The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  “Sam’s outside with the meter running,” I said. “I’d better get back before it explodes.”

  Betsy reached for her ball-point pens. “What are you working on now, Steve?”

  “I’m going to have another talk,” I said, “with the people who found my brother’s watch.”

  Sam pulled up in front of Bronson’s Bakery. The real watch had turned up here, seven miles from the intersection of Jackson and Clay. The neighborhood was old. Frame homes and brick walk-up apartment buildings lined its quiet streets. The bakery itself was on a block of dusty little stores and shops. Several store fronts were vacant. The few pedestrians in view—an old man, a woman pushing a perambulator, two subteens in shorts—gave eloquent testimony as to why. Business could hardly be deader.

  I had no doubt as to the watch’s authenticity. The baker’s daughter, Irma Bronson, had found the watch when sweeping the floor one evening. That had been seven months after my brother disappeared, five months before I came to the city. The watch lay under a radiator near the front door. Apparently it had fallen from someone’s pocket.

  The watch had stopped. The baker, Kurt Bronson, opened it to assess the damage. He noted the name “ED KOLCHAK” scratched crudely inside. He shook the watch; it began to tick again. Once more, it was keeping perfect time.

  The baker and his daughter posted a sign on their counter. The sign said: FOUND – TIME-O POCKET WATCH, OWNER MAY HAVE BY IDENTIFYING NAME INSIDE CASE. No claimant came forward. After a few weeks, the baker took the sign down. He dumped the watch into a drawer and forgot it. Until, four months later, he heard and saw me describe the watch on his television screen.

  Bronson didn’t call me immediately. He delayed one day. He didn’t want to get mixed up in a police investigation. But Irma nagged at his conscience and finally induced the baker to dial the Moreland. By then I was dubious of anyone claiming to have found Ed’s watch. I had examined and rejected five fake watches so far. For future claimants, I had memorized a little speech.

  “I’m grateful for your information,” I told Bronson. “I hope you won’t mind. But before I pay the reward, I’d like you to take a polygraph test, at your convenience and at my expense. You’ll be asked only one question. Specifically, did you or anyone you know scratch my brother’s name in that watch?”

  “You’ve got some nerve!” Bronson hollered. “We found the watch months ago. And I can produce at least fifty people who’ll remember seeing the sign I put up seeking the owner!”

  Just barely, I persuaded Bronson not to hang up before giving me his name. The lie test proved unnecessary. One look, and I knew the watch had been Ed’s. I noted a slight chip on the crystal. I recalled that I’d put it there myself when I accidentally knocked the watch off a table. Kurt Bronson got his hundred dollars. But although payment of the reward was covered in the newspapers, three more people tried to sell me watches during the remainder of the week.

  I walked into the bakery. A bell tinkled. Irma Bronson came out to wait on me. A blond woman, she was buxom and tall. Her eyes were large and blue. Her nose was straight, cast in a classic Grecian mold. Her lips were full, and her jaw was strong. She looked a year or so older than the twenty-nine noted by Max Fuller. As befitting a baker’s daughter, she was garbed in a white apron.

  I said, “Hi, Irma. Your father back there?”

  “He is.”

  “I’d like to talk to him. And you, too.”

  “Mr. Kolchak, I don’t understand. We told you everything last April.”

  “I know. But I’ve had a new thought. And I’d like to discuss it with both of you.”

  Irma led me into the back. Under the apron, her buttocks moved rhythmically. Her beam was broad and her legs were thick, but if she ever married a man who could keep her away from the bakery, Irma might slim down into quite a woman.

  Bronson was rolling dough. He frowned.

  “What do you want this time?”

  “Can we be alone a minute? You, me, and Irma?”

  Bronson turned to a Puerto Rican boy helping him. “Go out front,” he ordered. “Take care of customers. And remember, I can tell to the penny what should be in the register.”

  A nice, trusting guy, Bronson. The three of us climbed a stairway to his apartment. Bronson eased into a big chair. He was tall, bald, and very fat. Irma settled demurely on a sofa, hands clasped on her ample lap. I pulled up an uncomfortable straight-backed chair.

