“Then it’s very nice,” Shanahan said, “your showing me these reports just because you think I should know. Your public spirit is commendable. But I’m wondering if you’re also telling me because you want me to do some of your work for you, to learn things you haven’t been able to learn. And I’m wondering if your motives don’t go beyond finding a missing person.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your secretary, that’s what I mean.” Shanahan smiled faintly. “But then, in this job I wouldn’t accomplish much if I always went by the book, so you go on poking around Iris Dean’s disappearance in your way while I start doing it in mine. And Morris Maxwell, the merchandising king—I admit I’m fascinated. Maxwell and those apparent thugs, all interested in the same girl. When’d you say she checked out of her hotel?”
“A week ago Tuesday. But the next afternoon she phoned her sister and said she had lots of money. Wojac said the last time Maxwell’s girlfriend Saralee worked at Powell’s was the same day, Wednesday. She was in the cloakroom from noon to four p.m. Claude’s people first showed up at the Dijon Thursday morning. I think it’s quite likely something important happened Wednesday, possibly at Powell’s when Saralee was in that cloakroom.”
“A week ago Wednesday.” Briefly Shanahan’s eyes crinkled at the corners; then his expression grew bland. “We’ll look into that too. Right away. As well as into Maxwell’s current activities. Who he’s been seeing, what he’s been doing.”
Forbes blinked in mild surprise. Why was Shanahan becoming so all-fired co-operative all of a sudden?
The lieutenant rose. He was anxious to get started too.
“All right, Forbes. If I hear anything you should know, I’ll phone. You be around your office over the weekend?”
“I’ll be out of town.”
“Where?”
“Wisconsin,” Forbes said vaguely. “Curley and I have a tip Iris may have gone there. But you can always reach me through my answering service.”
“I see. A tip. Well, when you get back, let’s have another informal discussion. In fact, I insist on it.”
* * * *
Rose followed Forbes into his inner office and asked, “How’d it go?”
“I’m not sure.” Kneeling at a safe, he spun the dial. “The talk with Homicide was routine, but I underestimated Shanahan. He knows I’m hiding something, and that I think Iris Dean’s disappearance is tied in with Helen’s murder. He let me walk out of his den alive though.”
The safe’s door swung open; he hauled out a box of cartridges and a .38 Police Special in a shoulder holster. He pulled off his coat and buckled the holster on. He felt silly as hell. The last time he’d fired the pistol at a range had been four years ago, and he’d never fired it at a live target in his life.
“What’s that for?” Rose asked.
“Show, mostly. But something occurred to Shanahan while we were talking, something he didn’t tell me about. And then there’s what happened to Pete Wojac. Heard from Curley?”
“Yes. He’s running up a big telephone bill, but he hasn’t turned up anything promising about Iris yet.”
“You might as well go home then and beat the rush hour. The answering service can take over from here.”
“No, I’ll stick around. A million things need doing, including some bills Helen never sent out. And there’s a bar on Dearborn where some other old girls I know get together after work Fridays. I might as well cry in their beer.” She helped him back into his jacket and said, “At the funeral today—you notice that Homicide detective? How he seemed to be watching Eric?”
“I did.” He opened a drawer and reached for the petty cash box. “I think Barry did too, although he didn’t say anything. That situation’s beyond our control though. All we can do is hope for the best.”
“Where was Jaraba? Everyone else Helen knew at his newspapers turned out. And it wasn’t as though she was just a cog in the wheel. She’d fill in when his own secretary went on vacations.”
“Political meeting—county chairmen, in Rockford. Very important—and it also made it impossible for him to get his picture taken at the funeral, reminding people that Helen and I both worked for him. Nice guy. But believe it or not, Barry said Ralph wanted to see me tomorrow, to apologize for blowing his top. I told Barry I’d be in Wisconsin on business over the weekend, but that I’d phone you first thing Monday and let you know when I’d be back, if I wasn’t back already.” He got his raincoat from the closet and tossed it over his arm. “Well, wish me luck. Things seem to be coming to a head. Maxwell and St. Clair, Iris and Oshkosh. All the answers might lie up there.”
