by Dan Marlowe
He released her, and she smoothed down the rumpled front of her dress; as always, her clothes looked too large for the doll-like body. She looked at him speculatively. “This means you're not coming by the apartment this afternoon?”
“Few errands to run, Ma.” He returned to the bed, and in seconds she slithered in beside him, the boyish slimness cool to his hands. She stretched lazily along his length, and the little hammers started to pound behind his eyes. Over her shoulder he could see the added light in the room as the golden reflection moved farther down the windows across the street.
He counterbalanced Sally's leaning figure with his arm as she stretched for cigarettes and lighter on the night table. She leaned over him as she flipped on the lighter for the cigarette she popped between his lips. “You know, man-”
“Mmmm?” He blew cigarette smoke up at her.
“You're something better than a vacuum.” She grinned down at him. “To accentuate the positive, sir, you're adequate.” She punched him in the ribs with a sharp-knuckled little fist and slid from the bed before he could grab her.
“I've got to make like a lady again and get out of here.”
He could hear the rustle of her clothing as she dressed. He ducked as ash from his cigarette dropped on his bare chest; he brushed at it hastily, rolled sideways and stubbed out the butt. On his back again he locked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “Sally?”
“Yes?”
“You know the big blonde down on the mezzanine works for Ed Russo?”
She appeared beside the bed to look down at him, her hands busy with the belt of her dress. “Mavis? A bleached iceberg. She's no more a blonde than I am. A hard ticket. A twenty-minute egg.” She smiled wryly. “So I'd like to have her figure. All I know about her is that if you follow the panting tongues there's Mavis. What's on your mind, besides lechery?”
“Information.”
“I'd guess that if you didn't run out of money too fast you might get a little.”
“From the sound, she better not ask you to hold her coat.
She footie-footie with anyone around here?”
“I hear Marty Seiden makes a pass every once in a while.” Johnny's head came off the pillow. “Marty? The kid's over-matchin' himself puttin' on the gloves with that trumpet.”
Sally laughed. “Is that my cue to ask you how you know? Maybe he's just apprenticing; a boy has to start somewhere, doesn't he? If you're serious about wanting information why don't you talk to Mike Larsen? He knows everyone. Everyone's business, too.”
“Mike?” Johnny nodded slowly. “I should have thought of Mike. Score one for your side, Ma; remind me to put you on the pay roll. That might be-” He trailed off, lost in thought.
“Let me get out of here,” Sally said firmly. She bent swiftly and brushed his cheek with her lips. “Don't get up. I'll scout the corridor.” She blew him a kiss from the door as she closed it softly behind her.
After staring at the closed door a moment Johnny considered the ceiling again. This Russo, now; he was beginning to have a rather strong smell. There were a few things he'd like to know about Russo. Russo had a distinction: he tied in to both Ellen Saxon and Robert Sanders. No one else with his nose above water did. Except Lorraine Barnes, Johnny reminded himself wearily. He wished he could make up his mind about Lorraine Barnes. She certainly had plenty to cover up cross-town if she'd just come off a date with Sanders before he caught the four in the head. And why else would she have been there? Unless to pour a little lead herself? Maybe Sanders had given her the checkered flag, and she wasn't the type to take it without a rebuttal?
He half rolled over to reach for a cigarette. This Lorraine He winced as the phone on the table went off practically in his ear. He grabbed at it before it could ring again. “Yeah?”
“This is Sally, Johnny. I'm calling from the booth in the lobby downstairs.” He could hear the bubbling excitement in her voice. “I didn't use the elevator coming down just now, of course, and when I crossed the mezzanine I saw Mavis in her office. This early, mind you.” She paused dramatically. “This'll kill you; you know who's with her? What's the name of that cute-looking detective who was here the other night? The one that was around with Dameron when we had the trouble before?”
“Rogers?”
“That's the one. I couldn't think of his name. What do you suppose-”
“He still up there?”
“He hasn't come down the stairs. I can't see the elevators.”
