The elbow gave and she toppled on to the bed like a disjointed doll, her feet still over the side, her head resting on the sheet. ‘No place … Heaven,’ she said indistinctly. ‘No place … whorehouse maids.’ Her eyes closed.
He caught her by the arm, pulled her upright. Her eyes were still closed and he shook her. The dress, free of both arms, slid down to her waist. She tried to pull away, but he held her firmly.
‘You’ve got to tell me! What was the nun like?’
‘Dark. Dark in church.’
‘You must have seen something!’
No longer resisting, she leaned against him, her head on his chest. ‘Spoke deep down. Hands too strong.’ Her voice was muffled by his coat. ‘Whisky on breath. Man’s breath …’
‘It was a man?’
She sighed, pushed her head under his chin. He shook her again.
‘Why did he want the key?’
The door opened and the tallest Negro Clay had ever seen came into the room. He had on black trousers and a white shirt and his feet were bare. In the dim light his skin, taut over a cruel, narrow face, was purple. His eyes had too much white showing, like the eyes of a pinto horse. He came to the bed, stared down at the girl.
‘Tired of drumstick, hon’?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘Tired of dark meat?’
The girl clung to Clay but he shoved her away, at the same time watching the Negro. He saw now that the man’s eyes were the colour of spoiled lemon juice, jaundiced whites and pale irises so nearly matching that he looked blind. He looked blind and he looked insane.
‘That the idea, hon’?’ he asked. ‘Gonna try breast for a change?’
The girl fell over on the bed moaning softly. The Negro moved a step closer. His long hands, attached to arms that reached to his knees, twitched. Cotton saliva bubbled from his mouth.
‘Giblets and drumstick not good enough,’ he said. ‘Gotta have white meat.’
Clay remained rigid, one knee touching the girl’s leg. ‘Jose,’ she murmured. ‘Didn’t mean nothin’, Jose.’
‘Half naked,’ the man said. ‘But didn’t mean nothin’.’
One hand closed on Clay’s neck, pulled him to his feet. Then the hand pushed him towards the door. It was an impersonal push, as though he was a piece of furniture. The other hand reached for the girl.
‘Jose!’ she wailed imploringly.
‘Teach you what nothin’ means,’ the man said.
In the hallway, with the door swinging shut behind him, Clay let breath escape from his lungs. He couldn’t remember when he’d been as scared. Half as scared. The man had pushed him away but he might as easily have strangled him. It was just that he hadn’t thought of it.
Across the parlour entrance, blood dribbling from her mouth on to the pine floor, lay the woman in the green wrapper. Beside her were the red garters, both torn. Clay stepped over her, crossed the parlour and plunged out into the black pocket that seemed safe and friendly now.
Chapter 24
THE ring signal two thousand miles away persisted tiredly, an intermittent snoring that seemed to grow fainter as the seconds dragged by. In the gaps between snores Clay could hear women’s voices whispering and a hiss of static, like the sound of wind in telephone wires.
From behind him Camille said, ‘I ought to shoot you.’
A woman said, ‘Kansas City oper …’ and the line went dead. Then the ringing began again.
‘Tom in jail, maybe for life,’ Camille said. ‘Me a widow, our child an orphan, and now …’
Clay impatiently spoke into the phone. ‘I know they don’t answer, operator. Keep trying.’
‘… you’re ruining us with long distance calls,’ Camille concluded.
‘I’m a desperate character.’
‘Don’t I know it! You should hear how they describe you over the radio. Makes Jack the Ripper look like …’
A reedy, querulous voice came over the telephone. ‘Hallo … hallo …’
Clay shouted, ‘Bethany poor farm?’
‘Hallo … hallo …’ said the voice.
‘I want to talk to the superintendent … the man in charge.’
‘No time to be calling,’ said the voice.
‘Chicago police,’ Clay shouted. ‘Official business.’
‘How’s that? Police?’
‘Are you in charge?’
‘Ed Jessup,’ said the voice.
‘Are you in charge, Mr Jessup?’
‘Just told you.’ The voice was still querulous, but stronger now. ‘What do you want?’
‘Some information about Larry Trevor … if you can give it to us.’
