The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  “Well, we can’t touch him, not without jeopardizing Joanna. But I like her idea about leaving town.” Farrar wrote something on a note pad, tore off a sheet and handed it to her. “That’s a Los Angeles phone number. Ames and Kells will drive you to the airport and put you on the next flight. I’ll reserve the space by phone, on my credit card. When you get there, dial this number, and someone will pick you up and take you to where you’ll be safe.” He ventured a tight smile. “As you say, Metropolis got you into this. Now, at least we’ll do our best to protect you.”

  “That,” I broke in, “is all well and good.” I glanced at Kells. “But what about him?”

  Kells squirmed too. “Yeah. When I came up here, I didn’t make any promises.”

  “No.” Farrar studied Kells. “But you sat there with your mouth shut and absorbed our confidences, joining our team by implication at least. I appreciate your position. You want a story for the Express. But are you so callous you could walk into your city room twenty minutes from now and write a story about what you’ve just heard?”

  “I guess not…”

  “Fine. Rest assured, I’ll give you any exclusives for the daily press that come out of this.” He turned to Connie. “You’re involved now too. Right up to your pretty neck.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Ames put you on a spot, didn’t he, by inducing you to shelter a homicide witness sought by the police. If that got out it could ruin your career as a public relations girl.”

  “Pete,” Connie said defensively, “just did what he had to do. He needed help, and if necessary I’d help him again.”

  It was an odd exchange. I began to sense a relationship between Sam and Connie that I hadn’t suspected before.

  “How thoughtful. But you’d better not involve yourself further.” Sam rose. “You men take Joanna to the airport. Keep to well-traveled thoroughfares. I’ll make the reservation, call my friends in California and then go on to Metropolis. Pete, where’s your story?”

  “The top right-hand drawer of my desk. It’s locked…”

  “I have keys. After you put Joanna on a plane, meet me at Metropolis. I’ll have read your story by then, but there’s something else we can discuss. Now that you’ve decided to confide in me, I’ll confide in you. I’ll tell you and Sid my theory on the Bowser murder.”

  * * * *

  To our right, the runway lights glittered as I steered the Cadillac down a road bordering the air-port Kells hunched against the other front door and Joanna sat between us.

  “Your editor,” Joanna said, “sort of left me on a limb, didn’t he.”

  “We dumped a tough decision in his lap,” I replied, “and he’s right. He’s got to see the evidence first.” Joanna shook her head. “It’s funny. The minute I heard Irene was murdered, I knew I was finished in Hilldale. And until this afternoon, I thought that was the worst thing that could happen. Now, though, I’m not so sure.”

  “I thought you liked real estate.”

  “I thought so too. Oh, don’t get me wrong. The best day in my life was the day I left the business I used to be in. But a single woman with a real estate business in a suburb—it was like walking on eggshells. I wouldn’t even let a man take me to lunch, I didn’t want tongues to wag. And every night I’d go home and fall asleep watching television.”

  “You,” Kells said slyly, “picked the wrong line. You shoulda bought something like a bar, so if something like this came up it wouldn’t make any difference. Hell, this kind of publicity could double your gross.”

  “In your way,” Joanna drawled, “you’ve got a point. I want no part of the liquor trade, but if I can salvage the money in that real estate agency I’ll try something different, and in a place where my neighbors aren’t so stuffy. Then if a nice lonely guy comes along I can get to know him. Legitimately, of course.” She fumbled for a cigarette. Her pack was empty, so Kells gave her one of his and lit it. “Thanks.” She looked up. “You remind me of someone. You ever hang out at the Winton Bar? Or the Charmonde Lounge?”

  “Not me.” Sid winked. “If you’d met me in those days, baby, you’d remember.”

