The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  The lieutenant pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He lit it with a twenty-dollar silver lighter.

  He bared his pearly teeth and exhaled and said in a flat, unemotional voice, “I’ve about had it with you. We did everything we could. That’s something you irate private citizens never try to understand. And the last thing we need now is a jerk big brother from Arabia barging into town, making like his brother’s ghost and scaring the daylights out of everyone in the Moreland Hotel. Won’t the newspapers have fun!”

  “I’m afraid,” I said, “I didn’t just barge into town. I came here after considerable deliberation. And I plan to stay a long time.”

  “What for?”

  “To do what you can’t do. Find my kid brother, Ed Kolchak. Or, at least, find out what happened to him.”

  “You think we didn’t try? You’ve seen Morrissey’s reports. We talked to everyone. We put the screws on all our Clay Street informants. And came up with nothing.”

  “I don’t doubt that. But there’s not much more you can do now. You have other cases to solve. But me—I intend to work on my brother’s case full-time.”

  “What can you investigate that we didn’t? As far as any logical place to even start an investigation is concerned, your brother’s case is a classic study in futility. He’d never been in this city before. He didn’t know a soul here. He was a salesman for a structural steel company in Chicago, and he’d made an appointment by long-distance phone with the purchasing agent for a big manufacturing company. The appointment was for nine a.m. the morning of April tenth last year. Your brother arrived in this city April ninth on the six o’clock flight. He took a cab to the Moreland, where he checked into Room 703—this room. He ordered a bellboy, a lad named Maurice Shevlin, to bring him a bottle of beer. He’d eaten dinner on the plane. Apparently he spent an hour or so organizing his sales material. Then he went down to the lobby and stopped at the cigar counter. He bought an inexpensive street guide and also picked up a free entertainment guide. He inquired as to the distance to Clay Street, which is our city’s version of glitter gulch—the French Quarter, Greenwich Village, Rush Street, and skid row all in one. He left the hotel a little before nine p.m. He took a cab from the stand in front of this hotel to the intersection of Clay and Jackson. He got out and paid the driver. The driver is the last person known to have seen him. That’s all we learned, and that’s all you’ll learn. So why don’t you go back to Arabia?”

  “Because Ed’s my brother,” I said, “and the only family I have left in the world. That might not mean much to you or to most people these days, but it means a helluva lot to me. Like with the ancient Greeks, see? A matter of family honor. Or is that over your head?”

  The detective gazed at his flawless shoes. Then he looked up, his eyes suddenly veiled.

  “All right. I see I’m getting nowhere. Just bear in mind, a million people live in this city. And the trail is a year old. A year in which people can forget, in which evidence fades away.”

  “That passage of time,” I said, “may work to my advantage. Ed wasn’t naked when he stepped out of that cab, you know. He wore clothes and carried objects. His wallet, with his identification and credit cards…”

  “We’re still waiting for someone to try using one of those credit cards. But nobody has. Nobody tried to cash any of the traveler’s checks he carried either.”

  “I know. But Ed had other things on him.”

  “Junk. Mostly unidentifiable. Except for the ring and the watch. The pawn shops are still alerted to that ring. And the watch—from the outside, it looks like a million other two-dollar watches.”

  “All the same, I’m going to put ads in the papers. Maybe since the publicity over my brother’s disappearance died away, someone found one of those articles and doesn’t realize its significance.”

  Doyle shrugged. “It’s your money.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “Did it ever occur to you that you might not want to know the truth about what happened to your brother? Clay Street is a nasty place. Maybe your brother had some nasty ideas when he went down there. A stranger alone on Clay Street can get into all sorts of trouble. And your brother—twenty-eight years old, in a city where nobody knew him…”

  “Those implications don’t scare me,” I replied evenly. “And you know yourself there’s nothing to them. You must have asked the Chicago police to check into Ed’s habits. Ed traveled a lot, and when he traveled, he liked to scout out areas like Clay Street. Hell, he was no puritan, why shouldn’t he? Ed was a personable guy. His technique in a new town was to hit a couple quiet little spots, where the natives most likely hung out. He’d strike up a conversation with the bartender or some customer, and in thirty minutes he’d have enough information to write a guidebook. He’d know which places to avoid, and which were worth taking in. Anyhow, Ed had an appointment with that purchasing agent at nine the next morning. He took his business seriously. I don’t think he planned to stay down on Clay Street for long. I think he just intended to have a drink or two, get the feel of the area, and then return to the hotel early.”