“I wish you luck,” Rose said. “But I wonder what Morris Maxwell will wish you when he learns where you’re taking him.”
Waiting at the elevator bank, Forbes’s hand closed on the raincoat. There was something in one of the pockets. He pulled it out. Eric’s lighter, Elaine’s last present to the boy, the lighter engraved with an “F” which he’d found in Helen’s apartment. He’d forgotten to leave it with Eric. Absently he dropped it into a side pocket in his suit coat.
* * * *
The red Mustang was the only car huddled in front of the little motel on Mannheim Road. Forbes parked beside it, got out, walked to Maxwell’s unit, and rapped.
The door opened. He looked down, but not by much, at Saralee. This afternoon she was attired for another cocktail party—pink dress, short skirt, high heels, fishnet hose, and a gold chain-link necklace around her throat.
“Sorry I’m late.” He brushed past her and looked around. He didn’t see Maxwell. “But as Morris said yesterday, I got tied up.”
“Morris got tied up again too. Mortgage bankers.” She strolled to a dresser, opened her purse, and groped for a cigarette. Lighting it, her hand was noticeably unsteady. Nervous girl. “They jetted in from New York this morning. A big lease negotiation for a new store, he’s stuck with them until tonight. They’re locked in the penthouse, having all their meals sent up, but I’ll go in his place. He authorized me to do that. I could probably say it better than he could anyhow.”
Maxwell had chickened out on him again.
Staring at Saralee, Forbes eased into a chair. “I’m not sure I buy.”
“There’s no choice. It’s me or nothing.” There was an air of desperation about her, a last-chance tautness around her eyes and mouth. “Look, I wish Morris was here too, much more than you do. But he isn’t, so you’ve got to take me to the old man.”
“Morris Maxwell’s one thing. You’re something else. All the world’s heard of Maxwell, but nobody knows who you are. With Maxwell around I wouldn’t worry about having the same thing happen to me that happened to poor Pete Wojac. But with you—”
“Here.” She made another dive into her purse, came up with a fat roll of currency tied by a rubber band, and brought it to him. “The two thousand, for Wojac. Just what you asked. Doesn’t that prove our good faith?”
He counted the money. Yes, it totaled two thousand dollars, in tens, twenties, and fifties.
Dropping the bills into a pocket, he said, “No. Two thousand is peanuts in this game. Claude’s already spent that and more in wages and travel expenses. All you’ve proved is that someone gave you two thousand to give me.” He paused. “But all right. You’re better than nothing, I guess. Your purse please.”
“Why?”
“Search. It’s a big bag. Hell, it could hold a forty-five.”
She went back and brought him the purse. All he found in it was female junk, a couple dozen credit cards, and six dollars and twelve cents.
“Okay.” He set the purse on the floor. He was angry at Maxwell for not showing up. Saralee was eager to take his place, was she? He’d soon see how much she was willing to endure in order to make the trip.
“Now you disrobe,” he said. “As you remove each item of clothing, hand it to m
e. Shoes first.”
Indignant, she glared at him.
“Let’s go,” he said. “This is an electronic age. You could be concealing a microphone on your person no bigger than a postage stamp. It could be powerful enough to send out a signal for hundreds of yards, maybe further. You want to see my client? Fine, but I want to be sure first that I’m not escorting a broadcasting station.”
For a moment she hesitated. Then she sat on the bed, pulled off one shoe and threw it at him. The other shoe followed. Reaching for a zipper, she rose and wriggled out of the pink dress.
“What do you want me to take off next?” Contemptuously she dropped the dress into his lap. “The half-slip, the bra, or the stockings? For a windup, I know you’re hoping for a bikini. Private eyes have a thing for bikinis, don’t they. But I’m sorry, you’ll have to settle for an old girdle.”
