He was young and white—and he had a soft hat shoved back on his head. I made a guess.
“You the Post-Dispatch district man?”
He nodded. “I’m Grady.”
“I’m Higgins,” I told him. “New man at the paper. Dobe said you were on the way here. What is it?”
He swore. “Some guy used a knife on the Widow,” he stated. “Fancy work—she’s all cut into figure eights.”
“Yeah?” I said. “I’m from Cleveland—the Press. Who’s the Widow?”
He looked superior. The light from inside let me see that.
“Nellie Gunsten,” he stated. “Runs three speaks in town—loans money to the bohunks. Used to be a stock actress—long time ago. Dunning one of the Poles for the coin she’d loaned, maybe. And he carved her.”
“Get away?” I asked.
He nodded. “Chief Butman says he knows something,” he stated. “But he always says that—and nothing much ever happens. Who’d they fire at the paper?”
I told him nobody—that they were just taking on a few stray reporters. He didn’t seem to believe that. I went inside the house. The Widow was lying in the kitchen. The place was a mess inside, but she looked worse than the house. There were a lot of men around, but they didn’t seem to be doing much except lighting cigarettes.
A man with a lot of gold teeth and a derby he kept tapping against his knee announced that it was a “dirty shame.” Several others agreed. No one paid much attention to me. I went out through the back door, saw a break in a wire fence that separated the two houses I was interested in, and walked through it.
The light I’d seen from the front of 736 was in the kitchen. I went up two steps, tapped on a screen door. An inside door opened and a red-haired woman of about fifty showed me a homely face.
“I’d like to ask—”
She cut in with a tinny tone, and her thin lips didn’t move much.
“No one livin’ here killed her—an’ we don’t know nothin’ about it. We told all we know to Butman—”
She started to shut the door, but I got my foot in the way. I stuck my head in close and had my say sharply.
“I’m not interested in the Widow—I’m from New York, and Herb Steiner told me to look up Virgie Beers.”
The red-haired woman’s lower jaw sagged. She took her hands away from the door and backed up. I went in, shutting the door behind me.
“If any bulls come in while I’m here—I’m Higgins,” I advised. “Reporter on the Post-Dispatch—a new man. Does that sink in?”
She said it did. A door slammed somewhere upstairs. The red-haired woman jumped around like a trained flea. I grinned at her.
“You’ve got nerves,” I said. “Where’s Virgie?”
She swore hoarsely and went out of the kitchen. I picked out a stool and sat down on it, lighting a pill. There were stairs at the front of the house, and they didn’t have any carpet on them. I could hear the red-haired one going up. After a while I heard someone else coming down. The steps had a lighter sound under this one’s weight.
Virgie came in. She looked tired—she had circles under the eyes. She looked older than she had in the boardinghouse in New York. A white bulb in the kitchen didn’t help her blond hair any. Her nose didn’t look as thin as it had before, but her eyes looked as dopey. She stopped in the hall just outside the door, looked me over.
I got up and grinned.
“Remember? I came in with Donelly. Donner was down at the bottom of the steps—”
That was as far as I got. She sucked in some air, took a step forward, went down on her knees. I stopped her before she went the rest of the way, dragged her over to the chair I’d been sitting on. She was making funny strangling noises. Her face was white.
I went over to the sink and ran some cold water on my handkerchief. When the cloth touched her face it seemed to help a little. She closed her eyes and stopped making the noises.
“Sorry,” I said. “Did I say the wrong thing—or were you feeling this way anyway?”
She shook her head a little. After a while she sat up. “I’m all right. You’re Ourney—how’d you find me?”
She had a rather nice voice. It didn’t sound the way it had in the Fifty-sixth Street boardinghouse. I told her the truth.
“Paid Miss McMurphy some hat money—told her I wouldn’t hurt you. She believed me, maybe.”
Virgie nodded her head and showed a faint smile.
“Maybe,” she agreed.
