‘Yeah,’ she said, acknowledging unspecified stresses. ‘A girl sure has.’
I’ve known Maude superficially for years, primarily through this sort of occasional commercial relationship. I know little about her, except that she has an unquenchable thirst for funds from which she seems to enjoy no material benefit. Some day, if I get rich, I’ll ask her for background on herself. And she’ll give it to me, if I pay.
‘I didn’t come up with anything at all on a Lance Whisstock in the newspaper files, but I haven’t gone for court records on his divorce. You want those?’
‘I think so.’ They would, at least, give me a former address and a former wife.
‘And how about high school and college transcripts?’
‘Yeah, those too.’
‘And you didn’t give me anything about parents.’
‘I don’t have anything about parents.’
‘You don’t have a lot, do you?’
‘I hope you don t intend to charge me for that newsflash,’ I said.
‘Now, Murchison. Speaking of whom, there’s not a lot on them either. Almost nothing on the mother and father, and little enough on Paula Helen.’
‘Let’s hear about Paula Helen.’
‘I’ve got some piano concerts in the mid-fifties. You want to know what she played?’
‘No.’
‘Then she married Douglas Alan Belter, second son of Steven G. Belter. You know who he is?’
‘Yes. Banks, not piggy.’
‘Six branches in town, plus a few elsewhere in the state. I can give you a lot on the father.’
‘No.’
‘Douglas is in the business. Married Paula Helen June the first, 1957. Tabernacle Presbyterian on East 34th. She was twenty-one. He was twenty-two. You want the guest list? The menu?’
‘How about sending me a copy of the guest list?’
‘O.K.’
‘There must have been something about her parents in the wedding story.’
‘ “The bride’s mother is Ella R. Murchison, widow of Earl Wilmott Murchison.” ’
‘Very revealing,’ I said.
‘Must have been love,’ Maude said. ‘No list of any domains Princess Paula brought to the kingdom.’
‘Wonderful thing, love.’
‘The Douglas Belters are social. Musical associations. Charitable money. There’s a lot of it, but nothing looks special. I can make copies and send them too.’
‘All right.’
‘Children: two sons. Raymond William in ’59, Charles Arthur in ’61. I haven’t looked for items on them.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘It’s not very exciting, Al.’
‘If I want things in more detail, I’ll get back to you.’
‘I hear you looked lovely on TV,’ she said. ‘Didn’t get to see you myself, but they say you came across like a fine wine.’
She waited a moment for me to rise to the bait, but I was silent.
‘Full-bodied. Must have done business a power of good.’
‘I had a couple of calls.’ Not counting Mr Lyon.
‘How did you find Tanya Wilkerson?’
‘All right,’ I said.
‘Word is she’s a real bitch when you get to know her. But destined for big things.’
‘I’ll try not to be hurt when I get left behind.’
‘Gotta go.’
She went.
From the phone booth it was only a few steps to the Reception Desk of the Indiana Bell Administration office.
A serious young man in a dark suit sat before a glass case of speciality telephones which ranged from a push-button Micky Mouse to a model with built-in scrambler, not usually needed by politicians.
‘May I help you?’
‘I’d like to see the telephone books for 1934 through 1947 please,’ I said.
As he stared at me, I thought I heard a million synapses open and close. But finally he said, ‘You’ll want our Archives office. Third and fourth floors.’
The Archivist was genuinely pleased to see me. ‘It’s all part of my job,’ he said, ‘to assist with public and commercial enquiries.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘And schools,’ he said with enthusiasm. He was a small bald man with bristles coming out of all sorts of places.
He led me to shelves which bore Indianapolis telephone directories through the ages. ‘We have the only complete set of these books in existence,’ he said proudly. ‘Some were pretty hard to locate.’
‘Do many people use them?’
‘I’ve had a few, a few,’ he said. ‘Will you be able to finish your work today?’
‘It should only take a few minutes,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ he said, clearly disappointed. ‘Good.’
It only took a few minutes.
I’d come to the books on the off-chance that the Murchisons before the war had telephones. They did, and to simplify matters they had only one listed address, on East New York Street, for the years 1934 through 1945. In 1946 the address changed, to East 42nd Street, and for the first time the listing was under Ella R. instead of Earl W.
While I was about it I went farther back in time. 1932 was the first year for the New York Street address. There were no phone numbers for either Murchison back through 1920.
I returned to the Archivist. ‘They’ve been a great help,’ I said.
I seemed to have made his day.
Then I unmade it. ‘Do you have a copy of the current directory?’
‘The current one?’
‘Like, this year’s,’ I said.
‘What for?’
‘I want to look up a number.’
‘That’s not what they’re here for,’ he said sternly.
Over-harsh, I thought. Perhaps he thought so too, because he relented and fished a directory out of the desk drawer.
I leafed through to the Whisstocks. There was only one and that one not a Lance. I copied down the address and number, thanked the Archivist fulsomely, and left.
Since I was already in town, I parked at the Market Square lot and ventured into the Indianapolis Police Department.
