No sleep came. Nervous hours spent staring at the shadows on the ceiling, listening for noises outside, waiting for dawn.
When morning showed up, I got out of there early as I could and drove Robinson’s car to the Arlington so I could call Clyde Dinsmore at the Recorder and pay too much for eggs and coffee. I got the food first; I had no appetite, but expected another long day. I tried to shut out the incident the night before and focus only on Robinson. It was easier said than done.
The hotel lobby was busy again, breakfast service in full swing. As I ate my food, my eyes set upon the table in the far corner, drawn by the racket the men around it were making. I watched the occupants. The table was in its own small section, on a platform that raised it a little above the others. There were five men, but I straightaway zeroed on one – the same man I’d seen the time before, strolling through the lobby. The same familiar face.
He was far enough away not to notice me looking. The other men wore suits, two of them smoking cigars, but he was sporting golf attire – a cream-coloured shirt and beige slacks, two-tone brogues on his feet. He was the only one not talking, instead buttering a piece of toast, glancing up to smile every now and then when one of the others cracked wise. It was a cautious smile, isolated from the rest of his expression. He seemed alert, although not on edge, regarding the other men the way a politician does at a fundraising drive.
I left my food half-finished and rounded the edge of the restaurant to get a better view, being careful not to be caught staring. I took up a spot near the bar that afforded me a good look at his face and tried hard to place it. I thought back to Texarkana, ran through lists of the people I’d encountered there – cops, reporters, victims. No one made the nut.
I buttonholed a passing bellhop.
‘Sir?’
‘Who’s the gentleman at that raised table?’ I indicated with my thumb.
‘Do you mean Mr Tindall’s table, sir?’
Tindall. The name and the face came back to me all at once. ‘Tindall as in William Tindall?’
The bellman scratched his wrist. ‘Yes, sir.’
I nodded to send him on his way, my eyes locked on the man now. William Tindall. Not from Texarkana. A name I knew from back in New York – one of the most powerful racketeers the city had known. A bootlegging kingpin from twenty years back, with an empire that had been rumoured to extend into real estate, boxing, breweries and numbers. His public face was boss of the Cotton Club – the Harlem nightspot that brought black jazz talent to white crowds. His reputation in the underworld was that of a vicious mobster who went by the handle ‘Bill the Killer’, who’d toughed-out ten years in Sing Sing on a manslaughter beef.
And now he was taking breakfast a few yards from me. In a town where gambling and prostitution flourished.
I closed my eyes, not sure what it all meant. Then I opened them again and stepped away from the bar, glancing back at Tindall’s table one more time. The man next to him had the attention of the group, animated, recounting a story of some kind and looking over at Tindall every few moments as if to check he was getting his approval. Tindall was stirring his drink with a spoon, paying the man just enough attention so as not to appear impolite.
I went to the telephone kiosks and called Dinsmore, on the pretext of chasing up the fire department report. I doubted he’d have it yet – and that assuming he hadn’t just paid lip service to the request so as to get me off his back – but I wanted him to know I wasn’t going away. I couldn’t believe three murders could go unnoticed, even in a place like this, and I had the feeling he was snowing me.
Turned out it was a wasted nickel; Dinsmore hadn’t made it to his desk yet, and his colleague didn’t know what time he was expected. I held the receiver after I put it in the cradle, thinking about my next play. I called the desk at the Mountain Motor Court, eager to see if Ella Borland had made contact. The proprietor answered, but before I could say anything, he started asking about my plans.
‘You fixing to check out tomorrow?’
I had a spare nickel in my hand, started tapping it against the telephone casing. Thoughts of money nagged at the back of my mind; the trip was going to leave me flat broke. ‘I haven’t decided yet. I’ll come by the office later on and we’ll straighten things out.’
He cleared his throat. ‘All right. But if you want to stay on, each night is payable in advance. House rules.’
‘I understand.’ I closed my eyes, feeling as if the decision was going to be made for me. I had enough to pay my airfare back to California, but at this rate, I’d have to dip into that just to stay, and pride wouldn’t let me call Acheson to ask for an advance on my salary. ‘I was calling to see if you have any messages for me.’
