Falling Angel by William Hjortsberg Read Free Book Online Page A

smarmy smile until I could no longer stomach it. Where do you search for a guy who was never there to begin with?
    The Winchell column was as brittle with age as the Dead Sea Scrolls. I reread the item about the end of Favorite’s engagement and dialed Walt Rigler’s number over at the Times .
    ” ‘lo, Walt,” I said, “it’s me again. I need to know some stuff about Ethan Krusemark.”
    “The big-shot shipowner?”
    “The very same. I’d like whatever you’ve got on him plus his address. I’m especially interested in his daughter’s broken engagement to Johnny Favorite back in the early forties.”
    “Johnny Favorite again. He seems to be the man of the hour.”
    “He’s the star of the show. Can you help me out?”
    “I’ll check with the Woman’s Department,” he said. “They cover society and all its dirty doings. Call you back in a couple minutes.”
    “My blessings be upon you.” I dropped the receiver back in the cradle. It was ten minutes shy of two o’clock. I got out my notebook and placed a couple long-distance calls to L.A. There was no answer at Diffendorf’s number in Hollywood, but when I tried Spider Simpson I connected with the maid. She was Mexican, and although my Spanish was no better than her English, I managed to leave my name and office number along with the general impression that it was a matter of importance.
    I hung up and the phone rang again before I lifted my hand. It was Walt Rigler. “Here’s the poop,” he said. “Krusemark’s very top-drawer now; charity balls, Social Register, all that sort of thing. Has an office in the Chrysler Building. His residence is Number Two, Sutton Place; phone number’s in the book. You got that?”
    I said it was all down in black and white, and he went on. “Okay. Krusemark wasn’t always so upper-crust. He worked as a merchant seaman in the early twenties, and it’s rumored he made his first money smuggling bootleg hootch. He was never convicted of anything, so his record’s clean even if his nose isn’t. He started putting his own fleet together during the Depression, all Panama registry, of course.
    “He first made it big building concrete hulls for the war effort. There were accusations that his firm used inferior construction material, and many of his Liberty Ships broke apart when the weather got rough, but he was cleared by a congressional investigation and nothing more was said about it.”
    “What about his daughter?” I asked.
    “Margaret Krusemark; born 1922; father and mother divorced in 1926. The mother committed suicide later that same year. She met Favorite at a college prom. He was singing with the band. Their engagement was the society scandal of 1941. Seems that he was the one who broke things off, though no one knows why any more. The girl was generally regarded as something of a crackpot, so maybe that was the reason.”
    “What sort of crackpot?”
    “The kind with visions. She used to tell fortunes at parties. Went every place with a pack of tarot cards in her purse. People drought it was cute for a while, but it got too rich for their blue blood when she started casting spells in public.”
    “Is this on the level?”
    “Absolutely. She was known as the ‘Witch of Wellesley.’ It was quite the gag among young Ivy League nabobs.”
    “Where is she now?”
    “No one I talked to seemed to know. Society editor says she doesn’t live with her father, and she’s not the type who gets invited to the Peacock Ball at the Waldorf, so we haven’t got anything on her over here. The last mention she got in the Times was on her departure for Europe ten years ago. She may still be there.”
    “Walt, you’ve been a big help. I’d start reading the Times if they ran comic strips.”
    “What’s all this about Johnny Favorite? Anything in it for me?”
    “I can’t open yet, buddy, but when the time comes, you’ll get it all first.”
    “Much obliged.”
    “Me, too. See you around, Walt.”
    I got