1945 - Blonde's Requiem Page 8

  I turned the knob and went into the small, narrow room with the two windows, the battered typewriter desk, the filing cases and the threadbare carpet.

  The thin, frowzy woman was sitting at the desk, her head in her hands. She looked at me out of red, swollen eyes.

  I tipped my hat. “Who’s running the Gazette?” I asked.

  She waved to the further office. “He is,” she said, and put her head back in her hands.

  I walked to the door, tapped and went in.

  Sitting behind Dixon’s desk was a youth who eyed me inquiringly. He was undersized, his features small, in keeping with his stature, and regular. His skin was very fair. His clothing was neither new nor of more than ordinary quality, but it, and his manner of wearing it, was marked by a hard masculine neatness.

  “What do you want?” he said in a voice as composed as his young face.

  I hooked a chair towards me with my foot, sat down and took out my identity card. I gave it to him. While he was examining it I studied him. He seemed certainly less than twenty years old and he didn’t look like he had ever shaved. He got through examining the identity card and handed it back. He looked with large hazel eyes under long, curling lashes at my chest.

  “I often wanted to be a private dick,” he said in a confiding sort of voice. “It must be fun.”

  I took out the package of Lucky Strikes, tapped a couple on to the desk, rolled one to him and picked up the other.

  “Thanks,” he said, putting it between his over-full lips.

  I set fire to the cigarettes and relaxed in the chair. “The old girl seems knocked up,” I said, jerking my head to the outer office.

  He nodded. “She’s worked with him for years,” he explained. “He wasn’t such a bad old geezer, not when you got to know him.” He looked round the office as if he’d lost something and then said: “Did you say what you wanted?”

  “You the guy Dixon was telling me about? The guy who thought up the mass-murder idea?”

  He nodded. “That’s me.” He spoke with quiet pride. “I told the old geezer it’d double our circulation. Did he tell you that?”

  “Yeah.” I stretched out my legs. “It was only to build circulation?”

  “That’s what I told him, but believe it myself.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Reg Phipps. I may look a kid but I’ve been on the Gazette three years now.”

  “So you think these girls were murdered?”

  He nodded. “Sure do. It’s exciting, isn’t it?” His eyes glowed. “Can’t think what he’s done with the bodies.”

  “He? Who?”

  Phipps frowned. “The murderer, of course.”

  “You’re guessing, aren’t you? You don’t know it’s murder.”

  “I don’t know it’s murder,” he repeated, “but I’ll bet it is.”

  I changed the subject. “Never mind that. Who’s the new editor?”

  His face clouded. “Not me,” he said bitterly. “Shanks doesn’t believe in giving youth a chance . . . He’ll dig out some old deadbeat.”

  “Could you do it?”

  “Run this rag?” He laughed. “I could do it with an abscess in my ear.”

  I told him he might not have to wait for the abscess.

  “That right?” His eyes brightened, then he shook his head. “Aw, you’re kidding.”

  “I told Wolf to buy the rag,” I said. “If Wolf gets it, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t run it.”

  He stubbed out his cigarette and put the butt carefully in a tin box full of butts. “I give ‘em to an old guy I know,” he explained as he caught my eye. He put the box away and brooded for a moment. “It might be hell to work for Wolf,” he said finally.

  I shook my head. “I’ll take care of him. What I want to be sure of is whether you can handle it or whether you’re just saying so.”

  “I’m not kidding,” he said seriously. “I wrote all the stuff. Dixon handled the policy. I could do that or maybe Wolf could do it.”

  I grunted. “What about her?” I nodded to the door.

  “She won’t stay.” Phipps seemed sure of that. “I’d like a dame here like Ginger Rogers, or maybe Rita Hayworth.” He turned it over in his mind and added: “Betty Grable would be a snap, but I don’t suppose she’d come.”

  I said I didn’t think any of them would.

  He said he thought I was right.

  “If Wolf got the paper, we’d bust this town wide open,” I said. “We’d go after Macey and Starkey and nail ‘em to the cross. Would you like that?”

