Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief (3 page)

June 5th, 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 word 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 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.

“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.”

“Did 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.

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.

The picture of Mendetta, comfortable in his luxury apartment, carefully guarded, made him sick with jealousy. Mendetta had got to go. Once he was out of the way, the organization would fold up. It was Raven's chance. He could step in then. They were all afraid of him. There might be a little trouble, but not for long. It was Mendetta who held them together. It was Mendetta who was keeping him away from power. Grantham would be easy. He was too fond of the things he already possessed to risk anything. Raven knew that he had only to walk into the 22nd Club to take over when Mendetta was out of the way.

He turned left into the darkness and plodded on, his mind busy with schemes. The muscles in his legs were fluttering, crying out for rest, but his brain was too active. He had been walking a long time, thinking, planning and scheming.

Out of the darkness, someone called to him. The sound of the voice startled him, and he stiffened as he turned his head.

A girl stepped away from the railings of a house and came close to him. He could see the pale blur of her face and the inviting, swaying movement of her body as she came towards him.

She said in a soft, husky voice, “Come home with me, darlin'.”

Raven hated her viciously. His first conscious reaction was to smash his fist in her face. He found that he was too tired even to do that. Instead, he moved on, ignoring her.

She took two quick steps and was beside him again. “Come on,” she said urgently, “it's just round the corner. Spend the night with me, honey. I'm goodhonest, I wouldn't tell you if I wasn't.”

He stopped walking and half turned. It suddenly dawned on him that she must be one of Mendetta's whores. She was in Mendetta's district. A murderous desire suddenly surged through him.

She came very close and put her thin white hand on his sleeve. He couldn't bear her to touch him, and he shook her off savagely.

“What's the matter, honey, ain't you well?” She began to draw back, suddenly uneasy.

He looked up and down the deserted street. No, not here. He'd have to go back to her place. His thin mouth curled into a smile. This would make Mendetta sit up all right. He said, “Well, come on, then. Where do we go?”

At once she became bright again. He felt against his face her little sigh of relief. She said, “Gee! You scared me. I thought you were a cop.”

He began to move down the street with her, taking long, shambling, unsteady steps.

As he didn't say anything, she went on, “A girl's gotta look out for herself. It's a tough life, darlin'. You're goin' to give me a nice present?”

Still he didn't say anything. Her voice, her scent and her walk all infuriated him, but she was one of Mendetta's possessions. He mustn't say or do anything that would frighten her until he got her where she couldn't get away. As he didn't trust himself, he kept silent.

He was conscious that she was looking at him closely, and that her step lagged a little. He put his hand on her arm and hurried her along. “Where is it?” he said.

“Here,” she said a little breathlessly. “Let me get my key.”

He stood back while she searched in her cheap little bag. They were directly under the street light. He could see her brass−coloured hair, her wide rouged mouth, her short nose and her hard, professional eyes. She only came to his shoulder, and under her tight bottle−green dress he could see the outline of her small, firm breasts.

He said harshly, “For God's sake hurry.”

She giggled nervously. “I'm hurrying.”

He could have spat in her face. She turned and smiled at him. “There's a hole in the lining, I guess,” she said.

At the corner of the street, a cop suddenly appeared. Raven saw him instantly. The inside of his mouth went very dry, and he said once again, “Hurry.”

The tone of his voice startled her, and something of his urgency infused her with panic. She fumbled with her key, jabbing at the keyhole unsuccessfully.

With an obscene word on his lips, he snatched the key from her fingers and opened the door. He put his hand on her shoulders and shoved her inside, stepping in behind her and closing the door softly. He could feel the cold sweat under his arms.

She said a little angrily, “Why did you do that?”

“Put a light on.”

He could hear her fumbling along the wall, and then the passage was swamped with a bright hard light. He said, “Well, go on. Don't stand there.”

She hesitated. “I don't know about you. There's something I don't like about you.”

He pushed his hat to the back of his head and looked her full in the face. They looked at each other for a long minute.

“Do you always yap like this?” he snarled at her. “Take me to your room.”

They went upstairs. He followed her closely. As she went up before him he could see how her hips rolled as she lifted her feet. The professional skirt was so tight across her hips he could see where her suspender belt ended and where the little knobs of the suspenders caught her stockings.

They went up three flights in silence. Then she stopped and opened a door. He caught a glimpse of a little brass plate on the door as he entered a box−like hallway. He closed the door behind him. She took him into the bedroom.

He stood in the middle of the room, his ears intent, listening.

She said, “Come on, darlin'. Don't stand there.”

“You alone up here?”

“Sure, we won't be disturbed.”

Still he stayed listening. She said again impatiently, “What is it?”

He chewed his lower lip, looking at her thoughtfully, then he said, “Mind if I look?” and went out, throwing open the other doors without entering. He glanced in the other two rooms, satisfying himself that they were empty.

She followed him into the hall. Her face was hard and her eyes glittered angrily. “What the hell do you think you're doin'?” she snapped. “This is your room here. The rest of this joint is privatedo you get it?”

Raven again felt like smashing his fist in her face, but he held himself in. “Okay, okay,” he said, walking past her into the bedroom.

She shut the other two doors and then followed him in. Once more her lips broke into her professional smile, but her eyes were dark and suspicious. She said, “Come on, darlin'. Let's get it over.”

Raven took off his hat and ran his fingers through his short, wiry black hair. He sank on to the bed, which gave under his weight.

