The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  “Who was he?”

  “A captain from Leonard Wood. He met her when he came up to hunt one weekend—he liked guns. And for a while he hung around a lot. He’d stay in one of those cabins behind the lodge, and when Irene wasn’t workin’ they’d sneak off together. Everyone knew it but Walt.”

  “You recall the captain’s name?”

  “No, but I recall him. I was at the lodge the day he took Irene away. He helped her pack and Walt came out and hollered at them. The captain just kept his mouth shut and looked sheepish. They drove off and nobody here ever heard from Irene again. I always hoped they got married because, even if she was wild, I kind of liked Irene. This captain was a tall fella with broad shoulders, a thick chest, white hair and a big jaw…

  That was an excellent description of Murray Hale.

  * * * *

  Connie was stunned. “A baby?

  “Yes.” We were back on the highway, driving slowly toward Stark. “That’s the scandal Irene had in her envelope. It’s been under our noses all along too. She was always playing with children—infants when she lived at the Towers, a toddler when she first moved to Alexander Boulevard, some kid old enough for a baseball mitt when she worked for Mrs. Carmody. Hell, it was always the same kid, her own child. I think I even know who he is, a thirteen-year-old in a sanitarium with a blood disease. Emil Ryker found the foster parents yesterday—I was with him—but at that time we didn’t make the connection. When Nalon threw her out, Irene did move to be near him—Joe Smith, the young Joe Smith. And that could be why she forgot her scruples and went to see Murray. She wanted money for the boy’s medical bills. She might not even have intended to blackmail Hale. Maybe she just wanted to show him pictures of the boy, to appeal to his better nature…”

  “Wouldn’t the foster parents go to the police after she was murdered?”

  “Probably the adoption was illegal. Very likely they don’t even know who the father is, or have the faintest notion who murdered Irene or why. The police did question the Smiths, but if they lied it would be to avoid scandal and to keep a sick boy from learning about his real mother under the worst possible circumstances. No doubt when Irene was allowed to see the kid, she had to pose as a family friend or a distant aunt…”

  “This,” Connie said slowly, “gives Murray a motive for murder all right. He and his wife haven’t been getting along lately and you know how seriously she takes Women for Morality. They want a state law punishing fathers of illegitimate children. If it came out that her husband fathered an illegitimate child and the mother later became a prostitute, Mrs. Hale would be a national laughing-stock. She’d be angry enough to seek a divorce on some grounds or another, and that would cut Murray off from the Express and the Dunaway publishing empire, which has always been his long-range goal…”

  We rounded a bend. Looming on the right was a large motel, with a phone booth near the entrance to its parking lot.

  “Connie, I’m going to call him.”

  “Murray Hale? Good Lord, why?”

  “To give him a chance to explain.” I braked and turned into the lot. “And if he claims to have an explanation, I want him to come here and give it.”

  “Here?”

  “Sure. We don’t dare drive back to the city—not yet anyhow. By now Moberg will have the whole state patrol looking for me. And if he learns you’re missing, it won’t take him long to deduce that we’re together.”

  “But how can Murray explain what we already know?”

  “The fact that he fathered Irene’s child doesn’t prove he killed her. So far we don’t have a shred of evidence actually connecting Hale with Irene’s death—or with Jax’s either.”

  I cut the engine and opened the door.

  “As Kells said,” I went on, “in this world all things are possible. Despite the obvious motive, there’s a ghost of a chance Murray didn’t murder Irene. And Sam’s right. Every man is entitled to speak his piece. What’s more—if I see Moberg without a pat solution to Jax’s murder, I’d have to tell him about Joanna Reinholt. And while it might be old-fashioned, I still sort of like the idea of keeping my word when I give it, and I gave my word to Joanna. I’m going to protect her as long as I can. In fact the only way I can keep her out of the newspapers now is to get Hale to confess.”

  * * * *

  I placed the call collect.

