The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  Kells pushed the paper across the table. “There. You can give me as a reference to any of those guys.” I shoved the list into my pocket. We both knew a reference from him wouldn’t be worth a damn, but it was a nice sentiment. “I’ll do that.”

  “Have another brew. In your place, I’d stage the bender to end benders.”

  “Sorry. But I’ll be up early tomorrow.” I rose. “Incidentally, thanks.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “You wise old bastard, you taught me a lesson today I’ll never forget.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “It’s kind of complicated. Let’s just say it has to do with reporters. And how if they’re not willing to view people with an open mind, they’re not reporters any more.”

  * * * *

  The night air was turning cool. To the southwest, lightning flashed. A gust of wind tumbled paper and debris down the gutter. The heat-breaking storm was finally on its way.

  I shoved my hands into my pockets and started hiking. My apartment was just twelve blocks from the Express. That’s why I’d rented the place. I’d hoped to work for the Express for some time, but now Murray Hale had put a quick end to that little dream.

  Of course my brief stay with the Express hadn’t been a complete waste of time. I’d learned a valuable lesson and from of all people, Sid Kells. When I went out to interview Irene, I’d been patronizing. Kells had sensed that and called me on it. Poor old Sid. When his back was turned, the younger men often laughed at him. Somehow Sid always wound up interviewing animals, starlets, and other subjects with nothing to say. The Express didn’t trust him with anything else any more. But at least Sid had been shrewd enough to spot a young reporter so cocksure and self-important that the job wasn’t being done properly.

  So I was in Sid’s debt, something he’d probably never understand. But maybe one day I could repay him.

  The person most on my mind, though, was Irene Brown. As I walked on, past stilled office buildings and into a zone of swank hotels and shabby rooming houses, I thought back to our talk. There had been something odd about it, something I couldn’t put my finger on. I’d have to try to reconstruct it again, every last sentence and nuance.

  I began to get sore at a couple of people. Murray Hale was one. I cautioned myself not to be too hard on Murray—he was just running a tight shop, in his place I’d probably do the same thing. But I decided I’d like nothing better than to show Murray just how wrong he’d been when he fired me and barred me from his building.

  And I got sore at Irene Brown’s killer. He’d complicated my life immensely. I assumed a man had murdered her, although it could just as easily have been a woman. But I’d sure blown a marvelous chance to complicate the murderer’s life when I let Irene get away from me in the Express reception room. It was too bad I probably wouldn’t get another chance.

  It started to rain—big, heavy drops presaging a real downpour. I broke into a trot. My apartment building was a block ahead and I made it just in time.

  I went on upstairs to the second floor and reached for my key, but it turned out that wasn’t necessary. The door hung ajar.

  I pushed it back. The lamp in my living room was on. I hadn’t left it on.

  And under it, reclining in my easy chair, was one of the largest men I’d ever seen. He was a good six-five and weighed more than two hundred and fifty pounds.

  He looked up and drawled, “Hello, reporter, you left your door unlocked. I just walked in. But I’ll have to admit that when I looked around, I didn’t find that envelope anywhere.”

  * * * *

  I closed the door and moved forward. The man in the chair didn’t stir. My visitor wore an expensive blue summer suit, a gray tie, and a charcoal-hued straw hat tipped high on his brow. His black shoes glistened.

  I stopped a few feet from him and asked, “What-in-hell is this all about?”

  “Routine.” He slipped a hand into his breast pocket, pulled out a wallet and flipped it. Despite his bulk, I got the impression he packed a lot of muscle. His eyes were black, his nose was Romanesque, his mouth was small and his chin, while strong, tapered in a gentle curve. “I’m Jax. Herman Jax. Investigator for the state’s attorney.”

  The badge and identification card were undeniably authentic.

  “I’ve already given my statement,” I said, “to Moberg’s men downtown. And as a matter of fact an assistant district attorney was present when I gave it.”

  “I know. I read it.” Jax put the wallet back in his pocket. “That’s why I’m here. To discuss your statement.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.” I went to a sofa and sat down. “Incidentally, I recall locking my front door before I left tonight, which means you broke in.”

  “That’s debatable. Your word against mine, and you’d be surprised how much weight my word carries.”

  “I’ll bet. What were you getting at with the crack about the envelope?”

  “Come off it, Ames. Let’s talk man to man. You’re not that stupid.” Jax lit a cigar. Blue smoke eddied toward the ceiling. “In a homicide, I work all the angles. And it strikes me there could be a lot more to you than you’re letting on.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

  “I’ll spell it out. The more I think about your statement, the more I think you’re holding something back. You’re no cub. I don’t see how a newspaperman of your age and experience could have let Irene Brown walk out of that reception room without learning something.”

  “Why would I conceal information?”

  “The first and most obvious motive is that you killed her yourself.”

  I blinked.

  Casually, Jax flipped ashes to the floor.

  “You’re a college man,” he went on. “Well educated, ambitious. But all you were getting at the Express was one-twenty or so a week. Hell, some common laborers get that much. So maybe when you were talking to Irene in the reception room, you saw a way to make a lot of money for yourself.”

