The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  “You talk to her?”

  “No. Carmelle’s missing too. Quit her job Wednesday afternoon and left her room Wednesday night carrying a suitcase. Nobody’s seen her since.”

  “That’s just one day,” Forbes said slowly, “after Iris checked out of the Dijon. They may be together somewhere. Got the sister’s description?”

  “Blond like Iris, short, good figure, age nineteen, a hippie type. Hung out in the East Village, had an erratic job record. It’s why her boss wasn’t too surprised when she quit.”

  “And the third thing I should know?”

  “Jack at Burglary said there’s no record of a complaint from the Dijon.”

  “I see. The prints of Iris back from the photo shop?”

  “Not yet. But St. Clair says he wants to talk to you desperately as soon as you get back to Chicago. He’s not sure if he’ll be at his apartment, but he’ll leave a number at our answering service where he can be reached.” She paused. “Those insurance guys—how long you think they’ll tie you up?”

  “Hard to say. It’ll be late though. I won’t even stop at the office.”

  “When you’re free, drop around, hey? It’s been a dull weekend.” She hung up.

  Forbes left the unit and crossed the road to the restaurant. Curley was in a back booth munching on a sandwich. Four of the hunters were at a distant table.

  Curley asked, “How’s Helen?”

  “Fine.”

  “Nice girl.” Eying Forbes closely, Curley put his sandwich down. “You’re both adults. Presumably you both know what you’re doing.”

  Politely Forbes asked, “What the hell are you driving at?”

  “In my peculiar way,” Curley replied, “I’m telling you I’m accepting your offer. If it’s still open. Forbes and Curley. But as your new partner, I’ll speak frankly. Helen—you’re having a thing with her, aren’t you?”

  Damn Curley anyhow. His perceptiveness was one reason Forbes thought he could make a go of running the firm. And, of course, as a partner he now had the right to comment on management’s relations with the help.

  “How’d you know?”

  “That was my specialty with those divorce lawyers, remember? Males and females.”

  A waitress came to the booth and Forbes ordered. As she left, the fifth hunter walked in and joined his friends. A big man, with square, florid features and a Hitler-type mustache, he seemed to be the group’s leader.

  “We were that obvious?”

  “No. I don’t think anyone else knows yet, and I’ll never mention it again. I’m no monk myself, but a guy’s secretary—well, ordinarily it’ll just mess up the office routine a bit. But if you’re going to involve yourself with the Senator and Jaraba, that’s different. Big-time politics. You and I know the Hoodlum Directory was mostly a paste-up job, a rehash of stuff long in the public domain. We got it all from the cops. I can’t imagine anyone in the Syndicate taking you seriously, any more than they took Vic Huff seriously. But the politicians who don’t like Jaraba and the Senator might take you seriously. And if they learned about you and Helen—”

  “Of course,” Forbes pointed out, “I might marry the girl.”

  “You might.” But clearly Curley didn’t think Forbes would.

  After lunch they changed clothes, packed, and checked out of the motel.

  It wasn’t until they pulled onto the highway that Curley said, “By the way. Those five hunters. You notice how they turned up wherever we went? The restaurant in Dubuque, the place across the road today?”

  “It didn’t occur to me,” Forbes admitted, “until this morning when I was talking to Helen. But I didn’t mention it because it didn’t make sense. Five guys tailing two men on a routine insurance investigation.”

  “Yeah. I thought it was my imagination too. The big fella with the mustache—he in the adjoining unit when you phoned Helen?”

  “Yes.”

  “We taken on any new cases of consequence? When I talked to Helen late Friday, she said something about a missing person.”

  “That’s right. A girl, Iris Dean. An old man named St. Clair wants us to find her, but that case shouldn’t amount to anything. Of course, as you say, there’s always politics. And maybe the Senator’s decided to check on me.” Forbes glanced in the rear-view mirror. The road behind them was clear. “But five guys? Ridiculous.”

  “I guess so,” Curley said. “Anyhow, the one with the mustache—I heard what they called him. And who’d worry about a guy named Claude?”