“Hang up, Ma. I want to talk to him. I'll call you.” He broke the connection on his end and jiggled for the operator. “Public stenographer's office,” he told her when she came on the line.
“I doubt there's anyone there yet-” He could hear her ringing. About the fourth ring the phone was picked up; the strident female voice sounded annoyed.
“We're not open yet. Who is this?”
Johnny made his voice neutral. “Let me speak to Detective James Rogers.”
“You've got the wr-” The line hummed emptily for an instant. “Detective?” It was almost a gasp. The voice was fainter; she must be staring at Rogers over the lowered phone, Johnny thought. “You're a detective? Why, you no-good-”
Johnny replaced the phone quietly. He sat and looked down at it, then shook his head and grinned unwillingly. No place to hide on this one. Jimmy Rogers only had to get to the switchboard to find out where the call had originated. And after having a brick like that dropped on him there was a fat chance of his not checking.
Johnny shook with silent laughter; he could picture Rogers in the middle of the stairs, too mad to wait for the elevator. He got up and went to the closet and shrugged into a robe; from the refrigerator he removed a can of orange juice, punched it open and poured two glasses. He carried a glass to the door and listened. It was not a long wait.
When the footsteps he could hear in the corridor halted outside Johnny opened the door left-handed and pushed the glass of orange juice into the hand upraised to knock. The hand closed around it automatically. “Good morning, Jimmy. Join me?”
Detective Rogers snorted. He was hatless, and the sandy hair stood up in spiked tufts; his smattering of freckles was nearly lost in his high color, and his breath came rapidly. He looked down unbelievingly at the glass in his hand; he half raised it as if to throw it, then changed his mind. He pushed inside, and his voice was throaty. “What in the star-spangled damn hell were-”
He foundered on Johnny's upraised palm. “Easy, boy. Easy. Whyn't you let me know you'd come socializin'?”
“Socializing!”
“Why, sure.” Johnny looked surprised. “If you weren't there as Detective Rogers? You go for those big blondes? I ought to tell your wife.”
“Blondes? Wife?” The sandy-haired man breathed deeply; his voice geared itself up from sputtering inquiry to authoritarian roar. “Now listen, Killain-”
“Okay, okay,” Johnny broke in. “I dropped a shoe. Sue me.”
And he started to laugh. He stood in the middle of the floor and laughed until he doubled up helplessly; he shook until he hung helplessly over the back of the armchair, holding his sides. He straightened finally, wiping his eyes, ribs hurting. Across the room Jimmy Rogers, though still red in the face, was fighting to prevent the upturn at the corners of his mouth. He gave up finally and let the meager smile crack through; he looked down again at the orange juice in his hand, lifted the glass and drained it. He rubbed his chin unbelievingly. “Boy! Talk about being struck by lightning! That woman knocked my hat off and jumped on it.”
Johnny's internal trembles threatened him again. “Cut it out. I'm sore now. What were you doing down there?”
“Never mind that. What made you call?”
“I wanted to talk to you. How was I supposed to know you weren't there officially?”
“How did you know I was there at all?”
“Do I ask you how you know what's going on around the precinct house? This is my territory. I'll give you a ti
p, though-it's your fatal beauty. You're too good-looking for the detective business. Go out and get your nose broken a few times. Any woman that ever saw you can spot you at five miles on a rainy night.” To retain the initiative he continued quickly. “You probably weren't even makin' a dent in that glacier, anyway. You scoutin' Russo?”
The detective looked at him carefully. “Why should I be scouting Russo?”
“Couple of murders. He's at the head of my list.”
The slender man shook his head. “He didn't kill Sanders. He's ironclad on that one.”
“So how ironclad is ironclad? Who's his alibi?”
“You know better than to ask me that. He satisfied us.”
“He may have satisfied you. He hasn't satisfied me. The same guy killed them both.” Johnny paused. “Or don't you characters think so?”
“There could be a difference of opinion. Let me ask you this-what's your interest?”
Johnny opened his mouth, closed it and started over again. “An intellectual exercise.”
