Murder Knocks Twice

by Susanna Calkins

  “Maybe I should have you arrested for theft. I wonder what Captain O’Neill will say when he learns that his very own police matron is a burglar.”

  “Gina, come on. Just tell me.”

  “Fine.” For the second time in twenty-four hours, Gina found herself explaining how she had witnessed Marty’s murder and how he had given her the camera.

  “Show me the pictures,” Nancy ordered. “This I’ve got to see for myself.”

  Gina shrugged. “All right, then. Come on.”

  Once in the darkroom, Nancy gave a low whistle when she saw the hanging prints. “So you learned how to develop the film,” she commented, her voice holding a grudging admiration. “Good for you.”

  Gina pointed to the picture of the woman in the fur coat. “That’s Genevieve Beering, I think. For some reason, Marty was taking photographs of her and that man. Perhaps they were having an affair.” She continued to study the photographs. “He must be very tall. Look how much taller he is than her. I met Genevieve Beering once, and she towered over the other women. Particularly in heels. Stood eye to eye with the Signora, though.”

  Nancy looked where she was pointing. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d guess he’s average height. See where the top of his head comes to against the lamppost? Maybe five-ten or something in that range.”

  Gina frowned. “I remember how Miss Beering’s coat swept around her legs when she walked. On this woman, the coat seems much longer, almost to her ankles…”

  “Different coat,” Nancy said with a shrug.

  “No, I’m sure it’s hers. I remember the markings.” Gina snapped her fingers. “This is not the heiress. This is a much smaller woman who is wearing Miss Beering’s coat.” She began to speak out loud, musing more to herself than to Nancy. “Why was someone else wearing the heiress’s fur coat on the day she died? What had that person been doing outside the Drake Hotel? Besides—why had Marty been taking pictures of this woman at all?”

  Gina trained the magnifying glass on the woman’s lower limbs, stopping cold when she began to examine the woman’s shoes. They were unusual—a gently sloping heel with dark spots, a swirling pattern, and an elegant buckle. “It can’t be!”

  “What? What is it?”

  “I know these shoes. I’ve seen them before.” Not on the huge ungainly feet of the heiress, but on the petite feet of a dancer. A memory was telling her that the swirls had hues of rose and purple, with a few dabs of blue and gray. She remembered where she’d seen them, too—in a tousled heap on the floor of the ladies’ dressing room at the Third Door.

  Scooping up the photographs, she grabbed her handbag and darted to the door. “Those shoes are downstairs, I’m sure of it.”

  As she raced away she heard Nancy call after her, “I’ll phone this in from Mrs. Lesky’s apartment. Marty’s isn’t working.”

  “You do that!” As she rushed down the steps, she nearly collided with Roark on his way up. He put his arms on her shoulders as much to steady himself as to keep her in place. “Gina, I learned something today. Also I wanted to talk to you. About my wife. I—”

  She cut him off. “Sorry, Roark! No time to explain. I have to figure something out. I’m heading to the Third Door.”

  “Wait, Gina!” she heard Roark call, but she kept going. She could hear him stomping furiously after her.

  A few minutes later, she walked straight through the tea room and down into the Third Door, directly past a startled-looking Little Johnny. She’d probably been fired after her indecorous removal the night before, but she descended into the Third Door as if she were still employed.. At the foot of the stairs, she nearly collided with Donny, who had evidently just arrived for his game.

  “Hey, doll, how’s tricks?” he asked.

  Gina paused, not wanting to ignore the ex-soldier. She quickly traded a few pleasantries with the man, trying not to breathe too loudly. Her mind was racing, and she wasn’t sure what she’d said, but whatever it was made Donny laugh. That brief exchange allowed time for Roark to catch up with her as she walked toward the ladies’ dressing area.

  “Gina!” he demanded. “Tell me what’s going on!”

  “All right,” she said. “There’s something I need to tell you.” Without thinking how it might look, she pulled him into the ladies’ lounge. Luckily the room was empty.

  “What is it?” he growled.

  “Sit,” she said, pointing to one of the stools at the makeup table. She began to lay the photographs on the wooden surface. “Look at these. These were the first images on Marty’s last roll of film. He took them outside the Drake Hotel. I think that the Signora may have sent him to take pictures of Genevieve Beering.”

