The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  He never insulted politicians, either. He cultivated leaders of both parties, but his closest associations were with the mayor’s party. It was through those friends that Bagwell reaped sure-thing profits from the purchase of real estate in the path of public works. He also cleaned up buying penny stocks in two bankrupt insurance companies later reorganized by relatives of the state insurance director. And he was one of the few outsiders allowed to invest in a harness-racing association formed by state senators and representatives.

  Bagwell’s personal life was a mess. He’d been married and divorced twice. Every call girl in the city knew him, and if you were neither a newspaperman nor a politician, he might try to seduce your wife. In recent years his drinking bouts had become more frequent. Perhaps this was because he spent more and more time defending clients sent to him by Phil Amber and other Syndicate leaders, and less on the charity cases upon which he had built his reputation. At any rate, a good portion of his underworld fees had gone to rent and equip his apartment in a penthouse atop the tallest building in a new apartment complex a mile west of Clay Street. And for Bagwell’s party, the apartment was packed with well over a hundred guests.

  I knew some of them, including a few of Bagwell’s co-investors in The Dugout. Martin Moss and Joan Engstrom were there too. Bagwell thought the public relations man vastly amusing. He delighted in vetoing Moss’s half-baked schemes for publicity stunts, such as exploding a hand grenade in the restaurant’s parking lot on the Fourth of July. Bagwell liked Joan Engstrom because she had the intriguing manner and carriage of an ambitious sexpot. She also caught on fast that there was nothing Bagwell respected more than an insult properly thrown back into his own teeth. “You’re pushy, but I’d like to screw you,” he told her at their first encounter. “You could,” she snapped, “if you’d sober up, take a bath, clean your fingernails, and pay me a million dollars.” After that, Bagwell and the girl got along fine.

  Inevitably, Lorene and I were separated in the crowd. I bumped into George Nesbitt of the Journal. The reporter’s eyes were glazed. He carried a water tumbler with an olive on the bottom and didn’t even recognize me. I moved away from him. Max Fuller had noted that Nesbitt got drunk every night, and tonight was no exception. I didn’t see any other reporters in the room. During my first week in town, I’d met many of them. Nesbitt must have a special in with Bagwell to make this party. The attorney was taking good care of Nesbitt, too. As I watched, he poured more martini from a pitcher into Nesbitt’s glass.

  I caught a glimpse of Pete Ordway. He had his hat on and he was walking out the door alone. He must have arrived early. I wondered how he’d come to know Bagwell. Through his political activities, possibly. Around me, much of the talk concerned politics. One of Bagwell’s co-investors introduced me to three aldermen, a judge, two state representatives, a half dozen members of a half dozen boards and commissions, and a director of the Clean Government League. The politicians were polite but reserved. They’d seen stories in the evening papers about the discovery of my brother’s possessions, and they weren’t sure what to say to me. Which made it mutual. I hadn’t eaten all day. Bagwell’s martinis were taking effect, and I suddenly realized I’d best keep my mouth shut or I’d start slurring my words.

  At the first opportunity, I retreated. I put my glass down and began stuffing myself at a neglected table of hors d’oeuvres. I was on my fifth boiled shrimp when I felt a tug at my sleeve.

  “Excuse me,” a man said. “We’ve never met, but there’s something I’d like to discuss with you. In private. My name,” he added, “is Hiram Schell.”

  Schell and I strolled to a small den. The walls were lined with law books and framed photographs, including a few of our host from World War II days. Bagwell had gone through Officers’ Training School and then volunteered for combat, although with his background he could have landed a comfortable desk job. Most of the pictures showed him in fatigues, sprawled on beaches or in jungles holding beer cars. In one, a naked, brown-skinned young woman perched grinning on his lap. Bagwell, I reflected, must have been a helluva trial to his C.O.

  Schell closed the door. He smiled.

  “You’re getting a lot of publicity,” he said. He pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket. No doubt he had been carrying it around all night, saving it for this occasion.