Something came out of the phone that sounded like: ‘Auto bubbly thurbly how!’
‘What was that?’
There was a moment of silence and then Mr Jessup said: ‘Dad-gum store teeth! Fixed ’em! I said, ought to be able. Thirty years here now.’
‘You were there when Larry was released from the farm?’
‘Wasn’t released. Ran away, summer of ’30. Year before he took up bank robbin’.’
‘Did any of the other boys go with him?’
‘Caught all but two.’
‘Who were the two?’
‘Tom Middern and the Cherokee. Bone they called him. Got killed in a knife fight later, down Banner way.’
‘This Middern.’ Clay thought for a second. ‘Was he a small fellow, white eyebrows, blue eyes, pink-an-white skin?’
‘Blue eyes, all right. Brown hair. Skin might have been pink.’ There was a cackle of laughter from Mr Jessup. ‘Never washed him to see!’
‘Who butchered the hogs in those days?’
‘All the boys. Took turn. What you drivin’ at, mister?’
‘We’re trying to tie up someone here with Middern. Would you describe him as a choir boy type?’
‘Never seen a choir boy.’
‘Girlish, then?’
‘Couldn’t be you’re thinkin’ of the girl at the convent? One Larry used to talk through the fence to? One the other girl came here three, four years ago got so excited about?’
‘No. I mean a man. Wait a minute! What girl three or four years ago?’
‘Real beauty. Hair like cornsilk. Young, too. Figured she might be Larry’s daughter, way she talked. Went on over to the convent … Are you there, mister?’
‘Yes,’ Clay said. ‘To get back to Middern. Have you ever heard anything from him?’
‘Heard he was real sick with TB over in Texas. Don’t know if he died or not.’
‘Where in Texas?’
‘Your guess as good as mine. Kin tell you all about Larry, though. Had a story ’bout him in the Bethany Light …’
‘We’re interested in Middern right now, Mr Jessup. You think of anything, call us collect. Detective Bureau. Lieutenant Diffendorf. ’Night.’
He broke the connection with his thumb, then released the plunger bar. The line was silent. Camille had moved from behind him, was seated on the edge of a rocker. She wore black lounging-pyjamas stitched with scarlet thread and her eyes, under the dark bangs, were solemn.
‘Sam,’ she said. ‘What if they find you here?’
‘Tell them I pulled a knife on you.’
‘I’m not worried about me. Or Tom, now that I know where he is. But from the way the radio was screaming, they’ll shoot first and …’
Clay spoke into the phone. ‘Yes, I’m through with the call, operator. But I’ve got another. Am I still connected with Oklahoma City?’
A faraway voice said, ‘This is Oklahoma City, sir.’
‘The Convent of the Good Shepherd at Bethany. Anyone who answers.’
This time the phone was picked up after the third ring. ‘Sister Cecelia speaking,’ a cheerful voice said.
Clay went through the police routine again, then said, ‘We’re inquiring about a young lady who visited the convent in 1952. In either October or November. Would there be any way of checking?’
‘A Miss Baumholtz?’
‘You
talked to her!’
‘No, but I remember her well. So pretty. An angel’s face. She talked to Mother Germaine.’
‘Do you know what about?’
Sister Cecelia hesitated. ‘Well …’
‘It’s very important.’
‘She was asking about a girl who was with us a long time ago. So it was said, at least.’
‘The girl who was a friend of Larry Trevor?’
‘Larry Trevor?’
Clay tried again. ‘Was your girl the one she was looking for?’
‘Mother Germaine didn’t say. But …’ Sister Cecelia hesitated again. ‘… we thought it must be. Because afterwards Mother Germaine said, “God moves …”’ Static blurred the next few words. ‘“… miracles to perform.”’
The doorbell rang, lifting Camille off the rocker. She stared wide-eyed at Clay. The doorbell rang again sharply.
On the phone Sister Cecelia said, ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.’
‘What’ll I do?’ Camille demanded.
Clay put his palm over the phone. ‘Keep the chain on the door. If it’s the police I’ll beat it out the kitchen.’ He spoke into the phone. ‘What was the name of the girl Miss Baumholtz asked about?’
