The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  “No, I still have things to do.” We strolled toward the Metropolis building. “You were thinking of asking me out?” She smiled. “To a park or a zoo perhaps where we’d just walk and talk, and you’d hold my hand?”

  “You’re pretty outspoken.”

  “If we went to a park I’d expect you to hold my hand. You think I’d go there just to see swans in the lagoon?” At the foot of the stairs we stopped. “But I’m not sure yet I want to hold hands with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Many reasons. One is you’ve been working hard and you’re fatigued—you’re not thinking clearly. For a week I’m about the only girl you’ve seen, and if you held my hand you’d get other notions. I’m tired too—I might agree they’re nice notions, so I suggest you do what I’ll do. Go home, eat a light supper, take a cold shower and then get plenty of sleep.”

  Stash turned and hiked up the stairs, her skirt swinging. The door was locked. She had to open it with her key.

  * * * *

  Feeling strangely at odds with myself, I drove home. The job was finished. Whether Sam printed my article or not, I’d done all I could to ease my conscience about Irene. The question now was: Where did I go from here?

  Could I work for Farrar? No, not unless he told me who owned Metropolis. Even then I had reservations. He was an enigma—I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to be known as another of Farrar’s Foundlings, and I sort of yearned to get back into the newspaper business.

  As usual there was no place on my block to park. I circled it. The second time around it struck me that a black Cadillac wedged between two compacts seemed familiar. A woman slumped behind the wheel, her head covered by a turban-like green hat;

  I pulled abreast of the Cadillac and braked.

  Joanna Reinholt looked up. Her nose and the upper part of her face were covered with bandages. Under her hat, I could see that bandages were wrapped completely over her head.

  “It’s about time,” Joanna said, “you showed up.”

  “What happened?”

  “They know.”

  “Who knows what? And how did you hurt yourself?”

  “I didn’t hurt myself—they hurt me. They know who I am and that I’ve been talking to you.” She started her car. “I’ll pull out of this spot—you pull in. Then you drive—I can hardly see straight. Let’s get a drink.”

  * * * *

  Joanna heisted a double martini. The lounge was nearly empty, and the men at the bar stared numbly at a television set on which the home team was getting clobbered.

  “You know something?” Joanna asked. “I haven’t had one of these in twelve years.” She tipped the glass and drained half of it in a gulp.

  “Who hurt you?”

  “Professionals. Two men wearing sharp suits and shiny shoes. I saw plenty like them in the old days. Mechanics, doing a job.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Thursday night. I was alone in the office. They walked in and one of them pulled the blind and locked the door. I reached for the phone and the other said, ‘Don’t call anyone yet, Mavis. We just want to talk before you go to the hospital.’”

  Joanna put a cigarette between her lips. I held out a match; the cigarette’s tip wobbled crazily. She was still on the thin edge of hysteria.

  “All along,” she added, “they called me ‘Mavis,’ the name I’d used as a call girl. They said certain people were sore at me for talking to you. I tried to deny it but they knew all about our last meeting. They even mentioned how you took the box of Irene’s stuff from my car.”

  “Then they must have followed you to the meeting place. I think my precautions would have thrown them off.”

  “Don’t be too sure. They’re professionals at that too—you’re just an amateur.” Joanna was right of course. “They said they were going to teach me a little lesson. A little lesson, they called it. They said when I got out of the hospital, I should tell you that if your article appears the police and every paper in town will get letters identifying me as Irene’s old friend, and detailing my arrest record for prostitution in other cities.”

  “I see. Through you, they’re trying to pressure me not to run the story.”

  “You catch on fast. And they said if the story does appear, they’ll find me after the police let me go and teach me a big lesson.” Joanna drank some more. “That’s when they did it. I was at my desk. One of them grabbed my hair and slammed my face down on the desk top. Then the other smashed a vase over my head. I was unconscious about half an hour, and when I came to I called a cab and dragged myself outside. The cab took me to a hospital…

  “You didn’t tell the police about this?”

