Raven gave him a few seconds, and then he walked to the mouth of the alley and glanced up and down the street. He saw nothing there to alarm him, and squaring his shoulders he stepped into the light of the street lamps.
In his apartment Mendetta amused himself with a pack of cards. He held a cigar between his thick lips and a glass of whisky−and−soda stood at his elbow. He played patience.
The apartment was silent except for the faint shuffling of cards as Mendetta altered their position. He liked patience, and he played with tense concentration. He heard Jean, in the bathroom, drawing off water, and he glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after twelve.
The phone suddenly jangled. He half shifted his bulk, his brows coming to a heavy frown, and stared at the phone.
Jean called from the bathroom, “Shall I answer it?”
He got up and walked with heavy steps across the room. “No, no. It'll be for me,” he said, raising his voice so that she could hear. He picked up the receiver. “Who is it?”
“That you, Tootsie? This is Grantham.”
Mendetta frowned. “What's the trouble?” he said sharply. “This is a hell of a time to ring me.”
“Yeah, but this is a hell of a spot we're in.” Grantham had a cold, clipped voice. “Listen, Tootsie, that little punk Hamsley's dropped us right in it.”
“What are you talkin' about?” Mendetta sat on the edge of the small table, which rocked under his weight.
“Dropped us where?”
“Hamsley's been digging Poison's wife. He's been playin' her for a sucker for weeks. She's spent a heap of jack on him.”
“That's what he's at the Club for, ain't it?” Mendetta demanded impatiently. “Ain't he givin' you a cut?”
Grantham laughed bitterly. “It's not that. The old siren fell for him, and he couldn't take it. She took him out last night and tried to rape him. He ran away, the yellow punk.”
Mendetta's fat face relaxed a little. “Well, what of it? You can't hold the boy up for that. Hell! I've seen that dame. She'd turn anyone's stomach.”
“That so? Well, know what she's done? She's squawked to Poison. Said Hamsley's tried to rape her. How do you like that?”
“She's crazy. Poison ain't goin' to believe a yarn like that.”
“No? Well, let me tell you he's hoppin' mad right at this moment. Maybe he doesn't believe it, but she's got herself in such a state, she does. That's enough for Poison. She's makin' him get mad. Listen, Tootsie, this is serious. Poison's goin' to try an' close us up.”
11
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
Mendetta sneered. “Let him,” he said. “What the hell do we care? They've got nothin' on us. He can't close us up.”
Grantham cleared his throat. “You don't know Poison as well as I do. He'll attack us in that rag of his. He might turn somethin' up.”
Mendetta considered this. “Not as long as I'm alive,” he said at last. “I'll go round an' see that guy. We'll give him Hamsley, but he's got to lay off us.”
“Will you do that?” Grantham sounded relieved. “Get round tomorrow early, Tootsie. This ain't the time to he down on it.”
Mendetta stood up. “Leave it to me,” he said. “I'll fix him,” and he hung up.
Jean came out of the bathroom. She looked strikingly beautiful in her silk wrap. Perhaps her mouth was too large, but it gave her a generous look that was not in her nature. She was tall, with square shoulders, a narrow waist and thick hips.
“Who was it?” she said.
Mendetta went over to the table and gathered up the cards. He didn't feel like patience any more.
“Grantham,” he returned, putting the cards carefully in their container. He was a very tidy man. He took two little sips from the whisky.
She looked over at the clock. “What did he want? It's late.”
Mendetta nodded his big head. “I know,” he said. “Go to bed. I'll come in a little while.”
She turned her head so that he couldn't see the sudden vicious look that came into her eyes. “Don't be so secretive,” she said lightly. “Is he in trouble?”
He stubbed out his cigar. “He's always in trouble. That's why I'm hereto pull him out.” He plodded over to her. His big heavy hand rested on her hip. “Go to bed. I shan't be long.”
“Tootsie, I must know,” she said. “Has something happened at the Club?”