  “I’ve seen the stories,” I replied.

  “I don’t mean the stories. I mean the editorial. In the Beacon.”

  Schell opened the paper to the editorial page and handed it to me. The politician was a tall man in his sixties. Entirely bald, he weighed perhaps two hundred and forty pounds. Despite his age and bulk, he moved with vigor and grace. His wide-lapelled blue suit and broad gray necktie were more than a decade out of style, but on Schell, it didn’t seem to matter. The expression on his round face was friendly. With his red cheeks and blue-veined nose, he could have been anybody’s rich uncle.

  The Beacon editorial was headed law and order? The opening paragraph noted that a private citizen, Stephen Kolchak, had succeeded in turning up through his own efforts an important clue to the disappearance of his brother—a clue the police at the Clay Street Precinct had failed to track down.

  One reason for this, the Beacon suggested, was that officers at the Clay Street Precinct were too busy guarding Phil Ambers B-girls to spend time solving ordinary crimes. The editorial ascribed what it termed “the whole rotten police mess on Clay Street” to the influence exerted on the mayor by Hiram Schell, the majority ward committeeman. It said that while Schell had no proven direct ties to the Syndicate, his record of supporting policies and legislation favored by the Syndicate was remarkable. The editorial concluded by reminding voters that in November they could elect an honest mayor who would reform the police department and would not be subservient to Schell.

  I put the paper down. I understood now why Doyle had been angry when I first told him about Ed’s ring. Doyle had anticipated this.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I had nothing to do with this editorial.”

  “Of course not. You were just looking for your brother.” The committeeman chewed away the end of a cigar and lit it. “Kolchak, I’m used to these things. Irate editorials. Outraged respectable citizens. The Clean Government League—the Beacons publisher is a CGL director, you know. The publisher and nearly all of his rich CGL friends live in the suburbs. They don’t give a damn for the people in my ward. They go home to their split-level palaces and country estates and think how nice it would be if old Schell’s ward could be torn down, and we could put apartment buildings there where a better class of people would live—people who could afford to go uptown and spend money in the fancy stores we own, the same stores that take big advertisements in the newspapers we publish. As to where the poor people who used to live there would go—who cares? So they pick on a few B-joints as an excuse to get at me, because I’m in their way. It’s part of the game. You understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “Those bastards have been after me for years. A lot of my people are penniless and ignorant. I get ’em on city and county and state payrolls, so they can feed their families. The blue-noses say that’s political patronage, that’s terrible, how much better it would be for clean government if there were no Schell and those poor people would starve. Then there’s Clay Street. Little taverns where a poor man can get just as drunk as the rich man who passes out in the Memphis Club, only cheaper. But because it isn’t the Memphis Club, it’s sinful. And the strip joints. Personally I’d prefer having department stores on Clay Street, but department stores refuse to move there. They stay uptown and build branches in suburban shopping centers. Strip joints are the only kind of new commercial tenants we can get. And the morons who patronize them and get clipped are getting what they deserve. So what’s the crime?”

  “My motive isn’t to embarrass you,” I said. “On the other hand, I have no intention of stopping my search for my b
rother, either.”

  “I don’t want you to stop. The sooner you learn whatever it is you’re trying to learn, the better it will be for all concerned.” Schell seemed sincere. “And I’ll give you all the help I can. You visit my ward headquarters?”

  “I did.” It was on Jackson, a half block west of Clay. “The lady there said your headquarters was pretty busy the night Ed disappeared. It was a few days before a primary election.”

  “That’s right. I was there myself until eleven. But I’ll send the word out through the organization. It’s been a long time, but maybe one of the precinct captains remembers seeing something on the way home.”

  “Thanks.”

  Schell flicked ashes to the carpet. “The thing that worries me—it just isn’t like the publisher of the Beacon to run an editorial like that so soon after the event. Just a few hours after the story broke. Unless he had some special reason. You don’t know of any reason, do you—why the Beacon would be especially interested in you?”

