The Screaming Mimi

by Fredric Brown

  “You say a cop mentioned I was there. I didn’t see one I recognized. Who was it?”

  “You’ll have to ask Carey; he handled the story. Look, Sweeney, how often do you go on a bat like that? Or are you going to tell me that was the last one?”

  “It probably wasn’t. It’ll happen again; I don’t know when. Maybe not for a couple of years. Maybe in six months. So you wouldn’t want me to work for you. All right. But since I’m not working for you, I got a little check coming for that eyewitness account. I’ll let you do me one last favor, Walter. You can give me a voucher to get it now instead of putting it through the channels. That story was worth fifty bucks, if Carey wrote it like I told it to him. Will you settle for twenty-five?”

  Krieg glared at him. “Not a damn cent, Sweeney.”

  “No? And why the hell not? Since when have you been that much of a lousy–”

  “Shut up!” The managing editor almost roared it.

  “God damn it, Sweeney, you’re the toughest guy to do a favor for I ever saw. You won’t even give me the satisfaction of bawling you out; you take the words out of my mouth so I can’t say ‘em. Who told you you were fired? You did. The reason you don’t get paid for that piddling little story you gave over the phone is that you’re still on the payroll. You’ve lost two days’ pay, that’s all.”

  “I don’t get it,” Sweeney said. “Why two days? I been gone two weeks. What’s two days got to do with it?”

  “This is a Thursday, Sweeney. You started your drunk two weeks ago tonight and didn’t come in Friday morning. Or Saturday. But you had two weeks’ vacation coming. Maybe you forgot; you were on the list for September. I gave you a break by switching your dates so you started your vacation a week ago last Monday. You’re still on your vacation right now and you’re not due back for a few more days yet. Monday, to be exact. Here.” Krieg yanked open a drawer of his desk and pulled out three checks. He held them across to Sweeney. “You probably don’t remember but you came in to try to get your last check, only we didn’t give it to you. It’s there, two days short, and two full vacation week checks.”

  Sweeney took them wonderingly.

  Krieg said, “Now get the hell out of here until Monday morning and report for work then.”

  “The hell,” said Sweeney. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Don’t then. But – no bull, Sweeney – if it happens again before your next vacation, next year, you’re through for good.”

  Sweeney nodded slowly. He stood up.

  “Listen, Walter, I–“

  “Shut up. Beat it.”

  Sweeney grinned weakly, and beat it.

  He stopped at Joe Carey’s desk and said “Hi,” and Joe looked up and said, “Hi, yourself. What gives?”

  “Want to talk to you, Joe. Had lunch yet?”

  “No. Going in–” He looked at his wrist watch. “–in twenty minutes. But listen, Sweeney, if it’s a bite you’ve got in mind, I’m broke as hell. Wife just had another kid last week and you know how that is.”

  “No,” said Sweeney. “Thank God I don’t know how that is. Congratulations, though. I presume it’s a boy or a girl.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Nope, it isn’t a bite. Miraculously, I’m solvent. There is a God. In fact, do I owe you anything?”

  “Five. Two weeks ago last Wednesday. Remember?”

  “Vaguely, now that you mention it. So let’s eat at Kirby’s; I can cash a check there and pay you. I’ll wander on down and meet you there.”

  Sweeney cashed the smallest of the three checks at the bar in Kirby’s and then went over to a table to wait for Joe Carey. The thought of food still nauseated him; eating anything at all was going to be so bad he’d rather get it over with before Joe came in. Watching Joe eat was going to be bad enough.

  Sweeney ordered a bowl of soup as the least of evils.

  It tasted like hot dishwater to him, but he managed to get most of it down and shoved the bowl aside as Joe came in and sat down across the table.

  He said, “Here’s your five, Joe, and thanks. Say, before I forget, who was it saw me over on State Street last night? I thought I didn’t know either of the coppers I saw there.”

  “Harness bull by the name of Fleming. Pete Fleming.”

  “Oh,” Sweeney said. “I remember now; I met him on Clark Street before that. Let’s see – I was walking south on Clark so he must have been going north. I walked south a few more blocks, cut over east and walked north on State. But I didn’t see him.”