  “I doubt it I know, you remind me of my Uncle Gus—he was a lot like I think you are, a blustering sort of slob, always waiting for his ship to come in. Ill bet you re not married, never were, and never plan to be. But you should be.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you.” Joanna ran her tongue over her lips. “You re not that old. The right woman could shape you up fast enough. She’d get you out of bars and start feeding you low-calorie meals, so you’d lose that pot. She’d make you shine your shoes and clean your suit and who knows? You might get promoted, or even leave the newspaper business and go into some other line yourself. Chasing fire engines is okay for kids like Ames here, but if your paper isn’t giving you any better assignments at your age, you ought to seek new horizons.”

  I swung the car into the airport lot. “Joanna, what about the Cadillac?”

  “Well leave it here. I’ll pick it up when I get back—if I decide to come back.”

  The next flight to Los Angeles left in half an hour. We made our farewells at the passenger gate.

  “Joanna,” I said, “I’m sorry I didn’t do better for you. And whatever happens, good luck.”

  “Thanks.” She hesitated. “That story of yours. Even if it’s printed and everything goes wrong, it’s nothing anyone could help, is it? But promise you’ll save me a copy of the magazine…”

  She turned quickly. We watched as she climbed the ramp to the plane; then we hiked back toward the main terminal.

  “How much,” Sid asked casually, “you think that business of hers is worth?”

  “Oh, thirty or forty thousand.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Yes. And even if she lost that, she’s not as bad off as she pretends. She owns her house clear. It must be worth another eighteen thousand, and she could get at least two thousand for the car. Losing her investment in the agency would be a serious blow, but she’d still have a big enough stake to get a good start somewhere else.”

  Kells pondered this.

  “Sid,” I went on, “I didn’t want to mention it in front of Joanna. Things had reached the point where I had to bring her to Farrar, but confidentially I still have reservations about the guy, and about Metropolis too. Who owns the damn thing?”

  “I dunno. But I worked for a lot of editors at the Express and Sam was among the best, even if his mind moves in funny directions sometimes.”

  “That remark he made about Irene’s murder—he’s been dangling little hints in front of me from the day he hired me.”

  “That’s how he operates. He figures something out and then waits for you to figure it out. If you can do it, he’s happy.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  “That,” Kells said, “depends…

  We took a cab to Metropolis. The first thing we noticed when we got there was that all the lights in the building were on. The little parking lot was nearly full too. Two squad cars and a few black sedans with municipal license plates flanked Farrar’s gray Pontiac.

  I paid the driver. We got out and walked to the curb, but a patrolman intercepted us.

  “Who are you guys?”

  “My name’s Ames. I work here. He’s a reporter for the Express.”

  “You can go in, but he can’t.”

  “What’s it all about?”

  “They’ll tell you inside.”

  “Whatever it is,” Kells said, “I got a hunch the desk will be interested.” He looked down the street to where a tavern sign glowed. “Buddy, I’ll be back,” he told the patrolman, “as soon as I stake out a phone.”

  Sid hurried away. The patrolman escorted me into the building and up to the second floor, where a detective I recalled seeing in Irene’s apartment no
dded and said, “Just a minute.” He walked down the hall and peered into Stash’s cubicle. “Ames is here.”

  I heard Moberg say, “We’ll get to him next.”

  The detective beckoned. As I walked past Stash’s cubicle, Moberg was questioning her. The door to my cubicle hung open too. In it technicians were going over my desk with fingerprint equipment.

  Farrar was in his office, puffing his pipe and chatting with two more detectives. He looked up and said, “Hello, Ames. There’s been another murder.”

  “Here?”

  “No, a few miles from here. Herman Jax, the state’s attorney’s man, was shot to death this afternoon in his detective agency.”

  I pulled up a chair. “From what I know of Jax a lot of people might have wanted to kill him. What brought the police to Metropolis?”

  “The agency’s manager claims Jax was coming here this afternoon to steal your story and your notes. He intended to take the stuff to his agency, read your notes and then run off copies of the story for a client, Gabriel Nalon.”

  “Jax was working for Nalon all along?”

