A cheery print of hunting dogs on the scent hung on the wall, a few feet below Jon’s right hand. As weapons go it wouldn’t be much, but it was the only one available.
“Of course,” Jon said, “There’s the recording.”
“The what?”
“The recording.” His tone was patient, as though talking to a child. “The one being made now. To protect myself, I bugged this room with a transistorized, wireless mike. I rented a whole outfit from a detective agency. Never mind where the receiver is. But the transmitter’s right here…”
Jon moved his hand down and grasped the picture, an action that took no more than a second. Then he whipped it away, swinging it as hard as he could while turning and throwing his body to the left.
The picture slammed into Train’s gun hand. The glass plate shattered; the weapon fell to the floor a few feet from him.
Cursing, Train took two steps and reached down for his .38 while Jon, sprawled on his back, reached up for the .45 on the table.
Jon fired first.
CHAPTER 16
Ahead, the four-lane highway coursed through rows of suburban homes and low-slung town houses. It was a bright October day. Jon drove. Beside him, Adam Lord peeled the wrapper from a cigar.
“I’m afraid,” Lord drawled, “were out of luck. The diamonds were disposed of years ago. Things are in such a tangle that our lawyers tell me we won’t get a cent.” Lord had asked for this meeting. Jon suggested that they talk while taking a spin in the country. The industrialist thought it unusual, but agreed.
“I’m satisfied,” Jon told him. “I accomplished what I set out to do, when Train made his statement before he died. I even got Howard’s twenty thousand back.”
“It’s ironic. Train wasted most of that half-million on his sons. Started ’em in business, a big bowling alley. They were in the red from the beginning, and without his help they’ll go broke for sure. I still don’t understand why he didn’t take the money, quit his job and live it up years ago.”
“He of all people couldn’t afford to start spending sudden, unexplained cash. Actually, he didn’t mind staying at Venus. With the Chakorian case over it was a comfortable, easy routine, and he’d be the first to hear if anything new developed concerning my father—which he did when I walked in.”
Poor old Train, Jon thought. In the end, even his stolen money had been running out. He’d saved Bonella, though. His statement said he’d been wounded at the Retreat, that he’d phoned Novak from Berk’s place to surrender and seek medical attention. It was, Novak and his superiors agreed, most irregular, but since there was no doubt Jon shot Train in self-defense, they saw no harm in concealing the fact that Jon had been in Berk’s apartment. Guarding Bonella would be expensive, requiring detectives better employed elsewhere. For the record, Jon turned himself in later, accompanied by a battery of Venus lawyers.
Lord got his cigar going. “I was at Levee Court last night. I didn’t see you around, but the woman in the cashier’s cage—isn’t she the blonde who worked for Schatzmueller?”
“Pearl? Yes, she’s the new Den Mother.”
“What happened to the other one? The one your father…”
“Bess married Molloy, the old bodyguard.”
“And you?” Thoughtfully Lord puffed, as Jon turned down a blacktop road that wound through a cornfield. “I’m told Chakorian Enterprises is on the rocks. I sympathize with your desire to be your own boss, but I want to make a proposition. Solving the Chakorian case will help you some, but I’m prepared to do more—to offer you a job with Venus. The old stockholders will raise hell about another Chakorian on the payroll, but they can go fry.”
“Thanks.” The offer surprised Jon. “I realize that’s a big concession.”
“It is,” Lord said immodestly. “If you produce, you can carve quite a career with us. I’ll start you in sales. But if you still want your own business, you can leave in a few years with the best testimonial in the world—the fact that despite all your father did I had enough faith in you to hire you myself.”
The car slowed; they parked on the shoulder.
“I appreciate that. And regretfully, I decline.”
Lord blinked. “You understand the implications of what I said, don’t you? That I’m willing…”
“I know, but Chakorian Enterprises isn’t as dead as you think. Look around you, Mr. Lord. What do you see?”
Lord looked around. “Cornstalks.”
