by P. N. Elrod
We took the cops down to the basement and showed them what they needed to see, then stood back for the next few hours as things took their course. Eventually some plainclothes detectives and a photographer turned up. Anyone who didn’t have a badge was herded upstairs for questioning.
Everyone got a grilling, and I could understand why the other guys had been so anxious to leave. It wasn’t to avoid trouble so much as to get away from the aggravation of telling the same story over and over again.
The cops kept an eye on me the whole time and weren’t exactly subtle about it. I shrugged it off, unworried since I had an alibi. The murder had taken place long before I decided to come west.
The coroner’s wagon arrived, and I started to have hope that the circus would wind down once they carted off the remains. I had to revise my thinking when another big car pulled up behind, and out stepped Lieutenant Nick Blair, a homicide cop who didn’t much like me.
He was even more nattily dressed than I’d remembered, this time in a midnight-black double-breasted suit with a matching fedora at a rakish angle. The getup looked to be worth about two months’ pay for him. It was reasonable to assume that he was either on the take or had another source of money than his modest paycheck. He had hard brown eyes, slick dark hair, and sported a thick, wide mustache trimmed to give his mouth a kind of perpetual smile. Its confident good humor was entirely superficial when aimed at me. Along with the workmen and Escott, I stood outside watching all the comings and goings. Blair still managed right away to pick me from the crowd. I’ve heard that sharks do the same thing when it comes to finding fish.
“This could be interesting,” Escott murmured.
“Aw, you’re just trying to make me feel good.”
Blair aimed that false smile that didn’t reach his eyes my way for a long ten seconds, then walked into the club without saying a word.
“Most interesting, indeed,” Escott added out of the side of his mouth. You couldn’t see it, because he was good at holding to a poker face, but I knew he was hiding an amused smirk under there somewhere.
The lieutenant and I did not exactly get along. The man was sharp and knew something was off that made me different from anyone he’d ever dealt with. It amused me and annoyed him that he couldn’t figure it out. If he ever did, it’d probably annoy him even more.
We waited for Blair. It took him about a quarter hour to see what was in the wall and talk with the other cops, then he sent a uniform out. For Escott, not me. Blair must have decided to save the best for last. I lighted a cigarette and waited some more in the cool, damp evening air and chatted with one of the officers about the moderate summer we were having. He observed that we’d probably have a bad winter to compensate, then cast a watchful eye back toward the street as more cars pulled up and stopped, spewing forth a number of noisy people moving with great purpose. I didn’t know their faces but sure as hell recognized their occupations, having been in it once myself.
I gave an inward groan and hightailed it into the club, but not before one of the photographers managed to blind me with a flashbulb explosion from his Speed Graphic. Hands groping for the door handle, I made it inside just as their first babbling wave of questions struck, and hoped that the cop would keep them out.
Reporters. I’d wanted publicity for the club, but not this kind. The business I was aiming to draw in would not be attracted by lurid stories about corpses walled up in the basement.
The man outside was losing his battle against the tidal force of the First Amendment. They’d flood in any second. I ducked for cover down behind the lobby bar just as they burst through the door. There seemed to be a lot of them, all talking at once.
“Holy moley, some joint.”
“Ah, I seen better.”
“Where? Buckingham Palace?”
“Move outta the way, I wanna shot of this.” A flashbulb went off, flooding the lobby with miniature lightning. I flinched and dropped lower, my nose just above an incongruous dark stain marring the brand-new tiles. Damn. That shouldn’t have been there. It was like finding that first scratch on a new car.
“This place is all right. Wonder who’s paying for it?” A woman’s voice.
“One of Big Al’s leftover cronies,” a man told her with wise surety.
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t, but that’s what I’ll write. You know all these joints have to be cleared by the mob before they can open.”
“Cleared?”
“Look around you, sugar, this is owned by the mob. Who else has that kind of dough these days?”
“I heard that Welsh Lennet was the man who—”
“Tell me how to suck eggs, sugar. I used to come here back when he ran it. It was just a speak-sleazy then, and I mean sleazy. There was stuff going on in this pit to make your hair stand on end.”
“Spare me the cliché quotes. I can make up my own. If it was so bad, why’d you hang here?”
“Stories, my dear, I got miles of copy out of it. I remember when the Nevis gang bombed the joint. Welsh was right over there—and then he was over there and there and there and all mixed up with a couple of his muscle boys, and some poor lady bartender caught a freak piece of shrapnel and dropped in her tracks behind the bar and bled to death. They still got that in the same place, I see.”
“Leave it to you to notice. So,” the woman said, and I could imagine her surveying the room, eyebrows slightly raised with disdain, “where’s this year’s stiff?”
“In my pants, sugar.”
“Dream on, darling, it’s all you’ll ever get from me.”
“Lemme tell you about my dreams—”
“Hire a shrink. What’s through here?”
Their babble faded as they moved into the main room, and I relaxed a little. Someone had flicked on the bar light again. Without thinking about it I shut it off. Mistake. One of the guys had lingered and noticed.
