The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  She said, “Hello, Mr. Forbes. I guess I should thank you.”

  The words were uttered with a disturbing lack of enthusiasm.

  “We’ll get to how you can thank me,” Forbes said, “in a minute. This is Miss Huff. She works with me. If neither of you object, she may take some notes.”

  “I don’t know about the note routine,” Wojac said. There was a wariness in his eyes that Forbes hadn’t observed during their first talk. Beside him Carmelle put a cigarette in her mouth, lit it, and handed it to the artist. Without looking at her, he added, “All they told me was that you said you’d pay my doctor bills.”

  “I will.” Forbes pulled up one chair, and Rose settled on another. “But I want to know what happened to you first. Then I want to know what Carmelle knows about her sister. After last night I think I’m entitled to that.”

  “What happened to me,” Wojac replied, “is simple enough. After you left, I went to a bar on Rush where some of Powell’s girls hang out. Asked a few questions, then went back to the studio. They were waiting—four men. They dragged me inside, found your card in my wallet, and then did this. Said I’d get worse if I ever told anyone about the beating—Iris, Saralee, or anyone else connected with Powell’s. Carmelle’d been hiding in my bedroom. She ran out screaming, and if she hadn’t done that, it might have been a lot worse. The noise she made scared them off. My first thought was that you’d told those guys about me.”

  “Either they followed me from Powell’s, or one of Powell’s girls phoned the club and reported you. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Asking those questions, you learn anything?”

  “Only that Saralee hasn’t been seen in Powell’s since a week ago Wednesday, the day after Iris disappeared. She handled the cloakroom that day from noon to four o’clock. At four she left. Her name hasn’t been posted on any work schedules since.”

  “Can you describe the men who beat you?”

  “Describe, hell.” Some of the old spirit flared. Wojac nodded to a dresser. “Up there. I’ve got a good memory. I sketched the bastards.”

  Forbes got the sketches, carried them back to his chair, and thumbed through the stack. They were ugly faces, rendered in charcoal. Claude wasn’t among them, but Hawk Face was.

  “I want these.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if I can identify any of these people.”

  “If I wanted to show them to the police, I’d have done so long ago. I’ve decided I’d rather stay alive.”

  “You’ll stay alive. If you insist on refusing to file a complaint I’ll arrange it so you won’t be compromised.” He glanced at Carmelle. “Now what about you? Surely, your coming to Chicago isn’t coincidence. Iris told you something. What was it?”

  Carmelle opened her mouth to reply, but Wojac said, “I’ll handle this. I’ve been advising her to see the police about Iris all along. We talked it over again today and she still won’t, so barring that I want an agreement.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Representing Carmelle.” He looked at the girl. “Isn’t that right?”

  Watching Forbes, she nodded. “That’s right. Pete represents me.”

  “Exchange of information,” Wojac went on. “Carmelle will tell you what she knows provided you tell us what you know. Especially who your client is and why he wants to find Iris. I don’t buy that story about someone hoping she’s all right, not after what happened to me.”

  Rose said, “Sonny, Julian can’t do that. He’s got ethics governing his relations with clients. He—”

  “All right, Rose.” Forbes settled back. What the hell, if this was the only way to squeeze the truth from the girl, he’d do it. “In view of Carmelle’s relationship to Iris, I guess she’s entitled to know this anyhow. Yes, I’ve got a client. Later on I’ll even tell you who and what he is. But I’m not looking for Iris on his behalf any more. I’m looking because I hope Iris can tell me who murdered my secretary, and why.”

  Carmelle grew very alert. Sitting up straight, she said, “Iris wouldn’t kill anyone.”

  “I didn’t say she did. If your sister left town, which I think is very likely, she may never have heard of my secretary, may not even know I’m looking for her. All I’m saying is, I think if I talked to her I could solve the murder.”

  “Why?”

  “I have information that on the evening my secretary died she was going to see someone about your sister. For all I know, maybe the same people who beat Wojac. That’s my client’s theory, incidentally.”

  “What information?”

