Lady Crymsyn
Chapter 2

As nights go, I've had worse, but I could have easily done without this one.
None of the work crew had much to say about their find, especially the one who'd broken through the wall with his pick. A few were worried about the law, indicating that they probably had records. No surprise there, since I never questioned Leon about whom he hired. So long as the work went without a hitch, he had a free hand. Those men I took aside for a little private interview. I had an ache behind my eyes before finishing, but my hypnotic interrogation only confirmed that they knew nothing about the body. I gave them each five bucks severance and told them to come back to the job when the fuss was over. They thanked me and vanished like smoke.
I told Leon and the others to keep back from the alcove for the time being, then Escott followed me upstairs, where I could call things in to the cops.
He hitched one hip on an old table that served as a temporary desk and let his gaze wander over the plain room that was to be my office. It was big, but empty of nearly everything but the smell of fresh paint and new plaster. Fancy trimmings would come later. Right now the prospect of running a club didn't appeal to me very damn much anymore. Through no fault of my own things had gotten tragically complicated.
"You look like someone just pulled one of your teeth without benefit of an anesthetic," he commented after I hung up.
"That's just about how I feel."
"Yes, that poor woman."
"Yeah. Jeez, what a way to go." I'd seen (and been subjected to) more than my share of horrors in life, but to think of anyone being bricked up like that gave me the cold sweats. Shut away in perfect silence, no one to hear her screams for help...
In my own way, I knew exactly what that was like.
"Awful. She must have died of thirst and hunger, rather than lack of air."
"How do you figure that?" The question was out before I realized I really didn't want to know the answer.
"I spoke to the man who cracked through the wall. He said the quality of the air released was distinctive enough to notice, but not poisonous, so there must have been some small amount of circulation going on over the course of time. There certainly had to be openings into that chamber sufficiently large enough to admit-" He broke off with a grimace.
"Admit what?"
He unhitched himself from the desk and paced around, peering out one of the wide uncurtained windows that overlooked the front of the club. This was as uncomfortable as I'd ever seen him. "To admit rodents. I n-noticed some of the bones showed signs of gnawing."
"Charles, I could have lived all the rest of my life without knowing that."
"As I could as well, but it's knowledge, and you never know what might be useful in an investigation."
"You thinking about looking into this?"
"Only if you feel I should." He sounded less than enthusiastic. Because of its gruesome nature I couldn't blame him for being reluctant, but I also knew he was busy with some paying projects. One of them was pretty important and could land him some steady and lucrative work.
"You've got three things going at once, don't you?" I asked.
"Yes, as it happens I do-"
"Then you don't need this on top of 'em. This is cop-work. Let them do their job."
"But who is she, how did she come to be here?" He was a lean silhouette against the window, hands in his pockets, shoulders bunched with tension. I suddenly realized I'd not turned on the room light. He hadn't bothered with it either. Probably so he could better watch the street below. "Are you not curious?"
"I'm still in shock; gimme some time to get over it."
"You'd best do so straightaway. A police car just pulled up."
"That was quick."
"It has a radio antenna. They must have been very close."
We went downstairs. The two uniforms who'd been sent to check things had already pushed their way into the outer lobby and were gaping at the scenery, but covered up their initial awe pretty fast. For the first of several times that night I gave my name, where I lived, my occupation, and told them the problem. Escott did the same, but since he'd just come along for the ride and wasn't the owner of the joint, they weren't as interested in him.
We took the cops down to the basement and showed them what they needed to see, then stood back for the next few hours as things took their course. Eventually some plainclothes detectives and a photographer turned up. Anyone who didn't have a badge was herded upstairs for questioning.
Everyone got a grilling, and I could understand why the other guys had been so anxious to leave. It wasn't to avoid trouble so much as to get away from the aggravation of telling the same story over and over again.
The cops kept an eye on me the whole time and weren't exactly subtle about it. I shrugged it off, unworried since I had an alibi. The murder had taken place long before I decided to come west.
