“Iris,” Ladislaw went on, bellowing to make himself heard over the music, “was a funny kid. Cordial, but she never mixed. As though she didn’t wanna make friends here. She walked in one day last fall. She’d just quit Len Powell’s restaurant and heard I had an opening. Then outa the blue she gave notice and I paid her off. Big job in Vegas. Boyfriend found it, but I never met her boyfriends. I knew she hustled on the side, but she was careful. Did it on her own time, not here.”
“What kind of employee was she?”
“No trouble, except she took too much time off. Last month, a whole week. But I liked her. Even talked her into tryin’ out as a dancer. She did miserable. No sensa rhythm. Fell all over herself, but she took it good-natured. Said, ‘Thanks, Gus, but I’ll never get rich that way.’ Gettin’ rich, that was the thing with her. Told me once she wanted dough more than anything, but didn’t know how to get it. The only way’d be to marry a rich man, but no rich mail’d go down the aisle with a dumb farm girl like her.”
“Know anything about her sister?”
“She never mentioned one.”
“She has one. Carmelle. The sister’s dropped out of sight too.”
“I’ll be damned.” From the way he said it, Ladislaw couldn’t have cared less.
His employees weren’t much help either. After Forbes talked to a few, Ladislaw accompanied him to the street. This block of Rush was jammed with bars, restaurants, and exotic shops; and traffic moved along the brightly lit, narrow thoroughfare at a crawl.
“Sorry,” Ladislaw said, “we couldn’t do you no good.” He kept looking away from Forbes, studying the people on the sidewalk, especially the people who strolled near them. It was curious how Ladislaw avoided Forbes’s gaze and how he seemed worried about who might be watching them.
“Over there,” Gus said, pointing. “Iris stopped at that bar sometimes before going home. And there’s a kinky dress shop on the next block where—”
“Has anyone else,” Forbes cut in, “been asking about her?”
“I got a few calls,” Gus replied vaguely. “Boyfriends, I guess. I wouldn’t tell ’em much over the phone. And one yesterday morning from a woman. She said she owed Iris money, did I know where to find her.” He paused. “Say, I know how you guys work. Was that your secretary? The one who got killed?”
“On this case she wasn’t supposed to have used a trick like that. But yes, I’m sure that was Helen.”
“Well, I brushed her off too. Hung up on her. I wish now I’d been nicer, I…” Ladislaw came to some sort of decision and looked at Forbes. “You been to Len Powell’s yet? The place Iris worked before here?”
“No.”
“Don’t quote me, but I always wondered why Iris quit Len’s. She could make lots more dough there than with me. And that’s what Iris wanted most to do—make dough.”
* * * *
Len Powell had been operating expensive restaurants in Chicago for nearly three decades. His latest was housed in a canopied three-story brownstone on a side street west of Rush. Len’s profile—thick shock of white hair, long nose, and a wide mouth grinning over a jutting jaw—was etched in black on the swinging glass doors.
Forbes strolled into a carpeted foyer and checked his hat with a blond girl in a low-cut corset, black net hose, and high heels. He turned to find he was being approached by Powell himself. Clad in a dinner jacket, the restaurateur moved out from what was apparently the main dining room.
“You’re Julian Forbes, aren’t you?” A remarkably quick observation. Powell smiled, and his grip was predictably firm. “I don’t suppose you remember, but you dined in my old place on Wabash once. You were with Ralph Jaraba.”
Forbes smiled too. “Your memory’s phenomenal.”
“My business.” Powell winked. “Greet a man by name, and he’ll come back. But I admit I pay special attention to friends of people like Mr. Jaraba.” Appropriately his expression turned somber. “And my deepest sympathies. Your secretary. Forgive me, but it was a terrible thing. You just stopping in for a drink? Or a late dinner?”
“Neither. I’m inquiring about a former employee of yours—Iris Dean.”
“Iris?” Powell didn’t seem the least surprised. “Just a minute. I’ll get someone to take over here, then we’ll go upstairs.”