  “Well, what is it?” Bronson demanded. “We’ve already seen you a half-dozen times. And that Lieutenant Doyle, he comes around every other week. It’s like we said. The watch was on the floor. We don’t know who dropped it. What else is there?”

  “I have a request to make.”

  “Such as?”

  I lit a cigarette. I avoided Kurt Bronson’s wary eyes.

  “Well, you know the situation. The watch could have been dropped by a salesman or by a supplier making a delivery. But the odds are nine in ten it was dropped by a customer. And as you told me and the police, most of your customers are people who come in here more than once. People from this neighborhood.”

  “Sure. But except for a few, we don’t know their names. Irma waits on most of the people, she might recognize their faces, but who they are and where they live, we don’t know.”

  “Exactly. It isn’t a certainty. Some stranger could have walked in here, bought something, and dropped the watch. But the chances are very high the watch was dropped by a fairly regular customer. Possibly someone who still patronizes your bakery. And so I got an idea. I thought: Why not bring Irma down to Clay Street? To Clay and Jackson. And have her look at the people who pass that intersection. She might recognize one of your customers.

  Bronson’s round face turned red.

  “That’s crazy. Anyone could have dropped that watch. A man driving by in a car who decided he wanted a loaf of bread. A repairman. Anybody. It’s nice you gave us the hundred dollars for finding the watch. But we don’t want to get involved any more. What happened to your brother, it’s not our concern.”

  I looked at Irma.

  “It’s your daughter’s decision, Mr. Bronson.”

  “I think,” Irma said uncertainly, “like my father thinks.”

  “I won’t stand for it,” Bronson went on. “My daughter down on Clay Street. Who knows who lives on Clay Street? You should know, by now. Drunkards. Degenerates. Morons and worse, yet. That’s where you want my daughter to go? My Irma grew up in a respectable home. One day, she’ll have a respectable husband. Her mother, rest her soul, if she knew this, she’d throw you out. My Irma is a good girl.”

  “Shell be safe. I’ll rent an office overlooking Clay and Jackson. All Irma has to do is look out the window at the people walking by. And tell me whenever she recognizes someone.”

  “No police, even?”

  “I’d rather do this without their knowledge. If the police were involved, word might get out and the whole project would be ruined.”

  “You’re a madman.”

  I rose. I jammed my hands into my pockets. Staring hard at Irma, I said: “Look. For three months I’ve been getting nowhere down there. I’ve talked to everyone who’d talk to me. Night after night. And that isn’t all. I bought back copies of every edition of every newspaper printed in this town within a week either way of my brother’s disappearance. I checked out every story that could conceivably have even the remotest possible connection. Obituaries, accidents, crimes. I’ve had doors slammed in my face, telephones banged in my ear. And you represent the only lead left now to what happened to my brother. If we find one of your regular customers has business that takes him to Clay and Jackson, we may be able to solve the case in ten minutes. All I ask is that you think it over. And give me your answer later.”

  Irma looked at the floor.

  Kurt Bronson said, “All right. I’ll think it over. I’ll
give it every consideration. But I can tell you right now, my answer is no.”

  Sam drove me back to my apartment. The entrance was private, at 1019 North Clay, adjoining the restaurant entrance at 1015 Clay. I fixed myself a supper of canned beans and wieners. I changed to old clothes and set out on my evening rounds. But I was still fatigued from my drinking bout with Bagwell. I returned home early, a little after ten.

  An envelope jutted from my mailbox. I extracted it. The envelope bore no return address and had not been postmarked. My name was printed on its face in pencil.

  Upstairs I found two items in the envelope.

  One was a printed note. It said:

  HERE’S PROOF WE KNOW ABOUT YOUR BROTHER. IF YOU WANT TO KNOW, GET TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS CASH. BE AT THE CAVE ON 18TH STREET AT 8 TOMORROW NIGHT. WE’LL WATCH. ANY COPS OR REPORTERS AND NO DEAL.

