The Patrolman - 17

 

 

17.

 

 

 

Agnes Underwood was older than he figured she'd be – around Mr. Slate's age. The reporter slid onto the bench next to him, across from the water fountain in Pershing Square. She looked at ease. 'What've you got for me?'

'Pictures,' he said.

She started rummaging through her bag, a brown suede thing shaped like an eye. 'Who of?' She took a tin of lemon pastilles out, popped one in her mouth, and pushed it his way.

'Mrs. Underwood --'

'One moment,' she said, producing a manilla folder. He slipped the negatives inside and she returned it to her bag without looking. 'You know the Herald-Express ain't some scandal sheet? I'm a crime reporter, not some two-bit gossip hound.'

'What you got there is proof of a crime - underage girls.'

She stopped sucking on the candy and gave him a long hard look. 'How'd you find me?'

'I bought a paper, it wasn't hard.'

She laughed. 'Tell that to the PR hacks calling the desk every morning.'

Mr. Slate watched a father and daughter play with a model airplane. It rose about a foot before nosediving back down into the grass. He almost smiled.

'William Barclay Jr.'s in those pictures,' he said.

'What do you want for them?'

'Nothing.'

'Sure,' she said. 'Where'd you get them?'

'His house. Last night. Guy's got a scrapbook.'

'Do you know who the girls are?'

He wanted to look convincing so he looked straight at her. 'No, I don't,' he said. 'Run the story or don't.'

She shook the tin of pastilles at him. He took one. 'You know his father wants to buy the Herald-Express?'

'Does it matter?' he said. 'I thought you people were after stories.' He stood up and smoothed down his pants leg. 'You got 24 hours. After that, I'm taking it to the Times.' He tipped his hat. 'Mrs. Underwood.' Then he turned and walked back through the tree-lined park to his car.

    

 

He parked and walked to the front of his apartment house on Yucca Street.  

A news van pulled away. The kid hawking newspapers on the corner was doing his 'extra, extra' spiel. Mr. Slate paid him a nickel, took a copy of the Tribune, and went through the lobby.

The desk jockey stopped flicking through the funnies. A dead cigar hung from his mouth. Bug-eyeing him.

Nothing in his pigeonhole. He rode the service elevator up. It was a creaking, rattling monster out of the last century.

He opened the blackout curtains and morning light poured into his kitchen. Traffic groaned below. He filled the coffee pot and set it on the stove. While waiting for the whistle, he folded open the paper. The headline screamed: "Zoot-Suit Strangler Strikes Again". The story had a four-inch column about a girl found near the Farmer's Market, with more details on page 4. He flipped the pages and saw the other girl from the party. Her friend. The coffee pot boiled over. He snapped out of it, poured two cups with cream and sugar, and carried them into the bedroom. The paper under his arm. The girl was sitting up, her face white as chalk, staring at nothing. He set the cups down on the table.

'Drink.'

She took one in her hands, trembling. 'Where am I?'

'You're safe,' he said, sitting on the end of the bed. She sipped, then asked for a smoke. He took one from her pack, put it in his mouth, lit it, and handed it to her. 'What do you remember?'

She took a pull of it and spluttered. She didn't smoke. 'I was at the house.'

'Whose house?'

'Willy's,' she said.

'Then?'

She looked down into the coffee cup as if the answer to what she should say next was lying at the bottom. 'Don't worry, mister. I won't tell nobody.'

'There's a problem.'

The big brown eyes met his.

'The girl you were with,' he began. He didn't know how to explain it. So he showed her the newspaper.

She didn't react. Not at first. Whatever she was feeling, she choked it down. 'Carm is my... was my roommate. She brought me over to the house.'

'Bring anything with you? A handbag? Money?'

The girl shook her head. 'We took a cab. His man footed the bill. At first, I figured Willy was her fella. The money he spent on her, the flowers, the gifts. She was using him. Then she got strung out on the brown powder. Not before she turned me onto it.'

'Think, is there anything in that house linking you to her? Anything to make the cops come looking?'

'I don't think so, my stuff's back at my apartment.' Then she trailed off.

'What?'

'There's... I don't know how to say it.'

'Say it as you mean.'

'Carm stole a book. It had pictures in it. Girls younger than us. Then this guy started coming around, a photographer.'

Now for the kicker.

'They were gonna rip Willy off. Take him for $500 but...'

He knew what was coming.

'... She didn't trust him, so she made copies,' the girl said. 'And I'm in the pictures.'

 

© J. A. Stapleton 2025 - Image Source: Wikimedia Commons