  “How could I? I said I fell. The people at the hospital were dubious, but it was my story and I stuck to it. They shot me full of stuff to kill the pain, put me to bed and didn’t let me out until a few hours ago.”

  “Joanna, this should convince you that the only sensible thing is to see Lieutenant Moberg.”

  “Oh, no. Not after all I’ve been through. And what would those two guys do to me then?”

  “Be calm. Let’s…”

  “Calm?” She finished her drink. “Ames, this agreement of ours—I upheld my part of it. Yours was to protect my identity. Well, the way it’s working out, the only way you can do that is not to run the article.”

  “It isn’t my decision. The story belongs to Metropolis”

  “But if you don’t give it to them they couldn’t print it, could they? I don’t know what they’re paying you, but all of a sudden your article is worth a lot of money to me. If…”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  “I guess not.” Joanna stared at her empty glass sullenly. “You’re a lot like Irene. Honest to the core. I sensed that when you walked in—it’s why I proposed our deal.”

  “Thanks.” I sought for a way to put her at ease. “You know, those two men could be bluffing.”

  “Bluffing? You think a busted nose and a cracked skull are a bluff?”

  “It could be part of one. Whoever ordered you beaten doesn’t want the story to appear. Presumably if it does appear, he’d prefer that as few people as possible see it. But if the article appears and he does the things he threatened, hell create ten times more publicity about the article than otherwise. If you’re exposed and then beaten again, that issue of Metropolis would be a sellout He’d be defeating his own purpose.”

  “Maybe. I’d hate to take the chance. But no matter what happens you know what this means, don’t you? I’m finished in this town.”

  “Not if you keep your nerve.”

  “Ames, someone knows. Those two hoodlums know, and heaven knows who else. I’ve got to salvage what I can here and start in another location.”

  “That’s pretty drastic.”

  “I’ve half expected it sooner or later, so don’t brood about it. Who makes the decisions at this magazine of yours?”

  “The editor. Sam Farrar.”

  “Let’s talk to him. If those thugs know who I am, it won’t make much difference now if he knows. I want him to realize what he’ll be doing to me if he prints that thing. It’s not just that they might beat me again. If I’m exposed, I’ll lose every cent I’ve invested in my business and my name will be so dirtied I’ll never be able to get another start.”

  “All right,” I said, “if you’re sure that’s the way you want it”

  In a phone booth, I looked up Farrar’s home and tried that. Nobody answered. I tried Metropolis. Stash might know where to find Sam, but nobody answered there either. I tried Stash’s apartment. Again no answer.

  I went back and said, “Look, this might take time. I’m supposed to confer with Sam on Monday anyhow. Why don’t I take you home and…”.”

  “Not me. I won’t stay in that house alone—I’m afraid.”

 
“That’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s your opinion. Ames, I’ve just decided. I want to see your editor and then get on a plane and go away until this thing is settled, one way or another. But I’ve only got six dollars in my purse. I’ll have to go home first. I’ve got some cash stashed away there. Then I’m putting myself in your hands.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes. You and Farrar and Metropolis. You got me into this. Now protect me—I can’t trust anyone else. From now on I’m your responsibility.” As she rose she managed a wry smile. “I got a hunch you’re not so happy any more with our little agreement.”

  “Frankly,” I admitted, “I’m not.”

  “That’s tough.”

  Joanna lived in a neat little split-level set off from neighboring homes by high growths of shrubbery. We went there so she could pack a bag and shake out her piggy bank.

  While she packed, I got on the phone again. Sam still didn’t answer and neither did Stash. I couldn’t keep Joanna at my apartment, so I dialed Connie.

  “Pete? How’s the story?”

  “All finished. I…”

  “Wonderful. I was hoping you’d be through by now, I kept tonight open. Let’s celebrate.”

  “Maybe we will. But first, could you put someone up in your apartment for a while? As a personal favor?”

