I drove to Rue de Seine and parked a block away. I hated the ritz and glamor of the place, and I didn’t want any of it rubbing off on me or my car if I could help it. I strolled across the street to the front entrance.
I slipped inside and had a peek around. The maitre’d was a scrawny little man of about 30 with a tiny mustache and an air of smugness about him that I felt like punching out of him.
I sidled up to the fop and presented my business card.
“Clayton Lane, private detective.”
He looked at the card like it carried the bubonic plague and curled his lip at me.
“If you don’t have a réservation, monsieur, which I highly doubt you do, I shall ask you to leave, s’il vou plaît.”
With that he turned on his heels and began to walk away. I went after him in a huff.
“Listen, Henri,” I said, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him around.
“Henri? I am not Henri, I am Gerard. How dare you handle me in such a way, monsieur!”
I was taken aback. I had figured that the frog was Henri. I let go of his shoulder and smoothed his clothes.
“I apologize, Gerard, I’m looking for Henri. He may have some information about a case I’m working.”
Gerard had his nose up in the air so high that if the sprinkler system were to go off, he might have drowned. He gave me the once over before he relented.
“I shall fetch him for you, détective.”
He spun on his heel once again, snapping as he did, and sped off. I wasn’t alone for more than 10 seconds before Gerard came back with a timid young man in tow.
“This is Henri, détective. Please do not keep him long, he is working dishes tonight as punishment for not making his previous shift.”
With that, Gerard gave us some privacy, and I got my first good look at Henri. He was a scrawny kid, probably no older than his mid twenties. His mustache looked like he had drawn it on with a pencil, and he was always shifting around. I didn’t like him from the moment I met him, and I wasn’t sure what Isadore saw in this bum.
“Henri?”
He shifted around, squirming and slithering like a worm on a hot sidewalk. He rubbed his hands on his legs and pressed his lips together tight.
“Yeah, I’m Henri.”
I lit a cig and blew smoke in his face.
“Clayton Lane, P.I. I’m working a case looking for one Isadore Jensen, née Leclercq. You seen her anytime recently?”
Henri ran his hand over his chin and scratched his chest. Telltale signs of discomfort. I was sure what would come next would be a lie.
“I have never heard that name, either of them.”
I took a step closer and leaned in towards the kid. He never looked at me, always at the floor.
“Funny, because her husband says that he would come here with her often and that you two would chat like washerwomen. I don’t have time for games, Henri, and I don’t like you, so let’s cut the cock and bull and get to the real story.”
He fidgeted some more before finally fessing up.
“Alright, see, my name ain’t Henri, it’s Tracey O’Keefe. They gave me the name Henri to fit in more with the whole French aesthetic. Yeah, I know Isadore and Harvey. They used to come in once a month or so. She would chat with me about nothing much at first. Usually though, once the husband would go to the table, she would ask me about the scene.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“The scene?”
Tracey nodded.
“Yeah. She seemed keen to it, asked if I kicked the gong around, asked if I knew anyone else that did-”
“Listen kid, I need answers in English, I don’t know the whole ‘gong’ gimmick.”
Tracey nodded and leaned in as if to whisper to me.
“She wanted to know where the dope scene was, yeah? She was interested in the drug trade. I had been part of that for a long time but got clean. She didn’t seem like the type to get mixed up in most of that. Maybe cocaine or marijuana, but she was interested in finding out where all the strung outs were hiding. Never did ask her why, it’s not for me to know. I just told her that some like to hang around the old rail yard buildings down on Coal.”
I scribbled away in my notebook.
“Is that all she ever asked you about?”
Tracey shook his head.
“After awhile, she started asking me about the big bosses that come around here. She had noticed that there were commissioners, councilmen, judges and such in here all the time. You know, coming down from their ivory towers to dine at the finest French joint in the city. She wasn’t keen on who was who, so I clued her into the game, told her who owned who, who could be bought and who did the buying. She was really interested in it all.”
This was getting very intricate and confusing. I wasn’t sure where this was all going, but I knew I didn’t like it. It was getting out of my paygrade fast.
“She ever come in alone?”
“Yeah, several times in fact. She would usually join a table with some fancy bigwigs and liven the party up. Other times she would come with other women. Hell, I haven’t seen her with her husband in nearly three months. Are they still together?”
I gave Tracey a stern look and he got the picture.
“What exactly was she doing with these big shots she was intruding on?”
Tracey cocked an eyebrow.
“I would guess hobnobbing. She was always a dame who fancied herself a socialite. She always wanted to be part of the big scene, dig?”
“And yet she was also wanting to be part of the dope scene?”
Tracey shrugged.
“I don’t think she was interested so much in the merchandise as in the clientele.”
“How do you mean?”
Tracey now became more relaxed and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Well, she had given me the skinny on her past life in Canada. She said that she was interested in helping these chicks who were also down on their luck. I assume that she was playing lobbyist to the chairman of the city commission or whoever was here that was high up the food chain to bring attention to the situation. Bringing along another set of legs didn’t hurt matters.”
I thanked Tracey and told him how to reach me and to call if he saw Isadore again. I took my leave, processing this new information as I walked. I didn’t understand Isadore wanting to traipse around in the drug dens of the city only to turn around and rub elbows with the hoity-toity city elite. I was missing something, and I felt like it was plain as day.
