Death Checks In

by David S. Pederson

  “Well, he did use it as a changing room for his clients, and apparently he did photography back there as well. I imagine there would be quite a few prints.”

  “Right. Too many to make any sense out of.”

  “Okay.”

  “Look, Barrington, I’m pretty confident this was just a random murder, a robbery gone bad, but I’m willing to explore possible suspects, motives, and opportunities and look at any clues you happen to find, if you find any. And if you do find anything, you turn it over to me, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, but I don’t think you will turn anything up.”

  “Because you’ve already looked?” I asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Sounds like you have it all under control, then, so this won’t take me long at all. Open the door.”

  He unlocked the door and the three of us went in, Alan flipping the overhead light switch next to the door. I pushed my hat back on my head and surveyed the room. Everything was as it had been last night, except for the chalk outline where Blount’s body had been. The bloody “W” was now more of a dark brown stain. A faint smell of death hung in the air, an odor I had smelled too often before.

  “So, what are you supposed to be searching for, Barrington?” Wilchinski asked.

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “Right, you don’t know. Like I said, big waste of time.”

  I ignored him and began walking slowly around the room, circling the headless dress form that still stood in the center. Something protruding from it caught my eye, and I leaned in for a closer look.

  “What?” Wilchinski asked.

  “It looks like a hatpin,” I said. “Where have we seen that before, Alan?”

  Alan came over and examined it. “That’s Mrs. Gittings’s.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. She said she was missing it.”

  “How did it get stuck in the dress form?” Alan asked.

  “Who’s Mrs. Gittings?” Wilchinski asked, and I felt I had to tell him.

  “Just an old lady who used to work for Blount, that’s all. She misplaced her hatpin and asked me to keep an eye out for it. If I had to guess, she probably stuck it in there yesterday without even realizing it.”

  “Seems like an odd thing to do,” Wilchinski said.

  “Mrs. Gittings is rather odd. She has a bit of a drinking problem.”

  “Oh, one of those,” he said.

  “I’ll leave it here for the time being, if you want, but I know she wants it back.”

  He took out his notebook. “I’ll make a note of it and see it gets returned to her when we wrap things up.”

  “Thanks. She lives at the Aimsley Arms Apartments, but you could leave it at the desk for her. She comes in regularly,” I said.

  “Duly noted. Is that what you were supposed to be searching for?” Wilchinski said.

  I didn’t reply at once, wondering to myself if all Mrs. Gittings wanted was for me to find her hatpin. But there had to be something more. She had been so cryptic and so adamant. “I don’t know yet, Detective. Give me a few more minutes.”

  “The clock is ticking, Barrington, and you can’t turn back time, or stop it. I have things to do this afternoon.”

  “Right.” I didn’t bother reminding him that he was almost a half hour late getting here. I walked over to Blount’s desk, turned on the desk lamp, and looked around the top of the desk. Apparently Blount had been working on the books when he was fatally interrupted. His sales ledger was open to this week, and I quickly scanned it. Every sale had been neatly recorded in Blount’s tidy script. Most were routine: two shirts on Tuesday, June tenth, to a Mr. A. Winberry for a total of $8.02, cash, and a box of handkerchiefs to a B. Cadbury, on account. On Wednesday, a suit, shirt, and tie to a Mr. Pazdan for a total of $31.41, on account, and a pair of socks to a M. Bloom for fifty-two cents. Thursday, June twelfth, was apparently the start of last-minute Father’s Day shopping, as I noted seven ties, three pairs of socks, and a pair of leather gloves sold, all gift boxed. There was also a sale to Mr. Bennett that day for two dress shirts and two silk ties, for a total of $54.41. Wow, pricey shirts and ties, especially compared to the other sales that week, I thought. Then on Friday the thirteenth, I found my name, one black tux, $30.00, one tux shirt, $4.98, a stud set, $9.49, and one silk tie, $2.49, gift boxed. Above that was an entry for a fedora and a pair of socks to a Mr. Maynard Henning for $38.00, and four dress shirts for Miss Gloria Eye, $58.50. I whistled softly to myself.

