She studied me with big brown eyes and asked, “You’re the new man?”
It was Monday morning. I’d stopped at Metropolis on my way to the inquest.
“That’s me. Pete Ames.”
“I know. Sam told me about you Saturday, after he hired you for this crazy thing.”
She led me down a corridor of cubicles. Most of them were still empty. Wanda walked with a peculiarly determined stride, almost a hop, and I got the impression that if a steel door barred her way she’d plow right through it. She wasn’t very tall, maybe five-three or four, but she had broad shoulders, big breasts, and interesting hips and legs.
At one cubicle we stopped. “This is yours.” Wanda dropped some keys on the desk. “The big key’s for the building, the little one for the desk drawers. If you need more office supplies, just ask.”
“Sure enough.” I picked up the keys. “Stashonis, that’s an odd name.”
“It’s Latvian. Everyone here just calls me Stash.”
“What do you do?”
“Production, mostly. I’m not so good with your language yet that I can write much. But Sam and I discuss stories. I read them and tell him what I think, and sometimes I give him ideas or he tries them out on me.” She paused. “He didn’t ask me about this one, though.”
“It broke pretty fast. You called it a ‘crazy thing.’ Don’t you think it’s a good story for Metropolis?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just a murder. People get murdered all the time. Excuse me.”
Wanda walked out. I sat down, pulled the cover off the typewriter, ran a piece of paper into it and knocked off a few test lines. It seemed a sturdy old machine.
A man poked his head into my cubicle. “Hi. You must be the new Foundling.”
“The new what?”
“Foundling.” He came in and leaned on his broom.
He wore work pants and a blue shirt and his sallow face twisted in a bold smile. “I’m Leroy. I empty wastebaskets and such. Don’t you know about Farrar’s Foundlings?”
“No.”
“He hires people nobody else will touch, see. He’s done that ever since he was city editor of the Express—he’s famous for it.”
“For instance?”
“Well, you take Stash. She had a college degree and was a copy girl at the Beacon but they wouldn’t give her an editorial job because she didn’t know the language good enough. Sam gave her a chance here, though. Or take our advertising manager. He used to be with the Journal, but they fired him on account he was a lush. Or take you. You flubbed your interview with the woman who got strangled…”
“That’s true. What inspired Farrar to hire you?”
“I stole some money,” Leroy said easily, “from a desk once, when I was a maintenance man at the Express. They not only fired me, they prosecuted and sent me to jail. But Sam had faith in me. He knew I’d never do a thing like that again, I was just temporarily deranged.”
The way Leroy said that, he was proud of having been deranged.
* * * *
Coroner Craig presided personally at the inquest into Irene’s death, as he did over every inquest heavily attended by the press. Craig was an elected official who had trained for his current office by running an insurance agency and serving his political party loyally for half a century. Nothing in the laws of the state said a coroner had to be a doctor, but of course Craig appointed as his chief pathologist a nationally known authority in that field.
If the old coroners knowledge of medicine was deficient, his appreciation of publicity was not. He helped shove furniture around the hearing room before the inquest started, making way for the maze of wires feeding the fights that would soon be shining down on his ruddy countenance. And when he ascended to his chair, rapped his gavel and brought the inquest to order, you soon realized you were watching one of the city’s finest amateur actors.
The coroner’s pliant, seventy-six-year-old features were a marvel to behold. When the janitor told of tracing the odor of gas in the hall to Irene’s apartment, Craig’s face expressed alarm; when Moberg testified to the condition of the body, the coroner was properly grim; and when neighbors noted Irene had been a heavy drinker, Craig shook his head and clucked. Sonny Nightingale did not testify, but one of the detectives who had interrogated Nightingale did, causing Craig to cluck some more.
My own appearance was brief but produced one of the coroner’s better speeches. Craig knew I’d been fired by Hale but he also knew I worked for Metropolis now, so he treated me with deference. Many wealthy young campaign contributors read Metropolis. I repeated my conversation with Irene. Then I mopped my brow and smiled down at the horde of newsmen crouched around me. In the front row, of course, where he would always wind up by hook or crook was Emil Ryker of the Express, plainly bored with everything. Now and then he took a note, and I shuddered to think how my testimony would appear in print after he telephoned his version to the desk.
The coroner brought his face to within a foot or so of mine. “And so this woman Irene Brown, or Bowser or whatever, indicated that she had for your newspaper, in the envelope on her lap, the details of a scandal which she was willing to sell, but the nature of which she did not disclose. A scandal which presumably could be of such momentous consequence that it could rock the very foundations of this city.”
“I guess so,” I said, not sure if I was answering a question or just being agreeable.
The coroner twisted his neck and peered head-on into the movie cameras taking footage for the television stations. “Thus we can only surmise what was in that envelope; only speculate on the dark secret for which Irene was murdered, and on the identity of Lady Bountiful and Joe Smith; only wonder who killed her, and perhaps—this possibility may not be so remote—perhaps her death was ordered by someone. This crime could well have been the work of a hired assassin. Perhaps it was some facet of the underworld Irene sought to expose. Perhaps that was the source of her mysterious wealth when she appeared on Alexander Boulevard. The underworld, those human leeches whose vast tentacles have spread over all of our city’s life…”
Flashbulbs went off like mad. The coroner, shrewd old buzzard, was theorizing in his wordy way that the Syndicate may have knocked off Irene. No cop had voiced that theory because there was no evidence to support it, but if nothing else new turned up during the day, the coroner’s statement would gamer a brace of headlines.
