I found a lamp and when I switched it on Singer was kneeling beside the girl on the floor.
“She’s alive,” he said. “She’s been beaten.”
She had been beaten all right. Her face looked something like mine had after my session in the elevator at the Morris Hotel. Her dress had been ripped downward from the shoulders, and there were ugly blue bruises on her shoulders and above the one breast that was uncovered. It would be some time before she would be able to solicit paying business again.
We worked over her for a while with cold compresses and some smelling salts we found in the bathroom. There was a bottle of cheap whisky in the kitchen and I poured some of that into her mouth. She came around a little and opened one of her eyes.
“No—” she breathed—“no more!”
“You’re all right now,” I said and I guess she recognized my voice.
“You—make—me—sick,” she said.
I couldn’t hold it against her. She closed her eye and seemed to have fainted. I looked at Singer.
“We’ll have to take her to our room,” he said.
“She’ll need clothes.”
“See what you can find.” There was a small closet in the bedroom and I found a couple of dresses and some cheap lingerie on a shelf. I opened a scarred overnight bag and put the things in it. I gave the bag to Singer and picked Donna up and carried her out while he held the doors. She wasn’t any lightweight. By the time I got to the car I felt as if I’d been hauling timber.
We made her as comfortable as possible in the back seat and I drove back to the motor court. Singer called a doctor we found in the phone book and we spent about twenty minutes trying to make Donna comfortable again in one of the twin beds. Singer wasn’t enthusiastic about undressing her, but we had to get her out of the tight, twisted dress, which, besides the torn brassiere and her shoes and stockings, was all she had on. It took the doctor another twenty minutes to arrive and when he came he wasn’t happy. He walked in, yawning, needing a shave and when he saw the girl in the bed he said, “Where did this cat come from?”
“I’ll tell you the story,” Singer said, “if necessary. But it may take some time.”
“You better tell me,” the doctor said, “while I look her over.”
So we told him. He looked her over carefully and gave her a shot of something in the arm. When he got through he turned to Singer and said, “It’s the damnedest story I ever heard.” He looked at me. “This type of girl,” he said, “you don’t have to rape them, you know.”
“I didn’t,” I said.
He looked at my face for a while.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Make an examination. I didn’t lay a finger on her till I picked her up to bring over here.”
“Why did you bring her way over here instead of getting somebody to look at her over there?”
“It wasn’t a safe place to leave her.”
He didn’t like it because it wasn’t logical and simple all the way. But he was too sleepy to waste much time over it.
“All right,” he said, “but I’ll have to have your names in case she registers a complaint later.”
We gave him our names. They didn’t mean anything to him. When we told him where we were from he said, “How did a couple of country boys like you get mixed up in all this?”
“That story is indeed too long to tell,” Singer said. “How much do we owe you, doctor?”
“Ten dollars and don’t ask me to send you a bill. The girl will be all right. Just bruised. No internal injuries. Keep her quiet.”
“That ought to be easy,” I said.
“I hope so for your sake,” the doctor said and went out.
Singer sat down on the edge of the other bed and studied the girl’s swollen face. After a while he sighed, shook his head and stood up.
“I’m afraid she’ll sleep for several hours.”
“Good for her.”
“But I have work to do and I hate to leave her alone.”
“It’s two thirty a.m. now,” I said. “Knock off for a while. We could use the rest. Maybe she’ll wake up in a couple of hours.”
“That would be a good thing for you to do, Joe. Rest. You stay here and keep Miss Donna company while I pursue our next objective.”
“I don’t like to think of you running around the streets all alone.”
“I won’t be alone for long. My first stop will be Judge Hollander’s home. I’ll take a cab. I may spend the remainder of the night there. You will know where to reach me.”
“If you insist,” I said. “But I’m confused. I don’t know what we’re doing any more.”
“You’re tired. Get a little rest. I’ll explain what I know myself as soon as we have a few moments. Meanwhile, you might browse through the stories I’ve marked in these out of date but very interesting newspapers.”
He went into the bathroom to freshen up his face and a few minutes later he had gone out and got into the cab I’d called for him. I felt uneasy about it, but if he was going to Judge Hollander’s—I stripped down to my shorts, picked up the old newspapers and got in the other bed. Donna was sleeping peacefully on her back. She made a good sized mound under the bedclothes.
On one of the inside pages of the older paper Singer had marked a news story with a red pencil. The story was dated a little more than two years earlier and was headlined:
SENATOR CLYDE DEMANDS LIQUOR PROBE
It read as follows:
Senator Amos Clyde today announced that his Domestic Commerce Committee would launch an immediate investigation of the Beverage Control Board, following license suspensions of three liquor store proprietors on charges of operating gambling establishments on their premises.