I suggested that we get out of the kitchen, get somewhere we might not be interrupted. She sat up, shivered a little, stood up. I gave her a hand and we went into a small parlor. It was dark—but she told me where the light was. I switched it on. It was a dim one—sort of greenish. The shades of the room were down.
Virgie went over and took it easy on a couch. She lay on her back and looked up at a dirty-colored ceiling. She looked all in.
“I’ll be naïve—and ask you a question that may sound that way,” I told her.
She shook her head. “It’s a two-dollar word—that ‘naïve,’” she said. “Talk so I can understand.”
I nodded. “Wirt Donner struck me as being white,” I said. “I trusted him, up the river. He told me a lot—and it went pretty deep. I got the idea that just a few humans were using a lot of other humans as they wanted, then framing them, smashing them—rubbing them out. It looked pretty rotten to me. I’m not sentimental—I’m curious. I’d like to smash some of the ones who use the others up. I talked it over with Wirt—he gave me a bum steer on a human he called a ‘good guy.’ Maybe you know about that.”
She looked at me, turning her head a little.
“About what?” she asked.
“About Ben Garren,” I said.
She shook her head. “Never heard of him,” she said.
I got up and walked around a little. Then I sat down again.
“All right, Virgie,” I said. “But you’re a damned fool for lying. They’ll get you just the way they got Dot—and Wirt Donner. You won’t have a chance. If you play square with me—something may happen.”
She laughed harshly. There was a little silence.
“What makes you think I’m lying?” she asked finally.
“Saw you go into Ben’s flat,” I said grimly. “Heard you talking inside. The radio wasn’t loud enough. You were a little hysterical—Donner had only been dead an hour or so.”
She said: “Oh, God,” in a flat tone. I fed her a little more truth.
“They grabbed Red Salmon—third-degreed a confession, and let him die on them. For some reason it suited all right. But Red never got Wirt Donner. I chased you out here to ask you one important question. It’s the one I spoke about a few minutes ago. Who got Wirt?”
She said very calmly: “I don’t know.”
I believed her. There wasn’t any particular reason for it, but I believed her.
“Listen—” I said—“I’m trying to make you see that I think Wirt was going square. Something went wrong, before I could get to him. He talked about you, in the Big House. When I saw you I recognized you. Miss McMurphy said you were living with him.”
She sat up, swung her feet to the floor, pulled a blue dress down over pretty nice knees, and drew in her breath.
“Damn McMurphy!”
I leaned over and grabbed the material of her dress, just under her neck. I pulled her toward me a few inches.
“What did you shoot Wirt for?” I gritted at her.
She pulled back, lifted her right hand, and struck me sharply across the face. It stung, but I hung on.
“You lived with him!” I snapped. “You murdered him! And then you went to Ben Garren and cried about it!”
She tried to hit me again, but I got my left arm in the way.
“You’re a dirty liar!” she shrilled. “I didn’t—shoot him—”
I pulled her face closer to mine and got a lot of feeling in my voice. “You ducked the big town—you came out here. Why?”
“I didn’t want—to get pulled in!” She was almost screaming now. “The bulls were all over the place—”
Someone was pounding at the back door. I let her go. It was a tough break, because I wasn’t hurting her any—and I was getting close.
“I’m Higgins—Post-Dispatch reporter,” I told her. “What happened next door—before I let this guy in?”
She dropped down on the sofa, shook her head.
“I didn’t—kill Wirt!” she half sobbed.
I was coming close to believing that one, too. There were steps on the stairs—the red-haired woman was coming down. I went out and met her near the kitchen. Her eyes were narrowed.
“Lay off Virgie!” she warned. “She’s been mauled enough.”
I went out and opened the door. It wasn’t locked. Grady frowned at me.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Got anything?”
I shook my head. “Just seeing if the Widow’s neighbors know anything,” I told him. “They don’t.”
Grady looked at me suspiciously. He spoke in a flat voice.
“Butman wants to see you—next door.”
I nodded. “Through in a minute,” I said. “Just trying to pick up a feature story. Tell him I’ll be right over.”
