Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief

Jay said, “We're goin' in, buddy. Meet the Editor−in−Chief of the St. Louis Banner. Big stuff, boy. Where's your red carpet?”

The cop didn't move. “Yeah?” he said. “If that old guy's the Chief of anythin', then I'm the mother of kittens.”

Jay looked at Henry. “He's got you there, Chief,” he said with a grin.

Henry said with cold dignity, “What's going on in here?”

Two plain−clothes men from the Homicide Bureau came down the stairs and made to pass them. Henry knew one of them. “Hey, Bradley, tell this flat−foot who I am. I want to go up!”

Bradley looked at him keenly. “For Pete's sake, it's Henry! What are you doin' here?”

Henry smiled easily. “I was passin', saw the ambulance, and thought I'd see my man work first hand.”

Bradley shook his head. “It ain't much,” he said regretfully; “just another shootin'. Still, you can go on up.”

Jay said, “Who is it?”

“Guy named Fletcher. I guess someone owed him a grudge.”

Jay shook his head. “I guess we won't bother,” he said grimly. “Come on, Chief, that's small−town stuff.”

They returned to the taxi, and Jay told the driver to go back to the Banner office.

“Does that interest you?” he said quietly. “Grantham must have found out he'd talked to me, so he shut his mouth. This looks like the real thing.”

Henry said doubtfully, “Maybe it was a coincidence.”

“Maybe it was nothing of the sort. It sticks out a mile. Who'd want to shoot a guy like Fletcher? Ask yourself. He was just an out−of−work clerk. No, guys don't risk killing a poor punk like that unless it's very important. I'd like you to speak to Poison.”

Henry said, “What are you thinking of doing?”

“I'd like to take this up on the quiet. Keep an eye on the Club, find out what I can, and if I get anything worth while, go for it with two hands.”

Henry relaxed. “Yeah,” he said, “I'll speak to Poison.”

“Let's go an' see him now,” Jay said. “The old buzzard won't be in bed yet.”

Henry groaned. “All right,” he said. “It looks as if I'm not going to get any sleep tonight.”

“You'll get all the sleep you want after you've seen Poison,” Jay said, giving the new address to the taxi−driver.

They had to wait nearly half an hour before Poison would see them. Then he walked into the small reception−room, a heavy scowl on his face and his hands thrust deeply in his trouser pockets.

Poison looked what he was: a millionaire newspaper owner. Hard as nails, a terrific worker, and greedy for dollars. He stared at Henry as if he couldn't believe his eyes. “What do you want?” he snapped. “What is this?”

Henry said respectfully, “This is Ellinger, who's responsible for crime news. He's got a little story that I thought would interest you.”

Poison didn't even bother to look at Jay. He tapped Henry on his chest with a long bony forefinger. “Listen, I pay you to listen to interesting stories, and to print them. I'm far too busy to bother with things like that. Go back to the office, hear his story; if it's any good, print it, if it isn't, tell him to go to hell.”

“This story's about Mendetta and the 22nd Club,” Henry said patiently. “In view of what you said to me this morning, I thought I'd ask you first.”

Poison's eyes snapped. “I said leave the 22nd Club alone. Leave Mendetta alone. When I say a thing I mean what I say.”

Henry stepped back. “Very well, Mr. Poison,” he said.

Jay said, “Mendetta's running a vice ring. He's trading in women. Decent girls are being kidnapped from their homes. I've got proof that he is using the Club for this purpose. I want your permission to make an investigation.”

Poison stiffened. His thin hatchet face went white with anger. Without looking at Ellinger, he said to Henry: “I will not discuss this further. I've told you our policy. Leave Mendetta alone, and leave the Club alone. If any of your staff disobey our policy, get rid of them. Good night.” He turned on his heel and walked stiffly out of the room.

Henry looked at Jay. “You heard him,” he said.

“I wonder how much Mendetta gave him, the dirty rat−faced heel,” Jay said, picking up his hat. “If he thinks he can stop me he's made a big mistake.”

Henry looked worried. “You've got to leave it alone, Jay,” he said. “Poison's the big shot.”

“Yeah? Well, I don't spell it that way,” and Jay slammed out of the house.

11

June 6th, 12.30 a.m.

GRANTHAM SAT behind his neat desk, writing. A cigarette burnt lazily in an ash−tray at his elbow, and the room was silent but for the faint scratch of his pen.

He heard his door open, and he glanced up irritably. Raven stood looking at him. Behind Raven, Grantham could see Lu Eller, white−faced and uncertain.

Grantham laid down his pen very slowly. The colour went out of his face and a muscle in his jaw began to jump.

Raven said, “Tell this monkey to go away.”

Grantham knew that Mendetta was dead. Raven would never have come if Mendetta wasn't dead. He told Eller with his eyes to go away. He didn't trust his voice.