Sadie moved restlessly. “Will it take long?” she asked.
Campbell shrugged. “I don't think so. We mustn't underrate this man. He's clever, and he may still give us the slip, but with your help I think we'll get him quickly. Can you tell me anything about his habits? Did he like movies, for instance? You see, what we have to do in a case like this is to find out everything we can about a wanted man. They have their own little peculiarities. Some of them are crazy about racing. Sooner or later they'll appear on a race−track, and we catch them there. You see what I'm getting at?”
Sadie drew a deep breath. “He was crazy about toy trains,” she said.
Campbell lifted his eyebrows. “Now, that's something.” He made a note on a pad. “I was goin' to ask about that. We found a big outfit in his rooms.”
Sadie nodded. “When he wasn't working he used to make me set out the tracks and he'd spend hours playing with the trains.”
“Anything else?”
Sadie shook her head. “No. Just the trains.”
“Did he smoke or drink heavily?”
Again Sadie shook her head. “Just average, I think.”
“You've been through a pretty tough time, Mrs. Perminger,” Campbell said quietly. “I hate to remind you of some things, but every little help you can give us will make our task less difficult.”
Sadie said tonelessly, “I understand.”
Taking from his desk drawer a thick portfolio, Campbell selected a large batch of pictures. “Here are photos of girls who have been reported missing during the last three months. I want to see if you can identify any of them. You were in one of the houses for some time and there is a chance that you saw some of them.”
Sadie took the batch and went through them slowly. Campbell watched her thoughtfully. It seemed incredible to him that she should be so cold and calm after what she had been through.
She handed him back about thirty photos. “All these girls were one time or another in my house,” she said.
“Can you explain how this business was worked?” Campbell asked. “Some of these girls came from Springfield, Cleveland, Denver, and such places. Did they come willingly, or how did he get hold of them?”
Sadie shook her head. “It was all horribly simple. He had special men who were always on the look−out for lonely girlsgirls who weren't happy at home; girls who wanted a good time. They had to be pretty and young. When these men found them they either drugged them and took them by car to Sedalia, which was their clearing−post, or else they invented some story about an accident and got them to come that way. The method differed each time, but it was always a quick, simple plan that was unlikely to arouse suspicions.”
“Sedalia?” Campbell repeated.
Sadie nodded. “Every girl I spoke to had been taken there.”
Campbell reached for his phone and gave some rapid orders. “I'll get that place looked over immediately,”
he said to Sadie. “When they got them to Sedalia, what happened then?”
Sadie flinched. “Must I talk about that?”
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“I know just how you feel, but if we're to save other girls from this business we must know all about it.”
“From what I heard, the girls were put in separate rooms and left to sleep off the drugs. When they recovered they found themselves in bed with a coloured man. It was always a coloured man. Sometimes it was a Chink, or a nigger, or even a Phillipine. They relied on the psychological shock to lower the girl's resistance, and in most cases it was successful. Some of the girls refused, of course, and then they would beat them into submission.” Sadie shuddered. “No one knows what that means unless you've actually experienced it. To be beaten every hour of the day until your body is swollen and so tender that the weight of a sheet makes you scream in agony. No one can stand that, Mr. Campbell. I don't care who it is.”
Campbell nodded. “I understand,” he said.
“When Raven took over he had other methods of subduing girls. He poured turpentine over them. That was worse than the beatings.” Sadie put her hand to her eyes. “Mr. Campbell, this man mustn't get away.”
“He won't. I promise you that.” Campbell got to his feet. “I think that'll do for the moment,” he went on.
“I'm sending you out of town to a quiet little place where you can rest. I want to congratulate you on your courage. After the things you've told me, it is remarkable that you've stood up to it so well.”
Sadie stood looking at him, her face cold and hard. “Do you think I can ever forget?” she said. “My life's ruined. I can't go back to my husband. I can't settle to anything. I want revenge, Mr. Campbell. It may be wicked to say that, but I want to see this Raven suffer as I was made to suffer. Thank God those girls killed Grantham and Eller. If I could do the same to Raven I should die happy.”
Under her glance of cold, malicious hatred Campbell turned uneasily away.
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13
September 8th, 6.10 p.m.
LEFTY parked the car just outside the back entrance of the hotel. There was no one about.
Raven got out of the car. His face was very white. “Get the Thompsons out,” he snapped, looking up and down the deserted alley.
Maltz pulled up the back seat and took out three Thompsons. Raven took one and Lefty another.
Little Joe said uneasily, “Shall I stick with the heap?”
Raven shook his head. “We'll want everyone up there,” he said grimly. “Don't forget, boys, there's nearly a million bucks in my safe. We split.”
“As long as there ain't a million G−men, that'll be fine,” Lefty said with a tight smile.
Raven walked quickly into the hotel. The porter, sitting in his little office, gave them a startled look. When he saw the Thompsons his hand went out to the telephone. Raven lifted the long muzzle of the machine−gun.
The porter gave a sickly smile and took his hand away.
