1945 - Blonde's Requiem (3 page)

* * *

The Cranville Gazette was on the fourth floor of a dilapidated building sandwiched between a large cut-rate emporium and a drugstore. The small, dark lobby was dirty and harboured the stale smell of bodies and tobacco smoke. The lift wasn
’
t working so I climbed the four flights of stairs.

I wandered around the fourth floor until I came to a door lettered in flaked black paint on pebbled glass: Cranville Gazette.

I turned the knob and went into a small, narrow room with two windows, a battered typewriter desk, a number of filing cases and a threadbare carpet.

A woman turned from the window and looked at me without much interest.

She was forty, thin, frowzy and full of vinegar.

“
The editor in?
”
I said, tipping my hat and trying to look more pleased to see her than she did to see me.

“
Who is it?
”
she asked in a way that told me the editor didn
’
t have many visitors.

“
The name
’
s Spewack,
”
I said.
“
And I
’
m not here to sell him anything or to waste his time.
”

She opened a door which I hadn
’
t noticed before at the far end of the room.

She shut the door behind her.

I leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. I decided for an editorial office this was pretty punk. The newspaper, I thought, was a worthy representative of the town.

The woman came back.
“
Mr. Dixon will spare you a few minutes.
”
I walked down the narrow room, smiled at her and entered the inner room.

If anything, it was more dreary than the outer office. In a swivel chair at the desk sat an elderly number in a blue serge suit which looked like it had been nickel-plated. A pale-grey bald patch loomed high up in the middle of stringy white hair.

He had sharp blue-green eyes and his beaky nose looked as if it had hung over a lot of quick ones in his time.

“
Mr. Spewack?
”
he said in a fruity baritone.

I nodded.

“
Take a chair, Mr. Spewack.
”
He waved a fat hairy hand at the chair across the desk.
“
I
’
m always glad to meet a visitor to our little town.
”
He paused and stared at me with a calculating expression in his eyes.
“
You are a visitor, I suppose?
”

I sat down.
“
More or less,
”
I said, hitching the chair a little nearer to his desk.
“
Before I tell you my business, I
’
d like to ask you a question.
”

He dug his little finger in his ear and worked it around for a while. Then he pulled it out, examined his nail and wiped it on his trouser-leg.
“
Anything you like,
”
he said, smiling. His bridgework was ill fitting and yellow and the smile didn
’
t reach his eyes.

“
Do you care who becomes mayor of this town?
”
I asked, shooting it out fast.

He hadn
’
t expected that. He closed his eyes quickly and huddled into his clothes like a startled tortoise.
“
Now I wonder why you should ask that,
”
he said, after a pause.

“
Couldn
’
t you say yes or no in a nice straightforward manner?
”
I said, tapping ash on the threadbare carpet.

He looked at me sharply and considered this.
“
I suppose so,
”
he said cautiously.
“
But I don
’
t see why I should. I don
’
t discuss politics with strangers, Mr. Spewack.
”

We eyed each other.
“
You don
’
t have to make me a stranger,
”
I said.
“
If you put your cards on the table, we might see a lot of each other.
”

He considered this too, then he suddenly laughed. It was a harsh sound like the bark of a hyena.
“
You
’
re a character, sir,
”
he said, washing his hands over the blotter.
“
Why shouldn
’
t you know a little thing like that? Very well, then, let me, as you suggest, put my cards on the table. There is very little to choose between Mr. Wolf and Mr. Starkey as mayors. Mr. Esslinger, however, would be better. Taken by and large, it wouldn
’
t greatly matter to me who got in. I am able to regard the election as an unprejudiced spectator.
”

“
That
’
s fair enough,
”
I said, taking out my identity card. I handed it to him.

He examined it with genuine interest. After he had been over it long enough to learn the contents by heart, he handed it back.
“
A very interesting little document,
”
he said, and again dug his finger in his ear.
“
I guessed you were the detective from New York the moment I saw you.
”

I was watching him closely to see if he was going to turn hostile, but his expression didn
’
t change.

“
You might be able to help me,
”
I said, putting the identity card back in my pocket.

“
I might,
”
Dixon returned, tapping on the dirty ink-stained blotter.
“
But I don
’
t see why I should. I
’
m not helping anyone else, Mr. Spewack.
”

I smiled at him.
“
Maybe they don
’
t need your help,
”
I returned.
“
All want is a little inside information about Cranville. I
’
m authorized to pay for all information.
”

He closed his eyes, but not before I saw interest and greed jump into them.

