She smiled, murmured, “Certainly!” and rang the bell at the head of the bed. In a few minutes the maid entered.
Jarnegan grinned and said, “H’ya!” The maid flushed; Mrs. Lawrence looked annoyed.
“Get my mules and my negligee,” she said coldly to the maid and sat up in bed.
Slim white feet in golden mules. A gauzy negligee about plump shoulders, two legs that gleamed seductively through sheer material as the woman came to her feet. No wonder Sheriff Tolliver mopped at his face and tried to avert his eyes. She walked sinuously toward a dressing table, hips liquid and provocative. Directly in front of the French doors she paused, turned dramatically. Every line of her rounded body was limned by the light…the inward curve of a waist that flared to hips, continued to tapering thigh, and smoothly turned calves.
She said, “Mr. Tolliver, you know exactly how I feel about this. I’ve told you before that James and I haven’t been getting along for months. Since he’s absconded with all that money, I’m willing to do everything I can to bring him to justice!”
She continued toward the drawing table. Jarnegan said beneath his breath to the maid, “A chassis like a truck! I used to like ’em with plenty meat, but no more, no more! I like ’em slim and round, like you, kid.”
Mrs. Lawrence started. “You may go,” she said. The girl made for the door.
“See you downstairs, sheriff,” grinned Jarnegan and followed her out.
A few minutes later Tolliver peered into the living room. No Jarnegan. The butler appeared. “You seen Jarnegan?” The butler shook his head. The sheriff waited a few minutes longer, walked back to his car cursing.
As he stepped on the starter, Jarnegan ran around the house yelling, “Hey, wait for me.”
“Where you been?” asked the sheriff in disapproval. “You look like you been digging in an ashpit.”
“I was down in the furnace room playing around the ashpile,” grinned Jarnegan. “If I was you I’d get me a search warrant and tackle that house with a fine-toothed comb!”
“You’re crazy! I suppose I’d turn up the jack in the guy’s own house! Mrs. Lawrence is all right. She hopes we catch him. What you got against her?”
“I don’t like the way she swings her hips. You better do like I say. The cook says the ashes ain’t been hauled out of there for a month, and I got an idea you’ll find something interesting. Lemme out here.”
“Why’n’t you give me a lift on this, Jarnegan! You ain’t doing nothing.”
“Bull. I’m a homicide man. That’s what the county says. Find me a juicy murder and I’ll take it off your hands. Well, I’ll be seeing you. I got a date with a blonde.”
Jarnegan got his murder that very night.
* * * *
A little past noon the next day he stood with arms akimbo in a dingy room at the Palace Hotel down by the railroad tracks. He stared down at the man who lay sprawled on the dirty bed. The fat lady who ran the hotel was at his elbow chattering and jabbering. Jarnegan glared at the murdered man.
“He come in just before ten last night and rang the bell at the desk. He registered just like anyone else and I showed him to his room. About eleven I went to bed myself and slept like a log, didn’t hear a thing. But when the maid opened the door this morning, this is what she found. Oh, my God, what would me poor dead husband—?”
“Shut up,” snapped Jarnegan. “Let your dead husband lay. He probably deserves a little rest. Who’s in the rooms on each side of this one?” He glared at the pale faces of the curious that swarmed in the doorway. “Well, speak up! This is Room 12. Who’s in 10 and who’s in 14?”
“I’m in 10,” simpered a flat-faced blonde with stringy hair, who looked like the wrath of God without her war paint.
“Fourteen is empty. This is Miss Billy Golden,” ventured the landlady. The stringy blonde, smirked, drew her dirty wrapper close about her hips.
Jarnegan said, “No use to ask where you was all evening. You was in your room. Did you hear anything?”
The blonde said, “Well, I can’t say that I did. You see I—”
“Yeah, I know.” Jarnegan’s voice was dreary. “You was so damned sleepy, you wouldn’t have heard a locomotive in the hallway—oh, forget it. Beat it, all of you. Scram!”
He herded them out, slammed the door without touching the knob.
