(1941) Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief Page 2
“You wouldn't think he was dead, would you, boss?” the driver said.
Phillips shoved the drawer to. “Naw,” he said, “he looks like he was stuffed.” He walked over to the other side of the room. “Let's have a look at some of the dames.”
The driver's face brightened. “That's an idea, boss,” he said. “Can you unwrap 'em?”
Phillips looked over at Franklin. “For Gawd's sake, did you hear that?” he said. “This gaul wants to see some Paris pictures.”
The driver looked abashed. “Don't get me wrong, boss,” he pleaded. “If you don't think I oughtta look, I won't.”
Phillips was pulling open drawers quickly, peering inside and hastily shutting them. “Real hot numbers don't seem to die these days,” he said regretfully. “All old dames here.” He paused and pulled a drawer open further. “Say, this looks better. Hi, Franky, come an' look at this.”
Franky got up slowly and came over, impelled by irresistible curiosity. They all stood looking down at the girl lying in the drawer. She had flame−coloured hair, that showed a darker brown at the roots. Her thin pinched face wore a tragic look of one who has missed the good things in life. Her lips were gentle in death, in spite of the almost pathetic smudge of the lipstick that smeared her chin.
Phillips pulled off the sheet that covered her.
The driver said, “Oh, boy!” and trod on Franklin's toes to get nearer.
She was slender, but firmly rounded. Her body was as perfect as the three men had ever seen.
Franklin took the sheet from Phillips and made to cover her again, but Phillips stopped him. “Let her lie,”
he said, “she does somethin' to me. By God! She's nice, ain't she?”
The driver said wistfully, “It'd take a heapa jack to play around a dame like that.”
Phillips continued to stare at the girl. He pulled the tag of identification from its slot in the drawer and studied it. “Julie Callaghan,” he read. “Age 23. Height 5 ft. 4 inches. Weight 112 lbs. Address not known. No relations.” He pulled the tag out further. “Cause of death: Murder by stabbing. Profession: Prostitute.”
He released the tag, which snapped back into its socket. “Well, well,” he said.
The three men stood silently looking down at the figure in the drawer, then Franklin said, “You never can tell, can you? Here I was workin' up some sympathy for her, and she turns out to be a whore.”
Phillips glanced at him. “What's the matter with that?” he said. “Can't you give her any sympathy?”
Franklin threw the sheet over her and closed the drawer. “You ain't one of those guys who tries to put glamour in that type, are you?”
“You've got the angle wrong. That dame's doing a job of work. Maybe it ain't a good job of work, but all the same, she's human, ain't she?”
Franklin wandered to the bench and sat down. “Come off it,” he said, “that don't hold water. I'll tell you something. I hate these broads. I despise them. To me, that dame is just one more of 'em out of the way. She got what was comin' to her. She was too damn lazy and too damn brainless to do anythin' else.”
Furtively the driver had opened the drawer again and was looking with fascinated eyes.
Both Phillips and Franklin took no notice of him.
Phillips said, “Some of these girls are forced into the trade, Franky. You ought to know that. Gee! You ought to be sorry for them.”
“Don't talk a lotta bull. Sorry? That's a laugh. Listen, there's too much crap going around about forcin'
janes into prostitution. If a woman don't want to do it, you just can't make her. They do it because they want the things in life the easy way. They've got what you want, and they make you pay for it. They give you nothing. They'll cheat you, rob you, lie to you, and they certainly hate you. They're a breed on their own. To 4
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
hell with them!”
The driver said, “Maybe this was one of Raven's girls.”
The two looked at him. “Why do you say that?” Phillips asked. “Are you sure?”
The driver closed the drawer regretfully. “No, I ain't sure, but he always had the best girls; and she's a honey, ain't she?”
Phillips looked at Franklin. “You're wrong, Franky. Some of these girls had a bad time. Raven's girls had a terrible time. It's hick−minded to group them all together.”
“Who's this Raven you're talkin' about?” Franklin wanted to know.
Phillips exchanged glances with the driver. “So you don't know Raven?” he said. “Well, well! Where've you been all this time?”
Franklin sat down. “Okay, okay, I'll buy it, just so long as you'll stop this sissy talk about whores. Tell me.”
