The Screaming Mimi

by Fredric Brown

  “Fine. Nick’s due to phone me soon and I’ll tell him to hold a chair for you, and not to take your money. No kidding, Sweeney, I like you. No hard feelings?”

  “Very tender feelings,” Sweeney said. “And the worst of it is, they’ve been worked on twice since then. That’s just why I wanted to be sure before I went to El Madhouse tonight. Since it’s okay, thanks for everything.”

  “Don’t mention it, Sweeney. Take care of yourself.” After he’d hung up, Sweeney took a deep breath and – although it hurt his stomach a little – he felt better.

  He went back for another handful of change, an even bigger handful this time. A nickel of it got him the long distance operator again. He let the New York operator do the looking up this time for he felt pretty sure Ray Land would have a home telephone in his own name. Ray Land had been a Chicago homicide cop once; now he was running a small agency of his own in New York.

  Ray was home. Sweeney said, “This is Sweeney. Remember me?”

  “Sure. So?”

  “Want you to investigate an alibi for me. In New York.” He gave the details, Greene’s name and hotel and the exact date. “I know he was registered at the hotel on that day and the day before and the day after. The police checked that.

  What I want to find out – for sure, not a probability – is whether he was really there that night, the 27th.”

  “Can try. It’s almost two weeks ago. How far do you want me to go?”

  “As far as you can. Talk to everybody at the hotel who might have seen him come in or go out, the maid who’d have made up his room in the morning, everything like that. Listen, the crucial time is 3 o’clock in the morning. If you can definitely locate him six hours or less either side of that, I’ll settle.”

  “Twelve hours isn’t so bad. Maybe I can do it. How much you want me to spend?”

  “Spend all you want provided you do it right away. Within reason, that is. I’ll wire you a hundred cash for a retainer. If you go a little over it, even double it, okay.”

  “That ought to cover it, Sweeney. It’ll cover two days’ time and since it’s right on Manhattan there won’t be any expenses to speak of. If I can’t get anything in two days, I probably can’t at all. Why the six hour leeway?”

  “I want to convince myself that he wasn’t in Chicago at 3 a.m. Counting time to and from airports on either end, getting a plane and everything, that’s the least he could have done it in. Maybe five hours would be safer. If you can prove he was at the hotel as late as ten in the evening or as early as eight the next morning, I’ll be convinced. And, just in case it could have been a ringer, someone else there using his name, here’s a description.” Sweeney gave it. He added, “If you can’t alibi him, you might try that description at the airport. Or if it comes down to that, I’ll try to get you a photo. Check with me after you’ve got everything you can get at the hotel. Good enough?”

  “Good enough. I’ll get around there this evening. It’ll be the night shift I’ll mostly want to talk to.” Outside the telephone exchange, Sweeney found that it was getting dark and that he was getting hungry. He remembered he hadn’t seen a Sunday paper and might have missed something; he found copies of two of them still left on a newsstand and very early editions, still sticky with ink, of two Monday morning papers. He bought all four and took them into a restaurant with him.

  Reading while he ate, he found out that nothing new had happened or transpired. All the papers were keeping the story alive – it was too big a story to let an issue pass without something – but the somethings added up or canceled out to nothing.

  He stretched the eating and the reading until it was almost ten o’clock and then left. He remembered the retainer and stopped in at the Western Union office again to send it to Ray Land.

  That still left him over seven hundred dollars and he wished there was some way he could spend some of it on Yolanda. Well, there’d be time for that after the cops quit watching her. Meanwhile, there was one sighting shot he could take. He found a flower shop in a hotel still open and ordered two dozen red roses sent to her at El Madhouse as soon as they could get a messenger to take them there. He tried writing on, and tore up, three cards. On the fourth, he wrote “Sweeney” and let it go at that.

  He caught a taxi and directed it to El Madhouse; it would get him there just in time for Yo’s first performance of the evening.

  It did, and Nick was still saving a place for him.

