The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  “A profile, you mean”

  “Yes. I’ll try to explain her and show how she came to be a homicide victim with her name in headlines. Even if it turns out that envelope had nothing to do with her murder—and I’d bet my bottom dollar it does—I think that kind of a story would stand up ten days after I wrote it.”

  “That’s very good.” Farrar nodded. “I’d envisioned something like that myself. All right, here’s my proposition. I know you’re still undecided about your future, but it so happens I need a new man here, so I’ll hire you for three weeks on a probationary basis. Probationary both ways. You’ll be paid one-twenty-five a week, about what you were getting at the Express, plus reasonable car mileage. You just go out and tell me and the readers of Metropolis everything anyone would want to know about Irene Brown.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Afterward, if I like the way you handle the assignment and you decide you like Metropolis, there’ll be a permanent job for you here at a salary to be negotiated, but not less than one-twenty-five.” Farrar smiled. “Frankly, I don’t have much of a budget. The magazine loses money, but it’s backed by some wealthy investors who think our city needs a publication like Metropolis. I’ve already cleared hiring you with them, but for the next three weeks your hours will be your own. You want office space here, or will you write at home?”

  “Can I work here at night?”

  “As late as you wish.”

  “Then I’d like space here.”

  “Drop up Monday morning. Ask for Miss Stashonis, our associate editor, she’ll have everything arranged. Now I’d suggest you get busy immediately. Those three weeks will go by faster than you think. I want five thousand words and I’m a bug on polished prose, so you’ll have to allow a lot more writing time than for a newspaper piece.”

  I started up.

  “Ames, one more thing. When you’re researching this story, you’ll probably be tempted to play detective yourself now and then, assuming the police don’t find the killer. It’s an understandable impulse, but don’t let it distract you to the point where you’re a detective and not a writer.”

  “I won t.”

  “Also, if you do uncover information that throws suspicion on someone, be extremely careful how you handle it. An honest man’s reputation is one of the most valuable things he has. The wrong headline in this kind of a case can ruin a man’s reputation. So before you run to the police or make your information public, check with me. It’s always been my policy to give a man a chance to explain, or at least to provide him with fair warning, before involving him in anything this messy. Otherwise, you and I might make a mistake we’d regret for the rest of our lives…”

  That was, I reflected as I left the building, an odd remark.

  * * * *

  Back at my apartment, I read the latest edition of the Beacon and learned that the case now had a Mystery Woman. Almost every unsolved homicide has a Mystery Man or Woman, and Irene’s was no exception. The police were still stymied in their efforts to learn about her life before she moved to Grace Street, but questioning of her neighbors revealed that a tall, thin brunette, approximately forty years old, had often been seen with her on weekends.

  The Mystery Woman drove a black sedan of expensive make. Usually she double-parked in front of Irene’s building and honked the horn. Irene would come out, they’d drive away and return a few hours later. Irene would leave the car and the dark-haired woman would take off.

  Recollections of the make of the car differed. Some said it was a Chrysler, some a Cadillac, others a Lincoln or a big Buick. Descriptions of the woman’s features were also contradictory, but everyone agreed she always dressed well. She’d last been seen with Irene about three weeks before the murder. The police didn’t regard her as a hot suspect but they were anxious to talk to her. A neighbor asked Irene about the woman’s identity once, and Irene had mumbled something about an “old friend,” so presumably the Mystery Woman had been a special confidant, someone who could shed light on Irene’s background and personal life.

  Now I had to go to work. For this job I’d need my battered six-cylinder sedan. I got it from its parking place behind a gas station on the corner, gassed up and drove to Irene’s neighborhood, hoping to find someone who could tell me more about her. I didn’t have much luck. As the newspapers had reported, Irene didn’t confide in her neighbors.

