by Robert Bloch
“I’ve got a tail on me night and day. He’s sitting in your anteroom right now.”
Anthony Mingo smiled. “I’m sure he’d come bounding in here—within thirty seconds after I struck you down with one of those swords on the wall.” The smile faded. “No, Kendall, you’ve been emotionalizing, not cerebrating, or you’d realize the facts. Somebody dislikes you. Somebody who has already managed to kill two women. Until he is found and captured, you aren’t good company for any young lady. Nor is it wise for a young lady to sit alone and unprotected in your store, which has already been entered. I haven’t distorted the circumstances in the least, you must admit. And if you consider the matter sensibly, you’ll agree. Katherine would be better off out of your life until this affair is over.”
I nodded. “You have a point. I’m sorry I blew up. And I’ll tell her to go.”
“She’s always assured of a temporary position with me, you know.”
I knew that, too. Mingo didn’t fool me. But the devil of it was, he had talked sense. It wasn’t safe for Kit to be around me. And the only way to change matters was to find the killer, fast.
“I’ll see her at lunch in a few minutes,” I said. “She’ll leave after I talk to her.”
“Excellent. You might ask her to call me. I am leaving town this afternoon and won’t return until the day after tomorrow. I’d feel better if she’d inform me as to her decision before my departure.”
I walked over to the door.
“Meanwhile, if you need anything, my office here will be instructed to cooperate fully.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for everything.”
“Quite all right, my dear boy.” Mr. Mingo offered me a smile of dismissal. He turned it on with his usual precision.
He turned it off with precision, too. As I closed the door I caught a final glimpse of his face. He was staring at the swords on the wall, and his thin lips moved soundlessly. Some might have said he was praying. But I had a hunch I knew better.
Mr. Mingo, the aficionado of Bluebeard and Jack the Ripper, was scared.
ELEVEN
As I left Mingo’s office and entered the long hall once more, I caught sight of the door at the farther end. I walked up to it, pushed, found it would open. Mingo’s private exit, no doubt.
It would serve for me, I decided; it would serve very well. I emerged in a hall corridor on the other side of the building and took the elevator down. I didn’t know what Mr. Flint would do about lunch, but one thing was definite—he wasn’t eating with Kit and me.
I called Kit from the drugstore down the street.
“Anything?”
“Just customers. Did you see Tony?”
“Tell you all about in ten minutes. Meet me at the Copper Kettle. I’ll be inside, at a table.”
I was, and she did.
“Tom, did Tony say anything? About me, I mean?”
“Yes. He said he told you to quit.”
Kit bit her lower lip. “He had no right to tell you! He had no right to interfere—”
“Maybe. But what he said makes sense. Kit, I want you to go. If anything happened to you because of me, I’d never forgive myself.”
She gave me the first real smile of the day, then. Also her hand to play with.
“Look, Kit, I’ve had a lot of time to think things over. Mingo’s right. And you’re right, too.”
“About what?”
“About us. About me. I’m going to see a doctor and get things straightened out once and for all. So that we can get married, be together.”
“Tom!”
“You will marry me, won’t you, when this thing is over? If it’s all right?”
“Of course I will.”
“Then start acting engaged.”
“Right out here in front of everybody?”
“That’s not what I mean. Start taking orders, young lady.”
“Such as?”
“Such as not going back to the store this afternoon. Such as taking that temporary job in Mingo’s office.”
The sun went behind a cloud then. “No, Tom. I draw the line at that. I won’t work for Tony again, ever.”
“Again?”
“I—I never told you this, did I? Two years ago I was Tony’s secretary.”
My eyes narrowed. “And he made a hard pass at you.”
“No. That’s not it at all. I told you, we were almost engaged.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask about that. I don’t like that word ‘almost.’ ”
“Oh, it’s not what you’re thinking. It might have been, but I wouldn’t let him. Not after I found out—”
“What did you find out, Kit?”
