Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 12, December, 1953

The Quiet Room by Jonathan Craig

“Okay,” the cop said. “You’re in trouble. But maybe you can buy your way out...”

Detective Sergeant Carl Streeter’s home on Ashland Avenue was modest. So were the dark gray suits he always wore, and the four-year-old Plymouth he drove. But in various lock boxes around the city he had accumulated nearly fifty thousand dollars.

He was thinking about the money now as he watched his daughter Jeannie clear away the dinner dishes. He never tired of watching her. She had just turned sixteen, but she was already beautiful, and lately she had begun to develop the infinitely feminine movements and mannerisms he had once found so irresistible in her mother.

The thought of his wife soured the moment, and he frowned. It had been wonderful, having Barbara away for a few weeks. But she’d be back from the seashore next Monday, and then the nagging and bickering and general unpleasantness would start up again. It didn’t seem possible, he reminded himself for probably the ten thousandth time, that anyone who had once been almost as slim and lovely as Jeannie could have grown into two hundred pounds of shapeless, complaining blubber.

“More coffee, Dad?” Jeannie asked.

He pushed his chair back from the table and got up. “No,” he said. “I guess I’d better get going if I want to get down to the precinct by seven.”

“Seven? But I thought your shift didn’t start till eight.”

“It doesn’t. There are a couple things I want to take care of down there, though.”

“When will you be home?”

“Depends. Not until three or four, anyhow. We’re a little short-handed.”

“You put in too many hours, Dad.”

“Maybe,” he said. He grinned at her and walked out to the front hall to get his hat. Just another few months, he thought. Six months at the outside, and I’ll have enough to put Jeannie in a damned good college, ditch Barbara and her lard, and tell the Chief to go to hell.

Sally Creighton was waiting for him in the Inferno Bar. She pushed a folded piece of paper across the table as he sat down facing her.

“How’s the Eighteenth Precinct’s one and only policewoman?” Streeter asked.

Sally looked at him narrowly. “Never mind the amenities. Here’s the list we got off that girl last night.”

He put the list into his pocket without looking at it. “Did you check them?”

“Don’t I always? Only two of them might be good for any money. I marked them. One’s a dentist, and the other guy runs a bar and grill over on Summit.” She lifted her beer and sipped at it, studying him over the rim of the glass. “There’ve been a few changes made, Carl.” Her bony, angular face was set in hard lines.

“Like what?”

“From now on I’m getting fifty per cent.”

“We’ve been over that before.”

“And this is the last time. Fifty per cent, Carl. Starting as of now.”

He laughed shortly. “I do the dirty work, and take the chances — and you come in for half, eh?”

“Either that, or I cut out.” She put a quarter next to her glass and stood up. “Think it over, Sergeant. You aren’t the only bruiser around the Eighteenth that can shake a guy down. Start making with the fifty per cent, or I’ll find another partner.” She moved toward the door with a long, almost mannish stride.

Streeter spread his fingers flat against the table top, fighting back the anger that he knew would get him nowhere. For almost a full minute he stared at the broken, scarred knuckles of his hands. By God, he thought, if it’s the last thing I ever do I’ll knock about ten of that woman’s yellow teeth down into her belly.

Hell, he’d taught her the racket in the first place. He’d shown her how to scare hell out of those under-age chippies until they thought they were going to spend the rest of their lives in jail if they didn’t play ball. Why, he’d even had to educate Sally in the ways of keeping those girls away from the juvenile authorities until she’d had a chance to drain them.

He closed his right fist and clenched it until the knuckles stood up like serrated knobs of solid white bone. Damn that Sally, anyhow; she was getting too greedy. Fifty per cent!

He got up slowly and moved toward the door.

Twenty minutes later, after he had checked in at the precinct and been assigned a cruiser, he pulled up in a No Parking zone and took out the list Sally had given him. His anger had subsided a little now. Actually, he realized, no cop had ever been in a better spot. His first real break with the Department had been when they had organized the Morals Squad and assigned him to it as a roving detective. The second break had occurred when Sally Creighton was transferred to the Eighteenth. He hadn’t talked to her more than ten minutes that first day before he’d realized that he had found the right person to work into his ideas.

In three years, working alone every night as he did, he had loaded his safe deposit boxes with almost fifty thousand dollars.

He lit a cigarette and glanced at the list. Of the two names Sally had marked, the man who owned the bar and grill was the best bet. The other, the dentist, lived on the far side of town; and besides, Streeter had found it was always best to brace a man at his place of business. There was a tremendous psychological factor working on his side when he did that, and especially if the guy happened to be a professional man. He memorized the address of the bar and grill and eased the cruiser away from the curb.

It was too late for the short-order dinner crowd and too early for the beer drinkers, and Streeter had the long bar entirely to himself.

The bartender came up, a thin, blond man in his middle thirties.

Streeter ordered beer, and when the blond man brought it to him he said, “I’m looking for Johnny Cabe.”

The bartender smiled. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

“Quite a bit, maybe,” Streeter said. “It all depends.”

Some of the bartender’s smile went away. “I don’t follow you.”

“You will,” Streeter said. He took out his wallet and showed the other man his gold badge.

