“Yes.”
“Hell, he just saw you walk into this hotel. I’m sure he wondered about the coincidence—Wojac’s girl living at the Dijon. By now he knows your room number. He’s calling his pals, and they’ll be after you this time. And when they learn you’re Iris’s sister…”
Uncertainly Carmelle said, “I don’t believe it.”
“You better believe it. You know where Iris is?”
“No. I’m looking for her too.”
“You willing to tell the police what you do know?”
“I can’t do that. Not yet.”
“Okay.” He stepped back and handed her the wig. “Put that back on. And zip yourself. What room you in?”
“Nine-fourteen.”
“Come on.” He pulled her down the corridor. Her wig was slightly askew. “You own a real dress, don’t you—hose, high-heeled shoes, the whole rig?”
“I do, but—”
“Bundle the outfit in the dress and leave everything else.”
“I don’t understand.” She fumbled for her key. When they were in her room, he said, “They’re looking for a girl in a black wig, wearing jeans. In that costume I don’t think you could even get out of this hotel any more. The manager’s scared to death of them, he’ll do anything they tell him. If you did get out, you wouldn’t go far, and as soon as reinforcements arrive, they’ll come straight up here. But while they’re doing that, you’ll be walking out of my room, dressed to kill as a blonde.”
* * * *
The troops assembled quickly. The green Impala pulled into an alley adjoining the coffee shop. Three men got out of that car. Then a blue Pontiac squealed to a stop in front of the hotel and disgorged three more.
One was Claude, who held a sidewalk conference with Hawk Face.
“There they are,” Forbes said, looking down from his third-floor window again. “We couldn’t call out for help now if we wanted to. The switchboard must be monitored. They’d pull the plug on us.”
Tugging at a red dress that ended six or seven inches above her knees, Carmelle walked to his side. She was a cool one, all right. She’d caught his sense of urgency but there’d been no panic. She’d begun peeling off her old clothes as soon as he’d closed the door to his room.
“Yes,” Carmelle said slowly. “That is the man. The skinny one.”
“The man with him’s his boss.” He zipped Carmelle’s dress up in back. “Better hurry. Too bad your neighbor saw us run out of your room, that wig at half-mast. When they knock on his door, he’ll tell them you’re really a blonde. They’ll guess quickly enough then that you’re Iris’s sister. He’ll also describe me, after which it won’t take them long to get this room number. Anyone else besides Wojac know who you really are—and that you’re staying at the Dijon?”
“The maid.” Sitting on the bed, Carmelle reached for her shoes. “The one who cleaned Iris’s room. And Mr. Stevens, Iris’s neighbor. He introduced me to the maid. She told us those men had been here asking about Iris. She said if I was smart I should move out and not tell anyone who I was.”
No wonder Stevens had clammed up when Forbes had told him Carmelle had reported Iris missing. Stevens had been protecting the girl.
“And Mr. Ladislaw, Iris’s boss,” she went on. “He told me those men had been around too. He begged me to leave town before I got hurt. I didn’t know what he meant by that until I saw what they did to Pete.” Below, Claude and Hawk Face reached some sort of agreement and went into the hotel.
Forbes turned and walked to Carmelle, who was squinting at a mirror on the dresser now.
“Use plenty of makeup. That how you wear your hair in New York?”
“It is.”
“Bundle it up. Anything. Just so it looks different.” She applied a generous splash of lipstick, then raised her arms and began doing things with her hair. “Those men,” she said. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know. Got any money?”
“Three dollars.”
“Here.” He shoved a twenty into her purse, scribbled in a notebook, tore the page away and put that in her purse too. “When you get out, take a cab to this motel. The night clerk’s a friend of mine. Mention my name, he’ll take care of you. Then call that number. A man named Curley will answer. Tell him who you are and where you last saw me. And tell him to call the police if he doesn’t hear from me by midnight.”
“Aren’t you coming with?”