I made for the Detective day room on the third floor. From the reception I learned that Lieutenant Jerry Miller was, indeed, in his cubbyhole.
‘Don’t let him know I’m coming,’ I said. ‘He might leave.’
The officer shrugged. He didn’t care.
When Miller saw me he didn’t complain, make a face, bury his head in a desk drawer, or jump out the window.
It was a sign that things were not well with him.
He put his pen down and rose. ‘It’s about lunch time, Al,’ he said. ‘What say we go out for a bite?’
He spoke as if it were a routine activity. I hardly remembered when I last ate lunch with the man. Though we were friends in high school, we’ve let social contacts lapse more recently. I visit him at work. And he is generally suspicious that I want something from him. Which, generally, I do.
‘Great,’ I said.
We went to a deli stand in City Market, across Market Street from the cop shop. We carried sandwiches and coffee and walked the sawdust-strewn aisles separating the sale of fish and meat and vegetables, leather work and used paperbacks and plastic toys.
At one point Miller’s gaze lingered on some candy canes in a confectionery display. I bought a couple and he seemed joyful.
He talked non-stop.
He talked about how he’d like to run a stand in the Market, but the waiting list was too long. He talked about some vacations he’d taken visiting family in Nebraska. How he had a cousin there with a plan to exploit Nebraska’s tourist potential. With an option on a lake. With zoning permission to build a road.
He talked about how much like his wife, Janie, his young daughter was already. ‘It’s uncanny,’ he said.
It was not an observation which brought him pleasure.
I hadn’t seen Janie for more than ‘Hello’ for years, because she doesn’t
like me. She remembers doggedly the days when Jerry and I chummed up at school, and joy rode a time or two. She is highly ambitious for her husband.
‘It’s a hell hole in there,’ he said suddenly. I realised he meant at work. ‘There’s so much angling, dirty dealing. For promotion, for assignments, for funds, for manpower. Putting other guys down. Putting yourself and your friends up.’ He shook his head. ‘The biggest danger a working cop in this city runs is from a knife in the back at work.’
We stopped at a stand selling dried fruit, nuts, grains and health food.
‘You ever try this stuff? he asked.
‘Not in a big way.’
‘Maybe I will. I need something.’ He turned to me. ‘What did you want, Al? Something big, I hope?’
I looked surprised. I was surprised. Our history, since we went our career ways, has been of me having to use dynamite to prise even little favours from the man. He has high principles about what is right and what is wrong. Since he got the religion of being a policeman.
He saw my reaction. He smiled without happiness and lifted his shoulders. ‘I need a big case,’ he said simply, ‘if I’m not going to get stuck forever. If I’m not going to get farmed out to make way for the college-boy hot shots, I need to deliver. Hell, I do deliver, but I need a big case for decoration. You’ve done that for me a time or two over the years.’
He turned to walking the aisles again. Then he slapped me on the back. ‘Doesn’t have to be a mass murderer,’ he said jovially. ‘Baby-snatching, gang incest, or even a white-slavery ring will do. Hey, that’d give some nice visuals for the papers and TV. Stand me up with the white slave I’ve rescued.’
Miller is black.
‘You might take your life savings and hire a PR man,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘You’ve hit the nail on the flat bit, Albert, my boy.’
‘I don’t have anything very promising.’
‘I’m considering all offers.’
‘I wanted you to check out what’s in the files on a man called Lance Whisstock.’ I spelled it for him.
He frowned.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve heard the name somewhere.’
‘So much the better,’ I said.
‘O.K.,’ he said. ‘You got it. Anything else?’
‘I have another job that started with a fake birth certificate.’
‘Why the hell does someone fake a birth certificate? To pretend the kid is legitimate?’
‘I don’t know yet. But there must have been something wrong with the real one.’
Miller blinked. ‘If not baby-snatching then maybe baby sale,’ he said. He sucked on his candy cane. ‘What can I do to help?’
It was December, but an offer like that is Christmas any time of year for a humble private detective.
Chapter Five
The Murchisons’ former home was on the south side of New York Street, past the Indiana Women’s Reformatory. I found a large, three-floor wooden building at the address, with a big open porch. There was an air of neglect about the place. Patches of mud among grass and weed stalks. A snowfall of flaked paint. The steps gave an inch under my weight and I’ve been on a diet. As I approached the front door I saw a couple of holes clean through the portico roof.
A mounted metal display unit had places for six name-cards next to push buttons on the outside wall beside the door. But in only one was there a slip of paper. Two others had pencil scrawls written in the spaces. Perhaps there were vacancies.
I tried the button next to the carded name.
I heard the attached bell ring close by. A young man in a T-shirt which only partly covered multi-coloured tattoos on both arms appeared at the door.
‘Hello,’ he said, as brightly as his surroundings were depressing. ‘Come on in.’
I entered the hallway, and we stood outside his open door at the foot of the stairs.
‘What can I do for you?’
I said, ‘I am looking for the owner, or somebody who could tell me about some people who used to live in this building.’
‘Jeez,’ he said and chewed on his lower lip. ‘How long ago was the people living here?’
