‘Canning said he wanted to see me.’
‘He does.’ She aimed a crimson-tipped finger at the door to the inner office. ‘Go in and as soon as I finish this diabetic excretion we’ll neck a little.’
Clay grinned at her. ‘You won’t even get dyed rabbit out of me.’
‘Men!’ said Miss Bentley.
He went into Standish’s office. On the coffee table in front of the leather couch were two copies of the Globe’s Bulldog edition. He turned one around, saw the banner line read: ELEVEN DIE IN HEAT WAVE. Below the cartoon, given only half a column, was the story of Mary Trevor’s death. Evidently someone, probably Mrs Palmer, had ordered it played down. The head read: SEX FIEND KILLS GOLD COAST GIRL, and only in the third paragraph was the girl identified as an employee of the Globe. The story was handled straight, with no hint of a possibility the murder was anything more than a sex slaying, and the only trace of sensationalism was the ‘Gold Coast’ in the head, a name used by newspapers to describe a presumably glittering section of the city along the lake front just north of Chicago Avenue.
Reading the story Clay felt mildly let down until he thought of Laura Peterkins. If her death didn’t bring on a rush of excited prose, then nothing would. He threw the paper back on the coffee table, wondering how the Tribune and the Sun would handle the two murders. They would present a neat problem. Conflicting with the general policy of minimizing scandal within the profession would be a once in a lifetime chance to plunge a knife deep into a rival newspaper’s back. He had an idea the knife would win out.
He crossed to Standish’s private telephone, dialled Mr Bundy’s number. Mr Bundy was out, but Miss Dewhurst, British as ever, had a bit of news.
‘Anent bracelet and clip,’ she said briskly. ‘Traced by our expert to Magin et Cie, retail jewellers, Fort Worth, Texas. Sold there in August 1936, to one Simon Bolivar Palmer. Price: thirty-five thousand dollars.’
‘What!’ Clay exclaimed.
‘I repeat. Thirty-five thousand dollars.’
‘No! The name! Palmer! Are you sure?’
‘Simon Bolivar. Identified as a newspaper publisher.’
Clay forgot to say ‘Q.’ He forgot to hang up, even after the line went dead. That was something! True, it didn’t fit anywhere except into a general feeling he had about the whole business, a feeling it had started in Fort Worth, but he was sure it was important. It was a road sign. It pointed to Fort Worth and it pointed to the Globe, even though old man Palmer had been dead for nine years. He wished he could talk to Mr Bundy. He’d have ideas.
And besides, he had to tell him about Laura Peterkins. He had to tell somebody about her. Bundy or Tom Nichols. And also about the crazy ballad. He dialled the morgue on the inter-office system, asked Atkinson to send down the clips on Larry Trevor, and then called the Nicholses’ number on the private phone. A very angry Camille answered.
‘That drunken bum!’ she exclaimed. ‘One call, about twenty minutes ago.’
‘What’d he say?’
‘Muttered something about searching up vistaed hopes and down labyrinthine ways and hung up! Didn’t even tell me where he was!’
‘He’ll turn up,’ Clay assured her.
‘I’ll kill him!’ she said and slammed down the receiver.
Clay hung up, feeling hurt she hadn’t inquired how he was making out. It seemed to him a man fighting for his life was more important than a temporarily missing husband. He leaned back in Standish’s chair and reflected that fighting for his life, besides being a cliche, wasn’t quite right. He was more like a man shooting rapids in a rowboat, and what fighting there was consisted mostly of trying to keep afloat. So far, by blind luck, the boat had bounced off each rock, but sooner or later, to coin another cliche, disaster would strike. He decided he liked the boat analogy. Either it would smash on some unforeseen rock, or one of the holes already punched in it would open. God knows, he thought, there were enough. Biggest of course, both literally and figuratively, was Laura’s body. He’d bought some time by not telling Peterkins about it. But once it was discovered, once Peterkins told the police of his visit, he was sunk. He was also sunk the moment Sergeant Storm found out who bought the brandy bottle. He was sunk if his hat was traced. If Gwen talked. And the elevator boy. And the hat-check girl, when she stopped screaming. And probably as a result of a dozen ifs he didn’t know about.
He was worrying about these when Miss Bentley slouched into the office looking like Sadie Thompson. She opened the door to a mahogany panelled bar-refrigerator, pulled out an ice-tray.
‘Want some poison?’