  “I can’t disclose the source. But you saw those men in the Dijon’s lobby last night. A rough-looking bunch, weren’t they? They want Iris, they want my client, and now they want you. If you know anything at all, you might be doing yourself and your sister a big favor by telling me, so I can find out what’s going on.”

  Wojac shook his head. “I don’t know, Carmelle. He hasn’t—”

  “Pete, that’s enough.” Unexpectedly there was a hint of whiplash in her voice. Her tone softened as she said, “He’s right. And maybe he can help me. I don’t want you getting hurt by those men again, so I guess I’d better tell him.”

  What she didn’t say, a fact apparent to everyone in the room except Wojac, was that Wojac didn’t represent her any more.

  Carmelle lit a cigarette for herself, drew deeply on it, and then exhaled, her round face becoming thoughtful.

  “Let’s start,” she said, “at the beginning, so you’ll understand about us. As kids Iris and I were very close. My mother died when I was born. My old man was a drunk and Iris brought me up. We never had anything. I guess that affected her. It gave her a fixation about money. Not having it never bothered me, but she’d always say, ‘One day I’ll make a bundle, honey, and then we’ll never have to worry where the next dollar comes from.’”

  Casually Carmelle flipped cigarette ash to the rug. “Iris left LaPorte after she got out of high school. Went to Gary, got a job as a waitress, visited us weekends, brought me presents no waitress could afford. Then she got arrested. Prostitution. The Gary paper goes to LaPorte and her picture was in it, along with some other girls being hauled to the police station. After that Iris couldn’t come back to LaPorte any more. She went to Chicago and my old man said he’d beat me blue if I so much as tried to write her.”

  She stopped for a moment, organizing her memories. That would have been four years ago.

  “But I knew where she lived,” Carmelle went on. “I phoned, asked her to meet me in Michigan City. I took a bus, she came on the South Shore railroad. She was so ashamed she didn’t know what to say at first. I told her, ‘Iris, I’m fifteen now. I know what girls and boys do together. I don’t think I’d ever do it for money, but that doesn’t mean I have to stop loving you. You’re my sister, you’re all I’ve got, and I couldn’t care less about what you do with men when I’m not around. It’s something we just won’t talk about.’”

  Hippie? Whatever she was, she had been forming some remarkably mature judgments since her midteens. Carmelle was shaping up as something a good deal more formidable than the empty-headed kid the record indicated.

  “After that,” she said, “we met regularly. My father died a year ago February and Iris paid a family to board me until June, so I could finish high school. Then I came to Chicago. Iris had just started at Powell’s. I went with her when Pete painted her portrait. Afterward Pete took us to lunch, I’d never met an artist before. It seemed like such an interesting line of work. We hit it off real well. He was finishing the murals in the key club then. I went up a few times to watch while Iris was working downstairs. I even thought of staying in Chicago, but Iris gave me three hundred dollars and told me to go to New York. I wanted to write; that’s where the good publishing jobs are. From then on Iris and I sort of lost touch. Each time we’d talk on the phone, there’d be less to say. Pathet
ic how we were drawing apart because we didn’t share the same interests any more. But then, a week ago Wednesday, she called me at work.”

  “The day after she checked out of the Dijon?”

  “Yes. It was about three o’clock New York time, two o’clock here. At first I thought she was drunk. She was so excited she could hardly talk straight. Right off she made me promise to obey her instructions, even before she’d tell me what they were. Said it was the most important thing I’d ever do in my life. It seemed to mean so much to her that I said ‘All right, whatever you want me to do, I’ll do. What is it?’”

  Carmelle took another long drag on her cigarette. “Well, she told me to quit my job, go home, pack a bag, take a plane to Chicago and then another one to Oshkosh, Wisconsin. She said she’d reserved a hotel room for me there under the name ‘Bonnie Adams.’ During the trip I was to use that name and wear a black wig, and in Oshkosh I was to wait until she got in touch with me. I told her the whole thing was absolutely insane, but she didn’t give me a chance to argue. Said I’d understand everything when I saw her, and for the rest of our lives we’d never have to worry about money. She also said that no matter what happened, I shouldn’t tell anyone else about our conversation. Especially the police. She emphasized that. Don’t say anything to the police.”

