by Jerry eBooks
“No, we’ve got to run along,” Laddy said. “We’re just simple-hearted fellahs, and this night-life is pretty tiring.”
Jim Evans laughed. “Well, say hello to Mike for me. Tell him to drop by some night.”
“Sure, we’ll do that,” Hymie said, and smiled at Linda. “You’re a fine singer, Miss Wade. You just stick to it—the singing, I mean—and you’ll get along fine.”
The two big men edged out of the room and strolled down the corridor to the dance floor. Jim Evans frowned at their wide backs, then stepped into Linda’s dressing-room and closed the door.
“What did they want?”
“Who are they, Jim?”
“Laddy O’Neill and Hymie Solstein, a couple of Mike Espizito’s walking nightmares. They’re nobody for you to know, or even think about, baby.”
“Jim, give me a nickel, please. I’ve got to make a phone call.”
He caught her shoulders. “Are you in some kind of trouble, baby?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Jim. Please don’t ask me about it now.”
“Okay,” Jim Evans said gloomily. “But I’d rather see snakes crawling around the dance-floor than those characters in your dressing-room. I’ll tell Sam to play another chorus, but rush it up.” He dug a coin from his pocket.
Linda hurried down to the pay phone at the end of the corridor and dialed the Call. A man on the city desk told her that Mark Brewster could probably be reached at the Sixty-fifth District.
Linda stepped out of the phone booth and borrowed a nickel from a passing waitress. Then she called the police board, and asked for the Sixty-fifth.
NEELAN walked into the Simba about midnight. The band was playing one of Linda’s songs but she wasn’t on the stage. He had stopped in a hotel lavatory, washed his face and hands; but he was flushed with liquor, and he knew he shouldn’t have come here. Yet he had to see Linda. That was the only thing that mattered.
He walked across the dance-floor and down the corridor that led to the dressing-rooms. Jim Evans was standing in front of Linda’s, looking worriedly at his watch.
“Where’s Linda?” Neelan asked.
“She’s phoning somebody. Say, Barny, you’re just the man I want to see. I think I need a cop.”
“What’s up?”
Evans shrugged, and glanced back to the booth, where Linda was on the phone. “I’m damned if I know, Barny. But Hymie Solstein and Laddy O’Neill were here to see Linda. She won’t tell me why, but I don’t like the idea of those characters being in the same county with her.”
“They were here, eh?”
“Sure, right in her dressing-room. What’s the matter, Barny?”
Neelan shoved past him and walked down the corridor to the telephone booth. He reached the open door in time to hear Linda say: “All right, I’ll see you then. And thanks.”
When she stepped from the booth, he saw that she was pale and nervous.
“I want to talk to you,” he said.
“Barny, not now. I’m on.”
He took her arm. “Let’s go back to your dressing-room, kid.”
Jim Evans came toward them, looking desperate. “Linda. Sam can’t keep playing your introduction all night.”
“She isn’t going on yet,” Neelan told him, and his hand tightened on Linda’s arm. “Come on, kid. We got a little talking to do.”
Inside her dressing-room he kicked the door shut. “Okay, now. What did Espizito’s punks want?”
She sat down, her hands locked tightly together in her lap. “I don’t really know, Barny.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“All right. They wanted to know if you were spending money on me. That was about as far as they got before Jim came in.”
“All right, what else?”
“Nothing, Barny.” She looked up at him, and saw that he looked desperately ill. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve been drinking. What difference does that make to you?”
She turned away from him and put both hands to her face; and then she began to weep.
Neelan stared down at her shining hair, at her slim bare arms and shoulders; suddenly his anger melted away and he was left with nothing but confusion and sadness.
Clumsily he knelt beside her and patted her arm. “I never meant to do this to you, kid, he said. “I loved you, that’s all. I wanted to do things that would make you happy. You’ve got to believe that. Don’t cry, kid. I’ll take care of Hymie and Laddy so they’ll never bother anybody again.”
