The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  We stared at one another, and I realized I’d lost.

  “Very well.” I struggled to my feet. “Congratulations, you’ve scored quite a beat. Go into town, get your friend and call the Journal. Tell their desk what you know and I’m sure you’ll be hired at more than we were paying you. But if you don’t mind, I’m driving back to the city to consult my lawyers before I turn myself in to Moberg. And of course I’ll alert my own desk…”

  “Hold on. We have plenty of time. My friend won’t go to the sheriff until six, and I agree that, if we can bring the killer in, it would justify all the new scandal.”

  “True enough. But until the blackmailer calls…”

  “Maybe we won’t have to wait that long.” Ames sat back down, his lean face pursed in concentration.

  “Assuming you’ve told the truth, I’ve just thought of someone else who might have murdered Irene. And as far as Jax is concerned—Good Lord, it might have been my manuscript after all, just as Moberg suggested. Jax was murdered because the killer had to destroy…”

  Ames looked up, his eyes very bright. “Let’s go back to the beginning. Irene came to the Express. You weren’t there, so she went to work and then home, where she was murdered. I still don’t buy the idea that a casual prowler killed her and stole the envelope. So if you didn’t do it, the killer is someone who knew she visited the Express with something to sell, and who knew, or could have learned, that she lived at 1524 Grace. Only one person meets those qualifications. Hale, a moment ago you said Irene would phone and ask you to do little favors. My prime source on Irene guessed those favors were being done by a neighbor at the Towers, but tell me—was one of them a request to fix a traffic ticket?”

  “Yes. With the sloppy record system the court had at the time, it was easy.”

  “You did it yourself?”

  “Of course not. It’s so long ago, I don’t even recall if I was managing editor then. In any event I’m sure I just left a note with the desk, to be relayed to the police beat man. Hargrove had the beat when I returned from Korea. He quit when Sam got sick. Kells had it temporarily, but he was hopeless so we gave Deuce a shot at it. It could have been any of those three.”

  “Uh-huh. But something tells me it was Sid. In those days did he drive an old yellow Chrysler with a red bubble on top?”

  “He did. He wanted to live up to the tradition that our police reporters drive flashy cars. Later it was repossessed, and there was a hassle over the bubble too. Since it wasn’t an emergency vehicle, the department finally got him to remove it.”

  “That figures. My source was with Irene when he picked up the ticket. When she saw Kells again nine years later he reminded her of someone, only she decided it was her Uncle Gus. Hale, I think Sid murdered Irene and Herman Jax.”

  “But why? He had no motive. And even if he wanted to kill her, how would he know where to find her?”

  “As for motive—for all practical purposes, he’d already been fired. You told him he’d be let go at the end of the year. So there he was, the man with the photographic memory, listening as I described the kook I’d met in the reception room. He bawled me out for letting her escape. Then he and a photographer left to cover a food show. I watched from the window and as Sid walked out of the building, Irene drove right past him. He saw Irene, when she stopped at the exit from the parking lot.”

  “So what?”

  “One glance and he’d know she was the woman I’d just told him about, the one with something in an envelope to sell for five thousand dollars. And with his memory for faces, maybe he also recalled her as the woman you asked him to fix a ticket for. Ordinarily you didn’t have the police man fix tickets, did you? Particularly for call-girl types in fancy apartments?”

  “I practically never fixed them for anyone.”

  “Okay, at that point Sid might begin suspecting Irene came to the Express to see you, not to sell the paper a story. And if what was in the envelope gave her a hold over you, it might give him one too. Enough power, at least, to enable him to keep his job, which means everything to him. As Irene drove off, he had plenty of time to see her license number. He went to the Food Show, where he conned a press agent into giving him a big jar of fish. Then Totten sent him to the Bureau to follow some Japanese officials around. While there, he’d have no trouble checking Irene’s license number against the registration book, learning her address. From headquarters, he went off duty.”

  “To Irene’s apartment?”