  “You went to Oshkosh?”

  “Yes.” She looked up and stared at Forbes. “It’s hard to explain. I didn’t go because I wanted money. I went because I was afraid Iris was in trouble and needed me. When we were kids, I admired her so, but lately—well, I’ve felt sorry for her. She isn’t bright. And she wanted to get rich so bad that there’s no telling what crazy thing she’d do. It’s as though I was the older sister.”

  “And what happened in Wisconsin?”

  “Nothing. Sure enough, the hotel had a reservation. I hung around until Saturday morning. Then I got fed up and came here. As Bonnie Adams I took a room at the Dijon. Talked to Mr. Stevens and the maid, saw Mr. Ladislaw, and heard about the men looking for Iris. So I went to Pete, the only person I knew in Chicago, and asked if he’d help. We didn’t find out much though. Now I don’t know what to do. I thought of going back to Oshkosh—”

  “Good idea,” Forbes said. “You may not have stayed long enough for Iris to make contact. It’s also a good starting point for finding her. The black wig’s suggestive too. Maybe Iris wears a black wig now. People are looking for two blondes, so she wanted you both to be brunettes.”

  “You think she’s up there somewhere?”

  “It’s quite likely. From what you said, it’s reasonable to assume Iris planned to hide out in or near Oshkosh, probably within fifty miles or so. Hide out from what, we don’t know, but she wanted you to join her. Hiding out isn’t simple if you’re a stranger though, especially if you’re a pretty girl in a rural area. She’d have to lay the groundwork first. Establish a new identity, so the natives would accept her as part of the scenery.”

  “The maid,” Carmelle said thoughtfully, “told me Iris went on trips sometimes. Last month, for nearly a week.”

  “Yes. And after establishing an identity for herself, she’d have to lay the groundwork for you. That might have taken more than two days, assuming she went directly to Wisconsin herself, and we don’t know that she did. It could be why she didn’t contact you in Oshkosh immediately, and if she tried since you left, she doesn’t know where you are now. That call to your office—you know where Iris made it?”

  “I heard the operator say Chicago. But I’m not sure I could do it. Go back to Wisconsin alone, sit around and do nothing.”

  “You won’t be alone, and you won’t be doing nothing. I’ll be with you. So will one of my associates. We’ll all be busy looking for Iris. Someone else will be with us too—my client. That is, he will if you think you can face up to traveling with him. I’ll warn you, his motives in seeking Iris aren’t the same as yours. His latest story is that Iris stole money from him. And I’ll warn you about something else. He’s elderly, but his relationship with your sister wasn’t entirely platonic.”

  “I don’t care about any of those things. I want to meet him.”

  “Very well. My associate should be at the funeral home now. I’ll call him to set it up. Then we’ll go—”

  “Better yet,” Wojac said, reaching for a phone at his elbow, “have your associate bring the client here. So far we have only your word for it that the client exists. I want to meet him too.”

  CHAPTER 11

  St. Clair was indignant when he learned Forbes had told Carmelle and Wojac about him. Curley had brought him to Rolling Meadows on the pretense they were changing his living quarters. The old man staged a brief, angry scene in Norbert’s living room, charging Forbes with insidious betrayal and an unforgivable violation of professional confidence.

  But his manner changed when he met the girl. They came face to face in Wojac’s bedroom. Carmelle, hands clasped behind her back, greeted him at the door with a somber nod.

  “Ah, yes,” St. Clair said. “Iris’s sister.” In the beginning he was humble and embarrassed, hovering over her like a contrite retainer who’d just made an unpardonable error. As he went on, though, his confidence returned. “Strange, she never told me about you. But I suppose she’d never mention your name to my sort. My dear, I know you think I’m a terrible old man. Well, I am a terrible old man, prey to great weaknesses of flesh and spirit. But believe me, I bear Iris no ill will. I’m as concerned about her now as you are. My money? Well, I care about that some, but that’s no reason you and I can’t be civil, is it? And forgive me, but what a lovely little dress. Simplicity. How well it matches the innocent bloom of youth.”