  “Tell Mr. Hale,” I instructed the operator, “that it’s Joe Smith, his old Army buddy from Stark, Missouri.”

  A maid answered. A few moments later Hale accepted the call.

  “What kind of a gag is this?” he demanded.

  “It’s no gag. This is Pete Ames. I don’t think we should go into details on the phone, but I know all about Irene Bowsermann, the Lady Bountiful, and the captain from Leonard Wood.”

  There was a long silence. Finally Hale croaked, “Who else knows?” His voice was a hoarse travesty of what I’d remembered.

  “So far just one other person. Never mind who—but if anything happens to me, this person will go straight to the police, so don’t get any fancy ideas. All of which brings me to the point of my call. If you have an explanation, I’m willing to listen before I throw the book at you. That’s in the best tradition of the Express, isn’t it?”

  “It is. And Ames, I do have an explanation. I know how you must feel, especially in view of the way I fired you, but for God’s sake don’t make the story public until you’ve heard me out. And for your information the police are looking for you. Something about the murder of Herman Jax.”

  “I know. I don’t want to risk returning to the city until we’ve had our talk. How soon could you reach Stark?”

  “I’ll leave immediately. I should be there by three.”

  “Fine. Meet me at the old Lady Bountiful. It burned down a few years ago, so it’s nice and quiet there. We can talk undisturbed.”

  * * * *

  The plan I outlined to Connie was simplicity itself. When I met Hale at the lodge, she’d be stationed near the sheriffs office in Stark. If I didn’t reappear by a specified time, she’d tell the sheriff everything she knew. Thus there’d be no point to Hale’s trying to harm me. If he had any foolish hopes of escape, he wouldn’t come to Stark in the first place.

  While waiting Connie and I tried to nap in a roadside park, Connie in the car and me under a tree, but that didn’t work out too well. Hordes of picnickers descended on us at noon, so we lunched at a drive-in, read some newspapers, and at one-thirty took off for town. I wanted to drop Connie off and get back to the lodge long before Hale arrived.

  Irene’s little revolver was loose in my pocket now, but Connie was the real artillery in my arsenal—Connie, who’d be sitting in town, ready to expose Hale to the law if I didn’t turn up on schedule…

  Connie said, “Ames, I’ll have to admit, if you pull this off it’ll be quite a coup. No police reporter in our city has tried a stunt like this since the 1930’s.”

  “Don’t think it didn’t occur to me. If I can induce him to confess on the very site of his affair with Irene, it’ll be a real blockbuster.”

  “Uh-huh. But on the other hand you’ve set up a situation that’s potentially dangerous for both of us.” The car topped a rise. Ahead we saw a sure sign of impending civilization—an auto wrecking yard. After that we passed an outdoor theater and a cluster of drive-ins. A highway marker warned: SPEED ZONE AHEAD.

  I eased off the gas pedal and said, “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe. I won’t tell him who you are or exactly where you’ll be.”

  “Somehow I’m not reassured.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Call it woman’s intuition…”

  Another marker informed us that we had just entered the Stark city limits. The highway narrowed into an arterial street running through a section of old frame homes, and then we reached the business
district, built around the courthouse in the town square.

  The jail was on the square. Three bubble-topped patrol cars were parked in front of it.

  I parked behind the courthouse, across the street from the jail.

  “This is it. All out.”

  “Ames—for the last time, be sensible. Drive back to the city and tell Lieutenant Moberg what you know. He’ll protect your exclusive.”

  “Sorry. Wheels are already in motion.” I nodded to the square, which was lined with benches. “Stay as near the jail as possible, at least within hailing distance. Don’t talk to strangers. Act as though you’re just another tourist killing time. And if Hale turns up, run to the jail immediately. Point him out, demand protection, and tell your story.”

  “I think,” Connie said slowly, “you’re more worried than you let on.”

  “Two people were murdered. You’re my insurance policy, the only person who knows what I know. I don’t want you to take chances.”