  “She told me nothing.”

  “Nobody can verify that. The receptionist was too far away to overhear and most of the time she wasn’t even watching. Irene Brown could have told you what was in that envelope. She could have showed you. And also told you where she lived, and what time she’d get home from work.”

  “Is this a formal accusation?”

  “Oh, no. Just a theory—for now. But maybe you made a deal with Irene, telling her whatever was in her envelope was worth a lot more than five thousand, which the Express probably wouldn’t pay anyhow. Maybe you volunteered to get her a bigger payoff. Or maybe you agreed she had a good story and pretended to make an appointment for her to see Hale, either at the paper or at her place. And after you got off work you went to her apartment and strangled her, instead of coming here to shower and change clothes, as you claim you did in your statement.”

  “You think I’d write that memo if I planned to kill her?”

  “That could indicate premeditation—that you were covering yourself, in case someone saw you talk to her in the reception room. Hale’s secretary remembered—we questioned her, too. And for all you knew, Irene could have told a half-dozen people she was going to the Express.”

  I smiled. “You have an excellent imagination.”

  “In my business, its necessary.” Jax took a deep puff on his cigar. “That’s one theory. But there’s another reason why you might have withheld information, even though you might not be involved in the murder.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It could be that when you talked to Irene she dropped a name, or some other hint as to what her story was about. Just one word, maybe, that you didn’t bother putting in the memo, either because it was too hot or too vague. And it could be you failed to mention it in your statement so the Express could follow up the lead exclusively and solve the case before the
police did. Only when you got back to the Express, Hale might have fired you before you had a chance to tell him what that lead was.”

  “You know about my getting canned?”

  “I keep in touch.” Jax leaned forward, and his voice became persuasive. “If that’s it, Ames, I don’t blame you. Moberg rushed you downtown from Irene’s apartment before you could discuss the case alone with Deuce or anyone else from your paper. In your place I’d have withheld anything about what was in the envelope too, any good reporter would. And now maybe you’d like to follow up the lead on your own, so you can build a big reputation as a crime reporter and land a job with the Beacon or the Journal. You can confide in me. I’m in a better position than you to follow up a lead, and I’ll work with you exclusively. I’ll be on the inside during every step of the investigation and can slip you a lot of stuff the other reporters will never hear about”

  Thoughtfully, I rubbed my jaw. Jax’s point about withholding information until I could confer with my superiors at the Express wasn’t too farfetched at that. If Irene had told me anything, it could have worked out that way. Still, Herman Jax seemed overanxious to do favors.

  I decided to see how much further he’d go.

  “You’re being charitable. In your place, I could think of another reason why I’d keep any information to myself.”

  “I didn’t want to mention that. But since you brought it up—yeah, there’s another possibility. You could be hoping to parlay what you know about the envelope into extra income. What with being fired and all, you could use dough. Maybe some innocent people were named in the envelope and they’d be willing to pay you off to keep from being dragged through the scandal sheets. Is that what you re angling for?”

  “I didn’t say it. You did.”

  “I’m not unreasonable. I wouldn’t want to see innocent people dragged through the scandal sheets either—I’m very understanding about these things. I’m sure you and I could come to some sort of an arrangement.” Jax stubbed out his cigar. “So how about it?”

  I said, “Jax, my statement is complete and accurate in every respect. And I’m beginning to wonder if you came here tonight to solve Irene Brown’s murder—or for some other reason.”

  The investigator’s big fists clenched. Then he allowed himself a tight little smile. “You’re cute. I ought to haul you off that sofa and bust you wide open.”

  “Do that to a reporter, and a million other reporters will be on your neck.”

  “You’re not a reporter any more. Without a big newspaper behind you you’re fair game, and don’t forget it. This is your last chance to come clean. If you’re not involved in the murder but you know something, tell me now and well work something out.”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t deal if I wanted to. I’ve nothing to deal with.”

  “You better be right.” Jax got up. The top of his hat reached nearly to the ceiling. It occurred to me that in any land of a fair fight Jax could tear me to pieces. He spoke very slowly. “I’ll tell you something. I hate newspapermen, all newspapermen. They mess around too much in things that are none of their business. If you’re holding anything back, I’ll nail you for sure. If I get the slightest hint you know more than you’re telling, I’ll work you over like I would a skid row bum. And if I can find evidence that you murdered Irene Brown. God help you.”

  Herman Jax walked out.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  First thing in the morning I got busy on the phone.

  The fact-crime writers on Sid’s list said they didn’t need legmen, thank you. The slick magazine writer said, “Well, Ames, the way the case has developed so far it hardly rates a query to an editor in New York. But if you think there’s a story in Irene Brown why don’t you try to free-lance it yourself, and I’ll give you what marketing advice I can.”

  There went one bright idea. I was in no financial position to cover the case on my own, not without at least an assurance of a sympathetic reading by an editor.