‘Yes, sir. Hold a minute till I find it.’ There was a rustling sound as though he was shuffling papers around the desk. ‘One for you, called just a few moments ago. Dame by the name of Borland. Didn’t leave nothing but a telephone number—’
I snatched a pen out of my pocket. ‘What is it, please?’
He read the number out to me and I thanked him and hung up. I slotted the nickel I had in my hand into the phone and dialled, pressing the receiver to my ear as if it would make her pick up faster.
Instead, a man answered. I could hear voices in the background – people in conversation. I asked for Ella Borland and the man didn’t respond. It was a second or two before I realised he’d gone to get her.
Then a new voice came on the line.
‘Ella Borland speaking.’ Husky but soft. Her accent more Texas than Arkansas.
‘Miss Borland, this is Charlie Yates. Thank you for returning my call.’
‘Mr Yates . . . you sent me a message. Maxine told me. What is it you think I can do for you?’
‘I think we know someone in common – Jimmy Clark.’
She hesitated. ‘May I ask what this is about?’
‘Jimmy died a few days ago, were you aware of that?’
Her tone hardened. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off blunt. Jimmy was a friend of mine, and I want to know what happened to him. I wondered if you could help me.’
‘Are you a policeman, Mr Yates?’
‘No, nothing like that, ma’am, I’m a reporter. We worked together some.’
‘A reporter.’ She said it to herself and then was silent a few seconds. I couldn’t get a read on what she was thinking. ‘I heard about Jimmy, it upset me a lot.’
‘Can I ask how you came to know him?’
‘We were acquaintances.’ At first I thought she was going to say something more, but she held her tongue.
‘The reason I’m calling is I was hoping you could shed some light on what he was doing here. Jimmy asked me to come to Hot Springs to help him, but by the time I got here, he was dead.’
‘Oh, I’m— That’s awful for you. I’m sorry, Mr Yates, truly.’ The emotion in her voice sounded genuine, but she was still guarded.
‘He only told me a few details about what he was working on because he didn’t want to discuss it over the telephone—’
‘He was like that. Old fashioned.’ For the first time, there was a hint of fondness in her voice.
‘So if there’s anything you can tell me, I’d be in your debt.’
The line went quiet, and then she drew in a long breath. Some kind of commotion kicked up across from me, the sound of a plate smashing on the floor. I turned away from the din just as she started to speak again.
‘A friend of mine was killed some months back and Jimmy—’ Her voice trembled and she took a moment to compose herself. ‘I’m sorry, it’s still difficult for me to talk about this. Jimmy was looking into it.’
My skin prickled – on the verge of something now. ‘What was your friend’s name, ma’am?’
‘Jeanette Runnels. Jeannie.’
I scribbled it down awkwardly, pinning my notebook to the wall and writing with the same hand.
‘Jimmy came to me some months ago and said he was writing a story about her. He wanted my help and I obliged, and we became friendly over the course of those conversations.’
‘My condolences on your loss, ma’am. Both losses.’ A rush of questions came to me, but I was mindful of not pushing so hard that I scared her away. ‘Can I ask when you last saw Jimmy?’
She thought about it, then said, ‘Monday, I think.’
‘How did he seem to you?’
‘You know what he was like – he could be up one minute and down the next. He was always that way.’
‘Did he seem troubled at all?’
She gave a rueful laugh, no humour in it. ‘Always. But no more so than usual.’
‘Do you know if he had any enemies here? I know Jimmy could rub people wrong.’
‘None that I know of. If you’ll allow, why are you asking me this, Mr Yates?’
I thought about how to respond. ‘I’m trying to know his frame of mind before he died.’
‘Forgive me, but that sounds a little hollow.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I was told his death was an accident, but unless I’m mistaken, you have doubts that it was.’
I kept my tone even, surprised at how perceptive she was. ‘I have some questions I’d like answered, that’s all. Would you consider meeting with me in town? I don’t want to cause you upset, but I’d like to ask you some more about Jimmy.’
‘What kind of questions? Are you suggesting I was involved in his death?’