The bookmaking rackets which have plagued law enforcement agencies in the past few months are now preying on the youth of the state, Senator Clyde added, saying that it was possible today for high school boys and girls to place bets in amounts as low as twenty five and fifty cents in any tavern or liquor store in the state.
“And not only that,” the Senator said, “but they can also buy liquor and mixed drinks practically anywhere. It is a disgraceful commentary on our law enforcement situation that these youngsters stand unprotected against the vicious and underhanded attacks by unprincipled liquor and gambling interests which are attaining a veritable stranglehold on our entire society. Vice is rampant; children—I say the merest infants—are encouraged in every conceivable way to abandon the basic moral habits instilled in them by their parents. My committee intends to get to the bottom of this disgraceful situation, regardless of what heads may roll in the administration.”
Questioned in press conference later in the day, Governor Lombard said Senator Clyde has his complete support and that the administration will cooperate in every possible way with the committee’s investigation.
That was all of that story and I picked up the other paper, dated three weeks later. This time it was very short and it was in the back pages.
CLYDE SHOWS SATISFACTION WITH PROBE RESULT
Senator Amos Clyde beamed today as the Alcoholic Beverage Control Board admitted to laxity in dismissing charges of illegal operation against three liquor store proprietors. The Board stated that following a re-check through its files it had decided that certain factors influencing their earlier decision were invalid. The decision was therefore reversed and the three licenses have been suspended indefinitely.
Senator Clyde said that having cleaned up the heart of the vice ring by these suspensions, the Beverage Control Board had satisfied his committee that it would continue to enforce liquor regulations and that the committee had no further plans for continuing its investigation.
I didn’t know whether Singer had expected me to figure out what the stories meant or not. All I could see was that the result of the “investigation” seemed kind of piddling compared with the amount of talk by Senator Clyde when it started.
I didn’t know anything about Senator Clyde except that he was a windbag and got his name in the papers practically every day. He was a great boy for solemn speeches about Motherhood—of which I approve—Home and Fireside—of which I approve—Teetotalism—in which I don’t see much sense but it’s all right for those who don’t have a taste for liquor.
I also knew, from reading more up to date papers, that Senator Clyde and Judge Hollander were the chief opponents in the reform party’s primary race for the governorship. Each headed one faction. Judge Hollander didn’t make much noise about it, but Senator Clyde had a lot to say. Every day.
I was too sleepy to carry it any further in my mind.
I left the bedside light on, lay back on the bed and the first thing I knew I was asleep.
* * * *
I don’t know what woke me. I noticed it was still dark outside and Donna was not in bed. By the time I’d decided to crawl out and look for her I heard her coming in from the bathroom. She hadn’t put anything on when she got up, probably because there hadn’t been anything handy, and I was courteous enough to close my eyes, playing possum. But I guess I wasn’t quick enough. She stopped at the foot of the bed and spoke to me and it seemed courteous at that time to open my eyes.
She made a complete turn, imitating a dress model.
“Go ahead, take a good look,” she said, “if it will help any.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You woke me up.”
She walked on around to the other bed and sat down on the edge of it, crossing her healthy looking, well-shaped legs.
“How did I get here?” she asked.
“We brought you here. Who beat you up?”
“Give me a cigarette,” she said.
I found one on the table and lit it for her.
“A guy I know,” she said. “He’s got a temper.”
“He doesn’t like you to go around picking up strange men?”
“He doesn’t mind that. He just doesn’t like it if he doesn’t get paid off on time.”
“He stirs up business for you?”
“He used to. Then it got so I wasn’t good enough for his classy trade. Senators and such.”
“Senators and such. How long have you been at it?”
She sighed.
“I knew the story of my life would get into it sooner or later. Go ahead. Ask me how I got started.”
“How did you get started?”
“I was a good girl once, mister. Honest I was. But it’s hard for a girl alone in the city—”
“Okay. I got the background. Skip the satire.”
There was a pause. When she spoke again her voice had changed.
“I don’t know whether you really care one way or the other or not, but I guess I’ll tell you about me. I haven’t told this story for a long time, so I might forget some of it.
“I was in the civil service. Stenographer. I was a good one too. Shorthand a hundred and thirty words a minute, typing one hundred… But I got in the wrong office and I got fired.”
“What office?”
“A law enforcement office.”
“So you got fired.”
“I made a mistake. A bad mistake.”
“Well—everybody makes mistakes.”
“Sure, but not like this one. I got fired and they fixed it so I wouldn’t get another job. Anywhere. At anything. Here or anywhere else.”
“For one mistake?”
