David Goodis: Five Noir Novels of the 1940s and '50s (Library of America)

by David Goodis

  “Wait a minute. I’ll have a look at the files.”

  Vanning lit a cigarette. The quiet phone was like an ocean without waves. He blew smoke into the mouthpiece and watched it radiate. The minute went by. Another minute went by. And a third. And a fourth. The operator was in there for a few seconds, and Vanning told her to come in at the end of the call and tell him what he owed the phone company. Then the phone was quiet again. And another minute went by.

  And then the voice from Denver was on again, saying, “Maybe this is it. You there?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Eight months ago. A man named Harrison. Shot and killed a few blocks away from the Harlan Hotel. Suspect a man named James Vanning. Still at large.”

  “That’s it.”

  “What about it?”

  “Can you give me anything?”

  “Nothing you could build into a story. But then again I’m not in the newspaper business.”

  “Anything at all.”

  “Listen, if it’s this important, why don’t you send a man down?”

  “We will, if I think the thing can be shaped into something.”

  “I doubt it, but you’re paying good money for the call. You want to take it down?”

  “I’m ready. Shoot.”

  “Harrison, Fred. Record of six arrests. Served time for robbery. Arrested on a murder charge in 1936 but case thrown out of court for lack of evidence. On probation at time he was murdered. From there on we’re in the dark. No motive. No trace of the suspect.”

  “You sure about your suspect?”

  “No doubt about it. Fingerprints on the gun. Vanning’s car parked near the Harlan Hotel. Vanning registered at the Harlan Hotel under the name of Dilks, along with two other men.”

  “Their names?”

  “Smith and Jones. You can see what we have to work with.”

  “Anything more on Vanning?”

  “He was spotted with Harrison in the lobby of the hotel. About ten minutes before the murder. Someone piped them leaving the hotel together. That was the last time he was seen.”

  “Try to stay with him,” Vanning said. “I don’t want to promise anything definite, but we may be able to dig up a few facts you can use. Try to give me more on the man.”

  “There isn’t much to give. On the face of it, we’d say that the job was handled by a hired killer. But this Vanning keeps us guessing. No record of past arrests. Worked as a commercial artist in Chicago. Served as a lieutenant, senior grade, in the Navy. Damage-control officer on a battleship. Silver Star. Excellent record. No past connection with victim. It’s an upside-down case. We know he did it, but that’s all. You said you could hand us a few facts.”

  “We may have something for you. Say in a few days. We’re not sure yet, but there’s an interesting connection that has possibilities.”

  “Why not let me have it now?”

  “I don’t want to make a fool of myself. It may not mean anything. I don’t want to lose my job. Remember, I’m only an associate editor. There’s a boss over me.”

  “Let me speak to the boss. I’ll hold the phone.”

  “Wait,” Vanning said. “Let’s see what I can do with this.” He turned his face away from the mouthpiece, said to empty air, “Johnny, is the boss around?” Then he waited. Then he came back to the mouthpiece and said, “Wait there a minute.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  Vanning lit another cigarette, took small, rapid puffs at it, closed his eyes, his forehead deeply creased in groping thought. All at once he snapped his fingers. The idea was glaring and he didn’t see any holes in it. He whipped out his breast-pocket handkerchief, put it across the mouthpiece, put his voice on a high-pitched, nasal plane as he said, “Callahan speaking. Features editor.”

  “This is Hansen. Denver police. Homicide department.”

  “What did Rayburn tell you?”

  “Nothing. He only asked questions. But he said he might be able to tell me something. He said it was a little over his head, so I asked if I could speak with you.”

  “If Rayburn was a good newspaperman, he wouldn’t be dragging me in here. I don’t know why they’re always putting these things on my shoulders.”

  “Look, Callahan, that’s between you and Rayburn. I’m a policeman and we’re trying to catch a murderer. You’re trying to get a story. If we can help each other out, that’s fine. But you can’t expect me to throw information your way and have you sit there in New York and hold back on me. If you have something you think we can use, let’s have it. Otherwise, stop wasting your time and mine.”