They rode up in an automatic elevator. Powell pushed “2.” Forbes observed that the control panel also had a button marked hell’s half acre.
“What,” Forbes asked, “is Hell’s Half Acre?”
“A small key club on the third floor. For some of our best customers. The name’s just a gimmick, from an obscure period of Chicago historiana. We’ve designed the decor around it.”
“I’d like to see it.”
The elevator door opened. Powell didn’t say anything about seeing the club, and Forbes wondered why.
He followed Powell down a hall to a large, tastefully furnished office. Settling behind a desk, Powell said, “I suppose you’re looking for Iris. I know better than to ask who your client is. I understand these things, but I’ve already had a call about her. A woman claiming she owed Iris money and did I know where to find her. A skip-tracer’s patter, obviously. I’ll tell you what I told her. As far as I know, nobody here’s seen Iris since she left us, and we certainly don’t have the faintest idea where she is now.”
Powell swiveled in his chair and pulled a folder from a file drawer. “But if her personnel file’s any help, look it over. And if you want copies of anything, I’ll have them Xeroxed while you wait. I’ll tell you something at the outset though. The most important thing we learned about Iris isn’t in that file. I suppose you’ve learned about it too.”
Forbes took the file and pulled up a chair. “What’s that?”
“Her prostitution arrest. It’s why we let her go. Even though she never gave us trouble, we couldn’t have that sort of girl here.”
“You check your girls before hiring them?”
“Quite thoroughly. We thought. But since the Iris Dean incident our security agency has vastly improved its pre-employment procedures.”
Forbes couldn’t see how it was possible for an investigator to have missed the arrest the first time, but, expressionless, he glanced through the file. There was nothing in it he didn’t know already, but he made a pretense of studying it with great care. Powell lit a cigarette and watched him. It was hard to figure Powell. All smiles and helpfulness—but his hands shook slightly, his eyes wouldn’t stay still. Forbes had the impression that if someone pushed the wrong button, Powell would explode.
“Where’s her picture?” Forbes asked. “I see a space for one, but—”
“Fell off, I guess.”
“And the reports from your security agency?”
“Confidential. Under lock and key at another location. I don’t want anyone here even knowing the name of the firm that does my security work, and I’m afraid I can’t tell you either.”
“I’d like to talk to some of your employees. Girls who might have worked the same shift with Iris. Bartenders—”
“No,” Powell said. “I couldn’t allow it. I’ll talk to them though. Then I’ll tell you whatever they tell me.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Forbes, I’ll do all I can. But must I be brutally frank?”
“What are you getting at?”
With seeming reluctance, a shake of the head, Powell said, “Very well. Nothing personal, but see it from my point of view. Your secretary’s murder, the stories in the press—if it’s learned you’re questioning my employees, all sorts of rumors might start. Hell, some people might even think there’s a connection between your being here and what happened to your secretary.” He shot Forbes a quick look. “There isn’t, is there?”
“Of course not,” Forbes lied.
“So that’s the position I’m in. And the fact th
at Iris had been arrested for prostitution—no, I can’t risk having the club’s name connected, even remotely, with any trouble she may be in now.”
“I think,” Forbes said, “you’re being overly cautious. But it’s your restaurant, I’ll respect your decision. I’ll also accept your offer. I’d like a copy of everything in your file on Iris.” Innocently he smiled. “And while we’re waiting, let’s tour your key club. I might even send you some business. Barry Axburn’s a local history buff. He might get a kick out of the place.”
Powell hesitated. Clearly he didn’t want to take Forbes upstairs. But to refuse now would be calculated rudeness, and Forbes’s mention of Axburn had been a reminder that he still had powerful friends in high places.
“The Xerox machine,” Powell said, reaching for the file, “is down the hall. I’ll start a girl on this and be right back.”
Alone, Forbes waited a few moments and then walked to Powell’s desk. The phone was wired to a control box. The box had levers marked with numbers one to eight. Those would be stations inside the building. Red lights glowed over three of the levers—numbers two, four, and seven. That meant people at those stations were using their phones now. And, of course, by picking up Powell’s phone and flipping those levers one could hear what was being said on those lines.