Raven said to Lefty, “Fix that bird.”
Lefty took two quick steps and the butt of his gun crashed down on the porter's head. The porter slumped down on the floor of his office.
“Fast, now,” Raven said, stepping into the elevator.
The others crowded in after him. They were all very nervous. The elevator whined up between the floors.
Raven said, as the cage slid to a standstill, “Gettin' out's goin' to be a picnic. Shoot first an' talk after.”
He stepped out of the elevator and began a stiff−legged walk down the corridor.
His suite was round the first bend.
Little Joe took off his hat and wiped his face with his sleeve. This was scaring hell out of him. He clutched his blunt−nose automatic, ready to flop at the first burst of fire.
Raven crept to the bend in the corridor. Every sound was muffled by the heavy carpet. He knew this was sheer madness, but he wasn't going to part with all that dough without a fight. If he got his hands on it he was all right. The thought of once more being on the run, without money, frightened him far more than a hail of lead.
He looked round the bend. Two cops stood in the passage looking towards him. They saw him at the same time as he saw them. He swung up his Thompson and gave them a short burst. The sudden clatter of the gun as it spat lead crashed down the corridor. One of the cops fell forward on his face, but the other darted into Raven's room.
Swearing softly, Raven ran forward, the others following him. The door was open, and Raven paused as he reached it. He had no intention of rushing in. Kneeling down, he swung the muzzle of the gun round the door, spraying lead.
A revolver cracked twice in reply and bullets thudded into the opposite wall. Raven glanced at the wall, saw the angle, which told him the cop was lying down, and lowered the muzzle, firing at the same time.
He heard the cop give a gasp, and he took a chance. He burst into the room, firing wildly. The cop was lying in a pool of blood, the top of
his head blown off.
Maltz crowded in and, holding his gun at his hip, ran into the other rooms. There was no one else there.
Raven grinned at him as he came back. “Stand by the door,” he said, “while I get the safe open.”
He laid his gun down and ran over to the small wall safe. Feverishly he spun the little knob, muttering the combination out loud as he did so.
The others stood in the corridor, tense and expectant.
It took several minutes to open the safe. As he pulled the door open he heard the wailing of sirens in the street. He grabbed two large packets of notes that he knew he'd find there. “I've got 'em,” he shouted, picking up his gun. “Come on, let's scram.”
Just as he stepped into the corridor the main elevator door opened and several cops spilled out.
Maltz fired on them, falling flat. The cops opened up with a withering fire and Raven only just darted back into the room in time. Stuffing the packets of money inside his coat, he ran into the bathroom and threw up the 89
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
window. Down below he could see police−cars drawing up outside the hotel and cops crowding out. There were a lot of them. He turned back once more and ran into his bedroom, which looked out on the back alley.
He knew there was a fire−escape there.
All the time he could hear the gun−battle raging outside in the corridor. He couldn't think of the others now. They'd have to look after themselves. As he threw up his bedroom window he heard a crash of something exploding and then faintly the smell of pear drops came to him. Tear gas! He swung out on to the fire−escape. It wouldn't be more than minutes before they'd get after him. He raced up the iron stairs. Below him he heard a shout, and then someone started firing at him. Bullets zipped past him, unpleasantly close. As he threw himself blindly over the parapet of the roof one of the packets fell from inside his coat and landed with a little thud on the iron staircase. He knew he couldn't get it. It would mean exposing himself to the fire below. Cursing, he took the other packet and put it inside his shirt, then he ran across the roof top, lowered himself over another parapet, took a stiff drop on to another roof, and ran on again.
Any moment he expected to hear shots behind him. Now that he was on the rim he felt once more the bitter calculating thing of destruction he was before he made money. Every instinct was razor sharp, and even as he climbed across the roofs of the buildings he was already making plans well in advance.
He must get out of town. Stations and roads would be watched. He knew he couldn't get out of town without aid. He thought of the various people whom he had known, and bitterly he was forced to reject each one. There was no one he could turn to. Grantham, Eller, Lefty, Little Joe, Maltz and the rest of them were finished. He knew that. He was on his own now. He didn't mind that. He'd got money. That would always be his best friend.
By now he'd reached the end of the block. Peering round a chimney−stack, he could see the police climbing on to the hotel roof some distance away. They began to move very cautiously towards him. Well, they'd take a little while to catch up at that rate.
By his feet was a trap−door. He lifted it carefully and lowered himself into an attic room, drawing the trap−door in place after him. He knew the block was by now surrounded. He took the bundle of money out of his shirt and split it into four small packets. These he distributed carefully in each pocket of his suit. It was no use carrying the Thompson any longer. He put it in the corner of the room and then opened the door and walked into a corridor.
As he walked towards the head of the stairs he loosened his automatic in its shoulder−holster. The place seemed to be a block of offices. When he reached the second landing, rows of frosted−panelled doors confirmed this. At the end of the corridor he saw a gentleman's toilet. He hesitated a moment and then went in.
