The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  He smiled. “Domestic relations?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “If it is, I’ll warn you. Nothing personal, but I never take domestic relations cases.”

  The lights flickered again. “I—oh, damn. They want us out, don’t they. I’d better find my guy.” She held out the glass. “You wouldn’t mind dropping this off, would you?”

  She hurried away. Wanted a husband followed probably. It was surprising and a little discouraging how many women he met at large social gatherings who wanted their husbands followed. Couldn’t get up the nerve to visit a detective agency during the harsh light of day, but after a few cocktails they were more than willing to unburden themselves.

  At the bar Rose Huff waited. Nothing pretentious about Rose, an immense woman who had come to this august gathering in a shapeless below-the-knees dress, flat-heeled shoes, and a floppy straw hat. From under it strands of graying hair jutted in glorious disorder.

  “You,” Rose said as he neared, “look like a man with a thirst. Bet you haven’t had a drink all night, so your head’ll be clear when you meet the big shots.”

  “Join me in one?”

  “Christ yes.”

  He ordered two bourbons neat. She was the late Victor Huff’s older sister, and he knew her drinking habits as well as she knew his. They’d worked long into many nights together getting out the Hoodlum Directory. Her presence had been required because nobody else could read Victor’s handwriting. He’d met Helen then too. A secretary in the advertising department at Jaraba’s newspaper plant, she’d been assigned to help them. He’d hired Helen away from Jaraba when his own secretary, a policeman’s bride, got pregnant.

  “It’s a big night,” Rose said, “for Jaraba. The Senator’s agreeing to the reception means Jaraba might win. I hear the Senator doesn’t like associating with losers.”

  “I sense a hint of sarcasm in that remark.”

  “Politicians. They’re all alike. Beats me why a nice boy like you wants to get mixed up with ’em.”

  “You’re here.”

  “Hell, you know why Jaraba invited me.” Their drinks came. Rose picked up hers and sipped. She was multi-chinned, with a round face, red cheeks, a turned-up nose, and small blue eyes on a level with Forbes’s. “I remind people of Victor and the Directory, how Jaraba’s vowed to stamp out crime. Balls. I went to grade school with Jaraba. He cheated on every test, but I don’t care. Confidentially, this lady-of-leisure routine’s wearing thin. I’m anxious for anyone’s company, even his.”

  “I thought you were looking forward to retiring—living off the proceeds of the sale of your secretarial service. Not to mention the income from those six-flats your father bought for peanuts during the Depression.”

  “So did I. But I’m only fifty-four. I didn’t know how long the days can be, nothing to do but sit around hoping someone calls—which nobody does. And with Victor gone now…” She shook her head. “I tried travel. Wound up in bars every night, arguing with strangers about the international situation. Damn it, I guess I’m just an old war horse. I’ll have to buy another business—your son here?”

  Rose, with nobody else to care for after Victor’s death, had developed an almost embarrassing interest in Forbes and Eric.

  “No. This isn’t his style, the men have haircuts.”

  “He’ll straighten out. But your letting him move into an apartment all his own isn’t helping the situation any.”

  Forbes raised his glass. Out in the corridor he spotted Alice Hemingway. Whomever she had come with, she wasn’t leaving with him. A fur wrap over broad shoulders, she waited at the elevator bank alone.

  * * * *

  Male voices floated into the hall from the Senator’s suite. Forbes rapped, and Barry Axburn let him in.

  Short and compact, a trim, bespectacled, balding cipher until you sensed the disciplined energy and ambition burning inside him, Axburn was in his late forties. Born a garbage collector’s son, he’d put himself through night law school while tending bar at a Loop restaurant favored by politicians. Law and politics were his life, and as a bachelor he could spend seven long days a week on both.

  “I was beginning to worry about you,” Axburn said calmly. He’d always be calm, even if noting the rate of fall of a nuclear bomb descending in his direction.

  “I’ll bet.” Forbes glanced over Axburn’s shoulder. “The suite’s loaded with VIPs, but the Senator insists on talking to me.”