He went outside and I went back into the parlor. The red-haired woman followed me in. She wore a blue negligee, and her right hand was hidden in the folds of it. Virgie Beers was lying on the sofa again, on her back. She had her eyes closed, but she opened them as I came up close and looked down at her.
“I’m tired as hell,” she said tonelessly. “Maybe you’re all right—I don’t know. I don’t care much. Ask ’em—I’ll try and answer.”
“Who killed Donner?” I asked.
She closed her eyes and shook her head. Her voice was unsteady.
“I don’t know. If I did I’d go out and get him myself. Wirt was a good—guy.”
I believed her. But I didn’t let her know it.
“Why was he murdered?” I asked.
She hesitated a second. Then she spoke in a low voice. “They thought he had the hundred grand,” she said.
“What hundred grand?” I came back.
She opened her eyes, but they were expressionless.
“The stuff Cherulli was passing on up,” she said. “It got missing, on the way. I suppose you don’t know that? A hundred grand.”
I looked toward the door that led into the kitchen. Babe Mullens had called it two hundred.
“And Wirt didn’t have it?” I kept on.
Her voice had a savage note. “He never saw it!” she said. “He was waiting for you—and he wouldn’t listen to me. I told him he was a fool. I told him to get clear. But he was sticking around, waiting for you!”
I nodded. “Garren swore he didn’t know you,” I told her. “You went to his flat. Where did he come in?”
“I knew him before he did the last stretch.” Her voice was flat again. “About a week ago he sent for Donner. Wirt wouldn’t go. I wouldn’t let him. The dicks were watching Ben, and he was in with Cherulli. Then Ben sent me word that if I didn’t get Wirt over to his place it would be just too bad. I begged Wirt to make a break—it looked rotten. He was waiting for you. Said you and he were going to do something that was right, something decent. Wouldn’t tell me any more. Then they got him—and I went to Ben to tell him what I thought. He laughed at me. Said if I yelped he’d frame me—”
Her voice broke. She had the fingers of her right hand over her eyes. I put a cigarette in them, lighted up.
“We would have done—something decent,” I told her. “Maybe it can be done yet. Are you square with me?”
She let me see her eyes. “I swear to Christ I am!” she said.
“One more—then I’ll go over and let Butman talk,” I said. “What happened next door?”
“It doesn’t count,” she said. “Some mill worker did it.”
I nodded, told her to take it easy and that I’d be back pretty quick. I went past the red-haired woman and gave her a grin.
“Look out that gun doesn’t go off in the folds of your dress and send a bullet through your fanny,” I advised.
She said it was her gun and her fanny, and that if I didn’t like it I could go places.
7
BUTMAN
I met Grady on the back porch, and he said Chief Butman was looking for me.
“Anything new?” I asked.
Grady dropped a butt, stepped on it.
“He figures he’s got the carver,” he said. “Someone called up and said to trace a lady named Virgie Beers, on from New York. Butman’s been poking around in drawers—and he’s found a threatening note. Signed by this Beers woman. It looks like an out.”
I nodded, fumbled in my pocket, said I’d left my stub of a pencil inside. I went back in and gave Virgie and the red-haired woman the news. Virgie sat up and looked scared. Then she looked mad. She said it was a frame. She’d only spoken a few words to the Widow in her life. She’d never written her. She didn’t know anything more about her than was mill-town rumor. She hadn’t been in Duquesne for six months until this trip.
“Don’t be here now,” I suggested. “And make it fast getting out. Go in to Pittsburgh and register at the Gurly House as Mrs. Howard Evans. Stay in your room. I may call you up later tonight—or I may not. Need money?”
She said no, and I headed toward the kitchen again. She was getting up—and the red-haired woman looked at me.
“What do I do?” she asked.
“Drop out of sight if you want to live quietly,” I replied. “Stay here and double-cross Virgie if you’re dumb enough to figure it would be a good idea.”