Without waiting for a reply she filled two glasses with Scotch and soda, stirred them with a pencil, at the same time saying, ‘For a Mexican peso I’d get stinko.’ She Brought one glass over to Clay, hip bones showing under her tight skirt. ‘And for another I’d blow the joint up.’ She gave him the glass. ‘Not that I’ll have to.’ Her green eyes were maliciously amused. ‘Mrs Palmer is seeing to that.’
‘What’s she done?’
‘Nothing a typhoon couldn’t do almost as well.’ She went back to her drink, tasted it, added more Scotch. ‘She’s got Mr S. on the ropes. Canning, too. Suspended Charley Adair until the police clear him.’ She tasted the drink again, then downed it. ‘Offered a ten-thousand-dollar reward for the killer, had the Mayor on the carpet for three-quarters of an hour, ordered Chief of Police Gillis back from his summer place at Traverse City, put everybody on a twenty-four hour shift, sent for the FBI, called out the militia, had the coroner move the body from the morgue to a private undertaker …’
She eyed her glass reflectively, then filled it. Clay asked, ‘What gives with Adair?’
‘You knew he was with the girl last night? Well, it seems he left her around two and went to his office to write his column. Fortunately for Charley one of the watchmen stopped in at four for coffee. Not a perfect alibi, but good enough to keep the handcuffs off.’
‘He still could have made it,’ Clay said.
‘Now, laddie. Let’s concentrate on Mr S. He’s the boy I want to see fry.’
She drank again, leaning a thigh against the bar-refrigerator. She looked perfectly capable of frying Standish herself, the lip scar, pale against brown skin, giving her face a cruel slant. Clay wondered how she got the scar.
‘Fleur,’ she said bitterly. ‘Three ex-wives. A red-head in an efficiency apartment near Jackson Park for quick ones on the way to the dunes. A room at the Chicagon, catch as catch can. Ebony stuff from Kenwood Avenue. Poles from Mayfield. Chinese from Thirteenth Street. Mary Trevor. Me.’ She sloshed Scotch into her glass, not bothering to add soda, and downed it. ‘What d’you say we say to hell with it?’
‘I can’t tonight.’
‘Oh, yes you can. Could even while you were married.’ Scotch gurgled from the bottle. ‘Which reminds me, she’s been calling.’
‘I know.’
‘They’re real,’ Miss Bentley said after a moment
‘What are?’
‘Don’t think I haven’t seen you looking.’
‘At what?’
‘Do I have to diagram it?’ She straightened up, swaying a little. ‘Muffins. Biscuits. Cantaloupes. Bazooms. Knockers. McGuffeys.’ She would have gone on if Atkinson, the pale night attendant in the Globe’s morgue, hadn’t entered the office.
‘Don’t mind me,’ he said, dropping an envelope on the desk in front of Clay. ‘Out our way we call ’em groceries.’
‘How vulgar!’ said Miss Bentley.
Atkinson winked at Clay and went out. Miss Bentley poured more Scotch. Clay said, ‘Hey! Take it easy!’ and opened the envelope. Miss Bentley said, ‘Groceries!’ and came over to the desk. ‘I feel lousy,’ she said. ‘That bastard Standish.’ She sat on a corner of the desk, her face unhappy.
Clay found two clippings in the envelope, both with. Oklahoma City datelines. One was headed:
LARRY TREVOR TAKEN
IN BLOODY GUNFIGHT:
HOODED NUN ESCA
PES
And the other:
OKLAHOMA BADMAN,
KILLER OF EIGHT,
GIVEN 150 YEARS
As Clay unfolded the clippings on the capture, Miss Bentley said, ‘Aloof type, eh?’
‘I’ve got to work.’
‘Can’t work all the time.’
He skimmed through the clipping. The account seemed to jibe pretty well with the ballad. A posse had surprised Trevor in a farmhouse outside of a town named Idabel, and in the ensuing battle Sheriff Tom Wattling and three deputies had been killed before the two remaining members of the posse had wounded and captured the desperado.
‘If it’s of any interest,’ Miss Bentley declared, ‘I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth.’
Two things were different though: the story said the Hooded Nun had not been present. And it didn’t mention anything about Trevor running out of ammunition.
‘You hear what I said?’ Miss Bentley demanded.
‘No.’
