Miss Shumway Waves a Wand (14 page)

“Aw, beat it, you two,” I said grinning. “My waist line’s all right. Well, I’ll get over to the Recorder. So long, Doc.”

Ansell waved, “So long,” he said.

I thought I’d say hello and good-bye to Myra so I tapped on her door.

“Come in,” she called.

I pushed the door open and walked in. I didn’t sea her in bed and I looked round the room blankly.

“Hello there,” I said, “where’ve you gone?”

“Good morning, Ross,” Myra said, and patted me lightly on my head.

She was floating near the ceiling, a book in her hand and a cigarette between her lips.

“Holy Moses!” I said, starting back. “Must you do that?”

“Why not?” she said, “Haven’t you heard the saying ‘I’m walking on air’? Well, I’m lying on it. It’s very comfortable and restful.”

She floated slowly down until her face was level with mine then she put her arm round my neck and lowered her feet to the ground. She stood with difficulty.

“I’m feeling very light, this morning,” she said, “As light as a thistledown.”

I looked at her thoughtfully, “Apart from that,” I said, “How do you feel?”

“Oh, all right,” her eyes clouded, “you were awfully drunk last night. I’m still a little angry with you.”

I wasn’t sure but this seemed the new Myra again. “I wasn’t so bad,” I said, “tell me, what happened? You know what I mean.”

She went over and sat on the bed, “I’m scared,” she said, “I dreamed things again. I dreamed that someone came into this room and got into my body. Then you woke me up. Weren’t some clothes on that chair when you came in, or did I dream it?”

“There were,” I said, looking at her uneasily. “Why do you ask?”

“Because they’re not here now,” she returned, “Oh, Ross, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” I said, sure now that Doc Ansell was right. There were two of them. It seemed incredible, but everything pointed to it. “You’re not to worry. Look, I’ve got to go out. Maybe we might lunch together.”

Her face brightened. “Lovely,” she said, “what time and where?”

I looked at the clock. It was already late. “Meet me at Manerta’s in a couple of hours and we’ll talk.”

“All right,” she said. “But, do you think it’ll do any good?”

“I don’t know, but there are things I want to discuss with you.” I turned to the door, “Don’t worry, and leave Whisky home, will you? I want you to myself.”

“I’ll tell him,” she said, “but, he won’t be pleased.”

“And I couldn’t care less,” I said and left her.

“Hullo there, Murphy,” I said wondering what was biting him. “It’s good to see your ugly mug again. How’s tricks? I haven’t seen you in months.”

“I guess that’s right,” he said, shuffling his feet like he was standing on a boiler plate of an overworked tug-boat, “you wouldn’t be coming in here, would you, Mr. Millan?”

“Yep,” I said cheerfully. “That’s the idea. I’m one of those big-minded guys. I’m not afraid of catching anything in this joint although it ought to have been fumigated years ago.”

He laughed like a very sad man, “Well, Mr. Millan,” he said, “you know how it is,” and he shuffled his feet some more.

It occurred to me suddenly that he wasn’t going to let me in. “What’s cookin’, Murphy?” I said sharply, “has someone died in there or something?”

“Well, no, Mr. Millan, but Mr. Maddox has given instructions that he don’t want you in the office. We all feel pretty sore about it, but that’s the way it is.”

“Maddox!” I said. “Well, how do you like that?” I pushed my hat to the back of my head and looked at Murphy more in anger than in sorrow. “Well, don’t let it get you down. You’re only doing your job. Look, I want a word with Dowdy. Will you get hold of him and tell him to come over to Joe’s?”

“You bet, Mr. Millan,” Murphy said, brightening up. “I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him right away.” I went over to Joe’s poolroom, behind the
Recorder’s
Office end I felt sore. I’d worked for this sheet for almost ten years and it was like my second home. It was like being one of the orphans in the storm.

McCue of the
Telegram
was the only guy in Joe’s. He was sitting at the bar on a high stool thumbing through a telephone book when I blew in.

Both he and the barman stared at me as if I was something out of a zoo.

“Hey, Mac,” I said with a grin, “isn’t it your bed-time?”

He screwed up his big rubbery face and then offered a limp hand, “Ross Millan,” he said as if he couldn’t believe it, “I thought you’d committed hara-kiri in the desert.”

“Mornin’ Willy,” I said to the barman, “how about a coffee?”

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Millan,” he said, going over to the urn, “we miss guys like you.”

“Only because we pay our way,” I said, pulling up a stool and sitting down. “These desk newshounds want everything on the cuff.”

McCue took out a dollar and laid it on the counter, “Willy,” he said, “I’m paying for that coffee. I consider it an honour to pay for anything that’ll sustain the guy who cost Maddox twenty-five grand.”

I grinned, but I wasn’t feeling so good. “Quit ribbing me,” I said, “and hang on to that dollar. You know it’s the first piece of money you ever earned.”