“What’s the trouble?” Cabe asked.

“Well, now,” Streeter said, “there really doesn’t have to be any.” He took a swallow of beer and leaned a little closer to Cabe. “You had quite a time for yourself last night, they tell me.”

Cabe’s eyes grew thoughtful. “Last night? You kidding? All I did was have a few beers over at Ed Riley’s place, and—”

“Yeah,” Streeter said. “And then you picked up somebody.”

“What if I did?”

“Then you took her over to your room.”

“So what? They don’t put guys in jail for—”

“The hell they don’t,” Streeter said. “Raping a girl can put you away damned near forever, boy.”

“Rape? You’re crazy! Hell, she wanted to go. She suggested it.”

“Next you’re going to tell me she charged you for it.”

“Sure, she did. Twenty bucks.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Streeter said. “Because it’s still rape, and you’re in one hell of a jam.”

Cabe moved his lips as if to speak, but there was no sound.

“That girl you took home with you was only fifteen years old,” Streeter said. “She—”

“Fifteen! She told me she was nineteen! She looked, nineteen!”

“You should have looked twice. She’s fifteen. That makes it statutory rape, and it doesn’t make one damn bit of difference what you thought, or whether she was willing, or if she charged you for it, or anything else.” He smiled. “It’s statutory rape, brother, and that means you’ve had it.”

Cabe moistened his lips. “I can’t believe it.”

“Get your hat,” Streeter said.

“You’re arresting me?”

“I didn’t come in here just for the beer. Hurry it up.”

“God,” the blond man said. “God, officer, I—”

“Kind of hard to get used to the idea, isn’t it?” Streeter asked softly.

Cabe’s forehead glistened with sweat. “Listen, officer, I got a wife. Best kid on earth, see. I don’t know what came over me last night. I just got tight, I guess, and... God, I—”

Streeter shook his head slowly. “Good thing you haven’t got any children,” he said.

“But I have! Two of them. Seven and nine. And my wife, she’s — she’s going to have another baby pretty soon. That’s why — I mean that’s how come I was kind of anxious for a woman last night. I—” He broke off, biting at his lower lip.

“Tough,” Streeter said. “Real tough. But it’s that kind of world, friend. I’ve got a kid myself, so I know how it is. But—” he shrugged — “there isn’t a hell of a lot I can do about it.” He shook his head sadly. “When little guys — guys like you and me — get in a jam, it’s just plain tough. But guys with dough... well, sometimes they can buy their way out.”

Cabe looked at him a long moment. “How much dough?”

“Quite a bit,” Streeter said. “More than you’ve got, Johnny. Better get your hat.”

“Let’s cut out this crap,” Cabe said. “I asked you how much dough?”

“We got to think of your wife and kids,” Streeter said. “So we’ll have to go easy. Let’s say a grand.”

“I ain’t got it.”

“You can get it. A little at a time, maybe, but you can get it.” He took another swallow of his beer. “How much you got in the cash register?”

“About three hundred. I got to pay the help tonight, or there wouldn’t be that much.”

“Too bad about the help,” Streeter said. “Let’s have the three hundred. In a couple weeks I’ll be back. By that time you’ll have the other seven hundred, eh, Johnny-boy?”

Cabe went to the cash register, took out the money, and came back. “Here,” he said. Then, softly beneath his breath he added: “You bastard!”

Streeter put the money in his pocket and stood up. “Thanks, Johnny,” he said. “Thanks a lot. You reckon I ought to give you a receipt? A little reminder to get up that other seven hundred bucks?”

“I’ll remember,” Cabe said.

“I’m afraid you might not,” Streeter said, smiling. “So here’s your receipt.” He leaned across the bar and slammed his fist flush against the blond man’s mouth.

Johnny Cabe crashed into the back-bar, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth.

“Thanks again, Johnny,” Streeter said. “You serve a good glass of beer.” He turned and went outside to the cruiser.

He spent the next four hours making routine check-ups and trying to think of improvements in the system he had worked out with Sally Creighton. The system had been working nicely, but it was a long way from foolproof. Most of the cops on the force were honest, and for them Streeter had nothing but contempt. But there were a few like himself, and those were the ones who worried him. He’d had reason lately to suspect that a couple of them were getting on to him. If they did, then his racket was over. They could politic around until they got him busted off the Morals Squad. Then they’d take over themselves. And, he reflected, they wouldn’t even have to go that far. They could simply cut themselves in on a good thing.

And that Sally... He’d have to start splitting down the middle with her, he knew. Maybe she was even worth it. One thing was sure, she’d learned how to terrify young girls better than anyone else he could have teamed up with. He’d seen her work on just one girl, but it had been enough to convince him. Sally had wrapped her arm around a fourteen-year-old girl’s throat in such a way that the girl was helpless. Then, with a hand towel soaked with water, she had beaten the girl across the stomach until she was almost dead. When the girl had recovered slightly, she had been only too willing to tell Sally every man she’d picked up during the last six months.

That particular list of names, Streeter recalled, had been worth a little over ten thousand in shake-down money.

He came to a drug store and braked the cruiser at the curb.