‘What? No, not at all. That’s not what I meant.’ The thought had never occurred to me, but I wondered now if it should have. ‘I have questions about whether the fire was an accident. Until I figure out how he spent his time here, I can’t know if someone might’ve had cause to do him harm.’ I dropped another coin in the slot. ‘Please, ma’am.’
I heard her light a cigarette. ‘But I don’t know anything. I don’t see how I can be of any help to you.’
‘Then I’ll be out of your hair in ten minutes. Spare me that, at least.’
She took a drag. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Yates. I spent a lot of time raking over things for Jimmy, I don’t think I can put myself through that again.’
‘Wait. Just let me—’
‘I’m sorry. Goodbye.’ The line went dead.
I stared at the receiver, feeling uncertain. The conversation was one-sided – it felt as though I’d given up too much information without getting anything in return. Then I took a step back from it, realised I was being an ass. The woman didn’t know me from a hole in the ground, and I was asking her to dish about two dead people she knew. How else was she supposed to react?
I looked at the notebook in my hand again. The name she’d given me, Jeannie Runnels – a place to start, but something more than that: a wrong assumption. I turned back a page and looked at the recurring initials I’d jotted down from Robinson’s notes. J.R. – what I’d assumed to denote Jimmy Robinson, but could just as surely be Jeannie Runnels.
Both Dinsmore and Layfield had told me there were no open murders Robinson could have been investigating. I couldn’t see how they could both lie or make the same mistake, and it made me suspicious as hell.
*
The girl at the front desk of the Recorder didn’t recognise me from the day before, but she went to summon Dinsmore anyway. He showed no surprise when he came through the door and greeted me, and I wondered if he knew I’d be back. ‘More questions?’
‘I’ve got a name for you, maybe the murder my friend was working on.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Jeanette Runnels. Seems like she went by Jeannie, too.’
‘Runnels? Yeah, I remember that one. Strangled four or five months back.’ I felt my blood rising at the man’s barefaced cheek. I swallowed, tried to keep my temper in check and let him talk. ‘Horrible story. They found her in her bedroom – son of a bitch used her own nylons to garrotte her.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘Hell, what was the other girl’s name . . . ?’
‘What other girl?’
He held his hand up, gesturing to give him a minute, his head tilted back to the ceiling. I waited, fighting to keep a lid on my temper. ‘Bess something, like the president’s wife – some of her regulars called her the First Lady on account of it.’
‘“Regulars” – you’re talking about a working girl?’
He snapped his fingers. ‘Prescott, that’s it. Bess Prescott.’ He turned his gaze to me again. ‘Same thing happened to her about six weeks later. Strangled in her own home, the same perp. Police chalked it up to some manner of sex maniac.’
‘Was Jeannie Runnels a working girl as well?’
‘Sure. Right out of the gate, the cops figured they were looking for one of their Johns, someone they had in common, but you start turning over those stones in this town and a lot of folk get uncomfortable real fast. That’s why the police didn’t spend a whole heap of time investigating; that and the fact it was a couple dead whores, so who cares, right?’ I felt my fists clench up. He saw it and spread his hands. ‘I’m not saying that, you understand – just telling you what the prevailing thinking was.’
I closed my eyes, the picture coming clear now. Two dead working girls – embarrassment looming for anyone who’d paid for their services if the cops started knocking on doors. Family men with wives. Maybe men with influence. It was a bum deal for the dead women, but easier all around just to hush it up and move on. Made me sick to my stomach. I looked at him again. ‘Who was the third?’
‘The third what?’
It felt like he was still trying to stall me, my patience about shot now. ‘The third victim, Dinsmore. My friend told me before he died there were three murders.’
He looked puzzled. ‘That’s what I was going to ask you about. I remember you telling me that, but there were only two.’
I pointed at his chest. ‘Quit messing with me. Yesterday you said there weren’t any murders, now you’re telling me there’re only two – what game are you playing?’
He took a step back, a look of surprise on his face. ‘Hold on now, Jack. You’re the one told me your friend was investigating these murders.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Why didn’t you tell me—’
‘They got the man that did it.’ His face was red with exasperation, veins showing in his neck. ‘Why the hell was your friend investigating a case that was already solved?’