Murder Knocks Twice

by Susanna Calkins

  “Hey, Roark,” the other woman simpered, walking over to the cell door.

  “Hey, Sally,” he replied. “How’s tricks?”

  Sally ran a painted finger along the iron bars. “Fair. How about you bust me out of this joint and I’ll show you a real good time?”

  “No thanks,” he replied. “I’m here for her.” He nodded at Gina, who scowled at his innuendo. She was too tired for jokes.

  With a disappointed twist of her lips, Sally flounced back to her bench and sat down, still watching Roark.

  “What do you want?” Gina asked.

  “I heard about the necklace,” Roark said, watching her. “How do you explain that?”

  “I didn’t take it.”

  “Assuming that’s true—”

  “It is true!”

  He held up his hand with exaggerated patience. “Why would someone hide it in your bag?”

  “I’m being framed,” she said, sullenly picking at a tiny hole in the blanket.

  “So it would seem.”

  Gina blinked. He actually sounded sincere. “You sound like you believe me.”

  “I believe that you would be smart enough not to keep an expensive copy of a three-thousand-dollar necklace on your person. Particularly not one recently owned by a deceased woman now presumed to have been murdered. One that she’d been wearing at the time of her death. You seem a little smarter than that.”

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  Roark moved on, ignoring her sarcasm. “When was it placed in your bag, I wonder? How about you walk me through your steps.”

  “I already thought about it,” she said. “All of our bags were in the dressing room, and it had to have happened when I was on the floor. I imagine a lot of people could have handled it when no one was looking.”

  Roark nodded. “Now, the question is, who has it in for you? Who called in the tip?”

  Gina’s thoughts leapt to the policewoman, who seemed delighted by her comeuppance. “Nancy?”

  Roark looked skeptical. “She wouldn’t have done that.” He looked down at Gina through the bars. “You were flashing those pictures around the other day. Rather stupidly, I might add.”

  “Yeah, I got the message.” She touched her knuckles.

  “You got someone scared. Enough to want to deflect attention from themselves and onto you. Maybe that’s the same reason why you were attacked last night.”

  “I don’t know. The man who attacked me wanted something. Looking for more photographs, I think. I think the Signora sent him after me. Why would she also frame me with the necklace? She wouldn’t want police to come to the Third Door.”

  “You think the Signora had a man attack you? That doesn’t seem her style.” His words echoed those of Madame Laupin. Lowering his voice, he added, “Those photographs. The ones that you had in your handbag. Where did you find them?”

  Gina glanced at Sally. Nancy had called her a canary. Could she be listening? Right now, the woman was just humming to herself and regarding her red lacquered nails. She didn’t want to chance it. Besides, Gina thought Roark could give her something in return. “Get me out of here and I’ll tell you everything,” she whispered. “Just don’t let them arrest me.”

  Roark raised an eyebrow. “Done.”

  * * *

  Soon after, Gina and Roark left the police station to where Roark’s Model T was waiting on the street. He took her arm as she walked, a gesture which, she guessed, was not born out of concern for safety, but rather to ensure she would not run away from him.

  He unlocked the passenger door. “Get in,” he said. “I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

  “At this hour?” She knew it had to be around eleven o’clock.

  “I know a place.”

  He didn’t seem to have any trouble maneuvering the car, despite his limp and war-torn hand. As he was driving down the quiet street, he glanced at her. “Look, I got a tip from the station. That the necklace had been stolen, and that one of you girls had done it. They said it was you, but I didn’t believe it. I didn’t expect that the necklace would turn up in your bag, or that they would take you in.”

  “Thanks a bunch,” Gina muttered.

  They pulled up in front of a late-night coffeehouse, the kind that had popped up all over Chicago with the advent of Prohibition.

  A platinum blonde pushing forty greeted them at the door. “Roark,” she said, giving Gina the once-over. “Long time no see.”

  “How you doin’, Josie,” he said. “Bring us two coffees and some pie, would you? Apple if you have it.”

  “Sure thing, hon,” she replied. “Be back in a jif. Just seat yourselves.”

  Very few people were there, and no one looked up as Roark led her to a table in the back corner. They sat in silence until Josie placed the food in front of them. He pushed her slice of pie toward her. “Eat.”

  She picked up her fork without hesitation. The apple pie, golden and warm in its soft sugary crust, could not be resisted. She slid her fork through the pie and took an enormous bite.

  “Now. No more screwing around,” Roark said, watching her chew. “Where did you get those pictures? You found Marty’s missing camera, didn’t you?”

  After swallowing, she spoke carefully. “Yeah. I developed the photographs.” She took a swig of the coffee.

  He didn’t seem wholly surprised. “I figured. You weren’t as subtle as you thought.”

  Gina took another bite of the pie, waiting for him to go on.

  “What I can’t figure out, though, is how exactly you came by the camera. Did you find it in his flat?” Before she could answer, he continued to muse. “Marty must’ve hidden it. We both know that the Signora’s men would have searched his flat when they found out he died.”

  Gina shrugged, letting him work it out. She’d had the same thought about Marty’s flat when she’d seen it, that someone had searched it before she’d gotten there. But she certainly wasn’t going to tell him what Marty had actually done with the camera.