The coroner's wagon arrived, and I started to have hope that the circus would wind down once they carted off the remains. I had to revise my thinking when another big car pulled up behind, and out stepped Lieutenant Nick Blair, a homicide cop who didn't much like me.
He was even more nattily dressed than I'd remembered, this time in a midnight-black double-breasted suit with a matching fedora at a rakish angle. The getup looked to be worth about two months' pay for him. It was reasonable to assume that he was either on the take or had another source of money than his modest paycheck. He had hard brown eyes, slick dark hair, and sported a thick, wide mustache trimmed to give his mouth a kind of perpetual smile. Its confident good humor was entirely superficial when aimed at me. Along with the workmen and Escott, I stood outside watching all the comings and goings. Blair still managed to right away pick me from the crowd. I heard that sharks do the same thing when it comes to finding fish.
"This could be interesting," Escott murmured.
"Aw, you're just trying to make me feel good."
Blair aimed that false smile that didn't reach his eyes my way for a long ten seconds, then walked into the club without saying a word.
"Most interesting, indeed," Escott added out of the side of his mouth. You couldn't see it, because he was good at holding to a poker face, but I knew he was hiding an amused smirk under there somewhere.
The lieutenant and I did not exactly get along. The man was sharp and knew something was off that made me different from anyone he'd ever dealt with. It amused me and annoyed him that he couldn't figure it out. If he ever did, it'd probably annoy him even more.
We waited for Blair. It took him about a quarter hour to see what was in the wall and talk with the other cops, then he sent a uniform out. For Escott, not me. Blair must have decided to save the best for last. I lighted a cigarette and waited some more in the cool, damp evening air and chatted with one of the officers about the moderate summer we were having. He observed that we'd probably have a bad winter to compensate, then cast a watchful eye back toward the street as more cars pulled up and stopped, spewing forth a number of noisy people moving with great purpose. I didn't know their faces, but sure as hell recognized their occupations, having been in it once myself.
I gave an inward groan and hightailed it into the club, but not before one of the photographers managed to blind me with a flashbulb explosion from his Speed Graphic. Hands groping for the door handle, I made it inside just as their first babbling wave of questions struck, and hoped that the cop would keep them out.
Reporters. I'd wanted publicity for the club, but not this kind. The business I was aiming to draw in would not be attracted by lurid stories about corpses walled up in the basement.
The man outside was losing his battle against the tidal force of the First Amendment. They'd flood in any second. I ducked for cover down behind the lobby bar just as they burst through the door. There seemed to be a lot of them, all talking at once.
"Holy moley, some joint."
"Ah, I seen better."
"Where? Buckingham Palace?"
"Move outta the way, I wanna shot of this." A flashbulb went off, flooding the lobby with miniature lightning. I flinched and dropped lower, my nose just above an incongruous dark stain marring the brand-new tiles. Damn. That shouldn't have been there. It was like finding that first scratch on a new car.
"This place is all right. Wonder who's paying for it?" A woman's voice.
"One of Big Al's leftover cronies," a man told her with wise surity.
"How do you know that?"
"I don't, but that's what I'll write. You know all these joints have to be cleared by the mob before they can open."
"Cleared?"
"Look around you, sugar, this is owned by the mob. Who else has that kind of dough these days?"
"I heard that Welsh Lennet was the man who-"
"Tell me how to suck eggs, sugar. I used to come here back when he ran it. It was just a speak-sleazy then, and I mean sleazy. There was stuff going on in this pit to make your hair stand on end."
"Spare me the cliche quotes, I can make up my own. If it was so bad, why'd you hang here?"
"Stories, my dear, I got miles of copy out of it. I remember when the Nevis gang bombed the joint. Welsh was right over there-and then he was over there and there and there and all mixed up with a couple of his muscle boys and some poor lady bartender caught a freak piece of shrapnel and dropped in her tracks behind the bar and bled to death. They still got that in the same place, I see."
