Murder Knocks Twice

by Susanna Calkins

  Her mouth suddenly felt dry, and she picked up the pack and slid a stick of gum out. It felt a little damp from the recent rain, but she didn’t care. She popped it in her mouth.

  The minty flavor comforted her, and she looked to the end of the alley, where Marty’s murder had occurred. It was hard not to think about him, groaning and bleeding out onto the brick walkway of the alley. Who had done it? Who had killed him?

  Once again, a devastating sense of loss washed over her, as she thought about how she’d had so little chance to really know him. Angrily, she brushed the tears away from her face. She kicked at the barrel with her heels, making a sharp knocking sound.

  A man appeared at the end of the gangway then, from the end of the street, where she had come. His cap was low and his collar was pulled high, and she gasped as he started toward her.

  She slid off the barrel and was about to run down the gangway, away from the man and toward the alley, when she saw his severe limp. In relief, she recognized the man as Roark.

  She forced herself to stand beside the barrel as he approached. He stood beside her, a speculative look on his face. “So, is this the bearcat’s hangout?”

  She shrugged but didn’t reply.

  “You left the drugstore pretty quickly.”

  She waved her hand. “I just needed a bit of air. No crime in that.”

  “No, no crime.” He eyed the soggy pack of gum on the barrel. “Yours?” he asked.

  She stopped chewing and pushed the gum into her cheek. “Nah, not mine.” The lie came easily.

  “I see. Maybe it’s another bearcat’s hangout, too. Another bearcat who chews Wrigley’s gum.”

  Not sure what to say to that, Gina remained silent. To her surprise, though, Roark removed his glove and picked up the pack of gum with his bare hand. “It’s wet,” he noted. He didn’t sound surprised.

  “I just found it. Don’t know how long it’s been out here.” Her words sounded a bit sharp to her own ear, and maybe a bit suspicious.

  He put his hand on the barrel to support himself, the action bringing his face very close to hers. “Is that so?” he asked. Something flickered in his eyes, and he looked away, a scowl on his face. He set the pack aside and pulling out a flashlight, he kept walking down the gangway to the alley entrance, the light directed in front of him.

  When he reached the spot where Marty was murdered, he stopped abruptly and awkwardly crouched down, looking at the ground. She watched as he gingerly touched the ground with his gloved hand, then looked at his finger with a grimace. He laid the flashlight on the ground without turning it off, so that it was still illuminating the surface.

  To her surprise, he pulled out a Kodak from his coat pocket and, after opening up the case and unfolding the camera, began to carefully snap a few pictures, almost exactly where Marty’s body had been. What is he doing? Why is he taking photographs?

  She was about to slip down the other end of the gangway, back to the street, when he called out to her. “Hey, Gina! Come over here, would ya?”

  Reluctantly, Gina walked over to him, stopping just before the place where Marty had fallen four nights before. Despite herself, her eyes flickered downward. From the dim alley light, she could just make out a dark stain on the ground, where the blood had seeped from the photographer’s body. Hastily, she averted her eyes.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “What do you think this is?” he asked, pointing to the ground.

  “I don’t know. Someone spilled something, I suppose.”

  “Spilled something. Right.”

  She watched as he continued to study the ground. “Why?”

  “Did you hear what the officers said in there? Marty wasn’t killed where his body was found.”

  “Oh.” Gina swallowed. “Where was Marty found? Did they say?”

  “By the Harrison Street Bridge. Along the tracks.”

  That area, only a few blocks away, was a known dumping ground for Chicago gangs. “Oh,” Gina said again, unsure what else to say. “I suppose he got mixed up in something he shouldn’t have.”

  “So it would seem,” Roark said, still studying the ground.

  Seeing him so close to where Marty had died made her nervous. “I should head back in.”

  “Marty was a friend of mine, did you know that?” Roark said suddenly. “Taught me what I know about photography.”

