The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  I reached out for Hale’s statement. Lieutenant Moberg had been kind enough to give me a copy, to keep with my mementos. Outside of some scar tissue and Irene’s little .22 revolver, a gift from Hale, it was all I had to show for the case.

  Below us Lake Michigan glimmered. Cars moved slowly along the Outer Drive, and Grant Park was dotted with loungers. I worked for a paper in Chicago now. Joanna had phoned quite unexpectedly and asked if I was free for lunch, and we’d met in a restaurant atop a lake-front skyscraper.

  “I came to,” I went on, “lying in that thicket. Just barely, I recalled that Hale had taken the gun from me when he dumped me there. So I crawled around until I heard Kells and Hale talking in that cabin. Then I found a rock, got down behind a tree, and tossed it, hoping Kells would be distracted long enough for Hale to take a shot at him. Which is exactly what Hale did.”

  “When Kells was killed, that gave you a scoop. How come you never broke into print with it?”

  “I was in no condition to write a story. Anyhow, as Hale was driving me to the hospital, he ran into a whole procession of police cars. As it turned out, we were all scooped by a reporter named Ryker. That Sunday, Emil used his father’s influence to get into a land title company’s archives, where he learned that a Joseph Z. Smith owned a boarding house on Hanover Street at about the time Irene came to the city.”

  “The couple with Irene’s child?”

  “Yes. They’d thrown Emil out once, but he went back and they admitted the boy was Irene’s son. They added that while she’d never identified the father she remarked once he was a newspaperman. Emil picked up a girl named Stash then, and they talked Mother Boone into letting them take Bobby to Eddie’s, a newspapermen’s bar. As soon as Bobby saw a caricature of Kells on the wall, he pointed and yelled, ‘That’s him!’”

  “But Kells wasn’t the father.”

  “No, but Emil called his city editor, who called Moberg. The police went to Sid’s apartment and found Irene’s envelope, with the data on the child and Murray Hale. They also learned Kells rented a green sedan Saturday night and drove off with a map of Missouri in his pocket. And Murray’s maid said Hale left suddenly after receiving a collect call from Stark. On that basis Moberg phoned the Stark County sheriff, who went outside to explain the situation to some state troopers. Connie overheard and told them where I was. Seconds later, the sheriff and half the Missouri state patrol were converging on the burned-out resort. When the story broke, Emil got the by-line, establishing himself as one of the town’s leading reporters.”

  “And you? Didn’t Farrar want your story for Metropolis?”

  “By the time I got out of the hospital, nobody cared any more. Murray resigned, and Sam left Metropolis to become managing editor of the Express again. Murray’s divorced, by the way. He’s helping pay the Smith boy’s doctor bills, and he runs a public relations agency in Miami. But Sam still works for the same boss. Murray’s mother-in-law, Ethyl Dunaway, owned Metropolis. She started it as a personal charity for local newspapermen, and she’s publisher of the Express now in fact as well as in name. She visited me in that hospital every week and said I could have a job on the Express for the rest of my life, but I declined.”

  “Why?”

  “First, I don’t like working for an editor who married a girl I thought might be serious about me. Of course, there was another girl in that city—but Stash got engaged to Emil. Beyond that I confess I was fond of Kells, no matter what he turned out to be. He taught me something about what it takes to be a good newspaperman, and at the Express I’m afraid that every time I’d look up from my typewriter, I’d see his ghost beside me. Anyhow a couple more years here in Chicago and I’ll be ready to move up to New York or Washington…”

  “You’re glad it turned out this way?”

  “As far as my career is concerned, it couldn’t have timed out better.”

  A waitress brought a pair of martinis. Joanna reached in her purse for a cigarette, and I lit it for her.

  “You’ve heard my story,” I went on, “but how about you? Where do you live now?”

  Joanna smiled. “Sonny, you’ll never know. I have a different business too, and a new name. Also, a new boyfriend.”

  “I thought you sort of liked Kells.”

