Sweeney lifted his glass. “I did underrate you, Doc.”
“And I you, Sweeney, when I almost believed you that you didn’t have a lead. To your bad health.”
“And yours.”
They drank and then Greene asked, “So do I go to the proprietor of the art store and start from there, or do you break down and tell me?”
“I might as well. Lola Brent sold a small black statuette of a screaming, terrified nude just before she was killed. There’s pretty good reason to believe the Ripper was her customer, followed her home and killed her. Likely the figure set him off; it’s something that would appeal only to a psycho.”
“Do you like it?”
“I dislike it, but I find it fascinating. It’s rather well done, incidentally. And I followed up on it. Only two were sent to Chicago. I’ve got one. The Ripper’s got the other.”
“Do the police know that?”
“No. I’m pretty sure they don’t.”
“I told you, Sweeney. The luck of the Irish. By the way, are you crowding your luck too far, or are you going heeled?”
“Heeled?”
“Packing a rod, toting a gun. In a word, armed. If the Ripper – or anyone else – had called on me and removed my small armament of knife and razor, I’d bring up the artillery. If the Ripper knew where my room was, I’d sleep with a sawed-off shotgun across my chest. Or does he know, Sweeney?”
“You mean?”
“Yes.”
Sweeney grinned. “You want my alibis? Well, I don’t know anything about two months ago. I doubt if I could check back. As for the next two murders, well, I was on a two-week drunk. Only God knows where I was and what I was doing, and I wasn’t with God all the time. As for night before last, when Yolanda was attacked, I was at the scene of the crime at approximately the time of the crime. How’s that for a set of alibis?”
Doc Greene grunted. He said, “I’ve heard better. I can’t re member when I’ve heard worse. Sweeney, as a practical psychiatrist, I don’t think you’re the Ripper type, but I’ve been wrong. Are you?” Sweeney stood up. He said, “I’m damned if I’ll tell you, Doc. In the little duel of pleasantries between us, it’s the one big edge I’ve got on you. I’m going to let you wonder. And if I am, thanks for warning me about the sawed-off shotgun.”
He went outside and it was dusk. His headache was gone and he felt almost human again.
He walked south on Clark Street without thinking about where he was going, without, in fact, thinking at all.
He let his mind alone and his mind let him alone, and they got along fine together. He heard himself humming and listened to himself long enough to find out what it was; it turned out to be the melody of a Brahms Hungarian dance, so he quit listening.
He watched, instead, the movies that were going on inside his head, and very nice movies they were. Yolanda sitting across the table from him, even as she had sat only minutes before; Devil, the dog, as well trained as any Seeing-Eye dog, curled up at her feet with a small but incongruous bandage on top of his head, result of a very skillful job of creasing by the detective who’d shot through the glass at him. Sweeney admired the marksmanship of that cop almost as much – but not in the same way – as he admired the next sequence in his mental movie: the beautiful body of Yolanda, seen in the spot of the other detective’s flashlight.
He sighed, and then grinned. It had never occurred to him that a woman could be that beautiful. He still didn’t quite believe it. He’d half expected disillusionment when he’d gone to El Madhouse to meet Doc Greene and Yolanda. He had, after all, been pretty drunk when he’d seen what he’d seen some (how long was it?) forty hours ago. It would have dis appointed him, but not surprised him too much, had she turned out not to look like that at all. Or if she had been beautiful but had talked with a Brooklyn accent.
But, instead, she had been more beautiful than he had remembered. Her face had, anyway. And, even more, there had been that intriguing air of mystery about her which, forty hours ago, he had thought was entirely subjective, due to the strange circumstances of the affair in the hallway. It hadn’t been; it was really there. Yolanda Lang had something besides the most beautiful body he had ever seen.
He thought: Godfrey, you’d better be right. And then he grinned, because he knew damned well that Godfrey was right. If you wanted something badly enough you could get it.
And he was going to get it.