He looked at her with a curious expression, half angry, half amused. He turned her towards the bedroom door. “It's nothing,” he said. “Go to bed,” and he smacked her across her buttocks very hard.
She went away from him, her knees weak and her inside coiled into a hard ball of hatred. She went across the bedroom to the window and pulled back the curtains. Leaning against the window−frame, she looked down into the street below. She remained like that for several minutes before she regained control of herself.
If Mendetta had seen her expression as she stood by the window he would have been uneasy. As it was, his indifference to her feelings prepared the way for what eventually happened.
In the street, Raven crossed the road casually and walked towards the apartment block. When he neared the lighted entrance he stopped and knelt down to adjust his shoe−string. From under his slouch hat, he surveyed the doorway thoroughly. He was not satisfied with the empty doorway, so he crossed the street again and passed the block on the opposite side. His caution rewarded him.
A little guy, dressed in black, lounged against the wall in the shadows near the entrance. He kept so still that Raven wouldn't have noticed him at all if he'd come straight into the blinding light of the doorway.
The little guy had his hands deep in his coat pockets, and he watched Raven pass on the other side of the street, indifferently.
Raven went on, crossed the road again and turned down a side street. He turned to his right after a few minutes' walking and approached the rear of the apartment block. This time he kept to the shadows. He hadn't gone far before he spotted another little guy, also dressed in black, lounging near the rear exit.
So it wasn't going to be the easy way. He might have known it. It was a cinch that if Mendetta had guards outside the block, there would be guards inside as well.
Raven went on, his head thrust forward, the line of his jaw fixed, and his thin lips compressed. He knew Mendetta couldn't escape from him. It was just a matter of time.
12
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
4
June 5th, 1.40 a.m.
JAY GOT round to the 22nd Club twenty minutes before it closed down for the night. There were a lot of people dancing and drinking, and he went immediately to the bar.
The bartender looked at him and rang a bell in Grantham's office by pressing his toe on a button on the floor. His well−disciplined face smiled at Jay, and he asked him what he'd like. Jay ordered a beer.
Benny Perminger came up at the moment, very hot and damp, and ordered a double Scotch. He seemed delighted to see Jay.
“What a stranger,” he said; “and drinkin' beer too! Don't you know it's bad etiquette to drink beer in a joint like this?”
Jay shook hands with him. “I don't have to worry about such things,” he said seriously. “No one expects a newspaper man to behave like a human being. How's the motor trade?”
Benny shook his head. “Lousy,” he said. “There's too much competition. Seriously, Jay, I'm havin' a bad time just gettin' along.”
Jay pursed his lips. There were always guys who had a bad time getting along, but they went to places like the 22nd Club and spent as much in a night as he earned in a week. Benny was one of these.
“I saw your chief. Poison, the other night. My God! Have you seen his car? It's just a ruin on four wheels.
It's time he had a new one.”
Jay shrugged. “Poison's old−fashioned. He likes that car. Maybe he's got sentimental memories.”
“I don't believe it; he's just mean. Listen, Jay, could you put in a wor
d for me? If I could get that old buzzard to take a trial run I'd hook him, but I can't get near him.”
Jay promised to do what he could.
“There's another guy who I want to get in with. That's Mendetta. He could use a flock of my cars. I do trucks now, you know. Beggars can't be choosers. I guess that guy could use a lot of trucks. I've been trying to persuade Grantham to get me an introduction, but he doesn't seem keen. I suppose I'll have to offer him a split in my commission.”
“Does Grantham know Mendetta?” Jay asked, suddenly interested.
“Know him? Why, of course he knows him. I thought everyone knew that. Mendetta put up the dough for this Club. He's got his finger in every pie.”
Jay drank some beer. “Aaah,” he said, putting the glass down, “Mendetta's a bad guy. I'd forget about him.”
Benny shrugged. “What the hell. His dough's good, ain't it?” he said. “I don't care who buys my cars as long as he pays.”
Jay finished his beer. “Maybe you're right,” he said.