  “Let’s assume he did, with that jar in his pocket. I’m sure he didn’t plan to kill her, but if he bluffed his way in somehow, she might have lost her head. She was afraid of being alone with strange men. If they struggled and the jar was smashed, it would explain why the killer turned on the gas. It wasn’t to make the murder appear suicide; it was to cover one odor with another. Hells didn’t want the police to walk into that apartment and smell fish. That might remind me that Sid Kells, one of the few people who knew Irene visited the Express, had a jar of fish in his pocket that evening. And later, Kells had to put his sports coat and the remains of that jar into a shopping hag. The coat would have been stained and reeking, and he wouldn’t dare leave a broken jar of Lulu’s Pride in Irene’s trash can.”

  “And Jax?”

  “The final version of my story mentioned the ticket incident. Any old-time newsman or police officer would have identified Kells as the fixer. So would Sam, who was to see the final version Monday morning. He’d wonder why Sid’s memory failed so suddenly, especially since the Express sent Kells to the Towers, the very place he’d picked up the ticket, to check the report Irene lived there once. If Sid didn’t have an alibi for the murder…”

  “That’s right.” Behind us Kells stepped from a clump of bushes, a .45 automatic in his right hand.

  His face was flushed and his eyes were glassy and unblinking. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “I’ve got no alibi,” he went on. “The Boone kid might identify me, and if the cops searched my place they’d find enough to hang me.”

  Ames looked up, apparently quite calm.

  “That was your car? The green sedan parked up the road this morning?”

  “Yeah. And this is what I’ll really regret. But there’s no other way out, it’s my last chance to save myself…”

  As Kells spoke, I noted that Ames was slowly moving his right hand toward his right trouser pocket. But whatever Ames planned to do, he didn’t have a chance.

  The .45 boomed once.

  With the impact of the heavy slug, Ames flopped backward, rolled over, and lay still. From under him, blood forked onto the grass…

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Kells came nearer, carefully holding the .45 in front of him at eye-level, the muzzle pointed at my midsection. Apparently he knew enough about handguns to realize that even at close range, it takes careful aim to be sure of a hit.

  “I had to do that,” Kells said, “right away. Otherwise I might have changed my mind. Ames was a good kid, and a good reporter too. He learned more about Irene than anyone else, and when he wrote that story he forced my hand.” Sid licked his lips. “But I won’t have any regrets about killing you. If you hadn’t decided to fire me, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “You overheard our conversation?”

  “Most of it.” Kells glanced at Ames. “Take a look at him.”

  I walked to where Ames lay, kneeled, and rolled him over. The boy’s eyes were shut and the front of his shirt was matted with blood. The slug had caught him low in the left shoulder. It would require more than a superficial examination to determine if the wound itself would be fatal. I detected a faint pulse, but one thing was sure: even if no vital organs were damaged, Ames would bleed to death if he didn’t get help soon.

  Kells was standing about five yards behind me and to my left. My back shielded Ames. And at that moment Ames opened his eyes. Wit
h great effort his lips moved. He whispered, “Gun—in my pocket.”

  His eyes closed, and his body went limp.

  The gun, I assumed, was in Ames’ right-hand pocket. He had been reaching for that when Kells shot him. But Kells had moved nearer. If I fumbled for the gun now, he could cut me down easily.

  The main thing at the moment was to distract Kells from Ames. If he realized Ames was still alive, he might risk attracting attention by putting another bullet into him, and Ames would lose his last chance of survival.

  As calmly as I could, I said, “He’s dead. Look at all that blood. I saw plenty like him in Korea…” Apparently Kells didn’t want to see the blood. His eyes remained fixed on me.

  “Drag him behind those bushes.”

  “Don’t be a fool. You can’t…”

  “I can. That’s why he had to die first. Then you. It’ll look as though he had the goods on you, you knocked him off and then killed yourself. Even without a suicide note, I think it’ll hold up. You had the obvious motive for killing Irene. Later, I’ll plant the envelope somewhere around your home where the cops will find it.”

  “That won’t explain Jax’s murder.”