  “I guess so.” Connie seemed reluctant. “Who is it? And for how long?”

  “It’s—it’s my aunt, and I don’t know for how long. Maybe just a few hours, maybe overnight—it depends on a lot of things.”

  “All right.”

  “We’ll be there soon.”

  I hung up. The bit about the aunt had been a clumsy last-minute improvisation, but at this point the less Connie knew the better.

  Joanna wandered in. “Look what I found.” She dropped a big carton to the floor. “More of Irene’s stuff. I forgot this batch—it was in a closet.”

  I poked through the carton, which held more dresses, hats, and old purses. At the bottom I spotted a gift box encased by a rubber band. I slipped the band off and removed the top.

  The box contained a tiny blue .22 revolver, small enough to be concealed in a man’s hand. Its seven chambers were all loaded with shorts.

  I held up the gun. “You know about this?”

  “I’ll be darned. Gabe gave it to Irene, during a wave of burglaries near the Towers, but she was scared to death of it. So am I—drop it in a pail of water or something…”

  I put it back in the box, replaced the rubber band and shoved the box into my pocket. Of course if those two hoods turned up again, I didn’t really plan to use the gun. Joanna and I would be running too fast.

  Before we left I tried once more to reach Stash or Farrar, without success. Joanna helped me load her bags into the Cadillac and then I told her she would stay for a while with a girl I knew. She balked, but I reminded her she’d placed herself in my hands—it was either that or I’d leave her alone in Hilldale.

  We reached Connie’s apartment building a little after five. Connie lived on the top floor of a three-story walkup, and when she opened her door she gazed at Joanna’s bandaged face in a bewildered way.

  “Your aunt?”

  “That’s right. Aunt Joanna, meet Connie.”

  “Hi, honey.” Joanna walked to a sofa. “Pete, why don’t you go back to the car and get the little blue bag? My cigarettes are in it.”

  Connie said, “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “Anything at all. Just don’t dilute it.”

  Wearily, I hiked downstairs. Joanna was becoming a problem, and she was spawning other problems. First, Connie would have to be told the truth. Second, if I didn’t find Farrar soon I’d have to make some provision for supper. I didn’t want to take Joanna and Connie to a restaurant, and…

  Those problems were forgotten. I had a new one—Sid Kells: As I stepped into the street he was strolling around Joanna’s Cadillac, examining it with great interest. He looked up and smiled, the picture of a man vastly pleased with himself.

  “Hello, kid. This your aunt’s car? The one with the Hilldale sticker?”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “I been looking for you.” He leaned against the Cadillac, arms folded. “You know that lead you gave me about Ox River? Well, Moberg told me he didn’t come up with a thing. So far the Missouri lead’s a bust too. I wanted to tell you and sort of hash over the case; there were a few things I couldn’t mention in front of Hargrove last night. You didn’t answer your phone and weren’t at Metropolis so I called Connie. She said you were bringing your aunt here.”

  “Well, I did.”

  “Uh-huh. Only when we sat next to each other at the Express you never mentioned an aunt in Hilldale. I watched you drive up a few minutes ago. What happened to her face?”

  “She fell”

  “I bet she’s a looker, though. She a brunette?”

  I sighed. “Okay, Sid. Let’s stop sparring.”

  “Sure. I know you’ve been getting exclusive information about Irene from somewhere. So do some other people. Deuce and Hargrove have both been nagging me about the tips I’ve been relaying to Moberg—they’ve figured out were working together. And after what I just saw I think you’ve been getting your stuff from Irene’s old friend, the Mystery Woman, the good-looking brunette who drove an expensive black car. Who owns this bus?” I didn’t answer. He shrugged. “It don’t make no difference. I can find out in a few minutes by checking the license number against the registration book at the Bureau. And then…”

  “It’s true,” I admitted. “But I promised to protect her identity no matter what. She doesn’t know anything about Irene’s murder, and she’s already gone through hell. You can’t splash her name all over the front page just for a one-day sensation. As for what she told me—it’s part of our deal. You’ll see the proof of my story a day before it’s published.”