  Roark glanced at the pictures of the woman in the white fur coat. “Okay, so he took a picture of Miss Beering.”

  “So it would seem. But see here. This man”—she pointed to the man with the cap pulled low across his face—“appears here to be very tall because the heiress, as you know, is quite tall. However, I believe this man to be of regular height. Look at him against the streetlight.”

  Roark whistled. “So what you’re saying—”

  “This isn’t Genevieve Beering. This is a shorter woman, wearing Genevieve Beering’s fur coat. On the same day that Miss Beering was found dead. My guess is that this woman knows something about her death. This can’t be a coincidence.” She pulled the magnifying glass from her purse. “Now look at the woman’s shoes.”

  He took the magnifying glass and frowned. “What am I looking at?”

  “I know these shoes. They have this distinctive swirling pattern and spotted heels. Very unusual. I’m sure I’ve seen them. Here at the Third Door.” She began to look through the piles of the entertainers’ show shoes. “Will you help me? We have to find out who they belong to.”

  “It can’t be,” Roark said, still staring at the photographs.

  “It makes sense that it’s someone who works here,” she insisted, feeling a bit annoyed. Then, triumphantly, she found the shoes at the bottom of the heap. “Here they are!”

  He glanced at the shoes but then pointed to the photograph again. “No, I mean I know who this is.” He pointed to the man who’d been featured in the first few photographs, the cap pulled down over his face. “He’s one of the guys who plays cards in the back some nights. A vet, like the rest of us. I think his name is Milt Sweeney. What was he doing there?”

  “Look at the way he’s holding the newspaper,” Gina replied. “It’s open, but he’s not reading it. Looks like he was waiting for something, or someone.”

  “He’s here tonight!” Roark said. “I saw him when I walked in. I’m going to go grab him while I can.”

  * * *

  Holding the photographs in one hand and the shoes in the other, Gina walked over to the speakeasy bar. “Billy,” she said to the bartender, laying the shoes on the bar, “can you hang on to these for a moment? It’s important.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nancy, Captain O’Neill, and another copper descend the main staircase.

  Billy noticed them, too. “Sure thing, doll,” he said, throwing a towel over the shoes before tucking them away below the bar. She was grateful but not surprised when he didn’t ask any questions.

  At the sight of the police, the few patrons present began to slip away, downing their drinks and avoiding eye contact as they departed. Donny winked at her as he left. Only Mr. Darrow stayed seated upon his usual stool at the end of the bar. The other cocktail waitresses approached, taking in the sight.

  “What’s with the fuzz?” Faye asked, eying Gina with suspicion. “Steal another necklace?”

  The other girls laughed, although Lulu looked sympathetic. Linking Gina’s arm in her own, she whispered, “How you doin’, hon? You doin’ okay?”

  Big Mike walked toward the police, rubbing his hands together. “Gentlemen, lady,” he said, speaking grandly to the cops. “To what do we owe this unexpected visit?”

  The Signora came to stand beside
her husband. “Yes, Captain O’Neill,” she said, her eyes stern and foreboding. “I thought we had an agreement.”

  “That was before I received an urgent call from Officer Doyle here, that new information related to the murder of Genevieve Beering had come to light,” he replied.

  Nancy stepped forward. “Gina, show them what you figured out.”

  Everyone swiveled around to face her, causing her mouth to go unexpectedly dry and her body to shake. Trying to steady herself, she leaned against the bar. She glanced at Mr. Darrow’s glass of whiskey. I sure could use a drink.

  As if reading her mind, Billy Bottles placed a shot glass in front of her and poured it full of gin. “Drink up,” he whispered. Then he looked straight at Captain O’Neill and shrugged. “I didn’t charge her for it.”

  Not caring that everyone was watching, Gina tossed back the shot, ignoring the burning sensation as the gin tore through her throat and stomach.

  “Perhaps we should all go back to my salon,” the Signora suggested.

  “No, we’ll stay here,” Captain O’Neill said. “Start talking.”

  Coughing a bit, Gina set the empty shot glass aside and began to lay out the photographs on the bar as if she were dealing a hand of blackjack. “These photographs were all taken by Marty Doyle, on the last day of his life. Some, you can see, were taken here. And some were taken outside the Drake Hotel, where the heiress Genevieve Beering was killed, that very same day.”