  “Maybe your brother wanted to disappear.”

  I shook my head. “No dice. He corresponded with me regularly, and I’ve written to his employers and his friends. There was absolutely no hint of serious personal troubles. As a matter of fact, things had never been going better for him. He was making good money for a guy his age. He had a master’s in engineering, and he knew how to sell to high-level technical executives. He led a full social life in Chicago. Girls—Ed had his pick. You might say he was the perfect bachelor.”

  Doyle got up. He seemed unhappy.

  “I don’t suppose you’d bother confiding to the police what you plan to do.”

  “I don’t mind at all. Tonight I’ll take a cab to Clay and Jackson. I’ll get out and start walking around. I’ll do that tomorrow night and every night until I’ve hit every establishment on or near Clay Street. I’ll ask questions wherever I go. And after I hit every joint once, I’ll go back and do it a second time. And a third. And so on.”

  “Now, that’s a brilliant idea,” Doyle said sarcastically. “Clay Street is loaded with human vermin of both sexes who’d slit a stranger’s throat for a twenty-dollar bill. And if you pester them with questions night after night, they’ll consider slitting your throat for nothing.”

  I pushed myself out of the chair. I led Doyle to the door.

  “I’ll risk it,” I said. “By the way, if you want to reassure the Moreland’s management about my presence, you might tell them I won’t be staying more than a week. I’ll find a place near Clay Street as soon as I can.”

  “If you do learn anything,” Doyle said, “I hope you’ll remember to tell us about it. No matter what you think, we’re just as anxious to find your brother as you are.”

  “Of course.”

  Doyle left.

  I sat down at the desk. I pulled a piece of paper from a pad.

  On it I printed,

  LT. VAN DOYLE. CLAY STREET PRECINCT.

  I folded the paper once and slipped it into an envelope which I addressed to Max Fuller.

  CHAPTER 2.

  The elevator girl who took me down was the same one who’d ferried me up. She planted her round little backside to me and stood at rigid attention, eyes straight ahead.

  As we reached the lobby level I said, “Boo!”

  She jumped as though goosed. She opened the door in a hurry.

  At the cigar counter I bought a street guide and picked up a free entertainment guide. I didn’t inquire as to the distance to Clay Street, though. I already knew that.

  I also bought a stamp. The envelope to Max Fuller, I dropped into a mailbox.

  Outside, I told the doorman, “I called the cab company. I asked to see the driver of Cab 444 in front of this hotel at nine o’clock.”

  The doorman, big, fat, and mid
dle-aged, looked me right in the eye. He recognized me, but he, at least, didn’t give a damn.

  “Four-forty-four’s parked across the street, sir. I suggested he wait there so he wouldn’t block the line. I knew you’d want to see him.”

  “Thanks. You tell him who I was?”

  “No.”

  I tipped the doorman a dollar.

  The driver of Cab 444 was squinting at the financial page of an evening newspaper as I approached. I opened the back door and climbed in.

  He turned. “Sorry.” His face was round, his nose big and warped. He wore rimless glasses and his broad smile seemed sincere. I estimated his age at forty-five. “I can’t take you anywhere. The cab is engaged.”

  “I’m the party who engaged you. I want a ride to the corner of Clay and Jackson.”

  “I don’t get it. Any cab could haul you to Clay Street.”

  “I wanted you. You’re Sam Alban, aren’t you?”

  “Look,” Alban said genially, “if some joker told you I can find girls or a circus, you got the wrong guy. I take fares to Clay Street and let ’em out, that’s all. What happens afterward is their business.”

