Sinners and Shrouds Page 3

  ‘Let’s see.’ Nichols thrust half a chicken sandwich in his mouth, bent over the desk. Camille moved to his side. ‘Eat something, Sam,’ she called over her shoulder.

  He tried one of the sandwiches, but the bread stuck in his throat. In his glass he found a trace of beer. It was warm and flat, but at least he could swallow it. He saw Camille’s glass was half-full, emptied that, too.

  Nichols turned away from the desk. ‘Not bad at all,’ he said. ‘Plenty of leads.’ He blinked cheerfully at Clay. ‘In twenty-four hours we’ll have the story.’

  ‘In twenty-four hours I’ll be in the clink.’

  ‘Not if we get the breaks, boy.’

  ‘I suppose I could hide out somewhere.’

  ‘No. Business as usual, that’s the programme.’

  ‘And what happens while I’m doing business as usual?’

  ‘I’ve got a gent who specializes in digging up things. Amos Bundy, by name. We’ll turn him loose.’

  Nichols’ tone was cheerful, but Clay wasn’t impressed. Short of a miracle, he was cooked. He was cooked if he’d done it, and he was cooked if he hadn’t. He wished he knew which; it would help him decide what to do. Mostly, at the moment, he wanted to lie down.

  Camille spoke from the desk. ‘You know something? It would help a lot if we had the girl’s name.’

  ‘That’s so,’ Nichols said. ‘Bundy could start after her.’

  ‘And me.’ She met their surprised eyes. ‘Or did you think I was going to sit around baking saws in cakes?’

  ‘Look, sweet,’ Nichols began, ‘we have a child——’

  ‘The discussion is ended,’ said Camille. She turned to Clay. ‘Call your office.’

  ‘That’s right, son,’ Nichols said. ‘They’ll have her name.’

  Clay reluctantly dialled the Globe’s number, trying to think of a reasonable excuse for his inquiry. When the operator answered, he asked for the desk. After a moment he heard Andy Talbot’s voice saying, ‘For God’s sake! I wanted black coffee!’ Then the voice said, ‘If one of you gentlemen will lend me a gun, I will kill myself a copy boy.’ Finally, the voice said, ‘City desk.’

  Clay said, ‘Andy——’

  The voice broke in. ‘Where in Christ’s name have you been?’

  ‘Andy——’ Clay said again.

  ‘I’ve rung your phone until the bell gave out!’ Talbot shouted. ‘I’ve had you paged in every bar on the near North Side. I even called that damn wife of yours …’

  His voice ran down; probably, Clay thought, with the sudden recollection of what Alice had said to him. She liked to sleep late on Sundays. Every day, for that matter.

  ‘Andy——’ he said for the third time.

  ‘Don’t Andy me,’ Talbot said. His voice picked up strength. ‘Get your tail down here!’

  ‘It’s my day off.’

  ‘Not now, it ain’t. All hands man their battle stations! The Globe has been fouled! Freedom of the press threatened!’ He paused, then spoke more quietly. ‘You know that doll in society, Sam, writes fashions, beauty hints? Mary Trevor?’

  ‘I’ve seen her by-line.’

  ‘She hit the jackpot last night. Stewed, screwed and tattooed, as the saying goes.’

  Clay’s heart fluttered in his chest. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Do I have to spell it out?’ Talbot’s voice was aggrieved. ‘Mary Trevor. Rape and murder. Apartment 703. Fifty-five East Delaware.’

  There was a long pause. Finally Talbot demanded: ‘You coming down? Or do we send the police?’

  Clay replied weakly, ‘I’m coming,’ and hung up. He saw Camille and Nichols watching him.

  ‘Get her name?’ Nichols asked.

  ‘Yes. I got it.’ Clay blinked at them sombrely. ‘Turns out she was my grandmother.’

  Chapter 4

  EDWIN JUSTIN STANDISH, managing editor of the Globe, groped under his mahogany desk, found one of the almonds he had dropped on the Inca-blue carpet that had been woven in Arequipa, Peru, tossed the almond into his waste-basket. It made a pinging noise against the metal side. He remained on his knees, malevolently eyeing first the carpet and then the group of editors and reporters facing him. He was a thin, dark, bitter man with a twisted mouth.

  ‘This is presumably a metropolitan newspaper,’ he declared, speaking slowly and distinctly. ‘Each week-day six hundred and thirty-four thousand three hundred and eleven persons buy copies of the Globe. Each Sunday more than one million persons buy copies of the Globe.’