  “Probably got there as you were leaving. The car that answered the call – the cops in it were named Kravich and Guerney – cut in their siren on the way. Wherever Fleming was on his beat, he followed the siren and got there after they did. Thanks for the fin, Sweeney.”

  The waiter came up and Sweeney ordered coffee along with Carey’s order.

  Then he leaned across the table. He said, “Joe, what gives with this Ripper business? That’s what I want to pump you about. I could dig up some of the dope from the morgue files, but you’ll know more than they will. First, how long has it been going on?”

  “You haven’t read the papers for the last ten days?” Sweeney shook his head. “Except for what was in one morning paper today, about the Yolanda Lang business last night. There were references to other killings. How many?”

  “Besides Yolanda Lang, two – or it could be three. I mean, there was a slashing on the south side two months ago that might or might not be the same guy. Broad by the name of Lola Brent. There were similarities between her case and the three recent ones that make the police think maybe it ties in, but they aren’t sure. There are differences, too.”

  “She die?”

  “Sure. So did the two other dames besides this Lang woman. She’s the only one who didn’t get killed. Pooch saved her. But you know about that.”

  “What’s the last word on Yolanda Lang?” Sweeney asked. “She still in the hospital?”

  “Supposed to be released this evening. She wasn’t hurt much. Point of the shiv just barely went through the skin. She had a spot of shock; that’s all.”

  “So did some other people,” said Sweeney. “Including me.”

  Joe Carey licked his lips. “You didn’t exaggerate that story any, Sweeney?”

  Sweeney chuckled. “I underplayed it. You should have been there, Joe.”

  “I’m a married man. Anyway, the cops are going to keep a guard on the Lang femme.”

  “A guard? Why?”

  “They figure the killer might be inclined to go back after her because he might think she could put the finger on him. Matter of fact, she can’t, or says she can’t. A man, tallish, in dark clothes is the best she can do.”

  “The light was off in the hallway,” Sweeney said.

  “The Ripper’s waiting by the back door, at the foot of the stairs, probably standing outside it, holding it a little ajar. He hears her footsteps clicking along the hallway, steps inside and slashes. Only the pooch jumps past her after the guy and he jerks back through the door, almost missing the woman completely with the shiv and just barely gets away from the dog.”

  “It adds up,” Sweeney said. “He’d be able to see her silhouetted against the light from outside through the front door, but he’d just be a shadow to her. The point is, was he after Yolanda Lang or was he just waiting for whoever came along?”

  Carey shrugged. “Could be either way. I mean, she lived there and he could have been waiting for her because she was coming home after her last show. On the other hand, if he knew much about her, he knew the pooch would be along and it looks like he didn’t figure on that. He could have, though. Known, I mean, the dog would walk behind her in the hallway and figure he could slash and get back out the door before the dog got him. But, if that was it, he missed his timing.”

  “She got home that time every night?”

  “Every week night. She’s on last at one-thirty week nights. They have shows later on Saturday and Sunday nights. She
doesn’t always go right home after the last show, though, she said. Sometimes stays around El Madhouse – that’s the night club she’s playing – know it?” Sweeney nodded. “–sometimes stays around for drinks or what not till they close at three. Or sometimes has dates and goes out after the show. A dame like that wouldn’t be lonesome except when she wanted to be.”

  “Who’s handling it – outside, I mean.”

  “Horlick, only he starts vacation Monday. I don’t know who Wally will put on after that.” Sweeney grinned. “Listen, Joe, do me a hell of a big favor, will you? I want to work on it. I can’t very well suggest it to Krieg, but you can, next time you talk to him. Suggest I got an inside start with that eyewitness business and since Horlick’s leaving Monday and I’m coming back then, why not let me do the leg work. He’ll fall for it if you suggest it. If I ask him – well, he might not let me, just to be cussed.”

  “Sure, I can do that, Sweeney. But – you’ll have to bone up the details on the other cases, and get in with the cops. They got a special Ripper detail, by the way, working on nothing else. Cap Bline of Homicide’s running it and got men under him. And the crime lab’s analyzing everything they can get their hands on, only there hasn’t been much to analyze.”

