The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  But I never had a chance. As I threw myself to my right, she pivoted, keeping me in her sights. She delayed just a second, weighing my life in her mind for the last time.

  Then her finger tightened on the trigger. The gun detonated. The booming report crashed against my eardrums.

  Pellets tore into my legs. But incredibly, the weapon had exploded not so much at me as in Lorene’s face. Shrapnel flew in all directions. The main force of the blast was directed backward.

  Lorene was knocked sprawling.

  She lay still.

  I crawled to Lorene. A fragment of the gun’s action had been driven into her skull. For Lorene, it had been a lucky fragment. Her face had been cut to a pulp. And had she lived, she’d most certainly have been blinded.

  Bagwell limped to my side. He sat down.

  “Lorene’s husband,” he observed moodily, “may have taught her to load, aim, and shoot, but he didn’t teach her much about guns. That weapon was an antique. It hasn’t been fired in more than forty years. It was made for relatively mild black-powder loads. The barrels were fouled, rusted, and full of obstructions. Almost any shell would have blown up in the chamber. And the shells Lorene inserted—they’re tailor-made, high-powered loads, designed for a weapon that cost me four hundred dollars, which I keep in town unless I’m going hunting.”

  The lawyer took a final swig of his bourbon.

  “I was going to tell her,” he added, “but I changed my mind. When you found me here today, I’d already given up. I understood, even if Lorene didn’t, that our deception was doomed. Doyle would get us if you failed. But until now I’d done all the dirty work. I killed your brother, raped the girl, and murdered Alban. The state would ask the chair for me. Lorene, though, she could claim I was behind everything and get off with no more than a few years. This despite the fact that from the moment she got off the floor in The Dugout and stared at your brother’s body, she ran the whole show. So I thought: Let’s see, Lorene, if your greed has so warped you that you’ll commit your own murder. If it has, you’ll squeeze that trigger and get your punishment. If it hasn’t, you’ll put the gun down and surrender, in which case a few years in prison and lifelong heartache for yourself and Jackie will be punishment enough. That’s real justice, Kolchak. She was her own executioner. As for you—I knew you’d be hurt some. But with her aim thrown off and the pellets dispersed by an explosion in a bad gun, I was reasonably sure you’d survive. And I feared that if I warned her, she wouldn’t have believed me anyhow. She’d just have fired at me first.”

  “Harry,” I said, “my legs…I can’t move any more…”

  “Oh, I’ll call the police.” Bagwell looked out at the woods. “I think I can beat the chair by describing Lorene to any reasonably male jury. I’ll go to the state penitentiary where the warden is a friend of mine. So are many of the inmates. In a few months, I’ll be running the place. And there are, I’ve learned, worse places in the world to be than a well-run penitentiary.”

  CHAPTER 18.

  Doyle perched on a chair in my hospital room. He watched as I limped to the closet and reached for a necktie.

  “I’ll give you a ride to your apartment,” he drawled, “in a squad car.”

  “Thanks.”

  “If you like, I’ll turn the siren on.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “I wouldn’t mind. I couldn’t say it before. You were making monkeys out of us, and my pride wouldn’t let me. But I think you put on a helluva good show. Too bad everything worked out the way it did.”

  I tightened the knot.

  “Everything worked out the way it had to work out. I did what I came to this city to do. What’s too bad?”

  “Steve, after what you’ve been through, you must have a pretty lousy opinion of the human race. Leeches trying to suck you dry. Lice like Nesbitt and that photographer hurting you out of sheer spite. Rats like Amber and gray wolves like Schell hurting you out of greed. And the woman your brother died for tried to blow your brains out with a shotgun.”

  “That’s one side of it,” I admitted. “But there’s another. Total strangers went out of their way to help me because they were decent people. Guys like Sam Alban, the Moreland doorman, and the cabbies who helped look for Mexoil. Betsy and her friends. Irma Bronson. Don Collins and Max Fuller. The old rascal, I learned he’d been charging me half what he charges other people all along. And for every Nesbitt, there are a hundred reporters like Totten. That balances the picture, doesn’t it? By the way, what will they do to Lorene’s father?”

