James Chase - Miss Callaghan Comes to Grief

The Jew smiled. “You’re a bad girl. I ought to take you home.”

They both laughed. A waiter came and hovered near them. “Come on, have a beer,” the Jew said. “It’s from the ice here, and it’s swell.”

She said, “Just one, then, but I don’t usually drink with strangers.”

The Jew gave the order to the waiter. “You’re quite right,” he said. “A nice−lookin’ girl like you can’t be too careful.” He put his fingers into his vest pocket and took out a little white pill. He kept the pill between his first and second fingers. The girl didn’t notice anything.

When the waiter brought the drinks the Jew pointed suddenly behind the girl. “Who’s that guy?” he asked.

His hand hovered over her glass as she turned her head, and the pill slid into the liquid.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Why?”

“I’ve seen him about a lot. Wondered who he was. Quite a guy, ain’t he?”

She turned back to the beer. It looked very inviting. He raised his glass. “Hey, beautiful,” he said with a flourish.

They both drank deeply. She shuddered when she put the glass down. “It’s horrid stuff,” she said.

He laughed. “Beer’s an acquired taste, baby; you’ll grow to love it.” He pushed back his chair. “Come on, let’s dance.”

Halfway across the room she lost time. He changed step and steered her towards the exit. She suddenly grew very heavy and her hands clutched at his arms.

“I’m goin’ to faint,” she said in a far−away voice. “Get me out of here.”

He was already leading her to the door. One of his arms was round her waist and he had to support her. No one noticed anything wrong. When they got out into the open she collapsed and sank down on her knees.

The closed car swung across the road and one of the doors opened.

The Jew picked her up and shoved her hastily into the car. The door slammed and the car drove away very fast.

The Jew watched the tail−light disappear and then he went back to the dance−hall. It was easy. He sat down at the table again and took out a little note−book. He made an entry. Then he put the note−book away and sat back, his eyes once more searching the line of girls waiting for partners.

September 8th, 9 a.m.

RAVEN OPENED his eyes. He had a knack of being instantly awake after a heavy sleep. He never struggled back into consciousness. One moment he was asleep, then next he was fully awake. He stared up at the ornate ceiling, feeling the soft comfort of the bed under him.

Three months ago he had been a bum. Now he was powerful, rich and feared, but he was smart enough to know it couldn’t last. Some time someone would squeal, and he’d have to go into hiding. It would be different now. He had money banked in several banks under different names. He had a lot of money in the apartment.

He could skip to Europe if necessary. That sent his thoughts in another direction. Why not skip out while the going was good? Grantham could run this racket now he’d got it started. He could go to France or to the Argentine. There was a lot of scope there for a guy with his brains.

He turned and looked at Sadie, who was sleeping by his side. He was pleased with her. She’d got class, she was a looker, and she didn’t make trouble. He’d tamed her all right.

He leant upon his elbow and studied her thoughtfully. She had little dark smudges under her eyes and her mouth was a little slack. Still, she was a looker for all that. She’d last for another couple of months, then he’d send her back to one of his houses and find someone else. His hand groped for the bell, and he rang it. Then he climbed out of the bed and went into the bathroom. By the time he’d shaved breakfast had been brought in.

Sadie woke up. She yawned and stretched her long white arms. Raven poured himself out a cup of coffee.

“Do you want some?” he said.

“Might as well,” she said listlessly, climbing out of bed. She struggled into a wrap and went off to the bathroom.

Raven glanced through the paper and then chucked it on one side. He found a pile of letters on the tray and began to glance through them. Most of them were for bills. They were all addressed to J. J. Cruise, the name he had adopted when he moved into the St. Louis Hotel. The last envelope was bulky and it contained a catalogue of trains. He was reading this carefully when Sadie came back.

She poured out some coffee and sat watching him indifferently. A great change had taken place since she had gone away with O’Hara. She knew it herself. She could no longer struggle against this man. He had proved himself so utterly ruthless and hateful that her resistance had been completely shattered. She no longer lived. She sat about waiting to obey his commands. Her terror for him had long burnt itself out. It was just a matter of automatically complying with his wishes. She found that if she did what she was told he was bearable. They went out together, lived together and slept together. She had no animation, but he seemed satisfied with being seen about with her. She didn’t care what people thought or who saw her. Her will had ceased to exist.

The catalogue revived his interest in the trains. He looked up. “Get that train outfit,” he said. “Put it up in the other room. I’ll amuse myself with it, I think.”

She put down her cup and went out of the room immediately. Raven scowled and stared after her.

Sometimes her obedience bored him. He wished she’d refuse so that he could vent his spite on her. He shrugged and, still frowning, continued to turn the pages of the catalogue.

The house phone buzzed and he shouted for her to answer it. She came out of the other room and, after listening at the receiver, said, “A Mr. Grantham wants to see you.”

Raven nodded. “Send him up,” he said.

She spoke again to the clerk and then went back into the other room. Raven could hear her setting out the tracks.

A knock sounded on the door and Grantham walked in.

Raven nodded. “Come on in,” he said. “Nice little place this, hey?”

Grantham hadn’t been up before. He glanced around. “Very,” he said shortly, taking off his light dust−coat.

He selected a chair and sat down.

Raven watched him narrowly. “Well, what’s wrong?”

Grantham came to the point at once. “Ellinger’s in town,” he said.

Raven shook his head. “I don’t know him.”

“Ellinger is a reporter on the St. Louis Banner. He covers the crime angle. We’ve had trouble with him before. Now it looks as if he means to stick his neck out. He’s left the Banner and has been makin’ a lot of enquiries about me. I don’t like it.”

Raven sneered. “You guys are helpless,” he said. “Scare him. Turn some of the boys on to him. He’ll quit.”

“He’s not that type of guy,” he said. “The harder we try an’ scare him, the harder he’ll stick.”

“Then arrange a little accident. Don’t bother me with these trifles.” Raven finished his coffee. “How’s the business goin’?”

Grantham nodded. “It’s goin’ all right.” He sounded doubtful.

“Well, what is it? Ain’t you satisfied?”

“Of course I am, but don’t you think we’re takin’ a hell of a risk? Some of these girls will squeal. They’re bound to. I think we ought to stick to the professional. Seventy−five per cent of the girls you send me are kidnapped into the game. It’s getting tough keeping them in order. There’s a big yap coming from Denver and Cleveland about the number of girls that are missing.”

Raven laughed. “You’re just a small−time hick,” he said. “Guys don’t want the professional type of hustler.

They want fresh innocent stuff, and you know it. The guys that pay big dough don’t give a damn where they come from or what song they sing as long as they have them. So you can’t keep them in order. I’ve got a little jane who was traded. I’ll show you how I’ve made her toe the line.”