"Leave it to you to notice. So," the woman said, and I could imagine her surveying the room, eyebrows slightly raised with disdain, "where's this year's stiff?"
"In my pants, sugar."
"Dream on, darling, it's all you'll ever get from me."
"Lemme tell you about my dreams-"
"Hire a shrink. What's through here?"
Their babble faded as they moved into the main room, and I relaxed a little. Someone had flicked on the bar light again. Without thinking about it I shut it off. Mistake. One of the guys had lingered and noticed.
"Hey, who's there? Come on out and-"
By the time he'd poked his head around the bar I'd vanished. Safe from view, I hung in place while the intruder thoroughly checked the area. He probably wasn't as interested in finding anyone so much as assuring himself that no booze had been accidentally left lying around. I tried to stay out of his way, but he jostled into-or I should say through-me all the same, collecting a fierce shiver. Any contact people make with me while I'm in this form is a noticeably chilling experience for them. He soon went away, muttering his disappointment, and joined the others.
I materialized and drew enough breath for a sigh of relief. It would be impossible to put them off forever, but I wanted to postpone things for as long as possible.
Vanishing cured the ache behind my eyes, but not this ongoing pain in the neck. I had things to do, starting with another phone call. Alone and unwatched for the moment, now seemed the right time. Gordy had been decent to me; I thought I'd return the favor.
The photographer bozo had flipped the bar light on in his search. With mild annoyance I cut it off yet again, then cat-footed over the marble floor to the stairs without getting spotted. I could have gone invisible one more time, but it takes a lot out of me, and I was already starting to feel the first restless whispers of hunger. Better to conserve my energies for the time being since I didn't know how long the show would last now that Blair was running things.
Up in my office I dialed a number, identified myself to the mug who answered, and told him to find his boss. He must have recognized my voice, for he dropped the receiver with a clunk as he hurried to comply.
Gordy came on a few minutes later. " 'Lo?"
"It's me," I said. "Thought I'd warn you about some trouble here at my place."
"The house or the club?"
"Club." I told him about the workmen finding a body in the wall.
"What? Only one?"
I was in no mood for black humor, until it occurred to me he wasn't joking. "One's more than enough." Then I told him how she'd probably died.
"Tough luck."
"And then some. It might also go bad for the guy who had this place before me."
"I get you." He didn't mention Booth Nevis, the mob tough who owned the lease. Gordy's phones were often tapped so he'd gotten into the habit of keeping shut on names or talking in code.
"It's none of my business what was done here five years back. I will be cooperating with the law on this. They're gonna want to know who owns the building, and I'll have to tell them. I'm not taking any chances over getting shut down before it's even open."
"You do what you gotta. The other guy can take care of himself."
"So long as he doesn't get any ideas about taking care of me for talking."
Gordy made an odd, abrupt sound I interpreted as his version of a laugh. "Like that'll ever happen. I'll see what he knows about it. He won't be bothering you, though."
"Thanks." If Booth Nevis had a murder to hide, he'd probably not say anything, even to Gordy, but it was worth a try if it took the heat off of me.
I hung up and thought about calling my girl, Bobbi, but she'd be in the middle of her set at the Red Deuces about now. She was their headline singer this week, and Thursday a local radio station would be broadcasting the show. Maybe the audience wouldn't be as big as some she'd reached, but she held the opinion that every little bit of work that got her name in front of people helped. A couple months back she'd done a successful performance on a national broadcast, which had resulted in a few promising offers. The Red Deuces was a short engagement for her, only a week, but it drew a swank clientele of show folk, the kind who could help her career. Just the sort I wanted to attract to my own place.
Fat chance of that if I didn't handle this disaster with kid gloves.
Someone clumped his way upstairs and marched toward my office, which was the only lighted room along the bare hall. I'd remembered to flick it on this time for appearances' sake. He was yet another cop telling me I was to come with him. I didn't ask why.