  “I guess you make sense.”

  “I guess I do.”

  “Okay,” Vanning said. “I’ll give it to you but I want you to understand it’s not a definite lead. It’s just something we picked up more or less by accident. Some character called us up and told us a story about a bank robbery in Seattle. About eight or nine months ago, he said it was. A big job, three hundred thousand dollars. He said it was connected with a murder in Denver. We called Seattle and they told us the bank robbers were traced as far as Colorado.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Is it new to you?”

  “Brand-new. Tell me something. How many men were in on that Seattle thing?”

  “Three,” Vanning said, and he tried to bite it back before it hit the mouthpiece, but it was already in the mouthpiece, it was already in Denver.

  “Three men. That adds up to Dilks and Smith and Jones. That brings Vanning in on the bank job. I’m going to check with Seattle. I think you’ve handed us something we can use. Will you hold the phone a minute?”

  “Don’t be too long,” Vanning said.

  He took a deep breath, blew it out toward the handkerchief spread and tightened across the telephone mouthpiece. He wondered how long he had been in the phone booth. It seemed as if he had been here for a full day. And it seemed as if he was making one mistake after another. There were too many things to remember, and already he had forgotten one of the most important, that angle concerning Sam, the fact that Sam had been absent from the Denver affair. Sam had been in Leadville, under the care of that doctor. Three men in the Seattle robbery. Three men in the Denver deal. He felt like rapping himself in the mouth. Now he had gone and done it. Now he was glued to Seattle as well as Denver. Now he had taken Sam’s place in the line-up. He was only a substitute, and yet at the same time he was the headline performer. He was the star, the stellar attraction, he was the goat, the ignoramus who deserved every rotten break he got. This phone call was just another major error in a long parade of major errors. He was kidding himself now and he had been kidding himself all along. He wasn’t a criminal, he wasn’t even an amateur criminal. He was a commercial artist, a grown man, an ordinary citizen who believed in law and order, a man who looked upon too much excitement as an unnatural, neurotic thing. He didn’t belong in this muddle, this circle that went round and round much too fast.

  The voice from Denver was there again. “Hello. Callahan?”

  “Still here.”

  “We’re checking with Seattle. Can you hold on?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Good. We won’t be long.”

  Vanning put another cigarette in his mouth, had no desire to light it. He put his hand in front of his eyes, wondered why his fingers weren’t shaking. Perhaps he had gone beyond that. Perhaps it was actually a bad sign, his steady fingers. He sat there, his head lowered, feeling sorry for himself, feeling sorry for every poor devil who had ever stumbled into a spot like this. And then, gradually lifting his head, he gradually smiled. It was such a miserable state of affairs that it was almost comical. If people could see him now their reactions would be mixed. Some of them would have pity for him. Others would smile as he was smiling at this moment. Maybe some of them would laugh at him, as they would laugh at Charlie Chaplin in hot water somewhere up in the Klondike.

  He sighed. He thought of other men, thousands of them, hundreds of
thousands, working in factories, in offices, and going back tonight to a home-cooked meal, sitting in parlors with their wives and kids, listening to Bob Hope, going to sleep at a decent hour, and really sleeping, with nothing to anticipate except another day of work and another evening at home with the family. That was all they looked forward to, and Vanning told himself he would give his right arm if that was all he could look forward to.

  “Callahan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Just stay there. Be with you in a jiffy. We’re still talking to Seattle on another phone.”

  “Make it snappy, will you?”

  “Be right with you.”