“Please.” Her shudder was genuine. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I want to know,” I said, slowly. “And it’s not just out of curiosity, or personal reasons alone. I’m beginning to get some peculiar ideas about our friend Anthony Mingo.”
“Was it something he said or did this morning?”
“Partly. And it was also what he didn’t say or do. Let me tell you, and then you tell me.”
So I described our interview. I told her about the swords, and the books, and Mingo’s charming little theories about murder. “Any of it sound familiar?” I asked.
“All of it.” She shuddered again, and I could feel the tremor running clear down into the hand I held. “But you only know part of it. He’s got more books out at his house. And more swords. And he’s got a recreation room; only it isn’t just that. It’s a place where he keeps a collection of—oh, Tom, don’t make me talk about it any more! He took me down there once, just to show me, he said. And he watched me when I saw, and then he tried to make love to me—” The angry sobbing came.
“It’s all right, Kit,” I said. “I know. So you quit. And he’s still after you to come back.”
“I’d never go back, never,” she declared. “The only reason I went to him was because you were in trouble, and he’s a good lawyer, Tom, really he is. That’s just the trouble. Tony isn’t bad. He’s just twisted up inside. He’s sick, Tom. You understand.”
I understood, all right. I understood about being sick and twisted up inside. But I also understood something else, something I had to tell her.
“Kit, something happened when I saw Mingo this morning. I got a feeling. Call it a hunch, call it anything you like. But I’m beginning to sense that he knows a lot more about all this than he’s saying.”
“But, Tom, how could he? You don’t really believe he killed those girls? I—I think he’d be the kind who might hurt them, but he wouldn’t murder.”
I shook my head. “I keep remembering what the District Attorney said. How this kind of crime seems to bring out the latent lunacy in every aberrated individual: starts them to imagining, thinking, planning, gloating—and maybe, acting. And when I heard Mingo talk this morning—”
“Remember your promise,” Kit said.
“Promise?”
“You’re going to keep out of this case.”
“Sure,” I told her.
“I mean it, Tom. If you want me to quit until the police find the killer, I’ll quit. But you’ve got to keep your part of the bargain, too.”
“All right.”
“When are you going to see a doctor?”
I grinned. “This afternoon. I’ve already made the appointment.”
She smiled back at me as we rose. “That’s wonderful, darling. Who is he?”
“Doctor Crippen,” I said. “I hear he’s a good man.”
We went out and parted on the corner. She was going to her place, and I was going off on my appointment.
I hadn’t liked lying to Kit that way. Actually, I hadn’t even liked ducking out on poor little Mr. Flint. But neither of them would have approved of my present plans. What had the District Attorney said? Something about not playing boy detective.
Well, I wasn’t wearing a tin badge and I wasn’t carrying a water pistol. But I had a job to do. If the
police couldn’t find Joe Calgary, it was up to me. After all, I had a right to look for my knife, didn’t I?
The papers had given me one bit of help after all—their stories listed Calgary’s address as the Court Hotel. I knew where that was, all right. Every town has its Skid Row, and ours is one of the biggest and best.
So I went slumming.
The crum-bums were out in force today. Some of them wear khaki, and some of them wear blue shirts, and some of them wear the same beat-up old overcoat winter and summer both, rain or shine. Rain or shine, you find them on the sidewalks and on the concrete steps—the bugs that swarm out from underneath the stones of a big city. The red-rimmed eyes look at you, but seldom see. They’re really gazing out of present time—at yesterday’s dreams or tonight’s bottle. The cracked lips move, because the winos like to talk. Sometimes they talk to each other, sometimes they talk to themselves, but most of the time they talk to people who aren’t there: people who haven’t been there for years because they’re dead, or divorced, or run away.
