The Big Heat

Chapter 3

The next afternoon Bannion spent an hour on desk-work, checking the progress of the three cases which were currently being handled by his shift. Two of them were going to the Grand Jury in the morning and were strong enough for that test; the third was back from the Grand Jury with a True Bill but the D. A. wanted it strengthened, if possible, before it went to court. Bannion gave Carmody and Katz the D. A.’s memo, and told them to get working at it. Burke’s Negro was looking better all the time. His alibi — he’d been in a poker game with friends — had got an unexpected boost from the beat cop who had stopped by to tell them to cut down the noise. The Negro’s friends would fade away, Bannion knew, afraid of getting involved themselves, but a cop for the defense meant practically an automatic acquittal. The D. A. would scream if they tossed this one at him, Bannion thought with a smile. Also the man’s record looked good. He was employed as a body-and-fender man around town, had never been in any trouble with the police, and his family were respectable people.

Burke came over and sat on the edge of Bannion’s desk. He was grinning. “Up in the air like smoke,” he said, nodding at the report on the Negro.

“This is good work,” Bannion said.

“I felt industrious last night, so I looked into it,” Burke said. “My own time, too.”

“I’ll bet,” Bannion said.

“We’ve got the wrong guy, I guess,” Burke said.

“Well, we can let the right one go, which is something,” Bannion said. He glanced at his watch. “I’m going to take a ride. I’ll be back around five or six.”

“Everything okay with Deery?” Burke said, as Bannion got into his coat.

Bannion hesitated, then said: “Yes, he shot himself, if that’s what you mean. Did you know him pretty well?”

“Fairly well.”

“Did you know that he had a home in Atlantic City before the war?”

“Yes, I had a drink with him there once. Met him on the boardwalk, and he asked me to stop by later for cocktails.”

“What kind of a place was it?”

“Pretty nice. A high-class sweep-out, you might call it.”

They walked toward the door, their voices and expression casual. “How did that figure on a police clerk’s salary?” Bannion said.

Burke shrugged. “Prices were lower those days.”

“And so were salaries,” Bannion said.

“Well, maybe he had some outside work. Keeping books for a small firm, clerking nights, something like that.” Burke stopped at the counter and put an elbow on it. “Maybe he was lucky at cards,” he said.

“Yeah, sure,” Bannion said.

“I always heard he was okay,” Burke said.

“So did I. Well, I’ll see you later.”

“Right, Sarge.”

Bannion went to his car and drove out toward Tom Deery’s home, crossing the Delaware River at Spruce Street and heading out to West Philadelphia. The afternoon was cold and dry, and darkened here by smoke drifting from the locomotives at Thirtieth Street station. Bannion had thought quite a bit about Lucy Carroway’s story. It didn’t add up to very much, but it had to be checked. That was the essence of police work; checking everything. A cop had to investigate all the obvious details, ask all the obvious questions, plod about doing things that frequently seemed pointless and stupid. The man-in-the-street and the editorial writers on the papers could tell him a quicker way to do it, of course. They knew that such-and-such an angle was impossible, unlikely or foolish. They didn’t have to check it; they just knew. But a cop couldn’t afford these seemingly logical short-cuts. He had to do all the tedious, useless work, because occasionally the impossible, unlikely or foolish areas of investigation turned out to be the most profitable ones.

Bannion parked and went into the vestibule of Deery’s building and punched the bell. There was a short wait and then the inner door-lock clicked, and he went up the stairs to the first floor landing. Mrs. Deery opened the door. She seemed surprised to see him, but she smiled, and said, “Please come in, Mr. Bannion.”

“I’m sorry to be bothering you again,” he said, following her into the living room.

“I know it’s necessary, so please don’t apologize. I’ve just been to see Tom,” she said, sitting down on the brocaded sofa and crossing her pretty legs. She was as flawlessly turned out as she’d been the day before, Bannion noticed. Her silver-streaked hair was done perfectly, her make-up was fresh and her manner was serene. Again he was impressed by the certainty and control of her manner. “He looks extremely well, I think,” she went on. “And I must say everyone in the Department has been wonderful to me. The Superintendent called twice and there was a car here this morning, from the Mayor’s office, I believe, to take me to the parlor.”

“Well, that’s only as it should be,” Bannion said. He paused to mark a transition, then said: “I’m here on a different sort of business. I hope you’ll realize this is my job, Mrs. Deery, and cooperate with me if possible.”

“Why, certainly, Mr. Bannion.” She wet her lip. “I’ll help you in anyway I can.”