The hazel eyes measured him. “Cuneo turned in a bad report card on you, Johnny. My name's not Cuneo, but I'm warning you-be careful. I mean it. If you get caught in the machinery you're going to be chewed, and Lieutenant Dameron won't lift a finger.”
“An' whatever gave you the idea I'd ask Joe Dameron for the right time, even? He's so square you can cut ice with the edges, and I don't mean it as any compliment, either. I told him where to head in twice a month for three and a half years; you don't need to worry about me runnin' to him. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.”
“I'm not worrying about anything, Johnny. I'm telling you don't get caught in a rowboat with a canoe paddle. I know that you feel personally involved; it makes no difference. I'll charge this one this morning to one of those days, but I don't want to see your tracks anywhere in the neighborhood I happen to be from now on.”
“You own the town?” Johnny bristled. “I thought you were a right guy, Jimmy. You're gettin' to sound just like the rest.”
“Just so you listen to the sound, Johnny.”
Johnny drew in his breath, but his explosive comment was stifled by the ring of his phone. He looked at Detective Rogers and picked it up a little gingerly. “Yeah?”
“This is Lorraine, Johnny. Hope I didn't wake you. I forgot to give you Roberta Perry's address last night.”
“Oh. Yeah. Shoot.”
“It's 219 Vernon Street. It's-”
“Right. Thanks. I'll be talkin' to you later.” He hung up under the bright-eyed inspection of Detective Rogers and shrugged. “Newspaper boy. Wants my version on the double-header.”
“I hope you know better than to threaten the police department with the newspapers, Johnny.”
“Threaten? You can only threaten someone who's already scared. Isn't that right, Jimmy?”
Tight-lipped, the slender man walked to the door and turned with a hand on the knob. “Remember,” he said and departed.
Johnny rinsed out the orange juice glasses and retired thoughtfully to the bed. He had a lot to think about. He thought about Lorraine Barnes, but his mind drifted to Detective Rogers. He smiled; he would have given a hundred dollars to see the look on Jimmy Rogers' face when that platinum blonde took out after him.
The laughter struck at him again, deep inside. It clawed at him internally; he rolled over on his side and stuffed a corner of the sheet in his mouth to control the smothered yips.
Exhausted, he wiped his eyes; he sighed deeply, turned onto his stomach and fell asleep between two ragged breaths.
Johnny stepped out of the cab and looked up at 219 Vernon Street. It was a tenement neighborhood; he absorbed the dreary and depressing sameness as he crossed the sidewalk. A tired hedge bordered the bumpy, flagstoned walkway from the street to the building whose yellow brickwork presented a sooty, brindled decolletage.
He pushed open the street door and bent to look at the mailboxes. He caught the name at once-Perry, R. 2-B. So there you are, Killain. Find her at home and get her to talk. Nothing to it.
He tried the inner door and found it locked. At least it wasn't the type of place with free wheeling access to anyone. He rang the bell and had to ring it again after an interval before it was answered by a red-faced woman in a baggy apron, with her graying hair caught up in a kerchief. She had a broom in one hand, a degree and a half from the ready, and as she opened the door a cautious six inches Johnny found himself under the careful scrutiny of two washed-out blue eyes. The woman didn't say a word.
“Miss Perry,” Johnny said into the little silence. “2-B.”
“She expectin' you?”
“Not today, maybe. Insurance man.”
The flat blue eyes looked at him. “You're no insurance man.” It was an unimpassioned statement of fact.
“Maybe I should have said insurance investigator.”
“Maybe you should have.” The look enveloped him again. “Investigator, maybe. Salesman, no. With that face, mister, you couldn't sell cut-rate dollar bills.” The broom pivoted as she swung toward the stairs he could see behind her. “Bobby!”
He could hear high heels overhead. “Yes, Mrs. Carson?”
“Man here to see you says he's an insurance man.”
The voice upstairs was doubtful. “I'm not expecting… what's he look like?”