  “Him? It’s like I said. He reminded me of my Uncle Gus, and under no circumstances would I be interested in a man like Gus. My rule is, before I take a man seriously, his assets should equal mine. Your Kells was a deadbeat if I ever saw one.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a girl who worked in the newsroom of a Chicago television station. Her name was Monique, and she had dark hair, a statuesque figure, and an unaccountable liking for me. Of course at the moment she was with her boss, so she just winked, and I winked back…

  “I apologize,” I said to Joanna. We picked up our glasses. “Anyhow whatever your name is, and wherever you live—here’s to Irene.”

  THE VENUS TRAP

  Copyright © 1966 by James Michael Ullman.

  DEDICATION

  To Shirley, who puts up with an awful lot

  BOOK ONE: THE BOY

  CHAPTER 1

  Schatz went ahead to reconnoiter Chicago. In a few weeks he sent Rudy a letter in which he said things could be worse, the place has a lake and a few good restaurants and he’d taken an option on a nice old brown-stone on what the natives call the Near North Side, a short ride from LaSalle Street, where the brokers are. And anyhow, Schatz went on, when Hitler gives up and the war ends we can fly to and from New York as often as we wish. The bankers here are pleased. They think it’s high time Venus got the kind of young, aggressive management you’ll supposedly provide, but I should warn you, Schatz continued, that this fellow Lord, Adam Lord, the president of the Lord Lumber Company, might not be so easy to fool. Already he’s suspicious. I’d feel better if he was off the stockholder list, it’s too bad we didn’t buy him out too. He has a lot of influence in this town…

  Rudy read the letter aloud and chuckled and lit a cigar and picked up little Jon and bounced him toward the ceiling.

  “You hear, Jon? Schatz found a house in Chicago. For you, me, and Bess.”

  Jon hung by his heels as his father whirled him around and then dumped him onto the sofa beside Bess, who gathered Jon in and hugged him to her bosom, which was warm and smelled good.

  Bess said, “Do we have to leave New York?”

  “Of course. Its business. The Venus Corporation is headquartered in Chicago. I’m the new president, board chairman, and controlling stockholder of Venus. Where else should I be? Anyhow,” Rudy added, “I want to get out of this state before Schatz puts our insurance companies into bankruptcy.”

  Jon asked, “Poppa, are there Indians?”

  “In Chicago? Not any more.” Rudy winked. “But there are gangsters. Don’t worry, though. They won’t bother us.

  * * * *

  The brownstone had two floors. Jon got to know it well, playing hide-and-seek with Bess and the nurse during the day, sneaking out of his room in pajamas to spy on Rudy and his guests at night. At first there were always guests, businessmen and other important people, drinking and eating and talking. Rudy, the host, was everywhere, never forgetting a name, proffering another glass, the very best stuff even in wartime, uttering quips or compliments to the ladies, he was a black-haired bantam of a man, barely five-five even in his riser shoes with the built-up heels, which were specially made. Rudy had the face of a cherub, with ruddy cheeks, a pug nose and a stubborn jaw. He’d grin and reach up and grab a six-footer’s lapel and say, “Now look here, Ed, I have a few more mergers cooking, I can’t disclose details, but if you’re smart you’ll buy all the Venus you can get. The bomb they dropped in Japan today means the war’s over, and in a year or two we’ll be geared to mass-produce what people are going to want, television sets, by the millions. Pretty pictures from a little bl
ack box. Meanwhile, we’re diversified, we’re in oil, land, potato chips, textiles, a brewery in Mexico; we’re cushioned against any temporary disruption of the electronics division when we shift out of military production. Confidentially, I’d say conservatively, conservatively mind you, that our net should triple by 1949…

  Rudy talked, and charmed, and imparted more supposedly confidential information, while Bess watched and smiled, or spoke quietly, almost timidly, leaving center stage to Rudy. She was tall and dark-haired, with a narrow waist, round hips and large breasts. Statuesque, she loomed over Rudy as they stood side by side, a girl in her early twenties with a curved, slightly receding chin and wide black eyes. If someone erred and called her Mrs. Chakorian, she let it pass, seemingly unaware of the way other women whispered when her back was turned, or the hungry way men gazed at her. Bess would hold one drink all night, pretending now and then to sip, moving from group to group, apparently enjoying herself but not really enjoying herself. She never said so but Jon sensed it.