“The mistake wasn’t mentioned in the record. They put down other things. Moral turpitude. Untrustworthy.”
“Why would they go to all that trouble?”
“They didn’t want me going to work anywhere else.”
“Didn’t you appeal it?”
“Oh yes. I got a hearing with the Civil Service Board and everything was all set. I was ready to tell all. But the night before the hearing, two guys walked into my room and gave me the same thing I got tonight, only worse. I was laid up for three weeks.”
She took a long drag on the cigarette and watched the smoke curl up over her head.
“Then what?”
“Then they let me lie around there till I got good and hungry. They had a man watch me all the time. I couldn’t even go to the toilet without taking him along. I got hungry all right. And then they let me out. And I couldn’t get a job. Not any kind of a job anywhere.”
“Why didn’t you go away somewhere?”
“I tried that too. I got a little way out of town hitchhiking but they came after me and brought me back.”
“You didn’t have even one friend you could turn to?”
“I had a girlfriend. But they wouldn’t let me get in touch with her. Later I found she’d left town. Who she was doesn’t matter. No sense dragging her into this.
“Then there was this big brother type, the one who knocked me around tonight. He was always hanging around. He finally came to my rescue. He had this rich old boy who’d tried about everything in the way of women and he said he could fix it up for me to entertain him. At the time I didn’t know what he was talking about. I don’t mean I was any innocent young virgin, but I didn’t have any idea what the specific deal was. The guy explained it to me and I got sore and started to throw things. He let me throw them till I was tired out, then he went away and locked me in.
“The hunger treatment finally did it. I called the big brother and said all right. It wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. It never was afterward either. But it was bad enough. I wound up exactly where they wanted me. After a year and a half in this racket, the lady vanishes.”
I raised myself on my elbows and stared at her.
“A year and a half?”
“That’s all. Oh—I’ve worked hard. Believe me. I made quite a lot of money for a while, too, but they got most of that away from me.”
“How old are you?”
“Guess.”
“Thirty.”
“Twenty four.”
I stared at her for a while and then I lay down again. “I wish you’d get back in bed,” I said. “You’ve had a hard night and you ought to rest. Besides, you make me nervous sitting there naked.”
“With this face? Relax.”
“You’d better go to sleep,” I said. “I’ll see what we can do for you in the morning.”
“You don’t believe it, do you? It sounds too true to be good. Don’t you want to hear the rest? The part about Joe Bartlett?”
“If you want to tell me.”
“I’m ready. I never told anybody before now but I might as well spill it some time. They’re about through with me now anyway. They know I’m finished.”
So she told me about Joe Bartlett, and this is the story she told.
* * * *
On a Christmas Eve, three years before the death of Dolly Spangler, the following episode occurred in the capital:
The proprietor of a small liquor store on the edge of the eighth precinct dragged himself to the eighth precinct police station and managed to rouse the desk sergeant who was indulging in a little Christmas cheer, along with a couple of plainclothesmen who worked out of that station. One of these men went to the door and when he opened it, the liquor dealer fell across the threshold, passed out, and the detective pulled him inside and shut the door. They gave him a shot of the whisky they were sharing and gradually he came around enough to say a few words.
He was Joe Bartlett and he had owned the store for twelve years, ever since repeal. Also he was a bloody mess. His head had been beaten out of shape and was a mass of soggy, blood striped flesh. His body bore heavy bruises. Most of his ribs were broken and later they found he’d had an internal hemorrhage. It took him half an hour to die, while the desk sergeant and the detectives watched and listened, and it took him that long to tell his story, which was a very simple story and not at all hard to understand. The cops had sent for a doctor right away but it was a bad night, everything was disorganized the way it is on Christmas Eve and by the time the doctor got there it was too late to do any good.
The liquor dealer told the cops that the night before he had been approached by two men who wanted to buy him out. They offered him two hundred and fifty dollars for his license (it was worth one thousand) and the value of his inventory at wholesale prices.
But he had been in business there for twelve years and knew what his license was worth, so he just laughed at them.
Then the two men told him that if he didn’t agree to sell on their terms, he would be forced out of business. The method used to accomplish this would be the simple one of cutting off his source of supply.
He laughed at them again, because he knew his distributor very well and had been buying from him for years. He told the two men that he wouldn’t sell, that it was time for him to close up and would they kindly leave so he could lock the doors.
They left.
The next day, Joe Bartlett called his distributor on the phone and told him the big joke about the two men threatening him. The distributor didn’t laugh.
“That’s true, Joe. I can’t sell you anymore.”
