The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

“You put that in your article? About the Bugle being in the envelope?”

  “No. I didn’t even tell my editor about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “To protect you. The police would be on my back if they learned I had made contact with someone who saw what was in Irene’s envelope. They’d learn I talked to Zender—and they’d break Zender down fast enough.”

  “I hope you’re right about protecting me, because someone’s been asking about me at the real estate office where I used to work. Very peculiar questions. None of them had to do with real estate.”

  * * * *

  The music on the public address system was as bland as ever. Nobody in the mall seemed to pay attention to us, but subtly the atmosphere had changed.

  I looked around. “Who asked the questions?”

  “A man on the phone.”

  “How do-you know?”

  “A friend of mine overheard part of the conversation. The man wanted my old boss to tell him what I looked like.”

  “It could be an old customer. Someone who bought a home through you, forgot your name, and wants to know where you are now.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t like the timing.” Joanna ran her tongue over her lips. “Ames, how many people saw this article of yours? Even if you didn’t mention the Bugle, you might have made people wonder who you were talking to.”

  “The editor and associate editor saw it, that’s all. Look, you’re secure at my end. There’s no clue to your identity in my story. The script is under lock and key when I’m away from Metropolis, and your name isn’t even in my notes. I had a sentence about a former call girl now in real estate in the rough of my first draft, but I filed that draft in the wastebasket.”

  “What’ll happen when your story comes out?”

  “Nothing. I’ll say I got my information from an old friend of Irene’s, someone whose identity I promised to protect. That could be anyone—a drinking buddy, bartender, neighbor, even someone she met in a park.”

  “Will the cops buy that?”

  “They’ll have to. So long as were never connected you’re safe. But what about your end? For instance, were you and Irene ever arrested together?”

  “No. Some vice squad guys knew about us, but they were paid off. Anyhow to them I was Mavis and Irene was Norma. They didn’t know our last names and we looked different then. I was a red-head and Irene was much skinnier. I’ve been arrested in Chicago, St Louis and some other places, but never here.”

  “How about Irene?”

  “The only time she got pinched was for a traffic violation, when she was living in the Skyline Towers. That was fixed, though. A man came to the Towers one day, some official driving an old unmarked yellow Chrysler with a red blinker on top. We met him outside. Irene gave him the ticket and he said don’t worry, everything will be taken care of.”

  “Probably Nalon arranged that.”

  “No, Irene wouldn’t bother Nalon with trifles. Back then, someone else with a lot of influence was doing little favors for Irene. Theater passes, tickets to the World Series, things like that Irene never said who, but I think it was one of her neighbors at the Towers. A lot of important people lived there, and when Irene was real bored she’d sit in the lobby and try to strike up conversations. One of the funny things about Irene was, if she wanted to know you, you’d wind up liking her…

  “What about your underworld connections? Would they remember Irene? Or you?”

  “They might.” Joanna looked down. “But to them we were merchandise, and when we broke we broke clean. We vanished from our old haunts and they didn’t care—they had plenty of other girls. I’m sure of one thing. They’d never run to the police. I don’t think they’re worried about what was in Irene’s envelope either. Whatever she knew about vice then is ancient history now.” She looked up, her eyes boring into mine. “Ames, I don’t mind telling you I’m scared. The man stealing books at the hick town library—the man asking questions about me…I get the feeling this could blow up any minute.”

  I was glad Joanna said that. I had the same feeling. “In that case I have a suggestion. Let me arrange a meeting with Lieutenant Moberg, the detective in charge of the investigation. I’m sure he’ll keep your identity secret too. Then…”

  “Oh, no. I won’t see a cop.”

  “Why not? You’ve led a respectable life for twelve years.”

  “Sure, but when you’ve been on the other side of the law you know how crooked some cops can be. I won’t risk it. I’ll sweat it out and hope whoever killed Irene is found soon, so nobody will give a damn about your article any more.” Joanna reached for her purse. “Anything else?”

