Little Sister (Black Gat Books Book 27) by Robert Martin

Author:Robert Martin [Martin, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mysteries & Detective, Thriller & Suspense, Hard-Boiled
ISBN: 9781951473075
Publisher: Stark House Press
Published: 2020-08-04T12:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

I didn’t spend much time in the pitiful little space that the brunette named Blanche had called her “apartment.” The bed was at one end of the small room, with a table, a lamp, and a couple of chairs at the other. A closet had been converted into a kitchen nook, and in it there was a small gas burner, a battered ice chest, and a tiny sink with a single water tap. I figured the bath, if there was a bath, was down the hall. A meager supply of clothing hung on hooks behind a suspended sheet in a corner. Everything was clean and tidy.

I opened the worn suede purse. A green imitation leather wallet contained two one-dollar bills, eighty-nine cents in change, and a Social Security card bearing the name of Blanche Dorinda Swickert. The purse also contained a fresh package of cigarettes, matches, a soiled handkerchief, three sticks of peppermint chewing gum, and a letter still in its torn-open envelope. It was postmarked at East Branch, Michigan, and the date was a month old. I took out the single ruled sheet and glanced at the wavering penciled words: “Dear Daughter, I wish you would come home. Your pa had a stroke a week ago Wednesday. He is in bed night and day and can’t move. I have to feed him. Your brother Donald was drafted. He is in a camp in new jersey. Loretta has a Baby Boy. You would think Ralph would be happy and proud but he just gets drunk. It is terrible. Your pa is a awful care. I need you.…”

I stopped reading, carefully placed the letter back in the envelope, and closed the purse. I left then, without looking again at what was on the bed, and quietly closed the door. I took the bag of groceries and the fifth of rye whisky. Blanche Dorinda Swickert wouldn’t need them now. At a drugstore booth I called the nearest precinct station. It wasn’t necessary, but I hated to think of Blanche Dorinda Swickert lying in a small closed room for maybe a couple of days during a hot week in August. I gave the name and address to the cop who answered, and hung up. I left right away, because I knew they’d try to trace the call, and I didn’t want to be bothered with a lot of questions. Not now. There were things I wanted to do before the sun went down, and the day was waning. I could explain to Navarre later.

I drove clear to the lake shore before I stopped and hunted up a phone booth in a bus terminal. When I was inside with the door closed I took from my pocket the page I’d torn from the pad in Allan Frederick Keeler’s apartment with the notation “Un 4000 (S.L.).” I dialed University 4000. I didn’t have any particular reason—it was just one of those things you do when you’ve been in the business a long time. It

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