As though I couldn't find my own way, he guided me down to the main room. All the lights were on here, with cops and reporters wandering around like they owned the place. I hoped they weren't messing up the red velvet upholstery, that was the job of future paying customers. My entrance stirred up the fourth estaters, and once more I got blinded by a flashbulb going off. Several of them. Jeez, but when I'd been working on that side of the fence I had no idea how irritating the damn things could be. No wonder cursing people used to take swings at us.
The cop hustled me past the mob. I gladly let him. Better to be in a basement with a corpse than have a bunch of half-crazed reporters shouting questions that I couldn't answer. During the rush I didn't see Escott. I wondered if I should worry.
"Mr. Fleming, isn't it?"
At the foot of the steps, my vision still uncertain when I blinked, I came face-to-face with Lieutenant Blair, mustache, smug smile, and all. For all the dust down here his black suit looked quite untouched. And he damn well knew who I was. "Yeah, Lieuteneant, how you doing?"
"Quite a bad business, don't you think?" He didn't bother to shake hands. The cop leaned close and muttered something in Blair's ear before moving off. Because of the noise and echoes I didn't catch much of it, just something about me being in my office.
Looking past his shoulder, I could see he'd put my men to work on the wall, Leon and a couple of others. Most of it had been pulled down, revealing the skeleton. Her tattered and stained dress had been a blazing red once. Red sequins still defiantly flashed tiny points of light under the harsh overheads. She'd died on her knees, back bowed and head down as if praying. She'd probably been praying very hard indeed there in the stifling dark. I repressed a shudder.
"Got anything to say about this?" Blair inquired.
"It's bad business all right," I allowed. "And nothing to do with me."
"We'll see." He sounded very pleased with himself.
"Come on, you know I only moved here last August. This case could be at least five years old."
"How do you figure that?" He was good at his job, only asking questions for which he already knew the answers.
"Because that's when this joint was last open. There are records on file with all the dates, and you know where to find them."
"True, but anyone could have broken in here between then and now and put her here."
"That's for you to figure out. I'm just a victim of circumstance."
"You seem to collect them, Mr. Fleming. Let's go over here for a little chat, why don't we?" He motioned me toward a corner away from the hubbub, where we could have some privacy. "Who were you calling?"
"I called someone?"
"The man I sent to get you heard you talking."
The cop hadn't even been near the office by the time I'd hung up. Blair was slipping by making only a guess, but it had been a good one. "He must have ears like an Airedale or a great imagination."
"Who did you phone?"
"No one."
"Gordy Weems, perhaps?"
I tried not to react, but he was looking for the least little betraying twitch. Sometimes it's a sad thing to be born with a streak of telltale honesty.
"Perhaps to warn him of your little trouble here? No need to be too surprised. I've made a point of finding out who your friends are."
"You must have a lot of time on your hands, then."
"I just like to keep track of troublemakers."
He would.
"For instance, just how is it an unemployed reporter can afford to set up a palace like this?"
"I'm not unemployed; I work for the Escott Agency. As for this place, I got lucky at the track this year and decided to invest my winnings."
"I think you've been investing for the mob. Word is you're one of Gordy's insiders at the Nightcrawler Club."
"My girlfriend sings there sometimes. I just go over to drive her home after work. If I took her to the train station, would you accuse me of being a Pullman porter? Are you even supposed to be here? I thought this far north would be out of your district."
"Listen wiseass, after that business with Malcolm-"
"Ancient history, Lieutenant."
"It's still an open case, Fleming."
Before he could get himself fully launched down memory lane, I fixed him with a long, concentrated stare. "And past time you closed it," I whispered after a moment. From the profoundly blank expression that dropped over his face I knew he'd heard me. "The guy's no longer your concern. Your best guess is that he's the one who did the Wrigley Building murder, and the guilt drove him crazy. Ain't that so?"
