The Promoter

by Orrie Hitt

  I wondered, as I walked toward the subway, just what I had accomplished. I hoped it was quite a lot.

  In the first place, it would be interesting to find out if the incident made any of the morning papers. If it didn’t, I could rest assured that the police had buried the matter under official silence. And, I felt, I could be reasonably certain that, in one way or another, Peter Garroty would be removed from circulation, at least temporarily. Even though he might continue to merit the confidence of the syndicate, the arm would keep him in a hospital for several days. It would cause him to be confined until after Saturday night, anyway.

  13

  THE next morning, Friday, I called Elsa Lang at the Montana agency. She seemed pleased to hear from me and she berated me, playfully, for not having been in touch with her sooner. I alibied my neglect, saying that I had been busy, and introduced the possibility that we might spend Saturday night on the town. Her quick acceptance was positive evidence that she had no other plans and I told her I would pick her up about nine. She said she would be looking for me.

  Of course, I hadn’t the faintest idea of keeping my date with Elsa; I had only wanted to be sure that she wouldn’t be one of the girls at the party. I assumed, quite logically, that she would be boiling mad when I failed to put in an appearance.

  None of the morning papers, as I had anticipated, carried any mention of Peter Anderson or of the discovery the police must have made when they visited his apartment. A phone call to Anderson’s number brought forth no response. Another call, this one to Eudora Channing, lasted fully five minutes. She was sorry I couldn’t come out, just for a little while, but she understood my haste when I explained that I had to drive out to Allentown and pick up the girl.

  “Well, one is better than none,” she said. Then, quite softly, “But don’t forget what I told you about the other kind, Bill. Everybody would be real pleased if you could bring something like that.”

  I knew what she meant. A young, innocent girl. A lamb for the slaughter.

  “I’ll get you one,” I promised wildly. “You’ll see.”

  “When?”

  “Be patient.”

  I was phoning from a bar on the corner and as soon as I said goodbye to Eudora Channing I again annoyed the bartender for silver. This time I called Dr. Call in New Rockford and it cost me fifty-five cents.

  “I’ll leave here on the four-fourteen this afternoon,” I told him. “Try to get some of your friends together so we can hold a little meeting tonight. I have several important things to discuss with you.”

  “What about Judith?”

  “I know where she is,” I said. “But I can’t tell you. Not yet. You’ll have to be patient and you’ll have to trust me.”

  He pointed out that he had been patient and that they had expressed their trust in me by advancing a considerable sum of money. I told him I knew that, but the job had turned out to be bigger than I thought, and that he had to either go along with it my way or not at all. He assured me that he would, although he didn’t sound firmly convinced, and he said he would see what he could do about getting some of the business people together.

  I left the bar and went down the street to a little restaurant to have a late breakfast. The girl who occupied the room next to mine was at the counter, having toast and orange juice, and she smiled at me.

  A half hour later, following scrambled eggs which were much too dry and coffee that was far too bitter and cold, I again called the Montana agency. This time I asked to speak to Diana Sanderson.

  “Can anybody hear you?” I wanted to know after she came on. “I mean, can anyone listen in to what I have to say.”

  “No. I can see the switchboard from where I am.”

  “Good. But can you talk?”

  There was a short silence. In the background I could hear a typewriter clicking, the low mumble of a woman’s voice.

  “No. Not very well.”

  “All right, then. When do you go to lunch?”

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  “Well, copy down this number. Call me from outside the building. I want to talk to you about your sister.”

  “You mean, you — ”

  “I must talk to you, Miss Sanderson. It’s urgent!”

  I gave her the number of the phone in the restaurant after she agreed to call back as quickly as she could.

  At eleven-forty, while I was seated at the counter drinking my third cup of coffee, the phone rang. It was for me.

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t know where your sister is and I’m not sure that I can find her. But I have a good idea of what was done to her and I’ve got a good chance to put the people behind bars who did it. I think you’d be willing to help me in that, wouldn’t you?”

  I could tell from the way she talked that she was bitterly disappointed at my vagueness but she declared that she would do anything she could.

  “Now, it won’t get you in any trouble,” I said. “All you have to do is get in touch with Mr. Willis and Miss Lord about seven tomorrow night and get them to come down to the office. I don’t care what excuse you give as long as it’s something that will keep them there for a couple of hours. Frankly, I don’t care what you do as long as it’s done. I’m to meet some people and I don’t want them there when I do. If they recognized me, the whole thing would fall apart right then. And we might never learn what happened to your sister. Believe me.”

  She sounded nervous and excited but she said she would think of something.

  Diana’s reassurance that she would take care of the matter gave me confidence. I wished her luck. She was just a kid but what she did, or did not do, could affect both our lives.

  When I arrived at the advertising agency later I was told that both of the Federsons were out to lunch and that they wouldn’t return for at least an hour. The girl who so informed me was dark-haired, fairly tall and had the lush young lines of a hopeful model. She sat behind a modernistic desk that was open in front and which offered a rather good view of her trim legs.