In the phone booth, he dialed Sally’s number, humming tunelessly to himself. He felt much better now, with Johnny Cabe’s three hundred dollars in his pocket.

When Sally answered, he said, “Streeter. Anything doing?”

“I got one in here now,” Sally said. “A real tough baby. I picked her up at Andy’s trying to promote a drunk at the bar.”

“She talking?” he asked.

“Not a damn word. I got her back in the Quiet room.”

“What’s her name?”

“Don’t know. All she had in her bag was a lipstick and a few bucks.” She paused. “Like I said, she’s tough. She won’t even give us the time of day.”

“Listen,” Streeter said. “Things are slow tonight. See if you can get her talking. Maybe I can collect a bill here and there.”

“That’s an idea.”

“You haven’t lost your technique, have you?”

“No.”

“All right. So turn it on. Give her that towel across the belly. That ought to make her talkative.”

For the first time he could remember, he heard Sally laugh.

“You know,” she said, “I’m just in the mood for something like that. Maybe I will.”

“Sure,” Streeter said. “The sooner you get me some names, the sooner I get us some dough.”

“Don’t forget, Carl — it’s fifty per cent now.”

“Sure.”

He hung up and went back out to the cruiser.

After another slow hour of routine checks, he decided to see how Sally was making out with the tough pick-up. He stopped at a diner and called her.

“God,” she said, as soon as he had identified himself, “we’re really in it now, Carl.” Her voice was ragged, and there was panic in it.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I went too far. I was doing what you said, and—”

“For God’s sake, Sally! What’s happened.”

“I... I think I broke her neck...”

“You think! Don’t you know?”

There was a pause. “Yes. I broke her neck, Carl. I didn’t mean to, but she was fighting, and all at once I heard something snap and...”

The thin film of perspiration along his back and shoulders was suddenly like a sheathe of ice.

“When, Sally? When did it happen?”

“J-just now. Just a minute ago.”

“You sure she’s dead?”

“Dead or dying. There was a pulse a few seconds ago, but—”

“But her neck! You’re positive it’s broken? That it just isn’t dislocated, or something?”

“It’s broken. This is it, Carl. For both of us. God...”

“Listen, damn it!” he said. “Was she wearing stockings? Long ones?”

“Yes. What—”

“Take one of them off her and hang her up with it.”

She seemed to have trouble breathing. “But I... I can’t do that. I—”

“You’ve got to! Do you hear? It’s the only way out. Tie one end of the stocking around her neck. Then put a chair beneath that steam pipe that runs across the ceiling. Haul her up on the chair with you and tie the other end around the pipe. Leave her hanging and kick the chair away, just like she’d done it herself.”

He waited, breathing heavily.

“All right,” Sally said. “I’ll try.”

“You’d better. And hurry. Get her up there and then leave the room for a few minutes. When you go back to see your prisoner, she’s hanged herself. See? They’ll give you hell for leaving her alone with stockings on, but that’s all they can do. She panicked and hanged herself; that’s all.”

“But, Carl, I—”

“No buts! Get busy!”

He opened up the siren and kept it open all the way back to the Eighteenth. He ran up the station steps, through the corridors. He was breathing quickly. When he arrived at the second floor he was soaked with perspiration.

He forced himself to walk leisurely through the large room that housed the detective headquarters, back toward the short corridor that led to the Quiet room. The Quiet room was a small, soundproof detention cell where they sometimes put the screamers and howlers until they calmed down enough for questioning. It had been designed to provide some degree of quiet for the men out in the headquarters room, and not as a torture chamber.

But it had served Streeter and Sally Creighton well and often.

Streeter paused at the door to the corridor and drew a paper cup of water from the cooler. Where in hell was Sally? he wondered. She should be out here by now, killing time before she went back to discover that her prisoner had hanged herself.

He glanced about him. There were only two other detectives in the room, and both were busy with paper work. A man in a T-shirt and blue jeans sat dozing in a chair, one wrist handcuffed to a chair arm.

Then he heard footsteps behind him, and Sally’s voice said, “Thank God you’re here.”

He turned to look at her. Her face was gray and her forehead was sheened with sweat.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked.

“To the john. I don’t know... something about this made me sick in the stomach.”

“Yeah. Well, let’s go down there and get it over with.”

He led the way down the corridor to the Quiet room and threw the heavy bolt. The goddamned little chippie, he thought. So she’d thought she was tough... Well, she’d asked for it, hadn’t she? She’d asked for it, and she’d damn well got it.

He jerked the door open and looked up at the girl hanging from the steam pipe. Her body was moving, very slowly, a few inches to the right and then back again.

He stared at her while the floor seemed to tilt beneath his feet and something raw and sickening filled his stomach.

He took a faltering step forward, and then another, his eyes straining and misted. It was difficult for him to see clearly. Absently, he brushed at his eyes with his sleeve. The hanging figure before him sprang into sudden, terrifying focus.

The girl’s body was as slim and graceful looking in death as it had been a few hours ago when he had watched her clearing away the dinner dishes. But not the face, not the horribly swollen face.

“Jeannie,” he whispered. “Jeannie, Jeannie...”