She swore at me as I went into the kitchen. I didn’t figure she’d double-cross Virgie. Outside I headed for the other house. Butman had his derby on and was coming toward the break in the fence.
“I’m Higgins,” I told him. “Grady said you wanted to talk with me.”
He grunted. He showed his gold teeth in a smile that wasn’t a smile.
“You’ve been walkin’ all over the place,” he stated. “Why didn’t you talk to me first?”
“I’m not after the facts,” I told him. “Phil Dobe sent me up to get a feature story—sob stuff, maybe. Did the Widow have a canary bird that won’t have anyone to feed it anymore?”
Butman had nasty eyes. They slanted a little, and they had a cold expression in them. They were gray.
“You’ve been over next door. Did the Donner woman talk?”
That was a surprise, but it was fairly dark and I figured he hadn’t seen enough to make much difference.
“What Donner woman?” I stalled.
Butman swore. “The redheaded one,” he stated. “Sister of the yegg that was murdered in New York—ever read the papers?”
I felt better. Butman was telling me things.
“I don’t have to read ’em—just write ’em,” I stated. “The red-haired lady said she hadn’t even heard a yelp next door. There was no story for me, so I didn’t get her name.”
Butman took off his derby, tapped it against his right knee, looked toward the lights in the kitchen of the Donner residence.
“I’ll go in and maybe her memory’ll get better,” he muttered.
“If you get rough enough,” I said, “that’ll be my feature story. ‘Chief of Duquesne police force beats up red-haired sister of New York yegg because she didn’t hear the Widow yelp as she was being carved by mysterious murderer!’ Good?”
Butman stuck his face close to mine and told me that I was a new man so far as Duquesne was concerned, and that it wasn’t wise to be funny with him. He said that he was a hard guy, and that the guys under him were hard. He said that he didn’t like newspaper reporters, and that Duquesne was one steel-mill town that could do without them.
I wanted to keep him out of the Donner place for a couple more minutes, and I tried to figure how sore I could get him without going all the way.
“The Post-Dispa
tch has a nice circulation up here,” I told him. “It wouldn’t hurt you any to get your name smeared around as being a good man.”
He laughed at that, showing all the gold.
“It wouldn’t do me any good, either,” he stated. “I’ll get my publicity in the Duquesne News—my brother runs it.”
I grinned. “Have it your own way,” I told him. “Mind if I stick around?”
He grunted. “If you do,” he told me, “you’ll get what I want to give you—and that’s all.”
I offered him a cigarette, and he turned it down. He went toward the Donner house, with Grady following. I called out to him as he reached the two steps of the back porch.
“Oh, Chief—do you figure this has anything to do with those killings in New York?”
I called out pretty loudly, figuring that if Virgie and the Donner woman weren’t out of the house they’d get out in a hurry. Butman came down from the steps, talking to himself. I met him at the break in the fence. His face was twisted.
“Keep your loud mouth shut!” he gritted, his face close to mine. “What I figure I’ll keep to myself. Any more wisecracks from you and I’ll run you out of town.”
I looked hurt. “But I just wanted to know—”
He called me a name, swung around and went into the Donner house. I lighted another pill. Virgie hadn’t had much time, but maybe she’d had enough. I walked around to the front of the Widow’s house. A cab pulled up and a round-shouldered chap got out. He told the driver to wait.
“Where’s the body?” he asked me. “I’m Spencer, from the Post-Dispatch.”
I told him where the body was, and he went around back. I walked over and stood beside the cab driver.
“You just brought Al out here,” I told him. “He hasn’t paid up yet. I’m from another paper, and I’ve got what I want. I’m in a hurry to get back to Pittsburgh. I’ll slip you twenty right now—for the trip back.”
The driver grinned. “Slide in!” he told me.
I got in, handed him twenty through the window, dropped back on the seat. I saw Butman come out through the front door of the Donner place as the cab jerked forward. He was swearing, and looking around. He yelled at the cab, but the driver just grinned at me—and let her pick up speed.
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