  “I guess so. Nalon wanted copies of your article for his lawyers, so they could study it for libel and perhaps prevent its publication. Jax planned to return here later today and put what he stole back in your desk, but apparently he was killed before he could do that. At any rate, the top right-hand drawer of your desk is empty.”

  “Where’s the story now?”

  “Nobody knows. It’s not in Jax’s office either.”

  * * * *

  Lieutenant Moberg was in a grim mood. His superior, the chief of homicide, was taking personal charge of the Jax murder, but Moberg had been assigned to investigate any possible connection between that crime and Irene’s murder.

  Jax had been found at about 7 p.m. by an operative who went to the agency to type a report. He was slumped at a desk and had been shot twice in the back of the head at very close range. The agency was housed on the second floor of a small office building. Nobody else had been working there that Saturday afternoon, and Jax hadn’t been seen entering. His car was found parked down the street.

  “Jax was here, all right.” Moberg glared at Farrar.

  “His prints were all over Ames’ desk.” He turned and nodded to Stash, who now sat primly on a chair in Farrar’s office. “She says she was the last person to leave Metropolis, at a little before two. It all checks. The coroner’s preliminary estimate is that Jax died between two and three-thirty, so it looks as though Jax stole your manuscript and then took it to his office, where the killer got it from him.”

  Farrar asked, “Is that all the killer took from Jax?” Moberg hesitated. “No, he took a lot of things. Everything from Jax’s pockets and a number of case files, including the file on Nalon. Nalon was sort of Jax’s personal client—the manager knew very little about it. But the theft of those files could be just a smokescreen.” The lieutenant looked at me. “Ames, would anything in your story inspire someone to commit murder to keep it from reaching print?”

  “I hardly think so. Anyhow, even though it wouldn’t be easy without my notes, I could reconstruct it. I’d probably miss the next issue—the deadline’s Monday morning—but I could make the issue after that.”

  “Yeah. Still it’s interesting to speculate on how Jax’s murder could be connected to his visit here earlier today.”

  “You,” Farrar said, “are talking like a damn fool. We both know the kind of man Jax was—a crook and a discredit to the force when he was on it. You told me once that when Murray Hale broke the police scandal it was too bad he didn’t nail Jax too—he was probably the worst of the lot. The fact that he came here on the day one of his enemies killed him is just coincidence. He took Ames’ story and notes with those other things just to confuse you. Hell, we’re victims in this affair too—our story’s gone.”

  “Perhaps.” Moberg continued to study me. “Jax voiced a theory once. He said Ames here could have murdered Irene. Maybe he found something in Ames’ desk besides notes and a manuscript. If you don’t mind, Ames, exactly where were you this afternoon? Say, between the time you left Miss Stashonis and four or five o’clock?”

  It was a good question. I’d been alone with Joanna Reinholt nearly all that time. Of course if I told Moberg that, he’d want to know all about Joanna.

  I was trying to decide whether to invent a lie or break my promise to her when Farrar drawled, “Ames was with me at the Westhaven Country Club.”

  Moberg seemed disappointed. I looked at Sam, but he was calmly applying another match to his pipe. Stash’s eyes widened—she knew that had been a lie—but she was a cool one too. Her stolid expression didn’t change.

  “That’s right.” I cleared my throat. “At the country club.”

  “For how long?”

  “Pete,” Farrar said, dropping his match and vanishing behind a cloud of smoke, “was there from two until nearly six. Dan, you and I have been good friends for years, but if you won’t take my word for it, dozens of people saw us together. We decided to meet here tonight and review the article on the Bowser case to see if I wanted any last-minute changes.”

  “Uh-huh. You know how it is, though. You’ll all have to make formal statements, and everything will be checked.”

  “Naturally.” Farrar seemed unconcerned. “Now since we were burglarized, I’ll ask a few questions. First, how did Jax get in? Second, how did he know where to find Pete’s manuscript? Third…”

  The door opened. A detective said, “Lieutenant? He’s here now.”