“No, don’t do that, Barny.” She raised her head. “You’ll just get into trouble.” She was drawn almost helplessly to him, as she studied his bitter anguished face. He lowered his head, and she stroked his thick curly hair. “Just take everything slowly, Barny,” she said in a gentle voice. “Will you do that?”
“Yeah, sure, kid.”
There was a harried knock on the door. “Linda?” Jim Evans called. “How about it?”
“All right, I’m coming. Barny, I must go.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, getting to his feet awkwardly. “Look, how about picking you up later?”
She didn’t have the heart to make any excuses. “Of course, Barny. After the last show.”
He grinned at her, and suddenly the gray depression was gone. “Great,” he said. “Great. Knock ’em dead, kid. See you later.”
Outside the Simba, Neelan paused indecisively for a moment, watching the crowds strolling by; then he walked west, glancing into shooting galleries, bookstores, movie lobbies. He stopped at a busy news-stand and nodded to the proprietor, a fat cheerful man who took horse bets.
“Seen Laddy O’Neill or Hymie around here lately?” The vendor looked blank. Neelan said, “It’s just a personal matter.”
“Oh, sure, Barny, they came out of the Simba about half an hour ago. They were walking west.”
Neelan drifted into a few bars, moving slowly, deliberately, savoring a pleasant feeling of release. For the first time in what seemed an eternity he had a definite, physical object for his anger.
When he reached Twentieth Street, he stopped and lit a cigar. The traffic of the night, couples hand-in-hand, derelicts, young men in sports jackets on the make, flowed past him as he thought about Hymie and Laddy. Automatically, with cop-bred skill, he began plotting their probable course for the rest of the night. They’d probably returned to Espizito’s club to report. After that they might try Mama Ragoni’s for food, Ace MaGuire’s for bowling or billiards, or half a dozen other spots for craps or poker. Neelan knew where their women lived, too; that would be his last stop.
He returned to his car and drove down to South Philly, where he found a parking place about a block from Mama Ragoni’s. The restaurant wasn’t crowded. Two or three men stood at the bar, and in the rear diningroom only two tables were occupied. At one table were two young men with dates; and at the other sat Laddy and Hymie, attacking steaming plates of veal scallopini. Wicker-wrapped flasks of Chianti were at their elbows.
IN the doorway Neelan paused an instant, then walked slowly into the dining-room. Laddy O’Neill glanced up and saw him coming. He put his fork down and nudged Hymie with his knee. Hymie looked up smiling, but then his eyes narrowed slightly. He lifted a glass of Chianti to the detective, and said, blandly; “Hi ya, keed. Got time for a drink?”
Neelan didn’t hear him. He was conscious of nothing but the two faces before him, the smiling faces of the men who had bothered Linda. His gun came out so swiftly that neither of them had a chance to move. He slapped the barrel across Laddy’s face with every ounce of strength in his arm, and the big man toppled backward and hit the floor with a crash. Hymie came to his feet, swearing loudly, but Neelan had already started his back-handed swing and the gun barrel struck his temple as he grabbed for a wine-bottle.
Hymie sat back down drunkenly, cursing in a confused, mumbling voice, and holding his bleeding head in both hands. Laddy came up to his feet, and Neelan kicked him squarely in the mouth.
O’Neill went backward, knocked over a table and landed on his back.
A girl at the other table was screaming wildly. The two young men were trying to pull her toward the bar, but she fought them off and continued to scream in a demented fashion.
Neelan leaped on top of Laddy and slapped the gun barrel across his face four times, viciously, deliberately. Then he stood and turned to Hymie, who was still holding his head and moaning softly.
“Punks,” he said, shouting the word. “Don’t come near me again, hear? You hear that?”
He put his gun away and strode past the screaming girl into the barroom. Mama Ragoni was behind the bar, pale and tearful. “You crazy man!” she yelled. “You crazy man! I’ll call the police.”
Neelan’s anger was already gone. The physical release had drained him, and he felt calm and empty. He turned to Mama Ragoni and flipped out his wallet and showed her his shield.