McCue put the dollar back into his pocket, “I was forgetting,” he said. “Anyway, it’s as good as a tenement fire to see you again. I hear you’re out.”

“The Recorder’s washed me out, if that’s what you mean,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “But, I’ve got a great future ahead of me.”

“That’s what the guy said when they stuck him on the hot seat. But, then he was only foolin’,” McCue said dryly. “What kind of a corny stunt was that you and Maddox thought up?”

“Never mind,” I said, stirring my coffee. “Let the dead rest in peace. What’s cookin’ now?” McCue returned to the telephone book, “We’ve got a new lead on the Wilson killing,” he said. “I’ve gotta phone a dame.” He found the number and pulled the battered telephone that stood on the bar towards him. It had no mouthpiece and the cord was frayed and knotted.

“When did you get back from Mexico?”

“A few days ago,” I said, watching him dial. “You want to try Mexico sometime. It’s a swell place.”

“You can have it,” he said, “I wouldn’t know what to do with sand and horses.” The telephone went plop and I heard a faint tinny voice snap something in McCue’s ear. He shifted forward on his stool, “Is this the residence of Miss Gloria Hope-Dawn?” he asked.

“For cryin’ out loud,” I said astonished. “Is that a long distance to Hollywood?”

“Naw,” he returned, grinning, “just a little tarnished glamour from the East Side.” He turned his attention to the telephone, “Hello, there. Miss Gloria Hope-Dawn? This is Mr. McCue of the
Telegram
. Yeah. Is it true Harry Wilson gave you a mink coat last year?”

She seemed to have a lot to say about that, because McCue closed his eyes and glued his ear to the receiver and listened.

“All tight, all right,” he said at last, “I’ve got to ask questions. It’s part of my job.”

He listened some more, then suddenly broke in, “Listerine’s about the best kind of mouth wash. You ought to try it sometime,” and hung up. He mopped his face with a dirty handkerchief, “Where these dames learn all their language beats me,” he said mournfully. “I guess I’ll have to go round and see her. Wilson couldn’t have bought her that fur coat to keep her warm. She’s like a blast furnace.”

I told myself that I was going to miss working on the
Recorder
. You only had to smell a little press atmosphere to realize just how much it all meant. In Mexico, it was different, but right here in New York, it was a swell game.

“Well, I’d better be moving,” McCue said, sliding off his stool. “You’ll be around, won’t you? Got any plans?”

“Don’t worry about me,” I said, “I’ve got more than my arm up my sleeve. It’ll take a battalion of punks like Maddox to rattle me.”

He looked at me thoughtfully, “Yeah,” he said, “I suppose it will,” and waving his hand, he went to the door. He nearly banged into Dowdy who came hurrying in, an anxious expression on his thin hatchet face.

McCue said, “You’d better watch your till, Willy, here’s another guy from the Recorder,” and he went off down the Street.

Dowdy refused coffee and sat on the stool with a miserable expression on his face and his eye on the door. I could see that I wasn’t going to get a lot of help from him and the sooner I let him get back to the office the better he’d like it.

“Where’s Shumway?” I asked, abruptly.

Dowdy blinked, “Shumway?” he repeated, “I don’t know. Why should I?”

“Listen,” I said patiently, “if you were to tell me all the things you don’t know, we’d be old men by the time we got out of here. I don’t know why you should know where Shumway is, but, there’s no harm in asking, is there?”

“Don’t get sore, Ross,” he said uneasily. “Maddox has told us to leave you alone. If he hears you and I have been talking, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Don’t worry about a crum like that,” I said, “you inside men worry too much about punks like Maddox. I’ve got to find Shumway. It’s important.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t know where he is. He and his daughter collected the reward from Maddox and beat it. We haven’t their address on file.” He looked longingly at the door.

“This guy Kelly,” I went on hurriedly, seeing that I wasn’t going to hold him much longer, “What do you know about him?”

“Not much. He was the fellow who found the girl. By rights, I suppose, he ought to have had the reward, but they agreed between themselves to split it. I only saw him once and that was after Shumway and the girl had drawn the money.”

“What did he want?” I asked, feeling that we might be getting places.

“He wanted to get in touch with Kruger,” Dowdy replied.

I stared at him, “Peppi Kruger?” I asked, startled.

“Yes, Peppi’s a big shot now, Millan,” Dowdy returned. “He’s president of the Brooklyn Motor Company and an important political figure in lower East Side politics. About six months ago he got control of the Taxi Chauffeurs’ union. You know the racket. He scared the pants off the taxicab companies and made a pile of jack. Any company that doesn’t pay up, gets into trouble. He’s got them eating out of his hand at the moment, but something tells me that the D.A.’ll get on to him before long. Anyway, he’s made enough money now to retire.”

I whistled, “A guy like that,” I said in disgust, “when I knew him he was running rum for Brescia. What did Kelly want with him?”