  “Who cares? The police can’t connect Jax with Irene—they’ll just think one of his old enemies did it. They’ll stop investigating Irene’s murder, I’ll be twenty thousand bucks ahead, and your mother-in-law will take over the Express. She might even let me keep my job.

  C’mon, move…

  I got up, grabbed Ames under the arms and dragged him into the brush. When we reached a thicket, I dropped him and rolled him over again and took that opportunity to grope for the gun.

  I found a revolver all right, but it was only a tiny .22 loaded with shorts. A hit in anything but a vital spot wouldn’t even slow a man, and a weapon this small would be woefully inaccurate. Unless I took very deliberate aim I might not hit Kells at all, and to be sure of a one-shot kill I’d probably have to aim when he was unaware. At the moment he was still about five yards behind me, his powerful automatic pointed at my back.

  I straightened, the gun concealed in my right hand.

  “Which,” Kells asked, “is the cabin where you stayed when you visited Irene?”

  “Number Nine. I think it’s still standing.”

  “Let’s go there.”

  We hiked to the cabin. Kells continued to trail me by about five yards. The temptation to whirl and fire was almost overpowering but I forced myself to wait, hoping I’d get a better chance later for just one good shot.

  The cabin’s door hung open. Dust covered the floor, and vandals had smashed the windows. There was no furniture.

  “Siddown.”

  I sat, my hands at my sides, the tiny .22 still concealed by my right palm. Kells still hovered behind me.

  “It won’t be for a few minutes yet. I want the medical examiner to be damn sure Ames died first, and then you. When they find you someone might even remember that this is where you shacked up with her.”

  “Sid, why’d you do it? Was your job that important, that you’d kill for it?”

  “Shuddup.”

  “Oh, come on. What difference would it make to tell me now?”

  At first he was reluctant, but I finally got him to talk. He said he got into Irene’s apartment by posing as Sergeant Muldoon of the hit-and-run squad, investigating a fatality involving a car of the same year, make and color as hers. The envelope was on a coffee table. Kells sat near it and asked who could verify her whereabouts at the time of the supposed accident. Irene turned her back to find Mrs. Carmody’s home phone number, and Kells opened the envelope and tipped it. A copy of the Ox River Bugle slid into view.

  One glance at the picture and story, and Kells knew why she’d come to the Express.

  Irene saw him then and yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  She ran to him and shoved the Bugle into the envelope. He said, “Relax, baby. Who else knows you had a child by Murray Hale?”

  “Not a soul,” she said, “and it’s none of your business either.”

  He said, “Don’t flip. I know all the angles, and between us we’ll take him for a lot more than five grand.”

  She said, “If you know I want five thousand, you’re not a cop.”

  She ran for the door. Kells went after her and wrestled her down, one hand over her mouth and the other on her throat. He claimed his only purpose was to prevent her from going outside and screaming for help.

  “Even if I got away,” he told me, “the cops questioning her would peg me as ‘Sergeant Muldoon.’ The story of what was in the envelope would come out, making it worth nothing. I’d be fired without severance, leaving me broke and in debt, and I’d be charged with impersonating an officer, assault, and God knows what else. I said, ‘Take it easy. I don’t wanna hurt you, but you can’t run outside.’ But she kept fighting and I kept pleading, and squeezing her throat more. When she stopped struggling and I took my hand away, I didn’t have to be an M.D. to see she was dead. I didn’t want to kill her, see, but she wouldn’t listen…”

  Ames had been right about the fish. The jar was crushed; brine was already seeping through the bag. Kells poured the brine down the sink, but this left a strong odor.

  To cover it, he dragged Irene to the oven and turned on the gas. And he found a large shopping bag in a closet, and put his coat, the envelope, and the sack with the remains of the jar of Lulu’s Pride in that.

  In addition to the Bugle, the envelope contained pictures of the boy and some letters I’d written Irene. He sweated it out for a day or so, wondering if I’d go to the police myself. When I didn’t, he decided to blackmail me anonymously, since with a homicide involved a direct approach would be too dangerous. At least he’d have enough cash to live comfortably for a few years after the Express let him go. And if the truth about me and Irene remained concealed, he could go on bleeding me for the rest of his life.

