The Blonde Wore Black

Somerset, of course. He seems to have plenty.”
I made a note of Somerset’s address. He’d need plenty to go with a neighborhood like that.
“I’m obliged to you Mr. Steiner. What was the name of this newspaper again? Maybe I’ll buy one some day.”
“We don’t need it. Don’t forget, if you come up with anything, it’s mine.”
‘Til remember.”
Stuffing the names in my pocket, I went back out into the street. It was almost one o’clock and my stomach was muttering something about food. I knew a place where I could grab a sandwich and maybe spend some of Martello’s talk money at the same time.
I went to the Dutchman’s, a place off Conquest Street where a man can get a schooner of beer and something to eat. You can also get more free advice in the Dutchman’s than any other place I know. It is a hang-out for the horse players, that trusting band of citizens who are going to get rich tomorrow. And I’m not speaking about people who take an occasional interest in the ponies. These are the real players, the ones who eat sleep and talk nothing but nags, nags, nags. They know what’s running in every race at every track, every day. They have all the inside stories, all the stable gossip, the conditions of every blade of grass at the track. The only thing they lack is the plain horse sense to notice that they’re on the losing end ninety per cent of the time. They don’t get rich, just old. They are one class of citizen who are always in need of money, either to pay out on losses already achieved, or to put down on the next race.
The guy I was looking for is one of these. Everybody calls him Charlie Surprise, although his real name is Suprosetti, or thereabouts. All I know for sure is that nobody could ever pronounce it, so he got stuck with Surprise.
As I walked in the door a thin unhappy looking man saw me at once, and sidled up.
“Hi, Mr. Preston.”
“Hi, Mournful,” I replied. “Say have you seen——”
“Listen, I know why you’re here,” he dropped his voice a whole octave, and I had to shove my ear almost against his mouth to get the rest. “I know Mr. Preston, and you are absolutely right.”
“I am?”
“Sure. It’s a boatrace. You don’t imagine Wheeler wasted all that time running this nag in sticks tournaments? Of course you don’t. And you’re absolutely right. The whole thing is a boatrace. Hey, Mr. Preston, how’s about putting on five for old Mournful? I mean lookit, did I ever steer you wrong?”
“Well, I guess not——” I began.
“Sure, I didn’t. And would I start now for a lousy five bucks? Naturally not. Well, whaddya say?”
“What time is the race Mournful?”
His face dropped and all interest left his voice.
“You’re putting me on. You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”
“Right,” I confirmed. “Still, if five is going to save your life, here.”
I stuffed a note in his hand, and he shook his head in disbelief.
“Such things don’t happen. What do I have to do?”
“Nothing. It’s my birthday. Just tell me where Charlie is and then go make a fortune.”
He looked over my shoulder and the distant echo of a smile flitted across his face. With Mournful Harris, that is the equivalent of a great belly laugh from anyone else.
“Sure. He’s right behind you.”
I turned, and there he was coming through the door.
“Hey, Charlie.”
He blinked nervously, and turned reluctantly towards the greeting. Your horseplayer is always expecting to hear from people he owes money.
“Oh it’s you Mr. Preston. Listen, I’m pretty busy——”
“Let’s go over and sit a while. You want a beer?”
I carried two schooners over to an empty corner. Charlie stood shuffling his pointed feet. I was glad of the poor light in the bar. In full daylight, Charlie can be very painful on the eyes. He was wearing a rainbow shirt with a screaming mauve collar, mustard colored pants and yellow shoes with a green stripe around the sides.
“Looking at you.”
He dipped his sharp face into the foam and came up with bubbles all over his nose. Then he sat down abruptly.
“What’s it all about, Mr. Preston?”
“It’s about some folding money,” I told him. “Just help me if you can, and you get some.”
“Suddenly, I like the conversation.”
He cheered up noticeably, and finally I had his attention.
“You ever hear of a guy named Brookman, Poetry Brookman?”
He rubbed anxiously at his nose.
“Brookman, Brookman.”
“Had an address at the Monteray Building.”
He shook his head.
“You’re kidding about this Poetry tag, huh?”
“No. He was quite a horseplayer. Thought you were supposed to know all those guys.”
Now I’d hurt his feelings.
“Sure I know ‘em. I know everybody. And how do you mean, was? This Brookman ain’t around any more?”
“He fell off Indian Point last night.”
“Oh. That’s too bad. Hey, wait a minute, would this be a skinny guy, kind of pale faced, looks like he oughta eat more?”
I’d never seen Brookman, and I wondered whether Charlie was dreaming up what he would normally expect anyone with a name like Poetry to look like.
“Could be. What about him?”
“There’s been a guy around for a couple months looks like that. He’s from outa town, and nobody knows him. But a player all right.”
“What kind of age man would he be?”
“Who knows from birthdays?” he shrugged. “He wasn’t no kid, but then again he wasn’t nobody’s grandfather.”
Brookman had been thirty-one. At least Charlie’s broad classification didn’t exclude him.
“Tell me about him.”
“Nothing to tell. He didn’t talk to nobody, never made no trouble. A real student, though. I can tell.”
It didn’t sound as though Charlie was going to be much help.
“And you never saw anybody with him?” I pressed.
“No. At least, wait. Just hold on a little minute.”
He screwed up his face in awful concentration.
“There was just the one time. It was, oh, weeks ago. I remember it struck me funny at the time. You know how it is, you keep seeing a guy around,