“No.” She was on her feet. He handed her the purse and shoved her toward the door. “We can’t be seen together downstairs. The hotel employees are looking for me already.” He opened the door and peered into the hall. “It looks clear. Walk up to four, then ride the elevator down to the lobby. Stroll out as though you owned the place. If anyone asks you anything, spit in their eye. And if you think you’re recognized, start screaming. It’ll be your last chance.”
She looked back and said, “Okay, I’ll call your friend, but not from your motel. I’ll find my own place for the night.”
Then she was gone.
He slammed the door. Ungrateful little bitch, she was going back into hiding, but there was no time to brood about that now.
A minute later Carmelle walked out from under the canopy, heading toward Wells Street. The blue Pontiac was parked at the curb, but she didn’t glance at it.
And as far as Forbes could tell, nobody followed her.
His suitcase was already packed. He’d always suspected his stay at the Dijon might end unexpectedly so he’d never unpacked. He put on his cap and sunglasses and rolled Carmelle’s wig and other clothes in her jeans. Then he picked up the bundle and the suitcase and started down the stairway, pausing at a landing to dump Carmelle’s junk in a corner.
When he reached the lobby, he limped slowly to the desk. It was a delicate moment. Hawk Face and two other large, well-dressed men in their late thirties were scattered around on chairs watching the elevator indicator, which was just stopping at nine. They glanced briefly at Forbes but didn’t seem interested. They had been alerted to a detective who might try to sneak in, not a workingman about to check out.
Forbes put the bag down.
“I’m going home for a couple days.” He dropped his key to the counter. “But I’ll be back before my week’s up, save the room.”
“Yeah, sure.” Woodenly, his frightened gaze on Hawk Face and his friends, the boy behind the desk took the key.
Forbes grabbed the bag and limped toward the street.
One major hazard remained—Harry Houser. Beyond the door the manager lurked on the walk under the canopy, sucking nervously on a cigarette. The Pontiac huddled a few yards from him, its motor running and a burly man behind the wheel.
As Forbes walked out, Houser looked up. His jaw fell; his eyes moved quickly to the Pontiac and back to Forbes.
Then, with a broad wink, he turned his head away.
* * * *
A telephone pressed to his ear, Forbes gazed unhappily out a drugstore window at the crowds moving along Wells Street as Curley said, “No, after she told me about the situation at the Dijon, she hung up.”
“Damn. She’s slipped through our fingers too. I traced her as far as Wells and North, but picking up her trail from that point would be hopeless. You know, I’ll bet Harry Houser also recognized her when she walked out tonight. Whatever Claude had in mind, Houser was decent enough to want no part of it.”
“You think Houser’ll talk to us now and tell us more about those guys?”
“I doubt it. His heart’s in the right place, but I think he’s been thoroughly terrorized. How’s St. Clair?”
“Increasingly belligerent. My brother says he’s grousing about his clothes. Claims he feels naked without his cane. Julian, if you don’t mind my saying so—”
“I mind. See you in the morning.”
He took a cab to
his apartment building. Lugging the suitcase into the courtyard, he glanced at the sky. The weather was changing. There was a bite in the air and a few ragged clouds were sweeping in from the north, fast-moving splotches of white on a backdrop of blackish blue. A gust of wind swayed the parkway trees and rustled leaves.
An odd melancholy seized Forbes. As a city dweller he was rarely aware of weather except for its extremes, but at the moment the sky struck him as both awesome and ominous, a harbinger of tomorrow and the days after that. Helen’s wake would be tomorrow. And after that…
What the hell was wrong with him? He was becoming as emotional as a schoolgirl. Vaguely angry with himself, he unlocked the vestibule door, went up to the second floor, opened his apartment door and snapped on a light.
The message sprung at him from everywhere—walls, mirror, furniture—any surface on which it could be scrawled in scarlet amidst the shambles. And what shambles! It was a senseless, irrational, viciously personal kind of vandalism that had touched everything—furnishings, clothes, bedding, and even and especially his memorabilia. It all lay in shreds now—ancient letters from his parents, diplomas, old correspondence with war buddies, family photos, Eric’s baby pictures, every last picture of Elaine—ripped to tiny pieces and scattered about the apartment like confetti. St. Clair’s suitcase, clothing, and mail had been vandalized too and the only salvageable item was his damned cane, which had been thrust clean through his straw hat.