  * * * *

  As Forbes walked into his apartment, a light rain splattered against the windows. It was nearly eight. The stop at the insurance company had taken longer than anticipated. After the film had been developed and screened, Curley went home and Forbes had a few drinks with the claims manager and a vice president. It had been a productive evening, culminating in an assignment to investigate Felix Leek’s doctor.

  In the bedroom Forbes put his bag down, pushed the drape back, and peered out at Kildare Avenue, a street in a quiet residential neighborhood on the Northwest Side. His own car nestled near a fire hydrant. He planned to remain just long enough to call St. Clair. But as he’d parked, a green Impala with two men in it had rolled by. One of the cars used by the five hunters had been an Impala.

  The Impala didn’t return though. And hell, it wasn’t so unusual, running into those five men in Dubuque restaurants.

  The answering service gave him a number for St. Clair. He dialed it and the old man answered almost immediately.

  “Forbes?” In the background Forbes heard loud talk and the strains of a television commercial for Alka Seltzer.

  “Yes. Helen said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “I do. I hoped I’d get a report on Iris.”

  Patiently Forbes said, “Mr. St. Clair, we’ve made a lot of inquiries, but the returns aren’t in yet. These things take time. So far she doesn’t seem to have turned up in Vegas. She has a police record—a prostitution arrest. One strange thing is that her sister dropped out of sight in New York.”

  “Sister?” The old man seemed astounded. “She never told me about a sister.”

  “Well, she has one. Her name’s Carmelle.”

  “That is strange. I—I hope something hasn’t happened to both of them.”

  “I wouldn’t worry prematurely. Chances are they’re together. Meanwhile, since the routine sources aren’t producing results, I’ll visit the Go-Go myself. Try some of the places she worked before that. Maybe make another pass at the Dijon Hotel.”

  “Is that necessary? I should think your time’d be more productively spent checking airlines, train ticket offices, bus stations. Even places near her hotel where she might have bought or rented a car.”

  “I’ll canvass her old haunts first because if I can find a friend who knows where she went and why, I’ll save hundreds of hours of legwork.” Distinctly a cash register jangled. “By the way, where are you?”

  “A cocktail lounge at O’Hare Airport. It’s why I wanted to talk to you tonight. I’m going to St. Petersburg. An old friend there’s quite ill. I thought I’d visit him, cheer him up a bit.”

  “Where’ll you be staying? In case I find Iris and want to reach you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how long I’ll be either, so I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Abruptly St. Clair broke the connection.

  Thoughtfully Forbes stared at the phone.

  Now, that was odd. He’d have to mention the call to Helen. Until now she’d put in most of the time and effort on this case. Time and effort, Forbes suddenly realized, for which so far he hadn’t been paid a dime.

  Helen’s apartment was several miles east, in the Edgewater district. Forbes took a circuitous route there. Curley had been right. Forbes’s forthcoming involvement with the Senator and Jaraba added a new and d
angerous dimension to his relationship with Helen.

  He could use that as an excuse, of course, and break off the affair on those grounds, but she’d know it went beyond that. No, he couldn’t be dishonest with her. He’d have to do it the hard way and tell her the truth. Not yet though. Not tonight. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her tonight.

  He parked on Granville, locked his car and hurried along the walk, hatbrim pulled down against the light rain. Her street, Magnolia, was lined with older walk-up apartment buildings here. Vaguely he felt guilty. That was unsettling, as though they were doing something dirty. Damn, it hadn’t been that way at all. It was—well, if he ever had to explain it, what would he say? And no matter how he explained it, how would a hostile interrogator make it look?

  She lived in an English basement apartment. It had its own entrance, and he walked down a short flight of cement steps, unlocked the door and went inside. The television set was on in the living room, the volume high. Forbes hung his hat and raincoat in the front closet, walked to the set, reached out to turn the volume down and then stopped.

  Something glittered on the coffee table—a cigarette lighter. Silver, windproof, an expensive outdoorsman’s lighter, it lay on its side.