  “That camera was an extension of himself. It was always with him.” He took a bite and chewed absentmindedly. “When would he have had time to hide it? Did he meet up with the people who murdered him? Was he suspicious?” He seemed more intent than before. “Did he die in the gangway? Are you the one who found him? I’ve been wondering this for some time now. Tell me the truth.”

  Gina took a deep breath. “I found Marty as he was dying. Right where you saw that bloodstain on the ground.” She looked down at the coffee cup, swirling in some more sugar with her teaspoon. Tears welled in her eyes at the memory and at the relief of finally telling someone. “I saw it happen. It was awful.”

  “You saw it happen?” he said loudly, then, after a quick look around, forced himself to lower his voice. “You saw Marty get murdered?! Why in hell haven’t you said anything? Why in hell didn’t you say anything that night?! For God’s sakes! Who did it? Who killed him?”

  “I don’t know! It was dark! I couldn’t see. I didn’t even realize at first what had h-happened. It was aw-awful. T-terrible!” Gulping back tears caused her to hiccup. “I wanted to tell someone, but I was afraid.” She put her face into her hands and sobbed in earnest.

  Roark came around to sit beside her then, and she leaned against him, sobbing. For a moment he held her while she cried, but then she pushed him away. She took a napkin and blew her nose, then used another to wipe her eyes. She was sure she was a streaky mess.

  He returned to the other side of the table and faced her. “All right, tell me what happened. From the beginning.”

  Still hiccupping, she explained how she had wanted to talk to Marty and went looking for him. When she couldn’t find him, she ended up taking a breather in the gangway. “Then I s-saw some shadowy figures, but I didn’t think anything of it. Until I heard this s-sound,” she gulped, “and one of them slumped to the ground. Only when I kneeled beside him did I realize it was Marty. He begged me to hide the camera, I swear it.” She twisted the napk
in in her hands. “Then he, you know. Died.”

  Roark tapped his fork on the plate. “You didn’t ask who had stabbed him?”

  “Of course I asked him,” she said, her anguish giving way to irritation. “You gotta understand, he only had a few words left in him. He was just worried about the camera—about keeping it from the wrong hands.” She stared down at the crumbs on her plate, trying not to be overcome by a sudden feeling of nausea. “I’m not sure he even knew who attacked him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  “I didn’t know who I could trust. Not really. I didn’t know what he had taken pictures of, so I hid the camera and film until I could figure out what to do with it. You have no idea how hard this has been.”

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Well, there was a key…” She explained about the key and about the photographs she had found under the floorboards, with pictures from the Third Door.

  Roark pulled out his wallet and, after gesturing to the waitress, laid a few bills on the table. “All right, I want you to show me everything in Marty’s flat. Everything you’ve been hiding. All the photographs you developed, Marty’s notebook, everything. All right?” He looked wary then, as if he expected her to refuse.

  Distantly she heard the bells of the St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church toll twice. Two a.m. “That’s fine,” she said. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  He frowned. “How about now?”

  And what would your wife think about that? she wondered. “That’s not possible,” she said instead. “I need to get home. I need to check on my father.”

  “Then first thing in the morning. At eight a.m.”

  She shook her head. “No. I need to rest. I’m exhausted. We can meet in the afternoon.”

  “Fine. Let’s go. I’ll drive you home.” Perhaps sensing her surprise, he asked, “You thought I would just leave you here?”

  After Gina gave her address, she and Roark were silent as he drove through the dark Chicago streets. This time of the morning, very few people were out and about.

  When he pulled up in front of the brownstone, she put her hand on the handle, preparing to jump out.

  “Hold on,” he said, turning off the engine. For a wild moment, she thought he was going to get out of the car and open the passenger door. What was he doing? Was he going to walk her to her front steps?

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, suddenly tensing up. She opened the door.

  He gave her a curious look. “Yeah, maybe. I’m not so sure. Someone has it in for you.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Let’s meet at Marty’s. At three p.m. I want to look at those pictures again. I want you to walk me through everything, step by step.”

  Then the question she’d had for a while surged up before she could stop it. “Hey! Won’t your wife mind that you’re helping me so much?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I doubt it. She left me over a year ago.”

  “Oh, I—” She stopped, a mortified flush rising in her cheeks.

  “Forget it.” He gestured impatiently toward the car door. “I’ll see you at three.”

  Embarrassed, she jumped out of the car and hurried up the walk. When she reached the door, his car roared off, leaving her feeling exhausted and drained from the events of the evening.

  CHAPTER 20

  Hearing the clip-clop of the milk truck making its rounds outside, Gina burrowed deeper into her bed. She’d slept surprisingly well, but now her mind was starting to race as she remembered everything that had gone on the night before.

  The necklace, being carted off to jail, and even those odd moments with Roark. Why had he helped her? Out of respect for Marty? Maybe he’s interested in you, a little voice whispered inside her, before she hastily pushed the thought away. She had bigger things to worry about. Like reviewing the photographs later.

  Then she sat bolt upright in her bed, a thought coming to her. What was it that Miss Van der Veer had said? I’ll never forget how I found her at the Drake Hotel … Didn’t some of Marty’s last pictures have the Drake Hotel in the background?