  “You bring Irene’s stuff?”

  “It’s in the car. Come on.”

  We got up and walked to the parking lot. Joanna flipped her cigarette away. In profile her features were lean and classic.

  I said, “Those remarks Irene made. About Lady Bountiful, Joe Smith, and the meanest man she’d ever met. They ring a bell yet?”

  “No. They don’t make any sense at all.”

  “You ever think about who might have murdered “her?”

  “Plenty. She didn’t have a malicious bone in her body. Whatever was in her envelope, I’m sure she wouldn’t hurt anyone. I think the guy who writes for the Journal had the right idea. He quoted some cops who thought a prowler did it, someone Irene found in her apartment when she got home. It fits, too.”

  “How so?”

  “She was afraid of that neighborhood. Too many tough kids hung out in Riverfront Park, and Irene had a big fear of violence. When she was a call girl a man tried to hurt her once, for kicks. She fought him off, but from then on she was never at ease with a strange man unless someone else was present”

  Joanna bent over and opened the trunk of her Cadillac. I hauled out a box containing some of Irene’s things. She’d persuaded Joanna to store them when Joanna bought a house in Hilldale. Irene was living on Alexander Boulevard then, and storage facilities there were a lot less extensive than she’d enjoyed in the Skyline Towers.

  “What,” Joanna asked, “do you want with that stuff?”

  “To look it over. For clues, to where Irene might have come from.”

  “You won’t find anything. It’s junk—I went over it last night.”

  Joanna locked the trunk, walked around and slid behind the wheel. Awkwardly I stood beside the car, the box in my arms.

  “I won’t call you again,” I said, “unless it’s essential. Thanks for everything. And I wish you’d reconsider about Moberg.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “It’s your decision. If anything goes wrong, let me know. I’ll help all I can, no matter what, but I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

  “From the look on your face you’re not convinced. Neither am I.”

  Joanna drove off. I waited a minute to see if anyone drove after her.

  Nobody did, so I took the box to my apartment. There, I poured over the stuff—old hats, dresses, purses and a moth-eaten doth coat. Joanna had been right. It was junk.

  * * * *

  Stash came down to the office Saturday in a billowy green skirt and a low-cut white blouse. Exuding a faint scent of lavender, she perched on my desk and leafed through the final draft of my manuscript. I’d seen a lot of Stash lately. She was always hanging around. During the past three days, while I had been hammering out my final draft, we ate lunches and suppers together at the sandwich shop down the street and took turns bringing one another black coffee from the Metropolis vending machine.

  Now her skirt rode high over her knees and I stared at her legs, noting that she had a voluptuous body. My head began to whirl with irrational thoughts; but then I’d been irrational all morning. I’d gone to Eddie’s the night before to celebrate the completion, except for the final editing, of my
article. Kells had been there, this time with Emil Ryker and Hargrove. Hargrove, never touching a drop, plied us with liquor. From Kells he elicited the latest gossip from the Women for Morality headquarters, hinting that relations between Murray Hale and his wife were cool. The Hales were childless, and obviously Hargrove was pulling for divorce. Then he turned his attention to me, trying to learn what was in my article. I told him he’d have to read it in Metropolis unless Farrar rejected it Monday morning, in which case I’d burn it in Eddie’s Monday night…

  “Now this,” Stash said, “is much better.” Not looking at me, she tugged her skirt a bit lower. “I haven’t read it all, but it’s more understandable. A not-too-bright girl who drifts into prostitution and wastes her youth. Her beauty fades—she makes a last try for matrimony with the idiot Nightingale. And finally she comes to terms with the world, as a dull but respectable clerk for Mrs. Carmody.”

  “It’s an improvement,” I conceded, “but I’m still frustrated. There’s nothing to show why she wanted money all of a sudden. Or what story she wanted to sell, or why anyone killed her…”

  “That makes it a better mystery. She really wasn’t a bad woman, was she? Even if she did sell her body for a while—she never stole, she never hurt anyone, she had scruples, she repaid her debts…”

  “Read further, and you’ll see where most people who met her liked her. The customers in the card shop, the merchants on Alexander Boulevard, even an influential neighbor at the Skyline Towers who supposedly fixed traffic tickets for her and got her into the World Series.”