  At six I walked into The Rooster, the tavern where Irene often stopped after a hard day at the card shop. The place was packed. Apparently the whole neighborhood had dropped in to discuss the crime. The customers weren’t all from the neighborhood, though. Three or four detectives were in the crowd, and in the middle of the room a pair of tables had been shoved together. Sitting around them were about a dozen reporters, including Vance Hargrove, the Journal’s police beat man, and Emil Ryker of the Express.

  * * * *

  Hargrove pulled me into a chair beside his own. In his mid-forties, he was tall and broad-shouldered, with thinning hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a booming voice.

  “Here he is! Pete Ames, one of the last men to see Irene alive! Have a beer, kid, while we interview you. Tough luck about getting canned—but don’t worry, Hale doesn’t like me either. And what-in-hell are you doing in this dump?”

  “Covering the story for Metropolis.”

  “For Sam Farrar?” Momentarily, an odd expression crossed Hargrove’s face. “That’s a break for you, he’ll teach you a lot…”

  I parried questions about my interview with Irene. Finally, Hargrove smiled and said, “Okay, we’ll read about it in Metropolis. And since Farrar subsidizes half the newspapermen in town with moonlighting assignments for his magazine, we’ll treat you right. With your deadline you couldn’t scoop us anyhow. Where you been so far?”

  “Irene’s apartment building.”

  “A waste of time. We canvassed the whole neighborhood—Irene was a real loner. Nobody knows anything about her.”

  “What about the regulars in this place?”

  “Her drinking buddies? One guy knows something about the case, but if you can tell us what it means, you’re a better sleuth than we are. The cops found the guy this morning, and we just got through interviewing him. Emil, take our friend Ames over to meet Stanley, to get the story firsthand.”

  “Sure.” Emil Ryker pushed his chair back. During the conversation he had sat silent and thoughtful, staring into space. Emil often did that. He was also the only reporter I ever met who could wear a fawn-colored sports jacket to work and get away with it. He was wearing one today, and on Emil you hardly noticed it. Nothing fazed Emil. His self-possession was so overpowering he could get away with just about anything.

  The only reporter to join the Express with no previous experience, Emil had majored in classic languages in college, after which he spent three years in a leisurely grand tour of Europe, pondering his choice of careers. When he came home he persuaded his father to land him a job on the Express. His father, Junius Ryker, could do that because he was one of the paper’s biggest advertisers; he owned a chain of department stores. As a reporter, Emil proved incredibly incompetent. His blunders were already legendary, and the theory in the city room was that management kept him on just to see what he’d do wrong next. In recent weeks, though, I’d noted that while Emil continued to make mistakes, he never repeated the mistakes he’d made before.

  Emil said, “Glad you’re back in circulation, Pete. Deuce thinks you got a raw deal too. Come on.”

  Emil led me through the crowd. He had a square face, a pug nose, a wide mouth, a lantern jaw and large, unblinking eyes. He chewed on a big cigar. His shoulders were narrow and the top of his red hair came just to my chin, but somehow when people turned and saw Emil they stepped aside.

  At a rear table we found Stanley, a thin, middle-aged little man in soiled dungarees and a tee-shirt. He spoke with great animation to a circle
of his neighbors, but as we neared he looked up and fell silent.

  Emil leaned on the table. “Stanley, this is another reporter. Tell him what you heard Irene say.”

  “I already told it, a thousand times.”

  “But he’s from Metropolis magazine. Don’t you want your name in Metropolis?”

  Stanley thought this over. “I guess so.” He looked at me. “Okay, it’s like I told the others. I been running into Irene here for months. We were conversational friends, nothing personal.”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, this happened three nights ago. She and I were together at the bar and she was moody. She went to a phone booth, made a call, and came back. I’d never seen her so upset, so I asked, ‘What’s wrong?’ She said, ‘Damn it, I need money.’ I said, ‘What for?’ She said, ‘Never mind what for.’”

  Stanley drank some of his beer.

