The Noir Novel

by Thomas B. Dewey

  Before leaving the booth, he checked personally through the directory. There was only the one Mickey Phillips listed.

  There were a good many people named Phillips and there were three or four M. Phillipses, but only the one Mickey.

  It would be an unbearable irony, he thought as he left the building, if a human life had hung on a telephone listing. And it looked as if Kathy Phillips’ life had dangled by that delicate thread.

  CHAPTER 4

  The day after the Captain’s visit, they moved Mickey from his private room to an eight-bed ward. There were constant, day-long distractions, but they left him untouched. None of the other patients happened to be a policeman and he felt nothing in common with any of them. He lived in stony silence in the prison of his cast, waiting stoically to be freed.

  He attended to some personal business. An administrative officer from the Department came to ask about the disposition of Kathy’s body, which had been in storage under county auspices.

  “She always said she wanted to be cremated,” Mickey said. “I guess that’s it.”

  “The mortuary will take care of the ashes,” the officer said, “until you’re ready to make some disposition.”

  “All right,” he said.

  “We couldn’t trace any kin who ought to be notified,” the guy said.

  “Kathy was an orphan. I think she had an uncle in California.”

  The administrative officer patted his forehead with a handkerchief and got down to less touchy matters.

  “You’ll be laid up for a while, even after they remove the cast,” he said. “Do you want to authorize someone to enter your house and pick up personal effects?”

  “I guess so. Could bring me a suit and a couple of shirts, stuff like that. That’s all. I guess my gun’s out there—”

  “We picked that up. It’s at headquarters.”

  “Then that’s all.”

  “About the house—if you have a payment to make—”

  “I’m going to sell the house,” he said. “Could you call the real estate guy for me—name is Bert Simons? He could come and talk it over.”

  “I’ll call him.”

  * * * *

  The real estate man, Simons, was properly sympathetic and briskly efficient.

  “All I want is my equity back, in cash,” Mickey told him. “I don’t want to go out there or have anything to do with it.”

  “What about the contents—furniture, linens—”

  “Sell it—give it away. I don’t care.”

  “Your clothes? And your wife’s clothes?”

  “Give them to somebody—the Goodwill.”

  “I’ll get to work on it.”

  “The sooner the better.”

  * * * *

  He spent four weeks in the ward and finally they came around to remove the cast. He had expected it to be a long, grueling operation, but they had it off in a few minutes. The doctor and a physical therapist checked him carefully for articulation at the shoulders and elbows. He was amazed at how pale and shrunken he was. His broken left wrist was not completely mended and they bound it and made a sling for it, but he could use his right arm and hand at last. There was pain, but after a period of adjustment and practice, he could at least take care of his basic needs. The therapist set up a schedule for him and the doctor warned him to follow instructions and to rebuild himself gradually. He shouldn’t expect to go into the ring with anyone the first week.

  The therapist was an expert, straightforward and patient, and Mickey respected him. The first few days were agonizing and he seemed to make no progress, but after a week there was noticeable improvement. It was a great day when, for the first time, he shaved himself and dressed, complete to necktie. By the first of September, when they moved him from the hospital to the policemen’s convalescent home, his fundamental condition was sound.

  He regained strength rapidly now. Within two weeks he was doing restricted, light workouts in the gym. By the end of the month his wrist had mended and he could use more of the equipment, including the light punching bag. He ate heartily and at first he slept soundly and well. Only his spirits failed to keep pace with his physical improvement. More and more often he rejected friendly overtures by the other men. A psychiatrist saw him periodically and was alternately pleased and puzzled after their talks. Mickey was polite, rational, patient and aloof. When he began having the nightmares, he became a problem both to his fellow patients and the staff.