  Bess seemed happier during the day, when alone in the brownstone with Jon and the nurse and the cook and the maid. Often Rudy was home too. Rudy slept late and some days didn’t go to the office at all—he just talked on the phone or played house with Bess, the two of them locked in her bedroom. Jon knew they were playing house because once he was hiding under the bed when they locked themselves in. Rudy began to kiss Bess, and when Jon climbed out and asked what they were doing, Rudy said, “Playing house.”

  “Good grief,” Bess said, “get him out of here!” Rudy got Jon out of there, laughing and banging Jon’s rear end, and Jon ran out staring because he’d never seen Bess with so few clothes on before.

  After that, a new relationship developed between Jon and Bess. Neither mentioned that afternoon again, but Bess spent more time with him and finally fired the nurse, saying Jon was too old for that now. One summer day when Rudy was in Washington seeing congressmen, Bess took Jon to Lincoln Park. She sat on a bench and he climbed into her lap and asked, “What was my mother like?”

  “I didn’t know her. But I hear she was a lovely lady.”

  “As nice as you?”

  “Much nicer. A boy’s mother is nicer than anybody.”

  “She couldn’t have been nicer than you. Just as nice, maybe, but no nicer.” For some reason, Bess cried all the way home.

  * * * *

  On occasion, when he was in the brownstone during the day, Rudy was less charming than when he was entertaining guests at night. Usually it was Schatz who brought out the worst in him—Schatz, whose full name was Felix Schatzmueller, but whom everyone called Schatz. Schatz was Rudy’s only true confidant. They’d first teamed in the old days, in Paris, Vienna, London, Rome and Berlin, years before Jon was born. They’d talk about those old days sometimes and laugh, as old comrades do, about how they’d duped the directors of such-and-such bank in Marseilles, now defunct, or confused the shareholders of so-and-so corporation in Brussels, long since ruined. Listening to Rudy and Schatz was quite an education. But more often lately Schatz, the cautious one, would declaim about the Venus Corporation in a pessimistic vein, a cigarette smoldering between his yellowed fingers. Slouched in a chair in Rudy’s study, his lean face drawn with worry and a martini at his elbow, he ignored Jon, the child who tumbled at his feet, as he’d ignore a piece of furniture.

  “In the last merger,” Schatz said one day, “you went too far. I think Lord is wise to us now, and it won’t be long before he lines up enough stockholders to cause trouble. And we can’t afford trouble here because I think we’ll have trouble in New York over the insurance companies. Of course everything in New York was done in my name, but if I’m indicted, you’ll be dragged into it too.”

  “Stop worrying. We can handle that carpenter Lord.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Any man who can parlay a lumberyard into twenty million dollars is no ordinary provincial.”

  “All right,” Rudy said irritably. “I’ll butter him up, have him over for dinner, ask him man to man, in a polite way, of course, why he’s spreading rumors, when all I want to do is make him richer, him and everyone else who owns stock in Venus, including myself. And don’t worry about New York. It was all perfectly legal, or almost, anyhow; the lawyers told us that, and besides, we have important connections in Washington; they wouldn’t dare hurt us in New York.”

  And so Adam Lord came to dinner. A widower, Lord had a daughter, like Jon, eight years old. Rudy extended the invitation for a Sunday afternoon. The little girl could come, too, and play with Jon while the grownups disported themselves otherwise. It would be, Rudy told Lord over the phone, a relatively intimate affair, perhaps thirty or forty people. Prototypes of next year’s television sets would be displayed, and Rudy wanted Lord’s opinion as to which might have the most sales appeal. A magician would entertain, and would Lord prefer filet mignon or Dover sole, both would be available…

  Lord said little. A stocky, white-haired man in his early forties, he examined the sets and observed that they seemed flimsy, and why were the screens so small and round, personally he preferred a rectangular screen, and why wasn’t the picture steadier? After dinner he settled in a chair, nursed a highball and watched stoically as the magician vanished silks and pulled golf balls from the air. Later, Lord and Rudy did talk privately in a corner, Rudy clutching Lord’s lapel with one hand and gesturing with the other. Whatever was said, Rudy wasn’t pleased. He went away scowling, picked up a glass and poured himself a stiff jolt of Scotch.