  “He’s in such poor health they won’t press charges. Anyhow, Lorene and Bagwell did everything against Heine-man’s wishes. Bagwell’s trial starts next month. He’ll fight for a life sentence—on what grounds, he hasn’t disclosed yet.

  “Think he’ll get the chair?”

  “He might get sentenced to it. But the governor is against capital punishment. And Bagwell still has friends close to the governor’s mansion. If anyone’s death sentence gets commuted to life, Bagwell’s will.”

  I reached for my coat.

  “What about Jackie?”

  “Ward of the court. He’s the biggest tragedy.”

  “It might have been worse still,” I said, “if he grew up under Lorene’s influence.”

  The telephone rang. Doyle picked up the receiver. “Mr. Kolchak’s room. Uh-huh. Just a minute.” He looked at me. “It’s Pete Ordway.”

  “Tell him,” I said, “I’ve just left.”

  “He’s just left,” Doyle said into the phone. He hung up.

  “That’s about the tenth call from that guy,” I said. “He wants me to write articles for the Beacon on my impressions of Clay Street. I’ve got nothing against Ordway. In fact, I admire him.

  “You have a lot of company. He’ll be alderman one day. Schell can’t live forever. And then…”

  “I agree. He’d make a good mayor in about twenty years, wouldn’t he? But my articles wouldn’t have much effect on his political future. And I’m damned if I’ll let even a man like Ordway capitalize on my search. Because I came here, a good man was murdered; a woman was beaten and raped; a mother is dead and a child has been orphaned. No matter how good their intentions, nobody’s going to cash in on that.”

  Betsy waited outside my apartment. On her last visit to the hospital, she’d learned I was coming home that afternoon.

  I opened the door and Betsy lugged my suitcase in. I flopped into a chair.

  Betsy kissed my forehead.

  “Cut it out,” I protested. “I keep telling you…”

  Betsy straightened. “You mean because you’re older, you don’t want me?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want you. It’s just that it would never do.”

  “Steve, you’re as young…”

  “As I feel. But when I feel fifty, you’ll feel thirty-three. You’d be surprised what a difference that makes. And when I’m sixty…”

  “Don’t say that.” Betsy frowned. She sat on the sofa. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “The desk clerk said you were leaving.”

  “That’s right. Tonight. I have to start living my own life again.”

  “Take me with you.”

  “If I were ten years younger, I might, but…”

  A knock sounded on the door. I opened it. Don Collins joined us.

  “Hi, Steve. Just wanted to wish you luck. Where are you headed?”

  We shook hands. “Thanks for everything, Don. I sent a few wires from the hospital. A construction firm based in Omaha wants to see me. They have a big job in Afghanistan.”

  Betsy, her back to us, began to sob.

  Don asked, “What’s wrong, hon?”

  “Shut up,” she said. “And don’t call me ‘hon.’”

  “She’s upset,” I explained vaguely. “Look, I’ve got a lot of packing t
o do. My plane leaves at seven. I’ll spell out my gratitude by mail. But for now, why don’t you two run off somewhere? If you want to say good-by at the airport, fine.” Betsy left without a word. Hastily Don followed.

  I peered out the window. A minute later Betsy and Don emerged from the building. They had effected some sort of reconciliation during the elevator ride downstairs. Hand in hand they walked to Don’s sports car. Don whispered in Betsy’s ear. Betsy giggled. Don patted Betsy’s fanny, and Betsy hopped into the front seat.

  If they showed up at the airport, I’d be very surprised. And disappointed.

  One well-wisher attended my departure.

  Max Fuller, the private detective, lumbered into the waiting room as my flight was called.

  “Hey, boy,” he bellowed. “Before you go—I still think you were a damned fool. But a few more damned fools like you and this would be a more interesting world.”