  “No,” I lied, “I don’t.”

  “I thought not.” Schell looked at the floor. “Like I say, editorials don’t bother me. But if I thought a private citizen was going out of his way to give me a hard time for no good reason—well, the Fourth Ward can be somewhat inhospitable if I choose to make it so.”

  I got the drift. It was a warning. And a mighty unsubtle one.

  We returned to Bagwell’s party.

  A man named Updyke approached and pulled Schell aside. I had been introduced to Updyke earlier. Updyke had arrived late and was making up for lost time by getting drunk fast. He was chairman of the state highway commission.

  I heard Updyke say, “Hiram, it’s all ready to go.”

  Schell beamed. He steered Updyke away from me. “That’s great, Pat. When’s the announcement?”

  “Next week…”

  Lorene found me. We squeezed into a corner.

  Lorene asked, “Have you seen Joan Engstrom?”

  “Not for a while.”

  “Martin Moss hasn’t seen her either.” She smiled. “He’s furious. Because Harry’s temporarily disappeared, too.”

  “Maybe he’s bathing and getting his million together.” I glanced at my watch. “Lorene, all of a sudden I’m starved. I thought I could fill up on those little sandwiches, but I think I need a square meal.”

  “You idiot,” Lorene said softly. “I should have asked if you’d had dinner. Wait’ll I powder my nose…”

  While Lorene powdered, I gazed idly around the big living room. Updyke, the highway commission chairman, had left Schell. He was talking now to a prominent alderman. The alderman beamed too. He rubbed his hands together. Like a man who has just been told oil is under his back yard.

  Behind The Dugout, I pulled Lorene’s new blue sedan into a space beside her father’s new black sedan. I turned off the lights and set the hand brake. As I reached for the door, Lorene put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Stephen—thanks so much. I know a party is the last place you wanted to be tonight.”

  “I’m all right, Lorene. I was sure long ago we’d never find my brother alive. And it did me good to get out.”

  “All the same, it was nice of you.” She drew me toward her and kissed me. And suddenly she was all woman. Her body strained against mine…

  “Oh, God,” she sighed. She forced herself away, hands shoving at my chest. “Let’s go inside, quick.”

  CHAPTER 11.

  Moodily John Heineman poured himself a drink. He had been doing that more and more often before lunch. He perched behind the bar in The Dugout, his big face lined and tired. It occurred to me that John Heineman did not look well. He was overweight, and boozing it up in the morning wasn’t going to help his heart condition. But then, booze was an occupational hazard for restaurant managers. Only the smart managers did their boozing in other peoples’ restaurants.

  I stirred my coffee and asked, “Where’s Lorene, Pop?”

  “She ain’t comin’ in today. She’s takin’ Jackie’s Cub Scout pack to a ball game. She’ll be here all day tomorrow, though.” Heineman was cordial this morning. Other mornings—when he wasn’t drinking—he had been treating me with silent, growing hostility. He sighed. “Man, you know something? We’re makin’ a lot of money now, with our salaries from the corporation. But I never had to work near this hard before. Lorene’s young, she can stand it. But I liked it better in the old place. Nothin’ to do but pour a few drinks and watch television. But since Bagwell backed us, I been goin’ all the time. Watch the employees, buy the food, see to it it’s prepared and served right. Then doll up and greet people and stay on your feet until two in the morning. Jeez…”

  Lorene’s father picked up his shot glass. He downed its contents.

  Tony came over. The Puerto Rican boy dumped the morning mail on the bar in front of Heineman.

  “Tony,” I said, “I want reservations for two this evening. Around nine o’clock.”

  Tony’s eyes gleamed. “Miss Betsy?”

  “No, not your favorite photographer’s model this time. Someone else.”

  “Sure enough. You gonna have lunch with Mr. Ordway tomorrow?”

  I frowned. “What makes you think that?”