‘A fine thing! Aloof! After giving me the eye for …’
She broke off as Standish hurried into the office. He came to an abrupt halt as he caught sight of the two at his desk. ‘Oh, God!’ he said, staring wildly at Clay. ‘You!’ He darted around the desk, took hold of Clay’s arm. ‘Quick. Out. While there’s time. Back elevator.’ He pulled Clay to his feet, started him towards the door. ‘Police. After you. I’ll explain later.’ He thrust Clay through the door. ‘Call me the minute you …’ He made a hoarse noise, half-way between a grunt and a cry and dropped Clay’s arm.
At the outer office door, bulky body planted squarely in the opening, stood Sergeant Storm. Under one arm was the magnum of brandy.
‘Sergeant!’ Standish’s voice quavered, grew hearty. ‘I was just bringing him to you.’
‘Yeah, I see,’ said Sergeant Storm. ‘Into the office. Both of you.’
Backing through the door, Clay glimpsed a crowd of people behind Storm. They seemed to fill the corridor. He caught sight of Alma Plummer’s alarmed face, recognized Talbot, Fedderhof and Mahoney, still wearing the green eyeshade, and saw in addition detectives, some strange women, two uniformed policemen and a tall Negro.
Storm came slowly into the office, turned stony eyes on Miss Bentley. ‘Out!’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘Yes, sir!’
Empty glass in hand, she brushed past a young detective at the door. Storm spoke to the detective. ‘Hold the others out there, Marshak.’
‘Right, Sergeant.’
Storm put the bottle on the desk, swung to face Clay. He had a marksman’s eyes, cold and unwavering, and his jaw was thrust out. He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.
‘Okay, Clay.’
He was moving forward, at the same time opening the handcuffs, when Standish swung into action.
‘Over my dead body!’ he shouted. ‘Who do you think you are? A McCarthy investigator?’ He planted himself in front of Storm, a gamecock facing a bulldog. ‘Where’s your authority for this?’
‘I got it,’ Storm said.
‘On what grounds?’
‘Enough evidence for a dozen convictions.’
‘Such as?’
Storm’s jaw tightened. ‘I’ll present it at the proper time.’
‘You’ll present it now!’ Standish’s face grew dark with fury. ‘This is the Globe office. Mr Clay is a Globe employee. He is the Globe. No cop with dirty underwear can push the Globe around!’
‘I can,’ Storm growled. ‘When it’s my duty.’
‘Your duty, my thick-headed friend, is to show cause for arrest. If you can, fine.’ Eyes glittering, he glared at Storm. ‘You want me to call Chief of Detectives Mulroney?’
For the first time, Storm’s face showed indecision. ‘That’s not necessary.’
‘Then present your evidence.’
‘Okay. I’ll just do that’ He spoke over his shoulder. ‘Marshak.’
‘Wait!’ Two steps took Standish to the office door. ‘Miss Bentley! Get I. P. Geisel. At once!’ He glowered at Storm. ‘We’ll see this is done legally.’
Chapter 15
TWO persons arrived with I. P. Geisel. One was Lieutenant Diffendorf, his expression non-committal, almost uninterested. He was carrying Clay’s felt hat. The other was a woman in a black gabardine suit tailored so perfectly it seemed a part of her superb body. She was not exactly beautiful; high cheek bones, a broad forehead, a too-generous mouth gave her face a Slavic appearance, but her smooth tawny skin, her tawny hair, her tawny eyes, brown flecked like opals, made her the most alive woman Clay had ever seen. She was Simon Palmer’s widow, Mrs Cornelia Palmer.
Even Storm was impressed. ‘I didn’t mean to bother you, Mrs Palmer,’ he began, but I. P. Geisel cut him off. ‘We understand you have made a serious accusation against one of the Globe family, Sergeant.’
‘Murder,’ said Sergeant Storm. ‘That’s serious, ain’t it?’
‘It is indeed. And so is false arrest.’
‘Nothing false about this.’ Storm glanced at Diffendorf. ‘You want to take charge, Lieutenant?’
‘You seem to be doing fine.’ Diffendorf sank into the leather couch, put the hat on his lap. ‘And all on your own, too.’
His voice was bland, too bland, and Storm scowled. He started to say something, then shrugged. ‘Okay. It’s my neck’
I. P. Geisel said, ‘You will confine yourself to the facts.’
Mrs Palmer, balanced on an arm of the couch, said huskily, ‘Let the sergeant alone, I.P.’ Her opal eyes, neither friendly nor unfriendly, were on Clay. ‘We’re not in court yet.’