  “You promised to protect her identity, I didn’t. Whether or not she knows about the murder, why not let the cops decide?” Apologetically, Sid looked down at the tips of his shoes. “As for the one-day sensation—I know how you feel, but confidentially I could use a sensation of any kind real bad right now. Even before that incident with DeLand, Murray as much as told me I’d better find another job by the end of the year. Working for a newspaper means a lot to me; if I could come up with a big break in the Bowser case on my own time, certain people might have second thoughts.”

  “Look—I’ll take you into my confidence all the way. Come upstairs and hear her story. I don’t care how much you need an exclusive—you won’t want this on your conscience. You know how she got those bandages? Two hoodlums worked her over for talking to me, but this means so much to her she still won’t go to the police.”

  Kells seemed mildly impressed. “Whose hoodlums were they?”

  “I don’t know. If you persuaded her to describe them, maybe you’ll recognize them.”

  “I’ll go. But I still ain’t promising anything…” I hauled Joanna’s bag out of the car and we went back upstairs, where Joanna waited at the door, a glass in her hand.

  She eyed Sid warily, and asked, “Who’s this? Your editor?”

  “No. His name’s Kells. He’s a reporter for the Express.”

  Joanna dropped the glass.

  Kells said, “Hi, baby. Pete says you’re the Mystery Woman. Tell your Uncle Sid all about it…”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The muscles in Farrar’s jaw tightened. “Blackmail, that’s what it is. I’ve never knuckled under to blackmail in my life.” His eyes narrowed. “You understand, Miss Reinholt, that what you’re asking goes beyond your agreement with Pete. It was implicit that no matter what else happened we’d publish the story.”

  “I guess so.” Uneasily Joanna lit a cigarette. It was nine o’clock. I’d finally reached Farrar at his
apartment and he’d come right over.

  Earlier, Kells had questioned Joanna while Connie just listened, a worried expression on her face. During Joanna’s recital I phoned for pizza and beer. Now all of us except Sid had coffee cups on our laps. Sid’s hand was wrapped around another beer can and he slumped in an easy chair, gazing at Joanna in a speculative way.

  “The thing is,” she said to Farrar, “you can afford to talk tough. If you don’t knuckle under, you won’t be hurt but I will.”

  “Maybe. I’m inclined to agree with Pete, though. I think it’s a bluff—they won’t hurt you any more. However, I haven’t seen the final version of his story. I don’t know if I’d print it under any circumstances.” Farrar turned to me. “Before we go further—Pete, what’s your opinion? Assuming I like your story, should I print it or not?”

  Uncomfortably, I squirmed. Damn Farrar anyhow. “It’s an involved situation. On the one hand, the police aren’t looking for Joanna to expose her as an ex-call girl. All they want is information about Irene to help them find her murderer. From that point of view, my making a deal with Joanna may have been a mistake.”

  “Agreed. But you did make the deal.” Farrar winked. “And in your place I would have too. Everything’s falling apart now, though, so what next?”

  “All right.” I paused. “This story means a lot to me. Also I’m sore at being blackmailed, but on balance I think enough people have been dragged through the mud already. Look at what happened to Nalon and Nightingale, and that’s nothing compared to what the newspapers will do to Joanna, even if those thugs never lay another hand on her. My story isn’t that important, so if I were you, Sam, I wouldn’t run it.”

  “I admire your compassion. But your editorial judgment is lousy.”

  “You mean,” Joanna asked, “you’ll print it anyway?”

  “Frankly,” Sam replied easily, “I just don’t know. I want to see it first, but if I like it I think I’ll print it and play a little game of brinkmanship with whoever hired those thugs. Sid, you recognize either of them from Joanna’s description?”

  “I think so. Like Joanna said, a strictly-for-hire guy. He was picked up a year ago, when he was on a loan shark’s payroll.”