When he left, I turned on the room’s TV set, then took off my coat and tie and hung them in the closet. The tail end of a western was playing on TV. I got a bottle of bourbon from my suitcase and set it on the dresser.
The phone rang.
Picking it up, I said, “Hello.”
“All alone?” Carl’s voice asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve got one on the way. How about you?”
“Ditto.”
“If she’s nice, do I put the arm on her as soon as she accepts the money, or after the carnal act?”
“Read your regulations,” I told him.
“I have,” he said in a mournful tone. “What a lousy way to make a living.”
“See you at the booking desk,” I said, and hung up.
There was a rap at the door. It was a white-coated boy from room service with a tray containing a bottle of soda, an ice bucket and a couple of glasses. I signed the check, parted with another buck and he went away again.
I mixed myself a highball and sat down to watch television while I was waiting. The eight-thirty news was just coming on.
The national and international news came first. Then, after a commercial, the newscaster got around to local news.
The first item was: “A local young woman was murdered today by an unknown assailant. Katherine Desmond, age twenty-four, of 125 Ormond Place, was discovered dead in the apartment she shared with another girl when her apartment-mate returned from a shopping trip at three P.M.”
The newscaster’s face faded out as another camera focused on the picture of a pretty young brunette. The voice went on: “The young victim had been severely beaten and then strangled. Police have ruled out robbery as a motive, as the victim’s purse containing more than two hundred dollars lay in plain sight on a dresser in the bedroom where the body was found. There was no evidence of criminal assault, but the police theorize the crime was committed by a psychopath. Delores Fermer, the apartment-mate, said that both she and Miss Desmond were actresses by profession. Further developments in the case will be reported on the nine-thirty news.”
The girl’s picture disappeared and the newscaster’s face returned to the screen. As he went on with other local items, I wondered idly where two young girls found acting jobs in a city where there was no legitimate stage and no movie or television production companies.
Then it occurred to me that “actress” was the common profession given by prostitutes when their names appear in the news. They don’t want to say “whore,” and most other job designations involve explaining where they work. Since an actress can always be “temporarily at liberty,” it’s a convenient way for prostitutes to explain how they make a living. The Actor’s Guild hates them for it, but there’s no law against claiming you’re an actress, even if your total stage experience consists of a walk-on part in a grammar-school play when you were eight years old.
I was taking a sip of my drink when another thought struck me. Katherine Desmond had been the murder victim’s name. Kitty was a common nickname for Katherine. Harold Warner’s Kitty had been a pretty brunette, just like the girl whose picture had appeared on the television screen. And the ages matched. A cold chill ran along my spine.
Getting up, I set my drink on the dresser, picked up the phone and asked the switchboard operator for an outside line. When I got it, I dialed Homicide.
A sad voice said in my ear, “Homicide, Sergeant Carter.”
Hank Carter always sounded sad, because he had to work with Lieutenant Robert Wynn, and that was enough to sadden anyone. Wynn is the most irascible, regulation-conscious man on the force.
I said, “This is Matt Rudd, Hank. Who has the Katherine Desmond case down there?”
“Oh, hi, Matt. Anderson and Cole of the day trick took the squeal. Wynn and I have the follow-up.”
“Good. Have you viewed the body?”
“Me? What the hell for? Anderson and Cole saw it and it’s description is in the case record. Plus photographs both at the scene and on a slab. I see enough bodies without trooping down to the morgue to look at one that’s already been identified.”
“Then do me a favor. Look in the case record and see if she had any identifying marks.”
“I already have. I told you we’ve got the follow-up. She had a small heart-shaped tattoo on her left hip.”
My stomach suddenly felt as though I had swallowed a pound of lead. It gives you a sick feeling to think you might have caused a young woman’s death, even indirectly.
I asked, “What have you got on the case so far?”
