The Neon Haystack

by James Michael Ullman

  “What?”

  “The report on me in there. To you from Max Fuller. It contains a few inaccuracies, but on the whole Max did a creditable job.”

  I rode home in a squad car. A patrolman hauled my documents upstairs. When he left I shoved the box into a corner, picked up the telephone, and called the Beacon. Bill Totten was off duty. I obtained his home number and dialed that.

  “This is Kolchak,” I said. “I just want to say thanks. For going out of your way to help Doyle find the old man in the hotel.”

  “All in a day’s work.”

  “I bet. I’ve been reading your newspaper.”

  “I tried to tone the story down as much as I could. Some of the detectives told me they thought Ware was jumping to a lot of wrong conclusions. But we had to print…”

  “Stop apologizing. You should have hit me harder, it would have been a better yarn. I just had a thought of my own. You know your papers banner story?”

  “About the route for the new expressway?”

  “Yeah. Well, I can’t tell you why I think this, and I may be all wet, but if I was a newspaper reporter in this town, I’d persuade my city editor to allow me to look into who’s been buying property along the route of that new road. I have a sneaking suspicion certain politicians and their families have been speculating with that land for some time.”

  That took care of Totten. I’d returned the favor, as best I could.

  I called Sam Alban. I told him his car had been hauled to the police garage, and that I’d pick it up, pay the bill, and drive it to his home.

  I opened the telephone book. I began looking for the number of the hospital where Irma had been taken.

  Someone knocked on my front door.

  I opened it. John Heineman gazed down at me. His face was very red.

  “I heard,” he said, “you came back.”

  “How’s Lorene? I want to thank her for calling Bagwell.”

  “Never mind Lorene. She’s in the kitchen. She don’t know you’re here yet. I want you to clear out, now.”

  Heineman swayed, his voice trembled.

  “What’s wrong, Pop?”

  “Plenty. The Dugout is a public place. We can’t stand trouble. All the papers said you lived above our restaurant. And you know what happened last night? Our customers saw the policemen going in and out of your apartment. Two squad cars parked right in front. A couple detectives came into the restaurant, too. They asked questions in front of everybody. Martin Moss says that’s very bad for us. People will be afraid to eat here. And this morning, first thing, the garbage truck failed to make its pickup. The garbage is rotting out in the alley. Then a building inspector, a fire inspector, and a health inspector came around. All three, within an hour. That never happened before. They all found violations. And they wouldn’t take payoffs. That never happened before either…”

  I was beginning to understand what Hiram Schell had meant when he told me, at Bagwell’s party, that the Fourth Ward could become inhospitable.

  “Relax, John. I’ll get out tonight.” I lit a cigarette with a match from another book from the Midtown National. “I’ll go to a hotel.”

  “You damn well better.”

  “I’ll tell Lorene…”

  “Don’t tell Lorene nothing. It’s better you have nothing to do with her. It was Lorene’s idea, your moving up here. I was always afraid of a mess like this…”

  Heineman was about to say something else. But he never did. His face contorted with sudden, paralyzing pain. He fell backward, just like that. If I hadn’t reached out, he would have tumbled down the stairs.

  BOOK FOUR: SEPTEMBER

  CHAPTER 13.

  Betsy leaned back and closed her eyes. I stepped harder on the accelerator and Don Collins’ little sports car swung into a gentle curve on the Capitol Freeway at seventy-five per. The morning was cloudless. We were thirty-four miles south of the heart of the city and three miles beyond the turnoff leading to the ravine.

  The curve flattened out into a straightaway. No other cars were in sight. I nudged the sports car up to eighty, to eighty-five. I held it there for several minutes. Then I raised my right foot. By the time we reached a turnoff marked river road we were coasting at forty.

  At the bottom of the turnoff, I braked before a stop sign.

  Betsy yawned. She opened her eyes. She’d fastened her dark hair down with a red scarf tied under her chin. She wore a tight, short-sleeved white sweater and a red skirt.