Forbes lifted the receiver and pushed lever two.
A man said, “…at eight tomorrow. There’ll be six in the party, and…”
He cut that connection and pushed lever four.
A girl said, “Closet?”
“Yes,” Len Powell told her. “The closet. Then hang a ‘Private Party’ sign on the door.”
“But Mr. Powell, I don’t under—”
“Just do it. And keep your damned mouth shut.”
* * * *
A corseted brunette sat at a desk guarding a big oak door, the entrance to Hell’s Half Acre. As Forbes and Powell stepped from the elevator she smiled, pushed a hidden button, and the door slid open.
“We’re not in any league,” Powell said, leading Forbes into a large foyer, “with Playboy or Gaslight. Actually it’s just an extension of our restaurant operation, with atmosphere and more trappings.”
Doors marked men and women were in the foyer, and a corridor lined with other doors led off it.
“Those,” Powell went on, steering Forbes away from the corridor, “are just private rooms. The main rooms are up ahead. In the 1880s Hell’s Half Acre was a red light district south of the Loop. We’ve broken the floor up into two sections, each named for very prominent fixtures in Hell’s Half Acre—Dead Man’s Alley and the Apollo Theater and Dance Hall.”
Dead Man’s Alley was merely a moderately patronized cocktail lounge, its walls covered with bold, garish caricatures of muggings, brawls, and windows from which red lights glowed and girls beckoned. Beyond that was the Apollo Theater and Dance Hall, a large dining room with a stage, now empty, at one end.
There the wall sketches were orgiastic, with mustachioed sporting men and their ladies cavorting in booths and stalls.
“In the old days,” Powell continued, “the piano players from the brothels would hold masked balls at the Apollo. At midnight the guests would remove their masks—and everything else they wore—so every midnight our girls put on a show here. It’s a little daring, but nothing you can’t see in a Loop movie house to-day—”
“Who did the wall drawings?”
“Peter Wojac. A local boy.”
Powell turned to lead Forbes out, but Forbes glanced at the bar in Dead Man’s Alley. Behind it the wall was lined with brilliant oil paintings of girls, a colorful mélange of breasts, thighs, and barely sheathed bottoms.
“Wojac do those too?” Forbes walked to the bar and mounted a stool. At the bottom of each picture frame was a silver plate engraved with a girl’s name. He recognized one girl—DENISE—as the guard outside the club. Another—IRENE—had checked his hat downstairs.
“Yes.” Vaguely worried, Powell moved up behind him. Guests were within earshot, and if Powell ordered Forbes out it would cause a scene. “He paints every girl who works here.”
“What happened to Iris’s painting after she left?”
“The paintings are our property. When a girl leaves, we sell her painting to a gallery on Wells Street that handles Wojac’s stuff.”
Gazing questioningly at Powell, a bartender neared.
Forbes said, “I’ll have a zombie.” He turned to Powell. “I’m not trying to impose. I insist on paying.” He winked. “Goes on the expense account anyhow.”
Glumly Powell nodded to the bartender, who went off to prepare a zombie. Forbes hated zombies, but it was the longest drink that came to mind. When it arrived, he cradled it, admired it, and made it plain he intended to nurse it a long time.
As they made small talk, Powell grew increasingly restless. Finally a large party moved in from the foyer and a man broke away, heading for him.
“Len, look, I didn’t have time to make reservations, but I’ve got some very important clients with me. So if you could arrange…”
Reluctantly Powell allowed himself to be dragged away. As soon as the restaurateur vanished into the Apollo Theater and Dance Hall, Forbes asked the bartender, “Where’s the john?”
From the foyer he walked quickly down the corridor to the private dining rooms, private party signs hung on two doors. Muffled talk and laughter drifted from behind one. He heard no sound from the other, so he opened that door and went inside.
The room was heavily draped, the table set for six. One wall was oddly bare. Until recently a picture had hung there. The frame’s outline was visible and the picture hook was in place.