Phillips reached for a cigarette. “Raven was quite a boy,” he said, setting himself comfortably. “He came to this town about a year ago. As a matter of fact, one of our crowd, working on the old rag, first got on to him. It was odd how it started. Damned odd. If old Poison's wife hadn't gone off the rails, maybe Raven would still be operating right now. It happened this way....”
5
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
PART ONE
6
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
1
June 3rd, 11.45 p.m.
“TAKE ME OUT for a little drive, Gerry darling,” Mrs. Poison said as the music stopped.
Hamsley looked at the big bulk of wrinkled flesh and was appalled.
“It's such a very, very hot night, isn't it?” she went on, walking across the ballroom floor. “It'll be nice out in the car”she gave his arm a little pat“with you.”
Hamsley wiped his face with his handkerchief. “Yes, Mrs. Poison,” he said.
He knew what was coming. He'd seen it coming for the last week. He had a sick feeling inside him as he followed her steady march across the floor. He could see people looking at him and smiling to each other.
As he went past the band the conductor said something he didn't hear. He knew what it was, and it made him sicker than ever. At the door he tried to persuade her to stay. It was like pushing the sea back with his hands.
It was dark outside, cool after the heat of the ballroom. They stood on the top step, trying to pierce the darkness.
Mrs. Poison put her hand on his arm. He could feel her trembling. “Isn't it wonderful?” she said. “My, my, it makes me feel young again.”
Automatically he said, “Don't talk such nonsense. You're a young woman.” She and the other old women paid him to say things like that.
“You mustn't tell untruths. I'm not young, Gerry, but I'm not old. I'm in the best years of my life.”
Hamsley shuddered.
Out of the darkness a two−seater slid up to them. The young mechanic got out quickly and stood holding open the door. Hamsley felt completely trapped. She'd arranged everything.
The mechanic winked at him and made a sign with his hand. Hamsley climbed in beside Mrs. Poison, ignoring him. He could have wept with shame.
He said desperately, “It's cold out here. You sure you won't catch cold? Maybe we ought to get back.”
“Oh no!” She gave a giggling little laugh. “It's cold now. But we'll be warm soon.”
There, she had said it. He knew beyond any doubt now. His hand shook as he engaged the gears and let the clutch in with a jerk. “Where shall we go?” he said, driving the car slowly into the road.
“Go straight. I'll tell you.” She leant against him. He could feel her soft hot body pressing into his shoulder.
He drove down the road for a couple of miles, then she told him to turn off to the left. He could hear the tyres bite into the dirt road, and the trees overhead blotted out the sky.
She said suddenly in a hoarse voice, “Stop.”
He pretended not to hear. His foot pressed down on the accelerator.
She said in his ear, “Gerry darling, I said stop. I want to talk to you.” At the same time she reached forward and turned the ignition key. The car slid t
o a standstill.
Hamsley stared into the night, holding the wheel tightly in his hands.
Neither of them said anything for a moment.
“Gerry darling, you're a lovely looking boy,” Mrs. Poison said. Her hand touched his.
Hamsley moved away from her. “I'm glad you think so, Mrs. Poison,” he said. “I guess it's pretty kind of you to think that.”
He could feel her quick breath on his face. “Yes, Gerry, you're the handsomest boy I've ever seen. I don't know what Mr. Poison would say, but I could be very kind to you.”
Hamsley shuddered again. “Why, Mrs. Poison, I guess you're always giving me things. I guess you couldn't do any more.”
“There's one thing I haven't given you, Gerry.” Out of the darkness her voice sounded horribly harsh.
“Gerry, I'm crazy about you. I'm mad about you.”
She put out her hands and caught his head, pulling him towards her. She began to kiss him furiously. Her wet mouth made him want to retch. He suddenly pushed her away, his hands loathing the feel of her breasts.
He said, “No. I'm taking you back. I'mI'm not going to break up your home.”
7
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
She came at him again. “Don't be a fool!” she said harshly. “Come heredon't talk!”
