by Will Rayner
“Let’s get it done, Jerry,” the other cop said. “We’ve got more stops to make.” Jerry impaled T.J. with a hard look which, T.J. surmised, was meant to convey the implacable majesty of the San Francisco Police Department. He turned to the bartender and jerked his head toward the door. The bartender reached under the counter and grabbed a bulky envelope. He followed the two policemen outside.
It’s the payoff, T.J. realized. He itched to go out himself to witness it, but knew that would be asking for trouble. Big trouble. Got both their badge numbers, though, and one first name. After a few minutes, the bartender came back in. “Well, I paid off,” he said. Raising his voice, he announced: “Closing down pretty soon, folks. Time for a coupla more drinks, that’s it.”
T.J. looked at his watch. “Geez,” he said. “Almost half-past three. I gotta make a phone call.” He knew there was a pay phone on the wall next to the grimy washroom. Time to get Atherton’s ass out of bed, he told himself. We need to collar this guy, take him to the office. Atherton’s got the clout to do it.
Edwin Atherton answered promptly. “It’s Flood,” T.J. said. “Payoff at that joint on Jones Street. It happened outside, but the owner admits he paid two uniforms off. And I’ve got buzzer numbers. Better get over here.”
“Twenty minutes,” Atherton said, and hung up.
T.J. and the bartender were gently ushering Virgil out onto the sidewalk when Atherton arrived. Virgil was the last sodden patron to leave. “See ya’, Joe,” he said, waving cheerfully to T.J. Names are not Virgil’s strong suit, T.J. concluded. Atherton was unshaven but neatly dressed.
“Sorry, mister, closed for the night,” the bartender said when he spotted him.
“Official business, sir,” Atherton said, showing the bartender his warrant card from the district attorney’s office. “We’re investigating police corruption and we believe you can assist us.”
“You’re the people who’ve been in the papers, aren’t you?”
“Never mind that,” Atherton said. He nodded at T.J. “This is my colleague. He informs me that you paid off two policemen earlier tonight … this morning.”
The bartender glared at T.J. “You’re a plant!” he exclaimed. “You fingered me!”
“Calm down, sir,” Atherton said. “We are after crooked police officers, not you. My operative’s name is Flood. Mine is Atherton. What is yours?”
The bartender slumped onto a stool. “Dudley,” he said. “Martin Dudley. My pals call me Marty.”
“Well, Mr. Dudley, did you in fact make a payoff to two police officers?”
“Yeah, sure, no secret about it. It’s regular, every week.”
Atherton looked around. T.J. noticed that he was trying not to breathe deeply. The stench of stale beer and tobacco smoke could be overwhelming for anyone not used to it. “This is not the proper venue to conduct a formal interview,” Atherton said. “Would you care to accompany us to my office, Mr. Dudley?”
Dudley shrugged. “Sure, why not. Lemme lock up first.” He went behind the bar and flicked a switch. The throb of the beer cooler sank to a quiet hum. Dudley then went to the fire door in the rear and brought down a steel bar against it. At the front door, he turned off the lights. “Let’s go,” he said. On the sidewalk, T.J. noticed that the door had triple locks.
****
A fresh pot of coffee awaited them in the interview room of the office complex leased by the Atherton team. T.J. wondered for a moment how Atherton arranged it, before realizing that all it took was a phone call. “Let’s hear your side of the story, Mr. Dudley,” Atherton said after they got settled.
“My side?” Dudley asked. “I’ve been paying cops off for damn near ten years. Ever since Prohibition. Those two tonight were just the latest. They’ve been around a few times before. I think the patrol teams take turns picking up the dough.”
“Are you the owner, Marty?” T.J. asked.
“Yep. Sole proprietor. Me and my partner started that joint as a speakeasy in 1928. It was a lot nicer then. Good furniture, soft lighting, carpets, a snazzy ladies room, coupla waitresses. We had lots of competition, too. I bet there was a ‘speak’ in every block downtown. Some had dance floors, offered stage shows. Those were pretty wild times. It ain’t so wide open now.”
“Wide enough,” T.J. said.
“No partner now?” Atherton asked.