"Yes, that's what happened." Blair's voice was thin and distant.
I kept focused on his empty eyes. "As for the mess you've got here, I don't have anything useful to give you. Believe it."
"Believe..."
"That's right. Now everything I've told your men is the truth. I've no reason to lie, so you've got no reason to stall around here any longer. Get whatever you need to help you with your case, then get out."
"I'll do that."
"Oh, and don't forget that you like me. We're old pals, you know."
"I know."
An idea struck me as I anticipated a possible future need. "And the same goes for Charles Escott. If either of us calls you up wanting information on this or any other case, it will be your pleasure to help. Got that?"
"Got it."
"Good." I broke off with the fish-eye work and gave him a chance to recover. There was no telling how long my suggestions would last with him, especially the ones that went against his nature, but they should be solid for a few weeks, maybe even a few months before completely fading. Sooner or later he'd reassert himself and be as annoying as ever. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Lieutenant?" I asked, as Jack Armstrong as I could make it without sounding too asinine.
Blair blinked once or twice, his posture relaxing somewhat, the way you do in a friend's company. "I think that about covers it."
"Your best bet will be to check on the original owners. I got the lease through Greener Pastures Real Estate. Try them."
"Thank you, I will."
"I'd also like you to keep the press off my back."
"Wouldn't we all?" he said, and this time his smile actually reached his eyes. "I'll give a statement and tell them to get lost."
"I'd appreciate that. Your men find out anything about her?" I nodded toward the alcove.
"Not really, only that she was young, probably pretty brunette, well-off, with a strong need for attention. And the motive wasn't robbery."
"How do you get all that?"
"That dress, cut low in the back and the front as far as I can tell. Not many old, ugly women wear those. There's still some bits of hair left on her head, and she's wearing a gold necklace, matching bracelet, and some rings. They're real, not dime-store. The killer left them behind."
So, Blair was good at his job after all. "Need for attention?"
"Women are funny about what colors they wear. Only the ones who want to be noticed would go near a red like that."
Now I was impressed. I filed it all away to tell Escott later. Where the hell was he, anyway? "Your people going to be here much longer?"
"A couple hours. I don't want your workmen in the area until we're finished. I'll be sending people in tomorrow for more pictures and to pick up all those bricks."
I didn't mind him cleaning away the rubble, but asked why.
"In case she or her killer left some kind of clue. There might be other hair, fibers, or something else stuck in the mortar that could be useful."
He was starting to sound like my partner. "How long will that hold up my labor?"
"No telling. You'd better work on some other area of the club for the time being."
Damn. I was afraid he'd say something like that. "Look, I have to have at least half the basement finished by the end of the week. Monday I got people coming in to install the heating and air-conditioning and-"
"You're putting in air-conditioning?" He seemed intrigued.
"Yeah, the movie theaters don't do so bad by it, and once I get three hundred people in upstairs it's gonna be hot here even in the winter. The whole shebang goes in on this side of the basement. Will that be all right with you?" I could have made it all right with him, but I didn't want to interfere with the process of an investigation. My only angle was making sure he wasn't throwing his weight around just to show he could do it.
He thought it over. "Let my people check over this end tomorrow, then you should be able to go ahead. Unless they find something, that is." I agreed to that and wished him luck. He'd need it. "You think you'll turn up anything after all this time?"
"Maybe. We'll find out who was a regular when the place was open, and take it from there. Something as ugly as this is going to leave a hell of a messy trail."
"Why do you say that?"
He leveled a long stare at the other end of the room, where a knot of his men lingered around the alcove. "Because anyone who went to the trouble of walling that poor girl up alive did it as an object lesson. Those kinds of lessons are no good unless you tell others about it. We might not find solid proof against the person who did it, but we'll probably get a likely suspect."
"Huh. Well, if it goes that far, gimme a call. I'd like to know who it is."