  Everyone peered at the photographs.

  “Hey, that’s Milt Sweeney!” Lulu cried, pointing to the man in the photographs.

  “This Milt Sweeney?” Roark pushed the man in, keeping Milt’s arm tightly behind his back.

  Seeing him, Gina felt a little queasy. “That’s the man who attacked me the other night,” she declared, noting the bruising on the man’s lower jaw with some satisfaction. Her wallop had left its mark, the bruise a sharp contrast to his pallid, uneasy face. “He probably wanted these photographs. He must have known Marty had seen him outside the Drake the same day Genevieve Beering was murdered inside.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never laid a hand on her,” Milt said, a pained expression crossing his face as Roark pushed his arm up behind his back.

  “And I never laid a hand on you either,” Roark muttered, giving him another painful push.

  “Roark!” Captain O’Neill said. “Enough of that!” He gestured to the other cop to take Milt from Roark. “Now, Sweeney, explain what you were doing in these here photographs.”

  “These pictures don’t mean nothing,” Milt replied, struggling now against the cop. “So I was in front of a hotel. What’s it to you?”

  “How can you know when the pictures were taken?” Big Mike asked, having looked them over. “There aren’t any dates.”

  “Marty didn’t use an autographic camera,” Gina replied, remembering what Roark had explained about the film up in Marty’s flat. “Usually he’d write information on the prints after they were developed.”

  “So this is just on your say-so that these photographs were taken that day,” Faye commented, flicking a stray feather from her dress.

  Mr. Darrow spoke up then. “I believe that I can help you with that point. The man in the photograph, Mr. Sweeney, is holding a newspaper, on which the layout, headlines, columns, pictures, and so forth, are clearly visible. It should not be difficult to find a copy of that day’s Tribune and match it. That could easily help confirm the date when the photograph was taken.”

  “What was Marty doing taking pictures at the Drake anyway?” Big Mike broke in, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He glowered at his wife. “Do you know?

  “Of course, darling.” The Signora’s glance was frigid. “I sent him.”

  “You sent him?” Big Mike said, his face reddening. “Why?”

  “I know you were having an affair,” the Signora replied, her voice icy. “I suspected it might be with that woman. Genevieve Beering. So I told him to wait outside the Drake in case you came to visit.”

  “No, I … I wasn’t having an affair with her,” Big Mike protested weakly. But the guilt was written all over his face.

  “Then why did you pay off the coroner?” Roark asked, looking rueful as he caught Gina’s eye. “I tried to tell you earlier,” he said in a low tone, “but you’d already rushed off.” Speaking louder, Roark added, “I had assumed her family had paid him off, but when I spoke to the coroner, he admitted—with some more greasing on my part—that it had been Big Mike who wanted to keep Miss Beering’s murder out of the news.”

  “If she was having an affair with anyone, it was with that man,” Big Mike said, jerking his head toward Milt Sweeney. “That’s him in the photograph with Genevieve. Look at the way he’s lighting her cigarette.”

  “That’s not Genevieve Beering,” Gina said. “That’s a different woman. A woman wearing Genevieve’s white fur coat and cloche hat. A woman who works at the Third Door.” She signaled to Billy to hand her the shoes he’d stashed behind the bar. “I know, because these are her shoes.”

  Simultaneously Lulu and Jade gasped, turning to stare at Faye.

  “Those are your shoes, Faye!” Lulu exclaimed, popping her hand over her mouth.

  “Check out the photograph,” Gina said, grabbing one of the shoes and holding it against the picture. “I’m telling you, these are the shoes that the woman in this photograph is wearing. That woman is Faye!”

  The Signora picked up the other shoe and held it against the image. “They appear the same.” She gave her employee a chilling stare, and dropped the shoe back on the bar in distaste.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with that woman’s death,” Faye declared, lifting up her chin. “Just a coincidence that I own a similar pair of shoes.” She glared at everyone in the room, her chest rising and falling quickly.

  Captain O’Neill coughed, and Nancy stared at Gina. Fix this, she could almost hear the policewoman saying. Gina felt deflated. This was not how this was supposed to go.