“Face like a broken-down roller coaster,” Mrs. Carson replied promptly. She favored Johnny with an unexpectedly amiable, gap-toothed smile. “Looks like he's lost about three more fights than my Charlie.”
“Well, send him on up,” the voice said. “I'll take a look.” The high heels retreated.
“You heard her, bud,” Mrs. Carson said briskly. “Second floor on the left at the top.” She opened the front door wider and pointed to the stairs with her broom. “She'll let you in.”
“You guarantee it?” Johnny asked her as she closed the door and received the wide-spaced smile again.
“Confidentially, she goes for big men.”
Johnny climbed the stairs in silence as Mrs. Carson turned away from him to the back of the building. At the top of the stairs he saw at once that it was going to be a very circumspect audition. Roberta Perry was behind the second door on the left, all right, and the door was open on the chain latch a conservative three-quarters of an inch. Through the narrow opening he could get an impression only of dark hair; he noticed that there were two chains on the door-one below the other, one dull and tarnished, one shiny and new. He wondered when Roberta Perry had put on the new chain.
“I don't know you,” the voice said positively.
“We can fix that,” Johnny suggested. “The password is Ellen.”
There was a little silence. “What about Ellen?”
“Listen, Bobby,” he said rapidly. “We can't talk like this. Go in and call Lorraine Barnes and tell her a guy named Killain's on your doorstep. Ask her to describe me, and ask her anything else you want. Then let's see if we can't talk.”
“I don't have time.” Indecision had crept into the voice, though. “I have an appointment… You know Lorraine Barnes?”
“Call her. Then give me five minutes.”
“Well-” Curiosity struggled with doubt. “I'll be right back.”
He retreated the width of the corridor, where he braced himself with a bent knee and a heel on the wall behind him and lit a cigarette. He savored the smoke and looked appraisingly up and down the dingy hall. He wondered about a girl like Roberta Perry living in a place like this-not that he'd ever seen her, but her job must pay pretty for money…
She was back at the door. “She doesn't answer. She's not at the office, either; I tried there, too.” The doubt had returned to the voice, intensified.
Johnny moved quickly away from the supporting wall. “Look, what do I have to do? This is important. Lorraine's about forty, dark hair going gray, blue-gray eyes, a little heavy in the superstructure, good legs. Her husband Vic's short and stocky, high color, thin hair combed-”
“Come on in.” He could hear the chains rattling, and she opened the door. Inside, he nodded at the linked metal.
“How come the armor plate?”
“It's that kind of neighborhood, mister.” The reply was pert, and so was Bobby Perry, Johnny decided. She was a short girl, tending to plumpness. The features were good, and the coloration, but the small mouth was petulant, and the chin dropped away fast. She wasn't unattractive, though; the dark hair was cut in a short bob that managed to fluff out wildly all around her head. Her movements were quick; she looked like the type of girl the boys would flock around at a party.
She led the way into her living room, sparsely furnished with mismatched pieces. She turned to wave him to a chair and caught his look. “Sit down. Don't let the props depress you. I have other uses for my money.”
“Like clothes?” he suggested, eyeing her. Her dress was not off a rack, and it did something for her. With her soft-bodied fullness of figure she needed something done for her.
“If that's a compliment I accept it.” She smiled as she looked him up and down. “No shortage of material when they had you on the ways, huh?” The smile died, and she looked at the watch on her wrist. “So what's important? You've got to make this quick. I left the office to keep this appointment. You can sit right over there, Mr.-”
“Killain,” he supplied again. He walked to the indicated chair, a huge, high-backed, overstuffed relic of an earlier day. It was placed with its back to the large window through which the sun slanted obliquely, and in the instant before he seated himself Johnny had a quick impression of surrounding tenements, flapping clotheslines and rusting fire escapes. He settled back in the sunken depths of the old chair and decided that Roberta Perry had legs a notch or two above the utilitarian class. “I used to be married to Ellen Saxon, Bobby.”
It surprised her. She stared at him, adjusting her ideas of him. He could see that she was not sure she approved of the situation. “How long ago?”