  After the floor show (you wouldn’t want me to describe it again, would you?) he wandered out to the bar and managed to get a place at it. But it was ten minutes before he could get a drink.

  He sipped it and brooded.

  Unless breaking the story that the Ripper had bought and now presumably still owned a copy of Ganslen’s SM-1 brought results, it looked as though he was stymied. That was the only real lead he’d found: the fact that the killer of Lola Brent, two months ago, had undoubtedly been the same person who had purchased from her the statuette whose purchase price she had dragged down. Sweeney didn’t doubt that for a second; it fitted too perfectly to be a coincidence.

  It had to be.

  But for the rest he had nothing. The trip to Brampton had been completely a blind alley – an alley populated with little men who kept pounding on his sore stomach, before and after getting drunk with him. And almost worse than those punches had been the anti-climax of learning – after he’d heard first of a Ripper, a blonde, and a crazy artist – that the Ripper and the blonde were dead long since and the crazy artist was well alibied. And even if Charlie Wilson hadn’t been alibied, Sweeney couldn’t picture him as the Ripper. He had a hair-trigger temper, but he wasn’t the type that ran to carving knives.

  Well, tomorrow would tell the tale. If a four-column picture of SM-1 splashed on the front page of the Blade didn’t make something happen–

  He sighed and took another sip of his drink.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sweeney turned and found himself staring full into the thick glasses that magnified Greene’s eyes and made them so frightening.

  Sweeney grinned and said, “Hi, Doc. What’ll you have?”

  “I’ve got a drink, over at a table. And Nick’s holding my chair and another. Come on over.”

  Sweeney picked up his drink and followed Greene to a corner table. Nick, standing beside it, said, “Hi, Mr. Sweeney,” and then hurried off about his business. Sweeney and Greene sat down.

  “Getting anywhere?” Greene asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m breaking a big story tomorrow; the biggest one to date.”

  “Outside of the actual murders.”

  “Maybe bigger,” Sweeney said.

  “It would be useless for me to ask what it is, I suppose.”

  “You’ve got something there, Doc. But cheer up; it’ll be on the streets in twelve hours.”

  “I’ll watch for it. I’m still worried about something happening to Yo. So I hope you have really got something.” He took off his glasses and polished them. Sweeney, studying him, saw that he looked quite different without them. He looked tired, genuinely worried. Stranger, though, he looked human. Sweeney almost wished he had back the hundred dollars he’d just wired to New York. Almost, not quite.

  Doc Greene put the glasses back on and looked at Sweeney through them, and his eyes were enormous again.

  Sweeney thought the hundred dollars was well spent.

  Greene said, “Meanwhile, Sweeney, take good care of yourself.”

  “I will. Any special reason?”

  Greene chuckled. “Yes, for my sake. Since I lost my temper the other night and shot off my mouth, Captain Bline has had me on the carpet. Everything but a rubber hose. It seems he took my little threat seriously.”

  “And was he right?”

  “Well – yes and no. You did, that one time, get under my skin and I think I meant it when I said it. Of course, after cool deliberation I realized I’d been sil
ly. By saying that, I did the one thing that made you completely safe – from me. If you ever want to kill a man, Sweeney, don’t make the announcement before the police and hope to get away with it.”

  “Then why the warning to take good care of myself?”

  “As I said, for my sake. Bline told me – promised me – that if anything happens to you after my threat, my silly threat, he’d arrest me and rubber-hose me to hell and back. Even if I had an alibi, he’d figure that I hired the job done. I’m going to be a dead duck, Sweeney, if anything happens to you.”

  Sweeney smiled. “Doc, you almost tempt me to commit suicide, without leaving a note.”

  “Don’t, please. Not that I think you would, but you worry me talking about breaking a big story tomorrow. You might say that to someone who wouldn’t want a big story to break for fear of what it might be. You see what I mean.”

  “I see what you mean. But you’re the first person in Chicago whom I’ve told. The only other one is hundreds of miles from here. Of course, you could pass it on.”