  “What did you find, Heath?” Alan asked.

  I pointed to one of the entries in the book and Alan glanced at it. “A sale of a fedora and a pair of socks to a Mr. Maynard Henning for $38.00. Jeepers, that’s an expensive hat and socks.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  “I know that name, Maynard Henning, but I can’t place it,” Alan said.

  “I know it, too. It was on the banner in the Sky Star. He’s the pianist.”

  Alan grinned. “You’re right, good job. Only from back where we were sitting, I thought it said, Heming.”

  “Easy mistake,” I replied. “And look here. There’s also an entry in Blount’s sales log for two shirts and two ties to Mr. Bennett for $54.41, and four dress shirts to Miss Gloria Eye for $58.50.”

  “Wowzer, that’s a lot of money, too.”

  “Even top-of-the-line dress shirts shouldn’t have cost more than $5.00 apiece, tops. No wonder she was upset. I’m sure Wieboldt’s on State does have much better pricing, as she said, so why shop here? And why are hers, Mr. Henning’s, and Mr. Bennett’s purchases so much higher than anyone else’s?”

  “What are you trying to prove, Barrington? That Blount’s store was expensive? So what? I don’t think people go around murdering people because they charge too much,” Wilchinski said.

  I looked up at him but didn’t say anything before returning my attention to the sales book. Yesterday’s entries for Saturday the fifteenth saw even more tie sales, along with socks, shirts, a pair of pajamas, and handkerchiefs, mostly gift boxed. It looked like the dads of Chicago were going to have a fine Father’s Day. There was the sale of Mr. Bennett’s latest $34.00 suit, too.

  I knew I shouldn’t, but I flipped through the sales register and went through it quickly, week by week. For the most part it was some days with no sales, some with a few, some good days, some bad. But in amongst the suits, the shirts, the underwear, and the tie sales were ones for very large amounts for relatively inexpensive goods. There was Bennett’s name again a few months back, and Gloria Eye’s, along with the names of several other men, including Mr. Henning’s, some repeated over and over again, some just a one or two-time occurrence.

  “Find anything else interesting?” Alan asked, pushing his hat back on his head.

  “I think so,” I said. “Blount seemed to have several repeat customers, all men, except for Miss Eye, who paid two, three, even four or five times the going rates for his product. Very curious indeed. And besides the two sales I mentioned before, Mr. Bennett and Miss Eye both have multiple entries of large amounts for small purchases.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, for example, that the tie I bought he would have sold to those two for four to five times as much as he sold it to me. There are listings for other repeat and some one-time customers with the same thing, large amounts of money for relatively inexpensive purchases.”

  “Interesting,” Alan said.

  “Very.” I replied.

  “What’s so interesting about that, Barrington?” Wilchinski asked. “So he knew who had money and who didn’t and he charged accordingly. Sounds like a good businessman to me. Like I said, no one murdered him because they were overcharged.”

  “Charging one person more for the same goods than someone else is illegal, Detective,” I said.

  “Ah, so what?” he said.

  “So I can’t help but wondering if that’s really what he was doing.”

&nbs
p; “What do you mean, Heath?”

  “Yeah, Barrington, you just said yourself that’s what he was doing.”

  I nodded. “The books certainly make it seem that way. But why would these customers keep coming back to him, over and over? Surely they couldn’t all have been so stupid as to not eventually realize they were being grossly overcharged.”

  “Maybe they didn’t care,” Wilchinski said. “Folks with money will pay anything. The Depression’s over.”

  “Maybe they didn’t care. Or maybe they were getting something else for their money besides clothes.”

  “Like what?” Alan asked.

  “That’s a good question,” I said, scratching my chin. “What could he provide these men that they’d be willing to pay large amounts of money for? And something Blount wanted to hide in the books by making it seem like they were just buying merchandise?”

  Wilchinski laughed. “Girls comes to my mind, since Prohibition’s over.”

  I glanced over at him. “That was my thought, too, Detective.”

  “I was joking, Barrington.”