‘Mother Germaine didn’t say.’
‘Could I please talk to Mother Germaine?’
The reply, half lost in static and the sound of the front door being opened, ended: ‘… reward in Heaven.’
‘Dead?’
‘Last year.’
The door chain clattered. Clay asked desperately, ‘Would anyone know the girl’s name?’
‘I’m afraid not. Miss Baumholtz spoke to no one else.’
It didn’t sound like the police but Clay felt frightened anyway. He could feel bullets entering his back. ‘Thank you, Sister,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Thank you very much.’ He hung up, was just getting to his feet when Miss Dewhurst, followed by Camille, marched into the room.
‘Whorehouse!’ Miss Dewhurst exclaimed, scornfully brandishing the purple umbrella at the Nicholses’ Early American furniture. ‘You call this a whorehouse?’
‘What’s that?’ Camille demanded incredulously.
‘A joke,’ Clay said. ‘You get the lists, Miss Dewhurst?’
‘I did.’ Miss Dewhurst opened her purse. ‘And just as I was leaving the office, Hervey called about the mechanical man. It’s at the airport.’
‘Mechanical man?’ Camille asked.
‘Stolen by our Washington operatives,’ said Miss Dewhurst. ‘On Mr Bundy’s orders. A package, Hervey said. But we still don’t know …’
‘Never mind what we don’t know.’ Clay held out his hand. ‘Let’s have the lists.’
‘Two planes between five and seven. Not a popular time.’ Miss Dewhurst handed him some papers. ‘Lists and your envelope, as per telephonic instructions.’
Clay put the envelope in his pocket, spread the lists on a table. The first read:
CAPITOL AIRLINES—FLIGHT TWENTY-ONE
Lv. Chicago 5.55 A.M. Ar. Washington 9.50 A.M.
Frank Furnas
Chicago, III.
Maxine Gammage
Milwaukee, Wis.
Mrs G. W. McClure
Chicago, III.
W. O. Richards
Quincy, III.
Emil Gautereaux
Paris, France
William M. Devers
Chicago, III.
Woodrow W. Lapiezo
Detroit, Mich.
Alice Nicewonger
Beloit, Wis.
Dean Trevor
Galesburg, III.
F. O. Robey
Chicago, III.
Sister Angelica
Mundelein, III.
Sidney Stickelberg
Washington, D.C.
Mrs Curtis Trickel
St Louis, Mo.
Wadham Gay
Washington, D.C.
H. D. Bailey
Chicago, III.
Paul Jones Dines
Des Moines, Iowa
A. Karabatsos
Blue Island, III.
Pearl Perrin
Chicago, III.
He pushed the list away, turned to the other. It was shorter:
AMERICAN AIRLINES—FLIGHT 201
Lv. Chicago 6.20 A.M. Ar. Washington 10.15 A.M.
Note: This through flight from Los Angeles so only listed passengers getting on at Chicago.
Felix S. Lyman
Washington, D.C.
Norma Patterson
Chicago, III.
Horace Widdecomb
Washington, D.C.
Theo. K. Phomlin
Grand Rapids, Mich.
Mrs Louise Patton
Grand Rapids, Mich.
Joseph Aupperle
Chicago, III.
Clay felt his skin begin to tingle. ‘Bingo!’ he exclaimed. ‘Good old Horace!’
‘What is it?’ Camille asked. ‘What did you find?’
He waved the second list in the air, said: ‘Master Ridley, with this we shall today light such a candle as shall never be put out!’
‘Hugh Latimer,’ said Miss Dewhurst. ‘Executed 1555.’
Clay thrust the lists into his pocket with the envelope. Camille asked, ‘You’ve got something, Sam?’
‘I told you. A candle,’ he said excitedly, starting for the kitchen. ‘Now for a match to light it!’
Chapter 25
OFF the sports department, which in turn was off the city room, were three small offices. One belonged to Al Zimmerman, sports editor, the second to Larry Kane, sports columnist, and the third and smallest to Silas Brown, racing editor favourably known in two-dollar circles as Augur, Tom Thumb and Consensus. His office was also known, in newspaper circles, as the Augurian Stables, an obscure pun launched by Delos Parkinson.