“What do you want a cop for?”
“You crazy man!” she said in a hoarse, incredulous voice.
“Yeah?” Neelan walked out smiling.
MARK BREWSTER knocked on Linda’s dressing-room door at twelve-thirty, half an hour after he’d got her call. She let him in, and he saw that she was pale beneath her make-up.
“Thanks for coming over.” She twisted her hands together nervously. “I can’t offer you a drink, but maybe you’d like a cigarette.”
Mark saw that she was on edge.
“Nothing at all, thanks,” he said. “Why don’t we sit down?”
“I’m sorry. I should have thought of that.” She rubbed her forehead! “I’m all mixed up, Mark.”
“Supposing you tell me what Laddy and Hymie wanted.”
“They were curious about Barny.” She sat down, looked at her hands. “Specifically, they wanted to know if he’d given me any money.”
“Well, Espizito isn’t wasting any time, obviously. Then what?”
“That’s about all. Jim came by then, and they left. After that, Barny was here.”
“Oh? Did you call him too?”
“No, he just came by to see me. He’d been drinking—he acted as if he might explode, any minute.”
Mark lit a cigarette. “I can control my sympathy for him with practically no effort at all,” he said dryly. “Did you cell him about Laddy’s and Hymie’s visit?”
“Yes.”
“They’ll probably regret that they stopped by without invitations. Did Neelan have anything else to say?” Linda stood and walked to her dressing-table. She picked up a cigarette, but didn’t put it in her mouth. “He wanted to see me later tonight,” she said. “He seemed—oh, I don’t know—as if he couldn’t go on much longer.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him I’d see him, of course. He’s meeting me here after my last show.”
They were silent a moment; then Mark struck a match and nodded at her cigarette. “You might as well light that thing,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“You had to see him, of course,” he said, and dropped the match deliberately on the floor.
“Yes, I had to, Mark. Not because I was afraid of arousing his suspicions, or anything like that. But simply because he seems to have got into more trouble than he can stand.”
“He chose his trouble pretty deliberately,” Mark said, meeting her eyes. “Are you forgetting that?”
“I’m not forgetting anything. But Mark, there’s something about him—oh, I just can’t put it in words: He’s like a baby at times. He’s turbulent, rebellious, and yet so simple and helpless.”
“You love the guy, don’t you?” Mark said, standing. “Why don’t you say that, instead of giving me this social-service-worker routine?”
“You’re utterly ridiculous. I don’t love him, but I can’t hate him. I pity him.”
Their eyes met angrily. Mark said: “This helpless little baby of yours tried to kill me last night. Did he happen to lisp that boyish prank of his into your ear?”
“Oh, no, Mark!”
“Oh, yes, Linda,” he said, repeating her expression deliberately. “Early this morning, when I left your apartment, he tried to run me down in his car. That, I suppose, is the sort of activity you’d call willful and rebellious.”
“Oh, stop it, Mark,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t stand there mocking me. Why are you doing it? Can’t you see that I have to help him? Can’t you understand that?”
He shrugged his shoulders wearily. “I’m sorry, Linda. I didn’t mean to be sarcastic about it. But I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.”
LINDA put her hand on his arm impulsively. “Mark, I want you to understand it. It’s important to me that you do. Barny’s made a symbol of me, Mark. He’s put me on a ridiculous pedestal. He’s got me confused with success, and security and love, and all the things he’s missed in life. I represent a cure-all for his mistakes, shortcomings, tough breaks. I didn’t see that until tonight. Now I simply can’t throw him back on his resources. Not right away, not brutally, Mark.”
Mark paused a moment, then looked down at the floor. “That’s up to you, Linda,” he said in an even voice.
“But I don’t want it that way, Mark. I want you to understand.”
“Why?”
She shrugged slightly and sat down slowly at her dressing-table. Studying herself in the mirror, she said: “Why? I don’t quite know, Mark. Perhaps I’ve got a lost-kitten complex, and wanted to share it with you.”