He shot me a funny look. "Mr. Fleming, that would be a breach of-"
"Blair-" I focused hard on him again. "I said gimme a call if you find your man. Remember, it'll be a pleasure for you to help me or Escott."
He blinked, maybe even felt a little dizziness from the pressure I was putting on him. "Yes, of course I will."
I released him. He couldn't have known I was trying to do him a favor. If he found a suspect, then I could get a confession. That girl had died in a manner so hideous I shied away from even thinking about it. Putting her killer's neck in a noose seemed little enough punishment for the crime, but I'd gladly do it, given the opportunity.
"You know where to find me," I said, hoping to wind things up.
"Yes... ah, that's all for now." His departing smile was brief and tinged with puzzlement, but this time he did shake hands before going off to check on his men.
We were old pals, after all.
For one whole second I debated running the gauntlet with the reporters again, then took the back way out. Leon Kell caught my eye, though, so I went over to hear what he wanted.
"What a job it was," he said. "They had me and the guys tearing that whole thing out one brick at a time by hand with only hammers and chisels to break up the mortar. We coulda done it in a couple of minutes with picks if they'd let us, but they wanted to take pictures."
"It has something to do with preserving the evidence."
"They got plenty of it and then some. The questions they asked-like how old the mortar was. As if I should know such things. It wasn't even good mortar."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Had too much sand in it, made it soft. Guess it's just as well, or we'd still be taking it down."
"What else did you think of the workmanship?"
"It was okay, but I seen better. Whoever put it up knew enough about bricklaying to get the job done, but I wouldn't want him working on no house of mine."
"Maybe he didn't have enough light to see by," I said speculatively.
Leon paused to glance uneasily at me. "There's that."
"Suppose whoever did it brought her down here and had only a flashlight or maybe a lantern?"
"He'd have to. There weren't no electric lights strung so far back into the basement until me and the boys put em in ourselves. You sure got some kind of wicked thoughts on that, Mr. Fleming."
"Imagination isn't always a happy gift. He must have had her tied and gagged or maybe she was unconscious. He carries her all the way to the back, to a place where he's sure no one will bother to go. He puts her down next to the wall, secures her bonds to a bolt he drives into the bricks there. Then he starts laying the first course along that uneven floor."
"Yeah, I guess." Leon didn't seem comfortable with the picture I'd conjured.
"How long do you think a job like that would take?"
"I donno. Not a lot of time for someone who knows what he's doing. For this guy, more than just a couple of hours, I'd say. I got a good chance to look at the work while we was taking it apart, and I think he got better at it toward the end. You know, as he got it built up to meet the ceiling."
"Practice makes perfect."
That snagged me another uneasy look. "The mortar was a little different, too. Like he run out halfway up and had to mix another batch. Jeez, now you got me thinking like you."
"Did you tell this to the cops?"
"Nah. They was too interested in us just getting the wall down. They didn't ask us nothing except if we knew who she was and none of us could say yes to that."
"Before you leave I think you should mention what you've told me to Lieutenant Blair."
"Okay, if you want me to." Leon didn't seem too cheered at the prospect.
"You think he won't listen?"
"Ah, he's a cop, they only listen to what they wanna hear."
"You just tell him I sent you over."
"Okay, I'll do it. There's just one thing-about taking the wall down? I didn't want you thinking we was going slow so as to make overtime for ourselves."
"I never thought that," I said truthfully. "But I'm glad you mentioned it. I'll make sure the cops pay for the overtime."
"Really? You think they will?"
"Yeah, I can try, anyway." And succeed, if I chose to.
"Believe me, none of us wanted to be back there any longer than we had to with that thing."
"I don't blame you."
"It's creepy enough here without more-" He shut himself up.
"More what?"
"Of that... thing." He gestured helplessly to where the cops were still gathered.
"What's so creepy about this joint, Leon? Something else got you worried?"
"Nothing, boss. It's been a hell of a night, and I need to get home to my wife before she sends out a search party. Those guys said we wasn't to go poking around over there tomorrow, so you got something else you want us to do instead?"