“Thanks. Last night I had a call from a woman named Lucy Carroway. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Mrs. Deery didn’t change expression. She merely raised her delicate eyebrows, but it was enough to relegate Lucy Carroway into the realms of the unpleasant and unnecessary. “Yes, she was a friend of Tom’s. Quite some time ago, I believe.”

“She told me a very strange story,” Bannion said. “She was positive there was nothing wrong with your husband’s health. She saw him last week, she said, and he told her he was feeling fine.”

Mrs. Deery smiled pleasantly. “That woman is a liar, Mr. Bannion. Tom hadn’t seen her for years, and most certainly not last week.”

“Lucy said it was the night you were in Harrisburg,” Bannion said. “Did you go to Harrisburg last week?”

“Yes, I did,” Mrs. Deery said slowly. “I was in Harrisburg last Thursday night. Perhaps they did meet after all. That would be typical of her, of course. The instant my back was turned she—”

“She insisted it was an accidental meeting,” Bannion said.

“Oh, I’m sure of that,” Mrs. Deery said. Her slim hands trembled slightly. “I suppose she told you about her relationship with my husband.”

“She wasn’t very specific about it.”

“What taste she’s developed,” Mrs. Deery said, with a little laugh. “She’s obviously turned into a very fine lady.” Mrs. Deery squared her slim shoulders and sat up a little straighter. “Well, it seems to be my word against hers, doesn’t it?”

“No, of course not,” Bannion said. “You must realize that we check things like this, even though we’re certain in advance that they’re preposterous.”

“Yes, I understand,” Mrs. Deery said, in a more reasonable voice. “I’ll try to help you. I don’t know if this Lucy Carroway and my husband were sleeping together. I presume they were. That’s the chief appeal of women like that, I suppose. At any rate, the whole affair was so disgusting that I simply couldn’t bring myself to care. I offered Tom a divorce, I made plans to divorce him, actually, but he came to his senses. I was younger then, but I decided it was all you could expect from a man. I took him back and it was a wise move, one I’ve never regretted. Tom has always been as loyal and devoted a husband as any woman could expect to find.”

“I’m sure of that,” Bannion said. He noted the discrepancies between Lucy’s and Mrs. Deery’s account of the affair, but on the whole, he thought Mrs. Deery’s was probably closer to the truth. “Lucy said he seemed very happy when she met him last week,” he said. “He had been worried, she said, when she first knew him.”

“Undoubtedly,” Mrs. Deery said. “Lucy’s the sort who causes men to worry. That didn’t occur to her, I imagine.”

“No, I’m sure it wouldn’t,” Bannion said. He decided to nudge Mrs. Deery gently. “I had the impression she had something else on her mind, something she wasn’t telling me. Can you think of any information, or fantasies, she might be holding back?”

Mrs. Deery shook her head slowly. “No, I can’t. Would you mind telling me why you’re interested in her story?”

“Of course not. If she’s lying, and that seems obvious, I’d like to know why. She may be planning something which we can put a stop to if we have an idea what it is. It might occur to her to blackmail you for instance, with the threat of dirtying up your husband’s name. She wouldn’t have a chance, but people get funny ideas sometimes.”

“That would be her type,” Mrs. Deery said.

“Did you know her in Atlantic City, by the way?”

“I met her there just once.”

“Well—” Bannion paused, then smiled. “Thanks again, Mrs. Deery. I’m sorry to bother you under these circumstances. But if Lucy tries to make any trouble for you just let us know. We’ll put a stop to it fast.”

“Thank you, I will.”

They walked together to the front door. “This weather makes Atlantic City seem like a good idea,” Bannion said. “Do you still have your place there?”

“No, we had to sell it years ago,” Mrs. Deery said. “With the prices up, we just couldn’t afford it.”

Bannion nodded sympathetically. He thanked her again, shook her slim, cool hand, and went down the stairs and out to his car. In his opinion, the Lucy Carroway business was over. He rather regretted having forced Mrs. Deery back to what must have been a painful episode in her marriage — but that was his job.

At the office Bannion was caught in a sudden flurry of work. There was a fatal stabbing in the Nineteenth, and the body of a young girl had been found in Fairmont Park. The girl, a high school senior, had been beaten to death. She had been missing from her home since the night before, after breaking a date with her steady boy friend. Bannion sent Burke on the stabbing, which was a routine job, and took Katz with him out to Fairmont Park. Each paper had three or four men on the job, and the Superintendent was making statements and having his picture taken. Bannion went at it carefully and slowly, nodding politely to the Superintendent’s demands for an immediate arrest, and trying to keep the reporters out of his hair. This sort of job, the dirtiest and unhappiest in the book, Bannion thought, had to be broken the first day, even the first few hours, or it might drag on forever. Jerry Furnham, the tough, amiable Express man, finally gave him a worthwhile tip. He tapped Bannion’s arm and said, “The boyfriend, the one she stood up. He’s all broken up, but he looked like he was crying before he got here. I saw him when he showed. Maybe he’s got a crystal ball.”

