His wife, Florence, had taken it pretty hard. Jimmy had met her only once before, some years ago, and had not liked her much. One of these peevish thin blondes, slopping about the apartment all morning, eating candy and turning on the radio, then spending hours titivating herself up to go shopping or to the movies, never settling down properly to the job of being a wife, a stenographer without an office to go to, who thought the twin-bed just pensioned her off for life, and was always grumbling because the pension was not bigger every three months: that is how Jimmy had seen her then. But now, still in deep black, with the tears welling into her eyes as she told the damnable story all over again, her looks gone to hell, she seemed to him—as he was easy and rather sentimental in his judgment of women, like most men of his kind—a truer figure of a woman than he had thought she was. Indeed, he felt conscience-stricken, for not only had he probably misjudged Flo, but he felt too that he ought to have taken more time off to see poor old Phil. Too late now, but he was still angry about the murder; and, so far as he could judge, about the only person in Los Angeles who was still angry, for the enquiry appeared to have led to nothing, and even Flo here, who ought to have been an avenging fury, seemed to accept it woefully and to want to forget about it. But as Jimmy sat there, listening to her, his broad good-humoured face, with its impudent nose and Irish actor’s gash of a mouth, was sullen with resentment, and though his big shoulders were deep in the chair—he was a heavily-built man of no great height but square and thick—his fists were clenched and one bright brown shoe beat a tattoo on the carpet.
“But Godalmighty!—Flo——” he protested at last, “aren’t they going to do anything? Here’s poor old Phil—who never did anybody any harm—a good newspaper man—and they send him round the town, on their business, mind you—and then when this—this—happens to him—they don’t do a damn thing—why—hell’s bells——”
He pulled himself out of the big chair and walked over to the window, and there scowled accusingly at the mellow and faintly unreal sunlight that was illuminating the Boulevard. He did this to relieve his feelings, but also because Flo, perhaps moved by his vehemence as well as her own recital, was now crying hard. He waited until her sobbing had turned to sniffling, before turning round again.
“You don’t understand, Jimmy,” she wailed, finally. “They had a long enquiry, and the police asked a lot of questions—they talked to me for hours and it was awful—and what could I tell them, anyhow?—and then said it must have been somebody in that Murro gang—oh!—what does it matter now? He’s gone, hasn’t he?”
“I know. But why? If he’d been one of these tough lads, who go round asking for it—I could understand it. But Phil! He wasn’t that kind of a fellow at all——”
“He couldn’t have hurt anybody,” she cried, tearful again.
“That’s what I’m saying. What’s this Murro gang?”
She dabbed at her eyes, and swallowed hard. “They said they’d come here from New York—you know, a lot of them did after they started cleaning up the rackets there—and Phil’s paper, the Herald-Telegram, had had a lot of stuff about them—Phil had written some of it—and so they think one of them must have done it—and now they say this Murro gang all left town—I don’t know”—she ended weakly.
He moved about restlessly for a moment, brought out his pipe then put it back again, and gave his sister-in-law several glances, half sympathetic, half impatient. Here was no resolute ally. They could murder all the Edlins in the world, and she would just give in. But when she looked at him, he contrived a sort of sympathetic grin, and she replied with a wan little smile.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” she said, “but I just want to forget about it. You can’t blame me, can you? And I never want to see this place again. I’m going back East. My mother wants me to stay with her, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
He admitted it was a good idea. “But what about money, Flo?” he enquired gruffly. And then, remembering what he had first thought of her, he could not help wondering what this might let him in for. If there had been any kids, that would have been different; he would have seen that poor Phil’s kids were all right, would have enjoyed it too, for he liked kids and had none of his own that he knew anything about, not having acquired a genuine legitimate wife on his travels, in spite of many strange adventures with the sex; but he was not too keen on handing out Flo another pension. Once more, however, she surprised him.
“Thanks, Jimmy, but I don’t need any. There was some insurance and the Herald-Telegram gave me something, though it wouldn’t have killed them to have given me a bit more—seeing that Phil——” But she left this alone, and went on: “It isn’t as if we’d any children, you see.”
“No, that makes it better.”
“It doesn’t,” she cried, almost fiercely. “God!—I’ll say it doesn’t. And we could have had. It was my fault. Phil wanted them. And I always said: ‘Oh, let’s leave it.’ Why don’t we know? Oh!—my God——” And now she suddenly dissolved into a really passionate storm of weeping, leaving Jimmy to stare at her awkwardly and sadly, and then to make a few comforting noises and to pat her thin heaving shoulders. It was some time before she was calm again.
“Yes, I’m going back East, perhaps to-morrow,” she said, at last. “There’s nothing to stay for now. I’ve done all I can do. I’m sorry you’ve had to come all this way, Jimmy. What are you going to do?”