  Lord’s daughter, Dinah, was an odd-looking girl. Red-haired and green-eyed, she was very skinny, with bony knees and a funny face, tier nose was too big and her chin was too sharp and she had an awkward way of walking, but nonetheless there was something commanding about her presence, as though she were royalty and expected to be treated accordingly. Her manner quite overwhelmed Jon. And because Rudy had instructed him to be nice to Dinah, to amuse her, to make her feel at home because it was very important, Jon took her upstairs to his room and showed her his toys.

  They didn’t interest her, though. Nothing interested her, which infuriated Jon. Finally, after she’d poked at his possessions awhile, answering him in weary monosyllables, Jon said, “If you promise not to tell, I’ll show you my father’s secret treasure.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I can’t let you know. I’m not supposed to know myself. You’ll have to wait with your hands over your eyes while I get it.”

  “Oh, that’s silly.” Dinah walked to the door. “I don’t want to see your father’s old treasure. I’m going to look at television.”

  “Won’t you play with me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” Dinah told him, “you’re a mongrel. That’s what I heard my father say you are, a little mongrel.”

  Dinah went downstairs and never did see the treasure. Glumly, Jon strolled to his father’s room, the master bedroom, and rummaged in the closet for the brown shoes. His father owned many black shoes, to go with his blue and gray suits, but only one pair of brown shoes, because he had only two brown suits.

  Jon pushed the hidden button, opening the riser heel on one of the brown shoes, and removed a felt bag from the secret compartment. He climbed onto his father’s bed, opened the bag and spilled out the contents—blue-white stones that sparkled and glittered, just like the stones in Bess’s jewelry, only most of these were bigger. Diamonds, they were called.

  Entranced, Jon stared at the diamonds, wondering vaguely what a mongrel was.

  * * * *

  Failure to make peace with Lord annoyed Rudy, but at first didn’t discourage him. He even optioned, with great fanfare, a large tract of desolate, wooded land out in the country, which he dubbed his Retreat. Eventually, he told anyone who’d listen, he’d build an estate there. True, the soil was a little sandy, but an architect had told him it was feasible, if he
was willing to spend enough money.

  The estate would be the residential showplace of the Midwest, a mansion surrounded by a private park, a monument to Rudy’s faith in the unbounded future of the Venus Corporation.

  Weekends, Rudy often piled Jon and Bess into the Cadillac and drove them to the Retreat. Those were the happiest days of Jon’s childhood. The three of them would romp through the woods, Rudy carried away with enthusiasm. The mansion would be here, the formal gardens there, the game preserve and the little zoo beyond that, and wasn’t it wonderful to put wealth in land. All his life, the bulk of Rudy’s fortune had been tied up in pieces of paper, but now he’d strike roots, he’d have something tangible to show for his efforts.

  Of course all Rudy really owned was a short-term option to buy, and the only structure then on the land was a falling-down wood cabin in a clearing where the narrow road from the highway ended. But Rudy installed a grill near the cabin, and for lunch they’d cook wieners over an open fire. In the forest, Rudy would cut green branches on which to impale the wieners, while Jon and Bess gathered firewood, and nothing ever tasted as good as those wieners, which Jon cooked until they were black and splitting open. Once on the way back to Chicago, Jon said, “The Retreat is my favorite place. I like it better than anywhere. When’ll we build the mansion?”

  “Very soon,” Rudy replied. “As soon as some business details are settled…”

  Jon launched a business of his own. He rented comic books to pupils at his private day school and children in his neighborhood for two cents each. That way, instead of buying one comic book at a store for a dime, a kid could bring the dime to Jon and rent five. Comic books weren’t much good after you read them anyhow. Jon bought a few new books but obtained the bulk of his inventory from a secondhand magazine store on North Clark Street. He financed the enterprise with a twelve-month loan of ten dollars from his father at 10 percent true annual interest. When the note came due, Jon paid the eleven dollars and calculated his net profit for the year at $51.18. In addition, he now had an inventory of nearly five hundred comic books.