If he’d wondered that before he’d met and tangled with Doc Greene, he’d quit wondering after. If Yolanda were fat and forty – and she wasn’t either – he’d have to carry through out of cussedness just because he and Greene hated one another so completely. Almost literally, the man made his flesh crawl.
If only he could prove that Greene was the Ripper–
But there were two alibis. The police had accepted them. Anyway, Greene had said the police had become interested in him and then had accepted the alibis. But that was something he could check. That was something he would check.
Furthermore, he could at least start to check on it right now.
He was crossing Lake Street into the Loop and he kept on going to Randolph and turned west to the tavern, between Clark and LaSalle, where a lot of the boys from the Blade hung out.
None of them seemed to be hanging out there at the moment, so he ordered a shot and mixed it with soda so he could work on it a while to see if any of them were coming in.
He asked Burt Meaghan, who ran the place and who was alone behind the bar at the moment, “Think any of the boys will come around for pinochle after work this evening?”
“Be an unusual evening if they don’t. Where you been keeping yourself, Sweeney?”
“Around and about. I’ve been on a bender, if you don’t know. Doesn’t anybody tell you these things, Burt?”
“Yeah, I’d heard. In fact, you were in here a few times the first week of it. Haven’t seen you for over a week, though.”
“You didn’t miss much. Burt, do you know Harry Yahn.”
“Know of him. Not personally I don’t know him. I don’t move in such high circles. He’s got a place a couple blocks west of here that he runs himself. And an interest in a few others.”
“I’ve been out of touch,” Sweeney said. “What’s the name of the place he runs himself?”
“Name on front of the tavern is the Tit-Tat-Toe; that’s just the front, of course. Want an in?”
“Wouldn’t need it. I know Harry from way back when. I just lost track of where he was operating.”
“He ain’t been there long. Month or so. ‘Scuse me, Sweeney.”
He went down to the other end of the bar to wait on another customer. Sweeney drew wet rings on the bar with the bottom of his glass and wondered if he’d have to see Harry Yahn. He hoped not, because monkeying with Harry Yahn was as healthy as trimming your fingernails on a buzzsaw. But he was going to need money from somewhere before this thing was over. He still had about a hundred and fifty dollars left out of the three checks Wally had given him, but that wasn’t going to go very far on all he had in mind.
There was a hand on his shoulder and he turned. It was Wayne Horlick. Sweeney said, “The very guy I wanted to see most. Talk about the luck of the Irish.” Horlick grinned at him. “Costs you ten bucks to be that lucky, Sweeney. I’m glad to see you too. Ten bucks’ worth.”
Sweeney sighed. “From when?”
“Ten days ago. In here. Don’t you remember?”
“Sure,” Sweeney lied. He paid up. “And a drink for interest?”
“Why not? Rye.”
Sweeney downed the last sip of the drink he’d been working on and ordered two. He said, “Why I wanted to see you, if you’re curious, is that you’ve been working on the Ripper case.”
“Yeah. The recent parts of it, anyway. I don’t know who did the Lola Brent part, couple of months ago. But I got put on the second one, the Stella Gaylord murder, and been at it ever since.”
“Any leads?”
“
Nary a lead, Sweeney. And if I did get one I’d turn it over to the cops quick-like and cheerful-like. The Ripper’s one boy I wouldn’t care to meet. Except through bars after Bline gets him. Did you know they’ve got a special Ripper detail working on nothing else, with Cap Bline in charge?”
“Carey told me. Think they’ll get him?”
“Sure they’ll get him – if he keeps on slicing dames. But not on any clues he’s left with the ones he’s already cut. Say, have you talked to this Yolanda Lang dame?”
“Yes, just an hour or so ago. Why?”
Horlick laughed. “Figured you’d try – after I read that eye -witness account of yours. Nice writing there, pal. Made everybody’s mouth water. Mine included. Been trying for an interview with the dame ever since, but can’t get it. I figured you would.”