* * * *
Merging with another ribbon of concrete, the four-lane divided highway swerved to the left. This was Interstate 294, in Illinois a toll road leading to the Wisconsin border. There it would become a freeway that would take them all the way to Oshkosh.
The sky was a study in silver and gray, the dark clouds ahead threatening. Before they reached their destination, it would rain, and the rain would continue all night and part of tomorrow. An unseasonal autumnal rain, a radio forecaster had called it a few minutes ago. It was drifting in from the northwest and had already dumped four inches on some parts of Minnesota.
“How much farther,” Saralee asked sullenly, “is this place?” Arms folded over her breasts, she slumped on her side of the front seat.
Back at the motel she had undressed as though he was a piece of furniture, an inanimate thing. He’d treated her the same way, quite impersonally, but being impersonal about a nude Saralee hadn’t been easy. Wojac’s painting had idealized and distorted her figure, no doubt to please Maxwell as well as to contribute to the sensual aura Powell had sought to create in his key club. The real Saralee was thicker in the hips and thighs and had a little tummy, but to Forbes that only made her more lifelike and desirable. To Forbes nudity was only one aspect of sexual appeal, in many respects the least important, but nonetheless he’d been sexually aware of her during those brief moments, and was reasonably sure that she’d known it.
“A little way,” he said.
“That’s what you said at the last toll gate. And the one before that. Look, this is no joke. Morris will be expecting me back soon. Hell, we’ve been driving around for nearly two hours. First all that zigging and zagging, to shake anyone who might have followed us. Then the stop at the bank, where you bought the draft and mailed it to Wojac. Now the long haul on the toll road.”
A sign loomed on their right. It said WELCOME TO WISCONSIN.
“Wisconsin?” She frowned. “Good grief, Forbes! I insist that—”
“You won’t tell me,” Forbes said, “why you want to see my client, so I won’t tell you where he is or when we’ll get there. Fair enough?”
“No. It isn’t fair at all.”
“Well, you’re stuck with the deal, you’d better make the best of it.”
“You son of a bitch. Why didn’t you tell me we’d be gone this long? This could ruin everything. If I’d have known, I’d have—oh, damn and spit! Of all the unmitigated gall! Not to mention pure, unadulterated stupidity! Brother, what I’d like to do to you right now.”
What she did do was light another cigarette.
“Sorry to inconvenience you, but it’s Morris’s fault. If he’d seen my client the other night or called yesterday morning as he’d promised, this could have been over and done with in—”
“Stow it.”
Turning her head, she looked out the window.
She didn’t speak again until they stopped at the intersection with Wisconsin 100, a truck bypass around Milwaukee.
“I’ve never been in Milwaukee before,” she drawled acidly. “But according to these signs I soon will be. You mind telling me one thing? Such as, do you plan to take me back to Chicago tonight, or will I be stuck somewhere until tomorrow?”
“It’s a reasonable question.” The light changed; Forbes took the bypass. “And at this point I’ll answer it. No, you won’t go back to Chicago tonight. Not with me, anyhow, and by the time you’re through talking to St. Clair I doubt that you’ll be able to arrange other transportation until morning.”
“Then stop at a store. I need clothes. This girdle’s killing me. I didn’t dress for a long auto trip. And if I’m staying overnight, I’ll need other things. Make it a big store with a nice ladies’ room.”
Marshall Field & Company should be big enough for her. Field’s had a store in a suburban shopping center on the bypass. An hour later, arms loaded with bundles and bags, he trailed her back out into the center’s parking lot. She had doffed the dress for a loose-fitting white blouse, dark-gray slacks, and low-heeled shoes. A gray shrug was draped over her shoulders. All told, she had charged more than a hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise to see her through the night.
It was time, he decided, to begin establishing rapport.
“I don’t know about you,” he said, dumping her bundles into the back seat, “but I’m starved. This is the land of beer and cheese, so how about supper?”
“Suit yourself.”
