Sinners and Shrouds

by Jonathan Latimer

  Clay picked up the sheets. ‘Anything hot?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She seemed to be having trouble breathing. ‘Mr Clay, must newspaper people live so … so fully?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like you … last night.’

  Alarmed, he stared at her moist face.

  ‘What Mr Talbot said … what you did with that woman who called.’ Her cheeks were more red than pink now. ‘Would I have to …’

  He relaxed. ‘You want to be a good reporter, Alma?’

  ‘Oh, yes. More than anything.’

  ‘Then,’ he said gravely, ‘you’ll have to.’

  She inhaled sharply, her worst fears confirmed. ‘But how does one get herself——’ she was beginning desperately when Standish’s voice burst from the intercommunication box on the city desk.

  ‘Harry! Is that goddam Clay back yet?’

  Canning yelled, ‘Sam!’ but Clay was already half-way across the room, the unfolded sheets in his hand. Here we go again, he thought as he neared the door to the inner office. Eliza crossing the ice.

  Standish, standing with his back to the door, was shaving with an electric razor, his face dimly reflected in one of the river windows. ‘You know what time it is?’ he demanded over his shoulder.

  ‘Two,’ Clay said, halting by the mahogany desk.

  Across the room, jack-knifed on the leather divan, his bony knees almost level with his head, was I. P. Geisel, the Globe’s lawyer. A sombre man, nearly bald, with dead-white skin taut over a too-long face and matchstick arms and legs, he looked like a misplaced skeleton. He was the representative of reason in the newspaper’s higher echelon. ‘One fifty-eight,’ he said, looking at his watch.

  ‘In one hour,’ Standish said, ‘we are to meet Mrs Palmer. With all available information!’ He pulled up his nose with one hand, pressed the razor against his nostrils. ‘Miss Bentley!’

  ‘Present.’ Miss Bentley was standing just inside the door and beside her was Canning. Standish said, ‘Notes,’ and turned to Clay. ‘Everything to date.’

  ‘Facts first, please,’ I. P. Geisel requested.

  Clay felt like a high-school student caught unprepared in Latin 2. He felt like saying, Gentlemen, let’s knock this off. I confess. I did it; but instead he opened one of the folded sheets Alma Plummer had given him. It was labelled POLICE, and the page was about half filled.

  ‘You want me to start with the discovery of the body?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve seen Parkinson’s story,’ Standish said. ‘Just what’s new.’

  Clay read from the sheet: ‘“Preliminary Autopsy Report: Death the result of internal haemorrhages caused by multiple stabs. Weapon believed to be a pair of shears because of dual nature of wounds.”’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Standish said. ‘Shears, eh?’

  ‘They have them?’ I. P. Geisel asked.

  Clay didn’t know, but before he could make any kind of an answer, Canning said, ‘Not yet.’

  Clay read the next line. ‘“Victim was not a virgin.”’

  Miss Bentley murmured, ‘Who is?’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Standish.

  Clay read, ‘“Victim not raped.”’

  This was a surprise, but he didn’t know if it made him feel better or not. It certainly didn’t make him any safer. He listened to the others discuss the matter. Canning thought it ended the sex fiend angle, but I. P. Geisel didn’t agree. He pointed out that the mutilation of corpses was a well-known sexual deviation, citing Krafft-Ebing. ‘Go on,’ Standish told Clay.

  ‘“Chemical analysis of stomach not completed. Time of death: 4.15 to 4.30 A.M.”’ Clay lowered the sheet. ‘That’s funny!’

  Standish unplugged the razor, put it in a drawer. ‘What is?’

  ‘Somebody made a long distance call from the apartment at 4.31.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Friend in the telephone company.’

  About to fill a glass from the silvered thermos on his desk, Standish paused to stare at Clay thoughtfully. ‘After she was supposed to be dead?’

  Clay nodded. ‘Call was to Washington, to an unlisted number.’

  ‘Know whose it is?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What was the number?’

  ‘Dupont 7-7689.’

  There was a tinkling crash as the thermos glanced off the desk, fell to the Inca-blue carpet. Water and broken glass spewed from its mouth. Standish remained immobile, his empty hand poised over the desk. ‘What?’

  Clay repeated the number. He glanced from Standish to Canning to I. P. Geisel. The three men all had the same fixed, in-looking, vacant expression, as though they had simultaneously become idiots. ‘Whose number is it?’ Clay finally asked.