  “Thank you.” Carmelle ventured a tentative smile. “No, I’m not mad at you, Mr. St. Clair. I just want to find Iris. And I’m sure this must be as awkward for you as it is for me.”

  A while later Wojac said, “A magnificent fraud.” St. Clair and Carmelle had gone down to Norbert’s kitchen, where Carmelle was mixing a Tom Collins for the old man. “I don’t believe that stock-fraud yarn either.” Admiringly the artist shook his head. “But how about that Carmelle? Nothing fazes her. She’s charming the old lecher around her little finger. Probably getting more out of him than you lousy detectives could learn in a month.”

  “Maybe.” Forbes thumbed through the sketches again. “Pete, tell Miss Huff everything you remember about these men. Manner of speech, jewelry, color of clothes, hair and eyes, every detail. We’ll build dossiers.”

  “Okay.” Wojac was reluctant. “But for the last time, I’m not filing a complaint. And I still don’t like the idea of Carmelle’s going to Wisconsin. Until we know what this is all about, she’d be a lot safer with me. And those medical expenses—I’ll be out lots more than I pay the doctors. I might not be able to work at full schedule for weeks. I’m self-employed. Nobody pays me a salary while I’m laid up in bed.”

  “You’ll be compensated,” Forbes said, “more than adequately. Come on, Bill.”

  They settled in lawn chairs in Norbert’s back yard. Around them water spurted from Norbert’s fountains, and through a sliding glass door they could see Carmelle and St. Clair talking in the kitchen.

  Glumly Curley stared at the girl. “You want me to run up to Wisconsin with her? And him?”

  “Yes. This afternoon.”

  “Suppose St. Clair won’t go?”

  “He’ll go. It’ll be no more than a four-hour drive. Sign Carmelle in as Bonnie Adams. You room with St. Clair. Keep him out of sight as much as possible. If Iris turns up and sees him, she might be spooked. There may even be a message waiting from Iris, but if there isn’t, get busy in the morning. Distribute her photos at the airport and bus and train stations. And call motels and whatnot for a hundred miles around. You’ve seen her file, you know what to ask. Bear in mind that she may be wearing a wig now.”

  “What about you?”
<
br />   “I’ll be up late tomorrow. I have to see the police after the funeral. They’re getting damned close to Eric. But if Iris went to a small town in Wisconsin, I think there’s a good chance we’ll find her.”

  “And Wojac’s sketches?” Thoughtfully Curley lit a cigarette. “Nasty faces, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.” Forbes paused. “Matter of fact, I thought Rose and I would check them against my Hoodlum Directory files. And if we don’t match up with anyone there, we’ll run to her place and go over Victor’s stuff.”

  “The Syndicate? Yeah, Rose and I did some speculating about that this morning. Seems to figure, doesn’t it? Guys with unlimited expense accounts. Organization. What they did to Wojac. How they scared hell out of everyone connected with Iris Dean.”

  “It figures, but why the Syndicate would want Iris or St. Clair I can’t imagine. And Morris Maxwell’s involvement—it’s the one thing that stops me from fully accepting the theory. But whoever they are, in view of what happened to Wojac—you own a gun?”

  “My brother does,” Curley said cautiously. “A real cannon—a forty-five Colt automatic. It hasn’t been fired in a decade.”

  “Borrow it. And don’t risk being seen stopping at your apartment. Before you leave, buy what clothes and other things you’ll need at a discount store. Figure on a three-day trip. We should be able to check this out by then. You’ll have to outfit St. Clair and Carmelle too.”

  “Where are the old man’s clothes?”

  “Gone. Nothing left but his cane, it’s in my car.” He told Curley about the vandalism at his apartment.

  “‘I hate you’?” Curley’s frown deepened. “That sounds sort of juvenile. Hardly Claude’s style. You report it to the police?”

  “I haven’t told anyone yet except you. The last thing I want the police to do is start thinking in terms of juveniles. It was a senseless kind of destruction. A warning to lay off this case perhaps. I don’t mind telling you, seeing that message everywhere I looked gave me a damned queasy sensation.”