He started the car. “Look, I’ve been inconsiderate, I admit. But there is a security problem. You know it as well as I do. And what I did back at the motel—I apologize. I was angry at Maxwell, I took it out on you. A search was necessary, but I didn’t have to handle it that way. That’s the trouble with the business I’m in. After a while you start losing respect for people, even though there’s no reason for it.”
Studying him, she settled back. “You don’t have to apologize,” she replied coolly. “No harm was done. I guess in your place I’d be careful too. But if you insist on feeding me, let’s skip the beer and cheese, hey, and make it cocktails and a small steak instead.”
Over her first martini she said little. Forbes carried the conversation with anecdotes about his last trip to Milwaukee. During it he proved that an engineer for a big manufacturing firm was selling trade secrets to a competitor. The man was such a good engineer, though, that the firm kept him on for another year while seeking a replacement.
The second martini came. Saralee sipped at it, then looked thoughtfully at Forbes and said, “It just occurred to me. I wouldn’t make a very good detective, would I? But if you brought St. Clair to Wisconsin, it means Iris may be up here too. You’ve got a new lead. Maybe something the sister told you after you snuck her out of that hotel.”
“Who told you about Carmelle?”
“No questions, remember?” Abstractedly she drummed her fingers on the table. “You still haven’t found Iris yet, though. You wouldn’t waste time hauling me here if you had. Matter of fact, you still don’t have the slightest idea what this is all about. You’re hoping that if you can get me and the old man together you’ll learn something.
“You’re not such a bad detective.”
“Just thinking out loud. Forbes”—she lowered her gaze, her right hand toying with the stem of her glass—“you still have connections, don’t you?”
“What kind of connections?”
“High-level ones, with people like Jaraba, Axburn, and the Senator they held that reception for. You could arrange things discreetly, couldn’t you? Meetings with people at the top?”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“Oh—discussions. Talks. Maybe some kind of a deal. Maybe some people are mixed up in something wrong, something that’s gotten out of hand. Something very complicated, involving all sorts of laws, even federal. Maybe they’re sick of the whole business now. They want to do the right thing, but they don’t know how to go about it.”
“Yes,” Forbes said cautiously. “I could arrange something like tha
t. Certainly I will if you ask me to. You could accomplish the same thing yourself though. Just phone the federal attorney, the FBI, or the Chicago police. And if what you say is important enough, you’ll reach the highest levels almost as fast as though I’d led you there by the hand.”
She shook her head. “No. It’s got to be the very top echelon, men with authority to negotiate. Not some desk sergeant or a boy fresh out of law school.” She raised the glass and downed most of its contents.
“Care for another?” Forbes asked.
“Two’s my limit. Let’s eat and get going.”
“About these high-level discussions—”
“Just a theoretical question. I’d rather not say more about it now.”
During dinner she barely touched her food, and over coffee she smoked two more cigarettes. She was uncommonly nervous, all right. Forbes began to wonder how much more lay behind her nervousness than the forthcoming meeting with St. Clair.
After dinner she went to powder her nose again. From a booth commanding a view of the door to the ladies’ room, Forbes called Curley.
“Bill, you alone?”
“Yes. I gave St. Clair three dollars and hid him in a bar down the street. Where are you?”
“Just outside Milwaukee. Maxwell copped out, but Saralee’s along. We should pull in between ten and eleven. How’s the weather?”
“Raining.”
“Good. They’ll have to meet inside. Could you plant a bug?”
“I’ve already planted several,” Curley said, “but that may be academic. We’re in a new ball game. First about Iris. I think she’s holed up near a little county seat called Wautoma, about forty miles west of here.”
“What makes you think so?”
“The Wall Street Journal. I’ve been calling people who sell it. Nobody in Wautoma does, but an hour ago I found a guy in a town near there who remembers a girl who met Iris’s description in every respect except the hair. This girl was a brunette. Walked in one day last month.”
“That fits. Iris was out of town for nearly a week last month.”
The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel Page 70
