Тэлмидж Пауэлл - The Girl’s Number Doesn’t Answer

The explosion in my tail bone had eased to the activity of a few small, intermittent firecrackers.

“Why?” I said.

“The guilty man is in jail.”

“That the only reason?”

The grip didn’t loosen. “They were my friends,” Kuriacha said. “When I was a poverty-stricken bum with nothing to eat in California, Sadao’s brothers were kind to me. Even if it wasn’t the old man doing it himself, on account of he wasn’t there, I don’t forget easy. So lay off, wise guy. I ain’t having you throw dirt all over the Yamashita name.”

He thought I was properly cowed. He turned me loose and stepped back.

I faced him slowly, my hands on my neck, the palms working at the muscles.

His glower was intended to let me know he wasn’t kidding.

He was a wrestler.

I wasn’t.

I hit him in the face hard enough to break the bone. He took the blow on the granite of his cheek. A low-pitched roar came out of him. Arms opened wide, he lunged at me.

If he ever got those arms on me, he could kill me.

I feinted him to one side and hit him again. This time he sat down on the grass with blood pouring from his nose.

“The odds should be about even if we ever meet for the rubber match,” I told him.

His muscles quivered. He seemed on the point of gathering himself to spring.

“You do it,” I said, “and you’ll be digesting your teeth.”

The stalemate held while I backed away and he sat perfectly still.

I phoned Helen Martin that evening. She answered the pay phone outside her apartment door quickly. Her hello was taut, too anxious. The years of mountainous misfortune hadn’t broken her. But this waiting alone near a telephone was severing her endurance a thread at a time.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” I said, “but I’m seeing Steve Ivey tomorrow morning.”

“You have something, Ed?”

“I know the identity of the person who went to the Yamashita cottage the day of the killings. A blonde call girl known as Luisa Shaw. She operated for a silky madam named Tillie Rollo. Either name mean anything to you?”

“No. Ed, does it mean that she, this Luisa Shaw...”

“There is nothing to indicate that she was anything other than innocent — of murder, at least. But I’m going to use it all I can as a lever on Ivey.”

“Ed, it must work. I don’t think I could stand another disappointment.”

“Cut out that kind of talk, Helen. I know it’s tough. Get out of the apartment for a little while.”

“No. I couldn’t stand crowds of free people, open space. Always before the loneliness had a grain of hope in it, that Nick would get out of the hospital again soon and feel better. It’s never been like this.”

“Want me to come over and yak at you awhile?”

“I’d rather be alone, Ed. Bright chatter would only be a pretense.”

“Get yourself a good dinner and a night’s sleep. I’m counting on you, Helen. So is Nick.”

“I will,” she said. “I have some sleeping pills. Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“Sure you will.”

“I’ll be right by the telephone, and I’m keeping a radio on the newscasts.”

“Just give me some time,” I said. “We haven’t had a setback yet.”

“Sure, Ed. Do you know how to get hold of this Luisa Shaw?”

“No,” I said. “She moved. Left no trace. Even the madam couldn’t find her, and the madam is pretty thorough in that sort of thing. This is favorable to us, this appearance her flight has created. Do you see?”

“Yes, Ed.”

“Ivey may have something on her. Tomorrow may tell a different story.”

Tomorrow...

I saw Sime Younkers coming out of headquarters when I approached the building. He saw me at the same moment, turned his head, and ducked quickly into the sidewalk crowd.

Wondering what the disbarred private eye had wanted here, I entered the building and went to Ivey’s office.

The lieutenant wasn’t in. I cooled my heels for ten minutes or so, and then he arrived.

He arrived with his heel kicking the door closed, with a steel-trap look about his mouth and a dark cloud swathing his face.

“Somebody steal your promotion, Ivey?”

“Oh, hello, Ed. No, a green man let Sime Younkers go up to talk to Nick Martin. I don’t like that crumb Younkers in the same county with me. I don’t like him fooling around my prisoners, trying to sell them any bills of goods. What’s on your mind, anyway?”

“I’ve got a piece of news for you.”

“Yeah?”

“I know who went out to the Yamashita summerhouse the day they were killed.”

He jerked his head toward me. His mind dropped everything else.

“Her name is Luisa Shaw,” I said. “Call girl.”

“Never heard of her. How do you know she went out there?”

“She had an appointment, with Ichiro Yamashita.”

“Who says so?”

“I made a halfway bargain with my source, Ivey.”

He thought it over, looking at me and fingering his lower lip. Then he moved to his desk and sat down. Sunlight from behind him sparkled on his bald head.

Flipping a button on his intercom, Ivey gave a couple of orders.

We waited.

A tall young man in the lightweight, dark shirt and trousers, summer uniform of the Tampa police, entered the office.

Ivey looked at the cop’s empty hands. “Nothing, Baxter?”

“Not a thing, sir. She’s never been picked up in Tampa.”

“File of known prostitutes?”

“Not there either, sir.”

“She could have changed her name,” I said.

“You want to look at pictures for a while?” Ivey asked.

I shook my head. “Mug views wouldn’t help. I don’t know what she looks like.”

“Where does she live?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know a hell of a lot, Rivers, to be so sure she went to the Yamashita house that day.”

The intercom rasped for Ivey’s attention. He pushed a button down. “Yes?”

The intercom gave the voice a hollow, tinny sound. “Lieutenant, Nick Martin has sent down word that he wants to see you.”

“What about?”

“He didn’t say. He requested that you see him immediately. Said it’s important.”

“I’ll go right up,” Ivey said, clicking off the intercom.

Without invitation, I dogged his heels out of the office.

Nick stood quietly in his cell. It seemed to me there were a few new lines etched in his face, tentacles of a weariness smothering the very soul of the man. The pale, fair skin had developed faint blue shadows under the eyes. His short-cut blond hair looked limp, lifeless. The slight remains of the boyishness of his features were a mockery.

Calmly, he said hello to Ivey and me. He looked at me with regret heavy in his eyes. “Ed, I appreciate everything you’ve tried to do.”

“I’m still swinging,” I said.

“Is Helen all right?”

“Sure,” I said.

The jailer locked the cell door behind us. Nick went over and eased himself onto the edge of the iron bunk. Ivey stood near the cell door.

“You wanted to see me?” Ivey asked.

“Yes,” Nick said.

“What’s on your mind?”

“I want to settle the issue.”

“I’m listening,” Ivey said.

Nick looked unseeingly at the big, squarish hands resting on his knees. Without raising his eyes, he said, “I killed them.”

Ivey glanced at me. “I see. You understand, Martin, that you asked for me to listen to you, that you are doing this voluntarily, that it will be used against you.”

“I understand,” Nick said.

“I’ll get it taken down,” Ivey said, “and you can sign it.”

Nick said nothing for a few seconds. When he raised his head, I, not Ivey, received his attention.