  Gina hadn’t known that. “I didn’t know him very well,” she replied. Even though he was my mother’s cousin. We had no connection at all. Until he lay there bleeding. And I held his hand until he passed away. Gina pushed the thought away, remaining silent.

  He straightened up and looked straight into her eyes. “I saw your face just now. In the drugstore. When the police came in.”

  “Oh? W-what do you mean?” Her heart started to beat faster.

  “You knew what the police were going to say. You knew that they were going to say that Marty had been killed. How could you have known that, I wonder?”

  “I d-didn’t know about it, I swear. I j-just felt shocked, like everyone else,” she said. “Besides, you didn’t seem so surprised,” she added, going on the offense. “I noticed that myself.”

  Unexpectedly, he nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “I received a tip. I thought it would be a good idea to be on hand when the news was delivered.”

  “A tip?” she asked. “Why would you get a tip?”

  “I still have some friends on the force.” At her look, he explained. “I was a cop. Until this.” He gestured to his injured leg. “I don’t talk about it much. Now I just do photographs for them, down at the station when guys get booked, sometimes out on the streets when a call comes in.”

  “Oh, I thought—”

  “That I was injured in the war?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I had my share of bullet holes as a soldier, too. Except this injury happened last year.” His tone was fierce, and brooked no further questions. He took a step closer. “You know what I think?”

  She stayed silent, resisting the urge to back away.

  “I think you know something about Marty’s death.”

  “W-what?” she stammered, trying to keep her breathing steady. “Why would you say that? I d-don’t.”

  “When was the last time you saw Marty?”

  “Saturday night, I suppose. I’m not sure.” She squinted, as if trying to remember. “Just for a few minutes. I don’t remember seeing him after that.” Until I saw him right here, dying. Around ten o’clock. On the worst evening of my life.

  “You know what’s interesting?” he asked.

  “What?” The response was automatic; she really didn’t want to know.

  “Marty always had his camera on him, anywhere he went.”

  “So?”

  “So they didn’t find it on his body.”

  “Oh.” Gina paused. “Well, I suppose that whoever killed Marty took it. Stands to reason.”

  “That’s what the police assume.”

  Suddenly, despite the chill in the air, she felt flushed. “You don’t think so?”

  “I don’t know.” He tapped on his own camera, which was hanging from a strap around his neck. “I just hope that whoever took Marty’s camera knows not to expose the film to light. There might be something important on it.”

  “The murderer will probably sell it.”

  “I suppose. Unless he was killed for the camera—for the pictures on it.”

  Marty’s dying whisper came to her then. “Do you think that’s why he was killed?”

  He studied her again. “Can’t rule it out.”

  The cold wind began to whip up in earnest. The flush she had just felt dissipated, and now all she could feel was a deep biting chill in her bones. “I’d better head back in,” she said. “The Signora will be expecting me back.”

  “Of course. Everyone needs their fizzy soft drinks.” As she turned to go, he grabbed her arm. “Oh, Gina?”

  “What?” Look
ing up, she was once again caught in the startling intensity of his gaze, and it bothered her.

  “Don’t tell anyone about anything you may have seen. You understand?”

  Her eyes flew over his face, and she saw no mockery there, only concern—and an anger, too. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen anything.”

  “Gina, I’m just telling you. There’s not a lot of people you can trust around here.” He took a step closer, still gripping her arm. “If I can tell that you’re hiding something, someone else might figure it out, too.”

  “I suppose I can trust you?” she asked bitterly. She shook off his hand. “What, on your say-so?”

  He stepped back. “Yes, actually. I wish you would. It would be a shame for a girl like you to end up dumped under the Harrison Street Bridge.”

  She suppressed a shudder. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I hope so.”

  As she strode away, it was hard not to hear his words bouncing about her mind. If I can tell that you’re hiding something, someone else might figure it out, too.

