“Goodness no.” Max Fuller chuckled. “Culpepper owns the city block on which the Memphis Club stands. And Zalenka holds the mortgage on the Crestview Country Club.”
The Crestview Country Club was more than thirty miles from the heart of the city, but Sam Alban got me there in less than forty minutes. We traveled a good part of the distance on the Capitol Freeway, a four-lane, divided highway that led to the state capital, a hundred and fifteen miles due south. The afternoon was bright and clear. A mild breeze blew from the west, and the temperature held at a comfortable eighty.
Sam dropped me off at the club’s main entrance. He drove to the parking lot. I went inside and told a young man at a desk near the door I was Mr. Zalenka’s guest.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Zalenka called a few minutes ago. Can I help you in any way?”
“I want to see Ollie Heywood. You know where he is?”
“I can find out.”
The young man spoke to someone on a house phone. He listened a minute and then said to me, “Mr. Heywood’s foursome is on the seventeenth green. He ought to be in, in a few minutes.”
“When he gets here, would you send him to me, please? I’ll be at a table in the dining room, near the door, where you can see me.”
What I didn’t add was: where I can also see you, and intercept Ollie Heywood in the event he tries to sneak out.
In the dining room, I sat down and ordered a cheese sandwich and a glass of milk. I also told the waitress to send a can of beer and a ham on rye to the driver of Cab No. 444 in the parking lot.
The table had been cleared and I was smoking a cigarette when Ollie Heywood arrived. There was no mistaking the man. Short, slight, crew cut, big nose, jutting jaw. He wore a tan T-shirt, baggy shorts that hung almost to his knees, and knee-length socks. He talked to the boy at the desk for a moment. He turned to stare at me. In a puzzled way he smiled.
He advanced, still smiling. I pushed my chair back and rose.
“I’m Ollie Heywood,” he said cordially, in a deep, resonant voice. “But I’m terribly afraid I don’t recall who you are.”
“My name’s Kolchak. Stephen Kolchak.”
He didn’t even blink. Apparently my name meant nothing to him. He extended his right hand. He was wearing my brother’s ring.
We shook. His eyes were on my face. He didn’t see my ring.
“We’ve never met before,” I went on. “But we have something in common.” I held up my right hand. “We own identical rings.”
Heywood raised his hand to make a comparison.
“By golly, you’re right. Isn’t that the damnedest thing. Where did you get yours?”
“I had it made up special. In Tokyo. Where did you get yours?”
Heywood grinned. He said, “You might not believe this, but the cat dragged it in.”
Heywood’s apparently flip reply caused me to ball my right fist in anger. I was about to bring it up from the floor when I realized Heywood wasn’t kidding.
“My girls have this kitten,” he went on good-naturedly. “Well, it’s a goddam cat now, but it used to be a kitten. My two youngest used to put the kitten on a leash, like a puppy dog, and romp around the countryside. One day the kitten ran off into a wooded area and got lost. When the kids found the kitten awhile later, it was batting this ring around. It had found the ring in the woods somewhere. The ring was covered with mud, but it had been shiny enough to attract the kitten.”
“When did this happen?”
“A year ago last June.”
That would have been just two months after Ed disappeared.
“Mr. Heywood, do you think your children could show me that spot? Where they found the kitten playing with the ring?”
“Sure. But I’d like to know why.”
“Because,” I said, “my brother’s body may be buried nearby.”
CHAPTER 10.
Ollie Heywood, apologetic admirer of satin-clad bottoms at the Memphis Club, proved completely cooperative. I told him my story and while he didn’t read newspapers much, he vaguely recalled my brother’s disappearance. After the kitten found the ring, Heywood placed ads seeking the owner in his suburban newspaper. When nobody claimed the ring, he gave it to his two youngest daughters. He told them that while he liked the ring—they had presented it to him with considerable fanfare—it was too small for him to wear. Despite his short stature, Heywood’s fingers were thick. But at Christmas the two little girls surprised him by paying a jeweler to ream the ring out slightly, so it fit perfectly. Heywood began wearing the ring on occasion, not because he really wanted to, but because his daughters would be heartbroken if he didn’t.