  “That was fun,” she said. “Where are we going?”

  I snaked the gearshift into first. We turned left.

  “A place called Maryville. According to the map, it’s eight miles east of here.”

  “You weren’t kidding, were you?”

  “I warned you. This is no joy ride. I’m looking for my brother’s body.”

  “Steve, that’s crazy. You can’t dig up the whole countryside.

  “I don’t have to. My brother wasn’t buried out in the open. The ground was too hard at the time.”

  “But someone could have dropped him in a lake. Or buried him in a cellar. If he was taken out here at all.”

  “I know that.” We poked along at thirty miles an hour. “But I still think it’s worth trying. I think wherever Ed is, he’s not too far from that ravine, at some spot reached from the freeway. And I think whoever hauled him out here wanted to do more than just hide the body. I think they wanted to destroy the body, as much as they could. The easiest way to accomplish that would be by fire. So for a starter, I’m canvassing rural fire departments.”

  “That’s a terrible thought. Why would those killers go through all that trouble?”

  “I don’t know. But then, why were the killers so anxious to get the body away from Clay Street in the first place? Why didn’t they just dump it in an alley or down a sewer? What difference would it make if Ed’s body were found? Why did the killers think it necessary for Ed’s body to disappear? If we knew that, we’d probably know who killed Ed. And since the killers went to so much trouble to keep Ed’s body from being found, I think they took the further trouble of trying to destroy the body somehow.”

  Betsy yawned again. “All right. Go talk to your country firemen. Poke around old ruins and whatnot. But at noon we’re going to eat lunch, aren’t we?”

  “Sure.”

  “Fine, I’ll talk to you then. My gosh. Why are you driving so slow?”

  “Just waiting to see,” I explained, “if another car comes barreling down off the freeway to follow us.”

  No other car did.

  Maryville’s fire chief sat on a chair in front of the fire station reading a copy of the Beacon. Inside his staff of three polished the pumper. If a fire broke out, one of his staff members would ring a bell for volunteers.

  Betsy remained in the car. I got out and approached the chief.

  “Hi. I’m Stephen Kolchak. I was wondering if I could see your fire log for about a year and a half ago.”

  “You could, if you’d tell me why.”

  “My brother disappeared in the city about then. His clothes were found not far from here. I think it’s possible somebody tried to burn his body.”

  “Oh, you’re that fella.” The chief rose. “The sheriff said you might be out this way. C’mon.” He chuckled. “At first I thought you were another city man tryin’ to buy my eighty acres. The new expressway goes right along River Road here, y’know. My land’s got water, electricity, and everything. And it’s right near where they’ll put a turnoff. Perfect place for a motel.”

  We went inside and climbed a flight of stairs.

  “Interestin’ stories in the Beacon,” the chief continued. “How all those politicians bought up land along the route in advance.”

  “Bill Totten’s stories, you mean? He’s a good reporter.”

  “I reck
on. But I knew somethin’ was going on long before he wrote those stories. City men started comin’ out here and making offers on my land as long as three years ago. They must of had a good idea of the route as far back as then.”

  The chief flopped behind his desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a massive ledger.

  “There it is. But it won’t do you much good.” He flipped pages. “After I talked to the sheriff, I took a look myself. The whole month after your brother disappeared, we had only one fire where a body could have been hid in what was left. Jensen’s barn. And Jensen hired some boys to come out a few days later and haul the junk away. If there were human bones in the mess, they’d of found ’em.”

  “What sort of a man is Jensen?”

  “A big dumb farmer. He lives with his wife and eight kids. Not to mention his father and his mother-in-law. They got four dogs and a goat. Any stranger would have a hard time sneakin’ a body into Jensen’s barn, day or night. And Jensen’s barn burned down at three on a Sunday afternoon. One of his kids started it, sneakin’ a cigarette.”

  “Well, thanks. By the way. You know anybody out this way uses Mexoil?”

