfilm cabinets. Without having to walk very far I could examine all the microfilm I cared to.

  I looked over the scant notes I had from Eloise and Maude. I decided first to find the marriage of Fleur and Leander Crystal.

  It was twenty or so years ago. I started with the Star for January of 1949, fitted it into the viewer and started cranking. I checked each day’s social page in a leisurely elegant manner, stopping elsewhere only to sample the heady world of 1949 sports.

  In the February 13 issue I found an unexpected bonus. A story of the annual birthday party for Estes Graham. One of the man’s wild teetotal wingdings. “… well catered and handled with the restraint and decorum we have come to expect from Estes Graham.…” It read like, a small-town theater review: the ushers and the props mistress did real good.

  On February 12, 1949, Estes Graham had become seventy-eight years old.

  I cranked on. A regular little butterfly I was, flitting from social page to social page.

  At 10:35 (June 3, 1949) I found the announcement of the wedding: “Fleur Olian Graham to Wed.”

  Not a large story. No picture. But it was specific. The wedding would take place September 6. The lucky man was Leander Crystal of Ames, Iowa. The reception would be held in Estes Graham’s home on North Meridian Street.

  What more sensible than to jump immediately and see if the wedding had gone off as scheduled?

  September 7, 1949. “Graham Heiress Weds.”

  There was a picture this time. That was good. In my heart I like pictures best.

  They were coming out of church. Fleur and Leander Crystal, standing with Estes
Graham.

  Fleur was at her new husband’s right. She grinned furiously. An attractive girl, hair that photographed dark. Face a little round. But with careful, articulated lips, in black and white, her best feature. I studied the picture. I thought I would probably be able to recognize her.

  Leander was about Fleur’s height. He stood stiffly beside her in his Army uniform. I was surprised he was only a sergeant, but the uniform bore medals and it fit him well. His most striking physical characteristic was his virtually complete baldness.

  Estes was in his turn at Fleur’s right. Leaning on a cane, head slightly stooped. The three heads drew a level line. He was old, and had been for all of Fleur’s life, if the picture did not lie. He wore a tux with very long tails.

  The story with the photo included an extensive description of the wedding and reception, as well as biographies and plans.

  The biographies provided the following.

  Fleur was nineteen. She was graduated in 1946 from Tudor Hall, which was a private girls’ school in Indianapolis. She had done some volunteer hospital work as a high school student late in the war and she had continued the volunteer work afterward. She had attended the Butler University College of Nursing for a year, but was interrupting her studies to marry.

  Crystal, at twenty-nine, had just graduated cum laude from Butler University’s Business College. He had served in Europe and had been awarded a Silver Cross and a Purple Heart. Presumably he came to Indianapolis to study on the GI Bill. Nothing was stated about his career plans. Perhaps with Estes Graham and a business degree, that was understood.

  The couple would spend the night in Estes’ house and then leave for a month-long honeymoon in Florida.

  By the time I finished making my notes, it was nearly eleven o’clock and time for decision. Break for an early lunch, or go on and try to find another chunk of information?

  A rare burst of ambition took hold of me. I decided to stay.

  From the wedding I cranked on. The first mention of familiar names was on October 18. It was in the caption of a picture of Leander and Fleur getting off a plane. The bride and bridegroom at Weir Cook Airport returning from the Florida honeymoon. Both smiling this time, no doubt from memories of the Miami sun and the Miami moon. I liked this picture. It made me feel better about the bond between Leander and his apparently errant wife. Newly wed can be a happy time.