  “I’ll wait,” I said.

  I sat down in a low chair.

  “Are you a regular client, Mr — ”

  “Gordon,” I told her. I smiled and kept my stare at her face. She had warm, anxious eyes. “No. I’m not. As a matter of fact, I wanted to talk to one of the Federsons about taking on my account.” I retained the smile but offered the slightest shrug of doubt. “Of course, they may not be interested in me. It isn’t every day that an ex-cop goes into the model agency business.”

  She had been looking absently at the wall, just listening to me, but now her glance moved to a point just below my chin. Her lips parted and I noticed that her teeth were gleaming white and straight. Her smile was warmly personal and it was meant to impress me.

  “My father is a policeman,” she said. “A detective.”

  “Well, now, what do you know about that!”

  She rose from behind the desk and crossed to one of the windows, pretending to straighten a Venetian blind which required no adjustment whatsoever. As she lifted her arms above her head, fooling with one of the cords, I could distinguish the dark outline of her solidly packed bra beneath the white blouse. Her hips beneath the tight skirt were ample, in the final stages of ripeness, and I noted again that her legs were extremely attractive.

  “Does Federson specialize in that sort of thing?” I inquired.

  “You mean, model agencies?” She returned to the desk, slowly, giving me plenty of time to evaluate her more obvious assets. “No, actually, they don’t. It’s mostly cigarettes and things like that. You know, for television and radio. We have very few accounts, Mr. Gordon. And most of them — well, they are quite large.”

  She had said pretty much what I wanted to hear and I got up. I tried to appear confused and unhappy by this news.

  “I guess this is what happens when you use the yellow pages of the telephone book, Miss — ”

  “Miller. Lucy Miller.”

  “Anyway, thank you, Miss M
iller,” I said. I turned at the door, hesitating. “Perhaps I would be wasting both my time and that of the Federsons. Do you, though, happen to know of an agency that could help me?”

  “There’s one in the General Building, further downtown. Glamour, Incorporated.” She smiled, reflectively, and gave me another good look at her white teeth. “You may think this is a joke, Mr. Gordon, but I have thought of registering with them. You see, I have a few private dreams of my own.”

  “You’re very pretty,” I assured Lucy Miller. “But sometimes, no matter how much talent you have, you need an assist. I would think your father, being a detective, could have helped you.”

  A look of dismay came into her eyes.

  “He wouldn’t,” she said. “He thinks it’s — vulgar.”

  I shrugged and found a cigarette in my coat pocket.

  “There’s nothing less vulgar than beauty, Miss Miller. And” — I continued slowly, conveying the impression that I was weighing each word — “you are exceptionally pretty. It’s quite possible — if you wish — that I might be able to fit you into my program.”

  I felt not unlike a vulture feeding upon a corpse. I could not meet the look of burning hope in her soft blue eyes. Small wonder, I thought, that so many young girls got into trouble. Success became so important to them that they were ready to take any risk, pay any price.

  “I can’t promise anything,” I said. “But I’ll try.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Gordon!”

  “If anything should develop, shall I call you here or at your home?”

  “Not at home, please.” She considered the question carefully, moistening her lips with the tip of a bright red tongue. “Call me here, during the noon hour, when the Federsons are out to lunch. I — I could arrange to meet you somewhere else later.”

  I opened the door and gave her a parting smile.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said. “You may hear from me next week.”

  As I stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind me, her husky words of thanks echoed in my ears. I suppose I should have felt elated but I didn’t. I had learned, rather easily, all facts I had been seeking. Lucy Miller still wanted to be a model in spite of her father’s objections. She could, I felt, become a valuable pawn in this deadly game of human flesh. And yet the knowledge that this was so did not give me any buoyant sense of accomplishment. Lucy Miller was attractive, she seemed to be sincere and, unfortunately, her attitude suggested that she was as gullible as any starry-eyed youngster in high school. The thought that she might unknowingly become bait in a deadly trap that could spring two ways was not something to make me happy.

  It was still early in the afternoon and since I had some time to spare before catching the four-fourteen train to New Rockford, I paid a call upon Glamour, Incorporated, located in the General Building on the South Side.

  “You should have brought along some pictures of your sister,” the girl at the receptionist desk informed me. “You can appreciate how difficult it would be to do anything unless we know what our client looks like.”

  I explained for the second time, that I had just arrived in the city and that my sister, who planned to follow me in a week or so, had asked me to inquire around for her. I said that she was very talented — both physically and otherwise — but that she was totally inexperienced. I asked, finally, if there was any possible way for a newcomer to get started in the modeling profession.

  “We have one agency specializing in unknowns,” the girl told me. “But your sister would have to come in herself and register with us. Obviously, we don’t give that information out gratis. If we did, the girls would by-pass us and we would lose our fees.”

  “Well, I’ll have to do that,” I started away from the desk, then turned quickly, as though a last minute thought had occurred to me. “What do you know about the Montana Model Agency? Is it reliable? Or aren’t you permitted to express an opinion?”