  The other item was the top portion of a credit card that had been cut in two. The name on the card was “Edmund L. Kolchak.” I checked the card’s number against a list given to me by the Chicago police department. The numbers corresponded. The card was genuine. It was one of the credit cards my brother had on his person when he disappeared.

  In the morning I rode a bus uptown. I got off near the business district. In a drugstore I entered a telephone booth and dialed Max Fuller’s office. I had not talked to the old private detective since my first day in the city.

  Fuller’s office did not answer. I tried the unlisted home number.

  An elderly woman said, “Hello?”

  “This is Mr. Kay. I’d like to speak to Max.”

  “Max is on a job now. But I’ll reach him. What’s your number there?”

  I read off the number of the booth phone.

  “Hang up and stand by. He won’t be long.”

  I stepped outside the booth and lit a cigarette. I was half through it when the telephone rang.

  I hopped back in.

  “Max?”

  “Yes, Mr. Kay.” The deep voice was calm and unhurried. “We have an emergency?”

  “We do. I received a note offering to sell information about my brother for two thousand dollars. I’m to make contact with the informant in a bar on Eighteenth Street. The note is crude, but the author must know something. He enclosed a portion of one of the credit cards my brother carried in his wallet.”

  “What action did you have in mind?”

  “I want to borrow two thousand dollars from you. In cash, and in small bills. I need the money today. I have a good deal more than that in the bank, but if I make a withdrawal of that size, I’m afraid Doyle and the police might hear of it. The bank is on Clay Street.”

  “Very well. I’ll arrange the loan. Anything else?”

  “No. I’ll handle the rest. Finding that watch hasn’t been much help so far. This could be the first real break in three months. I don’t want any cops or private eyes or anyone else queering this deal.”

  “It’s your decision. Personally, I’d advise getting all the help you can. Doyle knows how to handle these things. But you’re a stubborn cuss, I don’t suppose I can change your mind.”

  “You can’t.”

  “In that case, follow this procedure. At eleven this morning, enter a men’s shoe store at 583 East Washington. The manager is one of my nephews, he’ll wait on you. Buy a pair of shoes. Tell him you’d like to make payment with a check, but you forgot your checkbook. He’ll take the shoes away to wrap them. But the package he brings back will contain the money. Two thousand should go into a shoe box nicely. My nephew will give you a document to sign. Only it won’t be a check. It’ll be your note to me, for the two thousand. That’s so I can collect from your estate in the event something unfortunate happens to you before you can make repayment.”

  A little before noon I opened the package in my apartment and counted the money. I rewrapped it and put it on a closet shelf, on top of a stack of photographs of Betsy Ryan. To be sociable, I had once asked Betsy to give me some of her modeling prints. Betsy had obliged with a bundle, from cheesecake to high fashion.

  I opened a drawer and pulled out a small case containing my gun, a .38 Colt Bankers Special. I’d bought it and a shoulder holster years ago from an oil refinery security chief, after a pair of thugs knifed me in Tangiers while stealing the equivalent of four dollars American from my person. I’d worn the gun a few times since but had never fired it in anger.

  Carefully I cleaned and oiled the gun. I slipped it into the holster and put it back in the drawer. I’d load it later, when I was ready to go.

  Attired in a demure gray dress, Lorene met me as I walked into the restaurant for lunch. She carried a few menus in one hand and her smile was automatic and professional. But at least, no spark of hostility flared in her eyes. She led me to a corner table.

  “Care for a cocktail?”

  “I think not.”

  “The goulash is very good today. Besides, hardly anyone is ordering it. Were going to have a lot left over. Like the chop suey last Tuesday.”

  That, for the time being, signaled the end of the war.

  I said, “I’ll have goulash. Tomato juice. French dressing on the salad. A pot of tea. And maybe later, conversation with you.”

  “I’ll give your order,” Lorene said, “to the waitress.”

  After I finished my meal, Lorene rejoined me. The dining room had nearly emptied. It was nearly two.

  “Good grief,” Lorene sighed. “How’d you like another five pounds of goulash? I can let you have it cheap.”

