by Horace McCoy
'Doctor cut it off this morning.'
'Looks funny to see you without the turban—'
'It feels funny. Like I was undressed. Better get Myra on that Little Theatre story too. You know the one I mean—'
'Want to bring in the Menefee angle?'
'Might as well. I want to write a follow on Tim Adamson, too. Poor bastard. Look out for things for a while—'
'What about your creditors? Forgotten that ad you ran yesterday?'
'I'll be back for that. I wouldn't miss that for the world—'
He went downstairs and out into the street. As he was getting into his car Grissom yelled good morning to him. Dolan waved back and started the motor, turning around in the middle of the block, heading for the Bay Shore district.
The Bay Shore district was a middle-class neighborhood. It depended for support on two big furniture factories. You could smell the factories when you crossed the viaduct and started down the hill to the reclaimed flatlands.
Dolan stopped at one factory and went into the time-keeper's office, introducing himself as a reporter from the Times-Gazette and asking for information on Arnold Smith. The time-keeper looked through the records and said he was sorry, no Arnold Smith worked there, or had worked there within two years. Dolan thanked him and went to the other factory.
The time-keeper here said a man named Arnold Smith had been employed about six months ago but was laid off now. Dolan asked him to describe him. The time-keeper chewed a pencil and gave a brief description.
'Sounds a little like him,' Dolan said. 'Can you give me his address?'
The time-keeper looked at the card.
'Three-one-five Perry Street. What do you want with him?' he asked, curious.
'He's come into a lot of money. Three-one-five Perry Street. Thanks.'
Dolan drove to 315 Perry Street. It was a small one-storey bungalow. A woman of about sixty answered the knock at the door.
'Pardon me,' Dolan said. 'Is this where Arnold Smith lives?'
'Yes,' the old woman said. 'I'm his mother. What did you want to see him about?'
'I'm not sure he's the Arnold Smith I'm looking for,' Dolan said. 'Do you mind if I come in a minute?'
'No, come in,' Mrs. Smith said, opening the door.
Dolan went inside to the small hall.
'My name's Dolan,' he said. 'Could I see Mr. Smith?'
'He's not here. What did you want to see him about?' Mrs. Smith said, beginning to look worried.
'I only wanted to speak to him a minute. Ask him a few questions—'
'Are you the man who telephoned him last night? Are you the man who was going to give him the job?'
'That's what I wanted to see him about,' Dolan said, trying to make his voice casual.
'What business have you got with him? Where is he?' Mrs. Smith asked nervously.
'Have you got a picture of him that I could look at—'
'Mister, what's the matter...'
'Now, don't be alarmed, Mrs. Smith,' Dolan said, showing his deputy's badge. 'I'm from the sheriff's office. He's not in trouble or anything, but I'd like to see a picture of him. This may not be the Arnold Smith I'm looking for—'
The old woman stood and looked at him a moment, a deep frown on her forehead, and then she moved into another room. Dolan lit a cigarette and was surprised to discover that the palm of his hand was as wet as if he had touched it in a bowl of water... The old woman came back and handed him a picture.
Dolan looked at it closely.
'Is this Arnold Smith?' he asked.
'Yes. My son.'
'I'm awfully sorry to have caused you any trouble, Mrs. Smith,' he said, handing back the picture. “This isn't the man I'm looking for. Thank you ...'
He went out, wondering if he'd done right in lying to the old woman.
* * * * *
He drove back across the viaduct, stopped at a drug-store and had a coke and telephoned the office. Bishop said there was nothing new except that Ox Nelson had been by and had left word that he wanted to see him. And, oh yes, a special delivery letter from Mrs. Marsden, thanking him for the repayment of the loan. The letter was from Los Angeles. Myra was there, getting the stuff together, and did he find Arnold Smith?
Dolan said no, he'd located his mother, but that it was a long story and he'd tell him when he came in. He hung up and called police headquarters and asked for Lieutenant Nelson. The lieutenant seemed delighted to hear from him. He had something important to talk to him about and could he come right over? No, no, it couldn't possibly wait. There was a peremptory quality in the lieutenant's tone. Dolan said all right, he'd come by.