Just then a blonde came in, followed by a tall young man with heavy, horn−rimmed glasses. The blonde wore a red dress, very tight across her small breasts, and when she climbed up on the high stool at the bar she showed a lot of her legs.
Benny looked at her. He stared so hard that she giggled suddenly and adjusted her skirt. Benny sighed.
“There're an awful lot of swell dames around tonight,” he said to Jay. “She's nice, ain't she?”
Jay wasn't very interested. “Sure,” he said; “they're all nice. Where's your wife? How is she, anyway?”
Benny still looked at the blonde. “Sadie? Oh, she's fine. She's out there with my party. I sort of wanted a drink. Did I? No, that's wrong. I came out for a doings. Seeing you put it out of my mind. I guess I'd better get on.” He shook hands again and went off.
Jay ordered another beer. While he was waiting for it, he saw Grantham come in. Grantham was very tall and thin, with silver−white hair. His face was hard. Two lines ran from his nose to his mouth, and he looked very grey. Jay only knew him by sight, he'd never spoken to him. When he saw him, he turned back to the bar and paid the bartender.
Grantham came up and stood at his elbow. “What do you want?” he said. His voice was very hostile.
Jay looked at him by turning his head. “Should I know you?” he asked. “Are you someone I ought to 13
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
know?”
Grantham introduced himself. “We don't have newspaper men in here, you know,” he said; “we don't like them in here.”
Jay raised his eyebrows. “That's interestin',” he said. “That's very interesting. No newspaper men, huh?
And who else? Tell me your black list. I bet you don't like the cops in here either.”
Grantham tapped a little tune on the counter. “Don't let's get sore about this,” he said evenly. “I'm just telling you. Maybe you didn't know.”
“Is this your idea, or did Mendetta suggest it?”
Grantham's face hardened. “That sort of talk won't get you anywhere,” he said quietly. “I'm just telling you to keep out of here, that's all.”
Jay shook his head. “You can't do that. This is a place for public entertainment. I should forget about it. A line or two in my paper could upset your business pretty badly.”
Grantham nodded. “I see,” he said; “I was just giving you a hint. You don't have to take it. You're quite right, of course. You have every right to come here. Only you're not welcomed.”
“Leave me now, pal,” Jay said, turning away, “I'm goin' to have a good cry.”
Grantham looked at the barman and then at the clock. “You can shut down, Henry,” he said, and walked away.
Jay finished his beer, nodded to the barman, who ignored him, and went out into the big lounge. People were beginning to move out. He saw Clem Rogers, who played the saxophone in the band, putting his instrument away. He knew Rogers quite well.
He went to the cloakroom and got his hat, and then he went outside. He had to wait ten minutes before Rogers came out, and then he followed him away from the Club. When they got to the main street he overtook him.
Rogers seemed surprised to see him. “You're late, ain't you?” he said, peering at his wrist−watch. It was just after two o'clock.
Jay fell in step beside him. “We newspaper guys never sleep,” he said. “How about a little drink? There's a joint just down here that keeps open all night.”
Rogers shook his head. “I guess not,” he said. “I want to get home. I'm tired.”
Jay put his hand on his arm and steered him down a side turning. “Just a short drink, buddy,” he said, “then you can go home.”
They went down some steps to an underground bar. The place was nearly empty. A short, thick−set Italian dozed across the bar. He raised his head sleepily as the two entered.
“Good evenin',” he said, rubbing the counter−top with a swab. “What will you have?”
“At this time of night, Scotch,” Jay said. “Bring us the bottle over there.” He indicated a table at the far end of the room.
Rogers followed him across and sat down. He yawned, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “God! I'm tired,”
he said. “I wish I could get some other job. This is killin' me.”
Jay poured out a big shot of whisky in each glass. “I ain't goin' to keep you long, but there's just one little thing you might help me with.”
“Sure, I'd be glad to. What is it?”
“You must see everything that goes on at the Club. I've got a feeling it ain't quite on the level. I want to find out.”