“Neelan is no lost kitten, believe me, baby.”
She met his eyes in the mirror. “I suppose you’re right, Mark. I’m sure that when you say a thing, it’s bound to be a dead-sure fact, coldly accurate and final.”
“How did we get onto this?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Would you excuse me now, please? I have to freshen up for my next show.”
“Sure,” he said. He stared at her bare shoulders and the clean line of her throat for an instant; then he turned and walked out of the room.
When the door slammed, Linda picked up a lipstick from the table and started to do her lips; but they were trembling, and it was no use. She put her head down on her arms and began to cry.
Chapter Fourteen
AUGUST STERNMUELLER WAS IN AN UNUSUALLY reflective mood as he prepared his simple but hearty breakfast. Normally August was a cheerful person, not given to moods, and for that reason his present concern was additionally disturbing.
The thing that was bothering August was this: three days before, he had seen a murder committed, and he didn’t know quite what to do about it. Oh, he knew he should go directly to the police, but the fear of getting involved in the matter was strong enough to suspend him in a state of guilty inaction.
August was sixty-three, a native-born German, who after thirty years in the U. S. Postal Department had been retired on a pension that was sufficient for his needs. He lived in a two-room flat whose front windows overlooked the intersection of Crab Street and Ellen’s Lane. Three nights ago August had been sitting at those windows, smoking a good-night pipe and idly watching the dark and shining street. He had been thinking of an interesting addition to his timetable collection that had arrived that morning from Johannesburg, Africa. It was from the chap he’d sent the early Reading schedule to; and the prize that had come by return mail, practically, was a perfectly preserved timetable of a spur line that Kinderly interests had operated fifty years ago.
August’s entire day had been brightened by the gift, which he had immediately and with maternal care added to the collection of more than four thousand railway schedules he had gathered from all over the world.
But while he had been sitting there at the window, smoking his pipe and thinking of that prize from Africa, he had noticed two men walking along the darkened street. They had stopped at Ellen’s Lane, and after a bit of conversation, one of the men had walked into the Lane, slowly and to judge from his backward glances, reluctantly. The other man, the larger of the two, ha
d drawn a gun from beneath his armpit, and when the walking man stopped, he had fired two shots into his body.
August had leaped to his feet in the darkened room, an involuntary, “No!” bursting from his lips. People had rushed into the street, and a bit later police cars arrived with their sirens screaming.
August had watched breathlessly, waiting for the police to arrest the man who had done the shooting. But nothing of the sort happened. The dead man was taken away in a wagon, and the police went off, leaving only a few of the curious on the scene.
The next morning he had scanned the papers eagerly to find out what had happened. And that was when he learned that something was very decidedly wrong. The papers said a detective had shot an escaping prisoner. August knew that was a lie. The man hadn’t been trying to escape. It was ridiculous.
August was not a clever man, but he was able to perceive that he might get in trouble by volunteering information to the police. They were apparently satisfied to do nothing about this murder; and they might resent a lowly civilian interfering with their affairs. On the other hand, August thought, it was his plain duty to bring this matter to their attention. This was one of the obligations implicit in his allegiance to the United States: to do his duty, to report the truth to the authorities.
And so, he decided, as he put his pipe aside, he would do his duty. He would go to the police this afternoon. Right after his nap, when he would be rested and alert.
MARK BREWSTER called Linda that same afternoon at three o’clock. He asked if he could see her; and she said, of course. She was wearing a beige sports-dress with brown-and-white spectator pumps when she met him at the door. Her hair was brushed and shining, and her make-up was fresh; but she seemed tired.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked him, as they sat down.
“No, nothing, thanks.”
They were silent a moment. Mark looked down at the latticed pattern of the sun on the carpet, and felt the stillness of the room. Finally, he said: “I felt like hell after leaving you last night. That’s about all I came here to say. I want to understand how you feel about Neelan, and I guess I do.”