Oh, it’s easy to be smug and smart and superior about the crum-bums—until you look in the mirror and wonder what a week without shaving would do to your face, and what would happen if your clothes got worn and you couldn’t afford the price of a haircut. Almost anybody can look like a crum-bum after just a month. And all you need to make a start is just one little push. Lose the job, lose the house, lose the wife or the kids, or just plain lose your nerve—and then start looking for what you’ve lost in the bottom of a bottle. A month? You can turn into a crum-bum yourself in one minute, if the minute is bad enough. Sometimes, though, you don’t go all the way. I know, because I’d come mighty close after Marie died. And I pulled out of it. Blind Bill—he wasn’t a crum-bum, but he’d gone halfway. On the other hand, there are those who are all gone.
Like the character who tugged at my arm in front of the Court Hotel.
“Hey, buddy.”
That’s what they all say. “Buddy.” Everyone’s their buddy, everyone with an ear to lend and a dime to give.
“Hey, buddy, you gimme somethin’ forra bite ta eat? Honest, I ain’t had nuthin’ all day.”
“Sure.” I fished out a quarter. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have seen Joe Calgary around, would you?”
“Joe who? Who’s he?”
Of course not. Even boy detectives aren’t that lucky. I handed him the quarter and he headed across the street for the tavern and I went into the Court Hotel.
There was no lobby, of course; only a stairway and a small desk with an elderly man sitting on a stool behind it. That would be Pop. You find lots of guys like Pop around. And he’d shoot the breeze with me, sure. And he’d tell me that Joe Calgary had a room, but let me see now, he hasn’t been around for two-three days, and are you another one of them detectives, Mister?
And then I’d slip him a couple of bucks and he’d let me go up to Joe Calgary’s room and I’d search the place and find an important piece of evidence the stupid police had overlooked. And just as I found it, I’d get sapped over the head, and when I woke up there I’d be in a dark cellar someplace with Joe Calgary looking down at me. And he’d beat me up pretty bad—but not so bad that I couldn’t escape and then knock him out two chapters later in time for the usual happy ending.
I uttered a single four-letter word to myself that summed everything up. This was no good. The District Attorney was right—it was a waste of time playing boy detective. I turned around to head out.
Then I noticed the side door. It led to the bar. I walked in.
This place was no Swanee’s. They had a juke box, but none of the customers would ever waste a nickel that way. There was only one bartender on duty, and he wasn’t working at the moment. After all, it was scarcely three o’clock, and the crum-bums are noctambulists. Among other things.
There were only two people sitting at the bar when I came in. One of them was a sailor and the other was a—well, sometimes they’re called “hostesses” and sometimes they’re called “B-girls.” Whatever the designation, they’re usually dark and sullen-looking. This specimen was no exception. The sailor didn’t seem to mind, because he was half out.
I didn’t mind, either. I walked up to the bartender.
“What’ll it be?”
“Make it a shot and water.” No sense starting off on the wrong foot by asking for rye here.
He poured.
“I know the heat’s on,” I said. “But I’ve got a message for Joe.”
“Joe.” He didn’t even make a question out of it, merely an echo.
“Yeah. Some money I owe him. Figured now was the time he could use it. If I leave it here, will you see that he gets it?”
“That’ll be fifty cents.” The bartender took the money and leaned over until I got a good look at the place where he’d cut himself shaving yesterday or the day before. “All right, now I heard everything,” he said. “First off it was a hot tip at Belmont a fella wanted to give him. Then it was I better come out with it or they’d take the license. Then it was would I like to make a fast buck for myself. Hell, they even sent a broad in—one of them lady cops! And now you come along. That makes four today already. Do me a favor, will you—go back downtown and tell ’em I ain’t seen Joe since the night before it happened.”
Tom Kendall, boy detective, was baffled. He stood at the bar sipping his shot of rotgut and wondered which way to turn.
He didn’t wonder long.
Somebody turned him. I gaped around and stared into the familiar mustache of Lieutenant Cohen.
“Thought we’d lost you,” he said. “I might have known.”