  “You can’t win ’em all.”

  “I guess not. Stephen—I’m sorry about yesterday.”

  “Don’t apologize. It was the nicest awakening I’ve ever had.”

  “I had no business barging into your apartment. I should have closed your door and walked back down here. And I have no right to pass any judgments on you. It’s just that—well, you know how I feel about Clay Street.”

  “I don’t mind. I like your taking an interest in an ugly lug like me.”

  “You’re not ugly.”

  “The hell I’m not. I’ve got a face like a thug in a Grade-B movie. You know what they called me in high school? ‘Monk.’ That’s because I resemble a goddamned ape. The only girls who look twice at me are homely old maids willing to settle for anything.”

  “I’ll look twice at you.”

  “Then why don’t you let me get you away from this restaurant sometime? Maybe you, me, and Jackie. I’ve never met your son. Why don’t we take him to the zoo?”

  Slowly Lorene said, “You know how I feel about that.”

  “I can’t stop, Lorene. I have to find Ed. Or learn what happened.”

  “I know that too. I don’t want you to stop. But so long as you’re devoting all your time to your search, you’re not a normal man. You’re a man with a mission that’s more important to you than anything else. And before I bring any man friend home to meet Jackie, that man is going to be leading a normal life, like other people. Not spending all his waking hours looking for a brother on Clay Street.” Lorene smiled. “Besides, if I knew you better, I might not like you, and you might not like me. Remember, I’m not promising anything. Anyhow, when you learn what happened to your brother, you may decide you’d be better off with someone like the little model you bring around once in a while.”

  “Betsy? She’s just a child.”

  “The way she looks at you,” Lorene said, “I think she entertains some grown-up notions.”

  CHAPTER 6.

  I had intended to go upstairs after lunch. But as I started for the door, a man seated alone in a corner pushed his chair back and rose.

  “Mr. Kolchak,” he said. I’d like to talk to you.”

  I had seen the man during the lunch hour before. He seemed to know Lorene, since she stopped at his table sometimes to chat. The man was about my age and h
eight, but considerably trimmer. He wore a rumpled brown suit. His straight blond hair needed combing. Thick, rimless glasses shielded his eyes. His face was squarish and determined. For my benefit, he tried to affect an expression of cordiality, but it was obvious he had something on his mind and didn’t want to waste time.

  “I’m Pete Ordway,” he added, extending a hand. We shook. “Maybe you’ve noticed my shingle down the street. At 939 Clay.”

  Indeed I had. The sign identified Peter J. Ordway as an attorney-at-law. It hung from a second-floor office above a string of stores and shops. Like Ordway, the sign struck me as a trifle seedy.

  “Shall we talk here?”

  “Let’s go to my office. You might say this is business.”

  Ordway had already paid his check. Apparently he had been waiting for me to leave. We strolled outside. The air was warm and muggy. A bank of gray clouds was moving in from the west. Clay Street lay brooding under a smoky haze.

  “How’s your search going?”

  “Nothing new,” I replied noncommittally. “But I’m a patient man.”

  “That,” Ordway said, “is what we thought.”

  We turned into Ordway’s building and hiked up a flight of stairs. Ordway’s secretary, a middle-aged woman, threw him a mechanical smile. Ordway led me to an inner office. He closed the door.

  If Ordway was a success as a lawyer, it didn’t show in his furnishings which looked secondhand. I walked to a window and peered out.

  “You have a nice view of Clay Street,” I observed. “You weren’t by any chance working late the night my brother disappeared, were you?”

  “Sorry.” Ordway sat behind his desk. “I do hang around late sometimes. Most of my clients work days and can’t afford to take time off. But that night, my wife had to help my father at the store. It’s the pharmacy at the corner—Clay Drugs. The regular cashier took sick. So I went home early to keep the baby in fresh diapers.”

  I recalled visiting the drugstore. I’d talked to an elderly man there.

  I sat down and lit a cigarette.

  Ordway said, “Kolchak, I won’t screw around. Me and some friends of mine, we want to exploit you.”