Seven years was a long time to be sick. But it was all over now. The disease had burned itself out, and she was going to get well...
Dead-End for Delia
by William Campbell Gault
Cops, like surgeons, should stay away from family cases — but Pat knew he alone could even the score for his murdered Delia.
The only light in the alley came from the high, open windows of the faded dancehall bordering its east length. From these same windows the clean melody of a tenor sax cut through the murky air of the alley. There was nothing else around that was clean.
The warehouse running the west border of the alley was of grimy red brick, the alley itself littered with paper and trash, cans and bottles. It was a dead-end alley, no longer used.
The beat officer was at its mouth, keeping the small crowd back, and now the police ambulance came from the west, its siren dying in a slow wail.
The beat officer said, “Better swing out and back in. Sergeant Kelley with you?”
“No. Why?” The driver was frowning.
“It’s his wife,” the beat officer said. “She really got worked over.”
“Dead?”
“Just died, two minutes ago. How she lived that long is a wonder.”
The driver shook his head, and swung out to back into the mouth of the alley.
From the west again, a red light swung back and forth, and the scream of a high speed siren pierced the night. The prowl car was making time. It cut over to the wrong side of the street and skidded for fifteen feet before stopping at the curb.
The man opposite the driver had the door open before the car came to rest, and he was approaching the beat patrolman while the driver killed the motor.
“Barnes? I’m Kelley. My wife—?”
“Dead, Sergeant. Two minutes ago.”
Sergeant Kelley was a tall man with a thin, lined face and dark brown eyes. He stood there a moment, saying nothing, thinking of Delia, only half hearing the trumpet that was now taking a ride at Dreamland, the Home of Name Bands.
Delia, who was only twenty-three to his thirty-seven, Delia who loved to dance, Delia of the fair hair and sharp tongue — was now dead. And that was her dirge, that trumpet taking a ride.
He shook his head and felt the trembling start in his hands. He took a step toward the other end of the alley, and the patrolman put a hand on his arm.
“Sergeant, I wouldn’t. It’s nothing to see. Unless you’re a Homicide man, it’s nothing you’d — Sergeant, don’t.”
Sergeant Kelley shook off the hand and continued down the alley.
Dick Callender of Homicide was talking to the M.E. He turned at the sound of Kelley’s footsteps.
Dick said, “It’s nothing to see, Pat.”
Pat Kelley didn’t answer him. There was enough light from the dance hall for him to see the bloody face of his wife and the matted hair above it. He hadn’t seen her for four months.
Then he looked at Callender. “She say anything, Dick?”
“Just — Tell Pat I’m sorry. Tell Pat Lois will know. Make sense to you; the second sentence, I mean?”
“None,” Pat lied. The band was playing a waltz, now.
Callender said, “We’ll give it a lot of time. Homicide will shoot the works on this one.”
Pat looked at him and used his title, now. “I want a transfer, Lieutenant. To Homicide.” His voice was very quiet. “You can fix it.”
A piece of dirty newspaper fluttered by, stirred by the night breeze. The white-coated men were laying the stretcher alongside the body.
Callender said, “We’ve got a lot of good men in Homicide, Pat.” He didn’t say, And we want our suspects brought in alive.
But Pat could guess he was thinking it. He said, “She left me, four months ago. I’m not going to go crazy on it, but I’d like the transfer.”
“We’ll see, Pat.” The lieutenant put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on. I’ll ride back to headquarters with you.”
They went in the lieutenant’s wagon. About halfway there, Pat said, “It could have been one of those — pick-up deals, some mugg out of nowhere who’ll go back to where he came from.” Shame burned in him, but he had to get the words out.
Callender didn’t look at him. “I’ve got Adams and Prokowski checking the dancehall. They’re hard workers, good men.”
Pat said nothing.
Callender went on, quietly, “There must be some angle you’ve got on it. Your wife must have thought you knew this — this Lois, or she wouldn’t have mentioned it. She didn’t have enough words left to waste any of them on some trivial matter.”
“My wife knew a lot of people I didn’t,” Pat said. “My statement will include everything I know, Lieutenant. Have her sent to the Boone Mortuary on Seventh Street, will you? I’ll talk to her mother tonight.”
“She — was living with her mother, Pat?”
“No. I don’t know where she’s been living these past four months. But it wasn’t with her mother. I wish to God it had been, now.”
They made the rest of the trip in silence.
It was a little before midnight when Sergeant Pat Kelley, of the pawn shop and hotel detail, climbed the worn stairs of the four-story building on Vine. The place was quiet; these were working people and they got to bed early.
Mrs. Revolt lived on the third floor, in two rooms overlooking the littered back yard and the parking lot beyond. Pat knocked and waited.
There was the sound of a turning key, and then Mrs. Revolt opened the door. Her lined, weary face was composed, but her eyes quickened in sudden alarm at the sight of Pat.
“Pat, what is it?”
“I’d better come in,” he said. “It’s Delia, Mrs. Revolt. Something’s happened...”
She pulled her wrapper tightly around her, as though to stiffen her body against his words. “Come in, come in. But what—? Pat, she’s not — it’s not—”
He came into the dimly lighted room with the rumpled studio couch, the gate-leg table with the brass lamp, the worn wicker chairs, the faded, dull brown rug. In this room, Delia Revolt had grown from an infant to the beauty of the block. In this room, Papa Revolt had died, and Pat had courted the Revolt miracle.
“Sit down, Mrs. Revolt,” Pat said now.
She sat down in the wicker rocker. “She’s dead, I know. She’s dead. My Delia, oh Lord, she’s dead.” She rocked, then, back and forth, her eyes closed, her lips moving, no decipherable words coming out.
Pat sat on the wicker lounge. “She was found in an — she was found near the Dreamland dancehall. She’s dead. There’ll be detectives coming to see you; other detectives, Mrs. Revolt.”
Her eyes opened, and she stopped rocking. “Murdered — Delia? It wasn’t an accident? Murdered — Delia?”
He nodded. Her eyes closed again, and a strangled sound came from her tight throat, and she toppled sideways in the chair.
Pat got to her before she hit the floor. He put her on the studio couch, and was waiting with a glass of water when her eyes opened again.
Her voice was a whisper. “How did it happen?”
“She was hit with something blunt, concussion. Nobody knows anything else. But there’s something I wanted you to know.”
Fear in her eyes, now. She said nothing.
“Before she died, Delia mentioned a name. It was Lois. I told the officer in charge the name meant nothing to me. I told him I didn’t know any Lois.”
The frightened eyes moved around Pat’s face. “Why did you say that?”
“Because they’re going after this one. She’s a cop’s wife and they won’t be pulling any punches. This man in charge, Callender, can be awful rough. I’d rather talk to Lois, myself.”