Dowdy slid off his stool. “I don’t know,” he said, “I wasn’t having anything to do with it, but I guess he could get in touch with Kruger easily enough.” He looked longingly at the door, “Well, I’ve got to get back,” he went on, “Maddox might want me.”

“Okay, Dowdy,” I said. “You’ve given me a lead.”

He looked at me suspiciously, “What’s the idea? Why are you interested in Shumway?”

“Wouldn’t you be interested in some guy who lost you your job?” I said, meeting his eye. He looked a little scared, “You aren’t going to start trouble, are you, Millan?” he said nervously. “Maddox wouldn’t like that.”

“Do you think I care what Maddox likes or dislikes?” I said. “Why a midget wouldn’t be scared of a rat like him.”

He gave me another troubled look, shook hands and went off across the street to the
Recorder
Offices.

I finished my coffee, lit another cigarette and then reached for the telephone book. Kruger had a house on East Seventy-eight Street. That made me think. To have a house in that narrow territory bounded by Lexington on the east and Fifth Avenue on the west meant something. It meant more than something. It meant money. Stacks of money.

“Remember Peppi?” I said to Willy, who had just got through preparing the free lunch sandwiches.

“Yeah,” he said, “that punk used to worry me. He didn’t come in here much, but when he did, he sure started a draught. Well, I guess he’s had a successful career, but he didn’t come by it honestly. I don’t envy him.”

I shook my head, “it wouldn’t make a lot of difference if you did,” I said with a grin, “Peppi wouldn’t care.”

Willy grinned back, “I guess that’s right,” he said. “You wouldn’t be interested in Peppi now, would you, Mr. Millan?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “I’ve got time to be interested in anyone.”

“Out of a job?” The big barman’s face showed sympathy.

“Resting,” I said, yawning. “When I want work, I’ll get work. Well, so long, Willy, I’ll be in again.”

“So long, Mr. Millan,” Willy still looked worried, “I hope you get a break.”

Walking down the street, I hoped so too.

Anyway the morning wasn’t wasted. I had something to think about. Why did Kelly want to get into touch with Peppi? 1’hat was interesting. Had Shumway and the girl double-crossed Kelly? Maybe Kelly had once worked for Peppi and wanted him to put some pressure on Shumway to divide up the dough.

I remembered Peppi well. You couldn’t easily forget him. Last time I saw him was about two years ago. He was on trial for murder. I remember him sitting with his Counsel, listening to the opening address by the District Attorney. He never batted an eyelid throughout the two-day trial and he got away with it without the jury leaving the box. As far as I knew, he’d stood trial four times for murder and four times he’d been acquitted. Now, of course, he could pay some other guy to do his killing for him.

Peppi was a little guy with big bulging eyes. When he was a kid he contracted a skin disease that had stripped off his hair. He’d been as bald as an egg ever since. Apart from looking like a second cousin of Lugosi, he had a mean disposition.

So it came back to the problem. What did Kelly want with him? The only thing I could do was to call on Peppi and find out. If I went with a good enough story I might get somewhere. I didn’t exactly relish the visit, but I argued that if a guy had a house on East Seventy-eight, then he wasn’t likely to cut my throat. Or was he?

Anyway, thinking along those lines didn’t get me anywhere so I hailed a cab and gave Peppi’s address.

The driver knew him all right.

“Friend of yours, Bud?” he said, pushing the taxi through the traffic like he was anxious to get rid of me.

“You ask him. He’ll tell you if he wants you to know,” I returned.

“Wise guy, huh?” the driver snorted. “A dime a dozen. A dime a dozen.”

“I heard you the first time,” I said.

He didn’t say anything for a couple of blocks, then he ventured again, “That Kruger guy ain’t doing us any good in the taxi business. Somebody ought to stop him.”

“Come in with me and stop him,” I said, putting my feet on the spring seat in front of me.

“Yeah?” he said, “I like that kind of advice. It’s like saying why not bop Joe Louis on the snout.”

“Just drive me,” I pleaded. “I would the rest were silence.”

That held him and I didn’t get a yap out of him until he’d stopped outside Peppi’s house. I gave him a dollar. “Hang on to the change,” I said. “You look like you could use some relief.”

He put the dollar away slowly. “Some of you smart guys love yourselves,” he said, spitting on the sidewalk. “I bet you’ve got chapped lips kissing mirrors,” and he drove away before I could think up a comeback.

I concentrated on Peppi’s house. Well, it was a nice joint. It looked like it belonged to Vincent Astor or J. P. Morgan or some high-powered magnate like that. It was solid, big and cool-looking with burgundy brick walls, a terra-cotta tile roof and bay-cottage windows of white stone.

I went up the three broad steps to the massive oak and iron-studded door and rang the bell. An elderly man, got up to look like a butler, opened the door “come in, sir,” he said, without even asking me what I wanted.