Hunched over an old-fashioned roll-top desk littered with racing forms, Washington Park programmes, multicoloured pari-mutuel tickets, unanswered fan mail, a jockey’s cap and a gilded horseshoe, Clay had struggled for nearly an hour against heat, Silas’ beat-up Underwood and his own tired brain. The story wouldn’t jell. He had written half sentences, half paragraphs, half pages, crumpled them up and written them again. Sweat had soaked his shirt, filmed the desk, fallen in shiny drops on the typewriter; mangled cigarettes had piled high in a copper ash-tray. The story wouldn’t jell.
Finally, in desperation, he had gone ahead with it anyway, forcing himself past points he would have liked to rewrite, putting it down as it came to him. Now, finishing the fourth and final page, he felt relief. Even if he wanted to rewrite, there was no time. Maybe it was lousy, but it would have to do. He jerked the page from the typewriter, pushed the machine away, reached for scissors, paste-pot and soft pencil and began to read copy on page one.
The electric wall clock read 1.05 when Andy Talbot slipped into the room, his round face apprehensive. Closing the door, he approached the desk stiff-leggedly, like a steer at the end of a lasso. ‘Sam, I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘I just can’t do it.’
Clay, pasting a loose paragraph to a half-filled page, didn’t look up. ‘You got to.’ He took the scissors, cut another page into three pieces. ‘Or do you want my death on your conscience?’
‘Yes. No. Look. I smuggled you in here. Isn’t that enough?’
Clay printed three words with the soft pencil.
‘What about my job?’ Andy said. ‘I’m a family man.’ His voice grew louder. ‘Job! Jail! Maybe the chair!’
‘Friendship,’ Clay murmured, pasting the three pieces on a blank page.
‘Jesus! How far does friendship go?’ Talbot was sweating. ‘Who’s going to support the Universal Loan Company while I’m gone?’
Clay tore page one out of the Home edition, began to cross out the first part of Saul Blair’s by-line story on the murders. ‘I slugged my stuff: new lead—Trevor,’ he said. ‘That okay?’
Talbot nodded weakly.
‘Well, give it the eye.’ Clay s
pread out the four pages on the desk. ‘Suggestions appreciated.’
He moved his chair to let Talbot lean over the desk, read with him:
Talbot backed slowly from the desk. Breath wheezed in his throat. He looked at Clay, then at the copy, his eyes wild, frightened. Before he could speak he had to clear his throat twice.
‘Jesus, Joseph and Mary!’ he said.
‘Think it’ll work?’
‘Joseph!’ Talbot said.
‘No. Horace.’
‘It’s … true?’
‘Will be. Soon as the cops read it.’
‘Horace Widdecomb?’
Clay nodded. ‘Smoke him out.’
‘No.’ Talbot made a pushing motion with his plump hands. ‘Not me.’
‘Yes, you. Get going.’
A robin fascinated by a snake, Talbot stared at the copy. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. Then he saw something, brightened. ‘Never get by, anyway,’ he said. ‘No banner line.’
Clay shuffled racing forms, found a sheet of paper and began to print with the pencil. ‘Thanks, Andy.’ He worked for a moment, then put the sheet with the copy. On it was:
‘How’s that?’ he asked.
‘Mmmm,’ said Talbot.
‘All you’ve got to do is lug it down to composing.’
‘Mmmm,’ said Talbot.
‘Well …?’
‘What if somebody down there calls Standish?’
‘They won’t. Not on a Mrs Palmer must.’
‘Suppose Ravenscroft’s still there?’
‘Andy, for God’s sake!’ Clay exclaimed impatiently. ‘For thirty years Ravenscroft’s been going out to eat at one. They set clocks by him. Do you think he’ll start fasting tonight?’
Gingerly, as though picking leaves from a clump of poison ivy, Talbot began to gather up the sheets of paper. ‘If this don’t work,’ he said, ‘I’m the one who’ll start fasting.’
‘How many times have you sent, carried down a replate?’
‘Hundred, maybe.’ Talbot folded the sheets so no writing could be seen. ‘But this is the first one wrapped around an atom bomb.’
Sinners and Shrouds Page 18