The only occupant was a window−cleaner, who was leaning out of the window. Raven eyed his uniform and realized his chance.
The window−cleaner, hearing him come in, looked over his shoulder. “Seems like there's a lotta excitement poppin' at the St. Louis,” he said with a grin. “The place is lousy with cops.”
Raven came to the window and looked down. A heavy cordon had been thrown round the block and the street was packed with interested sight−seers.
“What's it all about?” he asked, stepping back.
“Search me,” the window−cleaner returned, still looking down into the street. “Some excitement.”
Raven drew his automatic and let the barrel slide into his hand, then he dealt the window−cleaner a crushing blow at the back of his head.
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14
September 9th, 10.5 a.m.
JAY ELLINGER walked into the F.B.I. offices and asked for Campbell. He was shown up immediately.
Campbell got up from behind his desk and shook hands. “Sit down, Ellinger,” he said, pushing over a box of cigars. “Make yourself at home.”
Jay shook his head at the cigars. “Too early for me, thanks,” he said, taking out his cigarette−case. “I just looked in to hear how things were going.”
Campbell smiled. “You're free, ain't you?” he said. “I mean, you're lookin' for some sort of job?”
Jay looked surprised. “Why, sure,” he said, “I guess I am.”
“Ever thought anythin' about this racket?”
“What? A Federal Agent?”
Campbell nodded. “I've been on to Mr. Hoover's chief of staff. We think you'd make a good agent, Ellinger.”
“Why, sure,” Jay said eagerly, “I'd jump at it.”
“Seeing that it was through your efforts this big Slave Ring's been exposed, we thought it only fair to let you in at the death. What do you say?”
“It's mighty nice of you.”
“Okay, then I'll fix it. A Federal Agent has to sit for all sorts of examinations and has to go through all kinds of tests and training before he can join up. I'm goin' to let you off these for the time being. You'll work with one of my operators and you'll just be his assistant. When we've cleaned all this business up you'll be posted to one of our trainin' centres. Right now there isn't the time for it.”
Jay nodded. “That's fine. You can rely on me to do as I'm told. I'd like to see the end of this guy Raven.”
“So you shall.” Campbell pressed a bell. “I'll get Hogarty to come in.”
A moment later a tall, thick−set man entered. “Mornin", Chief,” he said, tipping his hat.
“Hogarty, meet Jay Ellinger. You've heard about him. I'm sending Ellinger along with you. He might be able to help. When all this is over he's being sworn in.”
Hogarty shook hands with Jay. He seemed pleased to know him. “You've done a smart bit of work already,” he observed.
“Okay. Now what've you to report?” Campbell asked, signing Hogarty to another chair.
Hogarty sat down. “Well, Chief, he's got away. I'm sorry about it, but somehow or other he slipped through the cordon.”
Campbell shrugged. “I didn't expect it to be that easy,” he said. “He can't leave town, can he?”
“He'll be damn clever if he does,” Hogarty said grimly. “The place is sewed up tight enough.”
“What about the other guys?”
“Two of them are dead, and Little Joe's ready to squawk.”
Campbell nodded. “You better see he's put somewhere where they can't get at him,” he said. “What about Mrs. Perminger... she all right?”
“Yeah. We've got her out in the country. I've put three operators on to her and she's got a woman to keep her company. She'll be right on the spot when the guy comes to trial. Jeeze! Does she hate that fella?”
Campbell's face hardened. “She's got a lot of reasons for hatin' him,” he said. “It beats me how she came through at all.”
Hogarty climbed to his feet. “Women are tough,” he said. “And when a dame hates like that Mrs. P., I'd sooner be a long way away from her.�
�
“What are you goin' to do now?”
“Stick around. It takes time, Chief. If he's run to ground we'll have to wait for him. Sooner or later he'll make a slip an' then we'll get him.”
“You're sure the town's sewed up?”
“It's tight. Every road's bein' watched. The stations are looking out for him and the airport too. No, I guess he'll have to stay out. It's a pity he got away with all that dough. It makes things much easier when they're 91
Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief
broke.”
“All right, take Ellinger along with you. Get after him, Hogarty; we want quick results.”
Hogarty jerked his head to Ellinger. “Sure,” he said, and as they went out he winked at Jay. “Maybe he does want quick results, but he ain't goin' to get them,” he told Jay as they walked down the passage.
“Sometimes it takes months before a guy breaks from cover. We just have to wait.”
Jay followed him out into the crowded street.
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15
September 9th, 10.45 a.m.
ON THE third floor of a shabby little hotel Raven slept behind the locked door of the grimy bedroom he had rented. He slept uneasily. A gun lay beside him on the soiled sheet. He hadn't taken off his clothes.
Newspapers covered the floor so that anyone approaching his bed would, by the rustle of the papers, wake him.
He wore a smart black suit that the hotel owner had obtained for him. The hotel owner was a guy called Goshawk. Raven had paid him well and he hadn't asked questions. Already he knew who Raven was.
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