I told him he could start the men on finishing the near half of the basement once they got the okay from Blair's people. Tools and bags of cement and wall plaster were piled up under the new stairs all ready to go.
"There's also some kind of stain on the floor tiles behind the lobby bar," I added. "See if you can get that cleaned up, too."
He promised to handle it all, then with his new observations about the mortar, reluctantly approached Blair. I wondered if I should offer Leon a permanent position doing building maintenance. He seemed to know how to do just about every kind of job I could name. The fact that he was concerned about my misinterpreting things on the overtime gave me to think he had a solid share of personal integrity, that, or he didn't want to risk being fired. Either way, it meant he was honest. I thought he worried too much about small stuff, but it did make him good at the work. There wasn't one wall in the whole building where the painters had missed a spot.
Leon eventually left by way of the back entry ramp, and I followed him up, lighting a cigarette. I couldn't really smoke; my body wouldn't allow me to inhale the stuff any farther than my mouth, but it gave me something to do with my hands, as well as an excuse to loiter in the alley, keeping an eye on the cops.
After six superficial puffs it abruptly dawned on me that this was my place, and I could loiter wherever the hell I wanted.
Damn it all, but I should be used to the idea by now. I finally had something of my own, something that would matter to people. It was also okay to have pride in what I was accomplishing. Maybe it wasn't the Panama Canal in terms of general importance to the world, but to me specifically this club was the biggest thing I'd ever done for myself.
Not needing it anymore, I dropped the cigarette in a puddle and took a slow stroll around my place, and if there was a bit of a swagger in my walk, I didn't think anyone could blame me for it.
The feeling lasted until I rounded the front corner, saw the cars still parked all over the street along with the meat wagon, and remembered why they were there.
As Blair had said, That poor girl.
Maybe Leon had felt her hovering presence, and that's why the joint gave him the creeps tonight. I could imagine her for myself as well, but firmly shrugged it off. I had to believe in vampires since I was one, but my internal jury was still out when it came to ghosts.
"So that's where you've gotten to," called Escott, coming up behind me.
"I could say the same. Where've you been?"
"Observing without being observed." It was one of his specialties. He swatted at his clothes, having picked up a layer of sawdust. There were patches of it on his knees and elbows.
"What happened to you?"
"I found a most excellent place to eavesdrop, though it was a trifle dirty."
"Where?"
"Under the booth seating."
If I asked another question, I'd only sound like a parrot. Instead I put on a face of noncomprehension. He was more than happy to explain.
"It occurred to me that there was a quantity of dead space beneath all those raised tiers. I asked Mr. Kell if there was a way under them, and he obligingly told me about a utility door behind one of the bars."
"Why didn't he tell me?"
"He probably thought you already knew."
I usually arrived at the club well after the workers were gone for the day. Leon could hardly hang around every night to give me a guided tour of what they'd done, but I still felt like an idiot. "I didn't know anything like that was there."
"Well, if it was not, then this night I would have suggested the construction of some sort of access. The workmen have used it for tool storage, but nothing more. Perhaps you should put a lock on the door to prevent misuse of the space. Mr. Kell informed me that it would be a 'dandy place to take a girl,' which is probably not the sort of activity you would wish to encourage during your hours of business."
"Yeah, I can see it might be like going under the boardwalk on Coney Island."
"Something else you might also consider is employing a portion of it as an emergency bolt-hole for yourself. It would be very simple to block off a sizable section and put in whatever you might require for your daylight comfort."
He meant another cot with my home earth like the one at home. It was a great idea, but after what happened in the club's basement, not something I wanted to think about for the time being. I said I'd look into it later and changed the subject. "So you did some eavesdropping?"