“
Very interesting,
”
he muttered under his breath.
“
Now I wonder what kind of information you
’
d want.
”

“
I understand Chief of Police Macey wants Rube Starkey to become mayor. Can you tell me why?
”

He pulled at his beaky nose and turned this over very thoughtfully.
“
I wouldn
’
t like to give you my personal opinion, but I don
’
t mind giving you the opinion of the town . . . if that
’
s any use to you.
”

“
Go ahead,
”
I said, knowing that it
’
d be his opinion anyway.

“
The trouble with Cranville,
”
he began, folding his hands on the blotter and looking at me with shrewd, sly eyes,
“
is this. For the past twenty years all the mayors have been elected on a reform ticket. Cranville has been so reformed that there
’
re no real opportunities to circulate money. The working man, Mr. Spencer has to be encouraged to spend his spare money if a town is to flourish. It is a lamentable fact that unless the methods of encouragement are of a questionable nature, big profits are limited.

“
Twenty years ago, Cranville had four gambling-houses, a racetrack, two excellent nightclubs and even a little organised vice. People spent their money, enjoyed themselves, and the town flourished. All these places have been closed down. It makes a big difference
”

He picked up a pencil and began to draw a cube on the blotting paper.

“
Macey wants Starkey to become Mayor because he
’
ll promote the kinds of entertainment that will be lucrative to Macey. Macey wishes to reopen the gambling-houses , nightclubs and even the racetrack. Starkey has had a lot of experience and could easily do it
”

He finished drawing his cube and began rolling the pencil under his hand across the blotter.
“
Macey isn
’
t a very good policeman, but he is an excellent business man.
”

“
If Starkey gains control, Cranville may be in for a life of crime, is that it?
”
I made a sound like I didn
’
t care one way or the other.

“
Very likely, Mr. Spewack. I should say it was very likely.
”
He smiles at me.

“
Only don
’
t quote me. I would not like everyone to know my views ...not just now anyway.
”

“
Suppose Esslinger got in?
”

“
Well, Esslinger
’
s a different proposition. I think things might improve. I don
’
t know, of course. He is a little too anti-capitalist to be really comfortable in Cranville, but he is a very sincere man.
”

“
Tell me about him,
”
I invited.

Dixon leaned back in his chair and placed his fingertips together.
“
Now let me see,
”
he said, frowning at the dirty ceiling,
“
He came to Cranville thirty years ago. He was assistant at Morley
’
s Funeral Parlor for some time, and when Mr. Morley died he took over the business. He was and still is a hard, painstaking worker and has done a lot of good for the town. He is liked and trusted. You will like him Mr. Spewack, although you may not like his wife.
”
He glanced out of the window and shook his head.
“
A very strong-minded woman. It has always puzzled me why Esslinger ever married her.
”
He lowered his voice.

“
She drinks.
”

I grunted.

“
Then there
’
s his son,
”
Dixon went on.
“
An excellent fellow. Takes after his father in every way. Clever, full of brains. Studying medicine and, I imagine, has a brilliant career in front of him.
”
He dug his finger in his ear again.
“
His mother dotes on him. She has no other interest, except, of course, the bottle.
”
He shook his head at the tiny bit of wax he had levered out of his ear.

“
Has he any money?
”
I asked.

Dixon pursed his lips.
“
Esslinger? Depends on what you call money. He has a very nice little business. People die. In fact a lot of people die in Cranville. It isn
’
t what you would call a healthy town.
”
He looked at me with a sly smirk.
“
At least not for everyone.
”

“
I
’
ve gathered that,
”
I said dryly.
“
But I don
’
t scare easily.
”

We eyed each other and then I fished out a packet of Camels and tossed him one.
“
What do you think
’
s to those girls who
’
ve disappeared?
”
I asked lighting up.

“
What I think and what I print in y paper are two different things,
”
he said cautiously.
“
I have a young man who works for me, covering the local news. He is a sensationalist. It was he who convinced me that the mass-killer theory would increase our circulation.
”
He showed his yellow teeth in a foxy smile.
“
He was right, Mr. Spewack; it has.
”

“
But you don
’
t believe it?
”

He shook his head.
“
I don
’
t.
”