  “But I’m not. Blount could have been running some kind of prostitution ring. Men would come in and buy small goods, he’d charge them a large amount, maybe give them a sales check with a code on it that told them where to find the girl,” I replied. “Or if the men were staying at the hotel, he’d send the girl to their room.”

  Wilchinski shook his head as he lit up a cigarette. “Not likely, Barrington. Not on Michigan Avenue, not in the Edmonton. Mike Masterson would have sniffed that out in a heartbeat.”

  He was beginning to annoy me a lot. This would be so much simpler if I could just get rid of him. But he did have a point. Mike wasn’t one to let unaccompanied girls go wandering the halls without question.

  “Well, maybe he arranged for the girls to meet the men somewhere else. He certainly had a good front for it, a respectable clothing store in a top-notch hotel. He gets a lot of older businessmen, probably fairly well off, alone in the big city.”

  “And some private, discreet entertainment would be very enticing,” Alan added.

  “Exactly. The entries for a one or two-time overcharge were probably out-of-town businessmen, and the multiple occurrences were for businessmen who come to Chicago regularly or locals,” I said.

  “Like Mr. Bennett,” Alan said.

  I nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “You two are dreaming. Besides, even if Blount was mixed up in some prostitution ring, so what? Why would someone murder him for that?”

  “Maybe someone got double-crossed or wasn’t happy with services provided for what they paid. I’m not sure, but that’s my theory at the moment, Detective. What’s yours?”

  Wilchinski pushed his hat back too and scowled at me as he took a long drag on his cigarette. He blew the smoke in my direction. “My theory, Barrington? My theory is that Blount closed up his shop last night and was working on the books. He’d had a good day because of Father’s Day, and any bum crook on the street would know that and know that most of his sales were cash transactions. Blount steps out in the alley, maybe to have a cigarette. He wouldn’t smoke back here in his shop.”

  “How come?” Alan asked.

  “Because of all the clothes and fabrics. A man like Blount wouldn’t risk a fire, and he wouldn’t want all these fancy silks and what not smelling like smoke.”

  I had to admit Wilchinski was probably right about that, and as I glanced at the desk top again, I noticed there was no ashtray. “And yet you just lit up a cigarette like you did in here last night.”

  Wilchinski looked embarrassed, then irritated. He walked over to the alley door and flicked the cigarette out, then closed the door again. “Like I said, he went out in the alley for a smoke.”

  “All right, Detective, so he goes out to the alley for a smoke, then what?” I asked.

  “Some bum crook who was waiting for him to come out pulls a gun on him and forces him back inside. The crook takes the money, shoots Blount, and flees.”

  “I admit that is possible, Wilchinski, but why the bloody ‘W’ on the floor, and the spool of green thread?”

  “Ah, geez, you watch too many movies, Barrington. Not everything is some mysterious clue. When Blount was lying there dying his mind probably went to some lost love of his, that’s all.”

  Life Wolfgang, I thought. Score one for Alan. “Well, Detective, that is indeed one theory.”

  “Makes a lot more sense than yours,” Wilchinski sneered, pointing a finger at me.

  “What about whatever was burned in the bathroom sink?” I asked.

  “Burned beyond recognition. Nothing to examine. Besides, you said all those people that were being overcharged were men except for Miss Eye. How do you explain her? She paying for some hot little number, too? Some hootchy-kootchy?”

  “I thought about that also, Wilchinski. Maybe she was one of those hootchy-kootchy girls for a while, and now Blount’s blackmailing her, or was.”

  “If that’s true, she’d be a prime suspect all right,” Alan said.

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “So who is this Miss Eye, Barrington?” Wilchinski asked.

  “Gloria Eye. She’s a singer in the band that played the Sky Star Ballroom last night.”

  “And you think she may have been a call girl for Blount and now he’s blackmailing her?”

  “I’m saying it’s a possibility,” I said.

  “You’re overanalyzing this, Barrington. Typical rookie, and a small town cop mistake. This was just a case of a robbery gone bad, clean and simple. There’s no real clues here. You look at a sales ledger and see some people were overcharged and all of a sudden you’ve got Blount running some prostitution ring.” Wilchinski laughed. “You need to get out of Milwaukee more and experience the real world. Now wrap it up and let’s get out of here, the clock is ticking.”