“He got gunned down in 1930. Shot right through the heart. We had a boatload of Canadian Club coming into China Basin and we got hijacked. The cops didn’t try very hard to catch whoever did it.”
Being a drinking man, T.J. had to ask. “What happened to the rye?”
“It just vanished, right after the vice squad showed up,” Dudley said.
“Gosh, just think of that,” T.J. said with a straight face. “Do you have to kick anything back to the McDonough brothers to stay in business?”
“The McDonoughs? Nope. Just uniforms. Had flatfeet on the pad since day one.”
“You’d better get on home now,” Atherton said after a few more questions. “We will need a signed statement from you, which will be presented to the grand jury in due course.” He jotted down Dudley’s home address and telephone number.
“Can I still open up tonight?” Dudley asked.
“Sure, we don’t care,” Atherton said.
“And the fuzz sure as hell don’t,” T.J. drawled.
After escorting the bartender to the door, Atherton wrote down the two badge numbers supplied by T.J. “One of them called the other bird ‘Jerry,’” T.J. added. “Now I’m heading for some shuteye myself.” He yawned prodigiously. Boy, I haven’t had a yawn like that since I was on that stupid train, he told himself.
Chapter 21
The phone rang, interrupting T.J.’s close scrutiny of the National League baseball standings. He put down the Chronicle’s sports pages and picked it up. “The Palace Hotel is calling,” Agnes Wilkins said. “Miss Indigo Cody wishes to speak with you.”
“Put her on, sweetheart,” T.J. said. Was this a social call, or strictly business, he wondered? At any rate, it was a pleasant diversion and he felt a tiny thrill of anticipation.
“Is this the flint-eyed gumshoe with the smoking heater?” asked Indigo.
“You’ve got me, doll,” T.J. growled. “What’s up? Ya’ got somebody ya’ want me to rub out?”
Indigo chuckled. “Not this time, Thomas,” she said. “It’s an invitation, actually. You’ve heard, I assume, of Richard Halliburton.”
“Is that the bird who travels around the world, then writes books about how dashing he is?”
“That’s the … ah … bird alright. He also lectures about his adventures and how dashing he is. Anyway, he is giving a lecture and a slide show at the hotel Friday afternoon and I have two tickets. Would you like to come?”
I’d love to come, T.J. told himself., but he decided to play hard-to-get for a few minutes. “Aw gee, d’you really think I need any more adventure in my life?” he asked, letting a weary hint of boredom creep into his voice.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. A little bit of escapism. Did I mention they’ll be serving lunch?”
“Lunch! That changes everything. As a matter of fact, I’d be honored to accompany you anywhere, my dear lady, even unto the ends of the earth.”
“My goodness, you sound like Richard Halliburton, Thomas,” Indigo laughed. “Only as far as New Montgomery Street this time, however.”
“Friday, you say?”
“Yes. Lunch is at quarter after twelve. The lecture starts about one. You’ll be a free man by two o’clock or two-thirty.”
After they hung up, T.J. sat in his office for a while, enveloped in a warm glow. Jeepers, he told himself, I think I got myself a date.
****
Two days later, Thomas Flood and Indigo Cody joined the crowd leaving the lecture. Indigo had slipped her arm through his. “Well, an instant review of the celebrated Richard Halliburton is in order,” she said. .
“Boy, he’s
quite a character,” T.J. answered. “Such purple language! I haven’t heard such exaggeration since Ringling Brothers came to town. And he’s so enthusiastic!”
“So you enjoyed yourself?”
“You bet. The celebrated Mr. Halliburton spins quite a yarn And I kinda like him. He sort of grows on you.”
“Well, just don’t like him too much,” Indigo remarked. At T.J.’s inquiring glance, she delicately flapped her right wrist. “They say Richard is that way.”
“Aha. Well, my way is with girrlls.” T.J. stretched out “girrlls” until the word had two syllables.
Indigo laughed. “Now it’s back to work for the both of us, I suppose,” she said.
“Yes, back to the hum-drum life of the flint-eyed gumshoe.”
Indigo raised herself slightly and gave T.J. a light kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for coming, Thomas,” she said softly. “Call me.”
I could get serious about that guy, she told herself as she watched T.J. stride away through the hotel lobby. Within minutes, she was immersed in the demands of her job.
