Murder Knocks Twice

by Susanna Calkins

  A glance at the clock on the wall alerted her that it was time to head down to the Third Door. With a sigh, she locked the door of Marty’s flat behind her. Maybe tomorrow she’d discover what that key opened.

  * * *

  Gina was leaning over to serve some drinks a few hours later when she heard a commotion over by the stairs, including several outraged female shrieks. Craning her neck, she could just make out Mimi, without her boa this time, holding up an empty cocktail glass in a triumphant way. A satisfied smirk could be seen on her face as the crowd around her yukked it up.

  “What in the world—?” Gina asked. She could see now that another woman was completely soaked. Her face was streaming with some liquid, and Gina could see a cherry in her hair. One of her friends was dabbing at her face, and another seemed to be trying to pull her in the direction of the ladies’ room.

  Faye and Jade were both snickering. “Looks like the mistress and the wife have finally met,” Jade said, with one hand half covering her mouth to keep her voice from carrying to the wrong ears.

  “Ah,” Gina said. “I guess Mimi didn’t need that photograph after all.”

  “Marty’s photograph?” Jade asked. “What do you mean? Do you know where it is? Jack said he’d pay me a pretty penny if I found it for him.”

  “Nah, I don’t know.”

  “Really? Did you look around his flat?” Faye asked, her voice syrupy sweet. “I’d have done that first thing. Being you’re his heir and all.”

  Jade took a step closer. “I could help you look. Jack was willing to pay some real scratch. We could go halves.”

  “Not anymore, I’d bet,” Gina said, instinctively taking a step back. She gestured toward where the fracas had just occurred. “Looks like the secret’s out.”

  “Besides,” Faye added, “Big Mike wouldn’t like you working your own angle with the patrons.”

  * * *

  Gina was dabbing on a bit more rouge when she heard the sound of someone heaving behind one of the doors in the ladies’ room. A moment later one of the women who’d surrounded Jack’s wife earlier came stumbling out. She looked a bit green.

  “Can I call you a cab, miss?” Gina asked, watching the woman splash water on her face. “You’re not looking so good.”

  The woman glanced up at her, holding the sink firmly in both hands. “Hey, doll, you’re filling in Dorrie’s spot?”

  Gina nodded. “Yeah, you knew her?

  The woman looked a little sad. “Oh, Dorrie. Not real smart, but sweet. Tried to be tougher than she looked, but she wasn’t fooling anyone.” She began to pinch her cheeks, trying to give her face a better color. “You heard what happened to her, I bet. A real shame.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Name’s Maxine,” the woman said, pursing her lips in the mirror before applying a bright red color. “I used to work in one of these places a few years back. Knew a lot of dumb Doras, just like Dorrie.” She giggled. “Our gin joint was over on Wells. The Drys shut it down in ’27.”

  Slipping her tube of lipstick back inside her handbag, she added, “I met my guy there. A real dewdropper, he turned out to be.” She shook the expensive charm bracelets on her arm. “These were the best things I got out of that deal.”

  “Charming,” Gina said, laughing along with her. “More charming than him, I bet.”

  “You said it.” Maxine began to fix her waves carefully with a comb. “I guess we all come to the same end, regardless of who does us in. I’m telling you, get yourself a husband before you catch the eye of the wrong guy, like I did. ’Specially if you want a kid or two. Won’t get ’em with a guy from a place like this. If you do, he’ll drop you real fast.”

  Gina shrugged. “Better off without a guy like that.”

  Maxine took another long swig of her cocktail. “Just heard about Marty, though. A real shame.”

  “Yes,” Gina said.

  “Shame the Signora got her hooks into him,” she said. Only she slurred her words, and it sounded more like Shame the Sin-yoor-ah gotter hoos in him.

  “What do you mean?” Gina asked.

  “Oh, doll, you know how these places work,” Maxine said, still struggling to enunciate. Her eyes were shutting. “Or at least you should. She owned the man.” She hiccupped then, the action bringing a dazed grin to her face. “I’m so-o-o zozzled.”