  He got excited. “I wrote one leader about Starkey once. Dixon had a fit. It never got printed. I think Macey and Starkey are a couple of bums.”

  “They wouldn’t take it lying down.”

  He ran inky lingers through his thick, sandy hair. “What could they do? We don’t have to be scared of them.” He looked hard at me and added: “Or do we?”

  “They knocked Dixon off,” I said gently.

  His large hazel eyes popped. “The old geezer had a tired ticker,” he said. “That’s what the copper said.”

  “But you don’t believe all you hear, do you?”

  He sat forward, his arms on the desk. I noticed his cuffs were frayed. “You wouldn’t kid me?”

  “Someone tied a cord around Dixon’s neck and forgot to take it off. He was murdered all right. Macey’s playing it as heart failure. I don’t know why, but that’s the way it is.”

  The boy took a long, deep breath. His face had gone a little pale, but his eyes hadn’t lost their brightness. “You mean they might knock me off too?”

  “And me or Wolf.” I gave him another cigarette.

  He thought about this. “If you can stand it, I can,” he said at last.

  I stood up. “That’s swell. The moment Wolf tells me he’s got the paper I’ll be down to talk to you again. In the meantime, stick around and say nothing. Don’t say anything about Dixon.”

  He went with me to the door. “Do you really think Wolf will let me . . .?”

  “I’ll talk him into it,” I promised, then asked: “Know where I can find Audrey Sheridan?”

  “She’s got an office on Sinclair Street. I forget the number, but it’s a big building with a big theatre ad in lights crawling all over it. You can’t miss it.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Laurel Street. It’s an apartment building. You’ll find it halfway down on your right. It’s got a roof garden.” He sighed. “I wouldn’t mind living in it myself.”

  “Maybe you will one day,” I said. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  “So long,” he said, and I went into the outer office. Then I remembered something and came back.

  “Does the name Edna Wilson mean anything to you?”

  Phipps scowled. “Sounds familiar,” then he gave me a quick look. “What’s the idea? She’s Wolf’s secretary, ain’t she?”

  I nodded. “Who else does she run around with?”

  “You’re not serious? I thought she was too homey to run around with anyone.”

  “Wolf doesn’t think so.”

  “At his age he can’t afford to choose.”

  “So there’s no one else?”

  “Blackley. I saw her with him once, but he’s as bad as Wolf. Bald, old, wrinkles and the rest.”

  “Who’s Blackley?”

  “The District Attorney. He’s no good. You don’t think there’s anything to it, do you?”

  I was thinking hard. “To it? What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “You’re talking in riddles. What’s Edna Wilson to you?”

  “Listen, son,” I said, patting his shoulder, “the whole goddamn thing’s a riddle.”

  Out in the street, I signalled a cab and told the driver to take me to Laurel Street. It took twelve minutes to get there and I told him to put me down at the corner.

  I found the building with the r
oof garden halfway up the street on my right. It was a nice-looking joint and I agreed with Phipps that it would be all Tight to live in.

  I walked into the lobby and went to the desk. “Mr. Selby,” I said.

  The girl frowned. “No Mr. Selby here, sir.”

  I said Mr. Selby was an old friend of mine and I had come two hundred miles to see him and this is where he lived. I said if she didn’t know the names of her clients she’d better call the manager.

  She produced the register to prove I was wrong. Audrey Sheridan’s room was number 853. I said I must have made a mistake, that I was sorry and could I use the phone? She showed me where the phones were and I thanked her.

  I put a call through to room 853 but there was no answer. The phone was out of sight of the girl at the desk and the elevator was right by me. I rode up to the eighth floor, walked down a long deserted corridor until I came to 853. I rapped, waited and then took out my pocketknife. I was inside in thirty seconds.

  The red and cream sitting room was pleasant and livened by flowers in squat pottery vases. A faint smell of lilac gave the right feminine touch.