  Kells got his first twenty thousand from me, and after Ames passed on a tip about Ox River, he phoned Leroy and began monitoring the material in Ames’ wastebasket, fearing Ames may have learned about the baby. Saturday morning, as Ames was finishing his story, Kells spotted a paragraph mentioning the ticket-fixer. He knew then he had to steal the article before Monday, when Farrar would see it. He armed himself with a .38, one of several unregistered handguns he’d acquired while on the police beat, and went to Metropolis to study the building for a way in. Ames brought Wanda Stashonis there; a while later she left, locking the door. Then Herman Jax emerged from a car, climbed the steps with a briefcase under his arm, unlocked the door with the key he’d obtained from Leroy, the Metropolis handyman, and went inside.

  Kells guessed the purpose of Jax’s visit. And when Jax emerged, the briefcase much fatter, he was waiting at the foot of the stairs.

  He said, “Hi, Herman. This’ll make a nice headline—‘D.A.’s Man Burgles Magazine.’ Unless, of course, you let me see Pete’s article too. We’re all curious about it, and I’d hate for the Express to be scooped by a kid…”

  Jax was angry, but agreed to let Kells take notes on the story at his agency. They drove there in Jax’s car. On the way Kells read the article, hoping Ames had deleted the paragraph from the final version, but the Chrysler incident was still in it. That meant he’d have to murder Jax, who would have recalled the garish car Sid drove as a police reporter. Nevertheless, Sid said he couldn’t muster the courage to do it until Jax sat down to read the article himself. Kells stepped behind him then and fired twice. Before leaving, he rifled Jax’s files to confuse the police. He dumped most of the files in a trash can, tossed the gun down a sewer and burned Ames’ manuscript and notes.

  Then Kells set out to find Ames.

  “I wanted to be with Pete when he learned the article was gone,” Kells explained. “If Sam ordered him to rewrite, I’d have to kill Pete too. But all
of a sudden he took off, saying he’d consult Lady Bountiful about a new story. That made it plain he was coming here, where he’d find evidence linking you and Irene. I rented a car and got here first, but he showed up with Connie Thurlow. I couldn’t kill her, so I just tracked ’em. When he came back to the resort alone to wait for someone, it dawned on me he was waiting for you. If so, it occurred to me this was the one way to end the investigation for good…” Ominously Kells fell silent.

  I asked, “Sid, why couldn’t you kill Connie? You must…”

  “Be quiet.”

  From outside the drone of insects, the chattering of birds, and the rustle of leaves in the wind filtered into the little cabin. Those things, and something else. A scraping sound…

  I said, “You’re a little on edge, Sid. I don’t hear anything. But getting back to Connie…”

  Incredibly, a heavy object thudded against the roof and bounded to the ground.

  Kells snarled, “Don’t move.”

  He brushed past me to peer out of one of the broken windows. The .45 was still pointed in my direction, but as he craned his neck for a better view, his eyes left me.

  It was now or never. I estimated the range at perhaps six yards. With my right thumb I cocked the little revolver. Then I brought it up and rested it on my knee, aiming at Sid’s neck. A gun this tiny would probably throw the bullet high, and if I judged properly I just might hit his head.

  I squeezed the trigger.

  In the confines of the cabin, the muzzle blast of that little .22 short was unexpectedly loud…

  EPILOGUE

  Joanna Reinholt sighed and dropped Murray Hale’s statement to the table.

  “Ames,” she said, “you were pretty lucky. If Hale had missed…”

  “But he didn’t. He got Kells with that shot, a fatal head wound. And a few minutes later, I was lying in the back of his car. He used first-aid to curb the bleeding from my wound before driving me to the hospital in Stark.”

  You’d never know Joanna’s face had been smashed once by hoodlums. Plastic surgery had restored the clean lines I’d first seen when I found her in her real estate agency in Hilldale.