  “Matter of fact, he did ask about you. And you know why. Come on.”

  They passed through a room in which about twenty men sat in low but animated conversation. Axburn opened another door.

  The Senator, in shirtsleeves, sprawled in a chair, a tumbler in his hand. Jaraba stood near a window. Also present were four of the Senator’s aides and a half-dozen Illinois politicians.

  “And on the open housing issue…” The Senator looked up. “Who’s this?”

  “Julian Forbes,” Axburn said.

  “Oh, sure.” Studying Forbes, sizing him up with an icy glance he never used on the speaker’s platform, the Senator waved his free hand. “Sit down. Have a drink?”

  Forbes pulled up a chair. Axburn leaned against the wall, arms folded.

  “Thanks.”

  Immediately it was forthcoming, poured by a Senatorial aide. A big splash of bourbon on an ice cube. If a potential President was willing to offer a drink, Forbes wasn’t about to refuse.

  Jaraba walked over rubbing his hands. Jaraba was enjoying himself immensely. Tall, fiftyish, and broad, with square features and carefully coiffured black hair, Jaraba was finally getting close to where he had always wanted to be—the seat of real political power.

  He said, “Julian, it’s set. The Senator’s given his okay. As of November you have an appointment as an investigator for his committee.”

  “Thanks very much,” Forbes said. “I’m—”

  “You should thank me,” the Senator drawled. “As a rule I want men with law degrees or proven records in law enforcement. You have neither. But I’m impressed by your qualifications nonetheless.”

  “You won’t regret it,” Jaraba said. “In his business Julian has the best reputation in town. Nothing but clean cases. He—”

  “As Ralph and Barry have told you,” the Senator went on, obviously not interested in a sales talk, “my crime committee will hold hearings here in December. National TV coverage. That’s still very confidential, but your first assignment for us will be to act as liaison with local law-enforcement agencies. After the hearings you’ll be based in Washington. And, of course, you understand that you’ll be expected to resign late next summer.”

  Late next summer, if all went as Axburn planned, Jaraba would be opening his gubernatorial campaign. Forbes would work in it full time helping run the campaign headquarters and occasionally running out to ward meetings as a backup speaker.

  “I understand.”

  “We’d like to start studying your files now. I’m told they contain a lot of material too unsubstantiated to print in the Directory. Tomorrow be all right? I know it’s Saturday…”

  “I’ll be out of town.” Forbes downed part of his drink. “But I’ll call my girl. She’ll meet your people at my office at one.”

  “Good. They’ll just haul the stuff away, make copies, and return your documents first thing Monday. We’ll study Huff’s files too. Well, welcome aboard.” That was in effect a dismissal. Forbes should finish his drink as soon as possible and get out of there. “The last issue of the Directory—I hear you did a very thorough job.”

  “Actually,” Forbes admitted, “there was nothing to it. Vic had set it up. All I did was check it out with routine sources. The police, sheriff, federal people, Illinois Crime Commission.”

  Jaraba said, “You see, Senator? I told you. That’s one of the things I like about Forbes. He’s mode
st.”

  Jaraba said that, but the impression he left was that he wished Forbes hadn’t been so modest.

  Axburn accompanied Forbes to the elevator. “Interesting evening,” the lawyer said.

  “Wasn’t it? But who kids who? I got the appointment because you and Jaraba pressured the Senator into it, in ways I can’t even imagine.”

  “Of course we did. Part of the game. Do a good job, and who cares? The Senator’ll respect competence. It’s a big step toward what you want, isn’t it? You’ve been telling me how you’re fed up with being a private investigator. Snooping into people’s lives, invading their privacy. How you’d like to use your talents in public service instead.”

  “Oh, I’m looking forward to it. But the way the Senator sloughed me off in there—”

  “You weren’t sloughed off. I’m surprised he asked to see you at all. He wants to be President. He has several dozen more people to meet tonight, all more important to him than your little appointment.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Julian, a year from this fall you’ll have at least a minor reputation in public service. Enough to justify Ralph’s appointing you to a post in his administration when he’s elected governor. He’d better be elected. I have a lot more riding on him than you do. After that all that can stop you is your ability. If I can steer Ralph into the governor’s mansion, I think I can keep him there a long time.”