“You,” Jon said, “see cornstalks. But I see homes, apartments, streets, schools, churches, playgrounds. I see a subdivision, Mr. Lord. The owner will part with the entire tract. I wasn’t at Levee Court last night because it’s been sold—at a handsome profit, incidentally. I’ve formed a new investment group with plenty of venture capital. Uncle Howard. Bonella. Eric and his brothers. Molloy. Your daughter…”
“Dinah?”
“She has a piece, yes.” Jon opened a briefcase. “And we decided to let you in on the ground floor.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Lord grew red in the face. “Giving you a job’s one thing. But investing my own money with a Chakorian? Why…”
“Here,” Jon went on, ignoring the outburst, “are market surveys, engineering reports, the tentative master plan, the whole picture. As a starter, all we’ll need from you is a quarter-million dollars.”
“A quarter-million? You’re insane.”
“A trifling sum to a man of your resources. With your name behind us, there’ll be no question about obtaining development and construction loans either. We should be ready to break ground by spring.”
Jon went on talking. Lord went on protesting, but in a few minutes, they were haggling over terms.
LADY ON FIRE
Copyright © 1968 by James Michael Ullman.
PROLOGUE
A door clanged. The Major opened his eyes, focusing on the shadowy pattern in the now all-too-familiar basement brick wall.
He heard them tramping down the stairs and wondered, What’ll it be this time?
He began to sweat. Incredible, the things that had happened to him in less than forty-eight hours. Gagged, packed into a crate, and flown back here from Washington. Then lie tests, truth serum, endless repetition of his story, the photographs—he must have viewed more than a thousand photographs—and always the beatings. He understood much better now the hysteria that had gripped prisoners he’d interrogated in his own country during those bloody weeks after the coup.
The overhead light went on. A slight, unshaven, balding man, he sat on the floor, an ankle secured by handcuffs to an iron pipe. There were six of them this afternoon and they gathered around his corner. Five men and, of course, the woman.
Claude, the leader, eased onto a folding chair.
“Hi, Major.” He waved a manila envelope. “Got some more pictures.” While Claude undid the envelope’s clasp, the others stared. To the Major their faces were blurs, all but the woman’s. Hers had a sensual cast to it which in other circumstances he would have found appealing. Tall and dark-haired, her figure sheathed in a short cocktail dress, she stood slightly apart from the others.
Claude held out a stack of photographs. The Major reached for them, but his hands were too unsteady and they tumbled to the floor.
“Okay, okay.” Patiently Claude gathered them up. “I’ll show ’em real slow. Anyone looks familiar, you holler.”
One by one, Claude held up the pictures.
“No,” the Major croaked. “Not that one.” He shook his head. “Nor that, it couldn’t be. Nor that…”
Claude held up another.
Intently the Major peered at it. “That one,” he said, animation creeping into his voice. “It’s that one.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. I swear it. I couldn’t be mistaken. I’d know that face anywhere.”
Claud
e studied some notations on the picture’s back. “It figures, damn if it doesn’t.”
The Major’s eyes strayed back to the woman, seeking pity. He thought he had seen pity there before, but all he found now was inscrutability. He said, “You tell them, lady. I’ve done all I can. I’ve identified both of them. Tell them to let me go, it’s what they promised.”
Claude made a signal.
The man nearest the Major eased a pistol from under his jacket, released the safety and snapped the slide, sending the first cartridge into the chamber.
Disbelieving, the Major blinked.
“You can’t do that. The Ambassador won’t allow it. You’ll get in trouble. I have diplomatic status. I don’t think you fully understand what that means. You’d better telephone the Ambassador again, he…”
But Claude nodded. The man with the pistol began to fire. He emptied the whole magazine into the Major as the other men watched and the woman shut her eyes, put her hands over her ears and screamed.