* * * *
The inquest didn’t end. Early in the afternoon it merely adjourned for a week. Of course the pathologist, the second witness, had stated emphatically that Irene had died of manual strangulation, but postponing the inquest would enable the coroner to grab more newspaper space a week later. By then the police might, have turned up another suspect or two.
In the corridor outside the hearing room I bumped into Emil, who was sliding out of a telephone booth. Today, he wore an orange Norfolk jacket.
“Hi, Pete. The coroner’s a real comedian, ain’t he?”
“He sure is. Where’s Deuce? This is the main crime yarn, how come he’s not at the inquest?”
“A housewife killed her husband with an ax last night. Deuce has a way with women like that, they confide in him.”
“How about lunch?”
“Sorry…” Emil hesitated. “Hell, what am I worried about? You can’t scoop us, Metropolis won’t be out for a month. Pete, the desk just told me to run over to the Skyline Towers and relieve Kells.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“We got an anonymous phone call this morning. A woman claimed Irene lived at the Skyline Towers about ten years ago. There must be something to it because, when Sid braced the manager, the manager threw Sid out.”
We took my car. Emil had a car of his own, of course, a pink Jaguar, but he couldn’t use it on the job except under unusual circumst
ances. Ordinary reporters were supposed to get from place to place by bus, if the assignment wasn’t pressing; by cab, if there was need for speed, or preferably by cadging a free ride with a photographer. The only reporters authorized to drive their own cars on the job were specialists like Deuce.
The Skyline Towers, a lean, thirty-two-story structure with a glass-and-concrete façade, was across from a park in a fashionable high-rent district. Kells wasn’t the only reporter on the scene. Half a dozen newsmen clustered near the canopied entrance, including Hargrove of the Journal, who waved and went on talking to a photographer. Behind him, a television cameraman shot footage of the building’s exterior. Apparently the anonymous caller had been busy.
Kells lumbered up to greet us. “Hi, kid. Congratulations on the new job.” He turned to Emil. “I dunno why the desk is pulling me off this and putting you on, but lemme bring you up to date…He steered us down the street, where his competitors wouldn’t overhear, and explained that he’d been the first reporter to arrive. But when he approached the manager of the Skyline Towers and mentioned Irene’s name, the manager ordered him to leave.
“He got real excited. He said the building is run by the DeLand Management Company; that DeLand is a big advertiser; and that if I didn’t go away he’d call his main office and get me fired.” Sid cupped his hands and lit a cigarette. “Well, I called the desk and asked ’em to phone the DeLand company right away, to start pressure at the top. Then I came back and hung around, questioning people leaving the building. The third person who came out, I hit pay dirt. She’s a day nurse, and she works for a family that’s lived in the building for six years.”
“Six years ago,” I pointed out, “Irene was already on Alexander Boulevard, keeping company with Sonny Nightingale.”
“I know, but wait. This nurse is on good terms with the maids. She said one maid, who’s been with the building ever since it was put up, pointed to Irene’s picture in the paper and said, ‘I think that’s one of the girls who used to live in Apartment 201, about ten years back.”
“One of the girls?”
“Yeah. The original developer sold the Towers in 1950. Nobody knows who bought it, but ever since there’s been a whole string of girls in Apartment 201, one girl at a time. Every few years one girl moves out and another moves in. Always good-lookers in their twenties, with no apparent source of income. But that ain’t the half of it. Get this—whoever’s in Apartment 201, she has no lease. All the other tenants in the building have leases. And the dames in 201 never pay rent.”
“How do you know?”
“The nurse heard it from the maid, who heard it from the bookkeeper. It goes on the books as paid and nobody could prove otherwise, but every girl in 201 gets a free ride. You know what that means. The girls in 201 are being maintained by the guy who owns the building—or by a damn good friend of his.”
“DeLand?”
Emil shook his head. “It wouldn’t be Horace DeLand. He’s just in realty management, handling properties for other people. He doesn’t buy buildings for himself—he puts his own spare cash in the stock market”
“You know him?”
“My father does slightly. He and DeLand were in a deal together once. My father pulled out when he suspected DeLand was cheating him, but he never complained. He figured he was lucky he didn’t lose more.”
I asked, “Sid, is a girl still living in Apartment 201?”
“Yeah. Her name is Evelyn Royal. While I was still talking to the nurse, Vance Hargrove showed up. I tried to steer the nurse away but he homed in and got the whole story, so there went our exclusive. Anyhow, the nurse got scared, made us promise not to quote her and then beat it. After which Hargrove looked at me and said, ‘Well, we’d try to interview Evelyn Royal separately, so we might as well do it together.’ I said, ‘Okay, but the manager don’t like reporters, we can’t make it through the lobby. He said, “There’s a back door to this dump, isn’t there? And that’s what we did. Hargrove and I sneaked into the building through an alley door.”