  She said, no, she couldn’t do anything like that but I knew, by the look in her eyes, that this was the agency that dealt in unknowns.

  The train trip to New Rockford was uneventful. The snow, I discovered upon my arrival, was deep and wet and I took a cab from the station to Dr. Call’s house. The front room, I noticed as I went up the steps, was well lighted. Several people lounged around inside, waiting.

  “Mr. Morgan,” the Reverend exclaimed, opening the door. He frowned as I removed my hat and entered. “It is Mr. Morgan, isn’t it? I must say that you have changed.”

  “In several ways,” I informed him. “You have no idea.”

  He helped me off with my coat and hung it on a rack at the foot of the stairs. As I started into the living room he took hold of one of my arms, restraining me.

  “Tell me, Mr. Morgan, have you seen Judith?”

  I found it impossible to meet his level, anxious stare. I speculated again, as I had many times previously, on how he would react when he learned the truth about his daughter. To the best of my knowledge, she had become an unwilling love machine and her body now belonged to those who controlled the flesh syndicate. I decided, with a feeling of bitterness, that he might prove incapable of accepting much of the blame which rightfully belonged to him.

  “No,” I said. “I have not seen her. But I do know where she is. Or, to be more specific, I knew where she was.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’s alive. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can say.”

  I took his hand away from my arm and entered the large, old-fashioned living room. The hum of voices ceased as I came in. I don’t know why, but I was surprised to find two elderly women in the group.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Call said. “Mr. Morgan.”

  He introduced me to the ladies first. One was a widow of a former banker and, I gathered, quite wealthy. The other woman represented a civic organization interested in the youth of the community.

  The men, I regret to relate, failed to impress me. There were five of them, all middle-aged, and all inclined to be somewhat pompous. As I shook hands with them I tried to remember that it was from these people that the money to fight the syndicate would come, that it would only be with their help that I could hope to be successful. I forced myself to tolerate them.

  “Our authorities should be brought to task for this,” one man said. “We put them in office, and what do we get?”

  “Most people sow their own seeds,” I told him. “And they harvest their own crops.”

  I don’t know where I’d heard that line before, but it got their attention and that was what I wanted.

  I explained that the operational roots of the sex syndicate — several of them winced when I used the term — went deep, very deep, into the guts of almost every enterprise that was even remotely associated with pretty girls. Of course, I knew so little about the actual set-up that I was only able to give them a sketchy review of what had been going on. And, naturally, I had to honor the presence of the women. I couldn’t describe, in detail, some of the things I had witnessed.

  “The reason I wanted to see you tonight,” I explained, “is twofold. First, I will need some money — perhaps as much as a thousand dollars. And I will need it immediately. In addition to this, I will require the name of at least one powerful person in the city to whom I may be able to turn for help.”

  “What other amounts of money may be required?” the banker’s widow wanted to know.

  “None.”

  “How can we be sure?”

  “If I am not lucky in the next couple of weeks,” I said firmly, “I’ll not need any more money. Because,” I continued, letting the words sink in, “I have a pretty good idea that if I fail, I’ll be dead.”

  This shook them out of whatever complacency they may have had and in less than five minutes I had a thousand dollars, all in cash, in my wallet.

  “Now, for the second part,” I told them. “When this thing gets ready to break I will need to be able to turn to someone who can bring enough pre
ssure to bear upon the police to throw the whole thing out into the open. I have to have someone with a lot of influence on my side. Do any of you know of such a person?”

  Surprisingly enough, they did not. Oh, to be sure, they knew many who were wealthy, and they could reel off the names of important folks in the business world, but such people could be of little assistance to me. They were still trying to arrive at a suggestion when I announced that I had to catch my train and that I’d have to handle that part of it by myself.

  “Mr. Morgan.” Dr. Call held my coat; I still couldn’t look him in the eyes. “What about my daughter? Where is she?”

  He had to know some time and there was no point in hiding it longer.

  “She’s in a house of ill fame,” I said, bluntly. Then, more gently, as I saw his chin tremble. “Not of her own free choice, though. She fell into the net, the same way a lot of girls have fallen into it. She’s not to be blamed but to be helped.”

  In that moment he looked much older. I felt sorry for him.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I promised, opening the door. “You can be very sure, Dr. Call, that I’ll do my level best.”

  A hand touched my shoulder.

  “God go with you,” he said. “And protect you.”

  I walked through the gloom of the winter’s night toward the railroad station. I suppose I should have felt like a hero, a man destined to do a great good, but I didn’t. For the first time in my life I was truly and honestly frightened. The things I had told them about the syndicate, and what might happen to me, were not mere figments of my imagination.

  14

  I MET the girl at six and I had Nelson drive us over to a small restaurant on the East Shore where we had a quiet dinner. While we were eating, Nelson drove out to his home and dropped off the week-end groceries.

  “I don’t want to mislead you,” I told her over cocktails. “This is a very special party and I’m not sure just what’s going to develop. If you have any ideas about backing down, do it now. Don’t wait until we get there and then make a sucker out of me.”