  CHAPTER 9

  When Gina returned to the drugstore, she found that the cops were just leaving. The brown envelopes that the Signora had left on the stools were nowhere to be seen. As she suspected, no one was above the take.

  Although the Signora raised an arched eyebrow when she saw Gina, she didn’t say anything. Her face was unusually pale, although when she spoke, her voice was stern and to the point. “All right, time to set up. Back to work, everyone,” she said, clapping her hands. “I don’t want to hear you discussing this. Gooch, put the signal back on.”

  Gina followed Lulu and the others down the narrow steps back into the speakeasy. Following the others’ lead, she began to help reassemble the club, to ready the place once again for guests. There was a numbness to all their movements, and she saw even Gooch brush a tear away. She could see, too, the speculation on everyone’s faces, but no one dared discuss Marty’s death, at least not when the Signora was in earshot.

  When Roark passed by her, their eyes met, but the look he gave her was inscrutable. She watched him say something to Clarence Darrow, who turned and gave her a thoughtful glance. Suddenly uncomfortable, she busied herself with her tray, awaiting the return of the other patrons. Roark disappeared into the back room, presumably to start a new game of poker with his fellow soldiers.

  Within the hour, the patrons began to drift back inside, with the less sophisticated among them whispering excitedly about the “raid.”

  Overhearing them, Jade sneered. “They’d be in the crapper if that had been a real raid.”

  As Gina walked over to a corner table, a man seated at another table suddenly thrust out his arm as she passed, effectively keeping her from moving. “Hey, toots,” he said. “Where’s that Harp?”

  “Who?” Gina asked, finding her cheeks hurt when she moved her jaw. It was then she realized she’d been clenching her teeth since she’d spoken to Roark in the gangway.

  “The photographer? Marty?”

  “What’s it to you?” Gina said, stepping neatly away from the man’s wandering hands before he could land one on her hip. The man looked slightly familiar.

  “He took a photograph of me last Saturday. Told me to come by today and he’d have it ready for me.” He looked around. “So where is he? I want it.”

  Comprehension dawning, Gina remembered the man from Saturday night. This was Jack, of Jack and Mimi fame. “Gorgeous Boa,” Marty had named the man’s friend.

  Unsure what to tell him, Gina edged away from the man. “Uh, I’ll find out for you,” she said.

  She knocked on the door of the Signora’s salon. The proprietress opened the door a few inches, clearly indicating that she did not wish Gina to enter the room. “What is it?” she asked, her tone sharp.

  “There’s a patron asking for Marty. Said he took a photograph on Saturday,” Gina whispered. “Marty told him to come back today, told him that he’d have it ready for him.”

  The Signora took a deep sip from the martini glass in her hand. Since she had started at the Third Door, this was the first time that Gina had seen the Signora take a drink. “The camera,” the Signora said. “I’d forgotten about that.” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft, as if she were talking to herself. “His photographs. I don’t know if he developed them before … before…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked somewhere far away.

  Gina silently finished the unspoken thought. Before he was murdered.

  It was hard not to picture the camera and canister of film under the floorboard. She was certain Marty had not had time to develop the last roll of film before he was killed. Of course, she could not say that to the Signora.

  “Oh.” Gina waited. “What do I tell him, then?”

  The Signora waved her hand. “Tell him we don’t have it. Offer the man a drink. On the house. That should suffice.”

  Gina nodded and turned away. Before the door completely shut, she heard the Signora speak to someone who was in the room. “The camera! What do we do about that?”

  The door shut then. Gina craned her neck, trying to hear more through the wooden door. Why was the Signora so concerned about Marty’s missing camera? Unless, perhaps, there was something on the film that she did not wish anyone to see.

  Her head was still pressed against the door when Ned rounded the corner. He stopped short when he saw her, and she stepped back hastily. He gave her a peculiar look. “I had to speak to the Signora,” she said quickly, trying to make it appear that she was just stepping out of the woman’s salon, instead of eavesdropping. “Going back to work now,” she added.

