Макс Коллинз - True Crime

“What’s your interest in Polly, Mr. Heller?”

“It has to do with a job I’m on. Nothing criminal, I assure you; Polly’s not in any trouble. Not... legal trouble.”

“What other kind is there?”

“Oh, well — there’s man trouble.”

“I’ve heard of that,” she allowed, sipping her coffee.

“Is Polly married, Anna?”

“She was. To a policeman in East Chicago.”

“A policeman?”

Anna nodded. “She met him when she was working for me.”

“At the Kostur Hotel?” That was where Anna ran her brothel, in Gary; there’d been an infamous speakeasy and gambling casino in the basement, called The Bucket of Blood. Shootings and stabbings were commonplace, though Anna was known to run a clean, straight house upstairs.

“Yes,” Anna admitted. “At the Kostur.”

“That’d be a few years ago. Polly looks pretty young to have worked for you at the Kostur, what, eight years ago?”

“She looked even younger then.”

“I bet she did. How’d she happen to meet a policeman?”

Now Anna really smiled. “However could a girl meet a policeman in a brothel?”

“Sorry. That was dumb. So she married a policeman.”

“Yes.”

“And it didn’t last.”

“It didn’t last.”

“Could you describe him for me?”

“Why? Mr. Heller, you’re really overstepping—”

“Please. Humor me. There’s no harm in it.”

She sighed. “He’s a tall man, rather lean. Brown hair, with a bald spot. Not unpleasant to look at.”

That didn’t sound like my client.

I hadn’t taken the brunette waitress back at the S & S too seriously when she said Polly was divorced; after all, my client had told me his wife was working under her maiden name, and — particularly if she was running around on him and possibly even hustling — she very well might not be spreading around the fact that she was married.

I tried again. “Her husband’s name wouldn’t have been Howard, would it?”

“No,” Anna said. “Keele. Roy Keele.”

“And they were divorced only a few months ago?”

“That’s right.”

My client had told me he and Polly had been married over a year. So much for the notion that my traveling salesman might be her second husband, on the rebound from Keele.

“Tell me,” I said. “Has she had any steady boyfriends?”

“Yes,” Anna said, nodding. “Several. Lately, one who calls himself...” And she paused here, as if what followed would be significant. “...Jimmy Lawrence. Says he works at the Board of Trade.”

“Gold-rim glasses, pencil mustache, kind of medium build? Nice dresser?”

She kept nodding, seeming suddenly vaguely troubled. “That’s him.”

“Who before that?”

She touched a finger to her cheek, thinking. “I believe — I’m not sure, mind you — I believe it was a traveling salesman.”

That was more like it. Now I could begin to make sense of this.

“Was his name Howard? John Howard?”

“I don’t know. I never knew his name. Why don’t you ask Polly?”

“That would be awkward, at least at this point. The traveling salesman, is he a blond man, also with wire glasses and mustache?”

“Why, yes.”

“Physically a bit similar to this Jimmy Lawrence?”

“I suppose. Why?”

“Nothing. I had a client who lied to me, is all. A man who said he was a husband when he was really just a jilted boyfriend. Who was afraid no self-respecting private detective would take on his case, if he weren’t the girl’s spouse.”

“He doesn’t sound like he’s from Chicago.”

“No,” I said. “He just passes through here, obviously.”

I stood.

“Thank you, Anna. And thanks for the ice water.”

“Are you going to talk to Polly?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why? I’ve finished the job I was hired to do. And I’ve answered the questions that had my curiosity up. You needn’t show me out, and thanks again...”

She reached out and touched my hand; her touch was warm, her hand was trembling. Trembling! This cool cucumber was trembling...

“Why, Anna,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, her face impassive, but her hand still trembling against mine. “Please — sit down. I’d like to talk to you. I need to talk to someone, and... you would do nicely. You’re almost a policeman, after all.”

I sat down.

Her dark eyes seemed very soft, then, and compelling; this big attractive woman had the ability to seem strong one moment, vulnerable the next — like many madams, she’d got out of hustling herself early enough to hold onto her looks; but had hustled long enough to remember how to push a man’s buttons.

Leaning forward in her chair, hands folded in her lap, she said, “You spent a night with Polly once.”

“In a manner of speaking. I was drunk, and I hadn’t been with a woman in a long time... I’d had some of that other kind of trouble — woman trouble. You’ve heard of that.”

My effort to lighten this conversation wasn’t having much effect: Anna’s ready smile was nowhere to be seen.

“She liked you,” Anna said.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said.

“She said she did. And you, maybe you liked her, a little?”

“I liked her in the sack, Anna, to be blunt, but that’s as far as it went. I was drunk, remember? And if you do remember, you’re one up on me.”

Her face looked pale and tragic, the dark eyes hooded, the red mouth a thin line. “I thought you might be interested in... helping her.”

“Well... sure. I guess. Anna, I’ve been shadowing her for a couple of days, and she hasn’t recognized me, even up close. We’re not bosom buddies.”

“But you’d help her, if you could. You’d help anybody in trouble.”

“Not really. But make your pitch. You’ve got my curiosity back up, if that’s what you’re after.”

She stood and paced; whether for dramatic effect, or out of actual nervousness, I didn’t know. I still don’t.

She stopped and said, “Polly may be in dangerous company.”

“How so?”

“This Jimmy Lawrence. She brought him here. For dinner. Polly, and several of the other girls, are more than just employees to me — they’re family. And I often invite them here. Have Romanian specialties, which I cook myself. I’m famous for my culinary arts, for my dinner parties.”

“I’m convinced. But you’ve drifted off the point, Anna.”

She paced some more, then sat down next to me; put a hand on my knee. She smelled good — face powder and exotic perfume. She might have been as much as fifteen years older than me, and I was very much aware that she had been in the cold-blooded sex business for decades, that she’d been a hustler then and a madam now; nevertheless, she had a sultry sensuality that made me uneasy.

“My son Steve and his girl, they’ve gone out with them. Several times.”

“Gone out with who?”

“Polly. Polly and her boyfriend Lawrence.”

“So?”

“Do you know how much danger they’re in?”

“Who’s in? What danger?”

“My son Steve! And his girl. They’re just kids. In their twenties.”

“So am I, Anna, and your point eludes me.”

“Do you know what the other girls at the sandwich shop call Lawrence, behind his back?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Dilly.”

“Oh. What’s that stand for? Has he got a pickle in his pocket, or what?”

“No,” Anna Sage said. “They think he looks like Dillinger.”

I drove over to Pine Grove Avenue and parked just across and down from the ritzy digs where Polly Hamilton’s boyfriend lived. Since she had called in sick today, Polly might well be in there with Jimmy Lawrence right now; bedridden, probably. I hoped the poor girl got to feeling better...