  Tony seemed flustered. “Well, you usually do on Fridays. Except for last Friday, when you stayed upstairs. There’ll be a big crowd here tomorrow because of a luncheon club. But I can save you a table.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Tony walked away.

  Thoughtfully I stuck a cigarette between my lips. I reached into my pocket for a match. I pulled out one of several matchbooks and lit up, using the last match in the book. I tossed the empty book, which was from the Midtown National Bank, into an ash tray.

  Pete Ordway’s wife opened the door. Her thin face mirrored surprise. She wore a housecoat and slippers and her stringy, lusterless hair needed combing. She was tall and had a little scar under the left side of her chin, a memento from Phil Amber’s teen-aged mercenaries.

  “Pete’s eating lunch. With the kids.”

  She closed the door and led me into the living room. “How was the vacation?” I asked. “I stopped at the drugstore last Saturday and Pete’s father said you’d gone to a lake near the state capital that morning.”

  “It wasn’t much of a vacation for me. Cooking on a stove that wouldn’t work and washing dishes with cold water. But I guess Pete and the kids enjoyed it.”

  Pete Ordway walked in from the kitchen.

  “Oh, hi, Kolchak. I thought we were going to meet tomorrow.” He glanced at his wife. “You better get out there, hon. The baby is spilling stuff all over.”

  “Yeah,” Ordway’s wife said.

  She left. Ordway sat down in an easy chair. I moved some shredded newspapers aside and sat on a sofa.

  “I wanted to talk to you about that,” I said. “I don’t think we should meet for a while.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That editorial in the Beacon, attacking Schell. It was a dumb play. Schell braced me about it at Harry Bagwell’s party.”

  “You were there too? I had to leave early, to pack for our trip.” Ordway chuckled. “Actually, I think Bagwell hates my guts. I got to know him when I was in law school. He set up a small scholarship fund for night students who promised to practice some criminal law, and he screened the applicants himself. I was one of the recipients. We’ve kept in touch ever since, mainly because I’m on the CGL staff now. He’s always pumping me about what the CGL is up to. He wants to relay what he learns to his friends Schell and the mayor, I suppose.” Ordway pulled a pipe from his pocket and lit it. “I agree. The Beacon editorial was a mistake. But the publisher did that on his own. He wanted to set things up for later, in case you find your brother and write the articles…”

  “I haven’t promised to write any artic
les,” I pointed out. “Just to consider writing them. I appreciate your alerting your investigators and directors about my brother’s ring. And I appreciate the trouble the CGL took in compiling those lists for me—lists of every Syndicate joint on Clay Street, and of every establishment that’s ever been accused of roughing up customers who complained about padded bills. But if you get me involved in your political campaign at this stage, you could do me an awful lot of harm.”

  “I’ll give you another list before you go. Of Clay Street bar, restaurant, and club managers with known criminal records. It took some finagling, but a friend of mine at the crime commission compiled it.”

  “Thanks. But…”

  “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. What exactly did Schell say?”

  “In effect, that if he learns I’m tied up with your crowd, he’ll give me a hard time.”

  “I see.” Ordway puffed on his pipe. “Actually, I bet he already knows you’re tied up with our crowd. He’s too shrewd to issue an iffy warning like that unless he already knew the ‘if’ was fact.”

  “That’s a comforting thought.”

  “Even so, he won’t bother you. He’s trying to bluff you. He pretends not to mind bad publicity, but the truth is, he hates it. He has an army of grandchildren, and the kids read those stories and editorials. So long as your hands are clean, though, he can’t touch you. You’ve got Schell where you’ve got Phil Amber. Maybe Schell even consulted with Amber before talking to you. But if Schell tried to harass you, a man whose only activity of record has been to look for a lost brother, the newspapers would murder him.”

  “Just the same, let’s suspend our meetings.”

  Ordway shrugged. “If you wish.” He rose. “I’ll get that other list. By the way, what did you think of old Schell?”