  “I’ve got the right guy. A joker didn’t tell me about you. The police did. They said you drove my kid brother to Clay Street a year ago.”

  Alban studied me. He nodded. “That one. Sure. He went to Clay and Jackson, too. I ought to remember him.” The driver put his newspaper aside. “I talked to a hundred cops about it. Reporters followed me around. You look a little like him. Only he was taller and thinner. You must be the older brother I read about. His only relative, it said.”

  “That’s right. And I’ve come to this city to find Ed. So let’s get going. I want you to let me out at the exact spot you let Ed out.”

  Alban started the cab. He steered slowly into traffic.

  I asked, “What did my brother do during the ride?”

  “He talked at first. He asked me to let him out in the middle of things. I told him it was a week night and with the weather so miserable cold, there probably wouldn’t be much going on. He said that was all right, he’d see what he could find. Then he asked me about the joints down there, but I told him I didn’t know Clay Street. A lot of drivers will tout some place and the doorman or a bartender pay ’em a buck or two a head. But I don’t go for that. So then your brother, he just looked out the window.”

  Alban paused. “I told the cops that, too. They didn’t believe me. They started shoving me around, in a back room at the Clay Street Precinct. They claimed I touted your brother to a dive and was afraid to admit it. So I hollered for a lie test. And you know what? They gave me a lie test and I passed.”

  “I know. I was overseas, but I kept up with the case.”

  “You think you’ll learn more than the police found out?”

  “I have more time than the police have. They work on a lot of cases at once. This is the only case I’m interested in. And my motives are more personal.”

  Like Ed, I spent the remainder of the ride looking out the window. Alban had nothing more to say either. He seemed pensive.

  Cab 444 pulled to the curb. Alban cut the engine.

  “Here it is.”

  “How much?”

  “A buck-sixty.”

  I handed him two dollars. “Keep the change.”

  ‘Your brother did that, too. Just that way.”

  “I realize it’s unlikely, but if you ever hear anything about my brother, I plan to be in town for some time. I won’t be at the Moreland long, but I’ll leave a forwarding address.”

  “Sure.”

  I held out my right hand, palm down. “See that ring?” The stone gleamed under the street light. “My brother wore one just like it. There are only two in the world—my brother’s ring and mine. I had them made up in Tokyo. If you ever pick up a fare wearing a ring like this, I’d like to know. You might tell your buddies about it, too.” I reached into my pocket. I gave Alban a small piece of paper. “Here’s a mimeographed copy of the design. It’s the Japanese character for brotherhood.”

  I opened the door.

  “Mr. Kolchak…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I hope everything turns out all right. I really do. And you probably heard it before, but watch your step. Clay Street is rough. The Syndicate runs this part of town. The district police captain got his job through the ward committeeman. The committeeman is a Syndicate stooge. The fix runs all the way up through City Hall to the state legislature. That’s why Clay Street is wide open.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate your concern.”

  “If you want, I can pick you up later and drive you back to the Moreland.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. But tell you what. I plan to visit Clay Street every night. Why don’t you pick me up tomorrow at the Moreland. At three in the afternoon.” I smiled. “You can be my transportation corps.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I climbed out of the cab and closed the door. Alban drove away.

  I stood alone, at Clay and Jackson, just as Edmund L. Kolchak had stood there twelve months earlier.

  A brisk, warm wind tumbled scraps of paper down the gutter at my feet. Raucous phrases of music rose behind the traffic sounds—a brassy trumpet, a mourning clarinet. Signs glittered, THE DEN. EXOTIQUE. HIDEAWAY, CHEZ NANETTE. LEO’S. And of course girls…

  Clay Street. Just as Ed had viewed it. Only this night Clay Street was crowded. No arctic current swept over the city from the northwest as it had the night Ed stood here. This night, the abnormally warm weather had roused all the denizens. Tired, foggy-eyed old men and bitter young men in rags and work clothes. A few wide-eyed, beardless boys from the suburbs and many cold-eyed, beardless boys from the slum. Small-town conventioneers, with more money than brains, mingling with the underworld’s fringe. And always, hungry eyes on the women: occasional squaws and mountaineers in jeans, Puerto Ricans and Cubans in flowered print skirts, whores of every color and description, slummers in the latest fashions, and now and then a working girl or housewife hurrying to the residential or Bohemian sections nearby. A street financed by ruthless entrepreneurs and gathering in its backwash every element of the city’s dispossessed. I had seen Clay Streets the world over. This one would be little different.