  “I had no idea,” Gina said with a straight face. Why did women always have to tell everyone how drunk they were? “How about I point you in the direction of your friends.”

  At that, Maxine began to giggle. “Did you see Norma got that drink poured over her head? She had a cherry in her h-hair!”

  “Yeah, I saw.”

  Maxine rolled her eyes. “It’s that two-timing Jack’s fault. I don’t see the fuss, personally.”

  As she helped Maxine slosh back toward her friends, Gina thought about what the woman had said. What had Marty been doing for the Signora? This was something she had to figure out.

  CHAPTER 15

  Gina paused as she reached the second-floor landing on her way to Marty’s flat, another roll of the film she’d taken at Navy Pier in her embroidered handbag. The door of 2A had creaked open, and the woman stepped out into the hallway. The woman’s grayish blue housecoat had seen better days, and her drab yellow scarf covered a gray bun, peasant-style.

  Stepped straight out of the Old World, Gina thought. With her hawkish eyes and shoulders that hunched up like a vulture’s, the woman looked formidable. A strong and forceful presence not to be ignored.

  “Hello,” Gina said, standing a bit straighter.

  “Who are you?” The woman’s accent was thick. Russian.

  “Gina.” Then, when the woman continued to stare at her with dark and beady eyes, Gina added her surname. “Ricci.”

  “You were here yesterday. And the day before.”

  “I have a key,” Gina said. Though she bristled at the woman’s accusing tone, she thought it would be better to explain. “I am—was—a relative of Marty’s. A close one.”

  “Hmmm.” Again the scrutiny. “Police catch his killer?”

  “Not yet.”

  The woman shrugged. “The police in this city!…” She muttered something in Russian.

  “What did you say? What did that mean?”

  “Just something we say in Russian. The eye can see it, but the tooth can’t bite it.”

  Gina pondered that a moment. “Did you ever see—?” She broke off, trying to figure out what she was asking. What? What could the woman have seen? “Anything?” she added a bit lamely.

  The woman stayed silent. This conversation was going nowhere fast.

  Gina sought to break through the impasse. Behind the woman, she noticed an electric lamp on the table, flicking on and off. “Does your lamp always do that? Maybe I could look at it for you.” At the woman’s skeptical expression, Gina continued. “My papa, he fixes things. He trained me, too. I could look at it. Maybe set it right?”

  Without a word, the woman stepped aside to let her enter the room.

  The apartment was dark, its windows covered with heavy curtains that likely provided warmth in the winter but let little light in, creating a cavelike and secretive effect. All around the room there were porcelain and cloisonné knickknacks, and several shelves were adorned with Russian nesting dolls. On one wall was a wedding portrait of a young woman dressed in white and a man in a suit with a tall black hat. Both were ramrod straight, only their sleeves touching, forced smiles on both their faces. There was something a little familiar about both figures.

  “How beautiful,” Gina said, peering at the features of the woman in the photograph. “Is that you?”

  “Ja,” the woman replied. “This man, he was my husband, Anton.” Her eyes softened as she looked at the stern young man in the portrait. “May he rest in peace.”

  Gina picked up the lamp and examined it. “I’m just going to unplug it.” When she did the room became even darker, and with a sigh the woman pushed o
pen the curtains, allowing the midafternoon light to stream through the dirty glass. “I am Mrs. Lesky.”

  Taking the lamp shade off, Gina sat down on an overstuffed chair without asking. Mrs. Lesky watched her.

  “Were you and Marty neighbors for a very long time?”

  Mrs. Lesky shrugged. “What is a long time? A few years, yes, we were neighbors.”

  “Are you friends with Marty’s sister? Nancy Doyle?”

  “Acquaintances, perhaps.” There was a slyness to her voice.

  Gina looked at the telephone on the table beside the sofa. “Did you call her when I came the other day?”

  The woman was still watching her. “I may have made a call, that is so.”

  “To the Signora, too?”

  “Ah, the Signora. No, not her. She’s been good enough to me over the last few years, that is true. Still, my rent is high. Thank God, my son pays what I cannot. He works for her.”