“Well, I’m a gentleman o’ leisure just now,” he told her, grinning a little. “I got out of China in time, made my little bit, and now I’m just looking round and enjoying myself—at least, I’d just started looking round and enjoying myself, when I got this packet of trouble. Now that I’m here, I might as well stay here for some time. And I’ve got my old top floor at the Clay-Adams.”
“Are you still trying to paint pictures, Jimmy?” she asked, coming for the first time clean out of her misery.
“Yes,” with a grin, “when I can get at it.” He was glad to see her looking more normal now. “You needn’t tell me you don’t admire my pictures—I know you don’t—you told me last time, though mebbe I’m improving. When I meet a nice little woman who does like my pictures—really likes ’em—if she can cook a bit too, I’ll marry her—I will, by jiminy! And don’t tell me that’s why I’m single, because I’ve heard that crack too many times. My pictures are all right—once you get round to understanding ’em—and I’ve painted ’em in places where some people wouldn’t like to stop long enough to blow their noses.” Having coaxed a smile out of her, he waited a moment, then went on earnestly: “Now listen, Flo. You’re clearing out, and I’m not blaming you. But I’m staying, because this isn’t good enough, and I want to know more about it. If it’s a gunman who’s left town, then I’d like to know more about him and where he’s blown to. Now somebody knows more than’s come out. This wouldn’t be Los Angeles if they didn’t. Now then, Flo, where do I start? That’s all I want from you.”
He had time to fill and light his pipe before she replied. “Phil had a pal on the paper,” she began, hesitantly. “I didn’t like him much so Phil didn’t bring him here, but they used to go round together—sometimes on stories—sometimes on their own. His name’s Drew—Rushy Drew they all call him—and I gave him Phil’s notebook, because he asked for it.”
“And what does he think about this business?”
“Rushy Drew? I’ve only talked to him once—it was just after they’d finished the inquest—but—well, he was like you, Jimmy—he wasn’t satisfied. He said Phil was on another kind of story altogether round that time. That’s why he asked me if he could have the notebook.”
“Where do I find this Rushy Drew, Flo? Down at the Herald-Telegram office?”
“Well, you know what those reporters are, and Drew’s an old-timer—always half-drunk if you ask me. No, the best place to find him is in the far room at Dan’s Place. It’s j
ust across the square from the Herald-Telegram. I fancy Rushy’s there half the day and most of the night.”
“All right, Flo, and thanks. Now is there anything I can do?”
There was not—and, indeed, he could not help feeling that she would be glad to see the last of him, not because of any dislike but because his constant references to the murder made her unhappy all over again. Having no particular liking for her himself, he was glad to escape from her tearful presence and the half-shuttered miserable apartment into the bustle and colour of the city. But he took with him a steadily smouldering resentment. This was not to him the old Los Angeles, where he had had many a spree, sometimes with Phil, possibly with this Rushy Drew if he could only recall him; this was the city in which his brother had been murdered, without so much as an arrest following it. And you couldn’t coolly bump off an Edlin like that—no, sir! The whole damned place, which had always been pretty tough, now began to look sinister.
It was not until late that evening that he found Rushy Drew in the far room at Dan’s Place, a rambling darkish room filled with stained tables, giant spittoons, cigar smoke, signed photographs of second-rate heavy-weights, and a thick reek of rye whisky. He remembered Rushy Drew vaguely when the barman pointed him out: one of those oldish reporters who never get any older, with a decayed hat at the back of his grizzled head, a long fruity nose, ash all over his coat, and the wreck of a five-cent cigar stinking and dying at the corner of his wrinkled dried lips, which no amount of rye could keep moist.
“I’m Jimmy Edlin—Phil’s brother—you remember?”
“Sure! Sit down. Glad to see you. Rye or Scotch? Hey, Walter, another rye and a Scotch. Had to come up from Honolulu, hadn’t you? Too bad! And too damned bad about Phil!”
Over the drinks Mr. Drew listened while Jimmy explained his doubts and his determination to know more. Mr. Drew himself had that look which Jimmy had often seen before on the faces of newspaper men of his type, that weary, sceptical, infinitely knowing look of the man who feels that he is perpetually behind the scenes, and nearly always the grubbier parts behind the scenes. And if that look did not produce something valuable, Jimmy made up his mind not to tolerate it very long. He had exchanged drinks and doubts with many Rushy Drews before.
“Well,” Rushy drawled, finally, “I’ll tell you. In the first place, the thing is fairly on the level. They didn’t know who did it, and I don’t believe there’s been any covering up—and, believe me, this is one town where Judas Iscariot could get covered up if he knew the right people—and he would. But Headquarters didn’t know, don’t know now, who did it. They’re supposed to be still working on it, but they’ve too many things to work on—and not work on—right here. The Herald-Telegram played up the gunman-gangster angle for all it was worth, because we’ve been running one of these clean-the-city-of-the-bad-men-from-Brooklyn campaigns, which look so good and don’t spoil anybody’s friendships. On the evidence—you’ve seen the clippings, eh?—it could just as easily have been one of these out-of-town boys as anybody else; so that was the angle they gave it. Our valued representative died at his post, helping to clean up your city—and send the rats back to Brooklyn and New Jersey, see?”