  Still in search of almonds, he disappeared behind the desk, his voice echoing through the knee-hole. ‘The Globe’s revenue last year was in excess of twenty-one million dollars.’ He crawled around the other end of the desk, dragging his game leg behind him. ‘The Globe is housed in a modern, thirty-one-story building, possesses a plant worth fourteen million dollars, has twenty-three hundred trusted and valued employees on its payroll, including a veterinarian, an astrologer and a retired abortionist.’

  He found another nut half-buried in the rug’s pile and tossed it towards the waste-basket. It missed, and Harry Canning, the city editor, retrieved it. He held it over the basket, his square face impassive. ‘May I?’ he asked.

  Standish ignored him, continuing his search. ‘The Globe maintains bureaux in seventeen foreign countries and nine American cities,’ he said. ‘It maintains a radio and a television station. It maintains a police force, an air force and a fleet of ships.’

  The basket went ping as Canning let the almond fall.

  ‘And yet,’ Standish said, ‘when an unprecedented emergency arises, when one of the Globe’s own family is struck down and ravished, when murder is done and there is need for action …’

  He paused and glared balefully at the group in front of the desk. ‘… need for immediate action, concerted action, implemented by every resource a great organization can bring to bear, I find, three long hours after the crime has been discovered, that this awesome power is represented by a motley rabble of … eleven persons!’

  His obsidian eyes moved scornfully over the eleven, past Davenport, the copy desk chief; Mahoney, the telegraph editor; Delos Parkinson, the number one rewrite man; past Sam Clay, Alma Plummer and the others, and halted on Canning.

  ‘Would you explain this, Harry?’ he asked gently.

  ‘We’re getting people in as fast as we can.’

  ‘Where is O’Rourke?’ Standish inquired. ‘And Peters and Lamson and Feldman? Where are Brinks and Fedderhof?’

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ Canning said. ‘They’re either drunk, or in church, or both.’

  ‘I want them here!’

  Canning’s jaw tightened, but he controlled his anger. ‘Yes, Mr Standish.’

  The phone on the mahogany desk rang. Charley Adair, whose waspish gossip column, After Hours, was the paper’s most widely read feature, picked it up with a gloved hand. ‘Mr Standish’s office,’ he said. He listened, then looked down at Standish. ‘It’s your wife.’

  ‘Which one?’ Standish asked.

  ‘Fleur.’

  ‘Tell her to go to hell,’ Standish said.

  ‘Go to hell,’ Adair said into the phone, then put it back on its cradle.

  Standish got to his feet, limped back to his chair.

  ‘I want a blanket coverage of this … of this outrage,’ he said. ‘I want more than a blanket coverage. I want every staff member to regard him or herself personally dedicated to just one thing—the apprehension of this fiend.’

  His eyes swept the group again, and Clay had an uneasy feeling he was reading their minds. He felt an insane impulse to confess, but Standish was talking again.

  ‘I don’t care if an H-bomb is dropped on Moscow; or if men from Jupiter invade Cedar Rapids, Iowa; or if Mrs Roosevelt gets engaged to the Aga Khan. This comes first. I want the opposition beaten on every possible angle. I want the District Attorney’s office beaten. I want the police beaten and, if the FBI gets into it, I want them beaten, too!’ His voice dwi
ndled to a harsh whisper. ‘And I want them beaten in time for the Home edition!’

  Mahoney sucked in his breath, glanced at his wristwatch. ‘That’s less than thirteen hours, Mr Standish!’

  ‘Thank you, Mahoney,’ Standish said. ‘I would never have known it.’ He reached under his chair, pulled out a partially crushed almond. He eyed it, then dropped it in the waste-basket. ‘Canning,’ he said, ‘you will set up an organization and make the assignments. Parkinson will write the story. Sam, you will …’

  He broke off, studying Clay’s face. ‘To my absolute knowledge,’ he said, ‘this is the first conference you have attended in nine years without making a wisecrack. Are you ill?’

  Clay shook his head. Standish regarded him intently. ‘Did you know this girl?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘No,’ Clay managed to croak. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘That I doubt,’ Standish said. ‘But in any event, you’ll be a combination clearing house and trouble-shooter. I want you to take the hot leads personally, and to sift everything that comes in.’ He turned his torso so that his head faced Adair. ‘Charley, you get busy and tap your stable of stool pigeons. I want everything you can get: facts, rumours, guesses. Everything!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Standish turned his head again. ‘Mahoney, get on the teletype to the Post in Fort Worth. That’s where the girl worked before she came here. Where she grew up. I want to know everything about her, whether she was breast fed, when she started menstruating, the name of her Sunday School teacher.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mahoney said.