BOOK ONE: FORBES’S FOLLY
CHAPTER 1
Julian Forbes eased his Buick into a parking place on Clark Street, got out, and crossed to the Lincoln Park side. Look for a nice old man on a bench, Helen had said. He’ll be somewhere near the Chicago Historical Society, wearing a blue suit and a straw hat and holding a cane.
A hell of a note, Forbes thought. Lincoln Park’s no place to interview a prospective client. It’s unprofessional. Anyhow, what with a long report to dictate and a meeting with a Presidential contender on the evening’s agenda, he was anxious to get back to the office.
It was a mild June afternoon. Puffs of cloud dotted the sky. Several elderly men occupied benches on the walks around the Historical Society building. None sported canes though, so Forbes headed for an underpass. He was dressed in gray—gray suit, socks, hat, and tie. Black shoes, of course. There was no paunch at his middle, due more to meals eaten on the run than to exercise, of which he got little, but he was thick in the hips and chest. His age was forty, his height just under six feet. His features were plain—wide-spaced brown eyes, a broad nose, mouth often fixed in a quizzical smile, and a strong, round jaw.
Beyond the underpass the walk skirted an expanse of grass and trees. Ahead a girl in a brief sunsuit lay face down on a blanket. And from a bench not far from her a benign-appearing, straw-hatted, elderly, blue-clad gentleman with a cane on his lap stared at the girl’s buttocks with rapt fascination.
Forbes neared and said, “Excuse me. But are you Walter St. Clair?”
Tearing his gaze from the girl, the old man flashed a wry smile. There was a pixyish cast to his features. His blue eyes twinkled, the tip of his nose was a rosy hue. The hat—an old fashioned boater—slanted across his brow at a rakish angle, and he exuded a faint aroma of piney cologne.
“That’s right. And you must be the investigator, Julian Forbes.”
They shook hands. Forbes sat beside him, and St. Clair’s gaze swung back to the girl. Close up, a few flaws in his attire became apparent. His suit, while clean and pressed, was frayed at the cuffs. His shoes were scuffed, and faint splotches of yellow suggested that his white shirt had been laundered beyond serviceability.
Tentatively Forbes categorized him as a man of limited means, trying to maintain appearances while living on a retirement income considerably smaller than he had been accustomed to during his productive years.
“Now that,” St. Clair continued, nodding toward the girl, “is a magnificent sight. A low-slung job, not a Miss Slimbottom like your secretary.” He chuckled. “Not that, at my age, I can do more than admire a girl with a good fanny.”
“I wonder. They say it’s all in the mind.”
“Don’t you believe it.” His expression turning somber, St. Clair looked at Forbes again. “It’s a girl I want to discuss though. Her name’s Iris Dean. She’s disappeared. I want you to find her. And I apologize for meeting you here. As I told your secretary, I always spend my afternoons in the park, and she said that since you’d be returning to the Loop this way—”
“Mr. St. Clair—forgive me. But do you know what my services cost?”
“Frankly no.”
“A hundred a day. Plus expenses.”
St. Clair blinked. “I see. I didn’t think it’d be that high.” Awkwardly he fingered his cane, a black stick with an oblong handle. “I’m a retired government employee. Never saved much. Oh, I get by. But a hundred a day…”
“Sorry. But I’ll refer you to an agency that specializes in missing persons. They—”
“No, I want you. A reputable one-man firm, not an army of strangers whose integrity I can’t assess. I want someone I know’ll be discreet, and Barry Axburn gave you the highest recommendation.”
“Barry’s your lawyer?”
“He’s handling a small patent litigation for me, yes. Look, it’s more than I can afford, but give me three days, won’t you? That’s three hundred dollars. I’ll manage that, if you don’t spend too much on expenses. And if you can’t find Iris in three working days—well, we’ll see.”
“Who is Iris Dean? And what’s she to you?”
“I’m not sure you’ll understand. I met Iris here in the park last spring. I was strolling near the North Avenue Beach and Iris was sunning herself, like that child there. I said something, I forget what. Some innocent remark. She invited me to sit and rest awhile.” With a sigh, St. Clair hauled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow.