  He would wake bathed in sweat, shouting and fighting at phantoms. One or two of the others would have to get up and restrain him. They complained to the head of the staff and there was consultation. A doctor hit on a partial solution. They fixed up a sleeping room off the gym. The therapist, who had an adjoining room, volunteered to stand by. Thereafter when Mickey would wake in the night, cursing and banging on the wall, the therapist would bundle him into a sweat suit, get him to the gym and set him at the heavy bag. For long periods, sometimes till he dropped from exhaustion, Mickey would slash and pummel the suspended dummy. The therapist would lead him back to bed and eventually he would fall asleep.

  Whether it was this nightly workout or simply a normal progression, the time came when he no longer had the dream, or if he did, he failed to wake from it. The therapist reported no disturbance for seven nights running.

  On a Sunday evening, nearly five months after Kathy’s murder, the psychiatrist, who worked part time for the Department, had a long, careful talk with Mickey. At its conclusion he decided that from the patient’s point of view, the best thing he could do would be to get back to work. But it was not the psychiatrist’s decision alone to make, and late that same night he had another long, careful talk with Captain Andrews.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Captain Andrews found himself looking up from his desk at a young man who resembled the Mickey Phillips he had known, but roughly. The features were the same, possibly somewhat leaner, but as he looked more closely, he could see that their effect had changed. The set of the chin, slightly dimpled, had hardened, as if the mouth were steadily, inexorably biting down on something unbreakable; as if it were trying to bite a nail in two. The lips were thinner, compressed in a hard, pink line. The eyes had an obscured look, as if gauze had been laid over them. They were relentlessly steady and, at a glance, empty, like the glass eyes of a doll. But the Captain knew there was no emptiness behind them; that they looked out of a single-purpose mind. They were the eyes of a man to whom everything had been done.

  The Captain shook hands heartily enough and smiled from a sinking heart. He indicated a chair. Mickey chose to stand.

  “Good to have you back,” the Captain said.

  “Yes sir.”

  The Captain sat back in his chair. He knew what was coming, dreaded it, but he sat like a man and took it—the big question.

  “What’ve we got, Captain?”

  The Captain ticked off the elements of their investigation to date. It had not been any tougher for him when the commissioners themselves were on his back.

  “We sent out those sketches the artist made from your description; all over the country.”

  “Any makes from anywhere?”

  “Not yet. We checked out everybody named Mickey Phillips in this city and vicinity. Everybody turned out to be you. There aren’t any other Mickey Phillipses in town.” He mentioned some other items, but he was talking into the wind and he knew it.

  Mickey’s mouth moved thinly. “In other words, we’ve got nothing,” he said.

  “That’s right,” the Captain said, “so far.”

  He took a turn around the desk and sat down again.

  “I’ve set it up for you to run up to Chicago and look over the mug shots. They’ve got ’em, you know, from ’most everywhere.”

  When he looked up, Mickey’s eyes were fixed on something beyond him. The Captain’s flesh crawled.

  “Captain, if you please, sir, I’d like to request a leave of absence.”

  “Na
turally, if you’re not feeling up to things—”

  “A year’s leave of absence,” Mickey said.

  The Captain tightened a few muscles inside.

  “It’s a wild dream, son,” he said. “Give it up.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What you’re asking for is my blessing and the prestige of this department to see you through a private manhunt. You know I can’t give you that.”

  Mickey stood mute.

  “Listen,” the Captain said, “will you think it over? Give it some time—”

  “No, Captain—sir.”

  “I can’t give you a leave of absence.”

  “The Commissioners.”

  “I’m speaking for the Commissioners!”

  “Then I’m resigning from the force, Captain.”

  Though not strictly comparable, a voluntary resignation from the force was as serious, in the Captain’s eyes, as a defection from the priesthood. He watched with rocks in his belly as Mickey Phillips carefully laid his badge on the desk. After a while he looked up.

  “I won’t argue,” he said. “But I’ll give you a day or so to change your mind.”

  “Long enough,” Mickey said, “to look at those mug shots in Chicago?”

  A momentary hope rose in the Captain like a wild bird.

  “As a bargain, son?” he said.

  “No sir.”

  Andrews swung back to the work on his desk that the brief, futile interview had interrupted.

