Jail Bait

The manager said, “Suppose you give me your names, folks, in case anything comes up.” He waved the waiter away and wrote down their names and addresses. He thanked them again and left.

In the parking lot Howard said dryly, “Was that enough excitement for a dull evening?”

“Howard, it isn’t that it’s dull being with you.”

“It’s just that nothing ever happens. I know.”

“We can’t talk about it, I guess.”

“I guess we can’t.”

He drove her back to her apartment in moody silence. She sat as far from him as she could. He parked in front and walked her to the outside door, took her key and opened it for her, held it open.

“Thank you, Howard.”

“Be a hypocrite and say it was a lovely evening.”

“Please don’t say things like that.”

“When will I see you again?”

She looked up at him. “Let me have a month, Howard.”

His mouth hardened. “Take a month. Take two.” He grabbed her roughly there under the lights and forced his mouth down on hers. It took her breath away. He released her. She opened her eyes. She stood on trembling legs and watched him walk quickly to the car, slam himself in and roar away.

The small elevator climbed sadly up through the sleeping building. She tiptoed down the hall and let herself in. Usually the small apartment felt crowded. Her roommate was a rawboned brunette named Betty Alford. Betty had been away for a week and would be gone for at least another three. Her kid sister was having a second baby and Betty had gone down to Wilmington to keep house for her. And somehow with her gone, the place seemed dreadfully big.

Sunday was a dreary day of rain, low clouds, traffic hissing on wet streets, lights on in the apartment. She did her hair and her nails, altered a skirt, wrote two letters, paced restlessly, and finally curled up in the big chair in her lime-green corduroy robe, cigarettes at hand, Sunday paper discarded, looking through a haze of boredom at the frantic efforts of a television comedian.

She was half asleep when the buzzer sounded. She pushed the button that unlocked the inner front door, hooked the night chain with automatic caution and stood, leaning against the wall, yawning.

When there was an authoritative knock on the door she opened it a few inches and looked out at the two men who stood there. The older one, dumpy, with a face like putty, stared at her out of dull, colorless little eyes. The younger one was tall. He had a weather-reddened face, flame-orange hair. He was almost grotesquely ugly. A sharp snowplow chin jutted up, and a beaked nose curved down. Both men were drably dressed.

“Miss Bayliss?” the redhead said. “We’re police officers, miss. I’m Detective Sergeant Sam Dolan. Can we see you a minute?”

She closed the door, unhooked the chain and let them in. The redhead beamed. “Take off your hat, Moe. Joe Friday always takes off his hat.”

“Funny man,” Moe said. He sat down in the big chair and put his hat on his knee and watched the television show.

“What’s this all about?” Jane asked.

The banter was gone. The blue eyes were quick. “A woman phoned in at daylight this morning and said as how there was a body in her yard, that she found it when she was setting out for early Mass. We went over there. She lives practically under the new Expressway Bridge. You know, it’s got those places where you can pull over out of traffic if your car quits. If they’d tossed him over the railing a hundred feet further along, he’d be floating down the river right now. But instead he lands in her yard and some fancy knife work has been done on him. He’s wearing clothes from the West Coast. His wallet is gone. No keys, no address. Nothing. In the side pocket of his coat we find a book of matches. Fingers are stained and two matches gone. They’re from the Taffeta Room.”

“That’s where we—”

“I know. You and your boy friend, Saddler, last night. We got the manager out of the sack and he went down and opened up and got your addresses for us. He gave us the waiter’s address and the doorman’s, too. By then we had glossy prints of the body. The manager didn’t recognize the picture. The waiter thinks the picture is of one of the two men. He gave us a meager description of the other one.”

“One was taller and—”

“Take a look at these.” Dolan took out two glossy prints. They were of the man’s head. Death had ironed the face to a ritual blankness. She shut her eyes and saw in memory the man’s quick backward look at the roomful of people. She shivered and handed the pictures back.

“That was the man.”

“Would you mind coming along to look at the body to make doubly certain?”

She swallowed hard. “I guess I wouldn’t mind.”

“Now try to remember as clearly as you can. Take your time. What did the other man look like?”

“Shorter. Heavier through the shoulders. Broader. He made the tall one look frail. They both wore dark suits. They both had dark hair.”

“Would you recognize the other one?”

“I never did look directly at him.”

“Your boy friend is going to be the best bet.”

“Yes, Howard looked right at them.”