There would be no check since we had been sitting at a house table. The restaurant was picking up the tab for our food and drinks. But Moss, as is customary, was tipping Tony for the service.
The tip slipped out of Moss’s hand and fell behind a coffee cup. Quickly Tony reached for it. But before Tony’s fist closed, I noted that Moss had given him a folded twenty-dollar bill.
Twenty dollars, I reflected, was at the very least four or five times more than the circumstances called for.
Jerry Gourmet’s real name was Mike Quinn. An immense, square-faced, deep-voiced, blond man, he was chief of the Journal’s copy desk. He had developed an interest in food while traveling around the world during the war in the Military Air Transport Service. “Jerry Gourmet” was a pen name invented years earlier to cloak the identity of the author of the Journal’s restaurant column. When Quinn quit the Journal or got tired of dragging his wife out to eat at a restaurant every week, someone else on the Journal staff would become Jerry Gourmet.
Quinn had learned, while questioning Lorene and her father, that I occupied the upstairs apartment and was then seated right around the corner with Martin Moss. Like every good newspaperman in town, Quinn knew all about me. And since as copy chief he never got a chance to cover stories any more, he welcomed the opportunity to attempt to squeeze something newsworthy out of me as a surprise for his city editor in the morning.
In a friendly way, I fended off all his questions.
Quinn grinned.
“Okay,” he said. “So you won’t talk. I don’t blame you. Good luck, guy. I’d like to see you bust the case. There’s just one thing I always wondered.”
“Such as?”
“What’s our chief crime reporter got against you?”
The crime reporter for the Journal was George Nesbitt, the man I’d knocked down in the Moreland Hotel.
“You think Nesbitt has me on his hatchet list?”
“I know it. After you held that press conference, Nesbitt tried to slip some stuff through the desk that would have given you grounds for a libel suit. I killed it, and any other deskman would have too. But Nesbitt wouldn’t do that if he didn’t have it in for you.”
“We had a misunderstanding,” I said. “But I don’t think it would be my place to discuss it.”
“As you wish. I ought to warn you, though, Nesbitt has a long memory. If he dislikes a guy, he might wait years for the right circumstances, but if they arise, he’ll crucify you.”
“Would your publisher let him get away with that?”
“That’s something it’s not my place to discuss. All I can tell you is, Nesbitt is no amateur. He’s not popular, but he’s smart. He’s been on the police beat so long he’s practically a member of the force. He browbeats policemen into telling him things they wouldn’t tell anyone else. When Nesbitt nails you, he nails you good. So if I were you, I wouldn’t even risk an overtime parking ticket. If Nesbitt finds out about it, he’ll use it as an excuse to dig into your life and drag up every piece of dirt he can find.”
In the morning, John Heineman served me coffee. Lorene was spending the day at home with Jackie. Heineman moved away from me without a word. He reached under the bar, pulled out a bottle, and poured himself a drink.
A little before noon I took off for the 500 block of North Clay. That area was pure skid row. I wore appropriately old clothes.
At 2:30 p.m., as I walked out of a bar where I’d interviewed four drunks and a dope addict, a little sports car pulled to the curb. The young man at the wheel waved and said, “Hey, Kolchak!”
I didn’t recognize him at first.
“I’m Collins. Don Collins. I met you at the bankers’ convention, remember?”
“Oh, sure.” We shook hands. “Quite a coincidence, your seeing me here.”
“It’s no coincidence. Betsy’s been trying to reach you. When you didn’t answer your phone, she called me and asked me to come down here and look for you. You weren’t hard to find. Every loafer on the corner back there knew where you were.”
“What’s up?”
“Betsy,” Collins said, “has found a girl who saw a man wearing your brother’s ring. The girl saw the man just two weeks ago. And she can describe him perfectly.”
CHAPTER 9.
Don Collins drove me to my apartment, where I quickly changed into a suit, white shirt, and tie. I also telephoned the Moreland doorman. I told him to send Sam Alban to an uptown department store where Betsy was modeling in a fashion show and to instruct Sam to circle the store until I came out.
Collins deposited me at the store’s main entrance.
“Sure I can’t be more help?” he asked.
“You’ve done plenty already. I really appreciate this.”
“Any time. If you want to return the favor, ask Betsy when she’s gonna break down and let me take her to dinner.
Collins grinned and drove off.
On the store’s third floor, I waited behind an audience of women as Betsy and the other girls paraded in fall styles. At the show’s end Betsy slipped out from backstage. She wore a red cocktail gown. Her little face radiated excitement.
For privacy, we elbowed through the mob to a quiet stairwell.
“This girl called me at the agency right after lunch,” Betsy said. “And I wanted you to know about it right away.”
“The girl who saw the ring called you?”
“No. The girl who called didn’t see the ring. But she has one of your sketches, and she found another girl who saw the ring. A girl who works at a key club. The Memphis.”
Betsy said her friend had just obtained a job at the key club. A waitress there identified the sketch immediately. A man wearing a ring with that design had been in the club two weeks earlier.
“The waitress is a girl named Nora White,” Betsy added “I don’t know anything about her, but my friend says Nora comes in at four o’clock for the cocktail crowd.”
