He fell silent as Carmelle walked out and joined them. Back in the kitchen St. Clair was hauling more ice cubes from the refrigerator.
“We’ll get along,” Carmelle said. She eased onto another lawn chair, the hem of her shift riding sky high. “In his way, he’s really a sweet old man, isn’t he? I can almost see where…” She looked at Curley. “You the associate going to Wisconsin with us?”
“He’ll drive you there tonight,” Forbes said. “I’ll join you tomorrow.”
“Is that right?” Still eying Curley, her gaze grew speculative. “You know, until I ran into you two, I never met a private detective before. Pete says you’re all tools of the Establishment. But I always thought it must be an interesting line of work.”
“It has its moments,” Curley admitted.
“You’ll have to tell me about them. On the ride up there we’ll have plenty of time to talk.” She slipped deeper into the chair; the hemline crept still higher. “Won’t we?”
* * * *
Going home, Rose Huff confided that she’d known an artist once. He’d called on her one night, shared a bottle of Vat 69 with her, and then offered to paint her in the nude. He was a little fellow, and she’d picked him up by the scruff of the neck and pitched him out the front door.
Forbes smiled. It was nearly eleven, and he was steering his Buick up the Harlem exit ramp from the Kennedy Expressway. They’d worked late, then stopped for dinner. He thought a car had tried to follow them from the office, but he’d ditched it in the labyrinth lower level of Wacker Drive. The last thing he wanted was an eavesdropper at the next table during a cocktail hour with Rose.
“You don’t think much of Wojac, do you?”
“No. He got involved in this in hopes the girl’d be an easy lay. But after he was roughed up, all he seems to care about are his doctor bills.”
“He’s temporarily unhinged, but it’s understandable. He thought he was tough. Claude’s pals showed him he wasn’t so tough. To a man with Wojac’s ego that can be unsettling. He protected Carmelle though. And he gave us those sketches.”
“We checked the Directory records for hours,” Rose said, “and couldn’t identify anyone. But you’re right. It does smell like the mob. Still want to see Victor’s files?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. But first we’ll have a nightcap and talk.”
“What about?”
“What I’ve been building up courage to tell you, that’s what.”
Her house was a big brick bungalow on a dark tree-lined street of homes. Pulling into the driveway, Forbes observed a flash of movement in the front seat of a little red Mustang parked down the block. Kids, probably. A good-night kiss after a date.
Rose handed him a stiff jolt of bourbon and poured one for herself. “You’ve never seen Victor’s room, have you?”
“No.”
He followed her into a hall. She opened a door and snapped the light on. “This is it. Just as he left it. Only it wasn’t so neat. He’d leave stuff lying around, I had to pick up for him.”
Victor Huff had been forty-four years old when his motorcycle blew a tire on U.S. 66, but the room could have been that of a teen-ager. Pennants on one wall, a gun rack on another, pinups on the third, and the fourth plastered with snapshots of Victor at various ages. Rose was in some. Forbes was startled to see that in her youth she’d been quite appealing. A plain, wholesome face, but if you liked women on the sturdy side she had a fine figure, all breasts and hips, even in the odd styles of the 1930s.
“Yes,” Rose said. “Victor, the perennial adolescent. On his motorcycle; at Wrigley Field getting autographs; with strings of fish, buck deer, pheasants. And the high-tailed wench in those old shots, that’s me.”
“I’m impressed.”
“So was a certain young lawyer. He’s a federal judge now. I was his secretary then. He wanted to marry me. My father’d just died but there shouldn’t have been any problem. We could have sold off some of his properties, realized enough for Victor to get established. But Victor didn’t want me to leave him. Said we had to stick together. It’d be a betrayal to sell what our father had spent a lifetime assembling.”
“Rose, I—”
“No, listen. Victor killed that marriage. I went on taking care of him, picking up for him, getting him out of trouble, financing his businesses. He’d never have become a detective without me. I used pull to get him on the sheriff’s police, to qualify him for a license. Then I got him Jaraba as a client—the only good one he had. I even thought up the idea of the Hoodlum Directory, but let Victor take the credit. I wasted a lifetime protecting Victor, and that’s the point. Don’t you do it too, protecting Eric.”