  Downtown I filled out job applications at the Beacon and the Journal. I also volunteered to cover the story for their Sunday feature pages on speculation if they’d just promise to give my yarn serious consideration. The feature editors mumbled polite nothings about how their own staff members handled those things.

  I was making no progress fast.

  A bit of business still remained at the Express: my final paycheck. In the city room I cleaned my personal items from my desk and that took a while. A lot of people came over to shake hands, including Bill Totten, the city editor, who said, “Pete, I’m sorry. I won’t rap management, but I just want you to know it wasn’t my decision. When you apply for your next job, tell your prospective employer to query me direct, and you’ll have a recommendation.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t let it get you down. Every good reporter I know has been fired at least once. Good luck.”

  There didn’t seem much point hanging around any longer. I reached for my sack of possessions.

  The phone rang.

  “Ames?” It was Connie. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. I think it’s terrible, what Murray did. He had no call to fire you. And barring you from the building—that was like a slap in the face.”

  “I didn’t like it much either. But it’s his paper.”

  “What’s this about your trying to sell an article on Irene Brown? And applying for jobs on the Beacon and the Journal?”

  “You know all that?”

  “I’m at the Press Club with my boss—everyone here knows it. That job we discussed last night—it’s still open. Any chance you’ll reconsider?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I thought so. Okay, since you insist on being a hardhead, a man I know says he’s interested in that article of yours. And if he likes your work it could lead to a full-time job.”

  “Who is this guy?”

  “Sam Farrar. He’s the editor of Metropolis magazine—he’s at his office now. And by the way, what time did you get to my cocktail party last night? When the police asked, I told them it was a little before seven-thirty…”

  * * * *

  Farrar’s name rang an immediate bell. Older hands at the Express still discussed him. He’d been the last managing editor before Murray Hale.

  Vaguely, I was familiar with Metropolis too. A slick monthly patterned after The New Yorker, Metropolis circulated only in our city and ran articles of strictly local interest—personalities, historiana and depth coverage of news events. Many of the articles were written by newspapermen on a free-lance basis. Judging from the slim budget of ads in the few issues I’d seen, Metropolis was losing money.

  The magazine was housed in an old two-story frame building, once a stately residence. The side yard was a parking lot now, and the business and circulation departments were on the first floor. The second floor had been cut into cubicles for the editorial and art departments. From the window in Farrar’s office, you could see the top of the Express building, just three blocks away.

  Farrar was a blond man of medium height, with curiously bright and eager blue eyes. His clean-cut features were unlined and, surprisingly, he seemed still in his thirties. Apparently he’d risen to the managing editorship of the Express at a very early age. He wore dark slacks and a light-gray sports coat; a pipe jutted from his lips.

  “So you’re Ames.” His grip was firm and dry. “We have something in common. Murray Hale got rid of me once too, although in a different way.”

  He didn’t elaborate on that remark. Instead, he sat back down and started lighting his pipe, his movements slow and deliberate. “You,” he went on, “got a very good recommendation from Constance Thurlow. I value her assessment of reporters quite highly, she knows the business and she gets around to all the city rooms. These days I’m pretty isolated. How well do you know her?”

  “We’ve been out a couple times
, but there’s nothing personal between us. Yet.”

  “She doesn’t go out with newspapermen often, not socially. She has a dread of marrying one someday.”

  “What’s she afraid of?”

  “She doesn’t want to wind up a newspaper widow, with no money in the bank and a big family to support. That happened to her mother ten years ago. It’s why Connie went into public relations—to make a lot of money and help her kid sisters through college. She wants to marry a man with a lot of money too, although I think eventually she’ll change her mind about that.” Farrar finally got his pipe going. “If you have no objection, I’d like to hear more about your interview with Irene Brown. The account in the Express seemed sketchy, and the other papers merely paraphrased the Express on that point.”

  Briefly, I went over my conversation with Irene. I see. So Murray fired you, and now you want to write an article about the murder. I don t blame you. Frankly the case appeals to me, too. Ordinarily I don’t run crime stories in Metropolis, but Irene Brown is such an enigmatic woman, a drab clerk one day and the focal point in a major homicide the next A very major homicide, since it involves the Express and the hint of a scandal important enough to cause her death. Tell me—what’s your notion of how to cover the story for my magazine?”

  “How much time would I have?”

  “Three weeks from next Monday. That’s when the last form for our next edition goes to the printer.”

  “And how much time between then and when the magazine reaches your subscribers?”

  My questions seemed to please Farrar. “Another ten days.”

  “Okay. That means I can’t compete with daily newspapers. Anything I turned in ten days before publication could be outdated by later developments. So barring the solution of the crime soon, I’ll have to tackle the story from some angle likely to hold up no matter what happens in the ten days after I write the article.”

  “For instance?”

  Farrar, I began to see, liked putting a man on a spot.

  “Well—what about Irene herself? I wouldn’t ignore current developments in the investigation, but I wouldn’t let them overwhelm me either. The general tone of the article would be ‘Life with Irene.’ Who was she? What did people who knew her think of her? What motivated her?”