  “Perish the thought, Sweeney. Your safety has become a matter of importance to me. I’ve told you why.” He shook his head slowly. “I am amazed at myself for having said such a foolish thing – in such company. I, a trained psychiatrist– Have you had any psychiatric training, Sweeney? From the skillful way you maneuvered me into loss of control – Well, there’s no harm done if nothing happens to you. But until this mess is over, I’ll chip in half the cost if you want to hire a bodyguard. Willie, maybe? Have you met Willie Harris?”

  “Willie is wonderful,” Sweeney said. “But I doubt if Harry Yahn would care to part with him. No, thanks, Doc, whether you’re serious or not I’ll take my chances without a bodyguard. Or if I should hire one, I won’t tell you about it.” Greene sighed. “You still don’t trust me, Sweeney. Well, I’ve got to run along. To see a client at another club. Take care of yourself.”

  Sweeney went back to the bar and had his drink replenished. He drank it very slowly and thought about how he was going to write the story for tomorrow’s Blade, and thus managed to kill time until the second floor show went on.

  He saw it; it was different in one very minor but very important detail. Yolanda Lang wore a red rose pinned to the waist of her black dress. Sweeney’s roses had arrived, then, after the first show but before the second.

  And she’d worn one. That was all he wanted to know.

  He thought, but wasn’t sure, that her eyes met his in the instant after the dog had reared up behind her. But that wasn’t important; she had worn one of the roses he’d sent.

  After the show – wondering whether he was being as astute a psychiatrist as Doc Greene had credited him with being – he didn’t try to see her or speak to her. There’d be cops – and Doc – around if he did. Maybe, just possibly, by tomorrow night the cops wouldn’t have to be guarding Yolanda. And Doc – well, he’d worry about Greene when the time came.

  At least, he didn’t have anything to fear from Greene for the moment; he did believe him that far. Doc had pulled his own stinger by making that open threat on Sweeney’s life.

  He didn’t wait for the third show. Tomorrow might turn out to be a big day, and it was after midnight already. He went home and to bed, read a while and got to sleep by two o’clock. His alarm woke him at half-past seven, and it was Monday.

  It was Monday, and it was a bright, cheerful day; the sun was bright but not unduly hot for August the eleventh.

  No clouds in the sky, but a cooling breeze off the lake. Not bad at all.

  He had a good breakfast and got to the Blade promptly at nine.

  He hung up his coat and hat and then, before the city editor could catch him, he headed right for Wally Krieg’s office. The package containing SM-1 was under his arm.

  Wally looked up as he came in. He said, “Hi, Sweeney. Reported to Crawley yet?”

  “Nope. Want to show you something first.” He started to unwrap the package.

  “All right, but after that report to Crawley. Somebody took a jewelry salesman for his samples last night and we want to get on it quick. Over at–”

  “Hush,” said Sweeney. He got the package unwrapped and set Mimi on the desk, facing the managing editor. “Mimi, meet Wally Krieg. Wally, meet Mimi. Screaming Mimi.”

  “Charmed. Now take that thing out of here and–”

  “Hush,” said Sweeney. “She’s got a sister. One sister, in all of Chicago.”

  “Sweeney, what are you getting at?”

  “The Ripper,” said Sweeney. “He’s got Mimi’s sister. We got Mimi – and don’t think she doesn’t go on the expense account for the full purchase price. That is, if you want to send her up to the photo department and run a pic of her on page one today.”

  “You say the Ripper’s got one like her? Are you sure?”

  “Reasonably sure. There were two in Chicago; the Ripper bought the other one from Lola Brent just before he followed her home and killed her. It’s probably what set him off. Look at it!”

  “And his is the only other one in Chicago?”

  “Yes,” said Sweeney. “Well, if you’re not interested I’ll go stick it in my desk drawer and then look up Crawley.” He picked up Mimi and started out the door. Wally said “Hey!” and he waited.