  “For a few minutes she sat real quiet, thinkin’. A copy of the Express was on the bar. She picked it up and looked at a notice on the front page, about how if you got a gripe you should take it to the paper. Sort of to herself she says, ‘Maybe that’s the answer. He’s the meanest man I ever met, it ought to be worth a lot.’ Then she picked up her glass and said, ‘Damn right, that’s what I’ll do. So here’s to Joe Smith—and Lady Bountiful.’”

  “Joe Smith? Lady Bountiful?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “What else happened?”

  “Nothing. She finished her drink and went home. It’s the last I ever saw of her.”

  Emil and I went back to the press table. The reporters, off-duty now, were hanging around just to compare notes. Another round of drinks came.

  Hargrove asked, “Ames, what’s your theory? The television guys think Lady Bountiful is a race horse, and Irene was trying to sell the Express a tip on a daily double.”

  “I dunno. It’s confusing.”

  “Ain’t it, though. ‘Here’s to Joe Smith—and Lady Bountiful.’ What they call a cryptic remark. That crack about the meanest man Irene ever met is kind of tantalizing, too. Of course the cops might get lucky. They might find a mean man named Smith living with a noblewoman named Bountiful, but somehow I don’t think it’ll work out so easy.” Hargrove twirled his glass. While open-handed in buying drinks for others, I’d noticed he never sipped anything stronger than ginger ale himself. “Ames, you ever hear the story of how your new boss got screwed by your old boss?”

  “No.”

  “You should, so I’ll tell you. This goes way back. In ’49 Murray Hale broke the police scandal and became the rising star at the Express. Old man Dunaway, the publisher, invited him to his home a few times and pretty soon Hale was engaged to Dunaway’s daughter. Then the Korean War broke out Murray’s reserve unit was called up immediately, and while he was away the Express found a new star—Farrar. He was the original boy wonder, and old man Dunaway took a real shine to him. In ’53, while Hale was lying in the mud ducking shells in Korea, Dunaway made Farrar city editor.”

  “That long ago? How old was Farrar?”

  “Twenty-six, but don’t let that fool you. This is a young man’s game anyhow, and Farrar had been in it since long before he was old enough to vote. He quit college at nineteen and a heart murmur kept him out of service. His first job was as a reporter-photographer for a small daily in Idaho. He came here when he was twenty-four to manage the local United Press bureau, and his second month in town he scooped all of us by persuading a transient arrested for a minor offense to confess to murdering five women. Farrar had deduced a pattern in the murders that the cops and the rest of us had missed…”

  “You were covering police for the Journal then too?”

  “No.” For some reason my question seemed to annoy Hargrove. “I was with the Beacon then. Old man Dunaway was so impressed he persuaded Farrar to join the Express. The old man doubled his salary and began to look on him as a sort of unofficial adopted son. Farrar was an orphan, you know, and the old man always wanted a son—anyhow, Sam was a reporter for a while, then assistant city editor, finally city editor. It was inevitable. He seemed that kind of guy, going no place but up fast. And the fact he was younger than most of the men he bossed didn’t make much difference. I know, I left the Beacon and the newspaper business for a while, and Sam persuaded me to come back and cover police for the Express”

  “What happened when Hale came home?”

  “That was late in ’53. Murray had been wounded in action and the Army invalided him out. His first month home, he married the Dunaway girl. As a sort of wedding present, the old man gave Murray the title assistant managing editor and made him a general trouble-shooter. The old man always respected Murray, see, but I don’t think he ever really liked him, especially after he got to know him as a son-in-law.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dunaway was a realist. He knew Murray had married his daughter for just one reason—to get leverage into the Express and the Dunaway family’s publishing empire. But Hale was still a hard man to deny. He’d been a damn good reporter, and he didn’t coast as an assistant managing editor either. He worked like hell, setting up some new and very successful editorial features. That’s where matters stood in late ’54, when Dunaway and the then managing editor got on a plane to California one day. The plane crashed in the Rockies and everyone on board was killed.”

  “If Hale was already an assistant managing editor and a member of the Dunaway family to boot, how come he didn’t move right into the top spot?”