“Hey, who’s there? Come on out and—”
By the time he’d poked his head around the bar I’d vanished. Safe from view, I hung in place while the intruder thoroughly checked the area. He probably wasn’t as interested in finding anyone so much as assuring himself that no booze had been accidentally left lying around. I tried to stay out of his way, but he jostled into—or I should say through—me all the same, collecting a fierce shiver. Any contact people make with me while I’m in this form is a noticeably chilling experience for them. He soon went away, muttering his disappointment, and joined the others.
I materialized and drew enough breath for a sigh of relief. It would be impossible to put them off forever, but I wanted to postpone things for as long as possible.
Vanishing cured the ache behind my eyes but not this ongoing pain in the neck. I had things to do, starting with another phone call. Alone and unwatched for the moment, now seemed the right time. Gordy had been decent to me; I thought I’d return the favor.
The photographer bozo had flipped the bar light on in his search. With mild annoyance I cut it off yet again, then cat-footed over the marble floor to the stairs without getting spotted. I could have gone invisible one more time, but it takes a lot out of me, and I was already starting to feel the first restless whispers of hunger. Better to conserve my energies for the time being since I didn’t know how long the show would last now that Blair was running things.
Up in my office I dialed a number, identified myself to the mug who answered, and told him to find his boss. He must have recognized my voice, for he dropped the receiver with a clunk as he hurried to comply.
Gordy came on a few minutes later. “’Lo?”
“It’s me,” I said. “Thought I’d warn you about some trouble here at my place.”
“The house or the club?”
“Club.” I told him about the workmen finding a body in the wall.
“What? Only one?”
I was in no mood for black humor, until it occurred to me he wasn’t joking. “One’s more than enough.” Then I told him how
she’d probably died.
“Tough luck.”
“And then some. It might also go bad for the guy who had this place before me.”
“I get you.” He didn’t mention Booth Nevis, the mob tough who owned the lease. Gordy’s phones were often tapped, so he’d gotten into the habit of keeping shut on names or talking in code.
“It’s none of my business what was done here five years back. I will be cooperating with the law on this. They’re gonna want to know who owns the building, and I’ll have to tell them. I’m not taking any chances over getting shut down before it’s even open.”
“You do what you gotta. The other guy can take care of himself.”
“So long as he doesn’t get any ideas about taking care of me for talking.”
Gordy made an odd, abrupt sound I interpreted as his version of a laugh. “Like that’ll ever happen. I’ll see what he knows about it. He won’t be bothering you, though.”
“Thanks.” If Booth Nevis had a murder to hide, he’d probably not say anything, even to Gordy, but it was worth a try if it took the heat off of me.
I hung up and thought about calling my girl, Bobbi, but she’d be in the middle of her set at the Red Deuces about now. She was their headline singer this week, and Thursday a local radio station would be broadcasting the show. Maybe the audience wouldn’t be as big as some she’d reached, but she held the opinion that every little bit of work that got her name in front of people helped. A couple months back she’d done a successful performance on a national broadcast, which had resulted in a few promising offers. The Red Deuces was a short engagement for her, only a week, but it drew a swank clientele of show folk, the kind who could help her career. Just the sort I wanted to attract to my own place.
Fat chance of that if I didn’t handle this disaster with kid gloves.
Someone clumped his way upstairs and marched toward my office, which was the only lighted room along the bare hall. I’d remembered to flick it on this time for appearance’s sake. He was yet another cop telling me I was to come with him. I didn’t ask why.
As though I couldn’t find my own way, he guided me down to the main room. All the lights were on here, with cops and reporters wandering around like they owned the place. I hoped they weren’t messing up the red velvet upholstery; that was the job of future paying customers. My entrance stirred up the fourth estaters, and once more I got blinded by a flashbulb going off. Several of them. Jeez, but when I’d been working on that side of the fence, I had no idea how irritating the damn things could be. No wonder cursing people used to take swings at us.
The cop hustled me past the mob. I gladly let him. Better to be in a basement with a corpse than have a bunch of half-crazed reporters shouting questions that I couldn’t answer. During the rush I didn’t see Escott. I wondered if I should worry.
“Mr. Fleming, isn’t it?”
At the foot of the steps, my vision still uncertain when I blinked, I came face-to-face with Lieutenant Blair, mustache, smug smile, and all. Despite the dust down here his black suit looked quite untouched. And he damn well knew who I was. “Yeah, Lieutenant, how you doing?”
“Quite a bad business, don’t you think?” He didn’t bother to shake hands. The cop leaned close and muttered something in Blair’s ear before moving off. Because of the noise and echoes I didn’t catch much of it, just something about me being in my office.
Looking past his shoulder, I could see he’d put my men to work on the wall, Leon and a couple of others. Most of it had been pulled down, revealing the skeleton. Her tattered and stained dress had been a blazing red once. Red sequins still defiantly flashed tiny points of light under the harsh overheads. She’d died on her knees, back bowed and head down as if praying. She’d probably been praying very hard indeed there in the stifling dark. I repressed a shudder.