The man on the bed had died hard. His face was beaten to a pulp, his features so badly battered as to be a bloody, sticky mass. On the bed beside the corpse was a blood-stained brick and a sash-weight. On the floor at the head of the bed was a bloody pillowcase which had been stripped from denim-covered pillow.
With cautious fingers Jarnegan turned the body. It was rigid, stiff, stone-like. The nose was mashed to a pulp, the forehead caved in, the jaw-bone broken in half a dozen places. The right side of the skull had collapsed like a shattered eggshell but the left side, though covered with dried blood, was intact. Jarnegan wet his handkerchief at the water pitcher, sponged the clotted blood from the battered face.
Stubby grey whiskers came into view on the left cheek, whiskers that ended abruptly two full inches below the cheek bone, leaving a rectangular space smooth and free from whiskers.
Jarnegan stepped back, lit a cigarette, and dropped it to the floor. His eyes grew wide as he gazed horror-stricken at the corpse’s hands. The fingertips were mashed. The killer had laid them one at a time on the brick and mashed them into shapeless nothingness with the sashweight. The pillow case had been used to muffle the blows.
An hour later Jarnegan went downstairs to the dingy lobby. “All right,” he told the waiting deputies, “go on up and dust for prints. I’ll be back later. You can call the meat wagon after you get through.” He tore a leaf from the register and stalked out.
* * * *
Jud Tolliver sat in his office perspiring greatly and groaning at his hard luck.
“I’ve got one hundred and one crank letters about that damned Lawrence,” he groaned, “and not a one of them worth a whoop. I searched the Lawrence house like you said and all it got me was a good cussing from the lady! She knows words and how to say ’em! What did you find out about the stiff?”
“Nothing, “said Jarnegan. “A guy named E. T. Paul registered and went upstairs to his room. He’s dead the next morning with his face caved in, his fingers all mashed to hell, and a suitcase full of newspapers standing in the closet. Looks like the killer didn’t want him identified. Let me have all your dodgers on missing men for the last couple of months.”
“In the pigeon hole. If his face was kicked in, how’s that gonna help you?”
“It probably won’t. I measured the stiff. He’s exactly five foot ten and a half. Maybe I can get something from that and the color of his hair. Probably not.”
At three-thirty the sheriff waddled out, leaving Jarnegan sitting at his desk leafing through the files of missing men from all over the state and surrounding territory. Jarnegan folded three of them up, put them into his coat pocket. For a long while he sat staring at a gaudy calendar on the far wall. When he left, he headed his car toward the Lawrence house.
He rang the bell. The door opened and a voice said, “What is it, please?”
Jarnegan’s eyes flickered. He said, “H’ya, pal, I’m looking for Minnie. You know Minnie?”
The butler spoke uncertainly, his voice low.
“What’s wrong with your voice!” snapped Jarnegan.
“I have a slight cold, sir. Who was it you wanted?”
“Minnie, Minnie the maid! The blonde one. I got a date with her.”
“Who is it, Hudson?” Mrs. Lawrence appeared in the lighted hallway. “Oh, it’s you! What do you want now?”
“Minnie,” said Jarnegan patiently. “Your maid. I got a date with her and she said to call for her here.”
“Minnie is discharged. I let her go at noon. She wa
s very impertinent and—”
“Yeah,” said Jarnegan, “I know. Where’ll I find her?”
Mrs. Lawrence wasn’t sure. Much against her wishes she had the butler consult the little black book in the pantry.
“How long’s he been with you?”
“I don’t see—” her voice was frigid.
“All right, all right,” grinned Jarnegan and crossed his legs. The butler returned.
* * * *
Twenty minutes later Jarnegan rang another bell. Minnie stood at the door, a kimono wrapped about her.
“H’ya,” grinned Jarnegan. “I gotta quart of Scotch.”
She said, “You better scram. My husband’s got a bad temper.” But she smiled.
Jarnegan said, “I know it. He’s got it with him. He won’t be back until the first of the week. Hope he sells a lot of groceries.”
She opened the door and giggled. “You know everything, don’t you?”