  “Two reasons. First, old man Dunaway left all his stock to his widow, Ethyl Dunaway, and she had the decision-making power. The old man trusted her judgment. She’d edited a paper herself once, before they were married, and she’d helped him make the Express a great paper. He’d confided in her that he hoped to make Farrar the next managing editor of the Express, to prepare him for a career in the Dunaway publishing empire, at which time he’d give the job to Murray. The second reason was Murray himself. He went to his mother-in-law and said he concurred with Dunaway’s wishes, that Sam had more experience running a news operation and would make an excellent managing editor.”

  “Why did Hale do that?”

  “He wanted Sam to get the job, with himself as Number Two man. Then Murray just sat back and laughed his head off, while Sam overworked himself right into a sanitarium.”

  “Farrar had some kind of breakdown?”

  “Sure. Back then he was one of those guys who live for the paper, nothing else. That can be fun when you’re a reporter with no responsibilities, but as you go up the ladder the responsibilities get bigger and bigger, you have to drive yourself harder and harder.

  When the old man was killed, his widow was too grief-stricken to help run the paper any more. She sort of withdrew from the world, and all the responsibility came down on Sam’s shoulders. Murray didn’t help any, either. Instead of shielding Sam from problems, as a Number Two man is supposed to do, Hale went out of his way to invent new problems. You might say he drowned Sam in a sea of details. A guy as nervous and intense as Sam—well, anyone could see the breakdown looming. It happened less than six months after the old man died. And when it happened, I told Hale off, quit the Express, and went over to the Journal.”

  “I’m surprised at that. I met Farrar today for the first time, but he struck me as an easygoing man.”

  “Oh, he is now. He has been ever since he left the sanitarium. He gave up cigarettes and started smoking pipes, a few bowls a day instead of a few packs a day. He doesn’t gulp black coffee any more, he sips tea. And instead of five or six shots of bourbon in the afternoon and a pint at night, he has a glass of sherry before dinner. During the year he spent in that sanitarium, I guess he just decided he didn’t want to die young. The man you met today is nothing like the Sam Farrar who used to be.”

  “He never went back to the Express?”

  �
�Hale was managing editor, in complete control of old lady Dunaway, by the time Farrar got out of the sanitarium. He offered Sam a job that carried a big title and no responsibilities. Sam refused, went on a European tour to recuperate some more, and then came back and rounded up some investors and started Metropolis. Which brings me to a question. Since you’re now an employee, I’ll ask you what I’ve often asked Sam. Who owns the book?”

  “Metropolis.”

  “Farrar said it was a group of local investors.”

  “He tells that to everyone, but the alleged publisher listed on the masthead is an illiterate boob, it’s obvious he’s just a front. If you ever learn who the real owner is, I’d appreciate hearing about it.”

  “Hey,” Emil said, “be quiet a minute.” His eyes were rooted to a television screen behind the bar. On it, a newscaster was reading from a piece of paper in his hands. Conversation died away.

  The newscaster said: “I repeat. Police Lieutenant Dan Moberg, in charge of the investigation into the murder of Irene Brown, told reporters at the Detective Bureau just five minutes ago that Irene Brown apparently never lived in Chicago, as she had claimed. Moberg said Chicago police were unable to find any record of the woman having been a resident of that city. But Moberg also announced it has been definitely established that Irene Brown, under the name Irene Bowser—b-o-w-s-e-r—lived for seven years in this city in an apartment at 2905 Alexander Boulevard, before moving to the Grace Street apartment where she was found strangled last night. Moberg said police are now questioning a man named Sonny Nightingale, a one-time junior college fullback who runs a liquor distributing business, because he kept company with Irene Bowser during those years. And…”

  BOOK TWO: THE BAD GIRL

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At four o’clock Sunday afternoon, a crowd of reporters and photographers gathered in a third-floor corridor of the Central Police Building. A door down the hall opened and someone yelled, “There’s Sonny now!”