Bannion glanced casually at the young man, the girl’s boyfriend, a well set-up lad with a crew cut, and college numerals on his pull-over sweater. He was holding the arm of the girl’s father, sobbing hysterically. Bannion rubbed his forehead tiredly. “Thanks, Jerry,” he said.

He didn’t get back to the office until two. The midnight-to-eight shift was on hand; Neely, Burke, and Carmody had gone.

“Long night,” Sergeant Heineman said. “Don’t forget to put in over-time, Dave.”

“I won’t,” Bannion said.

“Tough about the kid in Fairmont Park,” Heineman said. “The boyfriend, eh?”

“Tough is right,” Bannion said. “He fell apart before we got to him. He said he slapped her once, after the usual argument, and then got scared and knocked her around.” Bannion shook his head. “He kept saying he was a clean boy. Well, Katz is still with him out in the District. They’ll keep him there tonight, so you won’t have to worry about him.”

“I’d like an hour alone with the sonofabitch,” one of the men said.

Bannion sighed. “Take it easy, I’ll see you around,” he said to the room in general, and walked.

When he reached home it was a quarter of three. He was very tired, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep if he went to bed. The business of the night, the bitter, meaningless heartbreak of it, rested on his spirit like a pall. He sat down without removing his overcoat and snapped on the light beside his chair. For a minute or so he sat there, head resting against the back of the chair, and then he took a slim, leather-bound volume from his bookcase and let it fall open in his big hands. He began reading at random, forcing himself at first, but gradually slipping completely into the world of the well-remembered words, a world that seemed a great and gentle distance from the bitter one in which he lived and worked. It was the A scent of Mount Carmel, he was reading, the dark, beautiful record of St. John’s idealistic assumption with his God. The words as much as the sense of it got through to Bannion. “—Oh happy chance! — In darkness and concealment, My house being now at rest... Oh night that guided me... Oh night that joined Beloved with lover...

Bannion put the book aside fifteen or twenty minutes later, and got to his feet. He stretched tremendously, feeling relaxed and at peace with himself now, and then snapped off the reading light and walked quietly through the dark hallway to the bedroom.

Kate was asleep but she woke and switched on the night light as he got into bed a few minutes later. “It was a long day, wasn’t it?” she said, and her voice was soft and warm with sleep.

“Yes, pretty long,” he said, resting his head on her shoulder. “Put out the light, baby.”

“Dave, you had a call. From a girl.”

“Any name?”

“No, it was a gal I think. She said she’d leave the twenty dollars she owed you with the bartender at the Triangle. That was all. Are you in the small loan business, darling?”

Bannion got up on one elbow. “This isn’t exactly funny,” he said. He stared into the darkness, aware of the beat of his heart, of Kate’s soft nearness, the warm, comfortable silence.

“I’m sorry, I just took the message,” Kate said.

“Well, I’ll check it tomorrow,” Bannion said, and put his head down again on her shoulder. They were silent a moment. He said, “Would you lend me twenty bucks, baby, if I were cold and hungry?”

“Sure.”

There was work waiting for him the next afternoon and it wasn’t until six o’clock that he was able to check into the phone call.

The girl who’d called had mentioned the Triangle — the only part of the message which made any sense. It was probably Lucy trying, for some reason, to get in touch with him without leaving her name. He signalled for an outside line and dialled the number of the bar.

A man’s voice answered: “Yeah?”

“This is Sergeant Bannion, Homicide Bureau. I want to talk to Lucy Carroway.”

“Lucy? She ain’t here any more.”

“When did she leave?”

“Damned if I know, Sergeant. She was gone when I came on at three this afternoon. Maybe the boss could tell you, but he ain’t around now, either.”

“Okay, I’ll stop by your place,” Bannion said. “If your boss comes in, tell him to wait for me. Got that?”

“Yeah, sure thing. Say, what’s up? Is she in some kind of trouble?”

Bannion put the phone down without answering and picked up his coat. The bartender’s question echoed his own: Is she in some kind of trouble? That’s what he planned to find out. She might have simply drifted on to another job, another city, but for some reason that didn’t strike him as likely.

“I’m taking a ride,” he said to Neely. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“The lieutenant wants to see you,” Neely said. “He’s got someone with him now but said he’d see you in about fifteen minutes.”