****
Miss Jane Brown had also watched T.J. leave the hotel. She did not follow. She knew where the evil one was going and where to find him. The object of her attention now was the woman. The consort. Miss Jane Brown had followed the evil one to the hotel – the den of sin and extravagance – and saw him meet the woman. She saw how close they stood together. How they laughed and smiled. It is not right, she told herself. The evil one is mine! He belongs to no other! But she knew she must wait. She had slipped into the hotel along with a group of guests chattering about faraway places. My mother and I never went to faraway places, she told herself. We were too poor. We were outcasts. It was forbidden. She knew the hotel vigilantes were on the alert for her, so she was very circumspect as she slipped through the lobby to the rear areas. She found a quiet, obscure corner in which to hide until the time came to confront the woman. Miss Jane Brown watched and waited.
****
Indigo Cody absentmindedly scratched the crown of her head. There was a big banquet scheduled for the following night and she was having trouble juggling the courses. She decided she would have to talk with the cooks again. With a sigh, she tucked her clipboard under her arm and headed down the corridor toward the galley.
With a shriek, a screaming vision in grey descended upon her. The clipboard went flying. Miss Jane Brown grabbed Indigo Cody by the shoulders and shook her and screamed at her. “You must not consort with the evil one! You must spurn him! He is mine!”
Indigo realized who her assailant was. The disturbed woman Thomas had mentioned. She felt herself slipping to the floor. “Gus!” she screamed. “Gus!”
This tall, strange creature was immensely strong. Indigo could not free herself. After long seconds, Gus burst through the swinging doors of the galley, carrying a meat cleaver. When he saw Indigo and her attacker, he dropped the cleaver and rushed to help. The woman screamed one last time, spun away and ran down the corridor to the service entrance.
Gus helped Indigo to her feet. “Are you all right, Miss Cody?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so,” Indigo said. She was breathing heavily, but there was no pain. “She didn’t actually attack me. Just shook the bejeebers out of me. Thank you, Gus. You arrived in the nick of time. I must talk to Ronnie Grieve. You’d better get back to the kitchen.”
Gus turned around to retrieve his meat cleaver, but it was gone.
The hotel detective was in the cubicle off the lobby that he used as an office. When he saw Indigo Cody, he sprang to his feet. It was obvious something had happened to her. “You’d better have a seat, my girl,” he ordered, guiding her to a chair. “What the devil is going on?”
“I guess I am a little shaky,” Indigo said. “But I’m all right, just a little out of breath. What happened was that crazy woman Tom Flood is mixed up with grabbed hold of me next to the galley. She didn’t hurt me, didn’t hit me. Just gave me a good shaking.”
“Okay, let’s take it from the beginning, slowly,” Grieve said. “This was in the hall next to the galley?”
“Yes, she just popped out of nowhere.”
“Describe this … person.”
“She was tall and thin. She had on this thin, grey cloak or cape. It was old and tattered. It had been darned, I could tell. She was wearing a snood.”
“Did she say anything?”
“She kept screaming that I was not to consort with T.J., that he belonged to her. Her voice was very shrill. ‘Leave the evil one alone’, she said, or something like that.”
“I’m calling homicide,” Grieve said. “You go up to your office and wait.”
“But I have to get this banquet straightened out.”
“Straighten it out from your office. And when homicide is through, I’ll escort you to your cable car.”
“Oh, Ronnie, it’s T.J. she wants, not me.”
“This dame is wanted for murder, and now she might see you as a rival to be eliminated. Let’s be safe rather than be sorry.”
****
Sam and T.J. Flood were shuffling paper. Little bits of paper: receipts, vouchers, scribbled notes. They were preparing expense-account claims to be submitted to Edwin Atherton. The phone rang. It was Agnes, announcing that Lieutenant Bracken of San Francisco homicide wished to spend a moment with them. Sam picked up his pipe and T.J. reached for his Old Golds. With Jimbo Bracken, defensive measures were often required. Bracken did have a stogie between his teeth when he chose the vacant client’s chair in Sam’s office, but it was unlit.
“My two favorite private detectives, still working so late in the afternoon,” he said. “Such diligence, such attention to duty, of course it is.”