“I see. And you don’t believe it, eh?”
“You bet I don’t. I know it’s all apple-sauce.” Rushy was emphatic, but stopped long enough to order more drinks. “Those boys don’t turn the heat on to a reporter, unless—like that feller in Chicago—he’s been playing round with ’em and then tried to walk out. And they didn’t come here from New York looking for trouble—they just wanted to keep quiet and see what was doing. And Phil had been off that story for weeks, and had never set eyes on any of these gunmen from the East, and didn’t believe there were four of ’em in town. No, sir. All hokum, and of course they know it at Headquarters—but—what the hell!—they’ve too much to do already—and they don’t know where to look—you saw the evidence, and it was all they’d got, believe me—not a thing to go on—so where are you?”
Knowing his man, Jimmy confessed that he wasn’t anywhere, but said he felt sure Rushy Drew, who knew the town and was, into the bargain, Phil’s best pal, would know something.
“You’re damn’ right I do, though it’s not much.” Rushy paused for effect, and was not disappointed. “First, I know—though nobody else—that Phil was on another kind of story. They don’t even know that at the desk, because he used to go round when he’d done his routine stuff and then turn in something juicy of his own. And he didn’t like to talk too much before he’d got something. But he’d tell me now and again, because he knew that I’d been around here even before he had and knew the town backwards and sideways. They’ve built the rotten thing round me while I’ve been sitting here, ordering ryes that taste more and more like rainwater.”
“What was he after, then?” asked Jimmy. “And has it anything to do with the murder?”
“If it hadn’t, then I don’t know what had. You know this town. They talk about the lunatic fringe in these states. Well, here it isn’t a fringe, it’s a solid seam of God-awful lunacy six foot thick and thirty miles long. We’ve more nutty people to the square mile here than anywhere on God’s green earth. Every kind, from Hindu prophets with hair down to their knees to fat women who shave their heads and think they’re Joan of Arc and Mary Queen of Scots. They’re all here. Take any boulevard and in the fourth bungalow on the right they’ll be busy raising the dead or talking things over with Dante and Shakespeare. Two doors farther down, they’re waiting for the new Messiah. Across the boulevard, they’re sitting about in pink robes or starry pants, burning incense until the Grand Panjandrum tells them it’s the Judgment Day. We’ve so many nuts here, they fall so thick and fast, honest to God I haven’t been able to get a good laugh out of ’em for twenty years. It’s just one big loony-bin.”
“And so what?” asked Jimmy, who knew his Los Angeles and could not imagine what was coming.
“I keep clear of ’em,” Rushy continued, in his odd bitter drawl. “I’ll see things soon enough. But Phil had heard one or two rumours, and so he’d started looking into some of these queer new sects we have here, and he was right in the middle of it, up to the very eyes in it, when somebody put him out.”
“Didn’t you tell them that?”
“I told them at the desk, but—what the hell—nobody would believe any harm of these religious birds—and anyway it’s a lousy angle. We don’t want bad boys from Brooklyn here, but we extend the heartiest welcome to all new citizens with a tile loose. L.A. is their New Jerusalem. Come right in, folks, and worship how you please! They pay their taxes and don’t ask too many questions—they’re too busy with the next world to see what’s happening in this one—so walk right in and stay!”
“Yes,” said Jimmy dubiously, “I can see all that, and I know the kind of folks you mean. But I don’t think there’s anything along that line, Rushy. I think you’re clean out there.” And his tone expressed his disappointment.
“Yeah? Well, that’s what I’d have said. But for two things.” Here Rushy paused, deliberately, maddeningly, and coolly relit his cigar and swallowed some rye. “Not two days before he was put out, Phil let something drop to me. He told me he thought he was on to something a whole lot bigger than the usual nutty stuff, and asked me if I’d ever heard of a crowd calling themselves the Brotherhood of the Judgment. I hadn’t, as a matter of fact; they were new to me, but as I said, I’ve given it up. But he said he’d just caught the tail end of a story that would make every front page from here to Cape Cod. He wouldn’t tell me any more. Probably didn’t like the way I laughed and told him I’d heard all that before. That’s one thing.”
“This might be something. What’s the other thing? Come on, Rushy. You’re talking to his brother now. Wasn’t there something about his notebook?”
“His wife told you, did she? He hadn’t it with him that night they let hi
m have the works. Left it at home, which was a bit of luck. I knew he put down things in it. And I was right. There isn’t much—just a few remarks about this Brotherhood of the Judgment—but unless I’m going nuts too—they look like dynamite to me.”
“Rushy,” said Jimmy solemnly, “I have to see that notebook. I’m not playing about. Nobody’s going to get away with murdering my brother without something happening. I don’t know what all this means to you, but it means a hell of a lot to me.”
The Doomsday Men Page 7