  “You did a nice job.” Stash put the story down. “I hope Sam likes it too. Of course if he doesn’t, there’s another story already in type to fill the space…

  “That’s encouraging.”

  “One thing I don’t understand is your title, ‘Good Night, Irene.’ What does that symbolize?”

  “The killer made a crude attempt to make Irene’s death appear a suicide, remember? After he strangled her he dragged her to an oven, put her head in it and turned the jets on, as though she put herself to sleep. That’s one interpretation. The other is more risqué. Irene’s killer could have been a man who’d said ‘good night’ to her dozens of times in the past, and…”

  “I follow you. But I don’t think Sam will buy it.” Idly Stash drew little circles on my desk with her right index finger. “I think you make a mistake, Ames, when you don’t trust Sam—when you don’t tell him who your source is.”

  “You know about that?”

  “The walls are thin. I hear what happens in Sam’s office without even trying. What you said the other day disturbed him. After you left, he was moody, he…”

  My phone rang.

  “Pete?” It was Emil Ryker. “How’d you like to get in on something hot?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “Joe Smith. I think I’ve found him. We’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

  Emil hung up. I looked at Stash. “That was Emil. He thinks he has a new lead. If it’s true, I may have to rewrite the whole story tomorrow.”

  “Ryker?” Stash became pensive. “I’ve never met him.”

  “You through working for the day?”

  “Almost.”

  I dropped the manuscript into a drawer, on top of my notes, and locked it. “Then come along and play detective with us. If it’s a really big break, I may need help anyhow.”

  “Okay.” Stash slipped off my desk, straightened, and brushed her skirt. “It should be of interest. From what I hear this Emil Ryker is even crazier than you.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They came in Emil’s Jaguar. Emil drove, and Babette Boone occupied the other front bucket seat. Mother Boone, Uncle Luke and little Bobby were in back. Bobby got on Mother Boone’s lap and I managed to squeeze in beside her. Then Stash climbed onto my lap. Over-all it was a tight fit.

  I made the introductions.

  “Glad you both could come,” Mother Boone said cordially. “We may need you to subdue the murderer.”

  “Emil,” Babette added, “is a real marvelous sleuth.”

  “A young genius,” Uncle Luke said.

  Chewing a cigar, the young genius piloted us onto an expressway and explained the situation. It was his day off, but he was working on the case on his own time. Moberg had dropped the police guard on Bobby and Emil had moved in and persuaded the Boone family to cooperate with him exclusively.

  Emil’s theory was that the Joe Smith mentioned by Irene was the murderer, the man Bobby claimed to have seen running from Irene’s apartment with a shopping bag. At first Emil went to the Boone home every night with photos of every Joe Smith in the Express library. To all of these Bobby responded with his now liturgical “I dunno” or “It ain’t him.”

  Then Emil began studying old city directories to see if any Joe Smiths ever lived suggestively near Irene. Indeed, one had. A Joseph Z. Smith occupied an apartment a few doors from her when she first moved to Alexander Boulevard, although in 1958 he moved to a home in a suburb.

  I said, “So what? Irene was bound to live near someone named Joe Smith at one time or another.”

  “Don’t you get it?” Mother Boone asked. “When Nalon threw her out, she moved just to be near him. He was her secret lover.”

  “There’s more,” Emil said. “Smith’s a carpenter. The lumber company where he works says he went out of town the Monday after the murder and didn’t get back until yesterday.”

  “He skipped,” Babette explained, “until the heat went off.”

  “It still strikes me as a slim lead. But if you’re right, isn’t this dangerous? Letting the killer have a crack at Bobby?”