  Standish was the first to speak. ‘Miss Bentley, for God’s sake, clean up this mess!’ He toed the broken thermos, then chuckled. ‘You think what I thought, Harry?’

  Canning said, ‘I sure did.’

  Miss Bentley picked up the thermos, muttered, ‘… rag,’ and went out of the room. Standish chuckled again. ‘Change one digit around, Sam, and what number do you think we’ve got? The White House!’

  ‘Dupont 7-6789,’ I. P. Geisel said.

  Standish grinned at Canning. ‘Get our Washington people on it, Harry.’

  ‘Right.’

  Clay thought, Right, hell! Who were they kidding? He wished he knew what the number of the White House was. He’d ram it down their throats. He was wondering if he should call their bluff anyway, when he realized they were staring at him. ‘Well, Sam,’ Standish said. ‘We’re waiting.’

  He read from the sheet again. ‘“Elevator boy and maid released after questioning. Not implicated. City-wide check being made with retailers on hat left in apartment. Also on night clubs and restaurants to determine where girl spent evening and who with.”’

  He paused a second as Miss Bentley crossed in front of him, knelt on the rug and began to push glass into a dustpan with a damp rag, then read the next paragraph.

  ‘“Fingerprinting of apartment completed. Wire-photos to FBI. Expect reports back soon. Exclusive from Roddy: During fingerprint examination, trace of sticker found on brandy bottle. Laboratory examination under ultra-violet light disclosed lettering: TLE CLUB. This doubtless the Little Club on North Avenue. Sergeant Storm assigned to find out who bought bottle and when. Believe this best lead to killer yet!”’

  Clay’s voice broke a little as he read the final sentence. It was the best lead, all right. It was the lead that would nail him. He felt the stirring of panic.

  Standish was frowning at him. ‘We can do without the inflection,’ he said. ‘This is a report, not a dramatic reading.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Clay said. ‘That’s all from the police.’

  He tried to unfold the next sheet and found he had suddenly developed palsy. He dropped the sheet, caught it, finally managed to get it open. At the top was typewritten: STAFF REPORTS.

  ‘This is from our people,’ he began.

  ‘No need to go into that,’ said Canning. ‘I’ve already given Edwin the highlights of what we’ve got.’

  Standish regarded him suspiciously, then held out a claw-like hand. ‘I’ll take a look just the same.’

  Canning grunted as Clay handed over the sheet. ‘Faith,’ he said. ‘It’s wonderful!’

  The next page was headed: MY VERY OWN SCOOP! Standish, smoothing his sheet out on the blotter, snarled, ‘Go ahead. Time’s getting short.’

  ‘“This is from Alma Plummer,’ Clay said, and read: ‘Roddy, phoning in labels on girl’s clothing, listed sapphire mink stole from Weingartner’s. Know Mr Weingartner well from Beth Israel Temple. Telephoned him and miracle of miracles! The lamb remembered! Sold sapphire stole just two weeks ago for $795 wholesale. Buyer was Mr Standish from our own paper! How’s that, Mr Clay?”’

  Standish seemed to be trying to push the sheet in front of him into the blotter, his palms moving back and forth convulsively. Can
ning quoted in a mincing voice, ‘Just a fatherly interest.’ I. P. Geisel made a tsk-tsk sound with tongue and teeth. And Miss Bentley, rising from her knees, hit Standish on the side of the head with the dustpan, sending glass all over the rug again.

  ‘And I got dyed rabbit!’ she exclaimed. ‘You double-crossing son of a bitch!’

  She marched out of the room, head and breasts high in outrage. I. P. Geisel began to tsk-tsk more rapidly, sounding like an eccentric Geiger counter, but the tsk-ing was abruptly drowned out by Canning’s laughter. The laughs came from deep in his belly, shaking his body and turning his face purple. Unable to stand, he fell into a leather chair, pounded the arms with his fists. He laughed, choked, laughed again. ‘Oh, God!’ he gasped. ‘I have not lived in vain!’ Another spasm shook him.

  Standish sat through this quietly, his face impassive. He waited until the laughter had died away, then said softly, ‘I will remember this, Harry.’ His left ear was red from the impact of the dustpan.

  Canning choked, fought back further laughter. ‘Me, too!’ he said in a strangled voice.