"Not in the literal sense, and not easily. The supporting framework for the tiers prevented me from getting near anyone in the lower areas, but the middle and upper seats were fairly clear. However, the materials used for construction prevented me from hearing all that much. The padded upholstery over the wood is most efficient at absorbing sound. It was more of an experiment than anything else. I doubt if one could hear much of anything once the place is open to the public, but in this case conditions were fairly-"
"Learn anything?" I had to interrupt him. His discovery had put him in one of those cheerful moods where he could enthuse for hours.
"A bit about the history of the club. Some of the members of your previous profession were only too pleased recalling the lurid past to notice my thumping around under their feet. They were exchanging tales of what they knew about the death of the owner in '32 and the rather explosive manner of his dispatch. There is rampant speculation that the unfortunate woman in the basement might have been one of his victims, but until she is identified they can form no solid conclusions. Their reasoning about there being a connection probably has merit, but they are most unwise to theorize without facts."
"Or do it in the hearing of anyone who'd steal the idea."
"This fanciful improvisation on the part of some of them is worrisome to me. You once said that reporters rarely have the time to commit such intentional distortions."
"Most of 'em don't, but the yellow press boys thrive on the stuff. It comes with the job. If a guy speculates and the public complains, he blames his editor, who blames the publisher, who blames the demands of the public."
"Very tidy."
"We used to think so. You learn anything else?"
"Nothing I did not already know and a great deal I did not wish to know about competing baseball teams."
"Anyone try to corner you for an interview before you went to ground under all that?"
"Yes, and not to worry, I was frustratingly reticent."
"Don't underestimate them, Charles. When they have to fill space for a deadline they can get a story out of a blind turnip."
"And since there is no such thing-"
"Yeah, think about it."
"Point taken. I believe the worst of it is over, though."
"Don't kid yourself. The worst will be the headlines tomorrow."
"I doubt if this will garner much interest. How does a years-old murder compare with the Duke of Windsor getting married?"
"Trust me, a walled-up body in Chicago is going to make more copy in the American press than a former king tying the knot in Europe."
"The sad fact of the matter being that you are likely correct in your assessment concerning the public's preference. You harbor a most valuable talent."
"Thanks."
"In light of that sort of fine judgment I hope you'll not give up on your writing career. I understand that knowing what the public wants is half the battle."
It was damned decent of him to refer to my irregular attempts at scribbling as a "career." "Nah. I'm just putting it aside until I get the club launched."
"That, my friend, might require some additional effort after this." He nodded at the mess out front. The meat wagon pulled away from the curb and turned down the alley. We pressed into a side doorway until it passed, then followed to watch. The driver made use of the basement loading ramp that opened on the street behind the club. In this case it was more of an unloading ramp. A couple of guys went inside with a bundle and soon reappeared carrying a long, flexible wicker basket, which they put into the wagon. It seemed fairly light in weight. The photographers took more pictures, then stood back to let the truck pass through.
Once the remains were gone the reporters also thinned out, and eventually even the cops went away. I locked things up for what was left of the night. When the law came back tomorrow Leon could let them in again.
I told Escott where I planned to go next and asked if he wanted to come along, but he tiredly declined. He'd had a full day at his office already and didn't need more excitement. Sometimes I forgot that his day was winding down just when mine was beginning.
On the way home I repeated to him all that I'd learned from both Leon and Blair and the little mental whammy I'd done on the latter. "If you're interested in keeping up on this case, you'll find he'll be strangely cooperative for the next few weeks."
"What excellent forethought, thank you." He looked like I'd just handed him the winning ticket for the Irish sweepstakes.
"Okay, what gives? You're a little too happy."
"This particular problem is not my only concern. There are other matters I have in hand that might progress more smoothly for having the help of a senior officer in the local force."
"I thought you already had friends there."
"I do, but not all of them will have the same sort of authority your Lieutenant Blair possesses. I shall strive to make use of his cooperation while the beneficent effect of your influence lasts."
"Be my guest."
After dropping him at the house, I continued on to the Nightcrawler Club.
Gordy and I had some serious talking to do.