“How do you know? And, anyway-ever occur to you that that smile cut in her face might mean something nonsexual?”
The hooded eyes blinked. “Explain.”
I shrugged. “Back in Chicago, a corpse dumped with its mouth gashed, we’d read that as somebody who got rubbed out for talking too much… and left as an example.”
Now his eyes were wide; they stayed that way for a while. Then he said, as if bored to tears, “Interesting… You know, I really do respect you as a detective, Nate-these insights, I appreciate them.”
I couldn’t detect any sarcasm in that; but maybe I just wasn’t a good enough detective to do so.
He touched his hat brim in a tip-the-hat gesture and said, “Don’t forget to make that phone call to your friend Mr. Ness for me, now, hear?”
“Sure. I’ll call you.”
“I wish you would. I may have my hands full.”
He was just about to amble back to his partner when Fowley’s blue Ford rolled in. The little reporter in the tight hat and loose suit parked in the street and came over and grinned at Hansen.
“Not surprised to see you, here, Harry,” Fowley said. “This is gonna be a big one.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. Richardson approved an extra.”
Hansen frowned. “You’re putting out an extra edition on a simple homicide?”
“You saw her-this is one homicide that ain’t simple. We’re gonna run with this, Harry… Don’t tell me you’d mind seein’ that popular feature ‘Mr. Homicide’ in the papers again?”
The Hat thought about that, just momentarily, and then stepped away from us and-in an uncharacteristic move from someone so softspoken-called out in a booming voice, “Would the members of the press mind converging? Thank you, gentlemen… thank you, Aggie…”
About a dozen representatives of the press-reporters and photographers-gathered around the Hat, the tired eyes in his hound-dog countenance almost shut as he made an announcement.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” the Hat said. “I wanted to inform you of two facts. First, you’re all about to leave this crime scene; I don’t want the crime lab to have to conduct their investigation with you good people peeking over their shoulders, or making further contributions of flashbulbs and cigarette butts…”
A general rumbling of discontent passed through the little crowd.
“How are we supposed to get our information, Harry?” Aggie demanded.
“Through me,” the Hat said. “Exclusively through me. And if any of you attempt to go over my head, and get it from my boss, Captain Donahoe, or from the Chief himself, as some of you have been known to do… well then, I promise you, I will cut you off from any future information on this or any case… Good afternoon.”
The reporters dispersed, grumbling as they went; me, I was happy to be climbing into the Ford with Fowley behind the wheel.
“What took you so long, you prick?” I demanded.
He just grinned at me, a happy bulldog. “When I called Richardson, he told me to get the hell in and develop those negatives. That’s a switch, huh? Heller pictures in the paper, and no Heller in the pictures!”
That was just how I wanted it.
“You guys are really going with an extra on this?” I asked him, as he swung his car around, giving me a view of Lieutenant Haskins and a patrolman taking apart newspapers and covering the halved corpse.
“You bet your lily-white ass,” Fowley said. “The Examiner ’s gonna be all over this baby.”
I looked at the overlapping peaks of newsprint, covering her entirely, except for red-painted toenails-like Peggy’s-sticking out from under the pages.
“You already are,” I said.
4
Elizabeth Short-who I knew as Beth-had come into my life the previous October. I would be lying if I said she meant much more to me than any number of showgirls, waitresses, and secretaries with whom I’d had short-lived affairs. Beth was memorable chiefly because she resembled Peggy Hogan; otherwise, she was just another pretty young starry-eyed thing filled with dreams but no real plans.
As I attempt to share my memories of this ill-fated girl, please keep in mind that the several months prior to Peggy and me reconciling (and marrying) are something of a blur. Like many a spurned lover, I wallowed in self-pity, and when I got sick of that, I would turn to a bottle, and drink myself into a stupor.
Even my work, which I always relished, had become a mind-numbing bore. Due to extensive Chicago press coverage of my roles in such high-profile cases as the Lindbergh kidnapping, the Cermak assassination, and the Sir Harry Oakes murder, I had acquired a certain minor celebrity. This made it advisable for me to take initial meetings with clients-who sometimes wanted an autograph, and always wanted an assurance that the president of the A-1, Nathan Heller himself, would be handling their oh-so-vital retail-credit-check/divorce-case/personnel investigation, personally.
So I took these meetings, and my half a dozen operatives did the work. Most of them were, like me, ex-Chicago cops; the senior man was Lou Sapperstein, who took on the more challenging, which is to say rewarding and interesting, jobs.
Closing in on sixty, Lou-with bald pate, graying temples, bowtie, and tortoiseshell eyeglasses-looked more like an accountant than a private cop. Useful in shadow jobs, his appearance was deceiving: he was one lean, hard op, and little slipped past him-including my state of mind and lackluster performance.
“This finnan haddie has more color than you,” Lou said, pointing to his plate.
We were having lunch at Binyon’s, a dark-paneled businessman’s bastion just around the corner from our offices at Plymouth and Van Buren.
I said, not really giving a shit, “What’s your point, Lou?”
Shifting in the hard booth, Lou flinched facially and said, “Every day you come in hungover, half the time you forgot to shave, you fall asleep on your couch, you barely stay awake through client conferences, and look at you, a guy who’s never really been much of a tippler, drinking your damn lunch.”
I shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry. And this is only my second one.”
By that, I meant rum and Coke.
He pointed his fork at me. “Maybe you need to get back out in the field. Get back to some investigative work.”
“Fine. Something lively comes in, I’ll take it on myself.”
“Do I dare let you? Better you fall asleep in the office than on surveillance, or the middle of an interrogation. Has your malaria kicked back in or something?”
I sipped my lunch.
“Listen, Nate, we’ve known each other for a long time… but I’m not a hired hand now.”
A while back, I had given Lou a percentage of the business-not a big one, just a taste, to repay him, and motivate him, so he didn’t get stolen away by the Hargraves Agency, or go out on his own.
“You’re also not my boss,” I said. “And it’s been a long time since you were.”
That he’d been my boss on the pickpocket detail had long been a source of friendly kidding between us, but my remark came out sounding not all that friendly.
“I’m also not your conscience, Nate, or your fairy fuckin’ godmother… but I would say you need to get over this.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about Jim Ragen’s niece. I’m talking about Peggy Hogan.”
I just looked at him.
He glanced away, embarrassed. “I know. I know. I’m way out of bounds. Your personal life is nobody’s business but yours… Forget it. Forget I said anything.”
He had a bite of his fish; then he had another.
I swirled my drink and looked into its blackness. Without looking up, I said, “What do you suggest I do?”
“Are you asking?”
“What, you want me to ask twice? If you think my… if you think I’m adversely affecting the business by my, I don’t know, fuck, attitude… go ahead. Tell me what to do.”
He thought about that for a second.
“I never thought I’d hear myself have to say this,” he said, “considering you’re just about the randiest son of a bitch I ever knew… but, Nate, really, truly-you need to get laid.”