* * * * *
'Now look here, Mike, for God's sake, be reasonable. You're out of diapers,' Nelson said, getting up from his desk, looking at Dolan.
'How'd you find out all this?' Dolan asked.
'Find it out! I'm head of the Red Squad, ain't I? How the hell do you suppose I found it out?'
'Baloney!' Dolan said. 'Who told you?'
'Don't start asking me questions. Never mind who told me. That dame and Ed Bishop are a couple of goddam Communists, and you'd better tell 'em what's what or I'll pull 'em in on a morals charge.'
'You tell me to be reasonable, I tell you to be reasonable. Ed Bishop's the same guy he's been for fifteen years. He was that way when he was on police, and you know it. Why have you suddenly decided to get him out of town?'
'You answer me a question,' Nelson said. 'What do you know about this Barnovsky dame? Nothing. She blew in out of nowhere and goes to work for you. You're a chump. She's done time in Texas for distributing radical literature. She's working right out of Moscow. She didn't tell you that, did she?'
'I asked you why you'd suddenly decided to get Ed Bishop out of town,' Dolan said again.
'I don't have to answer your silly questions,' Nelson said. 'I'm telling you what to do. Look, Mike. I like you. All the boys up here like you. And these two people are friends of yours. That's why I'm letting you break the news instead of going down there myself—'
'You were down there an hour ago. Why didn't you tell 'em then?'
'Hell,' Nelson said angrily, 'that's what I been trying to explain to you. They're friends of yours, goddam it.'
'All right, Ox—I'll tell 'em. I don't think it'll do any good, but I'll tell 'em. And now, do me a favour. Who started all this?'
'I can't tell you that, Mike. All I can tell you is that it comes from pretty high up.'
'An order?'
'Hell, you can laugh them off This was more than an order—'
'Carlisle?'
'I'm not saying—'
'I didn't know he has a hand in the police department. I thought Emmett hated his guts—'
'I'm not saying—'
'All right,' Dolan said, smiling, getting up. When he was finally erect the smile faded from his face. 'You know, Ox,' he said, 'you're the biggest sonofabitch I ever met in my life—'
Nelson blinked his eyes, and his mouth went in and out in half-smiles that kept turning into sneers.
'On the level,' Dolan said coldly. 'You're a sonofabitch—'
He turned and walked out.
* * * * *
When he got back to the office he found Bud McGonagill waiting for him.
'Hello Bud,' Dolan said.
'I want to talk to you,' McGonagill said.
'Here, or you want to go downstairs?'
'Here'll do,' McGonagill said shortly. 'What the hell did you do to that old woman on Perry Street?'
'Do to her? What do you mean, do to her?'
'Nix, nix—she telephoned the office and said a deputy named Dolan was out to see her. Thank God I answered the phone myself. She cried and moaned over about something happening to her son. She said somebody called there last night and talked to him about a job, and then he left. What the hell is this all about?'
'You know as much as I do. I did go out there to see a Mrs. Smith, looking for her son. I flashed my badge on her because tha
t was the only way I could get to see a picture of him—'
'Get it?' Bishop said sarcastically to McGonagill.
Dolan motioned for him and Myra to keep quiet.
'What did you want to see the picture for?'
'To identify him. I wanted to see if I knew him.'
'Did you?'
'Sure, but I told the old lady I didn't. I was afraid I'd upset her.'
'Well, she's plenty upset now. What about the guy? Who is he? He's been reported missing. I've got to find him—'
'I'd like to find him myself, but I'm afraid he'll be missing until he gets well. He had an operation performed last night—'
'Where is he now?'
'I wish to God I knew,' Dolan said.
'What kind of an operation?'
'What do you think?'
'What?' McGonagill exclaimed.
'The Crusaders. Those noble Crusaders—'
'“My country 'tis of thee,”' Bishop sang softly.
'Hell!' McGonagill said. 'That's what the old lady meant. She said right after you left, somebody telephoned and said he was the man who had spoken about the job the night before. He said Arnold was going away to South America and wouldn't have time to telephone, he was busy getting his new stuff, but that he would write from New Orleans. That's evidently what upset the old lady so much. She couldn't figure out why her son wouldn't at least telephone her good-bye.'