“Nothing, except time of death. The M.E. placed that between eleven A.M. and four P.M., but we were able to narrow it down a little closer than that. Delores Fermer, the apartment-mate, says she was alive when she left the apartment about eleven-thirty. She returned at three and found her dead. The apartment-mate claims she had no enemies and no boy friends. We figure a psycho killed her. It wasn’t a sex job, though. She was fully clothed and her clothing wasn’t disturbed. She still had her panties on.”
“How’d the killer get in?”
“The Fenner girl says the door was unlocked when she got home. She says they seldom locked it in the daytime when one or the other was there. I guess he just walked in. He sure made a mess of her. Beat her half to death before he strangled her. She must have screamed bloody murder, but it’s only a four-unit apartment house and none of the other tenants happened to be home, so there was nobody to hear her.”
“Any fingerprints?”
“Just the two girls’. The Fenner girl said they never had company, so no odd prints were around. The only prints on the front doorknob were the Fenner girl’s. We figure that had been wiped clean by the killer when he left, and she put her’s there when she returned from shopping and discovered the body. What’s your interest in the case, Matt?”
I said, “I think maybe I was indirectly responsible for getting her killed.”
Carter was silent for a time. Presently he said, “Come again?”
“I’m about to hand you a real hot potato, Hank. Did you know the victim was a call girl?”
“We guessed she was some kind of hustler. The Fermer girl too. They always say they’re actresses, and the Fermer girl couldn’t name any shows either had ever worked in. Then too, never having any company was a sign. They get enough of men during working hours, so usually they live pretty quiet home lives. It all added up. What’s the hot potato?”
“She was one of Little Artie Nowak’s girls.”
He was silent again. Then he said, “So?”
“So last night she rolled a visiting fireman at the Leland. The guy came to headquarters with a beef. Lincoln and I called on Artie this morning and diplomatically suggested that that kind of stuff gave the city a bad name. Artie came up with the money like a little lamb and said he’d collect it from the girl. I figured he’d belt her around a little, but that’s a risk girls like that take when they violate the rules. It never even occurred to me he might kill her.”
There was a third period of silence. Finally he said, “Wow! That is a hot potato.”
“Not if you pin it on him. Even our beloved bald-headed commissioner doesn’t expect us to overlook murder.”
“Sure, if we can prove it,” Carter said sadly. “But if we stir Nowak up by pulling him in for questioning and it turns out he didn’t do it, Wynn and I can both head for the border.”
“You’d better move easy,” I advised him. “There’s a peculiar angle to this I’d better tell you about.”
“What?”
“Well, the minute I heard about the murder over the air, I decided Artie must have done it. But I had a confidential talk with Nick Bartkowiak today, and he’s concerned about Artie’s girls rolling customers. Seems it’s become a regular habit, and Nick thinks they’re doing it with Artie’s approval.”
In a surprised voice Carter said, “You’re close enough to Bartkowiak for him to unload his problems on you?”
“He was my childhood neighbor. Besides, he had an angle I won’t go into because it doesn’t have any bearing on the case. The point is, if Artie has been instructing his girls to roll customers, why would he kill one for following orders?”
“Maybe just because she got caught,” Carter said dubiously.
“That hardly seems likely. Seems more probable the girls have been rolling customers on their own, and Artie was as concerned about it as Bartkowiak. Maybe he just meant to beat the girl up as an object lesson, and things got out of hand.”
“I guess we’ll have to look him up,” Carter said reluctantly. “Wish us luck.”
“You’ve got my moral support,” I told him.
“Thanks,” he said morosely, and hung up.
CHAPTER 7
I had hardly resumed my seat in front of the television set when there was a soft rap at the door. Rising again, I went to open it.
A buxom blonde of about twenty-one or two stood in the hall. She wore a simple but tasteful print dress and carried a small white bag. She was buxom only through the torso and hips, her arms and legs were becomingly slim and her waist was small enough to encircle with my hands. I doubt that I could have gotten both arms all the way around her at chest level, though. She had a pretty, round, smooth-skinned face and there was a tentative smile on it.