  Ned gave her a funny little bow. “Carry on,” he said, his eyes still narrowed.

  Slipping past him, Gina returned to Jack, who was just finishing up what looked to be a Rum Runner at the bar. She waved to the bartender. “Another of the same, Billy. Signora’s orders.”

  The bartender nodded.

  “On the house,” she said, placing the drink in front of Jack. Roark, who was sitting at the bar, raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, what do you know, toots?” Jack said, patting the empty stool beside him. “Why don’t you take a break and sit with Jack a little while.”

  Gina rolled her eyes. Clearly, he had gotten the wrong idea about her intentions. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, when’s he coming back?” Jack persisted. “What did you find out?”

  Luckily, Billy Bottles intervened. “Marty’s dead, fellow.”

  “Dead?” the man repeated, looking startled. “Where’s his camera? How do I get my photograph?”

  “Dunno,” Gina replied.

  As she started to move away, the guy took hold of her wrist. “Look here, sweetheart,” he said. “I need that film. The negative, you get me? If you bring it to me, you’ll get a nice reward.” He slipped a bill onto her tray, under a pack of cigarettes. “Here’s a little something to get you motivated.”

  “Why? What do you need the negative for?” Gina asked. She kept her tone low, hoping that the din of the speakeasy would keep Roark and Billy from overhearing their exchange. “Gonna develop the picture yourself?”

  The man grabbed her wrist again. “That money means you don’t ask questions, doll, and you keep your mouth shut. You get me?”

  She pulled her hand away. “Yeah, I get you, Jack.” I also get that I’m never turning that film over to you, she thought. It just had seemed more dangerous to tell him no. Besides, maybe she could string him along, find out why it mattered so much to him. “It’s not like I knew the guy that well.”

  He grinned. “Just be sure to keep those pretty eyes peeled. Ask around. I bet you can find it.” Downing his drink, he set the glass on the counter. “I’ll be back in a few days.”

  As he walked away, Roark spoke right into her ear. “What are you up to, Gina?” he asked.

  When she turned to face him, she could see he looked furious. He continued before she could rep
ly. “That’s a real wrongheaded way to make money. Why would you help a guy like that anyway?”

  “Mind your own beeswax, why don’t you?” she replied, walking away. She was getting mighty sick of men telling her what to do.

  * * *

  A few hours later, just after Lulu’s second set, an impossibly bleached blond woman stopped by the bar, coming to stand beside Gina where she was waiting for Billy to finish making some gin rickeys. Gina recognized her at once. It was Mimi, the woman who had accompanied Jack on the night Marty was murdered. Once again, she had a long boa tossed over her shoulder, although this time the feathers were a deep red.

  Gina sidled up to her with the cigarette tray. As before, the woman ordered a pack of Marlboros, this time fishing through her own clutch for the necessary coins.

  “Hey, sweets,” she said, accepting the smokes from Gina, “You seen that photographer around? I want to pay for that photograph he took last Saturday night. You know, the one with me and my friend.” She pulled out a small compact and pursed her lips.

  Gina tried to affect a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “No, Marty’s dead.” She figured since Billy had spilled the beans to Jack earlier, she could do the same.

  Still looking in the tiny compact mirror, Mimi formed her lips into a perfect O. “How awful,” she said, pulling out her lipstick and applying the same heavy red that her lips were already drenched in. “What happened?”

  “He was killed. Murdered.”

  This time Mimi did look up at Gina. “You don’t say. Who did it, do you know?”

  “Don’t know. His body was found under the Harrison Street Bridge.”

  “Oh,” Mimi said, looking back into the mirror. “You know what that means,” she said. “Better to not know more.”

  “I suppose,” Gina replied, and started to move away.

  “Listen, doll, I really need that photograph. Can you get it for me?”

  “I don’t know,” Gina said, backing away. Something about the woman’s furtive smile suddenly bothered her.