“Why?” Sweeney asked curiously. “I don’t mean why would I try, but why did you figure I’d get one if you couldn’t?”
“That story you wrote. Far be it from me to praise anybody else’s writing, Sweeney, but that was a minor classic of journalism. And what’s more to the point, it’s ten thousand dollars’ worth of free publicity for the dame – above and beyond the publicity from getting picked on by the Ripper, and being the first one to survive a Ripper attack. Doc Greene must love you like a brother.”
Sweeney laughed. “Sure. Like Cain loved Abel. Say, Horlick, anything come out about any of the cases that didn’t get in the papers? I’ve read up on – uh – Lola Brent and Stella Gaylord; haven’t got around to the third dame yet, Dorothy Lee.”
Horlick thought and then shook his head. “Nothing I can think of, nothing worth mentioning. Why? You really interested? Beyond getting that interview with the strip-teaser? You don’t need to explain that.” Sweeney decided to stick to the lie he’d told Joe Carey. “Had in mind to write it up for a fact detective mag. Way to do that is have all the dope ready so the minute the case is cracked, I can beat the others to the punch.”
“Good idea, if they ever crack the case. And they will, of course, if the guy keeps on ripping. He can’t be lucky forever. I hope Wally puts you on it instead of me; I don’t like the job. Want me to put in a word for you?”
“Carey’s going to, so you’d better not. Wally might get suspicious if we laid it on too thick. What do you know about Doc Greene?”
“Why? Going to try to pin it on him?”
“I’d love to. I love him like a brother, too. He tells me the cops got the same idea and that he was alibied on two of the jobs and they took his alibis. Know anything about it?” Horlick shook his head. “That would have been since the Ripper tried for Yolanda, of course; in the last couple of days. No, Bline didn’t tell me about investigating Greene. But then I guess they have investigated just about everyone who’s ever been closely connected with any of the four dames.”
“What’s your impression of Greene, Horlick?”
“He gives me the creeps. Is that what you mean?”
“That,” said Sweeney, “is exactly what I mean. For that, I’ll buy you another drink. Rye?”
“Rye.”
“Hey, Burt, a rye for Horlick. I’ll pass this one.” And he really did pass it, and wouldn’t let Horlick buy back. Half an hour later, he left and went home.
Mrs. Randall heard him come in and opened her door.
“Mr. Sweeney, there’s a man to see you. He wanted to wait so I let him wait in my sitting room. Shall I tell him–”
A big man stepped around from behind her. He said,
“William Sweeney? My name is Bline, Captain Bline.”
CHAPTER NINE
Sweeney stuck out a paw and the detective took it, but not enthusiastically. But Sweeney pretended not to notice. He said, “I’ve been wanting to meet you, Cap, since I heard you were on the case. Some things I want to ask you. Come on up to my room.”
Bline followed him up the stairs and into the room.
He sat down in the chair Sweeney pointed out to him, the overstuffed one with the creaky springs; it groaned under his weight.
Sweeney sat on the edge of the bed. He glanced at the phonograph and said, “Want some music while we talk, Cap?”
“Hell, no. We’re gonna talk, not sing duets. And it’s me that’s going to ask the questions, Sweeney.”
“What about?”
“You’re asking ‘em already. Look, I don’t suppose you remember where you were on the afternoon of June 8th, do you?”
“No, I don’t. Unless I was working that afternoon. Even then, I wouldn’t know offhand if I was in the office doing rewrite, or if I was out on a job. Unless – maybe if I checked the late editions for that day and the early ones for the next, I could spot and remember which stories I worked on.”
“You didn’t work on any. You didn’t work that day; you were off. I checked at the Blade.”
“Then all I can tell you is what I probably did, which wouldn’t mean much. I probably slept till about noon, spent most of the afternoon here reading or listening to music, probably went out in the evening to play some cards and have a few drinks. Or maybe a show or a concert. That part I might possibly be able to check on, but not the afternoon, and I judge that’s what you’re interested in.”