“You think there’s a parallel?”
“There could be if you don’t stop now. Bill and I talked it over. He doesn’t have the guts to say it, but I do. Protecting Eric, you’ve gone too far already. At the conference tomorrow just what’ll you tell the police?”
“The Homicide detectives?” Forbes went to a chair and sat down. “Nothing. They’ll ask about drugs. I’ll say I don’t know anything about drugs. But then I’ll see a friend of mine in the unit that specializes in the Syndicate. I’ll show him these sketches—an apparently unrelated matter. Without mentioning my client’s name, I’ll tell him I’m looking for Iris Dean, and that some Syndicate types want her too. I’ll tell him about Powell, Maxwell, Saralee, Wojac, Harry Houser. In exchange he’ll try to identify these men and learn what they’re up to. But I won’t say I think there’s a connection between Iris and Helen’s murder.”
“For God’s sake, why not?”
“For one thing, without Eric’s testimony I can’t show a connection. All I can show is that there’s something rotten about Iris’s disappearance.”
“You’ve got Carmelle and St. Clair. His theory about why Helen was killed, his stock swindle story—it’s all on tape.”
“Even though I still don’t believe him, I won’t sell him out until I catch him in another lie. But I suppose you and Curley want me to tell the police everything now. Even about Eric.”
“No, not about Eric.” Her face grim, Rose sipped at her drink. “But everything else, yes. Call Bill back here tomorrow. Then go back to running a detective agency. Forget Iris Dean, and let the police handle St. Clair and Carmelle.”
“I can’t do that, Rose. I can’t just drop this.”
“But what you are doing isn’t fair. You’ve promised Bill an equity in the business, but you won’t have a business if you don’t pay attention to it. You’ve got urgent unanswered messages from half a dozen important clients on your desk. And Bill and I are both scared to death now. When we went into this, we didn’t expect to get involved with the likes of Claude. The people looking for Iris Dean—hell, they’re not kidding. Beating up that artist, trying to follow us wherever we go—”
“And suppose the police learn about Eric and Helen?”
“Get Eric a lawyer. Stand by him, but let him take his medicine. If Eric passes a lie test, they won’t do much to you for tampering with evidence. There’ll be dirty stories in the papers, but when it’s over they’ll just hit Eric with a narcotics charge, of which he’s guilty. Face facts, Julian. I’ve heard about Eric. From Helen, from Bill. The scrapes in high school, the jams in college, the wild bunch he used to hang out with, doing practically anything for kicks.”
“Sure, he’s been in trouble. But because of me and Helen, this time the trouble he could find himself in goes far beyond the offense he committed. As for the other times—he’s no angel, but I have to hope he’ll straighten out. I think he will straighten out. It’s a miracle he’s been able to hang on in college this long. Elaine—you want to hear about me and Elaine?”
Fearful that she’d gone too far, Rose said uncertainly, “I’m not trying to pry into those things, Julian. I—”
“I’ll t
ell you. Barry knows, other old friends know. Our marriage was a mistake to begin with. A high school romance during World War Two. And, of course, the quick ceremony just before the Army. But after I came back and Eric was born, Elaine didn’t want to make love any more. You can imagine how that affected our household. How it twisted everything, how the bitterness kept growing worse. If she did give in, I’d be made to feel like an animal. I tried to get her to seek help, but she wouldn’t. Retaliated by nagging me over everything. I should quit college, she needed money for the child. She never had liked the idea of me having more education than she had. And all day Eric was under her wing. She’d tell him what a louse I was, how much better than anyone else he was. He believed it. After her death Eric was beyond my control. She’d given him her inheritance from her father—nearly five thousand dollars to that irresponsible boy. I couldn’t stop him from moving out. I went on paying his expenses just to maintain contact, to have some measure of control over him.”