  “I’ll be up on it,” Sweeney said. “Between now and Monday I’ll study those files and get in with the cops.”

  “Why? On your own time, I mean. You got an angle, Sweeney?”

  “Sure,” Sweeney lied. “Got the assignment from a fact detective mag to write up the case, once it’s solved. They don’t handIe unsolved cases, but it’s promised to me once the case is cracked. Ought to get a few hundred out of it. Joe, if you talk Krieg into giving me the case, so I’ll have all the facts ready to write once they get the guy, I’ll cut you in for ten per cent. Ought to get you somewhere between twenty and fifty.”

  “What have I got to lose? Sure, I was going to do it for nothing.”

  “But now you’ll be convincing,” Sweeney said. “For a start, what are the names of the other dames who were slashed, the ones who died? You said the one on the south side a couple months ago was Lola Brent?”

  “Check. Ten days ago, Stella Gaylord. Five days ago, Dorothy Lee.”

  “Any of the others strip teasers or show girls?”

  “First one, this Lola Brent, was an ex-chorine. Living with a short-con man named Sammy Cole Cops figured he killed her, but they couldn’t prove it and they couldn’t crack him. So they threw the book at him on some fraud charges that came out, and he’s still in the clink. So if he did kill Lola, he didn’t kill the others or make the try for Yolanda.”

  “What were the other two gals?”

  “Stella Gaylord was a B-girl on West Madison Street. The Lee girl was a private secretary.”

  “How private? Kind that has to watch her periods as well as her commas?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Carey said. “That didn’t come out. She worked for some executive with the Reiss Corporation. Don’t remember his name. Anyway, he was in New York on a buying trip.”

  Joe Carey glanced up at the clock; he’d finished eating. He said, “Look, Sweeney, those are the main points. I haven’t got time to give you any more; I got to get back.”

  “Okay,” Sweeney said. “What hospital is the Lang dame in?”

  “Michael Reese, but you can’t get in to see her. They got cops six deep in that corridor. Horlick tried to get in and couldn’t.”

  “You don’t know when she’ll be back at El Madhouse?”

  “Nope. Her manager could tell you. Guy by the name of Doc Greene.”

  “What’s the dope on him?”

  “Listen, Sweeney, I got to get back. Ask him what the dope on him is.”

  Carey stood up. Sweeney reached for his check and got it. “I’m paying this. But tell me where I can locate this Greene character. What’s his first name?”

  “Dunno. Everybody calls him Doc. But wait – he’s in the Goodman Block. Greene with a final e. You can find him from that. Or through the El Madhouse proprietor. He books all their acts, I think. So long.”

  Sweeney took a sip of his coffee, which he’d forgotten to drink, and it was cold. He shuddered with revulsion at the taste of it, and got out of Kirby’s quick.

  He stood in front a moment, hesitating which way to go, then headed back for the Blade. He didn’t go to the editorial offices this time, though. He cashed his two other pay checks at the cashier’s window and then went to the stack room. He looked through papers of about two months before until he found the one that broke the story on the murder of Lola Brent. He bought that one and all the finals for a week following, and he bought finals for each of the past ten days.

  It made quite a stack of papers, even when he’d thrown the stuffing out of the Sunday ones. He caught a cab to take them home.

  On the way in, he knocked on Mrs. Randall’s door; he paid her the thirty-six dollars he owed her, and paid for two weeks in advance.

  Upstairs in his room, he put the pile of papers on his bed, and then, outside in the hall, he looked up Greenes until he found one in the Goodman Block. J. J. Greene, thtrcl.agt.

  He called the number and, after a brief argument with a secretary, got J. J. Greene.

  “Sweeney, of the Blade,” he said. “Could you tell me when your client is being released from Michael Reese?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Sweeney, the police have asked me not to give out any information. You’ll have to get it from them.