Bannion paced up and down the dusty, cigarette-littered floor, a faint frown on his normally good-humored face. “What’s on his mind?” he said.

Neely shrugged, his reddened, terrier’s face impassive.

Bannion walked to the window and looked down Market Street, dark now and jammed with hurrying pedestrians, hearing the faint, angry tooting of police whistles, the muted roars of traffic, looking at but hardly seeing the clean, beautiful height of the PSFS building, the huge Adam’s clothes sign, the bright rows of store fronts flanking the dark river of the street. He finally glanced at his watch. “Neely, tell him I’d already gone out.”

“But I told him you were here. He called while you were on the outside line,” Neely said.

“Okay, tell him I was on something that wouldn’t wait. I’ll see him when I get back.”

Neely shrugged, removing himself from the matter. “Okay,” he said.

Bannion didn’t bother with his car; in this traffic it would be quicker to walk. He reached the Triangle in ten minutes. The bar was almost empty now, the bandstand deserted, and only a few men sitting over beers. A show was going on next door; he could hear the sound of faint, emphatically syncopated music through the walls.

The bartender was the one he’d seen the night before. He came down to Bannion smiling. “Mr. Lewis ain’t back yet, Sergeant, but he might be next door at the show,” he said.

“Is there anyone here who can go over there with me and pick him out?”

“Yeah, sure.” The man turned his head and shouted: “Jimmy! Hey, Jimmy! Come out here.”

A thin, young Negro wearing a white apron pushed through a swinging door at the end of the bar, and glanced uncertainly from the bartender to Bannion. “Jimmy can show you,” the bartender said. “Take the sergeant next door and pick out Mr. Lewis for him, Jimmy.”

“Sure, just come along with me, please.”

Bannion followed him into the street and into the lobby of the burlesque house. He showed his badge to the ticket-taker, and went into the dark, smokey theater. It was not a pleasant place; the carpets were worn and dusty, and the acrid tang of a urinal disinfectant seeped under the smell of stale tobacco and perspiration. The audience was a small one, fifty or sixty men crowded down in the first half dozen rows, but they were having a good time, laughing gustily at the pair of comics and the big, half-naked blonde on the stage.

The Negro, with Bannion following him, went down the side aisle on the left side of the theater, and called softly to a man sitting in the second row. “Gentleman here to see you, Mr. Lewis.”

Mr. Lewis was slumped down so far that his head was almost out of sight. He was enjoying the show immensely; there were tears of laughter in the corners of his eyes as he looked over his shoulder. “What is it?” he said in an impatient whisper.

“Police business, let’s step outside,” Bannion said.

Mr. Lewis, a small, slender man, came to his feet as if a spring had been released underneath him. He rubbed both hands over his thinning black hair. “Sure thing, sure thing,” he said, taking Bannion’s arm. “You with the Liquor Control Board?”

“No, it’s not that,” Bannion said.

“Well, that’s good news,” Mr. Lewis said, laughing, following Bannion at a half-trot into the lobby. Bannion thanked the boy who smiled and left. Mr. Lewis was a sharply dressed little man, twitching with energy; standing still he gave the impression that he might break into a fast-jig-step. “Well, what is it, officer?” he said, slapping Bannion on both arms with open hands. “Damn, you’re a big one, aren’t you? Nothing wrong with the joint, is there, officer?”

“No, I’m here about a girl named Lucy Carroway. I understand she’s gone. I want you to tell me about it.”

Lewis looked relieved. “Why sure, sure. It was just last night. Right out of the blue she says she wants to be paid off. Well, they don’t owe me nothing but a night’s work, that’s what I say. So I says, ‘Okay, okay, Lucy, if that’s the way you want it, the best of luck to you.’ I paid her off and she left. Just like that.”

“What time was it? Give it to me in order, as nearly as you can.”

“Okay, I’ll try.” Lewis narrowed his eyes. “She went out for dinner at ten-fifteen, ten-thirty, something like that. It was after she got back that she told me about quitting, so that would be around eleven-thirty.”

“Was she alone when she left and came back?”

“Honest to God, I don’t know. She was alone when she talked to me about quitting. ‘Mr. Lewis I’m quitting,’ she said, ‘and I want you to pay me off.’ ‘Where you going?’ I ask. ‘South,’ she says. How about that?” Lewis said, emphasizing the question by stamping sharply on the floor with an Adlerized foot. “Me, the fattailed money-bags, so they say, stuck here while a little bird like Lucy flies South. Capitalism, you can have it, I say frequently. Well, I paid her off, and off she goes. That’s all I know. Is the kid in some trouble?”

