James Chase: Miss Callaghan Comes to Grief

“Franky, put that light out, will you? It’s tryin’ my eyes.”

Franklin said, “If you think I’m goin’ to stay here in the dark, you’re crazy. This place gives me the heebies.

I don’t mind stayin’ here so long as I can see those cabinets, but in the darkwhy, hell, I’d be thinkin’ they might be gettin’ out an’ lookin’ me over.”

Phillips sat up. “What you mean, gettin’ out? How the hell can a stiff do a thing like that?”

“I’m not sayin’ that they’d do it. I’m sayin’ what I think they might be doin’.”

“Don’t be a nut.” Phillips swung his feet off the bench and got up. “Now I’ll show you somethin’. Let’s have a look at some of these guys.”

Franklin backed away. “I don’t want to see them,” he said hurriedly. “This burg’s spooky enough without lookin’ at corpses.”

Phillips went over to the cabinet and pulled out a drawer. It slid out silently on the roller−bearings. In the drawer was a big negro; his pale pink tongue lolled out of his mouth and his eyes seemed to be bursting out of his head. Phillips hastily slammed the drawer shut. “That guy was strangled,” he said shakily. “Let’s try another or I’ll dream about him.”

The driver edged close, but Franklin went over and sat on the bench. Phillips pulled another drawer open.

An elderly man, his face covered with a good half−inch stubble of beard, came into view.

“You wouldn’t think he was dead, would you, boss?” the driver said.

Phillips shoved the drawer to. “Naw,” he said, “he looks like he was stuffed.” He walked over to the other side of the room. “Let’s have a look at some of the dames.”

The driver’s face brightened. “That’s an idea, boss,” he said. “Can you unwrap ’em?”

Phillips looked over at Franklin. “For Gawd’s sake, did you hear that?” he said. “This gaul wants to see some Paris pictures.”

The driver looked abashed. “Don’t get me wrong, boss,” he pleaded. “If you don’t think I oughtta look, I won’t.”

Phillips was pulling open drawers quickly, peering inside and hastily shutting them. “Real hot numbers don’t seem to die these days,” he said regretfully. “All old dames here.” He paused and pulled a drawer open further. “Say, this looks better. Hi, Franky, come an’ look at this.”

Franky got up slowly and came over, impelled by irresistible curiosity. They all stood looking down at the girl lying in the drawer. She had flame−coloured hair, that showed a darker brown at the roots. Her thin pinched face wore a tragic look of one who has missed the good things in life. Her lips were gentle in death, in spite of the almost pathetic smudge of the lipstick that smeared her chin.

Phillips pulled off the sheet that covered her.

The driver said, “Oh, boy!” and trod on Franklin’s toes to get nearer.

She was slender, but firmly rounded. Her body was as perfect as the three men had ever seen.

Franklin took the sheet from Phillips and made to cover her again, but Phillips stopped him. “Let her lie,” he said, “she does somethin’ to me. By God! She’s nice, ain’t she?”

The driver said wistfully, “It’d take a heapa jack to play around a dame like that.”

Phillips continued to stare at the girl. He pulled the tag of identification from its slot in the drawer and studied it. “Julie Callaghan,” he read. “Age 23. Height 5 ft. 4 inches. Weight 112 lbs. Address not known. No relations.” He pulled the tag out further. “Cause of death: Murder by stabbing. Profession: Prostitute.”

He released the tag, which snapped back into its socket. “Well, well,” he said.

The three men stood silently looking down at the figure in the drawer, then Franklin said, “You never can tell, can you? Here I was workin’ up some sympathy for her, and she turns out to be a whore.”

Phillips glanced at him. “What’s the matter with that?” he said. “Can’t you give her any sympathy?”

Franklin threw the sheet over her and closed the drawer. “You ain’t one of those guys who tries to put glamour in that type, are you?”

“You’ve got the angle wrong. That dame’s doing a job of work. Maybe it ain’t a good job of work, but all the same, she’s human, ain’t she?”

Franklin wandered to the bench and sat down. “Come off it,” he said, “that don’t hold water. I’ll tell you something. I hate these broads. I despise them. To me, that dame is just one more of ’em out of the way. She got what was comin’ to her. She was too damn lazy and too damn brainless to do anythin’ else.”

Furtively the driver had opened the drawer again and was looking with fascinated eyes.

Both Phillips and Franklin took no notice of him.

Phillips said, “Some of these girls are forced into the trade, Franky. You ought to know that. Gee! You ought to be sorry for them.”

“Don’t talk a lotta bull. Sorry? That’s a laugh. Listen, there’s too much crap going around about forcin’ janes into prostitution. If a woman don’t want to do it, you just can’t make her. They do it because they want the things in life the easy way. They’ve got what you want, and they make you pay for it. They give you nothing. They’ll cheat you, rob you, lie to you, and they certainly hate you. They’re a breed on their own. To hell with them!”

The driver said, “Maybe this was one of Raven’s girls.”

The two looked at him. “Why do you say that?” Phillips asked. “Are you sure?”

The driver closed the drawer regretfully. “No, I ain’t sure, but he always had the best girls; and she’s a honey, ain’t she?”

Phillips looked at Franklin. “You’re wrong, Franky. Some of these girls had a bad time. Raven’s girls had a terrible time. It’s hick−minded to group them all together.”

“Who’s this Raven you’re talkin’ about?” Franklin wanted to know.

Phillips exchanged glances with the driver. “So you don’t know Raven?” he said. “Well, well! Where’ve you been all this time?”

Franklin sat down. “Okay, okay, I’ll buy it, just so long as you’ll stop this sissy talk about whores. Tell me.”

Phillips reached for a cigarette. “Raven was quite a boy,” he said, setting himself comfortably. “He came to this town about a year ago. As a matter of fact, one of our crowd, working on the old rag, first got on to him. It was odd how it started. Damned odd. If old Poison’s wife hadn’t gone off the rails, maybe Raven would still be operating right now. It happened this way….”

June 3rd, 11.45 p.m.

“TAKE ME OUT for a little drive, Gerry darling,” Mrs. Poison said as the music stopped.

Hamsley looked at the big bulk of wrinkled flesh and was appalled.

“It’s such a very, very hot night, isn’t it?” she went on, walking across the ballroom floor. “It’ll be nice out in the car”she gave his arm a little pat“with you.”

Hamsley wiped his face with his handkerchief. “Yes, Mrs. Poison,” he said.

He knew what was coming. He’d seen it coming for the last week. He had a sick feeling inside him as he followed her steady march across the floor. He could see people looking at him and smiling to each other.

As he went past the band the conductor said something he didn’t hear. He knew what it was, and it made him sicker than ever. At the door he tried to persuade her to stay. It was like pushing the sea back with his hands.

It was dark outside, cool after the heat of the ballroom. They stood on the top step, trying to pierce the darkness.

Mrs. Poison put her hand on his arm. He could feel her trembling. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she said. “My, my, it makes me feel young again.”