  Vanning struck a match and applied it to the cigarette that waited in his mouth. He took in some smoke, blew it out, turned his head and saw a girl waiting outside the phone booth. She seemed to be fed up with waiting, and her pose was typical, the hand on the hip, the head tilted to one side, the lips tightened sarcastically and saying, Go on, take all day, it’s so silly to consider other people. He smiled sheepishly, and her expression changed, she glared at him. She looked very attractive, glaring. Pretty girl with an upsweep, pretty and slim and extremely Madison Avenue. It was getting on toward the cocktail hour and evidently she wanted to check on her date at Theodore’s or the Drake and it was a shame he had to keep her waiting like this. It was really unfair. All she wanted to do was keep that date, and all he wanted to do was keep himself alive. Now her expression had changed again and she seemed really worried about getting to the phone. He was just a little annoyed at himself, because he was getting an eerie sort of satisfaction watching her frown of worriment. At least he wasn’t the only worried individual in this world.

  The girl shifted her position, breathed in and out in an exasperated way.

  Vanning opened the booth door, leaned out and said, “I’m calling Denver.”

  “How lovely.”

  “I’m awfully sorry it’s taking this long.”

  “We’re both sorry.”

  “Maybe one of the other booths——”

  “No, darling. Everybody’s calling Denver.”

  “I’ll try to rush it.”

  “Please do. I want to break the date before he gets there.”

  “I thought you wanted to keep the date,” Vanning said.

  “I want to break it. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “It depends. Maybe he’s a nice guy.”

  “He’s very unexciting,” the girl said. “He wants to get married. What are you doing with that handkerchief over the mouthpiece?”

  “I have a cold. I don’t want anyone else to get it. I——”

  Denver was in again. Vanning closed the door, came back to the mouthpiece.

  The voice was saying, “I think you’ve started something, Callahan. We have Seattle all worked up. They tell us three men did that bank job. Got away in a phaeton. Two men in the bank and one waiting in the car. One of the men was big. Hefty around chest and shoulders. Wore a felt hat and a loafer jacket with a wide collar turned up. That was probably Vanning, alias Dilks. Now we’re going to check with the Navy to see when he got out. The way we have it lined up, Harrison was waiting in Denver, acting as contact man. There must have been an argument over the split, and Vanning pulled a gun and that’s about as close as we can come to it right now. That character you were telling us about, if he calls up again see if you can meet him somewhere. See if you can hold him down. And listen, if anything new turns up, get in touch with us, will you?”

  “By all means.”

  “And thanks for the tip.”

  “I’m thanking you,” Vanning said. “I think we’ll have a swell story.”

  “You bet. ’Bye now.” And the other party hung up.

  The operator asked for more money and Vanning paid it. He put the handkerchief back in his pocket, and as he left the phone booth the girl went whizzing in to take his place. He walked through the drugstore, arranged his lips to whistle a tune, couldn’t get the tune past his lips.

  On Madison Avenue again, he waved to a cab, climbed in and fell back against leather-looking upholstery, and the cab started south on Madison.

  “Where to?”

  “Fifth Avenue and Eighth Street.”

  “You in a hurry?”

  “No,” Vanning said. “Why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  Vanning closed his eyes, slumped in the seat, stayed that way for several seconds and then slowly opened his eyes and gazed at the driver’s head. There was considerable traffic in front of the taxi’s windshield, but Vanning didn’t see it. He was studying the driver’s head. The driver wore a cloth cap. The driver had recently treated himself to a haircut. The barber was either a newcomer to the trade or not too much interested in the work. It was a very bad haircut.

  The taxi made a turn, made another turn and came onto Fifth Avenue.

  The haircut was bad because it took too much hair from the driver’s skull, and instead of shading gradually from hair to shaven neck, it broke up acutely, so that there was a distinct cleavage between black hair and white flesh. That was one thing that made the driver seem a little wrong. And another thing was the way the driver sat at the wheel. The driver leaned to one side, and didn’t seem to be watching the traffic in front. Instead, the driver seemed to aim attention at the rear-view mirror.

  “Where did you get that haircut?” Vanning said.

  “What’s the matter with it?”

  “Everything.”

  “Makes no difference,” the driver said. “Who sees me?”

  “Don’t you care how you look?”

  “All I care about is getting rid of hair in the summer. If men had any sense, they’d shave their entire heads. Nothing like it if you want to keep cool.”