  “What’s that?”

  “An off-brand motor oil.” I pulled a Mexoil label from my pocket. “The can looks like this. A bold Aztec design. The stuff isn’t marketed any more, but a couple years ago a shipment went to some retail outlets in the city. It was sold real cheap.

  “Can’t say I ever recall seeing an oil can like that,” the chief said. “Not that I think I’d recall anyhow.”

  Betsy and I picnicked at a roadside table.

  “Those four young firemen at Hilltown,” I observed, “will never be the same. I don’t think they ever saw a real live photographer’s model before. They’ll probably rush out to buy Brownie cameras and start learning a new trade…” A gust of wind hoisted Betsy’s skirt. She howled and dropped her hands to her thighs to keep it from blowing up in her face. In so doing, she knocked her bottle of pop to the ground. This just wasn’t Betsy’s day.

  She glared at the fallen bottle.

  “I think you’re awful,” she said. “All morning and half the afternoon I sat in the car under a hot sun while you talked to fire chiefs.”

  “Coming along was your idea, not mine. I tried to persuade you to stay home.”

  “You won’t even allow yourself to be seen with me in the city. This is the only way I can see you at all.”

  “I took you and Don to dinner, didn’t I?”

  “Sure. Then you skipped out and Don had to take me home. But I don’t want to go out with Don Collins. I want to go out with you.”

  “That can’t be done.”

  “Why not?”

  “In the first place, much as I appreciate all the help you’ve given me, and much as I like you, I don’t want you to get too attached to me. I’m too old for you. You should be going out with younger men. Young fellows with prospects. And preferably, with a lot of money in the bank already. Money never hurt a marriage.”

  “I’m not in the least impressed by that reason. What else?”

  “In the second place, I’m afraid to be seen with you. You know what happened to Irma Bronson. I don’t want anything like that happening to you.”

  “I’m not afraid.” Betsy looked down. “You ever find out—how she is?”

  “Not yet. Her father wouldn’t even tell me where she went. But I had Max Fuller trace her. Irma’s living with an aunt and uncle in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. I sent her a registered letter a few days ago. I hope she replies. Her father really has it in for me. When I showed up at the hospital, he tried to take a poke at me. I should have stuck it out and gone up to her room anyway. Instead of leaving because I didn’t want to cause any more trouble.”

  “Everyone else thinks a tramp attacked her. And that you’re just imagining she was attacked because she was with you. Even Don says that. And I think so too.”

  “I don’t.” Desperately I sought to change the subject. Betsy’s affection was becoming too direct for comfort. “Anyhow, you’re a wicked woman. Captain Ware of the Clay Street Precinct is my authority for that. He showed me one of your pictures, taken by Ronnie Layne. Ware said the picture was obscene.”

  “Which one?” Betsy flashed a naughty grin. “The one where I’m looking back over my shoulder? I told Ronnie I thought he was going too far…”

  “No,” I said. “The one where you’re holding up a beach ball.

  “The other was much worse. In the other, I didn’t have a top on. And Ronnie made me adjust the bottom real low…”

  “That’s funny.”

  “What’s funny?”

  “Now that you mention it, I remember that picture. And it wasn’t among the pictures returned to me by the police department.”

  “You think Captain Ware kept it?”

  “I doubt it. Everything else was returned. I checked it very carefully. I just scanned the pictures, but that one wasn’t there. If Ware had seen it, I’m sure he’d have displayed it as his horrible example, instead of the one he did pick. Probably Ware never saw that picture at all. Which means it could have been stolen from my closet before Ware and his raiders arrived.”

  “Who would do a thing like that?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But I can think of at least one admirer of yours who might qualify”

  I parked Don Collins’ car in front of his apartment building. It was also my apartment building now. Don had arranged for me to sublease a three-room layout on the ninth floor from a couple on an extended European vacation. Don’s apartment was on the twelfth floor. The building was a mile and a half from Clay Street and in a ward controlled by the minority party, so Hiram Schell had been unable to attempt any retaliatory measures against my new landlord. Moreover, this landlord was big enough to fight back. An insurance company worth several hundred million dollars owned the building. Schell would never joust with a windmill of those proportions.