  ‘Harry.’ Standish swivelled around to Canning. ‘Get hold of Laura Peterkins. The girl was in her department. She’ll have ideas.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Canning said.

  ‘Okay. Now, has anybody anything to say?’

  Clay felt pressure on his arm as Alma Plummer stepped forward, her baby-blue eyes fixed on Standish’s feet.

  ‘Mr Standish——’ she began.

  ‘Yes, yes! Go on!’

  ‘I thought you’d want to know. By your shoe there. Another almond.’

  For an instant Standish’s eyes glazed. ‘Who is this creature?’ he asked thickly.

  ‘Alma Plummer,’ Canning said.

  ‘I’m the new Church Editor,’ Alma Plummer said.

  Standish looked from thick ankles past broad hips and heavy breasts to Anna’s plump, earnest, faintly sweaty face.

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ he said. ‘Every man has a cross, but why must mine be made of cast iron!’ His face contorted with sudden rage. ‘Get out!’ he screamed. ‘All of you! Get out!’

  They fled, elbowing one another in the doorway to the outer office. Just as Sam Clay was forcing his way through, Standish called to him. ‘You, Clay! Come back here!’

  Canning was still standing by the desk, his eyes on Standish, and Clay, moving reluctantly to a position beside the big man, saw his massive, craggy face was at once amused and contemptuous. Standish lifted the lid off a blue-and-white China bowl on his desk, ran his fingers around the inside. ‘Stupidity!’ he snarled. ‘Sabotage!’ He turned the bowl upside down. It was empty.

  ‘You can relax now, Edwin,’ Canning said. ‘You’re among enemies.’

  ‘Relax!’ Standish snorted. ‘Who wants to relax?’ He glared at Clay. ‘Where’d she say that nut was?’

  Clay pointed out the almond, and Standish picked it up.

  ‘The eccentric genius …’ Canning muttered.

  Standish studied the almond from various angles. ‘That girl. Selma …?’

  ‘Alma,’ Clay said.

  ‘Alma’s all right. Level-headed. An almond missing. Find it. Then go after the murderer. First things first.’ He swallowed the almond, suddenly grinned at them. ‘What’d you think of the act?’ The grin made him look younger.

  ‘I always liked the one with the sword cane best,’ Canning said. ‘What happened to that?’

  ‘I swallowed it!’ Standish snarled, and then relaxed again. ‘This is legitimate, Harry. Doctor’s orders. Have to eat almonds. Too thin.’ He frowned reflectively, eyeing Clay. ‘Think I impressed ’em?’

  ‘You impressed me,’ Clay said.

  ‘I want ’em scared,’ Standish said. ‘Scared enough to work like hell, and to tell the others to work. This is a must assignment.’

  Clay was about to say ‘Yes, sir’ when Canning spoke. ‘How deep do you want us to dig, Edwin?’

  ‘All the way. Why?’

  Canning’s blue eyes gleamed frostily. ‘Might bring up some things you, or maybe Fleur, wouldn’t like.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Canning’s voice was smooth. ‘Well, such as certain Sundays … at your Indiana cottage.’

  ‘One Sunday,’ Standish said decisively. ‘Miss Trevor wanted to see the dunes.’

  ‘Oysters and champagne at the Shiproom,’ Canning said.

  ‘Chablis,’ Standish said. ‘Oysters and chablis.’ He leered at Canning. ‘The next night, I believe, you fed her pigs’ knuckles and sauerkraut in the rarefied atmosphere of Adolph’s Hofbrau.’

  ‘The wrestling matches,’ Canning said. ‘A tête-à-tête in the back room of the Goat’s Nest.’

  ‘Dinner at the Blackstone,’ Standish countered. ‘And L’Aiglon and the Red Star Inn.’ He leaned forward, his voice confidential. ‘How was she, Harry?’

  ‘Why, you randy chimpanzee! If anybody got to her, you did!’

  ‘A fatherly interest,’ Standish said.

  ‘And besides I’m not married!’ Canning shouted. ‘Not even unbigamously! I can take anybody I want to dinner!’

