James Chase: Miss Callaghan Comes to Grief

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.