'She couldn't figure it out,' Dolan said; 'but we can. You know what that means, don't you? Arnold Smith's dead—'
'The odds are he's not, but this is a mess,' McGonagill said. 'Men don't die from that—'
'Not all of 'em do,' Dolan said slowly. 'Not all of 'em. But Arnold Smith did, as sure as God made little green apples. Yes, sir—as sure as God made little green apples, he's dead—'
'Well...' McGonagill said.
'Bud, there's nothing you can do but sit tight and hope for the best,' Dolan said. 'You've got nothing to worry about until somebody stumbles across the body—if they ever do. You've been square as hell with me and I appreciate it, and I'll try to keep this thing from reaching you. I don't know where it's going to lead myself- but I'm in this thing up to my eyes, and I'm going through with it—'
McGonagill turned and went down the steps without a word. Dolan watched him go through the door to the street. Then he leaned over the railing, looking down.
'Grissom,' he said, 'get those goddam pressmen in here early tomorrow morning.'
* * * * *
That afternoon at three o'clock his creditors came in ones, twos, and threes to collect their bills. They congratulated him and said they thought his advertisement in the paper was very clever. It was rather a flat occasion for Dolan. He had waited a good many years for this moment, but he got no more kick out of the actual ceremony than he did the ad he had run the day before. Finally, they were all gone.
'You're a bad guesser,' Myra said. 'There's a little more than five thousand dollars left—'
'I knew there would be,' he said, picking up the money, putting it in his pocket. 'Come on—'
'What are you talking about? We've got work to do if we're going to press in the morning—'
'We'll be back in thirty minutes. Come on—'
'Where? Where are we going?'
'Come on. We're going to get married. I'm going to marry you—'
'Mike,' Bishop said, 'have you gone crazy?'
'Come on ...' Dolan said to Myra.
* * * * *
Dolan laid down the proofs he was reading and got up off the bed, going to the door. It was Ulysses.
'Beg your pardon, Mister Mike,' he said, 'but we're moving tomorrow, and—'
'I can always tell when you want money, Ulysses. How much?'
'Well, sir—the moving man said it'd be twenty dollars to take two loads, but I think we got about four—'
Dolan took out a fifty-dollar bill and handed it to him.
'That's for moving—not for some high yaller.'
'Yes, sir. We got a nice new place, Mister Mike. You ain't seen it yet, have you?'
'No. Ernst told me about it tonight.'
'You got the best room, Mister Mike. I saw to that myself. I got to sort of take care of you since you're so busy—'
'Yeah. Thanks, Ulysses. Now beat it—'
'Yes, sir,' Ulysses said, going out. 'I'll have your room all fixed tomorrow night. It's funny, Mister Mike,' he said, pausing at the door, 'but there won't be much of this old house left this time tomorrow night. They started tearing down the back end this afternoon.'
Dolan went back to the proofs and in a few minutes Bishop and Myra came in.
'The second Mrs. Michael Dolan,' Bishop said, holding out Myra's hand, 'brought back to the master's bed safe and sound, her belly full of ham sandwiches and malted milks—a goddam plutocrat.'
'This stuff reads all right to me,' Dolan said, indicating the proofs. 'What did you think of it?'
'Swell story,' Bishop said. 'But, hell, that yarn doesn't have to be beautifully written. It's so big it'll carry itself. Hear anything more from Mrs. Smith?'
'I phoned her a little while ago. She's heard nothing. Hell, that fellow's dead. After we bust this story they'll find his body—'
'Unless it's been cremated,' Myra said.
'I thought of that. Then I promptly forgot it. They wouldn't do that. That's murder.'
'It's murder anyway,' Myra said.
'Well, I'm glad we've finally nailed Jack Carlisle. And Thomas, too. I never would have suspected him—'
'What about Crenshaw? Past president, Chamber of Commerce—'
'Carlisle's the one I'm tickled about. Especially since Nelson—'
'Nelson. What about Nelson?'