I glanced at my watch. It was five after four “That’s wonderful, Betsy. My cavalry really came through. You’re a real princess.”
Impulsively I pulled her toward me and kissed her forehead. She looked up, closed her eyes, and half-parted her lips.
Hastily I pushed her away.
“Don Collins,” I said quickly, “wants to take you to dinner.
Betsy opened her eyes. She sighed. “Oh, him. I went out with him once and on the way home he got fresh. I don’t ever want to go out with that boy again.”
“Well, he was pretty nice, taking off from his own work when you called and driving all the way down to Clay Street to find me. I think we owe him something. Why don’t you let me buy you both a dinner?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It is. And I love you—like a brother.”
That was a dirty crack after all Betsy had done for me. And the statement wasn’t entirely accurate. I still remembered every detail of Betsy as she’d looked the first time I’d seen her, padding around Ronnie Layne’s apartment in a bikini. The memory was anything but fraternal. But I was pushing thirty-six and she was only twenty. And how silly can a practically middle-aged guy get?
Cab No. 444 rounded a corner two minutes after I walked out of the department store. Sam stopped. I climbed into the back seat.
“The Memphis Club.”
“Sure.” Sam got the cab rolling. “You a member?”
“No.”
“I ought to warn you. It’s kind of exclusive. It’s three miles from here, not far from the convention hall. They get a lot of convention business. But memberships are a hundred bucks a year and the guys at the door don’t fool around. You can’t just bribe your way in.”
“That’s a thought. Pull up at the first place with a telephone.”
Alban parked in front of a drugstore. I got out, walked into the store, and entered a telephone
booth. Max Fuller would be napping at this hour. I dialed his home.
The elderly woman answered.
“This is Mr. Kay. I want to talk to Max right now.”
“Just a minute.”
I waited perhaps twenty seconds.
Max Fuller said, “Yah?” He sounded sleepy.
“Mr. Kay, Max. I want to get into a place called the Memphis Club with a minimum of fuss and bother. I have to interview someone who works there. Can you help me?”
“Is that all? Christ, when you get there, just tell anyone who asks that you’re Mr. Culpepper’s guest. By the time you arrive it will be all arranged.”
Fuller hung up.
I returned to the cab. In seven minutes, Sam slowed before a spotless, rectangular, two-story concrete building. The first floor was windowless. A white canopy over the sidewalk bore no identification. The only hint of what lay inside were the words “Memphis Club” in silver script on a plaque near the entrance.
A doorman helped me to the curb.
I said, “I’m Mr. Culpepper’s guest.”
“Oh, yes, sir!” the doorman exclaimed. “We’ve been expecting you!”
The interior was roomy, contemporary, and thickly carpeted. I crossed a lobby and lounge area to a small bar. At this hour, business was still slow, but it would pick up soon.
The bartender could have been either a professional halfback or a doctor of philosophy. Probably he was a little of both. He sized me up with cordial X-ray eyes.
“Hi,” I said. “Where’s Nora White?”
“She’s working private dinner parties upstairs tonight. Sir, are you a member?”
“No.”
The bartender smiled. “I didn’t think I remembered you.” No doubt he had memorized the names and faces of every one of the club’s hundreds of members. “We have strict rules about the girls during working hours, I’m afraid. Might I ask…”
“I’m Mr. Culpepper’s guest.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I’ll get her for you.”
I settled in a plush booth. The bartender dialed a number on the house phone.
Nora White was long-stemmed and blond, with the proud, confident carriage of a professional beauty. Like the other girls at the Memphis, she was costumed in high heels, black net hose, and a satin, leotard-like garment decorated with lace where it didn’t matter and cut very low at the bodice. Gazing at Nora as she approached, I could understand why the Memphis maintained strict rules for its girls. If they didn’t, they’d have to summon the police riot squad every night.
“Sit down,” I invited.
Nora slipped into the booth. “What’s this all about?” Her tone was wary but polite.
I held out my right hand.
“I’m told you saw a man wearing a ring like this one.”
“Oh, you’re the fella. The one looking for his brother.” She studied the ring. “It’s been more than two weeks, but I’m positive it was an exact duplicate of the ring you’re wearing.”
“Tell me about him.”
“I’ll be glad to. It was a Saturday night. The club was packed. We have a big room on this floor that offers cafe-type entertainment at night—singers, jazz, sick comics, and all. I was working that room. This man was with two other men at a back table. I’d never seen any of them before, they weren’t club members. This man was drunk in a nice way, if you know what I mean. He was quiet and happy, always smiling. Well, the room was so crowded, it was hard to move around. This man reached out and pinched me once when I was trying to squeeze past his table.” Nora smiled. “He didn’t pinch hard, though. Some other men who’d do that, I’d call the manager. But this little guy looked so friendly and harmless, I just looked at him and said, ‘Shame on you,’ or something like that, and walked away. But a while later he pinched me again. I figured it was time to let him know I wasn’t included with the price of the drinks. I reached back and slapped his hand. But I busted a fingernail on the ring.”