  “Then all I can say,” he said, “is that the processing takes a couple of days. Your I.D. will be technically official till then. But if they check with me from Chicago, I’ll have to say you’re separated from the force.”

  “Thanks, Captain. Goodbye.”

  The Captain nodded brusquely, turned over a typewritten sheet of paper and stared at the text till the print blurred.

  If it had happened to me, he was thinking. Now, at fifty-five? I don’t know. But then—at his age—what would I have done?

  * * * *

  Mickey had been in Chicago a few times and could find his way around the Loop. He checked into a small downtown hotel and found his way to the appropriate desk at police headquarters by late afternoon. From a bustling squad room, a plainclothes detective escorted him to a small, well-lighted room, treating him with the respectful reserve a man of action shows for another’s tragedy.

  “We’ve got, you know, a hell of a lot of pictures. Uh—you were a—an eyewitness, right?”

  “Yeah. There were two guys. I remember them well.”

  The officer set him up with a couple of the cumbersome mug books, worn and scarred by long use.

  “It’s a place to start,” he said. “If you hit pay dirt, give a yell. We’ll start something on it right away.”

  “Sure,” Mickey said.

  The officer looked at him curiously for a moment, then opened the door and started out.

  “Good hunting,” he said.

  * * * *

  Pages turned slowly in the big books. Hours passed, shifts changed and Mickey pored over the endless items of the rogues’ gallery, face by face, page by page. By midnight, his eyes no longer served him efficiently; one face was like another. He turned in the book, made a note of where he had stopped and returned to his hotel to get some sleep.

  He woke before dawn, to the rumble of early morning traffic in the Loop. By six o’clock he was back at the table in the midst of the pervasive hum of the functioning central police headquarters, looking at more pictures. He went back to the hotel at noon, treated his eyes with hot packs and returned to the mug books an hour later. There was little hope left in him that his quarry would turn up here.

  He was among the last pages of the last book when the officer who had greeted him the day before came in to see how he was making out. He carried a bulky sheaf of papers in one hand. He shook his head when Mickey said he had had no luck.

  “Tough,” he said. “You know, it’s possible they had no prior records—”

  “I know.”

  The detective tossed the sheaf of papers onto the table. “You probably have most of these in your own shop,” he said, “but sometimes they get shoved back. Miscellaneous bulletins from all over. I only brought the ones with pictures. Some of ’em go pretty far back, but take a look. These wouldn’t be in our books.”

  “I’ll look at them,” Mickey said. “Thanks.”

  The officer studied him.

  “How long you been on the force down there?” he asked.

  “Four years.”

  “Well, if you don’t find your man right away, don’t let it get you down. He’ll turn up, maybe when you’re not even looking. Most of ’em—nine out of ten—are dumb jerks. They get picked up on a D-and-D, make a fuss, get mugged and there they are and you want ’em for larceny or manslaughter that goes back five years. You’ll find ’em eventually; anyway one of ’em, and when you’ve got him, he’ll take you to the other.”

  “Sure,” Mickey said. “I’ll find them.”

  “Good luck,” the other said, and he went away.

  Idly, almost without interest, as if drained of all expectation, Mickey pulled the papers within eye range and started leafing through the bulletins. They were clipped together at the top and some were so worn and rumpled with handling that the pictures were blurred, the printing smudged, sometimes illegible.

  He turned over ten of them, fifteen, twenty, skimming the dreary catalog of day-to-day crime—“Wanted for rape, embezzlement, bunko, manslaughter, armed robbery, grand theft auto, sex offenses, child beating…”

  He turned to the twenty-first sheet and his throat lurched as if swallowing a hot wire. He could feel his heart thumping against the edge of the table. It was the one—the younger one—the tall one—the one with the razor. It was unmistakable; the picture was clear, a good likeness.

  His hand was trembling. He depressed the spring clip, started to pull the sheet out, then paused, left it in place. This was a personal hunt, no longer a police matter. It would be nice to have the picture, but he couldn’t risk stealing it from this file.