'I'm coming to that,' Dolan said. 'That's why I wanted you to come here tonight. Nelson read the riot act to me this morning—'
'About me?' Bishop asked.
'About the both of you—'
'So that's what he wanted to talk to you about!'
'That was it. He said you had to get out of town or else—'
'He's bluffing—'
'No, he's not. He's got orders from somebody. A command. From Jack Carlisle. This is the beginning of Carlisle's revenge—'
'Why didn't you tell us this before?' Myra asked.
'Oh, I didn't want to annoy you. I put it off as long as I could—'
'I see now why you married me,' Myra said.
'Sit down and shut up a minute,' Bishop said.
'That's why you married me, isn't it? Isn't it?'
'Well—'
'That is the reason, isn't it?'
'You're taking this the wrong way,' Dolan said, trying to find words to explain.
'You bastard,' Myra said, slapping him hard in the face.
Dolan's lips went together, but he said nothing, standing there looking at her. She slapped him again in the face, a little harder. Bishop lunged at her, grabbing her around the waist, the force of the lunge carrying them both sprawling across the bed.
'I'll break your jaw,' Bishop growled.
Dolan had not moved.
'Ed,' he said quietly.
Bishop got to his feet. Myra suddenly rolled over on her stomach and began to cry.
'Ed,' Dolan said, taking a big roll of money out of his pocket, 'here's five thousand. You'd better take the family and move—'
Bishop smiled, then grinned, then laughed.
'No,' he said, shaking his head.
'Take it,' Dolan said, holding out the money.
'No—'
Dolan suddenly shoved the roll of bills into Bishop's coat pocket.
'Use your head,' Dolan said.
'I'm sticking, Mike,' Bishop said, taking the money out of his pocket. 'Take back this dough or I'll throw it out the window. So help me God, I will.'
Myra had stopped crying, was sitting up on the bed.
'Wait a minute, Ed. That's for the kids. I know they need a lot of things. That money's for them—medicine, doctors—'
> Bishop let the hand holding the money fall to his side.
'I'm sticking,' he said doggedly.
'You take that money home to your wife. Tell her it's for her—'
'Okay—but I'm sticking.'
'You're a goddam fool,' Dolan said.
The telephone rang.
'Should I?' Bishop asked.
Dolan nodded and Bishop went out.
'Get up from there and cut out that monkey-business,' Dolan said to Myra. 'For God's sake, I didn't mean to make you sore. I was only trying to help you—'
'I've been sitting here wondering about you,' Myra said. 'Do you mind if I see your hands?'
Dolan went over and held out his hands. She turned them over looking at the palms. Then she looked up at him smiling, with fresh tears in her eyes.
'What?' he asked, puzzled.
'I was looking for the scars of the nails,' she said.
Bishop came back, excited.
'I damn near booted it. I told her you weren't here. She's on the phone,' he said.
'Who?'
'Mrs. Smith. She wants to talk with you—'
Dolan went out.
'Why don't you try to be nice to the guy?' Bishop said to Myra. 'Don't be stupid all your life. This Mick is the swellest sonofabitch that ever came down the pike. He's in love with you—'
'He's got a peculiar way of showing it,' Myra said.
'Well, he is, anyway. Why don't you try to get along with him?'
'I will—'
'I ought to knock both your heads together—'
Dolan rushed back in the room.
'Arnold Smith's home,' he said, his eyes bright. 'He's just turned up. This cinches the case. I know he'll help us. I'm going out and have a talk with him—'
'We'll all go,' Bishop said. 'All of us—'
'Want to?' Dolan asked Myra.
'Sure,' she said, getting up.
'That's more like it,' Bishop said. 'Come on—'
* * * * *
The Cosmopolite broke the story late that afternoon, with names and facts. Dolan had purposely held back the distribution until after four o'clock when he was certain the editorial and mechanical staffs of the afternoon newspapers had quit for the day. He was taking no chance of a remake on any one of their final editions.
LEADING CITIZENS OF TOWN HEAD CRUSADERS
JACK CARLISLE AND CRENSHAW LEAD MASKED MOB WHICH MUTILATES BAY SHORE MAN
ASTOUNDING EXPOSURE OF SECRET SOCIETY