The Scotch was good. The bottle was half empty before Jarnegan got down to brass tacks. “What’d they fire you for, baby?”
“I snitched a drink out of the decanter in the living room. Hudson saw me and told!”
“He looked like a heel to me anyway!”
“It’s a damned funny thing,” she said slowly. “Me and Hudson was always like this.” She held up her hand, two fingers locked tightly together. “Then he sees me and tells. The old lady fired me and I popped off and ratted on Hudson. He’s done the same thing many a time. But she stuck up for him, and they had a new maid there before I got packed and out of the house!”
Jarnegan took another drink. “Aw, he’s just ringing in a new sweetie to take your place.”
She giggled. The kimono was brief. Jarnegan looked with approval at her legs.
“The butler runs the house. A maid usually has to do whatever he says. Hudson wasn’t such a bad old skate.”
Jarnegan stood up. She said: “Hey, where you going? My husband won’t be back until Monday.”
“Yeah, I know. But I will. You sit there and do tricks with the rest of the Scotch and I’ll be seeing you later. Get it!”
He was gone before she could protest.
He went back to his office and went to work on the missing men dodgers again. Cigarette after cigarette turned to ash as he worked. The clock ticked on. At eleven he called the sheriff.
The sheriff said, “Damn it, what you wanta run off for? They’ll fire you for this. You got a murder on your hands now and I want you to help me with that Lawrence deal.”
Jarnegan said, “Just sit tight and handle that murder yourself. You won’t find out anything anyway. I’m playing a hunch. There’s three missing men in this state that are almost exactly as high and as heavy as this corpse I found. I had the coroner weigh the body. Anyone of these those guys could be it. I’m going to run them all down.
* * * *
Three days later he got off the train in Junction City. A hack driver took him to Herrin’s Sanitarium. Mrs. Herrin admitted him. No, the doctor was out of the city. She didn’t know when he’d be back.
Jarnegan knocked ashes on the rug and showed his badge. Her face grew indignant. “Why didn’t you say so! Yes, he’s run away from me and I’m going to have him jailed for desertion. The old fool! Running around with that scut of a red-haired nurse! Now it was like this, Mr. Hooligan.”
“Jarnegan, lady. J like in jack.”
“Oh. You see I was at my mother’s visiting. I knew there was something going on between him and that hussy so I told mamma—”
“What kind of surgery did your husband do?”
“Don’t you read the papers? He was Max Herrin, the great plastic surgeon. Why, women came from all over just to get him to—”
“Did he leave you a note or a letter?”
She got it. It said:
Martha—
I can’t stand your nagging any longer. I’m running away with Ruth, and there’s no good in your looking for us—
Max.
Jarnegan said, “I’ll keep this. I think I can find your old man for you, Missus Herrin. Did he take his car?”
“No, thank goodness! Like I told mamma—”
“Can I see it?”
The car was an expensive coupe. Jarnegan searched it thoroughly, found nothing in the cushions but a few hairpins, and a silver dime which he quickly dropped in his pocket. He turned disgustedly, glanced down.
“New cement floor?”
“Yes. He had it laid while I was at mamma’s. I told her—”
“Okay, missus, you’ll hear from me.” Junction City is eighty miles from Haleyville. It was Jarnegan’s last stop. Mid afternoon found him back in the sheriff’s office using the phone.
“I don’t see,” said Tolliver plaintively plucking at his sleeve. Jarnegan waved him aside.
“Hello, is this Minnie? I been away. Is there any of that Scotch left? Okay. I know a joint that’s got another bottle. I’ll be out tonight but it may be kind of late. You don’t need to dress. Bye-bye.”
He turned to the sheriff. “You don’t see what?”
The phone rang again.
“Junction City calling Mr. Jarnegan. Hold the wire, please.”
Jarnegan listened in silence. He and, “Yeah,” a few times and finally, “I guess so. Okay. Thanks a million. I’ll let you know Sure. Sure. Before morning.”
“Now,” he said to the sheriff. “I’m going to sleep until eleven o’clock. You come back down and wake me up about that time. Maybe I’ll have some errands you can run.”