He got up and walked to the window. Through a break in the trees he saw the Mustang. In the front seat the tip of a cigarette glowed.
“And now I’ll tell you something else,” he went on. “The other day I lied to you and Bill, I lied to myself. Eric’s just an excuse. Actually I’m looking for Iris for a simple personal reason. I want to find her first. I want to know who killed Helen and why before anyone else does. Helen’s part of it. Nobody had a right to kill her. But beyond that, whoever killed her changed my life. Not that Jaraba was the answer. I was using him, as he was using me. I see that now, I put all my faith in him when I should have put it in my own efforts. But as far as public service is concerned, I’m dead. And after this I can’t even earn a living as a private investigator.”
“Don’t be silly. Even if they revoke your license, you can always—”
“No. I made the biggest mistake any investigator can make. I got emotionally involved. I lied, misrepresented myself, bribed, eavesdropped, deceived the police. Any means to an end—a personal end, the self-satisfaction in learning who killed Helen; and so after this I want no part of the detective business. And as you say, it isn’t fair, so the trip to Wisconsin’s my last act as a principal of the agency. My last case. No matter what happens up there, I’ll give Curley the agency when I get back.”
“That’s crazy. At your age you can’t start from scratch in something else. What’ll you do?”
“At the moment I don’t care.”
“I hope you change your mind,” Rose said unhappily. “We weren’t a bad team—Forbes, Curley, and Huff. If it hadn’t been for Helen’s murder, I’d have enjoyed it. And I was looking forward to putting that mess of an office of yours into shape. Oh, well.” She drained her glass. “You won’t tolerate idleness any more than I did. After they catch whoever killed Helen, look me up. I’ll be shopping for a new line too. Maybe we can work something out.” She nodded to a filing cabinet. “Victor’s Syndicate files, the two top drawers. But no more talk about this being your last case. It’s morbid, as though you expect to die or something.”
They found nothing in Victor’s files. Too bad. It would have been much better if he could have given his friend at Headquarters a name and a criminal record to start the ball rolling.
Rose accompanied him to the door. The Mustang was still parked down the street.
“That Mustang,” he said. “It belong to one of your neighbors?”
Rose peered over his shoulder. “No. I never saw it before.”
“Someone’s in it. It’s been sitting there since we arrived. If it’s still there when I leave, call the police.”
“And if it follows you?”
“I’ll call to tell you I got home all right. If you don’t hear from me within an hour, tell the police to start looking for me.”
Sure enough, a few seconds after he pulled from the curb the Mustang’s lights flashed on and it came after him. It had been artlessly done.
Rolling past a darkened row of stores, he braked at a red light at the Northwest Highway. The Mustang drove up from behind and swerved to the left, stopping abreast of his car.
Her head wrapped in a black scarf, Saralee rolled the window down.
“Hell,” she said, “I thought you’d never leave.”
“How’d you know where to find me?”
“Your answering service. Astro, remember? I called the restaurant and just missed you. And I didn’t think you’d send your new secretary home alone at this hour.” The light changed to green. “Come on. By now Morris must be having fits.”
She led him to a small motel on Mannheim Road. They both got out. Her entire costume was black—black sweater, black boots, black ski pants.
Silently he followed her to a motel unit in which Morris Maxwell perched on the edge of a chair, a can of beer in one hand. Six empties lay in a waste basket. Tonight he wore a checked gray sports jacket, black slacks, and a pink polo shirt.
Looking up at Forbes, he said, “I’m ready. Call and make your arrangements. Then let’s go.”
“Go where?”
Maxwell frowned. “To see your client, of course.”
Swell. It was nearly midnight, and St. Clair was now in Oshkosh, Wisconsin.
“You said you’d call me this morning.”
“Couldn’t. Tied up all day. Didn’t get clear until a couple hours ago.” Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing’s wrong, is there?”
“A few things. One, I’m not sure I trust you. Not after what your boys did to Wojac.”