  “All right.” Reluctantly Connie reached for her purse. “What’s the Zero Hour?”

  “Six o’clock. In three hours, Hale and I ought to come to some sort of understanding. If I’m not back by six, with or without him, tell the sheriff to send every man he’s got to where we are.” I paused. “And I know how you feel about the position I’ve put you in. I want to apologize. When this is over…”

  “Oh, skip it.” Connie opened the door, stepped out, slammed it and hiked to a bench, her skirt swinging. She sat down and touched her hair a few times, as girls do.

  I kicked the engine into life and thought: So long, insurance policy. Knowing you’re here will be a comfort, but I wish you’d display a little more enthusiasm.

  Back on the highway, I glanced in the rear-view mirror. The fact that a green, late-model sedan trailed about a quarter mile behind barely registered. A lot of traffic was on the road that afternoon.

  All in all, I concluded, the situation seemed completely under control.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Memo

  TO: The Commissioner

  FROM : Lieutenant Moberg

  Attached is a portion of a statement written by Murray Hale, managing editor of the Express, concerning the homicide that took place yesterday afternoon at the site of the Lady Bountiful Lodge near Stark, Missouri.

  Hale wrote the statement in the Stark County sheriff’s office.

  In addition to describing yesterday’s homicide, the statement refers to the murders of Herman Jax and the woman known as Irene Brown, Bowser, or Bowsermann. Preliminary investigation tends to substantiate the following account of those murders.

  * * * *

  I arrived at the lodge at 2:45 P.M. Ames, in shirt sleeves, was sitting under an oak. As I approached he rose and told me that a second party, someone he wouldn’t identify, was in Stark and would bring the facts to the sheriff if he didn’t return by six.

  “Never mind the dramatics,” I said. “This friend of yours—if we appeared in time, could you call off the trip to the law?”

  “I think so, if I wanted to.”

  “Then sit down. You’ll hear the whole story, and if I can persuade you to cooperate, you’ll have your job back. What’s more, you’ll advance faster than any young reporter ever dreamed possible.”

  We sat under the oak and I told him everything, beginning with my affair with Irene She attracted me physically, nothing more I was a long way from home and I availed myself of her, but unfortunately I meant more to Irene than I thought. She tried to induce marriage through pregnancy, and when that happened I told her that under no circumstances would I tie myself to an ignorant country girl. But to forestall her uncle I promised to take her from the lodge and arrange for her to have the child at an institution in the city. Also, I said I’d give her a thousand dollars if she’d absolve me of further responsibility for the child.

  I housed her in Rolla at first. She insisted on that. She still hoped I’d marry her, and she wouldn’t travel to the city alone As her time neared I got a furlough and we started out, but at Ox River she said, “Murray, you’ve got to stop here The doctor was wrong—it’s going to happen now.” And it did. The child, a boy, was born in the Ox River fire station. Later, as Irene was being loaded into an ambulance, the editor of the local paper photographed us. That week the picture and story ran on the front page of the Ox River Bugle, with me properly identified as Captain Murray Hale and Irene improperly identified as my wife.

  Ames interrupted to ask if I was the man who stole some back copies of the Bugle, including that issue, from the Central City Public Library.

  “I was,” I said. “I took three years’ issues, so nobody would wonder what was so special about 1951. I wanted to destroy all evidence of my affair with Irene. But of course the murderer has the best evidence of all—the stuff Irene had in the envelope.”

  An odd expression crossed Ames’ face. “Just a minute. Before we go further, are you going to deny that you murdered Irene? And Herman Jax?”

  “Most emphatically. I don’t see how Jax’s death could be related to this. When he was killed I was in a television studio, taping a late-hour discussion show. I got there at one and didn’t leave until four. But as for Irene—I think her murderer has already contacted me. In fact I’ve already paid this person twenty thousand dollars. And I want you back on the Express to help trap the killer.”