  And now I had four choices. I could go north or south on Clay, or I could go east or west on Jackson. On Clay, lights beckoned; on Jackson, they gave way to rows of ancient apartment buildings.

  I thought: Come on, bullhead. You’ve got to begin somewhere. After the first place, the others will be easy. So let’s start effecting the Master Plan. Let’s show the world how stubborn you can be.

  I entered an all-night diner at 1201 North Clay, the northeast corner of Clay and Jackson. The waitress refused to talk to me. The short-order cook told me damned if he knew who walked by at this hour a year ago. He’d been in Peoria then and the waitress had been in Memphis, and if I didn’t want to order anything, scram.

  I dropped a sketch of the ring insignia on the counter. An old man drinking coffee picked it up, shrugged, crumpled it, and tossed it over his shoulder. Twelve wary eyes followed me out the door.

  By eleven o’clock I’d reached the 1400 block. I’d stopped at two drugstores, a cafeteria, and nine bars. Two prostitutes tried to solicit me and three bartenders threatened to throw me out bodily. But here and there people did listen. Nobody remembered Ed. Most everybody remembered the case, though. It had been the talk of the street at the time.

  At 11:35 p.m. I walked into a clip joint at 1427 North Clay called Kelly’s club. On a small stage a tall dark-haired woman removed her clothes while performing a casual travesty of a dance. A heavy-eyed Negro thumped in a bored way on a drum as the woman peeled off her gown, spread her arms and legs, and rolled her hips. The two other bandsmen yawned. The tables and chairs ring
ing the stage were empty. The bar, however, was filled, since drinks there cost less. The patrons were all male, some fairly well dressed and others in leather jackets. Stonily, the men gazed at the stage.

  A pale-faced greeter in a soiled tuxedo asked me if I’d like a table up front. I said no, I’d take a table in back. I settled in an uncomfortable chair beside the wall. The greeter faded from view before I could question him. That was all right. I’d catch him on the way out. For the moment I wanted a drink. I’d just left a strangely quiet little den patronized by a few scowling women garbed in mannish suits.

  A waitress in a low-cut white blouse and skin-tight red pants said, “What’ll you have, honey?”

  I asked for beer. While the waitress got it, an exhausted blonde shoved herself from the bar, walked over, and asked if I wanted company. I said no, I’d drink alone. The blonde had expected that. Expressionless she returned to her post to await a live one.

  While the waitress poured the beer I held out my right hand.

  “Ever see a man wearing a ring like that?”

  “Can’t say that I did.”

  “Ever see a man who looked something like me? Only he was taller and younger. That’s my brother.”

  “I see so many. I wouldn’t know.”

  I gave her a sketch of the ring design. “Just keep this handy, hey, and watch for a man wearing that ring. Show it to your friends. I’ll be around again.”

  “Sure, dear.” She slipped the paper into her brassiere. “I really will.”

  She went back to the bar and said something to the bartender. The bartender reached for a telephone alongside his cash register and dialed a number.

  Slowly I drank the beer. My feet hurt. It was a relief to sit down. Before long, I’d need a high-quality pair of hiking shoes.

  The bottle was near-empty when a middle-aged man entered alone from the street. In an unhurried way, he headed straight for me. He wore a well-pressed blue suit and a subdued gray tie. He was balding, but he still sported a few strands of black hair. Of medium height, his shoulders were broad and his stomach was just comfortably rounded. An expression of studied cordiality masked his squarish face. His cheekbones were high. His nose was heavy, and his mouth wide. His blue eyes seemed remarkably bright, as though he’d just hopped out of an icy shower.