“Right. And how about July 27th?”
“As hopeless as the next one you’re going to ask about, Cap. August 1st, I mean. God knows where I was either time, ex cept that I’m pretty sure it was in Chicago. Haven’t been out of town in the last two weeks that I know of.”
Bline grunted.
Sweeney grinned. He said, “Only I’m not the Ripper. Granted that I don’t even know where I was or what I was doing when Stella Gaylord and Dorothy Lee were killed, I know I didn’t kill Lola Brent – because I wasn’t that drunk, I mean drunk enough not to remember something I did, any time in June. And I know I didn’t make the pass at Yolanda Lang because I do remember Wednesday night; I was beginning to come out of it then, and feeling like hell. Ask God.”
“Huh?”
Sweeney opened his mouth and then closed it again.
No use getting poor old Godfrey grilled at headquarters, and Godfrey couldn’t alibi him anyway, not for the exact time the attack had been made on Yolanda. He said, “A manner of speaking, Cap. Only God could prove what I was doing Wednesday night. But cheer up, if the Ripper keeps on ripping, maybe I’ll have an alibi for the next one.”
“That will be a big help.”
“Meanwhile, Cap, and seriously, what made you come here to ask me about alibis? Did a little bird tell you? A Greene one?”
“Sweeney, you know damn well why I’m here. Because you were there in front of that door on State Street Wednesday night. The Ripper was probably in front of that door. Way we figure it, he was standing at the back door of that hallway and reached in and slashed as the dame came toward him. Only he was a couple of inches short and just nicked her, and the dog ran around her and jumped and he had to duck back and slam the door without having a chance for a second try. And then what would he do?”
“You asked it,” Sweeney said. “You answer it.”
“He might have got the hell out of there, of course. But if he followed the pattern of most psycho killers, he came out of the alley and walked around to the front and was in that knot of people looking through the door when the squad car came.”
“Also maybe,” Sweeney said, “having put in the call for the police from the tavern on the corner.” Bline shook his head. He said, “No, we found out who put in that call. Guy that had been standing at the bar there with two other guys, talking, for hours. He left there a little before two-thirty and he was back in a few minutes. Told the guys he’d been talking to and the bartender that there was something going on in a hallway down the street. That a dame was on the floor and a big dog wouldn’t let anybody open the door and go in to see what was wrong with the dame, so maybe he better phone the cops. So he did, and then he and the other two guys – all three of them this time – went together to the place and were ther
e when the squad car came. I’ve talked to all three of them – the bartender knew one and I found the others through him. They say there were about a dozen people in front of the doorway. That what you’d say?”
“Pretty close. Not over fifteen at the most.”
“And the squad car coppers – even after they saw it was a Ripper job – didn’t have sense enough to hold every one of them. We’ve located five out of the twelve or fifteen. If only we had all of ‘em–”
“Who is the fifth?” Sweeney asked. “The three who were together and I made four; who else?”
“Guy who lived in the building. Guess he was the first one to see the woman and the dog. Came home and couldn’t get in because the dog started to jump him every time he started to open the door. Other passers-by saw something was happening and stopped to look in too. When the guy from the tavern – the one who made the phone call – got there, there were six or eight people. When he got back with his two friends, there were nine or ten besides them.”
“I was probably the next arrival,” Sweeney said. “I got there just a minute before the squad car came. And to answer your next question, no, I didn’t notice anybody else in the crowd. Couldn’t identify a one of them. All I noticed was what was going on inside and what the squad car coppers did. Probably couldn’t identify even them.” Bline said dryly, “We don’t need them identified. I’d give a lot, though, to have every one of that crowd in front. Instead of five – and four of those five cleared.”
“Not counting me?”
“Not counting you.”
“What clears the man who lived in the building? The one who, according to his own story, was the first one there?”
The Screaming Mimi Page 10