  At the elevator bank Forbes shoved the down button.

  “By the way,” Axburn said, “I referred a potential client to you today. An old man named St. Clair. You take his case?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’d he want you to do?”

  “Ethics, remember?” Forbes said cordially. “What you got in mind? Fee splitting?”

  “Very funny,” Axburn replied, just as cordially. “But…”

  The elevator door opened. Forbes got in and said, “See you later.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Bill Curley peered through a tangle of underbrush. Below his vantage point, a wooded knoll west of Dubuque, Iowa, the surface of the pond where the dirt road through the pasture ended was unmarred by so much as a ripple.

  “No action yet,” Curley said. “You think he found another hole?”

  “It’s still early.” Sprawled beside him, Forbes glanced at his watch. “Nine-thirty.” Like Curley, Forbes wore fatigue pants, a fatigue jacket, a baseball cap, and work shoes. “Anyhow, he fished here yesterday, didn’t he? And the day before?”

  “Yeah.” Curley scowled. He was short and lean, with puckish features that made him look much younger than his twenty-nine years. Horn-rimmed glasses over apparently guileless blue eyes added to an outward air of innocence that was deceptive, to say the least. “And some waste of time, hauling us out here for footage of a few lousy bluegills. And suppose the farmer who owns this land comes along and finds us?”

  “I’ve got binoculars, you’ve got a movie camera. We’re bird watchers.”

  “But when our fisherman hears, he’ll know we’re not.”

  “Nobody’s found us yet, so relax.”

  Curley, the other half of Forbes & Associates, had once been a free-lance investigator, expert in the ways of cameras, bugs, and wiretaps. Forbes had used him for so many jobs that he’d finally put him on the payroll full time. Curley was also the world’s champion worrier. If he inherited a billion dollars, he’d worry about the inheritance tax; and if he drew a royal flush in a poker game, he’d be afraid the other players would suspect him of cheating. Not that he wouldn’t play the hand ruthlessly anyhow.

  Forbes rolled over and gazed at a cloudless sky. To hell with Curley. He had a lot to think about. The Senator and Jaraba. With Eric in his own apartment he could take that step now. Insane, the freedom that boy enjoyed. More of Elaine’s doing—she was spoiling him from the grave with her money. But for the first time in his adult life he was free too, free to do anything he liked. It’s why he’d fallen into that affair with Helen. He hadn’t known how to cope with freedom yet, and Helen had sensed that. In a subtle way she’d been the aggressor all along. He didn’t love her and he thought she knew it, a relationship which made him increasingly uncomfortable but which didn’t seem to bother her in the least.

  And also on Forbes’s mind was the matter of Walter St. Clair, the old man who wanted to know what had happened to a Rush Street waitress named Iris Dean. Poor old St. Clair. He should have done more for St. Clair before leaving for Iowa. And it was odd how Iris Dean’s clothes disappeared from the Dijon and the manager resisted the simplest questions. Oh, well. Helen probably had the whole thing wrapped up by now.

  “Hey,” Curley said. “Here they come.”

  A black Ford sedan rattled down the dirt road and stopped near the pond. A woman got out, hauled a collapsible wheelchair from the trunk, helped a man into it and wheeled him to the water’s edge. She went back for a fishing rod, bait can and camp chair.

  The man’s name was Felix Leek; the woman was his wife. An avid fisherman, Leek was in the wheelchair because he claimed he had permanently injured his spine in an automobile accident. However, the insurance company liable for damages thought Leek was faking the injury.

  Leek’s wife baited the hook, cast out the line, handed the rod to Leek and sat down to read.

  The sun climbed higher. Sweating, slapping at flies, Forbes and Curley waited.