  Rising from his chair, Standish turned to one of the windows, stared down at the river below and spoke into the Brewster green drapes. ‘Satyriasis. An insatiable venereal appetite, Webster says.’ He swung from the window. ‘So I got it.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘Now let’s get on with the business at hand.’

  I. P. Geisel leaned forward until his chest was almost touching his knees. ‘One thing, Edwin. Did you …?’

  ‘I never reached first base, so help me!’

  ‘And you, Harry?’ I. P. Geisel flicked a piece of lint from his trousers. ‘Edwin tells me you …’

  The laughter died in Canning’s throat. He frowned, growled, ‘No hits.’

  ‘Good. Though what the police will make of the stole …’ The lawyer shook his head sombrely, peered through sparse eyebrows at Clay. ‘The other sheet in your hand?’

  ‘Just a message for me.’

  ‘The airport, then.’ I. P. Geisel raised his long body from the couch in a series of disjointed, jerky movements. ‘And Mrs Palmer.’

  Standish came around the desk, put a hand on Clay’s shoulder. ‘I know we can count on your discretion, Sam.’ His voice was warm. ‘After all, you’re one of the family.’

  ‘You can,’ Clay said, ‘if you’ll answer a couple of questions.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Why didn’t you or Harry tell Mahoney to check the girl in Fort Worth under the name of Baumholtz?’

  ‘Baumholtz?’ Standish turned puzzled eyes to Canning. ‘Harry?’

  ‘I never heard the name.’

  ‘Nor I.’ Standish continued to press Clay’s shoulder. ‘Where did you run across that?’

  Clay hesitated, then said, ‘Saul Blair. Told me she was the ward of a Fort Worth music teacher named Esther Baumholtz.’

  Standish nodded approval. ‘Good lead. We’ll put a man on Esther right away.’

  ‘She died three years ago.’

  ‘So? Still a lead, though.’ He raised the hand to pat Clay’s shoulder, then, frowning, halted its downward motion. ‘Is there something important about this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Clay admitted. ‘But it seemed odd she didn’t tell you, all the times you and Harry talked to her.’

  Standish grinned slyly. ‘I don’t think either of us was interested in her childhood, Sam.’

  Clay felt a disturbing conviction he was telling the truth. After all, there wasn’t any special reason for the girl to volunteer the information. It was neither natural nor unnatural. He felt a little foolish.

  ‘Well, okay,’ he said. ‘But how about levelling with me on the Dupont number?’

  ‘Now, Sam.’ Standish’s smile was chiding. ‘I thought we explained——’

  ‘I can check the White House in two minutes.’

  The smile faded. ‘Suppose you do that,’ Standish said slowly. ‘Now!’ He jerked the telephone cable, caught the telephone as it slid off the desk, thrust the handpiece at Clay. ‘Washington information!’ Crimson circles, like splotches of rouge, coloured his cheeks. ‘And when you’ve made your call, you’ll either apologize or start looking for another …’

  He broke off, staring at the door. Al Feldman, one of the dayside reporters, was standing there, his panama hat tilted over his eyes, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He looked like the movie version of a Miami gangster. ‘Chief——’ he began huskily, but Standish cut him off. ‘Get out of here!’

  Feldman took an involuntary step backwards. ‘But, Chief, I got something.’ The gangster look was gone. ‘Might be big.’

  Crouching, feline, Standish started to stalk him, but was halted abruptly by the telephone wire. ‘Call me Chief once more’—he strained against the wire like a tethered tiger—‘and Monday you peddle papers in Cicero!’ He watched the effect of this and then, apparently satisfied, asked, ‘Well, what is it?’

  Feldman took the cigarette from his mouth. He took off the panama. ‘I have the elevator boy, Mr Standish.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘He didn’t tell the police everything.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Dough.’ Feldman rubbed thumb against forefinger as though counting hundred-dollar bills. ‘Figured he had something to peddle.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Well, he claims he can describe two men and a woman who were frequent visitors.’ Feldman’s voice was more assured. ‘And, he thinks, the killer.’

  ‘Informer, eh?’ The telephone wire dropped into a loop on the rug as Standish went back to his desk. ‘Bring him in.’

  Feldman leaned through the door and called, ‘Okay, Clarence.’ Frozen, Clay stood motionless for a moment. Then, impelled by an animal instinct for shelter, he sidled towards shadows at the rear of the room. He reached them just as the elevator boy entered. ‘Clarence Gilmore,’ Feldman announced as though presenting royalty.