Heywood and his wife had been visiting relatives in California when I came to the city and held my televised press conference. Their oldest girl was away at college. The three younger girls, if they saw the stories in the papers at all, failed to relate them to the ring the kitten had found.
Late that afternoon Sam Alban parked Cab 444 in a wooded ravine through which a black-top road wound. At the bottom of the ravine, the road bridged a stream. The ravine was two miles from the Capitol Freeway and less than a mile from the community of large, new, and very expensive homes where Ollie Heywood lived with his family. Yet no sign of human habitation was in view. The trees, casting long shadows, swayed gently. The only sounds were rustling leaves, cawing birds, and chirps from hundreds of crickets.
We climbed from the cab. Heywood’s eleven-year-old daughter, oldest of the two who had found the ring, pointed and said, “That’s where the kitten was. Near the bridge.”
She ran forward. She kicked a spot of turf with her heel. “Right here.”
“That’s fine, honey.” Heywood patted her head. He turned to his eighteen-year-old daughter, the college girl. The other two children were back at the house with their mother. “Catherine, you take little sister home now. I’ll be along soon.”
The small girl stared at me. “Are you really the man who lost the ring?”
“Something like that.”
“Then why don’t you know where you lost it?”
“It’s a long story,” big sister said. “Come on, you.”
Big sister dragged little sister away. When they were beyond hearing, Heywood, Alban, and I walked to the bridge and peered down. The water was clear and no more than three feet deep.
“Too shallow,” Heywood mused, “to hide a man’s body long. If he’s here, he was either buried or hidden in the brush.”
“The fact the cat found the ring near the bridge,” I said, “could mean someone threw the ring over the bridge. He may have thrown other things over the bridge too. The ring’s so small, whoever threw it might not have noticed if it missed the water, especially if it happened at night. And I think it happened the night my brother disappeared.”
“There’s not much traffic on this road,” Alban observed. “Where does it lead?”
“It goes on through the woods about three more miles,” Heywood explained. “It starts back near the Crestview Road turnoff from the Capitol Freeway and comes out on a state highway. But hardly anyone uses the road any more. The new state highway cuts the time in half.”
I asked, “Who maintains this property?”
“The county. Actually, it’s part of the county park system. A half mile up, there’s a small parking area and a few picnic tables. But even on summer weekends not many people come here. Weekdays it’s deserted. Nights, a few kids used to use it as a lover’s lane. But that mostly stopped about six years ago when some nut committed a double murder out here. He was caught and electrocuted, but the kids have been afraid to come out here ever since. They go to the drive-in.”
Heywood hitched up his khaki trousers. He’d changed to those at his house.
“Well, shall we start poking around?”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” I straighte
ned. “It’ll be dark soon anyhow. The police can take it from here, they’re equipped for it. I’ll drop in at the Clay Street Precinct tonight and tell Lieutenant Doyle about this. He’ll set the ball in motion. I’m afraid a lot of people will be coming out here tomorrow. They’ll be asking you a lot of questions. They’ll talk to your family, too—detectives, reporters, that sort of thing. Think you can stand it?”
“Sure. I’ll hide the young ones at their grandmother’s. You want the ring now?”
“No. Give it to Doyle. When his men are through with it, you can keep it if you like. Your kids found it and spent their money fixing it up for you.”
“Thanks. But after this I’d feel a little nervous wearing it around. If they give it back to me, I’ll mail it to you in the city.”
We trudged to Cab 444.
“Incidentally,” Heywood ventured, “that girl at the Memphis Club…”
“Nora White?”
“Yeah. When she told you she remembered seeing me with your brother’s ring, what else did she say?”
“Only that she recalled you because for some reason, you left her a big tip.”
“That’s good.”