  Ames permitted me to go on. I told him how my efforts to convince Irene to put the child up for adoption failed, so when the hospital near Ox River released her I drove her to the city, registered her at a small hotel and gave her a thousand dollars. The last time I saw Irene she was standing in the lobby, the baby in her arms. But while I never saw her again, I heard from her. She wrote bitter letters. Her money ran out, she couldn’t care for the child and she gave it to a couple named Smith, who ran a boarding house on Hanover Street where Irene lived at the time.

  And after I returned from Korea, Irene read of my marriage to Dunaway’s daughter. She was living in the Skyline Towers then and had changed her name to Bowser, but the fact that I’d married a wealthy woman infuriated her. Often she phoned me when she had too much to drink and asked me to do little favors, for old time’s sake—tickets to the World Series, or passes to trade shows. She was playing a game, getting a measure of childish revenge; but finally I tired of it and said, “Irene, the next time you call I’ll hang up. And if you make trouble, the boy will be taken from the Smiths and told he’s a bastard and his mother is a whore.” She never called again.

  As I went on talking it seemed to me Ames was only half listening, but I told him that the first I knew of the murder was when Totten, my city editor, phoned me at my home. He said an Irene Brown, who may have been at the Express with a story to sell that morning, had been found dead. The name meant nothing to me then. I merely thought a good crime story was breaking, so I ordered Totten to find Ames and send him to Grace Street to make an identification. Then I went to the paper myself. I didn’t realize the victim was my Irene until I saw her picture. At that point I had to decide immediately whether or not to tell the police about the child and my affair with Irene.

  I decided to say nothing. Irene had told me once she’d never disclosed to anyone that I fathered her child, and I believed her. If you knew Irene at all, you’d know she wouldn’t lie about a thing like that.

  To Ames, I admitted frankly that one reason I remained silent was in the hope I could save my marriage and my position at the Express. But there were other reasons too. I’d been alone a good part of the late afternoon and evening. The state’s attorney and certain police officers hated me, and I was afraid that if I told the truth they’d try to frame me for the crime. Also, if my affair with Irene was disclosed, the Smiths, the Dunaways and my own family would be dragged through the mud. I was thinking of all these things when I fired Ames I thought it possible Irene had let something slip
about me when he talked to her. If so, and Ames planned to bleed me in some way, I wanted to goad him into telling me then and there.

  Of course the longer I remained silent, the more untenable my position became. The day after the murder I checked and learned that the lodge had been destroyed by fire, and Irene’s aunt and uncle were dead. I seemed reasonably safe from that source. By the middle of the following week I began to think my gamble would succeed. Then, on Wednesday night, the blackmailer called. Man or woman, I couldn’t tell, since the voice was muffled. The caller claimed to be an old friend of Irene’s, someone who knew about Irene and the baby because Irene had confided the story once. I was told that, if I didn’t want the police to learn the truth, I should get twenty thousand in cash by Friday night, put it in a briefcase, and await further instructions. The instructions were to board the Overnight Limited to Detroit, sit on the observation platform and drop the briefcase to the tracks when a flare was ignited on the left side of the roadbed.

  Ames asked, “You did that?”

  “Yes I haven’t heard from this person again, but I’m sure I will eventually. When that happens, we’ll try to trap the blackmailer together. Find the blackmailer and I think we’ll have Irene’s murderer, someone who learned about me through Irene’s envelope. Then at least when the truth comes out and more innocent people are hurt, there’ll be a point to it. The crime will have been solved.”

  Ames rose. Angrily, he shoved his hands into his pockets. “No deal. You’re a clever man, and I think you regard blackmail as a cheap price to pay for keeping your affair with Irene secret. You want me back on the Express to shut me up. You’ll pay me off with promotions and choice assignments and meanwhile, if your blackmailer calls again, I don’t think you’d tell me. So long as the demands aren’t too unreasonable, you’ll go on paying. You don’t give a damn whether Irene’s murder is solved or not; you’re just looking out for yourself.”