  “It ever occur to you,” Curley mused, “that maybe Leek really is crippled? That we’ve been bird-dogging him on these fishing trips for nothing?”

  Intently, Forbes studied Leek through his binoculars.

  “Impossible. There’s no doubt about the company’s case. Leek’s a fraud, so’s the doctor who certified his alleged injury.”

  “For a guy in our business, you got peculiar attitudes. Never taking a case unless you’re sure the client’s right. And by the way, what’s with you, Axburn, and Jaraba? You’ve been huddling in corners for weeks now.”

  “Okay. You’re entitled to know.” Forbes put the binoculars down. “In November I go on the Senator’s staff. After that it’s Jaraba and Springfield, if he makes it. Even if he loses, I think I’ll be in a position then to land another government job. And not necessarily investigating crime either. That’s just a way to open the door. Ultimately I’d like to contribute to something more positive than putting people behind bars.”

  Curley’s scowl deepened. “You’ll junk the business you worked so hard to build up? Just because—”

  “No, not junk it. I thought I’d turn it over to you.”

  “Me?” The little investigator shook his head. “Hell, I can’t afford to buy you out. I guess I’ll go back to freelancing for those divorce lawyers. Or go in with my brother the tavernkeeper in that chicken farm he found up in Minnesota. We’re both fed up with the city. He wants lots of space for that big dog of his, and I always had a yen to—”

  “I’ve got news for you. You’d both hate chickens. And you’d go broke, the market’s glutted with ’em. We’ll work it out so you won’t need cash. I’ll take a percentage of the net until you’re established and can swing a bank loan. We’ll make it a partnership at first, effective now. Forbes and Curley. How’s that sound?”

  “Fine.” A note of uncertainty crept into Curley’s voice. “But you sure you really mean it? I’m just a mechanic, a mike-and-camera man.”

  “You can handle it. By January you’ll have an assistant of your own, it’ll be Curley and Associates.”

  “I’ll consider the offer,” Curley said. “But I still think…”

  Forbes raised the binoculars. “Stop thinking,” he ordered tersely, “and grab that damn camera.”

  Down at the pond Leek’s rod was bent nearly double. His line flashed to the right, left, and then away. Gleefully Leek shot out of the wheelchair. When the fish’s run ended, he began reeling in the line whi
le prancing along the bank like a happy colt, ignoring shrieks from his wife, who followed him and pointed frantically to the wheelchair.

  Forbes asked, “You getting this?”

  “Damn right,” Curley replied. “He must’ve hooked a three-pound bass. And won’t our clients have a ball when they see him land it.”

  An hour later Curley trudged across the highway to a restaurant while Forbes called his office from their motel unit.

  “Helen? We’re cleaned up here. We’ll drive back this afternoon, but I’ll stop at the insurance company first. What’s going on?”

  “The Senator’s men brought those files back this morning. They said the Senator extends his thanks, he’ll write a letter to that effect.”

  “Fine. We’ll hang it alongside Jaraba’s autographed picture. What’s with Iris Dean?”

  In the adjoining unit a man sneezed. That would be one of the hunters. There were five in the party. They’d arrived Saturday morning in two cars not long after Forbes and Curley had pulled in. Neither car had been at the motel when the investigators returned with their film of Leek, so the hunters must have just returned too.

  “Mr. St. Clair,” Helen said, “is becoming a nuisance. He’s phoned three times already asking for a report. I told him all reports have to come from you.”

  “Good girl. What’d you find out?”

  “She’s disappeared, all right. No record of her arriving in Vegas or taking a plane there Tuesday, the day she checked out of her hotel. I drew a blank at the hotel and the Go-Go, but there are three things you should know. First, she has an arrest record.”

  Forbes picked up the phone, strolled to the window, and peered through the slats of the Venetian blind. Four of the five hunters were ambling across the road toward the restaurant where Curley waited.

  “What for?”

  “Prostitution. In Gary, four years ago. Let off with a fine.”

  “The second thing?”

  “She has a kid sister, Carmelle. A file clerk for a publishing house in New York.”