“Got anything to say about this?” Blair inquired.
“It’s bad business all right,” I allowed. “And nothing to do with me.”
“We’ll see.” He sounded very pleased with himself.
“Come on, you know I only moved to this town last August. This case could be at least five years old.”
“How do you figure that?” He was good at his job, only asking questions for which he already knew the answers.
“Because that’s when this joint was last open. There are records on file with all the dates, and you know where to find them.”
“True, but anyone could have broken in here between then and now, and put her here.”
“That’s for you to figure out. I’m just a victim of circumstance.”
“You seem to collect them, Mr. Fleming. Let’s go over here for a little chat, why don’t we?” He motioned me toward a corner away from the hubbub, where we could have some privacy. “Who were you calling?”
“I called someone?”
“The man I sent to get you heard you talking.”
The cop hadn’t even been near the office by the time I’d hung up. Blair was slipping by making only a guess, but it had been a good one. “He must have ears like an Airedale or a great imagination.”
“Who did you phone?”
“No one.”
“Gordy Weems, perhaps?”
I tried not to react, but he was looking for the least little betraying twitch. Sometimes it’s a sad thing to be born with a streak of telltale honesty.
“Perhaps to warn him of your little trouble here? No need to be too surprised. I’ve made a point of finding out who your friends are.”
“You must have a lot of time on your hands, then.”
“I just like to keep track of troublemakers.”
He would.
“For instance, just how is it an unemployed reporter can afford to set up a palace like this?”
“I’m not unemployed; I work for the Escott Agency. As for this place, I got lucky at the track this year and decided to invest my winnings.”
“I think you’ve been investing for the mob. Word is you’re one of Gordy’s insiders at the Nightcrawler Club.”
“My girlfriend sings there sometimes. I just go over to drive her home after work. If I took her to the train station, would you accuse me of being a Pullman porter? Are you even supposed to be here? I thought this far north would be out of your district.”
“Listen, wiseass, after that business with Malcolm—”
“Ancient history, Lieutenant.”
“It’s still an open case, Fleming.”
Before he could get himself fully launched down memory lane, I fixed him with a long, concentrated stare. “And past time you closed it,” I whispered after a moment. From the profoundly blank expression that dropped over his face I knew he’d heard me. “The guy’s no longer your concern. Your best guess is that he’s the one who did the Wrigley Building murder, and the guilt drove him crazy. Ain’t that so?”
“Yes, that’s what happened.” Blair’s voice was thin and distant.
I kept focused on his empty eyes. “As for the mess you’ve got here, I don’t have anything useful to give you. Believe it.”
“Believe . . .”
“That’s right. Now everything I’ve told your men is the truth. I’ve no reason to lie, so you’ve got no reason to stall around here any longer. Get whatever you need to help you with your case, then get out.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Oh, and don’t forget that you like me. We’re old pals, you know.”
“I know.”
An idea struck me as I anticipated a possible future need. “And the same goes for Charles Escott. If either of us calls you up wanting information on this or any other case, it will be your pleasure to help. Got that?”
“Got it.”
“Good.” I broke off with the fish-eye work and gave him a chance to recover. There was no telling how long my suggestions would last with him, especially the ones that went against his nature, but they should be solid for a few weeks, maybe even a few months before completely fading. Sooner or later
he’d reassert himself and be as annoying as ever. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Lieutenant?” I asked, as Jack Armstrong as I could make it without sounding too asinine.
Blair blinked once or twice, his posture relaxing somewhat, the way you do in a friend’s company. “I think that about covers it.”
“Your best bet will be to check on the original owners. I got the lease through Greener Pastures Real Estate. Try them.”
“Thank you, I will.”
“I’d also like you to keep the press off my back.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” he said, and this time his smile actually reached his eyes. “I’ll give a statement and tell them to get lost.”
“I’d appreciate that. Your men find out anything about her?” I nodded toward the alcove.
“Not really, only that she was a young, probably pretty brunette, welloff, with a strong need for attention. And the motive wasn’t robbery.”
“How do you get all that?”
“That dress, cut low in the back and the front as far as I can tell. Not many old, ugly women wear those. There’s still some bits of hair left on her head, and she’s wearing a gold necklace, matching bracelet, and some rings. They’re real, not dime-store. The killer left them behind.”
So, Blair was good at his job after all. “Need for attention?”
“Women are funny about what colors they wear. Only the ones who want to be noticed would go near a red like that.”
Now I was impressed. I filed it all away to tell Escott later. Where the hell was he, anyway? “Your people going to be here much longer?”
“A couple hours. I don’t want your workmen in the area until we’re finished. I’ll be sending people in tomorrow for more pictures and to pick up all those bricks.”
I didn’t mind him cleaning away the rubble, but asked why.
“In case she or her killer left some kind of clue. There might be other hair, fibers, or something else stuck in the mortar that could be useful.”
He was starting to sound like my partner. “How long will that hold up my labor?”
“No telling. You’d better work on some other area of the club for the time being.”