Kells took another drag on his cigarette. “We got up to 201 all right. A blonde opened the door, a high-class call-girl type. Hargrove said, ‘Excuse me, Miss, but if it isn’t an imposition, we’d like a minute of your time.’ She said, ‘Who are you guys? I said, ‘The press, baby, but don’t flip. All we wanna know is who pays your rent?’ She called me a name and slammed the door. We pushed the button again, but a minute later the manager ran upstairs from the lobby. There was another big argument and he threw us out.”
It occurred to me that, if Sid had let Hargrove do the talking, they might have learned something of value from Evelyn Royal. Hargrove and Deuce were masters of the technique of establishing rapport with call girls, dope addicts, murderers and all manner of wrong-doers by talking to them as equals. Sid, though, just couldn’t help taking a wise-cracking approach.
“How much,” Emil asked, looking at the other newsmen clustered in front of the Skyline Towers, “do those guys know about Apartment 201?”
“Not a thing, yet. Hargrove and I figured there was no point giving the Beacon and the television stations a chance to scoop us. I called the desk again but so far the DeLand Management Company has refused to answer questions. The desk checked the County Recorder, and title to the Skyline Towers is vested in a land trust. Hey look, there’s the manager…” A dapper, harassed-looking little man stepped from the Skyline Towers. Newsmen gathered around him and we hurried over. The manager closed his eyes and held his arms up until questions died away. Then he opened his eyes, lowered his arms and cleared his throat.
“Gentlemen, a statement was just read to me by Harrington, McGuire and Molloy, public relations counselors for the DeLand Management Company. At this moment the same statement is being read to every newsroom in the city.” He pulled a paper from his pocket. In a shaky voice, he read: “Officers of the DeLand Management Company have checked their records and ascertained that a woman named Irene Bowser was a tenant in the Skyline Towers from August 1, 1952, to September 1, 1955. The firm pledges its full cooperation with the police in ascertaining if this is the Irene Bowser found murdered several days ago.”
The manager folded the paper.
Hargrove asked, “That’s all?”
“Yes, that’s all,” the manager said testily. “If you have any further questions, you’ll have to direct them to Harrington, McGuire and…”
“We know,” the Beacon man said. “Were you here then? From ’52 to ’55?”
“I’m not authorized to say more.”
“It’ll be easy enough to check.”
“Well, I was here, but I still have no statement. Now…”
“Why don’t you let us in?” someone else asked. “All we want to do is talk to your older employees and guests.”
“In my building? I should say not! You men go away—if any one of you steps into the lobby I’ll call the police.”
“Then we’ll wait here and interview every bastard who comes out.”
“I told you.” The manager was desperate. “You’re wasting your time. What’s all this got to do with the murder anyhow? If you have any more questions, please call…”
“What,” Emil asked, “is your name? And how do you spell it?”
Groaning, the manager turned and walked quickly into the building. At the door he brushed past a tall, long-stemmed blonde in a tight dress who was hurrying out. The blonde carried a small overnight bag. The doorman waved; a cruising cab veered to the curb.
In my ear, Kells muttered: “Holy smokes, that’s Evelyn Royal.”
Sid started forward. He was too late. Evelyn Royal climbed into the cab and the vehicle pulled away, but she wasn’t alone. Vance Hargrove of the Journal had spotted her first, and as the cab began to move, he opened the back door on the street side and jumped in.
The cab slowed and almost stopped. Through the rear window,
we saw Hargrove and Evelyn Royal talking with great animation. Then the cab speeded up again, with Hargrove still in it, and vanished around a corner.
The Beacon man asked, “Now what was that all about?”
A television reporter looked at the doorman. “Who was that dame?”
The doorman started to reply. Then he glanced into the lobby, where the manager glowered. “Sir, I couldn’t say.”
Emil, Kells and I walked to one side.
“That,” Kells repeated, “was the Royal girl, from Apartment 201. The guy paying her rent is probably the same guy who paid Irene’s rent ten years ago. Hargrove will beat all of us.” He shook his head. “And I was here before anyone! I never should have told that manager I was a reporter. I should have told him I was Sergeant Muldoon of Homicide or something—I’ll bet he’d have talked then. Only Hale said I’d be canned on the spot, with no severance pay, if I ever did that any more…”
Emil, who had been staring into space, suddenly came to life. “You know, Sid, for once that cornball gag of yours might be worth trying.”
I smiled. “What’s on your mind, Emil? Are you going to pass yourself off as Sergeant Muldoon?”
“No, but you can help me.” Emil looked at Sid. “So can you. The more window-dressing, the better. That is, if you’re willing to give up your lunch hour to help learn who owns the Skyline Towers.”
“I’ll go along. But what kind of an act will we put on?”
“We,” Emil announced, “are going to offer to buy the building.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Twenty minutes later we parked in a lot across from the Nalon Building, a downtown skyscraper housing the offices of the DeLand Management Company. As we started for the entrance Emil said, “Just a minute. Let’s visit that stationery store first.”
Emil picked out two briefcases. “But don t wrap ’em,” he told the clerk. “Fill ’em.”
The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel Page 27