“Give Mr. Flint my best regards and tell him I’m sorry, but I had a previous luncheon engagement.”
Lieutenant Cohen managed a smile. “He’s already been given a message. Next time you go anywhere, he comes inside.”
“Some of those pay-toilets are awfully small,” I said.
“All right, Kendall, you’ve had your fun. You’ve come looking and you’ve gotten your answers. Are you willing to run along now?”
“Is that an order?”
“Call it a suggestion.”
“Then I’m staying here.” I faced him. “Look, I’m not having fun, as you call it. I’m looking for Joe Calgary. Your department has been looking for him for three days and from what the bartender here tells me you’ve done a pretty shabby job.”
Cohen took a big bite out of his mustache. From the face he made, he didn’t like the taste today.
“I don’t want to make trouble for anyone,” I said. “But finding Calgary is important to me. And if your boys can’t do it, I will. I’m not very smart and I’m no detective. So all I can figure out is this: if Calgary’s still in the city, he’ll come back here sooner or later for his clothes, for money, for information. I don’t say he’ll come in the front door, and I don’t say he’ll come in during the next half hour, either. But sooner or later, he’ll show. And unless you drag me out of here by the ears, I’m going to stick here until he does show.”
Lieutenant Cohen nodded. “Sometimes the dumb idea pays off in the end,” he said. “That’s why we’ve had a man planted outside every hour during the last three days.”
I looked at the floor. “Sorry,” I said. “I guess I sounded off a little too much. But I still mean what I said. After all, you had a man planted on me this morning—but I left by the back door. And you can come in that way, too. Or somebody can come in who knows Calgary. So I’m sticking here.”
“All right,” said Cohen. “All right. So you stick here. And finally, who knows, through the back door or down the chimney comes Joe Calgary. Then what happens?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “I just want to see him and talk to him. I’ve got a hunch he’s scared, Lieutenant. He’s off some place hiding and scared, and he doesn’t know what to do. I’d just like to talk to him.”
“I see.” The Lieutenant would run out of mustache some fine day if he kept on like this. �
�Now you’re a psychologist, is that it?”
“Psycolgist!” The sailor came to life suddenly. He raised his head from the bar and stared around, heavy red jowls hanging. He looked like a bull looking for a place to charge.
“Who said anythin’ about psycolgist?”
“Nobody’s talking to you,” Cohen snapped.
“You psycolgist?”
“You’d better get some fresh air, chum,” Cohen told him.
It seemed like a sensible suggestion, but the sailor wasn’t having any. “My name’s Sweeney,” he yelled. “You wanna make somethin’ out’ it?”
“Pipe down, honey,” whined the B-girl.
“You shut up!” The sailor rose and stumbled toward us. One hand gripped the empty beer bottle from the bar. “No goddamn phoney psycolgist gonna crap me! Why you—”
He swung. I ducked. Cohen sidestepped and grabbed the sailor by the arm. The sailor dropped the bottle and butted Cohen with his head. Cohen hit him once, and then the two of them were stumbling and punching across the floor. Cohen managed to get close enough to the door to shout outside.
“Flint!” he yelled. “Get in here!” He got a good grip on the sailor’s collar, now, and dragged him out into the street.
I played impartial observer. The sulky-looking hostess drifted over and I wondered if she had me sized up as a prospect. She opened her mouth and I waited for the familiar “Hello, honey,” routine.
What came out instead was just a whisper. “Beat it out of here while he’s still busy,” she said. “I’ll meet you three doors down at the Blue Jay in five minutes. Go in the back way, nobody’ll notice, and when Eddie asks you, tell him you’re waiting for Helen.”
“Helen,” I said.
“That’s right,” said the hostess. “Helen Calgary.”
TWELVE
Things were much quieter in the Blue Jay down the street. I ducked into the rear booth, although I didn’t think there was much chance I’d be spotted. Cohen would figure that I’d run fast and far.
The bartender turned down his radio and came over. “What’s yours?”