  Say, are you the reporter who wrote that eyewitness story in today’s Blade?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice story. And swell publicity for Yolanda. Too bad she’s on the dotted line for three more weeks at El Madhouse, or I could get her on for bigger dough.”

  “She’ll be back dancing in less than three weeks, then?”

  “Off the record, nearer three days. It was just a nick.”

  “Could I drop around and talk to you, Mr. Greene? At your office.”

  “What about? The police told me not to talk to reporters.”

  “Not even pass the time of day if you met one on the street? I never saw an agent yet that wouldn’t talk to reporters. Maybe I even want to give some of your other clients publicity, and what could the cops find wrong with that? Or have they got something on you?” Greene chuckled. “I wouldn’t invite you here if the cops say not. But I’m leaving the office in about twenty minutes and I generally have a drink at one of the places I book. I have an idea that today I might stop in El Madhouse on my way north. In that case I’d be there in a little over half an hour. If you should happen to drop in–”

  “I might just happen to,” Sweeney said. “Thanks. Off the record, I take it Miss Lang still is at Michael Reese?”

  “Yes. But you won’t be able to see her there.”

  “Won’t try it then,” Sweeney said. “So long.” He hung up the receiver and wiped the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. He went back into his room and sat very quietly for five minutes or so. When he thought he could make it, he pushed himself up out of the chair and left.

  The sun was very hot and he walked slowly. On State Street, he stopped in a florist’s shop and ordered two dozen American Beauties sent to Yolanda Lang at the hospital. After that, he kept plodding steadily through the bright heat until he reached El Madhouse, on Clark near Grand.

  There wasn’t a uniformed doorman, with a persuasive voice, in front at this hour of the late afternoon; there wouldn’t be until mid-evening, when the periodic floor shows were about to start. There were the posters though:

  6 Acts 6 Yolanda Lang and Devil! in the Famous Beauty and the Beast Dance!

  And, of course, there were photographs. Sweeney didn’t stop to look at them. He walked from the blazing heat into the cool dimness of the outer bar, separated from the room with tables and the stage, where a cover charge topped higher prices.

  He stopped inside, barely able at first to see, blinded by the transition from sunlight glare to neoned dim
ness. He blinked, and looked along the bar. Only three persons sat there. At the far end, a badly intoxicated man drooled over a too-sober blowzy blonde. Half a dozen stools away, a man sat alone, staring at his reflection in the dim blue mirror back of the bar, a bottle of beer and a glass in front of him. He sat there as though he was carved of stone. Sweeney felt pretty sure he wasn’t Doc Greene.

  Sweeney slid onto a stool at the end of the bar. The bartender came over.

  “Greene been in?” Sweeney asked. “Doc Greene?”

  “Not yet today.” The bartender rubbed the clean bar with a dirty towel. “Sometimes comes in around this time, but today I dunno. With Yo in the hospital–”

  “Yo,” said Sweeney meditatively. “I like that. Gives every body a southern accent. People turn to her at the bar and ask ‘And what’s Yo having to drink,’ huh?”

  “A good question,” said the bartender. “What is yo having to drink?”

  “Well,” said Sweeney, and thought it over. He had to get some nourishment into him somehow, a little at a time, until his appetite came back and he could look at a full meal without flinching. “Beer with an egg in it, I guess.” The bartender moved away to get it, and Sweeney heard the door behind him open. He looked around.

  A moon-faced man stood just inside the doorway. A wide but meaningless smile was on his face as he looked along the bar, starting at the far end. His eyes, through round thick-lensed glasses, came to rest on Sweeney and the wide smile widened. His eyes, through the lenses, looked enormous.

  Somehow, too, they managed to look both vacant and deadly. They looked like a reptile’s eyes, magnified a hundredfold, and you expected a nictitating membrane to close across them.

  Sweeney – the outside of Sweeney – didn’t move, but something shuddered inside him. For almost the first time in his life he was hating a man at first sight. And fearing him a little, too. It was a strange combination of strange ingredients, for hatred – except in an abstract sort of way – was almost completely foreign to William Sweeney. Nor is fear a commonplace to one who seldom gives enough of a damn about anybody or anything to be afraid of him or it.