  Moberg stepped out to the corridor. I began to say something but Farrar threw me a warning glance. Stash looked at both of us, sighed, and shook her head.

  Moberg returned. “Sam, you’re entitled to the answers to those questions, so I’d like you to meet the man who has them. Incidentally, so far he’s the last person known to have seen Herman Jax alive…

  Three men came in. Two were detectives and flanked between them was Leroy, the Metropolis handyman.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Leroy perched on a hard-backed chair. He smoked a cigarette, and from the unconcerned look on his face you’d think he didn’t have a care in the world. Lieutenant Moberg sized him up for a few moments and then said, “All right, Leroy. As you know, a man named Herman Jax was murdered this afternoon…”

  “It wasn’t me.” Leroy was emphatic. “I told the guys who picked me up…”

  “Never mind your alibi—it’s being checked. There are two things I want you to tell us about. First, Jax kept records showing that in the past three weeks he paid you a hundred and fifty dollars in three fifty-dollar installments. You were identified in his office ledger by your name and the notation ‘Metropolis source,’ so don’t deny it. Second, he told the manager of his detective agency he was going to meet you in a certain tavern today. The bartender remembers seeing both of you in a back booth—you didn’t leave until nearly one.”

  “Yeah. Well—like you say, why argue? I don t want trouble over a homicide. It’s kind of complicated, but the way it started…” Apologetically, he glanced at Sam. “Jax came to my home, see, a few days after you hired Ames. He knew about my record and the stuff I stole when I worked at the Beacon. Well, you know how it is when you’ve been in trouble with the law before. A cop can make your life miserable forever if he wants to. Jax threatened to do that if I didn’t play ball—”

  “What,” Moberg asked coolly, “about the money?”

  “Oh, that. Well, he said if I cooperated he’d not only lay off me, but it could be profitable. Fifty a week, the first fifty in advance.”

  “For doing what?”

  Leroy looked at me. “For giving him what I found in Ames wastebasket.” The handyman lowered his eyes. “I was to put the stuff aside, all the old notes, half-finished pages, rough drafts and anything else Ames threw away, and collect it in a b
ag. Jax phoned every few days and we’d meet, usually in a tavern. I’d give him the bag and he’d buy me a few drinks and pump me about Ames. He wanted me to eavesdrop around the office too. A while ago he said he’d pay a bonus for learning where Ames was getting his information, but later he said to forget Ames source—he was taking care of it.”

  I glanced at Sam. That meant Jax had hired the hoods who terrorized Joanna. In my rough draft, I’d identified my source as an ex-call girl now in the real estate business. Knowing that, Jax could have traced Joanna easily enough once Nalon told him how he’d helped Joanna get a job.

  “You ever ask Jax why he wanted the stuff?”

  “No. A couple days ago I told him Sam had ordered Ames to revise the story, and that the deadline was over the weekend. Jax said never mind the wastebasket any more—he had another idea. I was to give him keys to the building and to Ames’ desk and let him know when the article was finished. Then he’d sneak in, take the article, run off copies and bring it back, so nobody would know the difference.”

  “Is that what you did at the tavern today? You gave him the keys?”

  “Yeah, and I told him who’d hang around until early afternoon, so he’d know for sure when the building was empty. Ames and Stashonis had gone off somewhere but I warned him the girl would come back—she’d probably be the last one.”

  Moberg looked at Farrar. “The oldest trick in the world. Buy the wastebasket. Jax’s agency specialized in industrial espionage—no doubt that’s how he landed Nalon as a client. Buying wastebaskets was second nature to him…” The lieutenant turned back to Leroy. “Okay. You may have to spend the night downtown, but if your alibi holds up your only problem is Farrar. If he decides to prosecute…”

  “Don’t you want to hear the rest?”

  “The rest of what?”

  “My story.” Leroy took a long, last drag on his cigarette, dropped it to the floor and crushed it out. “Like I said, it’s complicated. But I sold the stuff in Ames’ wastebasket to someone else too.”