He pushed her back more violently so that she thudded against the side of the car. He could see her staring eyes in the dashlight. She sat there heaving and panting, looking as if she could kill him. Then her mouth opened and a thin, reedy scream came out of the slack cavity that went through his head like red−hot wires.
He fumbled with the door−handle, pushed the door open, and got out of the car. He didn't say anything. He just wanted to get away from her. So he ran into the darkness, leaving her still screaming.
8
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
2
June 4th, 5.10 p.m.
JAY ELLINGER sat behind his battered desk and scribbled on his blotter. His hat rested on the back of his head and a cigarette dangled from his lips. His completed copy lay in a wire basket by his hand, and he was through for the day. He had nothing further to do, but he made no effort to leave the office. He just sat there scribbling and smoking.
The house phone buzzed and he looked at it without interest. “You're lucky, laddybuck,” he said, reaching out. “Two minutes, and you'd've missed me.” He scooped the receiver to his ear. A girl said, “Mr. Henry wants to see you.” Jay made a face. “Tell him I've gone home,” he said hastily.
“Mr. Henry said if you'd gone home I was to ring you.
“What's the trouble? Is there a big fire or somethin'?”
“You'd better come. Mr. Henry sounds awful mad.” She hung up.
Jay pushed his chair back and got up. Henry was the editor of the St. Louis Banner. He was a good guy to work for and he didn't often get mad.
As he walked upstairs to Henry's office Jay searched his mind to find any reason why he might be called on the mat, but he couldn't think of a thing. There was that little business about the extra expenses last week, but surely Henry wasn't going to crib about that. Maybe he was getting sore about the way Jay belted Mendetta in the Rayson trial, but then he'd passed the copy himself.
He shook his head. “Well, well, let's see what's bitin' the old guy.”
He pushed open the frosted−panel door and walked in. Henry, a big fat man in his shirt−sleeves, was pacing up and down his small office. His cigar hung in tatters from his teeth. He looked up and glared at Jay.
“Shut the door!” he barked. “You've been a long time coming.”
Jay lounged over to an arm−chair and sat down. He hung his legs over one of the arms and shut his eyes.
“I'm sorry, Chief,” he said; “I came as fast as I could.”
Henry continued to pace up and down, ferociously chewing his tattered cigar. “What do you know about Gerry Hamsley?” he barked suddenly.
Jay shrugged. “Oh, he's a nice kid. He dances at Grantham's joint. Gigolobut a better type of the usual breed.”
“Yeah?” Henry planted himself in front of Jay. “A better type, hey? Well, let me tell you that guy has started somethin' that will mean my job and yours as well.”
Jay opened his eyes. “You don't say,” he said. “What's it all about?”
“The little swine tried to rape Poison's wife last night.”
“What?” Jay sat up, his face startled, then he remembered Mrs. Poison and suddenly began to laugh. He lay limply in his chair and howled with laughter. Henry stood over him, his face black with fury.
“Shut up, you coarse−minded Mick!” he yelled. “There's nothing to laugh about. Do you hear me? Shut up!”
Jay mopped his eyes. “I'm sorry, Chief, but damn it, you ain't swallowin' a yam like that? Gee! Is it likely?
She's old enough to be his mother, an' she's as fat an' as ugly as an elephant.”
Henry snarled, “Want me to phone Poison and tell him that? He's been on to me. My God! You ought to have heard him. He's in a terrible way.”
“Well, what's behind it? You know as well as I, all that's bull. What's he want you to do?”
Henry struck the air with his clenched fists. “He wants Hamsley on a plate. He wants Grantham's joint closed down. He's yelling murder, an' he's got blood in his eye.”
Just then the phone rang. Henry looked at it doubtfully. “That's him again, I bet,” he said, lifting the receiver off gingerly.
From where Jay sat he could hear a sudden bellow come over the line. Henry winced and nodded to Jay.
“Yes, Mr. Poison. Sure, Mr. Poison. I quite understand, Mr. Poison.”
Jay grinned. It did him good to see his chief sweat. “Why, yes, Mr. Poison. He's here now. I'll tell him to come to the phone.” Henry looked at Jay with a grim little smile.
9
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
Jay waved his hands frantically, but Henry handed him the phone. “Mr. Poison wants you,” he said, and stood, mopping his face.