‘I know what I’m doing, ma’am,’ Sergeant Storm assured her.
‘In that case——’ Diffendorf coughed diffidently ‘——maybe you ought to ask a couple of things before you start, Sergeant. It’s sort of customary.’
‘What things?’
‘You might ask Clay where he was last night.’
Storm laughed. ‘I don’t have to. I know.’
‘Fine. That’s always useful.’ The hat in the lieutenant’s hands began to rotate slowly. ‘The other thing is: did he kill the girl?’
Everyone looked at Clay. ‘I didn’t,’ he said quickly.
‘No?’ Storm eyed him stonily. ‘We’ll see. Marshak!’
The young detective stepped into the office. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Tell ’em about the phone call you got hour or so ago.’
‘No name,’ Marshak said. ‘But I recognized the voice. The elevator boy.’
‘What’d he tell you?’
‘That the killer was on the Globe. That he’d seen him, talked to him at the Globe.’
Storm nodded, pleased. Clay kept his face blank. I. P. Geisel frowned, said, ‘He named Mr Clay?’
‘He didn’t know the name,’ said Marshak.
‘But he described him?’
‘No. He had the jitters. Bad.’ Marshak glanced at Storm. ‘Rang off before I could question him.’
‘He was in a bus station,’ Storm said. ‘Marshak could hear horns and engines.’
‘Am I to understand,’ I. P. Geisel demanded, ‘that you are unable to produce this anonymous caller?’
‘How can we when he’s on a bus?’
The lawyer raised long, exasperated arms to the ceiling. ‘I.P.,’ warned Mrs Palmer.
‘Good as got him though,’ Storm said. ‘General alarm out for him.’
Standish, from the desk, asked, ‘You’re basing your case on this?’
‘We got more. Lots more.’ Storm picked up the brandy bottle. ‘This, for instance.’ He held it out to Clay. ‘Remember it?’
‘Sure,’ Clay said guardedly. ‘If it’s the one I saw up in the apartment.’
‘Brought up, you mean.’
I. P. Geisel asked, ‘How do you arrive at that?’
‘Fingerprints, for one thing. His!’
Standish blinked at Clay. ‘What about that, Sam?’
Clay stared at the bottle. Fi
ngerprints! He’d overlooked the most elementary thing, the first thing any criminal, or any reader of detective stories for that matter, would have thought of. Fingerprints! A child would have known enough to erase them.
‘Sam?’ Standish prompted.
Before he could reply, Diffendorf asked, ‘You handle the bottle while you were up there, Clay?’
‘Yes,’ he said, grateful for the diversion. ‘I knocked it over, picked it up. Kitty Kelly saw me.’
Diffendorf nodded. ‘She told me.’
Storm’s voice was savage. ‘Whose side you on, Lieutenant?’
‘I saw the same report you did.’ Diffendorf turned to Mrs Palmer. ‘Unfortunately, before I reached the apartment, Mrs Palmer, and before the fingerprint men came, reporters and cameramen were admitted.’
‘Before I got there, too!’ Storm declared.
‘I know.’ The lieutenant continued to speak to Mrs Palmer. ‘Not being told the fingerprint men hadn’t come, the reporters handled some things. No blame, at least as far as the Press is concerned, and no real damage. Just meant we had to sift a few extra prints.’
‘Then you have the murderer’s?’ Mrs Palmer asked.
‘You bet we got ’em!’ Storm said. He swung around to Clay. ‘Smart, weren’t you? Leavin’ prints before and after!’
I. P. Geisel said, ‘Don’t answer that.’
‘Okay, okay. He don’t have to.’ Storm stared triumphantly at the lawyer. ‘Because I can prove he bought the bottle.’ He jerked his head at Marshak. ‘Get Jordan in here.’
Jordan proved to be the tall coloured man. He wore a black suit that fell perpendicularly from his shoulders, as though draped on a hanger, and pointed brown shoes so long and narrow it didn’t seem possible there were feet in them. When he admitted, eye whites showing nervously, he was the doorman at the Little Club, Clay felt his throat tighten.
‘See anybody you know, Jordan?’ Storm asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘I don’t mean socially,’ Storm growled. ‘I mean the man you had the beef with last night.’
Sinners and Shrouds Page 11