  ‘Dinner?’ Standish raised sooty eyebrows. ‘Was that what you were doing at her apartment?’ He bent over a sheet of paper on his desk. ‘Eleven to one A.M. on the seventh of August. Two A.M. on the tenth. Four A.M. on the fifteenth …’

  Canning let breath for another short sigh through his teeth. ‘Detectives …’

  ‘I like to know what my staff is doing,’ Standish said virtuously.

  Big shoulders sloping, Canning edged around the desk. ‘For eighteen years I’ve toyed with the idea of slugging you, Edwin,’ he growled. ‘At last I’ve made up my mind.’

  ‘One slug,’ Standish said, ‘and your dossier goes to every criminal agency in the world!’ Canning paused. At the same time the telephone rang. Standish snatched the receiver off its cradle. ‘I’m not here!’

  A voice said something at the other end and Standish’s face became bland, unctuous. ‘Yes, Mr Widdecomb,’ he said, and listened for a moment. ‘That’s not really necessary … She is!’ He listened again. ‘Yes, Mr Widdecomb, I understand. Three o’clock. I will meet you myself. And the apartment will be ready. Yes, I know. Yellow roses. Depend on it.’

  Mr Widdecomb rang off and Standish lowered the receiver. ‘Hatchet Horace from Washington.’

  ‘How come Washington?’ Canning asked. ‘He was crawling around in the woodwork here last night.’

  ‘Nevertheless he is just leaving Washington. By private plane. With our beloved owner, Mrs Cornelia Palmer. They will be here at three to take personal charge of the manhunt.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘Very well put,’ Standish said. He eyed Canning, all animosity gone for the moment. Both men had the grave expressions of flyers about to embark on a suicide mission. ‘Storm windows,’ Standish muttered. ‘Medicinal brandy.’

  ‘Weatherman says rain. Maybe the field’ll be socked in.’

  ‘She still has her broomstick, Harry.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Canning stared morosely at his feet. ‘Which, no doubt, she’ll use across our backs.’

  Clay asked, ‘Why Mrs Palmer?’

  ‘Why earthquakes?’ Standish countered. ‘Why volcanic eruptions?’

  Head bowed in thought, Canning began to pace back and forth in front of a stretch of mahogany-panelled wall. In turning he shouldered a tall lamp with a copper shade, caught it before it toppled. ‘She’ll yell for the killer the minute she hits the airport.
’

  ‘We’ll give him to her,’ Standish declared. ‘If we have to frame somebody.’ He grinned wolfishly at Canning. ‘How would you like to volunteer, Harry?’

  Canning removed his hand from the lamp. ‘How would you?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I have an alibi.’

  ‘So? What is it?’

  Standish coughed delicately. ‘Please. A woman involved … her reputation at stake.’

  ‘Baloney!’ Canning said. ‘You haven’t been near a woman with a reputation since you were nine years old.’

  Head cradled in linked hands, Standish eased back in his chair. ‘And what’s your alibi, Harry?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask one of those goddam detectives of yours?’

  Their eyes clashed. Finally, Standish shrugged. ‘No. You wouldn’t do, anyway. Reflect on the Globe.’ He became aware of Clay watching in fascination. ‘What are you doing, standing around, eavesdropping——?’

  ‘You called me back.’

  ‘Get out!’

  Clay went through the outer office, passing Miss Bentley, Standish’s secretary. She was a slender, haughty blonde with remarkable breasts, and for the hundredth time he wondered if they were real. He went into the big city room, spotted with groups discussing the tragedy, and halted by Andy Talbot, seated in Canning’s chair in the centre of the semicircular city desk.

  Speaking around a telephone held to one ear by a hunched shoulder, Talbot asked, ‘What’s the agenda?’

  ‘Canning’ll be here in a minute.’ Clay started to go to his desk, but Talbot said, ‘Stick around.’ He put a plump hand over the telephone’s mouthpiece. ‘Roddy’s going to have a description.’

  ‘Of what?’ Clay asked, feeling his heart jump.

  Alma Plummer detached herself from a cluster of reporters, including O’Rourke and Fedderhof, by one of the windows overlooking the river.

  ‘Killer,’ Talbot said. ‘Police been talking to the elevator boy.’ He stared at Clay. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Clay swallowed twice, then said, ‘Ulcers.’

  The telephone control box buzzed and Talbot flipped a switch, spoke into the telephone. Alma Plummer, at Sam’s elbow, said, ‘Mr Clay …’ Talbot said, ‘For you,’ and handed the phone to Sam. It was Tom Nichols. ‘How soon can you get away, boy?’ he asked.