‘Quite a while,’ I said. ‘Late thirties, early forties.’
He looked as if he couldn’t believe what he had heard. ‘Thirties as in nineteen thirties?’
‘The very same.’
He gave up. ‘I don’t know nobody from that old.’
‘Can you tell me where to find the owner?’
‘I don’t know who owns the place, except he never puts a face in around here. There’s quite a few things that ought to be done,’ he said earnestly.
‘But you pay rent?’
‘Oh yeah. Sure do.’ He stepped past me, back to the porch, and pointed down New York to the east. ‘See that junk store near the corner?’
I looked. ‘Next to the drug store?’
‘I pay in there to a guy called Dwayne. But I don’t know anything about the owner. I’ve been here about as long as anybody and I’ve never seen him.’
‘How long have you been in residence?’
‘Nearly a year.’
In ‘Quality Second Hand Goods’ a man in his early thirties dozed with his feet up on a quality second-hand table. My entry triggered a bell and he twitched as he awoke.
He looked at me a full five seconds before he saw me. It was as if he wasn’t used to having his business day disturbed by a customer.
I could sympathise with the feeling.
Shaking his head to clear it, he proceeded to shake other bits of anatomy, working his way down. Then he stood and greeted me with a shambling grin. ‘Just lookin’?’
Nothing quite like the hard sell.
‘A guy in a house across the road says he pays his rent to you,’ I said.
Dwayne scratched the top of his head and I was fearful he was going to go through the dance of the seven veins again. ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘I do a little collecting. What you want, an apartment?’ He scratched some more. ‘I think there’s one or two empty over there.
I don’t quite remember how many there are altogether, but I can get the keys and look.’
‘No, I’m not looking for an apartment,’ I said.
‘Oh.’
‘I’m trying to find someone who knows about the place. From the old days. I’m trying to find out about some people who used to live there. I thought maybe the owner could help.’
‘Possible,’ Dwayne said. ‘Charlie’s a pretty together guy.’
‘Can I have his name and address?’
Dwayne shrugged. ‘He’s just Charlie to me. He comes in on Monday to pick up his bread. Tenants are supposed to drop it off here Friday night, but some of them are always late. Gives me the weekend to go and take it off them before Charlie comes by. Big guy, Charlie. They don’t usually mess us around.’
‘You don’t know his full name?’
‘Charlie. He’s sort of, well, known around the neighbourhood. Came along a few years ago, asked me if I’d do his collecting. I get a percent. It’s small but it’s steady.’
‘Is there anybody you could direct me to who’s been here for a long time?’
‘How long?’
‘Since the thirties or forties?’
‘That would make them pretty old,’ he noted. ‘I’ve been here about as long as anybody.’
‘How long is that?’
‘Since I was a kid,’ Dwayne said. ‘This was my dad’s place, till he left.’
‘And has that house always been apartments?’
He was about to say that it had when the question jogged a cog in his memory. ‘You know I haven’t thought about it for years, but I’m damned if it didn’t used to be a cat house. When I was a kid. My dad did odd jobs over there and I wasn’t supposed to know what went on, but I did. Then somebody must of forgot to pay somebody and the cops came in and closed it down. Damn, the things you forget about.’ He began to twitch again.
* * * * *
>
From the public phone in the drugstore next door I put Miller on to tracking down the police records for the action taken in the late fifties or early sixties which was as close as Dwayne could fix it. Then I walked circuitously back to my car, looking at the neighbourhood. The women’s prison didn’t exactly give it class, but there was a nice view of the city from Highland Park. And clearly the area, like the New York Street house, had seen more vital and prosperous days.
I decided to make a little visit to The Fandango bar, though the major effort to find grandson Whisstock would wait until I had what background research information was available. I went to Illinois Street, but by way of another address in my notebook. The other former Murchison home, on 42nd Street.
I made a slow drive-past and saw a compact and conventional one-storey brick house in a small plot of ground. I didn’t get anything worth a notebook entry and left it at that.
The Fandango was small and the air was murky with stale tobacco smoke even though none of the three men at the bar were smoking. There was nothing notable – or Spanish – about the decor.
I sat at the counter away from the other men. As I did so, one of them rose from his stool and passed through a gap to take pride of place behind the bar.
‘Beer,’ I said.
He drew it and put the glass in front of me. I gave him a five and he counted the change out for me slowly and carefully in front of me. I left it where it lay.
‘Get a lot of guys complaining about the change?’ I asked.
He shrugged with a little smile. ‘Like to avoid what trouble I can.’
I nodded. I downed the beer quickly and asked for another.
When it came the barman took the price off my pile. I said to him, ‘I haven’t been in here before.’
‘I know,’ he said.
‘Somebody told me I might come across a friend of mine here.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Guy named Lance. You know him?’
‘We get a lot of Lances in here,’ he said.
‘Stocky guy, mid-twenties. Long dark hair, beard.’
‘We get a lot of guys in their mid-twenties with long dark hair and beards.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
I took a drink of my beer and said, ‘To tell you the truth I’ve never met this friend of mine.’
Out of Time Page 3
