Miss Callaghan Comes To Grief

Jay got to his feet. “For cryin' out loud,” he said. “If this doesn't beat anything that's ever come my way.

What chance have I got to hang anythin' on Hamsley? Besides, he ain't such a bad guy.”

Henry sat down behind his desk. “I'm warning you,” he said seriously, “you've got to find something. If we don't give the old man what he wants, we'll be out. I know him when he gets like that.”

Jay stood by the door. “But what?” he said. “What am I likely to find? Grantham's all right, ain't he?”

“As far as I know. I hate to say it, Jay, but if you don't find something, we'll have to frame those two guys.

I'm getting too old to look for anything else.”

Jay shook his head. “Not on your life,” he said. “I ain't framing anyone because Poison's wife thinks she's young again. I'll sniff around. If nothin' shows up I'm resigning. But I ain't framin' anyone.”

Henry sighed. “Perhaps you're right,” he said. “Anyway, for God's sake dig hard.”

“I'll dig all right,” Jay returned, and went out, shutting the door behind him.

3

June 4th, midnight.

THERE WAS a cop at the street corner, standing watching the traffic, swinging his night−stick aimlessly.

Raven saw him as he came out of the alley, and he stepped back hurriedly into the shadows. Obscenities crowded through his brain, and his thin wolfish face twisted with frustrated rage.

The cop wandered to the edge of the kerb, hesitated, then began to pace down the street.

Raven edged further down the alley, further into the sheltering darkness. He'd let the cop go past. Across the road he could see the large block of apartments with their hundreds of brightly lit windows. On the sixth floor, Tootsie Mendetta had a six−room suite. From where he stood Raven could see Mendetta's windows.

He stood against the wall, his head thrust forward and his square shoulders hunched. He looked what he was, a bitter, screwed−up thing of destruction.

The cop wandered to the mouth of the alley. Raven could see him looking carelessly into the darkness. The cop took off his cap and blotted his face with a large white handkerchief. It was a hot night. Standing there, his mind dwelling on a long, cold drink, he was completely unaware that Raven waited so patiently for him to go away. He put his cap on again and moved on past the alley, on towards the bright lights, towards the cafe where he could bum a drink on the quiet.

Raven gave him a few seconds, and then he walked to the mouth of the alley and glanced up and down the street. He saw nothing there to alarm him, and squaring his shoulders he stepped into the light of the street lamps.

In his apartment Mendetta amused himself with a pack of cards. He held a cigar between his thick lips and a glass of whisky−and−soda stood at his elbow. He played patience.

The apartment was silent except for the faint shuffling of cards as Mendetta altered their position. He liked patience, and he played with tense concentration. He heard Jean, in the bathroom, drawing off water, and he glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after twelve.

The phone suddenly jangled. He half shifted his bulk, his brows coming to a heavy frown, and stared at the phone.

Jean called from the bathroom, “Shall I answer it?”

He got up and walked with heavy steps across the room. “No, no. It'll be for me,” he said, raising his voice so that she could hear. He picked up the receiver. “Who is it?”

“That you, Tootsie? This is Grantham.”

Mendetta frowned. “What's the trouble?” he said sharply. “This is a hell of a time to ring me.”

“Yeah, but this is a hell of a spot we're in.” Grantham had a cold, clipped voice. “Listen, Tootsie, that little punk Hamsley's dropped us right in it.”

“What are you talkin' about?” Mendetta sat on the edge of the small table, which rocked under his weight.

“Dropped us where?”

“Hamsley's been digging Poison's wife. He's been playin' her for a sucker for weeks. She's spent a heap of jack on him.”

“That's what he's at the Club for, ain't it?” Mendetta demanded impatiently. “Ain't he givin' you a cut?”

Grantham laughed bitterly. “It's not that. The old siren fell for him, and he couldn't take it. She took him out last night and tried to rape him. He ran away, the yellow punk.”

Mendetta's fat face relaxed a little. “Well, what of it? You can't hold the boy up for that. Hell! I've seen that dame. She'd turn anyone's stomach.”

“That so? Well, know what she's done? She's squawked to Poison. Said Hamsley's tried to rape her. How do you like that?”

“She's crazy. Poison ain't goin' to believe a yarn like that.”

“No? Well, let me tell you he's hoppin' mad right at this moment. Maybe he doesn't believe it, but she's got herself in such a state, she does. That's enough for Poison. She's makin' him get mad. Listen, Tootsie, this is serious. Poison's goin' to try an' close us up.”

Mendetta sneered. “Let him,” he said. “What the hell do we care? They've got nothin' on us. He can't close us up.”