  “Wally,” he said, “I’m getting fed up on this Ripper business. Maybe you’d better keep me off it. Of course I could get the whole thing for the first edition today, but you can have Mimi anyway, if you want her, and one of the other boys can check her pedigree – with Raoul Reynarde – and trace her back like I did, and give you the story for tomorrow or part of it for a late edition today. But I’d just as soon not–”

  “Sweeney, quit blithering. Shut the door.”

  “Sure, Wally. From which side?”

  Wally just glared at him and Sweeney decided that enough was enough and shut it from the inside. Wally was getting the city ed. on the phone. He barked that someone else should go on the jewelry case and that Sweeney was on special assignment. He jiggled the receiver and got the photo department and apparently was satisfied with whoever answered the phone for he told him to come down right away.

  Then he swung on Sweeney. He said, “Put that thing down, carefully, before you drop it and break it.” Sweeney put Mimi back down on the desk. Wally stared at her. Then up at Sweeney.

  He said, “What the hell are you waiting for? A kiss? Go ahead and write the story. Wait a minute; don’t start yet. Lots of time before first edition; sit down and tell me about it first. Maybe there are angles somebody else can be doing while you’re batting it out.”

  Sweeney sat down and told most of it. As much, at least, as he intended to put into the story itself. There was an interruption while a photographer came in and Wally gave him Mimi with instructions – and with threats of almost unbelievable things that would happen to him if Mimi were dropped and broken before the photograph had been taken.

  The photographer left, walking carefully and holding Mimi as though she were made of eggshell. Sweeney resumed, and finished.

  Wally said, “Good. Go ahead and write it. Only you didn’t do the story any good phoning Ganslen and telling them to cash in while it’s hot. The police aren’t going to like that. They’ll want there to be only one Mimi in Chicago for as long a time as possible. And I mean one; I’m going to order this one broken to pieces as soon as I see a good photo of it. Put that in the story. It narrows things down. Plenty. What the hell did you want to phone that art company for, to tip them off?”

  Sweeney felt uncomfortable. It had been a boner, and he didn’t want to explain about Charlie Wilson and his real reason for the call. He said, weakly, “Thought I ought to pay ‘em back for the favor they did me on the first call, Wally. Telling me only two had been sold in Chicago. Without that–”

  Wally said, “Well, I’ll phone them and head them off while you write the story. Look, mention that the statuette was made by Ganslen Art Company, Louisville, and they won’t have to sen
d any salesmen or samples to Chicago or anywhere in this area. They’ll be swamped with orders by telephone, just from that information and the photo in the paper. Every dealer in the area will be calling them.

  “I’ll phone and tell them that. Who’d you talk to?”

  “General manager. Burke.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to Burke and tell him to go ahead and take all the orders he wants from this area but to stall as long as he can on shipping and not to send any samples right away. And I’ll make sure he’s taking your suggestion on putting a special mark on each of them. Don’t mention that, though, in the story. And bring it here when you’ve finished; I want to pass on it personally.”

  Sweeney nodded and stood up. Wally said, “And one other thing I’m going to do, and that’s phone Bline. If we break this story without tipping him off first, we’ll be number one on the department’s s.o.b. list. I’m going to give him the story first and tell him we’re breaking it today but we’re giving him advance notice.”

  “What if he crosses you by giving it to the other papers?”

  “I don’t think he will. If he does, they still won’t have Mimi or a pic of her. The story itself isn’t worth much without the pic, and I’m going to splash that smack in the middle of the front page. Four columns by about fifteen inches.”

  “Shall I mention that we’re running the pic in full color–black?”

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  Sweeney got the hell out and sat down at his desk. He realized, as he pulled paper into the ancient Underwood, that both of Wally’s ideas had been good; it wouldn’t hurt the story to give the cops a couple of hours’ notice, and it wouldn’t hurt Ganslen’s sales (or Charlie’s royalties) if they didn’t fill orders from Chicago for a week or so. The story would stay good – and would turn better if it actually led to the capture of the Ripper.

  He looked at his wrist watch, saw that he had an hour to go, and started typing. His phone rang and it was Wally.