  I bristled again but didn’t say anything. “Right, Wilchinski, I’m almost finished. But still…”

  “But still what?” he said, clearly impatient.

  “There has to be something more.” I flipped open Blount’s black leather telephone directory and scanned the contents. Most numbers were ordinary: a Chinese take-out, a market, the bank, a florist, and what appeared to be clients of the store. But one stood out. I read the name aloud. “David Greene, editor, Girls Aplenty Magazine. Ever hear of it, Wilchinski?”

  He looked slightly embarrassed. “Yeah, sure I’ve heard of it. So what? It’s a sleazy pin-up magazine, nudies, that kind of thing.”

  “It doesn’t sound like something Mr. Blount would read,” I said.

  Wilchinski laughed. “He was a man, wasn’t he?”

  I looked at him. “Yeah, but he didn’t strike me as the type to read girlie magazines.”

  “Because he was a buttoned-up businessman? Guys like Blount can surprise you, Barrington.”

  “Maybe, but even if he did read it, why would he have the editor’s phone number in his directory?”

  “Beats me,” Wilchinski said. “Maybe Greene’s a client of the store. Makes sense he would keep the numbers of regular clients so he could inform them if he was having a sale or something.”

  I sighed. “I suppose so. Maybe I am imagining clues that don’t exist,” I said, feeling somewhat defeated.

  “First sensible thing you’ve said all day. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Right, right.” I closed the telephone directory and put it back in its place, unsure of what else to do or look for.

  “I guess Mrs. Gittings and all her talk of mirrors and cyclops was just the alcohol taking.”

  “Hmm? Cyclops, yes.” I looked over at Alan. “I’d nearly forgotten about that. What was it she said again?”

  “What the hell are you two talking about?” Wilchinski said, clearly confused.

  I ignored him for the moment.

  “She was talking about a cyclops. Through the looking glass, remember?”

  I nodded. “Yes.
A cyclops. Who or what has one eye?”

  “Walter Gillingham, of course,” Alan answered.

  “Exactly. Perhaps that is who she meant. Maybe she saw him leaving the shop that night”

  “That would make sense.”

  “Who’s Walter Gillingham?” Wilchinski asked, looking from me to Alan and back to me again.

  “A trumpet player and the fiancé of Miss Eye,” I said. I closed my eyes, trying to remember her exact words. “Through the looking glass behind the mirror, the cyclops sits in wait. Through the door they enter and unknowingly seal their fate.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Wilchinski growled.

  I glanced at Wilchinski but didn’t answer him.

  “Something behind a mirror,” Alan said.

  “Right. You enter through a door, into a room presumably, and seal your fate while the cyclops sits and waits.”

  “You two been drinking, Barrington?”

  “She also said what evil lurks in our reflections, and something about looking into a mirror hard enough that you can sometimes see the evil within,” Alan said.

  “She sounds daft,” Wilchinski scoffed.

  “She was trying to tell us something, but what? She wanted us to find something,” I said, more to myself than either of them.

  “Maybe she was trying to tell us that Mr. Gillingham was waiting for Blount back here,” Alan suggested.

  I looked at Alan thoughtfully. “That’s an idea, but how would she have known that? She said through a door, into a room, behind a mirror. Do you think she meant a mirror here in the store?”

  “That would make sense. There’s a mirror in the bathroom.”

  “I thought we were going,” Wilchinski said, annoyed. “Now all of a sudden you’re both talking nonsense.”

  “There’s also a big mirror in the dressing room,” Alan said.

  “You’re right, good call.” I turned off the lamp on the desk and walked over to the dressing room door. “You enter through a door and seal your fate.” I pulled it open, gazing at myself once more in the large mirror opposite. “Interesting.”

  “Admiring yourself, Barrington?” Wilchinski said. In the reflection I could see both him and Alan behind me in the doorway. I ignored him again, knowing that if I didn’t find anything this time I would be utterly defeated.