* * * *
At eleven-fifteen Jarnegan was stealing through the wooded grounds of the Lawrence estate. From the privet hedge he regarded the house with great interest. A portico on the east side bore a lattice work trellis.
In a few seconds Jarnegan was up the lattice, tugging at a pair of French doors. They stuck. He broke out a pane of glass with the butt of his gun, crouched in the shadows waiting and listening for long moments before reaching inside and opening the door.He slunk in, scuttled rapidly for the protecting shadow of a low divan. For a long while he listened. From below came the strains of a radio, soft and vibrant. He stole to the top of the stairway, leaned over and listened again. Only the music. Nothing more.
A narrower stair led to a gabled third story. At the top Jarnegan paused. Down the hallway a crack of light gleamed beneath the last door. A small porch-like balcony opened off the end of the hall. Jarnegan moved to the balcony, peered to his left and into the open screened window of a lighted room.
A woman paced the floor. She had red hair and white skin and hard eyes. She wore a black bandeau and a pair of scanty step-ins of the same color. As she walked, her bare heels came down viciously on the floor, her breasts quivered and trembled with every step.
“I think you’re just playing around,” she grated and Jarnegan started at the fury in her voice. “You’ve found out where the stuff is, but you’ve fallen for this dame and want to stick as long as possible. I won’t have it, I won’t have it!”
A man hove into view. His voice was anxious. “You know that isn’t true. You know I love you! My God, haven’t I proved it? According to Sanderson’s story, she knows where the stuff is, but she thinks I know, too. Can I come right out and ask her? She’d suspect something right away. I don’t like it any better than you do but we’ll have to wait, that’s all!”
The woman sneered. “You don’t seem to mind the time you spend with her! She thinks you’re her husband! Bosh! And here I am up here all by myself—”
She began to sob, her white shoulders shaking. Hudson, the butler, took her in his arms, pressed her close and kissed her hair. “Don’t cry, darling. We’ll find out, tonight. I’ll make her tell me tonight; then we’ll run away. We’ll be all alone dear, just you and I. You know how I love you!” His arms tightened about h
er, strained her to him.
“I can’t help it,” she cried, “I am jealous of her!”
His lips pressed the words back into her mouth. They stood there molded as one and the man picked her up, carried her out of Jarnegan’s sight. Jarnegan stole back into the hallway, his lips grimly compressed.
The music still came from below. He went down the narrow steps. On the second floor he opened doors. Into each room he stepped noiselessly and sniffed. On the third trial, the third room, he closed the door softly behind him. The pencil beam of his flash verified the theory. It was Mrs. Lawrence’s bedroom.
The vanity table, laden with crystal bottles, the deep bed, the ruffled coverlet. It was familiar to Jarnegan. He’d been there before. Long black velvet curtains obscured the French doors. Noiselessly, Jarnegan slipped behind them and settled down to wait.
When the luminous dial of his wrist watch read twelve-forty-five, the door opened and soft lights flashed on. Humming to herself Mildred Lawrence stepped into the room. Through the crack in the curtains Jarnegan watched while she began to disrobe, and stood in sheer lingerie before the mirror admiring her body. She pirouetted almost gayly, smiling at herself.
She sat down to repair her makeup, touched a crystal dropper of perfume to the lobes of both ears, to the downy valley between her breasts. Presently she donned a sheer net nightgown of orchid, slipped back the covers of the bed, but changed her mind and sat down on a large chair, book in hand.
She read for some five minutes. A soft scratching at the door.
“Come in,” she said softly.
The door opened. It was Hudson, clad in a red robe. He walked toward her, a thin smile on his face. Round white arms were outstretched, flung about his neck. Passionate red lips closed on his. Jarnegan watched until a white hand reached out to flip out the floor lamp.
Jarnegan crouched in the darkness and waited patiently. After a time he half dozed, kept himself awake with an effort, and was rewarded minutes later by the return of the light. He peered through the crack.
Hudson was sitting on the arm of the chair. Mrs. Lawrence stood by the table, her eyes curious.
The Second Pulp Crime Page 35