  After a long moment, the captain spoke. “All right, I’m tired of this,” he said. “Milt Sweeney, I’m taking you in for questioning about the murder of Genevieve Beering and—”

  “Hey, you can’t lay that rap on me!” Milt interrupted. “Faye, tell him!”

  “Shut your trap!” Faye hissed. “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “Let’s take him away,” Captain O’Neill said to the other cop, who started to pull the man’s elbow.

  “No, wait!” Milt shouted. “Faye, come on, tell them I didn’t have anything to do with that woman’s murder.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Faye shouted. “I wasn’t there! That’s not me! And you’re just a backroom cheat! How many times has Gooch thrown you out of here? I don’t get on with the likes of you!”

  “Faye!” Milt said, looking deeply hurt. “I thought you loved me. You said you would do anything for me! Like I would do anything for you—”

  Faye tossed her head in disgust, and Milt’s pathetic confusion started to turn to a deeper, darker anger.

  “All right, gentlemen,” Big Mike said smoothly. “Why don’t you go ahead and take Mr. Sweeney in.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Milt cried, his eyes getting wider. “I didn’t know Faye was gonna kill that Beering woman! She came out of the Drake in that fancy fur coat and hat, just needed her cigarette lit. I swear I didn’t know till later, when I saw the blood on her dress. That’s when she told me.”

  “Shut up!” Faye shouted, trying to speak over him. “He’s lying!”

  “Told you what?” Captain O’Neill asked Milt, ignoring Faye’s outburst.

  “That she’d bashed in the woman’s head. That’s when she told me to pawn the necklace and the fur coat, and she’d pay me my cut from there. That’s why Big Mike hushed it up.”

  “So she did kill Miss Beering,” Gina said. “I imagine Faye put on her fur coat to hide the blood on her own clothes, and the hat to
keep from being noticed. But the heiress’s feet were too big, so Faye had to wear her own shoes when she left the hotel.”

  “Oh, you think you’re so smart,” Faye said, a harsh flush staining her cheeks. “You can’t even serve drinks without spilling them. Isn’t that right, girls?”

  Lulu and Jade, wearing similar expressions of horror, edged away from Faye.

  Ignoring her, Gina continued to speak to Captain O’Neill. “Miss Beering had been gambling at the Third Door,” she said slowly, remembering what she had overheard. “Losing a lot of money. She must have been deep in debt.”

  “How much did Genevieve Beering owe you, dear?” the Signora asked her husband, her voice sounding like poisoned honey. “Were you tired of accepting her favors? Is that why you went after her?”

  Again, the guilt on his face was easily read, even though he tried to demur.

  But Milt confirmed her guess. “That’s exactly it, Signora. Big Mike sent us to collect on her debt. Faye’s been helping him out. Told her that he’d make her the new Signora at the new joint he was setting up. Faye asked for my help, too. Thought there might be a spot for me in the new place. Like Gooch.” He faltered when he glanced at Faye, who was breathing harder now. “Faye told me she’d handle it, so I waited outside the hotel. I didn’t expect Faye to kill her, just to take something valuable to, you know, pay down the debt. That’s what we usually do, right, Big Mike?”

  “Dead men can’t pay debts,” Big Mike muttered, glaring at Faye. “You’re such a moron! Couldn’t grasp a thing like that. And you wanted to work in my new place? Couldn’t even get a simple collection right. As dumb as Dorrie.”

  Suddenly Faye’s rising rage seemed to explode within her. She grabbed the shoe from the bar and flung it furiously at Big Mike, hitting him square in his forehead. “That flimflam debutante laughed at me! Called me stupid to believe that I could be anything other than a two-bit hoofer at a gin joint. Me! Said that Big Mike was just using me, stringing me along to keep me doing his dirty work!”

  Her hysteria began to rise as Nancy grabbed her by the arms and pinned them around her back. “She said you were never gonna recognize my loyalty, no matter what I’ve done for you!” she screamed at Big Mike. “So yeah, I slammed her against a wall and then I smashed her perfect mouth in to stop those lies! I did everything you asked of me, and this is my reward! I even slept with this buffoon to make sure he would do what I asked! I even had him—”