  Hastily, then more carefully, he read the details. “Wanted for bad checks: Lou Roberts, also known as ‘The Barber’; no prior convictions. Jumped bail and disappeared from local haunts, August 13. Ht. 6’ 2”, wt. 190 lbs., black hair, green eyes, mastoid scar right ear; mole on left cheek. May be working as barber. Known to consort with prostitutes, suspected procurer; last known residence, 1318 Bacon Street, Kansas City, Mo. May be dangerous if trapped.”

  He read and reread the vital information till it was as clear in his mind as the face that had haunted him for five months. He looked at the date of the bulletin out of Kansas City and groaned. Over a year ago, a cold, cold trail. But it was something; it was a place to start.

  He went through the rest of the bulletins eagerly now, half persuaded that because he had found the one he would inevitably find the other. But there was no face that resembled even remotely that of the thickset man in the beret and glasses.

  When he returned the sheaf of bulletins to the officer in the squad room, he affected weary casualness, but he kept his hands in his pockets so the trembling wouldn’t show.

  “Nothin, huh?” the detective said.

  “Thanks anyway, for your trouble,” Mickey said.

  “Any time. Got time for a cup of coffee?”

  “I guess not,” Mickey said. “Got to be starting home. The Captain will be in a sweat.”

  “Okay. Take it easy.”

  “Sure.”

  He left the building unhurriedly, but halfway down the street and headed for the hotel, he was running. Within half an hour he had checked out and was threading his way through the heavy, rush-hour traffic, southward toward Kansas City.

  CHAPTER 5

  The last known address of Lou “The Barber” Roberts was an empty lot, recently turned to rubble, in a frayed downtown section of the city. Because he had to stop (and start) somewhere, he took a room in
an ancient, rickety walk-up run by a Mrs. Coral Blake. She was forty, maybe, maybe more; had once been pretty, maybe; and now had the wistful, hungry, big-eyed look of the fading beauty. Overanxious to please the good-looking, strong-looking young man who registered under the name of Joe Marine, she hovered about the narrow, dark sleeping room, fussing over his probable needs. He kept telling her everything was fine, thanks, no, thanks just the same; and finally she left him alone.

  The room contained a bed, a chair, a chest of drawers, a washstand and a small closet. A single high window looked out on an air shaft, across which was another window like his, fifteen feet away.

  It was midmorning. A raw November wind swirled in the shaft. He had driven steadily, with one or two stops for coffee, for fourteen hours. The small of his back was on fire with tension and his eyes felt exposed and grit-filled. He stretched out on the narrow bed and took stock of his assets and liabilities.

  He had something over two thousand dollars in cash, in a money belt next to his skin, the residue from the sale of the house in the country and a few other items. He had enough clothes to get by on. He had a cheap place to stay and the name and a detailed description of the man with the razor, plus the knowledge that Lou Roberts had at one time frequented this neighborhood. He had a medium-priced car, only a year old, in good condition, registered to a man named Mickey Phillips.

  The money would steadily diminish and sometime disappear, unless he took steps to replenish it. Mrs. Blake’s rooming house would be a good place to live only as long as nobody suspected him of being on the prod. The information he had about Lou Roberts was worthless until he followed through to develop it. The car was a dangerous liability under its present registration. The car would have to go.

  He lay quietly, resting, but not permitting himself to doze off, until noon. Then he got up, undressed, went to the bathroom and showered and shaved. He dressed in a clean shirt and another suit and left the building.

  He drove the car to three dealers in turn, offering it for cash sale. Each of the three tried to make a trade-in deal with him. The best offer came from the first dealer and he went back there and turned over the car and certificate of ownership and walked out with fifteen hundred dollars. He walked about a mile to a used-car lot and picked out a small, inexpensive European car in good condition. He had to dip into his reserve to the extent of a hundred dollars in order to complete the deal. He registered ownership under the name of Joe Marine and drove back to the neighborhood of the rooming house.