Dan Marlowe: Shake a Crooked Town

In the block and a half between the Duarte and the Manhattan Johnny revised his thinking about Carl Thompson. Crazy the man may have been, but it looked very much as though his angry statements of that afternoon had received the ultimate confirmation. Someone had seen to it that Thompson did no more talking.

The police were going to ask a lot of questions about the presence of Thompson's body in Johnny's room. John hoped that Micheline Thompson could supply some of the answers.

He entered the Manhattan's Forty-Fifth Street entrance and inside detoured to the bell captain's desk. “H'ya, boy,” he greeted Wink Litchfield, its paunchy, graying generalissimo. Litchfield was a Duarte alumnus. His right eye had a heavy lid that had earned him his nickname.

“H'ya, boy, yourself,” Wink returned. He surveyed Johnny with interest. “I heard you got yourself shot up chasin' a broad. Times sure have changed. It was you had to use the gun when I knew you.”

“You'll get old, too, one of these days,” Johnny told him. “What you got in 1047, Wink?”

The bell captain nodded as though at a private judgment confirmed. “A doll, naturally, or you wouldn't be askin'. I was just up there. 1047's a suite. The doll's registered in, but a big-man-on-campus type is fieldin' the bunts at the door.”

“He must be a big-big-man-on-campus if he's got you hoppin' the bells in person, Wink.”

“A very good man,” Litchfield agreed. “Deals in paper money only. From his looks I wouldn't give him a yard start in a broken field but a good man on the financial fast draw. What's with you and 1047?”

“What time did they check in?” Johnny sidestepped.

“You workin' for Moscow now? I could look it up in the log, but say five-thirty. I know it was just before I started sendin' the middle shift out to supper.” But Micheline Thompson had said on the phone that she had been driven down from Jefferson that evening, Johnny thought. What the hell was going on? “What's with you and 1047, Johnny?” Wink repeated.

“I'm invited to the party.”

Apprehension showed in Litchfield's face. “Now wait a minute,” he warned. “Trouble we can't use around here. This isn't the Duarte. No one's gonna hold still for you thumpin' around here freewheelin' over an' through people.”

“Remind me to call you the next time I need a character reference, Wink. I said I'm invited, damn it. Call her up.”

Litchfield reached for his telephone. He looked almost disappointed as he replaced it. “You're expected,” he admitted grudgingly. “Anyway, I think I'll take you up there myself. Just in case you somehow sandbagged me on this phone call.”

“Don't you for God's sake trust your own operators?”

“Not where you're concerned, I don't,” Wink Litchfield said flatly. “I know you, man.” He led the way to an elevator. On the tenth floor he preceded. Johnny around two right-hand turns to the suite entrance at the end of the long hallway. The door opened at once at his light tap. Johnny eyed the olive-skinned, dark-haired man who appeared in it. He was of medium height but solidly built. Despite horn-rimmed glasses, his slightly full face gave an impression of strength. His dark suit was flawlessly cut.

“Killain?” he inquired of Johnny. He opened the door wider. “Come on in.” He didn't even look at Wink Litchfield. Johnny had a final glimpse of the bell captain's disapproving face as the door separated them. “I'm Jim Daddario,” the solidly built man said over his shoulder as he led the way into the suite's sitting-room. “I'm a friend of Mrs.-of the Thompsons.” He waved at two men getting to their feet. “Associates of mine. Jigger Kratz, Tommy Savino. Johnny Killain, boys.” He walked to a door at the right and knocked sharply. “Killain's here, Micheline.”

Johnny nodded to Kratz and Savino. Jigger Kratz was a mountain of a man with surprising light blue eyes in a rugged face. Savino was much younger, and slim, dark, and handsome. The two men moved to the door with the barest acknowledgement of Johnny's nod. “See you in about an hour, Jim,” Kratz rumbled to Daddario as they went out.

Johnny turned expectantly at the sound of an opening door. He stared frankly at the woman who entered the room. If Carl Thompson had looked like hard times, his wife looked like ready money. The puffed white sleeves of her not quite off-the-shoulder white satin cocktail sheath were of lace. So was the bouffant pompom adorning her dark hair. A sash of the same material as the dress artfully cinched her at the waist and descended to mid-thigh in wide-flaring scarves. Her shoes were of matching white satin and her only jewelry was a three-times-around pearl bracelet on her right wrist. At bosom, waist, thighs, and knees the white satin sheath was sleekly snug.

Beneath the white pompom and the dark hair her face was very nearly exotic. Clear ivory skin emphasized contrasting highlights of dusky rose. Her slim brows were plucked in a straight line. She had broad cheekbones, a strong nose, and a wide mouth boldly etched in vivid lipstick. It was not a beautiful face but it was strikingly attractive.

“You're the scrawny-lookin' little bit of tabasco I was up in the hills with?” Johnny demanded in disbelief.

“I am indeed.” She walked directly to him and took a big hand between both of hers. “Girls grow up. People change.” Her voice had a vibrant quality Johnny hadn't noticed on the phone. She inspected his face critically and smiled as though she approved of what she saw. She turned to Daddario who, Johnny realized, had been standing to one side quietly sizing up the meeting. “This is the man, Jim, but for whom the life of Micheline Laurent would have been a brief, unhappy one.”

“You're lucky he still measures up to what you remember,” Daddario commented. He fumbled in his breast pocket and removed a cigar. “Most of my early heroes were a hell of a letdown to me by the time I got my growth.”

Micheline Thompson's dark eyes had returned to Johnny. “Even after all this time I still find it difficult to believe what I saw him do.” She appeared to rouse herself. “It was very good of you to come, Mr. Killain.” She released his hand and seated herself deftly in a straight-backed chair. The tightness of the sheath demanded deftness. Her back was to the room's strongest light but Johnny could see shadows beneath the big dark eyes.

“What's it all about?” he asked her.

She motioned him to a chair near hers. “Please sit down, Mr. Killain. I hardly know-”

“The name's Johnny,” he said, sitting down. “You never used to call me Mr. Killain.” Across from him, Daddario seated himself on a chaise longue and methodically stripped cellophane from his cigar.

“I never knew your name,” she said earnestly. “Then you were always Manos, the bear that appeared and disappeared silently in the darkness.” She smiled, most attractively, he thought. “I like Johnny better. And I, of course, am Micheline.” The smile faded. “Forgive me if this sounds abrupt. I have no easy way to say it. My husband is-was- chief of police in the city of Jefferson in this state. He had been for some time.” The low voice wavered, then strengthened. “He lost the position recently when it was determined he had accepted money to overlook certain things. It came to light when he was absent from his post recovering from a cruel beating inflicted by someone unknown. My husband had been under treatment and had been making a difficult recovery. His removal from office was a severe setback to his mental condition. He has never since been rational on the subject of his removal. Despite precautions, day before yesterday he disappeared. I'm concerned that he will make a bad matter worse by attempting something foolhardy or even criminal against those he blames for his troubles.”