“He showed you the ring then?”
“Yes. He was terribly apologetic. He held his hand up and said, ‘Gee, you must have hit this.’ I got a good look at the ring. I was going to have him thrown out, too, but he seemed so sorry about what happened that I forgot it. He didn’t bother me any more. When he and his party left, he came over and said, ‘Look, I’ve got a fine wife and four daughters at home, including one almost as old as you. And I’m sure you’re as nice a girl as they are. I acted like a fool tonight and if I ever come back here again I’ll try to resemble a gentleman.’ And when I went to his table, I found twenty-five dollars under his empty glass.”
“Describe this man.”
“Middle-aged. Short. Five-six, maybe. Thin. A crew cut. Gray hair. A big nose and a big jaw. A deep voice. A real amiable expression on his face all the time.”
“Anyone sign for the tab at his table?”
“No. They paid cash. Which is why I’m sure none of them belonged to the Memphis. A member would sign the tab and be billed at the end of the month.”
“Could you describe the two men with this fellow?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“If they didn’t belong to the Memphis, how could they get in?”
“The place was full of nonmembers that night. There was a trade show going on at the convention hall. Many firms in this city maintain memberships here for executives and salesmen. Whenever there’s a big trade show, a member like that might come in with a big party of guests, clients, or customers, and the party might split up inside the club. Or a member might even arrange for guests to be admitted in his absence.”
“You think this man had something to do with the trade show?”
“I’m pretty sure of it. I do recall that when one of the other men at the table reached for his wallet, a convention badge fell out of his pocket. A plastic-covered name tag with a blue ribbon hanging from it.”
The convention hall parking lot was almost deserted when we got there, but I took a chance on finding someone who could help me anyway. I was in luck. The director was still in his office, conferring with his chief of maintenance. When the conference ended I introduced myself and told the director who I was and why I was there.
Apparently the director was an avid newspaper reader with a good memory. He knew all about me. Thoughtfully he tugged at his ear.
“Doggone. I can’t help you much. We did have a trade show in here two weeks ago Saturday. Furnishings, appliances, and housewares. And to get in, you did have to wear a plastic badge with a blue ribbon. Thousands of people exhibited or attended the show, though. I sure wouldn’t recall any short, crew-cut man with four daughters. But tell you what. Why don’t you go see Joe Hale? Joe was in charge of the exhibit space during the show. He knows all the exhibitors, at least. And if Joe doesn’t recall the man you’re seeking, he might be able to help you find someone who does.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell too many people about my visit here.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll telephone Joe first thing in the morning, to let him know you’re on the way. And good luck.”
Irma Bronson called my apartment that night.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “The girl helping out in the bakery this summer is going on a vacation with her family. She won’t be back until the eighteenth. So unless you want me to come down there on a Sunday…”
“No, a weekday would be much better. Ed disappeared on a weekday. But that’s all right. I might be tied up with something else for a while anyhow. Let’s make it Thursday, the twentieth. A week and a half from now. I’ll pick you up at four o’clock, the usual place. But this time, after you meet me at the car afterward, I’m not driving you straight home. I’m taking you to dinner instead. You ever eat hamburger stroganoff on wild rice?”
“No.”
“Well, I guarantee you’ll like it.”
Joe Hale worked out of a small office in the business district. He was heavy-set, thick-jowled, and cordial. I pulled up a chair across from him at ten in the morning. He lit a cigar and listened as I described the man Nora White had seen wearing the ring.
“No,” he drawled, “I don’t know the guy. He wasn’t an exhibitor. But if he was at the show that Saturday, it’s almost certain he’s connected with the industry somehow. The general public wasn’t admitted until the following week. The odds are good at least a few of the exhibitors might know him.”
“Do you have a list of exhibitors?”
“Sure. I already dug one out for you. Here.” Hale handed me some mimeographed pages. “Names, addresses, everything. But there are more than a hundred firms on that list, many from suburbs or downstate towns. It would take you weeks to check each exhibitor out thoroughly. I could suggest a possible short cut.”
“What’s that?”
“Try the trade associations first. And don’t limit yourself to associations the exhibitors might belong to. The exhibitors are all manufacturers or distributors. If I were you I’d check associations whose members sell furnishings and housewares to the public as well. That way, instead of concentrating on a hundred or so exhibitors, you’ll be covering groups whose members would have been at the show as buyers, too. The executive directors of those associations know all their members pretty well. In a day or two, you could talk to a dozen men who, between them, are personally acquainted with everyone of consequence who might have had business at that show.”
Hale prepared another list and in two days I interviewed nearly every trade association official on it. Some, like Hale, were immediately cooperative. Others wanted no part of me, but I obtained their reluctant cooperation by hinting that if they didn’t go along, policemen and newspaper reporters would be around soon asking the same questions.
I talked to the last man on the list early the afternoon of the third day. Like the others, he had been unable to identify the wearer of the ring.
“I’m afraid,” I sighed, “that wraps it up. I hoped one of you trade association guys could help me. But I guess I’ll have to start visiting every exhibitor at that show, one by one.
The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel Page 10