The room was shabby and not over−clean. The strip of carpet that lay on the floor was threadbare, and from where he was sitting he could see a small stack of soiled underclothes behind an easy−chair.

While he sat there she took off her dress by just pulling a zipper and stepping out of it. Underneath she wore a pair of pink step−ins and a brassiere. She swayed a little before him, turning this way and that, so he could see her. Then she said, “My present?” Her hard face lighted up with a glittering smile.

Raven put his hand in his pocket and offered her a twenty−dollar bill. It was all the money he had in the world. The amount took her breath away. She clutched at the bill and stood staring at it. “Migod, you're cute!” she said. “Gee! I'll give you a good time for this.”

The bill disappeared into the top of her stocking, and she hurriedly stripped down to her suspender−belt.

She said, coming round the bed, “Come on, darlin', come on.”

He said, “Don't be in such a hurry. Put on a wrap or somethin'. I want to talk to you.”

He saw her go a little limp. “Aw, come on, darlin'. We can talk afterwards.”

“No.”

She hesitated, then, shrugging, crossed the room and took a dark red silk wrap off the door−peg.

Raven, sitting in the chair, looked at her indifferently. He noticed she had a little roll of fat above her hip bones, and he thought her buttocks looked ridiculous framed in the soiled suspender−girdle. A dame had got to be good just wearing a girdle, stockings and shoes. This whore wasn't so hot.

She put the wrap on and wandered over to the bed. “You've got to be quick, darlin',” she said. “I can't keep you here all night.”

Raven shook his head. “I shan't stay all night,” he said. “Who's underneath?”pointing to the floor.

“No one. All offices,” she said. “I keep telling you no one'll disturb you.” Then a thought crossed her mind.

“Say, the bulls aren't looking for you, are they?”

A thin smile came to Raven's lips. “Not yet, they ain't,” he returned.

There was a long silence. His cold, wolfish face, his hooded eyes, made her very uneasy. She'd kicked around with plenty of toughs and hoods in her time, but this guy was different. She felt suddenly scared of him, and horribly alone. He just sat there, gripping the arms of the chair, watching her indifferently.

She felt a little sick. “Hell!” she thought. “What a dumb thing to have told him I'm alone!”

He said, “You belong to Mendetta's bunch, don't you?”

Her eyes opened very wide. She didn't expect anything like that. “Mendetta? I've never heard of him,” she said hastily.

“No?” Raven crossed his leg. “You surprise me. Mendetta runs all this territory, including the whores.”

“Don't call me that,” she snapped. “If you're goin' to be funny, you better beat it.”

“Mendetta's a big shot around here. He runs everything. He makes plenty of dough, but he ain't goin' to last. Do you hear, baby? He ain't goin' to last.”

She looked over at the door. “Can't you lay off this crap? I don't know what you're talkin' about. I'm tired. I gotta get some sleep. Let's get this over, an' then you beat it.”

Raven nodded. “Don't work yourself into a lather, sister. Get on the bed. We're goin' to get some sleep right now.”

She dug up a false smile. “That's fine, darlin'. I don't know anythin' about this Mendetta guy.” She went over to the door. Her heart was beating wildly, and she kept her eyes averted so that he shouldn't see her panic.

He said in a chilly voice: “I said get on the bed.”

She put her hand on the door−knob. “I'll be right back,” she said hurriedly. “I'll be right back.”

Before she could open the door, he had left the chair, shoved her away from the door, slammed and locked it. He took the key out of the lock and dropped it into his pocket.

The look on his face terrified her, but she tried to bluff. “Get out of the way an' unlock the door,” she said weakly.

He thrust out his hand and sent her sprawling over the bed. He leant against the door. “When I tell you to do a thingyou do it.”

She struggled to a sitting position. “Unlock that door, you big bastard,” she said. “Get out of here. Go on, take your dough and beat it.” She flipped the twenty−dollar bill from the top of her stocking and threw it at him.

Raven bent slowly and picked it up. He walked over to the bed and sat down beside her. She saw the look in his face. She saw he was going to kill her. The blank, set look in his eyes paralysed her. She could only thrust out her arms. “No... don't!” she cried. “You're not todo you hear?... No!... Keep away....”

He leant slowly towards her. As he came nearer, she crouched away until she lay flat on the bed, his face hovering just above her. She couldn't scream. Her tongue curled to the roof of her mouth and stayed there. She couldn't do anything. Even when his hands slid up to her throat she only clutched feebly at his wrists, shaking her head imploringly at him.

He said softly, “It won't hurt, if you don't struggle.”

She shut her eyes, and as the blood began to drum in her ears she suddenly realized that this was death, and she began to fight him frantically. She had left it too late. His knee, driving into the little hollow between her breasts, pinned her like a poor moth to the bed. The vice−like grip of his fingers cut the air from her lungs.

He said, “Mendetta will hear about this. He'll hate it. He'll know then someone is after him. Do you hear, you silly little fool? You couldn't earn enough to live decently. Look at this room. Look at the poverty of it.

When I run this territory my broads won't live like this. Do you hear?”

She beat his face with her hands, but she had no strength. Her legs thrashed up and down, at first violently, then jerkily, and then not at all.

As her tongue filled her wide−open mouth, and her eyes tried to burst from their sockets, he turned his head slightly so he couldn't see her. He said in a whisper, “You ugly little bitch.” Then blood ran on to his hands from her nose, and she went limp. He climbed off her and stood looking down at her.

He knew that he could go home and sleep now. For a time his hatred had gone out of him.