James Chase - Miss Callaghan Comes to Grief

He took the elevator to the sixth floor and walked heavily to his apartment. He let himself in and was surprised to find the place in darkness. For a moment he hesitated, and his hand groped for a gun he no longer carried. Then he swore softly and turned on the light.

The room was empty.

He walked over to the settee and took off his hat and light dust−coat. He felt annoyed with himself for being momentarily scared. It was a long time ago since he carried a gun. The time when he had been Legs Diamond’s bodyguard. A lot of water had gone under the bridge since then. Now he paid other guys to carry guns for him.

He was also irritated that Jean wasn’t in. He felt like amusing himself with Jean tonight. He wondered where the hell she had got to. Wandering into each empty room in turn and not finding her, he turned to the living−room, sulkily. He’d got to ring Grantham, anyway. By the time he was through she’d turn up.

He sat down by the telephone and dialled Grantham’s number.

Grantham came on the line almost immediately.

“Well, I fixed it,” Mendetta told him. “There ain’t goin’ to be any trouble.”

“No? Well, I’m mighty glad to hear it. Ellinger was in last night, snooping around. I got one of my boys to look after him. He went out with Rogers; then this morning he went round to that screwy little punk Fletcher.

Do you remember him?”

Mendetta was faintly bored with all this. “No,” he said, “I don’t, but it doesn’t matter. I’m telling you”

“Listen, Tootsie, it does matter,” Grantham broke in. “Fletcher was the guy who caused that spot of trouble at the Club a while back about his sister.”

Mendetta’s hard eyes narrowed. “I thought you got rid of that guy,” he said angrily. “You say Ellinger’s been to see him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what about it?”

“Nothing. I thought I’d tell you.”

“You thought you’d tell me!” Mendetta sneered. “Don’t you ever use your head? Must I tell you what to do?”

There was a pause, then Grantham said, “Okay, I’ll see to it. Poison’s fixed, is he?”

“You’ve got to get rid of Hamsley. Poison didn’t know I was interested in the Club. I’ve got one or two things on Poison.” Mendetta smiled into the black mouthpiece.

“Suppose Fletcher told Ellinger something?”

“What if he did? Ellinger’s working for Poison, ain’t he? Poison will tell him to lay off. I’ve fixed that.”

“Are you sure it’s all right?” Grantham insisted anxiously.

“Of course I’m sure. Now forget it, but see that Fletcher is looked after. That guy’s been around too long now.”

“I’ll fix him,” Grantham said viciously, and hung up.

Mendetta glanced over at the clock. It was twelve−fifteen. Where the hell was Jean? He got up and took off his coat, going into the bedroom for his silk dressing−gown. When he had fastened the cord about his thick middle he went back to the living−room and fixed himself a drink. He didn’t know why, but he felt uneasy and restless.

Wandering over to the card−table, he picked up the deck of cards and shuffled them slowly. His mind wasn’t on patience. He stood there, brooding, letting the cards slide through his fingers. He became aware that he was listening intently for any unusual sound. He could hear the faint whine of the elevator and the click of the grille as it moved between floors. The sharp sound of a car hooter and the steady beat of traffic outside suddenly became real to him instead of a background of unconscious noise.

“What the hell’s the matter with me tonight?” he growled irritably, throwing down the pack of cards. He walked over to the window and threw it wide open.

The night was hot and still. The full moon, floating just above the distant roof−tops, flooded the street below with a silvery light. He stood watching the traffic for several minutes, letting the hot air fan his face.

Then, just as he was about to return to the room, he paused. He leant far forward, looking into the street. His eyes tried to probe the shadows. Except for an occasional car the street was deserted. The guard, who should have been standing by the entrance, was no longer there. Mendetta couldn’t believe his eyes. For three months now the guard had stood there, his hand on his gun, watching those who entered the block of apartments. No one could go in who roused his suspicions. For three months Mendetta could look down on him, and smile to himself, confident in his safety. This came as a great shock to him.

He turned back to the room hurriedly. His first thought was to ring Grantham and tell him to send one of the mob over fast to investigate, then he hesitated. It wouldn’t do for Grantham to think that he was getting soft. He tried to remember if he had a gun in the place. It was such a long time since he had had a gun. Maybe Jean had one.

He crushed down the little panic that was beginning to form in his brain. This wouldn’t do, he thought angrily; the guy down there maybe was standing inside the hall where he couldn’t see him. The best thing would be to ring down to the hall porter and find out.

As he went over to the house phone he heard a key turn in the front−door lock. He stiffened, and stood waiting. He was furious with himself to find that his mouth had gone very dry.

The door opened and Jean came in. She was wearing a smartly cut black two−piece suit. She came in slowly, as if she were tired.

Her presence reassured Mendetta, who said angrily, “Where the devil have you been?”

Jean didn’t say anything. She stood looking at him, her eyes very scared, and her face thin and bony.

Mendetta repeated, “Where have you been? Did you know the guard ain’t on the door? Was he there when you came up?”

Jean shook her head. “No.”

“Well, where is he? What’s all this about? You look as if you were expecting someone to die.”

She looked at him in horror. “Don’t say that,” she said fearfully.

He took a quick step towards her, but she got out of his way and half ran round the settee. He stood very still, staring at her. “Well, tell me,” he said between his teeth, “where have you been?”

She said, “Iran into an old pal of yours. He insisted onseeing you.” She waved her hand towards the door.

Mendetta turned his head slowly. A cold chill ran down his back. Raven stood in the doorway, his cold face expressionless. A limp cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth, and in his right hand he held a long−barrelled gun.

Mendetta shivered with the shock. His big white hands fluttered, imploring Raven to go away. “What do you want?” he whispered.

Raven jerked the gun. “Sit down, Tootsie,” he said, “we got things to talk about.”

Mendetta sat by the card−table. He folded his twitching hands on the green cloth. From where he sat he could see Jean, kneeling on the floor. She had covered her head with her arms. Her attitude reminded Mendetta of a woman who is witnessing an unavoidable head−on collision, and turns away in horror before the crash. He suddenly felt very sick.

Raven continued to lean against the doorway. “It’s taken time to get around to you, Tootsie,” he said, “but I’ve done it. I said I’d do it, didn’t I?” He jerked his head to Jean. “She ratted on you, Tootsie. Don’t trust women, they always let you down. She got the guard to go away. She let me up here, just because she was tired of sleeping with you.”

Mendetta’s face twitched, but he didn’t say anything. Jean got suddenly to her feet and ran into the bedroom, shutting the door violently behind her.

Raven shrugged. “She thinks I’m goin’ to look after her. You don’t have to worry about that. I don’t trust her, an’ I wouldn’t want anythin’ you’ve had your hands on. No, I guess she’ll be sorry for what she’s done.”