“What’s up, lieutenant?” Sam asked.
“The thing is, our crackpot murder suspect, Miss Jane Brown pulled a fast one over at the Palace Hotel,” Bracken said. “She accosted a certain …” he pulled out his notebook “… Miss Indigo Cody and pushed her around a little bit, indeed she did.”
“Indigo!” T.J. exclaimed. He unfolded his legs. “I must get over there right away!”
Sam Flood jabbed a finger at his son. “Sit,” he ordered. “Tell us what happened, Jimbo.”
“Is Indigo all right?” T.J. added.
“Miss Cody is fine,” the lieutenant said. “Nobody was hurt or wounded or maimed in any way. What our suspect was doing, apparently, was warning Miss Cody that young Thomas here was out of bounds. I understand she may have spotted the two of you at some social event. She called you ‘the evil one’, Thomas, Miss Cody said.
“Yeah, and she’s the Crazy One,” T.J. said.
“Miss Cody called for help, and an under-chef named …” he consulted his notebook again “… Gus Korowick came to her assistance,” Bracken said. “Evidently, he was separating lamb chops at the time and was carrying a meat cleaver. He dropped the … ah … kitchen utensil in order to help out, and Miss Jane Brown subsequently made herself scarce, indeed she did. Miss Cody also supplied us with other interesting details,” Bracken added. “Miss Brown’s grey cloak is old and worn and shows signs of mending, for instance.”
“A treasured relic,” Sam suggested. “Something she cannot part with.”
“Indeed,” Bracken agreed. “Miss Cody also reports that she was wearing a snood. This is a change in appearance and it will be added to our bulletin.”
“So she gives Indigo a going-over and then takes off. That’s it?” T.J. asked.
“Not quite. The thing is, the meat cleaver that Mr. Korowick dropped on the floor? It’s missing.”
Sam Flood took a deep breath. “How big a meat cleaver?” he asked.
“It is a professional, commercial meat cleaver. Its companion over at the Palace measurers eight inches by about five inches, with a solid hickory handle.”
“Very handy for attacking lamb chops – and people,” T.J. said.
“A formidable weapon,” Bracken said. “And now it appears to be possessed b
y a very disturbed female. Yes, indeed.”
****
Miss Jane Brown inspected the meat cleaver in the intimacy of her lodgings. Such a wonderful tool, she thought. So shiny, so deadly, so heavy. She inspected some stains on the blade. Blood, she decided. Animal blood. She moistened her fingertips and rubbed gently. The stains came off. I will make it nice and clean, she told herself. It will soon be stained again – with human blood.
Miss Jane Brown put the cleaver aside and turned to the cloak. Her encounter with ‘That Woman’ had separated a few more threads. She got out her darning kit. The cloak must be kept in as good repair as possible. It was the last thing she had which had belonged to her mother. It was a lightweight, summer garment, but often it was the only defense they had against the cold. She remembered huddling under it, enclosed in her mother’s arms.
When the darning was done, she picked up the cleaver and hefted it in her hand. It looked sharp.
Tentatively, she tested the edge. It was sharp. Very sharp. Miss Jane Brown could picture it buried in the skull of the evil one and the old one.
The perfect instrument of my vengeance, she whispered.
Chapter 22
T.J. spent a frustrating, jittery weekend trying to contact Indigo Cody. He did not know her phone number or even where she lived. The hotel, of course, wouldn’t supply that information and she wasn’t listed in the telephone book. Under another name, perhaps? A boyfriend’s name? In the end, he had to wait until Monday morning to find out how Indigo had survived the encounter with the mad Miss Jane Brown.
Splendidly, apparently. “I’m fine,” she said from her office. “Tip-top shape. All in a day’s work.” Not really, she thought. The catering game has never got that intense before. Thomas, however, needed reassuring, and she was fine.
“But she’s a crazy, dingbat, violent dame. She’s wanted for murder, for heaven’s sake. Are you sure you are all right?”
“Thomas, she’s mad at you, not me, although it is really sweet of you to worry about me.”
“Maybe I should stay away from the Palace for a while. This nutcase seems to have a fixation on that place. Somehow, your hotel has become involved in all this.”