  It looked very much like a lighter Forbes had seen many times before—one Elaine had given to Eric a month before she’d been killed in the automobile accident. Given it to him because she knew Forbes didn’t like seeing a seventeen-year-old boy smoke.

  He turned the lighter over. The other side was engraved with a large “F.” And in the ash tray near it lay a half-dozen cigarette butts, all mutilated in Eric’s peculiar fashion, the ends torn away.

  Eric? Here?

  The lighter in his hand, Forbes started down a short hall that led to the kitchen. Then he saw Helen lying face down on the kitchen floor, the back of her head crushed. Even before he touched her, he knew she was dead.

  BOOK TWO: ANYTHING GOES

  CHAPTER 4

  Irv Goldstein, one of the bright young men in Barry Axburn’s law firm, led interference through a small army of reporters and photographers that caught them leaving the Central Police Headquarters building. A smiling, crew-cut giant who had been a Big Ten tackle before going on to law school, he bulled forward and kept up a running line of chatter while Forbes, tight-lipped and unshaven, followed closely and said nothing.

  Genially Irv explained that good grief, fellas, Julian’s been up there all night. It’s been a great personal loss to him, a great shock. You know he always cooperates with the press, but no questions now please, not until he can get some rest. No, we don’t know if they’ve picked up any suspects yet, they told us just what they told you. The weapon was a cast-iron coin bank, shaped like an umbrella. Had a slogan on it: “Save for a Rainy Day.” She’d kept it on her kitchen table. Someone hit her with it four or five times. The bedroom was messed up, so it could have been a prowler, someone she surprised when she got home. Or it could have been the guy who drove her home last night, the police still don’t know who it is…

  They hurried out on to State Street. The rain had stopped and the wind had shifted, sending murky clouds racing across the morning sky.

  It was, Forbes noted dully, a little after eight. His head ached and his throat and mouth were dry from repeating his statement and answering more questions. His interrogators had been polite but relentless, probing into, among many other things, his relationship with Helen. There’d been no point trying to conceal that, even if he’d wanted to. He’d let himself in with a key and hung up his hat and coat before finding the body. He’d admitted that to the first detectives at the scene.

  A car waited at the curb, one of Axburn’s law clerks at the wheel. Forbes and Goldstein piled into the back. Tires squealing, the car took off.

  “Well,” the attorney sighed, “it could’ve been worse. A good thing you volunteered to take that lie test right away.”

  “Worse? It’s hard to see how.” Forbes rubbed his eyes. Yes, he’d passed the lie test. Just one key question—which, of course, he’d had the right to approve in advance—had he killed her or was he involved in her murder? “Damn, she died between six and seven o’clock, they said. Shortly after she got home from work. If I hadn’t socialized with those insurance guys, I might have arrived soon enough to prevent it.”

  “The insurance people will confirm the time you left the restaurant, won’t they? In view of your known familiarity with lie-detection devices—”

  “I guess so. What time do Barry and Jaraba want me at this hush-hush conference?”

  “They said nine, but the last time I talked to Barry I told him you couldn’t possibly make it before ten. Incidentally, Barry’s arranged for your car to be transported to the Loop garage you always use.”

  “Nice of him.”

  “The meeting,” Goldstein went on, ignoring the sarcasm in Forbes’s voice, “will be at Jaraba’s newspaper plant. Julian, how do you figure it?”

  “Figure what?”

  “Your secretary’s murder. At this point I’m inclined to go along with the prowler theory. But if the man who drove her home last night doesn’t come forward soon—I wonder. His car was seen double-parked while she ran through the rain to her door. He could very well have driven around the corner, parked, come back and murdered her. Her neighbor said she’d heard Helen arguing with someone Sunday. If it was the same man—you’re sure you have no idea who it could be?”

  “No,” Forbes lied. He had a very good idea who it could be. Eric. The butts in the ash tray—he’d flushed them down the toilet before calling the police. And the lighter was still in his pocket.