  “Your son works for her, Mrs. Lesky?” Gina glanced back at the photograph, studying the faces again. She remembered Ned’s rhyme the day she began at the Third Door. “Oh! Your son is Little Johnny.”

  “I do not call him by that name. To me, he has not been ‘little’ for a very long time.”

  “No, not so little,” Gina agreed, peering inside the fixture. Unscrewing the bulb, she could see that a wire had slipped from its position. Easy enough to fix if she had the proper tools. “Do you own pliers, by any chance?” she asked.

  “Pliers?” the woman asked, and then her brow cleared. She opened a drawer in a cabinet and handed Gina a small tool.

  With a few twists, Gina was able to rewire the lamp. After screwing the bulb back into its stocket, she carefully replaced the lamp and plugged it back in. The lamp turned on, without a single flicker.

  The faintest smile crossed Mrs. Lesky’s lips. “Spasibo,” she said. “Thank you.” Crossing the room, she opened the door. “I have delayed you long enough.”

  As Gina started to walk out, Mrs. Lesky touched her sleeve. “About Mr. Doyle, he asked me once about life under the tsar. Anton and me, we fled after Tsar Alexander II was assassinated, for there was no place for us. He said he understood that.”

  “Why?” Gina asked. “What did he mean?”

  “Marty was not one to tell the tales, that I know.” Her eyes flicked back to her husband’s portrait, as if seeking confirmation. “Of course, as my husband discovered, secrets have a way of getting out.” With that she closed the door.

  * * *

  Having taken her leave of Mrs. Lesky, Gina let herself into Marty’s darkroom. The air in the room was silent and still, and almost felt like it had been waiting for her to return. “Don’t go blooey, Gina,” she said out loud. “Get ahold of yourself.”

  Slowly she began to lay out the chemicals, water, scissors, reel, canister, and other equipment, just as Roark had shown her, so she could easily reach everything in the darkness. The black curtains were closed tightly over the windows. Everything was in place.

  She continued to gaze down at the equipment, flexing and unflexing her fingers. As before, Marty’s flat was quite cold, but she didn’t want to ask the Signora to adjust the heat. She didn’t want anyone asking her questions about what she might be doing in Marty’s flat, particularly what she might be doing in Marty’s darkroom. When she had a chance, she’d look over the furnace and the boiler and see if she might be able to figure out the problem for herself.

  At the moment, though, staring down at the equipment, she knew she had to quit stalling.

  “Just begin already,” she told herself.

  Taking a deep breath, Gina turned off the lights and opened the canister of film, hoping that she was doing everything as Roark had explained. As she settled down, she slipped into her customary focused mode, preparing and mixing and washing the chemicals over the exposed film as easily as she could fix a radio.

  After a while, images were emerging in the negatives, just as they had the other day with Roark. It was then she realized she’d been clenching her teeth, and she unlocked her jaw and rubbed at the joint.

  Some of the images, she could tell already, were going to be difficult to discern. She wondered if she had overexposed them when she had pointed her camera in the direction of the sun. “I’ll worry about that later,” she said, as she washed off the negatives and hung them over the tub to dry.

  * * *

  Gina came back the next morning to make the prints from the now-dried negatives. After she cleaned them with alcohol and cut them into strips, she looked at them in the enlarger. Disappointed, she could see that some were certainly overexposed, and several were overdeveloped. Four of the twelve frames were worth trying to make into photographs, and, after several more tries making prints, she began to figure out how to sharpen their focus. She also experimented a bit with the length of time that the prints were exposed to light, as well as how long she left them in the developer. Most were a mess.

  Still, a few had turned out beautifully. She wondered what Roark would think of this first batch of developed photographs. Then a slightly annoyed thought chased the first. Why did it matter what he thought? Feeling impatient with herself, she left Marty’s flat to make dinner for her papa before her shift at the Third Door.

  * * *

  As she passed by the bakery, Gina heard a familiar whistle from above. Not surprisingly, she could see Emil grinning down at her from his customary spot on the balcony.