Before I even knew it, I was traveling south, well past my apartment. I had been thinking so hard about the case that I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I thought about turning around and going home, but I just didn’t feel like it. Something was pulling me to Ms. Noe and her husband. I also wondered if Claudia might know about Isadore and her “bleeding heart” for the dope fiends of the city.
It took some time to find my bearings, but I eventually navigated myself into more familiar streets and made my way to Alvis Circle once again. It was a nice evening drive, and as the lights from the city began to fade, I felt a sense of calmness that I hadn’t felt all day. That feeling faded pretty damn quick when I pulled up to Claudia’s drive.
There was another car parked haphazardly along the street, nothing too out of the ordinary, but I saw that the front door had been kicked open, barely hanging on the chain lock that kept Ms. Noe feeling safe. I reached under the seat and pulled out my Browning Hi-Power and ran to the door.
I flattened myself against the front of the house and carefully peeked in. No one was in the entranceway. I quietly crept inside. I could hear some muffled commotion coming from the kitchen, so I made my way towards the sound, as quiet as a ghost.
Peering around the corner, I saw Claudia in one hell of a spot. She was being garotted by a large man with a scar across his right cheek. I took in as much detail as I could as quickly as I could; brown suit, orange tie, brown wingtips, black hat, black hair, six-feet-two, maybe two-hundred pounds. Taking a deep breath, I rushed the thug.
He didn’t have time to react as I slammed into him, causing both of us to go flying across the room as Claudia fell to the ground in a heap. The assailant had the wherewithal to have grabbed onto me as we went careening to the ground, and began to wale on my back with his sledgehammer fists. I scrambled out from under him and was able to pistol-whip him in the face. He staggered, glanced over at Claudia, motionless on the floor, gave me a wicked grin (brown eyes, large nose) and bolted for the exit. As he turned to run, I squeezed off a shot as he retreated, clipping him in the leg.
With the assassin now out of the picture, I rushed over to Claudia. Her face was a ghastly bluish-purple color and her face was contorted in terror. I felt for a pulse; it was faint, but it was there. She needed oxygen, so I turned her on her stomach, brought her arms above her head, and began compressing her back near her lungs.
After a few minutes of desperate compressing, Claudia gasped for air. I helped her to a sitting position as she gasped and gulped and wept. For a mousy little thing, she was a tough broad. After regaining her wits, she spoke.
“Is he gone?”
“Yeah, he’s gone, and he took some lead in the leg as a parting gift. Who was that, Claudia?”
She began to cry again, a look of utter horror on her face.
“They called him il fissatore. He fixes problems.”
“The Rizzutos sent him?”
Claudia gave a weak nod and turned away. She began to convulse as she cried uncontrollably. I wrapped my arms around her and drew her tight, holding her while she broke down. After her fit, she was able to continue.
“He used to ‘fix’ girls who got out of line or betrayed the family. He also did other jobs, but we never saw those. All we ever saw was him coming around the big house now and then and taking a girl away while she tried her best to escape his grasp.”
She shuddered at the memory and fell silent. Suddenly she turned back to me.
“Why did you come back Mr. Lane?”
“I realized I needed a few more answers from you. I saw your door was busted in and I came running.”
Claudia sniffled and forced a smile.
“Oh, I thought it was maybe you missed my company?”
I smiled at her attempt at levity, despite her being on the verge of the big sleep not 30 seconds ago. I was starting to think that there was more to Claudia Noe than I was aware.
“The company isn’t that bad, Claudia, but business comes first, kid.”
Speaking of business, I decided that it wasn’t the best place to discuss it now that this lunatic goombah knew where Claudia lived. The house was now less secure than anything. Making a split second decision, I thought it best to take Claudia back to the office. As far as anyone knew, I was just a nobody gumshoe, and my name wasn’t mixed up with all this mess just yet.
“Claudia,” I said as I helped her back to her feet, “I need you to gather up some clothes and belonging that you will absolutely not be able to be without for a few days. Call it a week to be safe. I don’t want you here for obvious reasons. I’m going to take you back to my office. You should be safer there than damn near anywhere else in the city.”
She looked at me with doe eyes and a curious expression.
“Come on, now, kid, get going. I don’t want to spend more time here than we have to.”
She nodded and dashed off to gather up her things. I assessed the area for any clue that could help me figure out the name of this il fissatore. There didn’t seem to be much; not a scrap of clothing, a dropped pen, nothing. Damn it.
I turned around to see Claudia struggling with a large suitcase. I ran over and lifted it out of her hands.
“Do you have absolutely everything you need? I can’t be rushing out to buy you anything, and there is no way we come back here for anything.”
She nodded, a little bewildered and mostly in shock.
“I have several changes of clothes, my nightgown, a few towels, my… feminine products. I should be set.”
“Good. Stay behind me.”
I carried the suitcase in my left hand and the Browning in my right. Claudia didn’t seem to shaken at the sight of a pistol, which I found odd considering her once timid demeanor. I chalked it up to shock and proceeded to scan the front yard. After finding it safe, we dashed to my car, threw the luggage in the back seat, and made our way back downtown to my office.