Rogers sat back. His sleepy eyes suddenly woke up. “I don't know what you mean,” he said.
“Just that. How does the place strike you?”
Rogers blinked. “You tryin' to get the place shut down?” he asked, a little coldly.
Jay hesitated, then he said, “That's about it. Now, look here, Rogers, you know me. I wouldn't make things difficult for you. I know you've got to think of your job, but if you helped me I'd see you all right.”
“Yeah? How?”
“How would you like to work for Cliff Somers? I could get you an in with his outfit if you fancied it.”
Rogers' face brightened. “Honest?”
Jay nodded.
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Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
“I'd like that. I've always wanted to work for Somers. He's got a swell crowd.”
“I know, but I'd only get you in if you made it worth while. You've got to tell me things.”
Rogers shook his head. “I guess that's too bad,” he said. “There's nothin' to tell. The Club's like hundreds of other clubs. Maybe there's a fight now and then between two drunks, but that's nothin'.”
Jay pulled a face. “I didn't think there was anything wrong with the joint,” he admitted, “but I was hoping you'd know something.”
Rogers shook his head. “No, I guess not.” He finished his drink.
“Think back,” Jay urged him. “Hasn't anythin' happened that made you curious? Anythin' that somebody did or said.”
Rogers yawned. “No, I don't think so,” he said, staring with sleepy eyes at the bottle of Scotch. “Mind you, there was one violent drunk that made a bad scene a couple of months ago, but that wasn't anythin' really.”
Jay shifted impatiently. “Well, tell me.”
“There was nothin' to it. Some guy wanted to see Grantham. He wasn't well dressed. Looked like a clerk in an office or somethin'. I thought it was odd that he should come to the Club. When Grantham didn't show up he started to shout. Some bull about where his sister was or somethin'. We didn't pay much attention to him.
They gave him a bum's rush. Treated him pretty roughly. We haven't seen him again.”
“What about his sister?”
Rogers shrugged. “Search me. He's lost her or somethin'. Seems to have thought that Grantham knew where she was. I guess he was drunk.”
“Di
d he look drunk?”
“No, now you come to think of it, he didn't, but I guess he must have been. You don't start shouting around a joint like the 22nd unless you're drunk, do you?”
“Still it's rum, ain't it?” Jay turned it over in his mind. “Know who he is?”
Rogers frowned. “I did hear his name. I've forgotten. It wasn't important, you see.”
“Think. I want to find that guy. Maybe he knows somethin'.”
Rogers tried to concentrate. “It was quite an ordinary name. I tell you what. Gerald Foster, the shipping man, seemed to know him. He was having dinner at the time. When this guy started shouting, he looked round and seemed to recognize him. He got up and told him not to make a fool of himself. You might ask him.”
Jay said he would. He stood up. “I ain't keepin' you out of your cot any longer,” he said. “Keep your ears open, won't you?”
Rogers got up. “You really meant what you said about Somers?”
“I'll see him tomorrow,” Jay promised.
They went out into the street.
“It's mighty dark, ain't it?” Rogers said, groping his way up the stone steps.
Jay followed him. “It's all right when you get used to it,” he returned. “Come on, I'll go some of the way home with you.”
They parted when they came to the trolley stop. Rogers went off to collect his car from a near−by garage, and Jay waited for a trolley. He was quite satisfied with his evening's enquiries. He didn't expect to find anything but at least he could tell Henry that he was following up an angle that might bring in something. If they could only keep Poison quiet for a week or so, he might simmer down.
He saw the lights of the trolley as it swung round the corner. He'd be glad to get home, he told himself.
15
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
5
June 5th, 2.15 a.m.
RAVEN COULDN'T SLEEP. He moved through the dark streets, his sour, bitter hatred refusing to let him rest. He walked automatically, not noticing where he was going. He wanted to vent his vicious hatred on someone who couldn't strike back. He wanted to sink his hands into flesh and rend.
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