  “Thanks. I got your letter, with the name of Mrs. Alban’s bank—and your donation to her account. But what happened to your final statement?”

  “Didn’t I mail it yet? Well, I’ll send a bill eventually.” Fuller sighed. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. I’d never seen him standing up before. He was much shorter than I’d thought. No more than 5‘5“. A little old gargoyle. “Going back to building bridges, hey?”

  “That’s right. But before I sign up for the next job, I’m flying to Wisconsin. I want to know the Bronson girl better. From her letters, she’s trying hard to keep her chin up, but I suspect she still feels pretty bad about what happened. She’s a nice girl, Max, with a lot to live for. And she’s a smart, realistic girl who could move to a place like Afghanistan just like moving next door. A real boomer type. She doesn’t realize that yet, but I do.”

  “Well,” Fuller said, “happy landings.”

  The jet engine whined. I leaned back in the seat. We headed up and away. I didn’t look down.

  FULL COVERAGE

  Copyright © 1966 by James Michael Ullman.

  BOOK ONE: THE GOOD WOMAN

  CHAPTER ONE

  A big murder story is a lot like an avalanche. It might start in a small way, but when it’s rolling, look out. Guilty or innocent, anyone in its path will be swept along with it…

  This one began on a hot Thursday morning in June. Bill Totten, the city editor, looked up from his phone and said, “Hey, Ames. Go out to the reception room. A woman there wants to see Murray Hale, but Gladys thinks she’s just another squawker.”

  A nasty crack came to mind, but I didn’t voice it. I hadn’t worked on the Express long enough to rap the management. The Squawk Department was the personal invention of Murray Hale, the managing editor, who was fond of terming it the most important department on the paper.

  If true, I wondered why they always gave Squawks to the newest reporter on the staff. But then, after reading some of Hale’s columns on world affairs, I had found a number of things about his thinking that mystified me.

  I pushed my chair back and started out of the city room. I’d been writing obituaries and gathering facts by telephone for a roundup story on the weather. The city was in the fourth day of a heat wave, with more 90-plus temperature predicted for the afternoon. Notes were heaped on my desk, I had ten or twelve more calls to make, and a squawker was the last person I wanted to waste time with now.

  The source of the Squawk Department was a black-bordered box that appeared daily on our front page under a facsimile of Murray Hale’s signature. The box said:

  The doors of the Express are always open to anyone with a story to tell. A vigilant press is our best defense against public corruption and abuse of power, but we need your help. If you have a complaint, or information about any condition you think should be exposed or corrected, phone 111-1177, or write Box 777, the Express, 101 S. Franklin Street. Your identity will be kept in the strictest confidence.

  * * * *

  You might think that as a result of this invitation, the Squawk editor would be swamped with leads to blockbusting stories. Not so. In the two months I’d been answering calls on 1177 and reading mail addressed to Box 777, I hadn’t turned up a news tip of value. Mostly, people wanted a hole in the street in front of their house fixed, or an improvement in their garbage pickup service. And of course there were the oddballs, such as the woman who claimed Chinese spies were boring peepholes into her bathroom, and the man who insisted his next-door neighbor was Hitler in disguise.

  Occasionally a squawker appeared at the paper in person and asked to see Murray Hale, since Hale had signed the Squawk Box. To Hale’s credit, if he was free he’d grant these people a few minutes of his time. He reasoned that if they troubled to come to the Express, they must feel strongly about whatever was on their minds.

  Of course today there was no question about Hale’s seeing anyone. He was in New York. And so it was all up to me, Pete Ames, representative of the ever-vigilant press.

  I stifled a yawn and hoped the interview wouldn’t take too long. I had, I thought, a lot of very important things to do.