I was a celebrity again. Not quite as big a celebrity as the first time. There were no more televised news conferences. But the story of the discovery of Ed’s ring and a massive search in the wooded ravine by city and suburban police and volunteer Boy Scouts was played prominently in the next day’s afternoon and evening editions. I remained in my apartment most of that day, Friday. Two reporters—from the Beacon and the Express—came up to interview me. But the Journal, the wire services, and the radio and television newsrooms got all they wanted by telephone.
Doyle’s first call came at two o’clock. He had been silent, almost angry, the night before when I walked into the station and told him I’d found the ring. I outlined the circumstances and without a word, Doyle dialed the suburban police chief and crisply arranged to organize a search beginning at dawn. He hung up and snapped, “Congratulations. If you’d given your tip to us, we might have found that home builder in half a day instead of the three days it took you. But at least you deserve credit for your damned obstinacy. You can go home now. I’ll keep you informed. Unless you want to ride to the suburbs with my men tomorrow and have your picture taken peeking under bushes.”
But at two that Friday afternoon, Doyle said, “Kolchak? I’m sorry. But I’m afraid I have bad news.”
I drew a deep breath.
“You found the body?”
“No. But we found what’s left of your brother’s clothes. They were wrapped in a bundle about thirty yards from the bridge. Someone dug a shallow hole in the brush, dumped the bundle in, and then tried to cover it with leaves and dirt. But part of the covering washed away, and some animal started to dig ’em out. The bundle is pretty well deteriorated after all this time, but everything checks—color of the suit, tie, socks, shoes, and topcoat. Even the hat. If we weren’t absolutely sure before, we can be now. Your brother was murdered. I was still hoping someone knocked him on the head for his wallet and caused amnesia. But if they stripped him—well, even in summer, he wouldn’t get far naked, and that was a cold night in April.”
“I appreciate your concern. But I’d already assumed he was dead, remember? I’m through mourning. The clothes going to be much help?”
“Hard to say. They looked like rotting junk. But the crime lab boys can work miracles.”
Doyle called again a little before seven.
“We found more, Kolchak. A Boy Scout wading in the stream dug up a cuff link with the letter ‘K’ embossed on it. We never told you this, but the Chicago police learned your brother bought a set of initialed links two weeks before he disappeared.”
“What about the body?”
“I was getting to that. People have been digging up ground out there all morning and afternoon. They’ll be at it tomorrow and the next day, too. But I don’t think we’ll find a body. I think the body is somewhere else.”
“Why?”
“We checked the records at the Weather Bureau. March was abnormally cold last year and the first week in April, just before your brother came here, the temperature dropped down to near zero again. The ground was still frozen. That night a guy couldn’t dig a grave without professional power digging equipment, not unless he was willing to spend all night on the job. As it was, the guy probably broke his back digging that shallow hole for your brother’s clothes. That’s why he didn’t dig the hole deeper. The ground was like granite. And if he left the body above ground, it would have been found by now. The stream is too shallow to hide a body. So where else out there could it be?”
I had been scheduled to take Lorene to Harry Bagwell’s party that night. Lorene called from the restaurant at eight.
“Stephen, if you don’t want to keep our date, I’ll understand. It’s been on the radio all day, what they’re finding in that ravine.”
“Of course I’m going. I’m dressed and ready.”
“If you’re sure. I changed clothes in the office. We can leave any time.”
Harry Bagwell was in top form. He even looked less haggard than usual. His animated gray face popped up everywhere—over shoulders, under arms, and from behind conversational groups. As a host, he proved a charmer, another of his many inconsistencies—because as a guest at other peoples’ parties, he was a holy terror.
Ordinarily Bagwell’s working uniform was a blatantly pin-striped suit and an ornate vest. But this evening he’d donned a subdued tux. He was of medium height, and his sparse hair was gray and uncombed. He could have been forty; he could have been sixty. Actually, he was fifty. A network of lines criss-crossed his horsy face. His brows were shaggy and his blue eyes glittered from behind horn-rimmed glasses. A hairline mustache topped his wide mouth.