“She made me talk about myself. And she really seemed to care. At your age, you wouldn’t know how important that is. I’m alone—no family, most of the old friends gone. She took an interest in me and we began meeting here regularly. In bad weather I’d see her in a coffee shop on Wells Street. When I had a touch of flu, she even came up to my apartment to prepare a hot meal and bake cookies and cakes.”
St. Clair shoved the handkerchief back.
“It’s ridiculous. But I never had a daughter. I got to thinking of Iris as one. Not that I deceived myself as to the sort of girl she was. I’ve been around, and in my time…” He ventured a little smile. “Well, she’s a waitress. Last job the Gus-A-Go-Go on Rush Street. Before that, God knows what, and I even got the impression that if she liked a man she wouldn’t hesitate to spend the night with him. And take money for it afterward.”
“In that case—”
“Yes, in that case.” Studying Forbes, St. Clair settled back. “I said you were too young, you wouldn’t understand. I confess I’m more tolerant of human failings than most people. But the point is, whatever Iris Dean was to others, she was kind to me. And at my age—”
“All right, Mr. St. Clair.” Now Forbes had to smile. “You’ve made your point. Tell me about the disappearance.”
“She promised to meet me here last Wednesday afternoon.”
“Wednesday? That’s just two days ago.”
“Yes, but she promised. She’d never broken a promise to me before, and it was a special occasion—my birthday. I was going to treat her to lunch. I waited until nearly six, then went back to my room and had supper alone. But the next day it occurred to me something might have happened to her. Illness or an accident. I phoned her hotel, the Dijon. I was told she’d checked out Tuesday, no forwarding address. And when I called Gus-A-Go-Go, the man who answered said she’d quit her job last week, claiming she’d found a new job in Las Vegas.”
“And very likely,” Forbes said gently, “that’s where she is now.”
St. Clair shook his head. “No. We made that date Monday. She didn’t say a word about quitting her job the week before, or going to Nevada the next day. All she said was, ‘Sure, Pops, it’s a date. I’ll meet you in the park at one and we’ll have a ball.’ Forbes, she wouldn’t have said that unless she meant it. And if her plans changed later, she’d have let me know.”
“But if she was of questionable moral ch
aracter, she may have had good reason for leaving town in a hurry and for standing you up, even though she didn’t intend to when she made the date.”
“I’m aware of that. And I don’t want to interfere in her private life. All I want is to be sure that wherever she is, she’s all right. That no harm’s come to her. And if she’s in trouble—I might even be able to help.”
Forbes thought it over.
“In your place,” he decided, “I wouldn’t waste a dime looking for that girl. If you suspect foul play, call the police. Otherwise forget her.”
“I hoped you’d say that.” St. Clair smiled again. “In your place it’s what I’d say if an old fool made the same request. But let’s face it, I am an old fool. My mind’s made up. I won’t see the police, because if Iris is involved in something illegal, I don’t want to call the law’s attention to her. Not to mention the fact that seeing the police could be embarrassing personally. My relationship with Iris could be misinterpreted. And with that patent suit pending, I can’t afford a hint of scandal.” Eying Forbes closely, he paused. “How about it? If it isn’t you, I’ll hire someone else, but I’d rather it be you. You’ll be doing a foolish old man a great favor. And perhaps enabling me to return some of Iris’s kindness.”
Taking money from St. Clair would be petty larceny. But Forbes feared that if St. Clair picked a private detective’s name at random from the classified pages the result might be grand larceny. And so St. Clair was about to become another of Forbes’s Follies, little cases of no consequence which he took now and then, often on a charity basis, simply because he felt sorry for the person who wanted to hire him.
“All right,” Forbes said. “Up to three days.”
“Want a retainer?” St. Clair pulled a worn wallet from his jacket. “I went to the bank this morning.”
“That won’t be necessary. And I can’t give you full time immediately. Over the weekend I have another commitment.”
The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel Page 57