  The desk clerk said Don had returned from work. I decided to return his car keys personally.

  Collins had peeled his jacket off. He held a drink in one hand. He opened the door and said, “Hi, Kolchak. Any luck?”

  I stepped inside. Don’s apartment was much larger than mine. He could afford it. His income, according to Max Fuller, was already more than twenty thousand a year. Oddly enough, the people he worked with felt he more than earned his way. Collins had been learning the ins and outs of the office equipment business almost since infancy from his father. He was an honor graduate, with a master’s degree, of an eminent school of commerce. Like my brother Ed, he seemed to thrive on the gregarious and highly competitive existence demanded of men who engage in top-level sales. And everybody knew that one day, since he was an only child, Don would become president of M. J. Collins, Inc. Don’s private life was about what you’d expect. Most of his close friends were young, competent, well-to-do, and still unmarried. He was no saint—the crowd he ran with numbered several prematurely heavy drinkers, and if Don wanted to spend a night with a girl, he knew which telephone numbers to call—but he held his vices within gentle-manly bounds. His greatest weakness was a fondness for plunging in cheap stocks.

  “Not much,” I said “But thanks for the loan of the car.” I tossed the keys onto a coffee table. “It’s all gassed up.”

  “Drink?”

  “Why not?”

  Collins drew me a Scotch and soda.

  “I’ll need the car Monday through Wednesday next week,” he said. “But Thursday and Friday it’s yours, if you want it.”

  “That’s mighty generous of you.” I sat down and lit a cigarette. “In fact you’ve been uncommonly good to me lately. Considering I’m using your car to picnic with your girl.”

  “I have an ulterior motive,” Don replied easily. “Betsy has an awful crush on you now. But I figure the more she sees of an ugly
old gorilla like you, the more she’ll ultimately appreciate me. Not just for my charm and good looks. But for my father’s money. And as for getting you an apartment in this building—I have a deal with the desk, see. The minute you try to sneak Betsy up there, the desk will tip me off, I’ll bust in and save her honor. She’ll thank me for that later, after we’re settled in the ten-room bungalow my father will give us as a wedding present.”

  “Your father might not approve of a girl who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, whose mother was a waitress, and who works as a photographer’s model.”

  “My father couldn’t care less. My mother was working in a laundry when he met her. He walked into the place to sell an adding machine. My old man ran into a friend of yours today, by the way. Pete Ordway.”

  “Your father’s in the CGL?”

  “No.” Don smiled. “But with an Irish name and a father of his own who was a precinct captain, he just can’t help dabbling in politics some. Right now he’s with a volunteer group working for the opposition candidate for mayor. Ordway’s involved in the campaign too. Didn’t your private detective’s report on me note that my father is addicted to smoke-filled rooms?”

  “No, it didn’t.” I glanced at a storage recess in an end table. “Max didn’t tell me you collected ladies’ handkerchiefs, either.” I leaned over and pulled the little hanky into view. Neatly folded, it was embroidered with a large butterfly. I asked, “Is this a sexual fetish? Or mere old-fashioned sentiment?”

  Collins looked suddenly embarrassed. “Oh, yeah. Betsy dropped it in the car the night you took us to dinner.” He got up and walked to the window, his back to me. “I was going to return it. The next time I saw her.”

  Lorene telephoned at seven o’clock.

  “Stephen?”

  She sounded tired. Which was understandable. Since her father’s heart attack, she’d been running the restaurant all day and night almost every day. Her father had been confined to a sanitarium. Lorene hired a full-time maid to stay home with Jackie.

  “You have dinner yet?” she asked. “If not, why don’t you drop over here?”