This was the first time that Jay had ever spoken to the proprietor of the St. Louis Banner. “Ellinger here,”
he said.
Something exploded in his ear and he hurriedly removed the receiver. Holding it almost at arm's length, he could plainly hear Poison's roar. “Ellinger? You the guy I pay each week to be my crime reporter?”
“Yes, that's right.”
“Say sir when you speak to me, you young cub!” Poison bawled.
Jay grinned at Henry. He pursed his mouth and made silent rude signs. “Yes, Mr. Poison,” he said.
“Get after Grantham, do you hear? I want everything you can find about him. Get after that swine Hamsley. I'm going to close down the 22nd Club and I'm going to break Hamsley. I want action. Get out now and do something. Now give me Henry.”
Jay handed the phone back to Henry and sat back fanning himself with his hat.
Henry listened for a few moments with an agonized look on his face, and then the line went dead. He hung up gently. “The guy's crazy,” he said miserably. “He's been on to the D.A.'s office. He's been on to the police.
They can't do anything. Grantham's in the clear. His joint's respectable.”
Jay scratched his head. “Why doesn't he give Hamsley in charge?”
Henry came round the desk and pounded the top of Jay's chair. “For the love of God, don't say a word about Mrs. Poison. No one's to know about that. Poison only told me because I flatly refused to touch Hamsley. I'm not supposed to have told you.”
Jay grinned uneasily. “Sure, if that yarn got around, Poison would be laughed out of town. Surely, he doesn't believe it?”
Henry shrugged. “Of course he doesn't. It's the old cow that's causin' the trouble. Poison's scared to death of her. She's after Hamsley's bloodand you'd better find out why.”
“Listen,” Jay pleaded. “I'm a crime reporter. What you want is a nice private dick, not me. Let's get Pinkerton on the job. He'll tur
n up the dirt quick, an' we'll all be happy.”
Henry scowled at him. “You heard Poison. Go out an' get busy. Don't come back until you've got something.”
Jay got to his feet. “For cryin' out loud,” he said. “If this doesn't beat anything that's ever come my way.
What chance have I got to hang anythin' on Hamsley? Besides, he ain't such a bad guy.”
Henry sat down behind his desk. “I'm warning you,” he said seriously, “you've got to find something. If we don't give the old man what he wants, we'll be out. I know him when he gets like that.”
Jay stood by the door. “But what?” he said. “What am I likely to find? Grantham's all right, ain't he?”
“As far as I know. I hate to say it, Jay, but if you don't find something, we'll have to frame those two guys.
I'm getting too old to look for anything else.”
Jay shook his head. “Not on your life,” he said. “I ain't framing anyone because Poison's wife thinks she's young again. I'll sniff around. If nothin' shows up I'm resigning. But I ain't framin' anyone.”
Henry sighed. “Perhaps you're right,” he said. “Anyway, for God's sake dig hard.”
“I'll dig all right,” Jay returned, and went out, shutting the door behind him.
10
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
3
June 4th, midnight.
THERE WAS a cop at the street corner, standing watching the traffic, swinging his night−stick aimlessly.
Raven saw him as he came out of the alley, and he stepped back hurriedly into the shadows. Obscenities crowded through his brain, and his thin wolfish face twisted with frustrated rage.
The cop wandered to the edge of the kerb, hesitated, then began to pace down the street.
Raven edged further down the alley, further into the sheltering darkness. He'd let the cop go past. Across the road he could see the large block of apartments with their hundreds of brightly lit windows. On the sixth floor, Tootsie Mendetta had a six−room suite. From where he stood Raven could see Mendetta's windows.
He stood against the wall, his head thrust forward and his square shoulders hunched. He looked what he was, a bitter, screwed−up thing of destruction.
The cop wandered to the mouth of the alley. Raven could see him looking carelessly into the darkness. The cop took off his cap and blotted his face with a large white handkerchief. It was a hot night. Standing there, his mind dwelling on a long, cold drink, he was completely unaware that Raven waited so patiently for him to go away. He put his cap on again and moved on past the alley, on towards the bright lights, towards the cafe where he could bum a drink on the quiet.