  “Hey there!” she called, waving at the boy. “Where’s Zosia today?”

  “Helping Mama and Papa in the bakery,” he replied, his grin growing broader. Clearly he thought that he’d got the better end of the deal.

  A customer stepped out of the bakery then, and a wave of sweet cinnamon air wafted over her. “Mmmm,” she murmured, and on a whim entered the shop.

  Zosia was at the counter fixing a display of delicate cookies, keeping them precariously stacked one on top of the other. Seeing Gina, she smoothed her apron and gave her a bright smile. “Hello, Miss Gina. How may I help you?”

  “I thought I might get a nice pastry for my papa.” Her eyes ran over the glass case, her mouth watering at the sight of all the enticingly displayed sweets on the doily-covered trays. “Did you arrange all these? You’re very good at it.”

  Zosia shrugged. “I suppose. I’d like to learn how to bake them, but Mama says I’m too young. They don’t want me to waste the batter.”

  Gina nodded. Eggs, milk, and sugar were certainly dear.

  “I’m going to show them, though,” Zosia said, lowering her tone. “You’ll see.”

  “Show them what?” Gina asked, drawn into the girl’s conspiratorial ways.

  “I’m taking a cooking class at Hull House,” Zosia replied. “They don’t mind if I make a mess.”

  “Keen,” Gina said. The mention of Hull House reminded her of the temperance workers, Dorrie’s mother, and, of course, Dorrie.

  Zosia pushed a porcelain tray of crumbled pastries toward her. “Please, try.”

  Gina picked a bit of strawberry tart from the tray and popped it into her mouth. “Gee, that’s good!”

  A look of pride came over Zosia’s face. “I told you,” she said. “Mama and Papa, they make the best fraisier.”

  “Indeed. I don’t even know why you’d need candy from Dorrie,” Gina said conversationally, licking her fingers.

  “We like American candy. Milky Ways and Charleston Chews,” Zosia said, wiping away some crumbs. “And sometimes, Dorrie gave us money, too.”

  Gina pointed to the fraisier. “I’ll take two of those for my papa.”

  “Ten cents.”

  Gina opened her change purse and pushed a quarter across the counter. “Keep the change. I just have a quick question.”

  Zosia eyed the outlandish tip and then searched Gina’s face, a look of comprehension crossing her own features. Then, with a resigned sigh, she put the quarter in the till and slipped fifteen cents into her own pocket.

 
“Can you tell me why Dorrie was giving you money?” Gina asked.

  Zosia’s shoulders relaxed slightly, as if she’d been bracing herself for a different question. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. She wanted me and Emil to just let her know about things we might see from her balcony.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  Zosia giggled. “Like people kissing. We saw Dorrie and Ned kiss sometimes, when he’d walk her home. She just laughed when we told her. Said she’d give us extra candy to keep that to ourselves, though, since she wasn’t supposed to be stepping out with anyone who worked with her.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Sometimes we saw Faye kissing someone. Under the streetlight. But then one time she slapped him, so we thought maybe they’d called it splits.”

  “Did you know who the man was?” Gina asked. “Was he a customer here?”

  “I think so. At least, I’d seen him before.” She gestured for Gina to come closer. “But we saw something else, too, which you might find interesting.” She looked expectantly at the change purse in Gina’s hand.

  Sighing, Gina duly pushed across another quarter, which the girl deftly pocketed. “We saw Big Mike kissing someone, too,” she whispered, looking furtively around. “It wasn’t the Signora.”

  “Did the Signora know, do you think?”

  “I-I don’t know.” The little stammer gave her away. Zosia must have wondered if she’d done the right thing. She tied the pastry box with a bit of brown string and pushed it across the counter to Gina, thanking her in Polish.

  Gina took the hint and left the bakery. As she walked home, she thought about what Zosia had told her. So Dorrie had been paying the kids for secrets. Questions began to bubble up. Who else might Dorrie have paid for information, and had she known a secret that got her killed?