  The taxi made another turn. It was going toward Sixth Avenue.

  “Why not stay on Fifth?”

  “Too much traffic.”

  “I’m a New Yorker,” Vanning said. “Just as much traffic on Sixth. Just as many lights.”

  “Should we try Eighth?”

  “That’s taking me out of my way.”

  “You said you weren’t in a hurry.”

  Vanning leaned forward. “That’s what I said. That’s why I’m wondering why we didn’t stay on Fifth.”

  “You want me to cut off the meter? I don’t need the money. I make out.”

  The taxi passed Sixth Avenue, passed Broadway, moved on toward Eighth.

  “Sure,” the driver said. “I break even. I don’t have to stretch a ride. I never go in for that sort of thing. And I don’t like to be accused of it, either. I been driving a cab for fifteen years and I never stretched a ride. I like when people start telling me how to operate a cab.”

  “What do you want me to do, sit here and argue with you?”

  “I like when these people think they’re doing me a favor when they get in the cab. I got more money in the bank than most of the people who ride with me. And you don’t have to tip me if you don’t want to. I’m not asking for a tip. I don’t want anybody to think they’re doing me favors.”

  “Now we’re passing Eighth,” Vanning said. “If this is a sight-seeing tour, why not start with Grant’s Tomb?”

  “You want me to stop the cab?” the driver said. “You can get out here if you want to.”

  “It sounds like an idea.”

  “We’ll stop right here,” the driver said.

  The taxi was slowing down, going toward the curb. The driver turned around and stared at Vanning as Vanning looked at the meter. The driver stared past Vanning. And Vanning was taking money from his pocket and then he was looking at the driver, whose eyes remained focused on the rear window.

  “All right,” Vanning said. “Let’s forget the beef. Let’s keep going.”

  “Maybe you better get out here.”

  “Keep going,” Vanning said.

  “It’s got to be level. I can’t do it if it ain’t level. You know how it is.”

  “I said keep goin
g.”

  The taxi moved away from the curb, stopped for a red light. The light changed. Traffic was thinning out. Vanning folded his arms, sat stiffly on the edge of the seat.

  “Down Ninth Avenue?” the driver asked.

  “Try Tenth.”

  “A lot of trucks on Tenth.”

  “All right. Ninth. Give her some speed.”

  “Now look, mister——”

  “You heard me.”

  The taxi commenced racing down Ninth Avenue. A red light showed and the taxi ignored it, raced toward the next red light.

  “Make a turn,” Vanning said. “Turn left.”

  “Can’t do that. One-way street. We’ll be bucking traffic.”

  “Make the turn,” Vanning said.

  The taxi started a turn, veered away to remain on Ninth Avenue, cut past the next red light, then turned down a side street, and there was the sound of a policeman’s whistle, and the taxi raced on.

  “Back to Fifth,” Vanning said. “Go past Fifth. Go toward the river. Don’t stop for anything.”

  “It ain’t no good,” the driver said. “We’re in the center of Manhattan. We don’t have no room to move. First thing you know, we’ll have a smash-up. It’s bound to happen.”

  “Don’t look back at me. Keep your eyes on the windshield. Keep us moving.”

  “If I stop in heavy traffic you can hop out and——”

  “Don’t tell me how to plan my day,” Vanning said. “Just drive your taxicab and let’s see if we can do something smart.”

  “I sure did something smart when I picked you up.”

  “Drive, Admiral. Just drive.”

  They were going past Sixth. Past Fifth. There was another red light. They went past it. They went rushing toward the rear of a huge truck, and the truck came to a stop, and the truck became an expanse of dull green wall in front of them.

  “On the sidewalk,” Vanning said.

  Two wheels of the cab climbed up on the sidewalk, stayed on the sidewalk as the cab fought to get free. A man appeared in front of the cab, and the man’s eyes bulged, the man leaped toward the wall of a building. The cab returned to the street, went tearing its way past the red light that showed on Madison.