“You’ve got the right room,” I said. “Come on in.”
She moved past me and I closed and locked the door. After a glance around, she turned to face me and exposed even white teeth in a friendly grin.
“You’re nice,” she said. “I like big men. I’m Jolly.”
“I’m pretty jolly myself,” I said.
She emitted a little giggle. “That’s my name, silly—Jolly. What’s yours?”
“Matt.”
“Urn. That’s a fine masculine name. I like virile names for men, not sissy names such as Lyle and Leslie and Ethelbert.”
I was a little bemused. As a rule prostitutes, even the aristocrats of the trade, the call girls, don’t have very extensive vocabularies. “Virile” is hardly a pedantic word, but it was surprising to hear a hustler use it.
I said, “How about Mateusz?”
“Mateusz? Is that what it is? What are you? A Russian?”
“Polack.”
“Well,” she said, pleased, “my mother was Polish.”
“You speak the language?”
She shook her head. “We never spoke it around the house, because my father was Irish. That’s why I didn’t recognize Mateusz as a Polish name. You’re certainly a big one. How much do you weigh?”
“Around two-ten.”
“Urn. And no fat on you. Where’d you ever get such big brown eyes?”
My eyes are the cross I have to bear. At some point of acquaintance every new woman I meet feels impelled to make some crack about my eyes. I’ve examined them in the mirror and they just look like eyes to me, but women seem to find something in them I can’t. When they make cracks in front of the boys, I take a squadroom riding for days. I was glad we were alone.
I said, “I had a deer mother.”
Her face assumed a look of mock pain. “Don’t you know a pun is the lowest form of humor? Samuel Johnson said that.”
“You must read more books than I do,” I said. “I thought it was Mark Twain. Want a drink?”
“Let’s get the business part over with first, shall we? Then we can relax.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, taking out my wallet. “What’s the fee?”
“For all night, or just a quickie?”
“I’m a hog. All night.”
“Fifty dollars.”
I took out a marked fifty-dollar bill and handed it to her. Tucking it into her bag, she laid the bag on the dresser and smiled at me brightly. “Now I’ll have that drink.”
This was the point where I was supposed to flash my badge and inform her she was under arrest. But I had been doing some thinking since she entered the room. It was now nine-twenty, the television set was still on, and a newscast was due in ten minutes. There was a good probability that Jolly knew Kitty Desmond, since they were colleagues, and most call girls’ friendships are restricted to other call girls, pimps and procurers. If she didn’t already know Kitty was dead, the shock of hearing it on the air might jolt some information out of her. Homicide wasn’t my business, but I felt a personal interest in this case, and the murder seemed more important than the routine arrest of a call girl.
I mixed her a drink and refilled my own glass.
While I was making drinks, Jolly reached around to the middle of her back and pulled down her dress zipper. Opening another zipper at the side of her dress, she untied the slim black velvet rope which served as a belt and casually slipped the dress off over her head. Opening the closet door, she carefully put the dress on a hanger and replaced the hanger in the closet.
Despite her profession, Jolly hadn’t been dressed to inspire passion. Call girls seldom are because they have to look respectable when crossing hotel lobbies. If a call girl slithered into a lobby wearing a low-cut gown and made up like a burlesque queen, she would be stopped by the house dick before she ever reached the elevator. With her dress on Jolly had merely looked like a stylishly smart young woman. And beneath it she wore the full quota of undergarments.
Pulling a slip off over her head, she placed that on another hanger and put it in the closet. Still in brassiere, panties, stockings and shoes, she moved to the dresser and picked up her bag. Taking out a comb, she looked in the mirror and rearranged her hair where pulling the garments off over her head had slightly mussed it.
Meantime I had finished mixing the drinks and could give my undivided attention to her performance.