But the overpowering thing was the message. Three little words repeated hundreds of times. Wherever Forbes looked, he read I HATE YOU.
BOOK THREE: FINAL SCORE
CHAPTER 10
Head bowed, Rose stood over Helen’s coffin. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved. When she opened her eyes, Forbes said softly, “All right, Rose. When you’re through extending sympathies, meet me out at the car. I’m just in the way here.”
She took his arm. “They can’t help it, Julian. They’re her family, they don’t understand.”
Slowly they walked back up the aisle of the little chapel and into a parlor in the North Side funeral home. It was early afternoon and they were among the first mourners at Helen’s visitation. Forbes had wanted to get it over with quickly, since his presence among Helen’s relatives was sure to be a source of embarrassment.
Helen’s father, a short gray-haired man in a blue suit with ancient, flared lapels, waited near the chapel door with two of Helen’s sisters. They nodded to Rose, the old family friend, who went over to exchange a few words, but ignored Forbes. He could appreciate their feelings. The notoriety, the constant police interrogations, the newspaper stories which left no doubt as to Helen’s relationship with her employer…
A handful of other people were in the chapel, among them Barry Axburn, who was talking to one of Helen’s brothers. Someone else had just arrived too—Eric.
Uncertainly the boy moved into the parlor, lips tightly compressed. His lean frame was draped in a suit, white shirt, and tie, the first time Forbes had seen him so formally attired in more than a year.
Forbes walked to the boy and asked, “What the hell are you doing here?” He reached out, planning to steer him to a corner. “I thought I told you—”
“Take your hand away.”
“Yes. Of course.” Awkwardly Forbes lowered the hand. “But—”
“I’m here because Helen’s dead. Isn’t that reason enough?”
“There’ll be detectives around. Don’t stay too long.”
“I don’t care. I’ll be at the funeral tomorrow too.” His eyes strayed to the little chapel. “Where is she? In there?”
Forbes tried to think of something to say, something to help re-establish a meaningful relationship with the boy.
“Eric, I’m sorry. It was stupid of me, telling you not to come here. Please forgive me for that. I—you making out all right? I mean, do you need money? So many things have happened lately, I’m not even sure if we sent you this week’s allowance check. I’ll have Rose—”
“Forget it.”
“Don’t be silly. I can understand how you felt the other day, but you’ve got school expenses—clothes, food, your apartment.”
“Not much longer I won’t. I’m dropping out, leaving town.”
“Where’ll you go?”
“I don’t know. New York maybe. I know some kids in the East Village. They’ll put me up. There’s nothing for me here any more. I’ll get a dumb job of some kind until I can think this thing through.”
“You’ll lose your student deferment and get drafted, that’s what’ll happen. And you can’t leave town now. The police—”
“Excuse me,” Eric said. “I have to see Helen.” Awkwardly he walked on into the chapel. Fine. So Eric planned to run away to New York, leaving all his troubles behind—including his father, who’d climbed far out on a shaky limb to save a potential teaching career, which the boy didn’t seem to care about any more.
At Forbes’s side Rose asked, “He didn’t unbend?”
“No. The damned fool, he’s thinking of giving it all up, going to New York, moving in with hippies, junkies, and God knows what else.”
“Well,” Rose said philosophically, “it might not kill him. If I were you…”
Barry Axburn headed toward them. “Julian? If you’ll pardon us, Rose.” He nodded to an exit. “Let’s step out there.” In the parking lot the attorney bent his head, lit a cigarette, and said, “So far I haven’t found anyone who’d admit to giving Iris Dean my name. And it disturbs me. In a way, this involves me in your investigation, doesn’t it?”
“Remotely.”