  I put my hat on the walnut settee and searched the room from wall to wall. I opened every drawer, cupboard, box, trunk and subjected its contents to examination by eyes and fingers. I tested every piece of clothing for telltale bulges or for the sound of crinkling paper. I looked under rugs and furniture. I pulled down blinds to see that nothing had been rolled up in them for concealment. I examined dishes and pans and food and food-containers. I opened the flush-box in the bathroom and looked out of windows to see that nothing was hung below them on the outside. I took the apartment to pieces systematically, but I didn’t find the three photographs nor Mary Drake’s handkerchief.

  I hadn’t made more mess than necessary, but I had made a mess. I stood looking around the room, a little tired and depressed. Although I hadn’t found what I had come for I had managed to create a picture of Audrey Sheridan by her possessions. Her clothes for one thing. A woman’s clothes can be an indication of her character —especially her underwear. Audrey Sheridan’s underwear was spartan in its severity—no lace, no colours, no fancy cut. Her clothes were-ultra smart. Tailored suits, three or four pairs of flannel trousers in various shades, high-neck jumpers, bright-coloured shirts. All smart and all carefully chosen.

  Her cosmetics comprised cold cream, lipsticks and lilac scent. The apartment was full of books. Even books in the kitchen and bathroom. There was a radio on the table by the window and a big library of gramophone records in a cabinet by the door.

  One look at the titles of the books and the records convinced me that Audrey Sheridan had a serious mind. I have always distrusted serious-minded women; but a serious-minded woman who took the trouble to learn jiu-jitsu and who didn’t hesitate to steal evidence from a fellow dick looked like poison to me.

  I set fire to a cigarette, tossed the match into the fireplace and dragged down a lungful of smoke.

  I decided it was time for Audrey Sheridan and me to have a little talk.

  With one last glance around the disordered room, I went out, closing the door behind me.

  * * *

  At the far end of a light, airy passage was a door lettered in bright gilt on pebbled glass: “The Alert Agency.”

  I turned the doorknob and went in.

  The room was small. Two windows covered by cream net curtains faced me.

  Three armchairs stood against the apple-green painted walls and on a light oak table under the windows were scattered copies of Saturday Evening Post, Harpers and the New Yorker. Bowls of bright flowers made pools of colour around the room and a thick Turkey carpet, thick enough to tickle my ankles, covered the floor. As an outer office of a detective agency it was something to see.

  I was just recovering from the shock when I ran into another. The door leading into the main office jerked open and Jeff Gordan slid out. He had a gun in his hand and he pointed it at me. The muzzle of the gun looked to me as big and as steady as a tunnel.

  “For God’s sake,” Jeff said, showing yellow teeth, “look who’s here.”

  “Well, well,” I countered, “if it isn’t Jeff! You do get around, don’t you?”

  He threatened me with the gun. “Grab some cloud, you son of a bitch, and don’t start anything you can’t finish.”

  I raised my hands to my shoulders. “The Warner Brothers have a lot to answer for,” I said, with feeling. “Can’t you cut this Bogart stuff out?”

  Jeff called through the open door: “Hey, look what’s blown in.”

  A man’s voice said sharply: “Who is it? The voice was high-pitched and staccato; the same voice that had threatened Dixon over the telephone.

  “The New York dick,” Jeff said, grinning evilly at me.

  “Bring him in here,” the high-pitched voice said.

  Jeff jerked his head at the door. “Get in, you.”

  “Now wait a minute,” I said hurriedly. “I came to see Miss Sheridan. If she’s all tied up, I’ll come back.”

  Jeff sniggered. “She’s tied up all right,” he said, “but that ain’t going to trouble you.” His face changed to purple viciousness. “Get in, you louse!”

  I shrugged and, keeping my hands up, walked into the other room.

  The room was as big as the outer office was small. Another fitted Turkey carpet covered the floor. A big mahogany desk stood by the open window, and two armchairs, filing cases, and other office equipment completed the furnishing.

  The room had none of the ordered neatness of the outer office. It looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Drawers were pulled out, papers were scattered all over the floor, filing cabinets spilled their contents on the carpet.

  There were three people in the room. A girl and two men.