Satisfied that her hair was properly groomed, Jolly returned the comb to the bag. Reaching behind her back again, this time with both hands, she unhooked her brassiere. She watched me with a slight smile on her face as she slowly removed it, folded it in half and laid it on the dresser. Then she arched her back to make her breasts jut out and waited for my approval.
She merited it. You would have expected some sag in a bust of that dimension, for it must have measured forty inches. But with all that weight, her breasts stood out as straight and firm as a teen-ager’s.
I brought my palms together in a silent gesture of applause.
Grinning at me, she kicked off her shoes and bent to un-snap her nylons. Gracefully peeling them off, she draped them across the dresser top, then pulled off pink panties and laid them atop the folded brassiere. That left her wearing nothing but a slim garter belt, and a moment later that was on the dresser top too.
For an instant she stood facing me, her back arched to push out her magnificent breasts, then did a pirouette and picked up her drink. Carrying it to the easy chair facing the television set, she sat, tucked her bare feet beneath her and gave me a chummy smile.
I pulled a straight-backed chair over next to the easy-chair, picked up my own drink and sat down. A private eye thing was playing on television, but I didn’t look at it. You can see those any night, but how often do you see a bare forty-inch bust that doesn’t require support?
“Cheers,” she said, elevating her glass.
I raised mine too, and we drank.
“I’m glad you’re not a hurry-up Joe,” she confided.
“What’s a hurry-up Joe?”
“A fellow who can’t wait, and starts pawing the minute you walk in. I like to get acquainted a little first, so it’s not like you’re doing it with an utter stranger. Don’t you think it’s nicer to start a little slow and gradually build up momentum?”
There was another word outside the average call girl’s vocabulary—”momentum.” Again it was an ordinary enough word, but hustlers seldom converse in words of more than one syllable. Most of them would have said “speed.”
“I guess it’s a little less commercial,” I allowed.
“Yes, that’s what I mean. This may sound funny to you, but sometimes I like to
forget there’s any money involved. With some fellows you can’t. It’s just a matter of getting the unpleasantness over with as soon as possible. But when I like a man, I feel like taking my time and getting some enjoyment myself. I’ve got an idea you can make me squeal.”
“Um,” I said noncommittally.
“Are you a straight lover?”
“What’s a straight lover?” I inquired.
“You know. Some fellows have odd ideas.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. I’m the old-fashioned type.” I made my voice apologetic.
“Silly,” she said, making a face at me. “I wasn’t suggesting anything. I was just asking. I’m the old-fashioned type myself, but you’d be surprised at how mixed up some perfectly normal looking men are.”
“Like how?”
“Well, for instance, some of them don’t even take their clothes off and don’t even want to touch a girl. They just want her to parade around in front of them.”
“Voyeurs,” I said.
She gave me a delighted smile. “You do too read as many books as I do. I read a lot, you know, and I like intelligent, well-read men. I’ve done a lot of reading on abnormal psychology. Do you know much about it?”
“Some,” I said. “What else do you run into?”
“Well, there are the masochiste, who like to be whipped. Not many, but every so often one turns up. And the sadists, who like to whip girls.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Do you put up with that?”
She lifted bare shoulders in a graceful shrug. “Not with a leather belt. Did you notice the belt on my dress?”
“Uh-huh. Black velvet.”
“Yes, with no buckle. Most of the girls wear something like that, just in case. It hardly hurts at all. Just stings a little and doesn’t leave any welts. If they won’t settle for that, it’s no go. I just leave. Usually they will, though. One of the most prominent businessmen in this town is a whipper.”
And I had thought being a cop was a hell of a way to make a living. “Don’t these cuckoos ever give you trouble?” I inquired.
“Oh, no. I know how to handle myself when things get out of hand. I’ve only run into one psycho. He wanted to burn me with cigarettes, and he got insistent. I clipped him on the jaw and knocked him colder than a carp.”
Anything But Saintly Page 4