  * * * *

  Gladys, Murray Hale’s secretary, met me in the hall. A gray-haired lady of middling years, she peered into the reception room and nodded toward a woman perched on a chair in a far corner. “She’s the one. She wouldn’t tell me a thing, but she’s carrying an envelope with something in it.” Gladys winked and flashed me a confidential smile. “That’s how squawkers are sometimes. They turn up with the whole thing written in longhand, and they won’t show it to anyone but Murray. It’s such a terrible waste of his time.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Irene Brown. She phoned for an appointment yesterday and I told her she could see Murray first thing today, but he changed his plans and decided to stay in New York overnight. She didn’t leave a number, so I couldn’t cancel.”

  “Okay, I’ll handle it.”

  I strolled into the reception room. Irene Brown wore an immense, orange turban and a bright-green dress that clung to still interesting but over-fleshed curves. I estimated her age at thirty-five, but in those years she had probably seen and done a lot. Her face was long, and despite a heavy coat of makeup, shadows ringed her eyes. The little blob of fat under her jaw didn’t help much either.

  I took a chair beside her and asked, “Can I help you?”

  She viewed me with suspicion. Her hands, resting on a manila envelope, twisted nervously. “Who are you?” Her voice was low and hoarse, with an oddly appealing raspy tone.

  “Pete Ames. I’m a reporter.”

  “I don’t want a reporter. It’s like I told the girl. I wanna see Murray Hale, the man who signs the notice on your front page. I got an appointment.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s out of town. We didn’t know where to reach you, to cancel it.”

  Irene Brown looked disappointed. Her hands twisted some more. “When do you expect him back?”

  “Late this afternoon, but he might not come down to the paper until tonight or tomorrow. I’m in charge of the department that puts the notice on the front page, though. You could give me the details, and I could leave a message for Mr. Hale.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  I glanced at the envelope. “Your story in there?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Why don’t you let me see it? I could tell you right off if Mr. Hale would be interested.”

  “Oh, he’ll be interested.”

  “Don’t be too sure.” I grew a little impatient. “As a rule, newspapers don’t take stories from outsiders. Even if we took it, we wouldn’t pay you much. If you’re a free-lance writer, your best bet would be a magazine—they pay much better. You expect money for your story?”

  Again she didn’t answer. But to me that was answer enough.

  I persisted. “What is your story about?”

  She b
egan to get sore. “I told you, I wanted to see—”

  “I know. You wanted to see Mr. Hale, but he’s a busy man. If you don’t give me some idea what it’s all about…”

  “All right.” She clenched her fists; her lower lip trembled slightly. “It’s about a scandal. That’s what your editor likes, isn’t it? Scandals? Well, you tell your editor I was here with information about a scandal and I’ll be back.”

  She rose. I got up too. Her eyes were nearly on a level with mine, and I’m six-one. “If you won’t talk to me…”

  “No, I won’t.” She glanced at her watch. “I gotta go to work. You say he might be back tonight?”

  “Possibly. But if you want another appointment…”

  “Never mind that. I’ll call, and if he’s here I’ll come down and see him.”

  We walked to the door. I said, “Look, I hope I haven’t offended you. But if you don’t mind, how much did you expect to get for this story of yours?” Irene Brown hesitated. Then, with unexpected vehemence, she said, “Five thousand dollars.”

  She went out into the corridor, the envelope jutting from under her left arm. I watched. Then I smiled. When I got back to the city room, I was laughing.

  Sid Kells looked up, a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. A cigarette nearly always dangled there. Kells, whose desk adjoined mine, was a hulking, round-faced man in his late forties. His notion of how a reporter should act had been fashioned by the crime movies he’d watched as a child. No other real-life reporter acted that way, but that didn’t faze Kells, who had sure enough begun his career as a copy boy.

  Sid asked, “What’s so funny?”

  I flopped behind my typewriter. “The squawker. A big, wild-looking dame in an orange turban and a green dress. A real kook.”

  “What kind of a kook?”

  “She wanted to sell a story for five thousand bucks. Can you imagine? We wouldn’t pay an outsider fifty bucks for a story, much less five thousand.”

  “A story about what?”

  “She wouldn’t say. Just that it involved a scandal.” Sid’s questions began to annoy me. “She insisted on seeing Hale.”