  Poor Helen. There hadn’t even been time to mourn her. The import of it was just coming home. He’d never see her again, never hear her answer the office phone with that warm, calm, familiar voice.

  “Where you want us to let you off?” Goldstein asked. “Your office? I imagine you’ll want to freshen up a bit.”

  Ahead, the El station loomed over Van Buren Street.

  “Let me off here,” Forbes said. “I’ll grab a cab. I want to see my son.”

  * * * *

  The building was an ancient three-story brownstone on Dearborn north of Chicago Avenue, an easy walk to the night-life areas on Rush Street and North Wells. Against Forbes’s wishes Eric had moved there last fall. The rent? It was cheap, he’d pay it out of the money his mother had left him. Only he didn’t, of course. Forbes paid. All of Eric’s lifetime someone else paid for what he wanted, including the green Ford parked in front of the place. A high school graduation present, Elaine had promised it to him before she died. Fortunately the witness who’d seen Eric let Helen out of that Ford last night hadn’t been able to recall the make or color of the car.

  In the vestibule Forbes shoved Eric’s bell, opened the inner door when the buzzer sounded and walked up narrow uncarpeted stairs to the first floor, where a massive figure waited on the landing. It was Rose Huff. Her face was grim, and her fingers twisted nervously at her purse strap.

  “Hello, Julian.”

  “Rose? What are you—”

  “I was talking to Eric. Someone had to talk to him until you got here.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There are lots of things you don’t know. Things Helen told me but was afraid to tell you. But you’d better go inside. I’m parked down the block. I’ll wait there.” Somberly Rose lumbered away.

  The living room was a mess—papers, books, and items of clothing everywhere. Eric sprawled in an upholstered chair. His eyes were red. His face—lean and ascetic, Elaine’s face, framed by long light brown hair—was pale and angry. He wore jeans, a tee shirt, and sneakers. Incredible how tall he’d grown. Well over six feet, all skin and bones now, but in a few years he’d begin to fill out.

  More than ever the gulf lay between them. For a moment Forbes didn’t know what to say
.

  Eric looked up and said, “How could you do it? You and Helen—it’s why you didn’t want me hanging around the office, isn’t it? You were ashamed of it, you dirty old man.”

  “Never mind the histrionics.” Forbes tried to keep his voice level. Looking at Eric, he realized that the boy was lost, temporarily at least. “We have a few things to discuss.”

  “Go to hell. Get out. Good God, Helen—I thought she was such a wonderful woman, but—”

  “Who,” Forbes asked, “are you sore at most? Me or her?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “It might make a lot of difference.” Forbes pushed a stack of magazines to the floor and sat on a hard-backed chair. “You were in her apartment, weren’t you? I found your butts in the ash tray. And I found this.” He held up the lighter.

  “Yes,” Eric admitted, “I was there. But not last night. Sunday was the last time. Last night I just drove her home.”

  “You didn’t kill her?”

  “Hell no, I—”

  “All right, I’ll take your word for it. I’ll take your word for everything, understand? But I want the whole story. I’m entitled to it. I’ve already concealed evidence on your behalf. The police don’t know about you yet. You been seeing Helen often?”

  “We—lots of times.” The boy reached for a cigarette. Hands trembling, he struck a match and lit it. “When you were out of town, I’d drive her home almost every night. And once in a while I’d go inside.”

  “What for?”

  “Well…” Eric groped for an answer. “We’d talk.”

  “What about?”

  “I dunno. Everything. Me. Her. You. She was easy to talk to. I could tell her things.”

  “You ever intimate with her?”

  Eric’s cheeks reddened. “Christ, do you have to—”

  “Answer the question.”

  “No! My God, what do you think she was?”

  “Ever make advances toward her? Kiss her? Or even think of making advances, of what it’d be like to make love with her?”

  The boy’s fists clenched. “Yes. Of course I thought of it. I told her too, but she wouldn’t let me touch her. I didn’t know it was because she was shacking up with you. I thought—”