“Boys?” The merchandiser shook his head. “Now, in your oblique way, you’re asking questions again. I have no boys.”
“You knew I’d seen Wojac. Are you pretending you don’t know that four men beat him so badly he was hospitalized—and warned him not to discuss Powell’s club with anyone?”
Maxwell seemed genuinely startled. “I heard he’d seen you. But not that he was beaten. If there’s anything I can do—”
“You might show good faith by paying his medical bills, plus a little extra. Two thousand should cover it. I’ll see that he gets it.”
“Of course.” He said that as casually as though Forbes had asked for two cents. “But about your client—”
“Sorry. He stood by all morning, but now I can’t reach him until tomorrow. And it’ll have to be after my secretary’s funeral.”
“Very well.” With a sigh, Maxwell took a swig of beer. “Tomorrow afternoon, right here. Be sure you’re not followed. I understand someone tried to follow you tonight, but you lost them under Wacker Drive.” Remarkable how well informed Maxwell continued to be. “And make it as fast as you can. It’s not easy for me to get away.”
CHAPTER 12
Lieutenant Toby Shanahan leafed through some of the reports Forbes had assembled on Iris Dean and drawled, “Judging from this, you’ve uncovered a real can of worms.”
It was Friday afternoon. Forbes had already talked to the Homicide detectives and then had gone down the hall to see Shanahan, a trim, red-headed man in his late thirties. Soft-spoken and college trained, Shanahan was a specialist on organized crime, but when Forbes had first met him they had both been rookie patrolman assigned to handing out parking tickets.
“I’m damned sure,” Forbes said, “Len Powell’s restaurant figures strongly in the picture somewhere. And as you can see from the transcript of the tape Curley made, Morris Maxwell himself wants to talk to my client about Iris but won’t say why.”
“You arrange the meeting yet?”
“Tentatively. But I wouldn’t be too surprised if he copped out. He’s hot and cold on it. Of course, if anything comes out of it that falls in your purview, I’ll let you know.”
“Confidentially,” Shanahan said, closing the file, “we looked at Powell’s restaurant when it opened last year. His record’s clean, but he’d lost a bundle in his last restaurant and we’d observed that a fe
w Syndicate front men had joined his key club. And if Powell told you Iris Dean was fired because of her record, he was lying. Several girls on his payroll had prostitution records, most of them were hired on the recommendation of a man with mob connections. We wondered if Powell hadn’t started fronting for the mob himself—if there might be some hanky-panky going on in his club. But absolutely nothing out of line happened there. Powell had strict rules for the girls and they were enforced. Most of the club members are solid citizens, and when we learned the big money behind Powell was Maxwell’s, we dropped it.”
“Sorry I don’t have a sketch of Claude, but his description’s in the top report.”
Shanahan studied Wojac’s sketches. “Good drawings. I don’t recognize any of these boys either, but I’ll run ’em through our files. Beating a man, terrorizing people—even if they aren’t the Syndicate, I’d like to know who they do represent. You tell my co-workers in Homicide about this?”
“No. We just discussed my secretary’s murder.”
“Uh-huh.” Folding his arms, the lieutenant leaned back. “No connection?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, it’d probably have been bucked to me anyhow. But just for the record, I will tell Homicide. I’d also like to tell them who your client is, the unnamed man who claims Iris Dean swindled him. As well as when and where we could all get together for a chat with your client and Carmelle Dean, about whom you’ve said remarkably nothing other than that you’ve found her.”
“I’ve told you,” Forbes said politely. “I’m seeing you informally—violating confidences because I’ve come across something I think you should know about. If I could prove a link between Iris’s disappearance and my secretary’s murder, I’d deliver Carmelle and my client to Homicide immediately. But I can’t. Furthermore, my client won’t sign a complaint against Iris, because it would subject him to embarrassment. That’s why he hired me. And Carmelle doesn’t want to see the police, so even if you talked to them I doubt that you’d learn much.”
The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel Page 69