The closet—he opened another door. The picture leaned with its face against the wall. He hauled it out and turned it around.
Wojac had painted this one too. Even if there had been no bold signature, his style was unmistakable. It was another picture of a woman, but this one was older than the girls displayed over the bar. Thirtyish, a tall woman with black hair, broad shoulders and big breasts. Mouth curved in an enigmatic smile, she stood with her legs spread and her hands on her hips, her only garment a pair of red toreador pants.
The last time Forbes had seen her she’d worn an orange cocktail dress. She was the woman he’d met at Jaraba’s reception for the Senator, the one he’d thought had wanted him to take a domestic relations case and who’d called herself Alice Hemingway. But the name engraved on the frame’s silver plate was SARALEE.
A minute later Forbes emerged from the men’s room. Sucking nervously on a cigarette, Powell lurked in the foyer.
“I don’t mean to rush you.” His eyes darted from Forbes to the corridor, then back to Forbes. So he wasn’t sure. “But those copies are ready now.”
* * * *
Peter Wojac, artist. The phone book listed a Wojac, Pete, at an address just off Wells Street. Powell had said a shop on Wells handled the artist’s work.
Forbes dialed the number from a drugstore. When a man answered, he slurred his voice and asked, “Hey, you the guy who drew Powell’s girls?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“They’re great, see. Ab’slutely marvelous. Len gimme your number, and—”
“Get lost, drunk. And tell Powell that the next time he gives my number to a jerk like you I’ll go down there and knock his fat head off.” Wojac hung up.
Fine. That was the right Wojac. He was home, and Forbes had also learned that he wasn’t exactly enamored of Len Powell.
He drove to Wells and parked in a lot just south of the strip, a five-or six-block section of saloons, shops and restaurants that had been developed into a mecca for tourists and a bonanza for owners of real estate. It was a clear, warm night. The walks were jammed, and Forbes edged through the crowd in a grimly exultant mood. He was still a long way from knowing what this was all about, but he had
taken a giant leap forward. Saralee was mixed up in it. She’d approached him at the reception just hours after St. Clair hired him to find Iris. Len Powell was involved too, but Powell was a frightened man. Hardly the type to intimidate Gus Ladislaw, who’d seemed so worried that someone might have observed him talking to Forbes.
He turned at the next corner. The frame house was tiny and boxlike, set off from the walk by an iron fence. Forbes opened the gate, crossed a small yard and climbed a flight of steps. There was a bright light over the thick wood door and he pushed a bell under a card that said simply, WOJAC.
The door swung back. Forbes looked up at a black-haired young man whose features were obscured by a thick beard. Wojac had the broad-shouldered, flat-bellied build of a rangy halfback in his prime and wore green slacks, a yellow sports shirt, and sandals.
“Now who the hell,” Wojac wondered, “are you?”
“Julian Forbes. I’m a private investigator.”
“The one in the papers? Whose secretary—”
“Yes. I know it’s late, but I’d like to talk to you. To ask about a girl who worked at Len Powell’s. Her name’s Iris Dean.”
It was hard to tell what was on Wojac’s mind. For a long five seconds he stared at Forbes, his black eyes curiously blank. Then he said, “Come on in.”
He led Forbes into a studio, its ceiling a partial skylight. A few rugs lay on the floor. Some furniture was scattered around, but paintings and sketches occupied most of the space. Wojac’s, of course. He seemed to favor city scenes and landscapes: moody, murky, ironic views of urban squalor, human and otherwise, amidst wealth, and the incongruities of the rural Midwest—beer cans floating on cottage-lined lakes and ramshackle farmhouses with television aerials jutting high into the sky.
Someone else was in the studio—a girl. Her dark hair piled atop her head in beehive style, she sat cross-legged on the floor, a cigarette in one hand. Nice curves. Her tight jeans emphasized them. A loose gray sweatshirt hung from an impressive bosom and her feet were barely protected by ragged sneakers.
The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel Page 63