  The girl was, of course, Audrey Sheridan. I was about to give her a cursory glance, but I changed my mind. I stared plenty. She was sitting in a chair set in the middle of the room. Her hands were tied behind the chair. For the moment I dismissed that as unimportant. I concentrated on her as a person. As a person, Audrey Sheridan was something to see. She had broad shoulders and narrow hips and a figure that Varga likes to draw. Her eyes were large, blue in colour, with long, silky eyelashes. Her mouth was large, full-lipped and scarlet. Her hair, red shot with gold, fell to her shoulders in long, thick waves. If you can’t imagine her from this, then think of Joan Crawford and you’ll be near enough.

  She was wearing a smart white and blue checked coat, powder-blue trousers, brown buckskin shoes and a high-necked cashmere sweater in blue.

  One of the men sat on the desk opposite her, one foot on the desk and his hands clasping his knee. The other man stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders and his eyes watching the man sitting on the desk.

  I guessed the man on the desk was Rube Starkey. I looked at him with interest. He was small; small-boned but sinewy. His face was pockmarked, his eyes flat and black, his mouth lipless. He was dressed in a white flannel suit, and a white slouch hat was pulled well over one eye, giving him a racy, jaunty look. But there was nothing jaunty about his expression.

  The man behind Audrey Sheridan was in the same class as Jeff Gordan—big, brainless, apish and tough.

  “Spewack,” Jeff said to Starkey, and jerking his head at me.

  “What do you want?” Starkey said, looking at me with hard, calculating eyes.

  I eyed him back. “What goes on?” I said. “You’re not mayor yet, Starkey; you’d better cut this stuff out. Let her go!”

  Jeff pulled me round by grabbing my shoulder. I saw his fist coming up from his ankles and I swayed my body to the right. I felt the draught of wind as his fist whistled past my ear, then I hit him in the belly, and as he came forward I socked him in the jaw.

  The gun fell from his hand and I made a dive at it. Starkey got there first. He must have moved with the speed of a lizard. His hand whipped it up as I reached him. He tried to turn, but I was
on top of him. I socked him in the body, grabbed him by his belt and arm and tossed him at the other thug who was pounding across the room to get at me. They went down in a heap, upsetting Audrey Sheridan. They all sprawled on the floor together.

  I had no time to jump them as Jeff came at me. His face was congested and his eyes bloodshot. I stepped inside a haymaker he sent over, socked him with a left and a right and stopped a bang in the ribs that shook me to the toes.

  I backed away as the other thug scrambled to his feet. Both of them came at me. I pushed a chair in Jeff’s way, took a punch on the shoulder from the other thug and socked him between the eyes.

  I saw Starkey had got to his feet, and as the other two started on me again he called them off. They drew back and we all eyed each other.

  Starkey had a flat automatic in his hand. “Stay where you are,” he said, in a furious hissing voice.

  “You can’t use that heater here,” I said. “If you want me, you’ll damn well have to come and get me.” Whipping round, I snatched up a bowl of flowers and threw it at him. He only saved himself by falling flat on his face.

  The other two nearly fell over themselves trying to get at me. I dodged round the desk, snatched up the telephone and hit Jeff across his face with it as he rushed me. He blundered back with a howl of pain and cannoned into the other thug. I picked up a chair and stood by the window.

  “Now listen, you swine,” I yelled at them. “Make one move and the chair’ll go through the window. That’ll bring a cop, and I’ll pin an assault charge on you that even Macey won’t be able to lift.”

  Growling like an animal, Jeff prepared to charge me, but Starkey shouted: “Hold it!”

  Once again we all eyed each other.

  “Tell those jerks to get the hell outa here,” I said to Starkey. “I want to talk to you and talk to you alone.”

  His white pockmarked face was expressionless. After staring at me for a long minute he suddenly said, “Beat it,” to the others.

  When they had gone, I put down the chair: “Someone’s trying to frame you for murder,” I said. “Even Macey can’t help you if the frame’s good enough.”

  Starkey said nothing. He straightened his coat, put on his hat again and went over and sat in a chair. He nodded his head at the girl lying on her side, still tied to the chair.