  Nattily dressed in a size-too-small seersucker suit, opentoed sandals, egg-yolk yellow socks and a matching necktie, Clarence resembled a costumed Easter rabbit. He halted a few steps from the door, his nose twitching, his pink-rimmed eyes blinking in the light from the river windows. ‘The man told me,’ he began, then started all over again in a deeper voice. ‘Five hundred dollars!’ His wrist bones showed below his cuffs.

  I. P. Geisel moved between him and the others. ‘We will ask for a notarized deposition.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘In effect, an affidavit.’

  ‘I can give you that, I guess.’

  ‘Five hundred then, to be paid on signature.’ I. P. Geisel paused. ‘That is, provided the information warrants it.’

  ‘Oh, I got the information. Yes, sirree!’ Clarence’s smile was smug. He was on familiar ground again. ‘You see, I’m a musician. Vocalist. Trained memory. All musicians got to work on their——’

  ‘Some other time,’ I. P. Geisel said. ‘The descriptions, please.’

  ‘Well, sure.’ Clarence put a palm to his forehead, the dramatic gesture of a man dredging his memory. ‘First of all there’s this fat lady. Floppy hats, orange-coloured hair in a bun, polka dot dresses, handbag as big as a suitcase——’

  ‘Laura Peterkins,’ Canning said.

  ‘Rightee! Heard the girl call her Laura.’ He peered triumphantly around I. P. Geisel at Canning. ‘And then there’s this hulking monster, crush-you-to-his-manly-chest type. Butch haircut, big jaw, about fifty …’

  His voice dwindled away as he stared at Canning, not believing what he saw. ‘Well, go on,’ Canning growled.

  Still uncertain, Clarence slowly turned from the big man to Standish. ‘Then this second fella. Dude. Cane and spats. Sort of Adolphe Menjou character …’

  This time the voice ended in a frightened squeak. Clarence’s hands fluttered. His Adam’s apple, bobbing vertically, made the yellow tie twitch. He said something that sounded like ‘Aawk,’ looking down apprehensively at Standish, who in turn regarded him with a sinister half-smi
le. For a second time Clarence said, ‘Aawk,’ and then, pulling himself together, pried his eyes from the desk and directed them to the far corner of the room to where Clay was standing.

  ‘Of course, the big thing’s the killer,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I got a good look …’ He halted again as Clay’s face came into focus. ‘Good look … good look …’ He sounded like a defective phonograph record.

  ‘Go ahead, man,’ Standish said impatiently.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Clarence said wildly. His knees buckled a little. ‘I got to go!’

  ‘What about the killer?’ Canning demanded.

  ‘Killer?’ Clarence stared imploringly at Clay. ‘Killer? Why, he was a … big fellow. Great big fellow. Three hundred pounds. Beard. Long curly hair …’ His jaw kept working but no further words came out.

  ‘That’s all?’ Standish asked.

  ‘I got to go,’ Clarence said. Feldman took hold of his arm. ‘But you told me——’

  Clarence jerked the arm away. ‘I was kidding. Honest!’ He circled Feldman, edged crabwise towards the door, his eyes still on Clay. ‘Money. Torture. Still know nothing …’ He vanished.

  Everyone stared in astonishment at the empty doorway. Shaking his head, I. P. Geisel tsk-ed, said, ‘Demented!’ Standish and Canning exchanged glances. ‘Manly chest,’ Standish murmured. ‘Adolphe Menjou,’ Canning retorted. Feldman’s eyes widened. ‘He was describing you two!’

  ‘Until,’ said Standish with satisfaction, ‘we scared the holy crap out of him.’

  ‘But he’ll high-tail it to the police!!’

  ‘Let him,’ said Canning.

  ‘He won’t,’ Standish said, ‘Man silent, fears underworld vengeance.’ He turned to Clay, made a beckoning motion with a finger. ‘Still want to make that Washington call?’

  Clay wanted, most of all, to disappear, but he nodded. At the same time the phone rang. Standish picked up the receiver. ‘Yes? She what! Five minutes ago?’ He lowered the receiver. ‘Disaster!’ His lips worked convulsively. ‘Mrs Palmer has landed!’ He leaped to his feet, started across the room. ‘Where in hell are those yellow roses! Miss Bentley! Miss Bentley!’ He plunged through the door and the others, led by I. P. Geisel, plunged after him.