Хал Эллсон - Masters of Noir - Volume 3

I was hardly past the door when I realized I was persona non grata. The word was in. The bartender’s glare was colder than frigidity in an igloo, and almost at once a bouncer with heft bellied up to me.

Softly he said, “Out.”

Petie-boy was innocent-eyed. “But why, sweetie?”

“Because them’s orders. And don’t call me sweetie.”

“You’re big, but I got a hunch I can take you.”

“Try.”

“I would if it made sense, but after I get past you, there’d be too many others.”

“Smart. But you wouldn’t get past me.”

“That’s one man’s opinion. Can I ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“Who gave the orders?”

“Johnny Hays.”

“That little prig?”

“Yeah, that little prig.”

“Nickie know about these orders?”

“Look, pal, I only work here. Johnny’s one of my bosses. I don’t ask my boss no questions. You going out nice and quiet? It’s better for business if you go out nice and quiet. But just between you and me, I wish you wouldn’t, because I’d love to shove a fist through you. You’re one of them dressed-up wise guys that thinks he’s a muscle. Get a little fresh, pal. I would love it.”

It didn’t make sense, but it’s the same old story. Business is business, and in my business, you’ve got to keep them respecting you or you lose face. I lifted my knee, and his face hung out, and he caught a tennis-racket right, and then a straight left to the point of the chin. It was neat and it was quick and before the commotion even started I was out in the night.

And thereafter I was out many nights, night after night, milking the underworld, trying to coax a tip on the Reed snatch, but it was locked up tight, and nothing wanted to happen. I kept making calls to Nickie Darrow but no call came back to me. I didn’t see Trina, I didn’t see Johnny, I didn’t see Nickie, I didn’t see Florence, I didn’t see Abner, I didn’t see Aunt Ethel, and I didn’t see Uncle Harry. I saw Parker, and between the two of us we had accumulated a great big bunch of nothing. The holster I was wearing was growing heavy, and the flesh beneath it was growing red, yet... nothing. And then, late one sunny afternoon, I was sitting in the office thinking about my next move, when the next move was made for me. The phone rang and the husky female voice said, “Mr. Chambers?”

“This is Chambers.”

“Good.” She spoke quickly. “My name is Sandra Mantell. I live at Fifty-two West Forty-ninth, Apartment Two, downstairs.”

“Yes, Miss Mantell?”

“I want to talk to you. Personally.”

“I’m a little busy, Miss Mantell.” It wasn’t true, but you always say that to a new client. It helps with the fee.

“It’s important, Mr. Chambers.” The voice dropped a note. “It’s about a kidnapping.”

Crinkles commenced on my scalp. “Pardon?” I said.

“The kidnapping of Abner Reed.”

I sat bolt upright. “What? What’s that?”

“Listen, please. I... I’m involved in it. It was my idea, really. I dreamed it up. I was supposed to get a third. One third.” The voice got harsh now. “But... I’m not getting it. So... I want to talk. Understand? I want to talk.”

“Yes,” I prompted. “Yes, Miss Mantell.”

“Look. I want you to make a deal for me. If I spill... I want to be able to cop a plea. If I give them the evidence, worst I want is a suspended sentence.”

Now I tried the crafty approach. “Why you calling me, Miss Mantell?”

“Because I know you’re mixed up in it. Because I want you to feel out the cops for me. You tell them I’ll spill if they guarantee me a plea. I’m ready to talk, Mr. Chambers. Nobody is going to cross me and get away with it... oh!...”

The raps over the wire were gunshots.

Could have been backfire, could have been explosions, could have been firecrackers — but they weren’t — none of that — not with the quick cry from her, and then the sigh, and then the thud of the receiver to the floor. The connection was open but I broke it. I hung up and I ran. Fifty-two West Forty-ninth was near enough to my office and I ran most of the way... and then I was there... in the presence of death... Apartment Two... a blonde on the floor with blood on her face... and standing above her... a sobbing brunette... and that one I knew.

Her name was Trina Greco.

“What the hell?” I said. “What’s going on here?”

Sobs.

“Trina!”

“Yes?”

“You didn’t kill her?”

“No.”

I closed the door and I prowled. The receiver was still off the hook, a discordant insistent buzz pouring through it. The blonde was in a sheer housecoat, a tall blonde with a fine figure, shot through the head. A revolver lay near her. I came back to Trina and shook her. I said, “Did you kill her?”

“No.”

“Did you call the cops?”

“No.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Look. Talk it up. Talk it up fast. We’ve got to report this. Now come on. Let’s have it.”

She was trying to pull herself together, but she wasn’t too successful. “Let me tell you,” she gasped. “Let me tell you what happened...”

But then the sobs came again.

I said, “I’ll ask questions, and you try to answer them. And get hold of yourself, will you please?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“You say you live here. Is this the new apartment you moved to?”

“Yes.”

“And this girl. She Sandra Mantell?”

“Yes.”

“She live here too?”

“Yes. My room-mate.”

“You know her well?”

“I met her a couple of months ago. I was introduced to her.”

“By whom?”

“A man. Johnny Hays.”

“Johnny Hays, huh? That guy mean anything to you?”

“Nothing. An acquaintance. I went out with him a few times.”

“And this Sandra Mantell. Was she a friend of his too?”

“No. She was a friend of a friend of his. Nick Darrow.”

“How well do you know this Nick Darrow?”

“I don’t know him at all.”

“You mean you just met a girl, and you became room-mates?”

“No. She lived in Jersey. She was a dancer, working in Union City.”

“Doing what?”

“A burlesque turn. But she was a trained ballet dancer. We were short a girl for our show, and I brought her in, and she qualified. We became better acquainted, and she suggested taking this apartment.”

“How’d you get along?”

“I didn’t like her. She was tough, hard, unpleasant. I told her I was going to move out after the first month, for which my rent was paid.”

“How’d she take that?”

“She said she didn’t care. She said if things worked out for her, she’d be living in a penthouse, and very soon.”

“Yet she attended rehearsals as a ballet dancer?”

“Attended them faithfully. She wanted that, terribly. I think she was trying to prove something to herself. She made much more money in burlesque. She did a specialty.”

I went away from her and looked over the apartment. It was clean, neat and nicely furnished. When I came back, I said, “Okay. I think you’re in shape now. I want to know what happened here, and I want it coherent.”

She wiped her palms with a handkerchief and laid it away. She said, “We’d both been at rehearsal. She said she had a date, and a very important one, a business date.”

“Did she say where?”

“At a restaurant. She didn’t tell me which restaurant. She said she was going to talk business. She said she was going to give somebody a last chance to make her rich. That’s what she said.”

“Where’d you go?”

“I went to a movie.”

“Then?”

“I came home. As I entered the hallway, I heard the shots. Our door opened and a man came running out. We collided, and that’s when the gun dropped to the floor.”