Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief (2 page)

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 to 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.”

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.

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.

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 turn 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.

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.

Raven gave him a few seconds, and then he walked to the mouth of the alley and glanced up and down the street. He saw nothing there to alarm him, and squaring his shoulders he stepped into the light of the street lamps.

In his apartment Mendetta amused himself with a pack of cards. He held a cigar between his thick lips and a glass of whisky−and−soda stood at his elbow. He played patience.

The apartment was silent except for the faint shuffling of cards as Mendetta altered their position. He liked patience, and he played with tense concentration. He heard Jean, in the bathroom, drawing off water, and he glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after twelve.

The phone suddenly jangled. He half shifted his bulk, his brows coming to a heavy frown, and stared at the phone.

Jean called from the bathroom, “Shall I answer it?”

He got up and walked with heavy steps across the room. “No, no. It'll be for me,” he said, raising his voice so that she could hear. He picked up the receiver. “Who is it?”

“That you, Tootsie? This is Grantham.”

Mendetta frowned. “What's the trouble?” he said sharply. “This is a hell of a time to ring me.”

“Yeah, but this is a hell of a spot we're in.” Grantham had a cold, clipped voice. “Listen, Tootsie, that little punk Hamsley's dropped us right in it.”

“What are you talkin' about?” Mendetta sat on the edge of the small table, which rocked under his weight.

“Dropped us where?”

“Hamsley's been digging Poison's wife. He's been playin' her for a sucker for weeks. She's spent a heap of jack on him.”

“That's what he's at the Club for, ain't it?” Mendetta demanded impatiently. “Ain't he givin' you a cut?”

Grantham laughed bitterly. “It's not that. The old siren fell for him, and he couldn't take it. She took him out last night and tried to rape him. He ran away, the yellow punk.”

Mendetta's fat face relaxed a little. “Well, what of it? You can't hold the boy up for that. Hell! I've seen that dame. She'd turn anyone's stomach.”

“That so? Well, know what she's done? She's squawked to Poison. Said Hamsley's tried to rape
her.
How do you like that?”

“She's crazy. Poison ain't goin' to believe a yarn like that.”

“No? Well, let me tell you he's hoppin' mad right at this moment. Maybe he doesn't believe it, but she's got herself in such a state,
she
does. That's enough for Poison. She's makin' him get mad. Listen, Tootsie, this is serious. Poison's goin' to try an' close us up.”

Mendetta sneered. “Let him,” he said. “What the hell do we care? They've got nothin' on us. He can't close us up.”

Grantham cleared his throat. “You don't know Poison as well as I do. He'll attack us in that rag of his. He might turn somethin' up.”

Mendetta considered this. “Not as long as I'm alive,” he said at last. “I'll go round an' see that guy. We'll give him Hamsley, but he's got to lay off us.”

“Will you do that?” Grantham sounded relieved. “Get round tomorrow early, Tootsie. This ain't the time to he down on it.”

Mendetta stood up. “Leave it to me,” he said. “I'll fix him,” and he hung up.

Jean came out of the bathroom. She looked strikingly beautiful in her silk wrap. Perhaps her mouth was too large, but it gave her a generous look that was not in her nature. She was tall, with square shoulders, a narrow waist and thick hips.

“Who was it?” she said.

Mendetta went over to the table and gathered up the cards. He didn't feel like patience any more.

“Grantham,” he returned, putting the cards carefully in their container. He was a very tidy man. He took two little sips from the whisky.

She looked over at the clock. “What did he want? It's late.”

Mendetta nodded his big head. “I know,” he said. “Go to bed. I'll come in a little while.”

She turned her head so that he couldn't see the sudden vicious look that came into her eyes. “Don't be so secretive,” she said lightly. “Is he in trouble?”

He stubbed out his cigar. “He's always in trouble. That's why I'm hereto pull him out.” He plodded over to her. His big heavy hand rested on her hip. “Go to bed. I shan't be long.”

“Tootsie, I must know,” she said. “Has something happened at the Club?”

He looked at her with a curious expression, half angry, half amused. He turned her towards the bedroom door. “It's nothing,” he said. “Go to bed,” and he smacked her across her buttocks very hard.

She went away from him, her knees weak and her inside coiled into a hard ball of hatred. She went across the bedroom to the window and pulled back the curtains. Leaning against the window−frame, she looked down into the street below. She remained like that for several minutes before she regained control of herself.

If Mendetta had seen her expression as she stood by the window he would have been uneasy. As it was, his indifference to her feelings prepared the way for what eventually happened.

In the street, Raven crossed the road casually and walked towards the apartment block. When he neared the lighted entrance he stopped and knelt down to adjust his shoe−string. From under his slouch hat, he surveyed the doorway thoroughly. He was not satisfied with the empty doorway, so he crossed the street again and passed the block on the opposite side. His caution rewarded him.

A little guy, dressed in black, lounged against the wall in the shadows near the entrance. He kept so still that Raven wouldn't have noticed him at all if he'd come straight into the blinding light of the doorway.

The little guy had his hands deep in his coat pockets, and he watched Raven pass on the other side of the street, indifferently.

Raven went on, crossed the road again and turned down a side street. He turned to his right after a few minutes' walking and approached the rear of the apartment block. This time he kept to the shadows. He hadn't gone far before he spotted another little guy, also dressed in black, lounging near the rear exit.

So it wasn't going to be the easy way. He might have known it. It was a cinch that if Mendetta had guards outside the block, there would be guards inside as well.

Raven went on, his head thrust forward, the line of his jaw fixed, and his thin lips compressed. He knew Mendetta couldn't escape from him. It was just a matter of time.