  “As Emil says,” Mother Boone answered, “there’s safety in numbers. It’s broad daylight, how could he slaughter five adults, a child, and a lovely young girl like Babette without someone noticing?” She sighed. “Emil, tonight we’ll celebrate. I’ll fix a big dinner and then you and Babette can go to a movie. You work too hard—you young people should enjoy yourselves more.”

  * * * *

  Emil parked in front of a small ranch-style house on a block of other small ranch-style houses. Around us, men mowed lawns and hordes of children frolicked in the street. We piled out of the car and headed up the walk. At the house, a screen door opened and a thin, pale woman of about forty-five peered out.

  “Who,” she asked, “are you?”

  “The press,” Emil announced.

  Emil wore a yellow beanie, pink shirt, brown walking shorts and knee-length black socks. Mother Boone, with Bobby in her arms, was garbed in orange slacks and a purple blouse. Uncle Luke’s shirt hung outside his trousers, and Babette’s charms were advertised in a tight halter and snug Capri pants.

  “The press? You look like gypsies, but come in.”

  We filed into a modestly furnished living room, where Mother Boone swung Bobby to the floor.

  “I am a reporter,” Emil persisted. He flashed his press card. “Ryker, of the Express. I’d like to see Joseph Z. Smith.”

  A short, middle-aged, gray-haired man stepped in from the kitchen. “I’m Smith. What’s going on?”

  Wordlessly Emil grabbed Bobby under the arms and swung him up. Bobby stared at Smith and said, “It ain’t him.”

  “I ain’t who?”

  Emil put Bobby down. “Sorry. I’m working on the Bowser murder, and…”

  “I know.” Smith reddened. ‘We lived near her once. A Lieutenant Moberg was here last night—I’ll tell you what I told him. First, I never heard of Irene Bowser. Second, the night of the murder my wife and I were visiting our son in a hospital. Third, we left town to take him to a clinic.” He drew a deep breath. “I’ve got enough trouble, a thirteen-year-old boy with a blood disease, without being badgered by addle-brained reporters. So if you bother me again or print a word about me in your newspaper, I’ll personally
go to your office and wrap a two-by-four around your neck.”

  * * * *

  The party’s mood turned somber. Emil dropped the Boones off at their home.

  “Come in,” Mother Boone invited hopefully. “Ill fix gin coolers.”

  “No thanks.” For once Emil had lost his aplomb. He drove us back to the Metropolis parking lot, where Stash and I got out.

  I said, “It wasn’t a bad try, Emil. Moberg had the same idea.”

  “Yeah. Pete—what I did today wasn’t in good taste, was it? And neither was the way I fooled old DeLand. Just fun and games. No wonder the other guys on the paper resent me…”

  I groped for a diplomatic reply.

  Stash said, “You’re learning. To be a good reporter isn’t easy, and you are what you are. You have a nice style about you—don’t ruin it by doubting yourself. Just go on learning, light another cigar, and tell the world to climb a tree. Soon they’ll stop resenting you and start respecting you.”

  Those were the first words Stash had uttered during the trip. Emil looked at Stash for the first time.

  “Ill tell you something else,” Stash went on. “Watch out for Mother Boone and her skinny daughter. You think you have them fooled, but they know your only interest in them is your story. They’re leeches—they’ll try to get some of your money anyhow. Never be alone with Babette.”

  “I’ll be damned. You really think they’re wise to me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “for cutting me in on your lead anyhow. And since you’re the real estate expert, here’s a tip for you. In 1952 I think Irene lived in a rooming house on Hanover Street, where the junior college is now.”

  “That’s pretty vague, but I’ll look into it. Goodbye, Miss…”

  “Stash.”

  “Yeah, Stash.”

  Emil took off. Except for mine the only car still in the lot was the art directors, and as we stood there he walked from the building, threw us a wave and drove away.

  My weekend was free. The realization came as a surprise. Since taking this job I’d worked seven days a week, and on most days long into the night. I said, “Stash, can I drive you home? Or maybe…”