“After your call I even discussed it with Ralph Jaraba. Funny thing—when I showed him the girl’s picture, he did a double-take and said he thought he’d seen her someplace before.”
“Jaraba did?”
“Yes. But you know Ralph. He meets so many people, shakes so many hands. And what I really wanted to talk to you about is Helen’s murder. Ralph’s been following developments very closely; he’s got a pretty good pipeline into Homicide. He was terribly distressed about the discovery of that marijuana in her closet. It introduces a whole set of new and nasty connotations. It’s an impertinent question, and I apologize for asking it, but did Helen ever discuss marijuana or drugs with you? Mention anyone she knew who used the stuff?”
“No,” Forbes said quite honestly. “Never at any time.”
Axburn shook his head. “Well, that seems to be the angle that most interests the police. They’ve found fingerprints on that packet of marijuana. Helen’s and someone else’s. The way her apartment was messed up, they’ve pretty well discounted the prowler theory now. They think it quite possible her killer was looking for the marijuana.”
“I don’t buy that. You tell Ralph I don’t think the drugs had anything to do with it. The police learn anything else?”
“They found another witness who saw the car double parked when Helen got out. It was a late-model car, brown or green, the witness isn’t sure which. He thought it could have been a Ford.”
Interestingly enough, the attorney was at that moment leaning against a green late-model Ford—Eric’s.
“Barry, Rose tells me Homicide called this morning while I was out. They want another talk—about the drugs, I suppose. Would you ask Irv Goldstein to set it up for tomorrow right after the funeral?”
“Sure. And as for our mutual client, St. Clair, I don’t want to press you. But I have the feeling the company he’s suing is on the verge of a settlement, so if there’s anything about the Dean girl’s disappearance that you think I should know, I’d like to hear about it immediately. Where is the old man, by the way? My secretary tried to reach him all morning. She has some papers he has to come in and sign.”
“I haven’t seen him,” Forbes said, “since yesterday.”
Axburn went back to the funeral home.
Forbes crossed the street to a drugstore and phoned Curley.
“First,” Curley said, “the bad news. Still no word from Morris Maxwell.”
“I guess he chickened out.” Forbes glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly two. You might as well lock up the office and come to the wake yourself. Damn, I was hoping the meeting would break the case wide open. The little sister’s our last chance now, she must know something. I spent the morning trying to find her. Even left a message at the shop that handles Wojac’s work, offering to pay his doctor bills. I can’t find him either.”
“Well, here’s the good news. Wojac called personally. He’ll take you up on that offer. He told me where he is now and said Carmelle’s there too.”
* * * *
Wojac was hiding out in the last place anyone would have looked for him—a split-level house in a northwest suburb called Rolling Meadows. The house belonged to an immense crew-cut young man who met Forbes and Rose at the door, checked Forbes’s identification, and then introduced himself as Norbert. Leading them through a living room and up a flight of stairs, Norbert explained that he wrestled professionally under the name of Kansas Killer. He’d met Wojac when their spaces adjoined at the Gold Coast Art Fair. When not wrestling, Norbert fashioned odd-shaped, motor-powered copper fountains which he sold for up to five hundred dollars each.
“Pete,” Norbert said, “got a real going over. He’s lucky he can still walk. His friends hid him in a hotel last night, but my wife and kids went to visit Granddad, so we figured he’d be safer out here. The door’s at the end of the hall.” He winked. “Knock first, he’s got company.”
Forbes knocked. There was some stirring inside. Then Wojac told him to come in.
Clad in pajamas, the artist sat up in bed. Forbes hardly recognized the man. In the hospital they’d shaved off his beard. Behind the bandages he looked surprisingly boyish. His chin receded slightly. One eye was puffed nearly shut and more bandages were wrapped around his ribs.
At the head of the bed Carmelle slumped in a chair. Barefoot, she wore a red cotton shift that hardly covered her thighs. There was no makeup on her face, and her blond hair fell to her shoulders.
The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel Page 67