“Not that I know of,” Bannion said. “Where does she live?”

Lewis shrugged his shoulders and looked blank. “You got me! I should know, but I don’t. You know, Inspector, them kids drift in and out like the tide. I mean, facts are facts, and most of them haven’t got much more than a suitcase full of clothes between them and a charity ward. They drift, you know how it is. Nobody gives a damn about ’em, it’s a fact. Lucy might be on her way to Miami, and she might walk in tomorrow and want her job back. That’s the way it is.”

Bannion nodded, frowning. Wind forced its way under the double doors of the lobby, squeezed through the sides, and churned dust and tobacco along the wooden floor, tugged insistently at the frayed corners of garish, girl-adorned posters. “Yes, that’s the way it is,” he said. “Did she have any friends here among the other girls who would know where she lives?”

“That’s a thought,” Lewis said, snapping his fingers. “We’ll go next door and see Elsie. They were pretty close. She and Lucy were always clubby.” He laughed, taking Bannion’s arm. “If they weren’t both nuts about me I’d swear they were queer as three dollar bills.”

Elsie was a tall, friendly blonde, with deep purple hollows under her eyes. She knew where Lucy lived, or had lived: The Reale Hotel, on Spruce below Sixth.

“I hope she’s not in trouble,” she said. “Lucy is a nice kid.”

“No, this is just routine,” Bannion said.

“Ah, you guys always say that, whether it’s arson or stealing an atom bomb,” Elsie said dubiously. “Anyway, I hope you mean it this time.”

“I do, really,” Bannion said. “Thanks, Elsie.”

Bannion took a cab to the Reale, a third-class hotel with a bravely clean lobby. He explained who he was and what he wanted to the desk clerk, a young man who wore horn-rimmed glasses and had an alert, inquiring manner.

“Miss Carroway checked out last night, sir,” he said. “I was on duty and remember the time. It was twelve forty-five.”

“Was she alone?”

“No, she was with a gentleman.”

“I see.” Bannion lit a cigarette as a tired-looking man in his fifties got his key, asked without hope for mail, and went slowly to the elevator. “I wish you’d tell me as much as you can about him,” Bannion said. “Did they come in together? Start there and let me have it all.”

“Very well.” The clerk frowned slightly and pinched his thin nose. “They did come in together. Miss Carroway asked for her key and told me she was checking out and to have her bill ready when she came down. The gentleman stood behind her, about six feet away, I’d judge, but looking away from me so that all I saw was his profile.”

The clerk paused, and Bannion let him take his time. He was a good witness, with an eye for details.

“Miss Carroway and the gentleman took the elevator up to her room,” the clerk said. “Normally, that’s against our rules, but in this case, since she was leaving, I thought, well—” He shrugged slightly. “It’s not the best hotel in the world, but we do try to maintain certain standards. At any rate, they were down within ten or fifteen minutes. Miss Carroway paid her bill, it was for only three days, and then she left. I think the gentleman had a car because there’s no trolley on Spruce Street any more, and the nearest cab stand is almost half a mile from here.”

“She didn’t make a phone call here?”

The clerk looked apologetic. “I’d forgotten that. Yes, just before she left she used the public phone here in the lobby.”

“What did her friend do while she made the call?”

“Let me see: He went with her to the booth and waited there, I believe.”

“Did she close the door of the booth?”

The clerk smiled helplessly. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice. No, wait a minute. It must have been open because I heard her talking. It’s funny how things come back to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, one thing suggests another. What did she say?”

“I wasn’t listening, you understand. It — her voice, I mean — was just like a noise, like music in the background. But she did say something about twenty dollars. I don’t know how that fitted into the conversation, however.”

“Twenty dollars, eh?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Now, what did this fellow look like?”

“He was a big man,” the clerk said thoughtfully. “Not as big as you are, but pretty big. He wore a camel’s hair coat, and his hair, what I could see of it, looked dark. He had on a white fedora, you see. His complexion was dark, and he had a rather large nose. That’s pretty general, I guess, but it’s the best I can do,”

“It’s very good,” Bannion said. “Thanks very much. Could you recognize a picture of the man?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Okay, I may stop back one of these days. Thanks again.”

Outside, Bannion turned his collar up against the wind and walked west on Spruce Street. It was a long hike back to the Hall, seven to Broad Street, and three more over to Market, but he could use the time to sort out what he’d learned. It wasn’t much, actually; unless something else happened he was at a standstill. But Bannion had a curious feeling that something else was going to happen.