My first meeting with the attorney had been in June, not long after I moved into the apartment over The Dugout. I took Betsy to lunch at the restaurant and Bagwell occupied a booth behind our table. Lorene introduced us. Bagwell looked at me and drawled, “So you’re the new tenant. The man who seeks his brother. Personally, I think you’re an idiot. If I lost a relative, I’d celebrate.” He turned to Betsy. “I like your friend, though. Does she lay for anyone? Or just for you?”
That meeting ended while Betsy and I sought another table. The attorney had already consumed five martinis and there seemed no point arguing. “If you think he was nasty today,” Lorene told me later, “you should see him after he loses a case…”
I’d run into Bagwell in the restaurant a half dozen times since. By then I’d learned his treatment of me had been comparatively cordial. On his periodic binges, sometimes alone and sometimes with courthouse friends, Bagwell delighted in playing the role of a foul-mouthed buffoon. What he liked best was to meet someone with gumption enough to be insulting in return. His rudeness made him a lot of enemies. His temper was quick, and he’d been barred from several of the town’s better establishments for brawling. Once he hit a bar girl who resisted his advances. Another time he kicked a doorman sprawling into the gutter.
But Bagwell also claimed a host of supporters. The waitress whose eye he blackened found a new car outside her door in the morning. The doorman’s son received a college scholarship. Bagwell gave lavishly to charities. And in the courtroom he stopped playing the buffoon and became an uncommonly brilliant attorney. To the horror of his wealthy and respectable family, he defended the most unpopular clients imaginable: confessed killers, rapists, dope addicts, and anyone else in the kind of trouble that makes headlines. Bagwell loved headlines. He never insulted a reporter. In the courthouse pressroom he was known as “the newspaperman’s friend” always good for a drink or a news tip.
He never insulted politicians, either. He cultivated leaders of both parties, but his closest associations were with the mayor’s party. It was through those friends that Bagwell r
eaped sure-thing profits from the purchase of real estate in the path of public works. He also cleaned up buying penny stocks in two bankrupt insurance companies later reorganized by relatives of the state insurance director. And he was one of the few outsiders allowed to invest in a harness-racing association formed by state senators and representatives.
Bagwell’s personal life was a mess. He’d been married and divorced twice. Every call girl in the city knew him, and if you were neither a newspaperman nor a politician, he might try to seduce your wife. In recent years his drinking bouts had become more frequent. Perhaps this was because he spent more and more time defending clients sent to him by Phil Amber and other Syndicate leaders, and less on the charity cases upon which he had built his reputation. At any rate, a good portion of his underworld fees had gone to rent and equip his apartment in a penthouse atop the tallest building in a new apartment complex a mile west of Clay Street. And for Bagwell’s party, the apartment was packed with well over a hundred guests.
I knew some of them, including a few of Bagwell’s co-investors in The Dugout. Martin Moss and Joan Engstrom were there too. Bagwell thought the public relations man vastly amusing. He delighted in vetoing Moss’s half-baked schemes for publicity stunts, such as exploding a hand grenade in the restaurant’s parking lot on the Fourth of July. Bagwell liked Joan Engstrom because she had the intriguing manner and carriage of an ambitious sexpot. She also caught on fast that there was nothing Bagwell respected more than an insult properly thrown back into his own teeth. “You’re pushy, but I’d like to screw you,” he told her at their first encounter. “You could,” she snapped, “if you’d sober up, take a bath, clean your fingernails, and pay me a million dollars.” After that, Bagwell and the girl got along fine.
Inevitably, Lorene and I were separated in the crowd. I bumped into George Nesbitt of the Journal. The reporter’s eyes were glazed. He carried a water tumbler with an olive on the bottom and didn’t even recognize me. I moved away from him. Max Fuller had noted that Nesbitt got drunk every night, and tonight was no exception. I didn’t see any other reporters in the room. During my first week in town, I’d met many of them. Nesbitt must have a special in with Bagwell to make this party. The attorney was taking good care of Nesbitt, too. As I watched, he poured more martini from a pitcher into Nesbitt’s glass.
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