All of a sudden it wasn’t funny. Joe kept asking why the distributor had shut him off, and all the distributor would say was that he had orders from higher up. Joe had a suspicion about the identity of the “higher up” but he didn’t mention it. He told the distributor he would look for another source and the distributor said, “You can look, Joe, but you know it won’t do any good. Not in this state. All the stuff comes from one place.”
There was nothing mousy about Joe Bartlett. He left the shop in charge of his part time clerk, got out his car and drove to the head office of the man who controlled liquor distribution in our state, a man named Mitch Walker.
Mr. Walker wasn’t in. Joe waited two hours, then gave up and went back to his store. He was in a bad way. It was the day before Christmas and by the time he got back, his man had sold out most of the popular brands, quite a lot of the Scotches, and he needed more stock in a hurry. He called the distributor, who said there was nothing he could do.
Late in the afternoon, Joe gave up. He had sold out practically everything he had and was turning away regular customers at a rate that made him sick to his stomach. By seven thirty he had closed his doors and at ten o’clock he was in his back room, drinking coffee and brooding, when there was a knock on his back door. He opened it and this time three men came in. Two of them were the same couple that had called on him the night before. The third was the big shot, Mitch Walker, whom Joe recognized from pictures he’d seen around town.
Walker handed him a certified check for $250.00, took out another, blank, check and asked Joe how much he wanted for his inventory.
Joe’s stubborn streak had got stronger instead of weaker and he refused again to sell. When he asked why Mitch Walker wanted to buy a little store like his in a workingmen’s district, he didn’t get any answer. Walker asked him once more whether he wanted to sell out. Joe once more said no.
Walker took off his coat, carefully rolled up his sleeves, made a sign to his two henchmen. Before Joe knew what had happened, they had him tight between them, his coat jerked down and held so he couldn’t move his arms, and Walker went to work on him personally and effectively. He stopped every once in a while and repeated his question about selling. Joe said no the first two times and after that he might have said yes, only he couldn’t talk any more.
They went away after a while and Joe Bartlett managed to get out into the cold night. It was only a couple of blocks to the police station and he was afraid to try to drive the car, so he half walked, half crawled the two blocks and managed to tap loudly enough on the door for the detectives and the sergeant to hear him.
After he finished his story, the detectives and the sergeant looked at each other for a while. Pretty soon they went on with their drinking and then the doctor came and Joe Bartlett died on the floor.
Although the police in that station took no action, the desk sergeant—out of habit and because he didn’t know whether Joe Bartlett had spoken to anyone else too—made out a report. It was headed “Complaint” and it told Joe Bartlett’s story just about the way he had told it and it mentioned the fact that Bartlett claimed his attacker was Mitch Walker and that Joe Bartlett had died. The sergeant had not intended to do anything with the report except to put it away somewhere, to be pulled out later if the need arose. But he was too tight to be careful and he left the report on the desk, where the stenographer found it the next morning. She made a neat copy of it and wrapped it up with some other papers and mailed it to the Alcoholic Beverage Control Board, which was the proper place to send complaints from liquor store proprietors.
At the Alcoholic Beverage Control Board the document was filed away, with a number.
Donna’s voice stopped, but somehow the story seemed to keep going on and on through the silence.
“How did you come to know this story?” I asked.
“I was the stenographer in the police station that filed the report on Joe’s killing. It wasn’t a mistake. I knew they didn’t want it filed. But I had a reason. I was Joe Bartlett’s girlfriend.
“Joe Bartlett was a very nice guy.”
I had begun to get dressed. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching me. Dawn broke slowly, creeping in over the window sills and lighting the curtains little by little.
“What are you going to do?” she asked. “Why’d you want to know about Joe Bartlett?”
“In our town,” I said, “a girl got murdered. She was a lovely girl. Somebody strangled her. My friend and I are trying to find out who and why. My friend’s name is Singer Batts.”
“What was the girl’s name—the one who got killed?”
“Dolly Spangler,” I said. “I don’t know what Joe Bartlett had to do with it, but we traced this thing to his name from a little piece of paper with Dolly’s name and a number on it. A file number.”
“Yes?”
“Yeah.” I found my hat. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you at first. You’re all right.”
She sat there looking up at me for a long minute. Then she reached for the bedclothes.
“Suddenly,” she said, “I feel very conspicuous. Look the other way.”
I did and when I looked back she was in bed, covered to the chin.
“I’ve got to find Singer Batts,” I said. “Know how to use a gun?”
“A little. I used to practice on the police range.”
I gave her my gun.
“We have no reason to expect visitors,” I said. “Anybody tries to come in, let ’em have it.”
“Anything you say,” she said. “Only I’ll probably be asleep.”
“Pleasant dreams,” I said.
I went outside and got in the car and headed for Judge Hollander’s place on Lincoln Boulevard.