  She glanced at the clock. “I’m not waiting for Roark,” she said out loud, slipping her legs over the side of the bed. “Maybe he got me out of jail, but it’s not like I deserved to be there in the first place.”

  Within a few minutes she had already begun to fix her father’s breakfast. Though she felt a little bad about doing it, she banged the pan against the stove a few times, in order to wake him up.

  Her gambit worked. A short while later he emerged a bit bleary-eyed from his bedroom. “You’re up early, sweetheart,” he said. “I didn’t even hear you come in last night.”

  “Oh, the Signora kept us a little later than usual,” she said, feeling a pang at the lie. Sliding the scrambled eggs and bacon onto a plate, she placed it all in front of him. Luckily Mrs. Hayford had already dropped off the day’s paper for her father. “Here’s the news,” she said, practically dancing in her impatience. “Is there anything else you need? Pepper? Salt?”

  He looked at her, and for a moment she felt he could see through her, see through the lies. “You have somewhere to go? Something to do?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Then go!” he said, swatting her playfully with the newspaper. “Let me enjoy my breakfast in peace.”

  * * *

  Turning the light on, Gina studied the prints as they dried on the line above the tub, feeling pleased by their appearance. She’d decided to make another set, so that the details were crisper. She’d used the enlarger more precisely and had left the prints a little longer in the developer.

  Being careful not to touch the prints, Gina took a magnifying glass and, standing on her tiptoes, began to examine them in order, this time focusing on the male subject who appeared in the first five images of the roll. What was special about this man? What about him had caught Marty’s attention?

  Gina paid more attention to the man’s stance, noticing how he was leaning against a streetlight, with a newspaper held open in front of him. Except she could now see that he was not reading the paper, as she had initially assumed. Rather, his eyes were looking above the paper, apparently in the direction of the hotel entrance.

  She then looked at the photograph of the same man, this time lighting the cigarette of the woman wearing the long fur coat. The woman’s face was turned away from the camera and obscured by her cloche hat.

  Moving to the last of the prints featuring the same subject, Gina was struck by the man’s positioning. He appeared to be looking straight at Marty’s camera, an angry squint shading his expression. She drew her breath in sharply. Had he been aware that Marty was taking his photograph?

  Turning back to the third photograph, Gina scrutinized the woman. Her fur coat and matching cloche appeared to be a bright, snowy white, with a spotted trim.

  She began to breathe more rapidly, recognizing the markings on the fur coat. Angling the magnifying glass, she was sure now that this coat belonged to Genevieve Beering, the deceased heiress. Given that this image had been left undeveloped in the camera, Marty must have photographed her shortly before she died. The question was, why?

  * * *

  Gina was still pondering these questions several hours later as she stretched out on Marty’s sofa, waiting for the prints to dry. A great pounding at the door to Marty’s flat interrupted her reverie. Was it Roark arriving early? She wasn’t sure if she felt more resentful or excited at the thought, particularly as the pounding grew more intense.

  Looking through the peephole, however, she discovered that the impatient visitor was none other than Nancy Doyle.

  An angry wave swept over Gina and she stepped back from the door, unsure what to do.

  “Open up!” Nancy called with all her authority as a police matron. “I know you’re in there.”

  Gina opened the door a few inches, keeping the chain in place. “What do you want?”

  “I want to speak to you.”

 
“I have nothing to say to you, Officer Doyle.”

  “Gina, I know you’re angry. Let me explain.”

  “I think you explained everything quite well last night. When you allowed me to be locked up for theft and murder.”

  “Oh, Gina, I didn’t really expect it to be you. I had to follow up on the tip. See how things would shake out.”

  “There’s nothing to shake out here.” Annoyed, Gina closed the door.

  “I can wait here a long time,” Nancy called.

  “Fine. Do that,” Gina called back through the door. “You can’t arrest me. I answered their questions, and they released me. No thanks to you.”

  There was silence. “I’m the one who gave you back your radio. I left it on your porch.”

  Gina opened the door completely and regarded the policewoman, hands planted on her hips. “If you gave it back, then you’re also the one who took it.”

  Nancy bowed her head but didn’t seem particularly ashamed. “Just let me in. I’ll explain everything.”

  Curiosity winning out over her sense of annoyance, Gina gestured for Nancy to follow her into Marty’s living area.

  To her surprise, the policewoman seemed uncharacteristically nervous. “You’re right. I’m the one who broke into your flat.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I’m not proud of it,” she said. “I just had to know what you were hiding. I didn’t even believe that you were really Molly’s daughter. I had to check your identity before I let them give you access to Marty’s things. I wasn’t at all sure that you were on the up-and-up.”

  “I was.”

  “Yes. I see that now.”

  “Why’d you take the radio?”

  Nancy actually grinned. “Well, I had to make it look good, didn’t I? No offense, but it was the only thing of value that I could find. You know, I wasn’t going to steal your mother’s jewelry. I do have some scruples.” She scratched her nose. “Besides, I gave it back, didn’t I? Now. How about you tell me what you’ve been hiding, and maybe I can help you.”