Murder Knocks Twice

by Susanna Calkins

  Big Mike struck her across the mouth, and the violence of the act shocked them all into silence. Without being asked, Gooch and Little Johnny stepped forward and grasped their boss’s arms. Faye slumped back against Nancy, holding her cheek, making little moaning sounds.

  “Kill Marty,” Gina said dully, finishing Faye’s sentence. “You even had Milt Sweeney kill Marty. Later that night.” She barely noticed the tears slipping down her cheeks until Roark gently wiped them away. She crossed her arms as she stared at Milt.

  “They killed Marty Doyle, too?” Captain O’Neill asked quietly. He seemed stunned by the revelations, like everyone else, but was trying to maintain a sense of authority. “Explain, please, Miss Ricci.”

  “It makes sense, right?” Gina said, working it out as she went. “At first, Milt didn’t know that Faye had killed Miss Beering. So it didn’t occur to him that Marty being on the scene, taking some photographs, could be a problem. But he tells her about seeing Marty, later. Must have spooked her, not knowing what he’d seen, or what he’d say when news of Miss Beering’s murder got out.”

  Nancy made an odd sound, as if she might have been biting back a wailing cry.

  Gina looked away. “Faye must have realized then that she had to find out what Marty knew, and if he had told anybody anything.” She closed her eyes as she remembered the scene, and how Marty couldn’t identify his attacker. “She must have sent Milt to confront him. Then Milt killed him, and left him for dead.”

  “Hey, dummy,” Milt called out. “He was dead, I made sure of that.” At the sound of Roark’s mirthless chuckle, Milt’s eyes grew wide as he realized he had just confessed to Marty’s murder. Faye and Mike threw up their hands in disgust.

  Billy Bottles reached across the counter and grabbed Milt by the throat. “I’d do you in right now, if I could,” he said menacingly. “Marty was my pal!”

  “Ahem,” Captain O’Neill coughed. Billy let go.

  “Yeah, well, you didn’t finish him like you thought,” Gina said, smirking at Milt. “He was still alive when I found him. Barely.”

  There was collective shock in the room, even from Faye.

  “Yeah, I was in the gangway when you killed him.” Seeing Captain O’Neill frown, she added hastily, “But I didn’t realize what had happened at the time. I saw two men talking, and then all of a sudden one of them had slumped to the ground and the other man had run off. When I went to check on the poor sot, I discovered that it was Marty, and that he had been stabbed. He was fading fast.” She bit back a sob. “Marty’s only concern was that I hide the camera, which I did.”

  She gazed coldly at Milt. “Yeah, I guess Faye didn’t tell you to look for his camera, but it was right there, on him. With all the pictures.” She gulped. “He begged me not to trust anyone, not even the police. Or you, Signora.” She looked at them both apologetically before staring down at her hands. “And then he died.”

  She leaned against the back of a bar stool for support. Brushing a tear from her eye, she continued. “I went back to work then, even though I scarcely knew what I was doing.”

  “I remember the blood on your forehead,” Ned muttered.

  “And you brought me the same drink order twice,” Roark said, giving her the faintest of smiles. “I wondered why you’d be so nice to me.”

  Gina continued her narrative. “When I came back to the gangway at the end of the night, Marty’s body was gone.”

  “Milt must have come back later,” Roark replied. “To dump the body under the Harrison Street Bridge.”

  “A favorite spot for the mob,” Mr. Darrow mused. “A perfect cover-up.”

  “And what about Dorrie?” Ned cried out. “Did you kill her, too?”

  “She did that, too,” Milt said, pointing at Faye. “Because Big Mike told her to.”

  “Why?” Ned asked, his voice cracking. “Why’d you have to kill her?”

  “Dorrie was trying to get in on the act,” Milt said. “She’d been one of Big Mike’s messengers, delivering reminders to customers who owed him money.”

  “Just small-timers,” Big Mike said, a bit resentfully. “I never sent her to anyone who might hurt her. I care about my employees.” Gina bit back a laugh.

  “Until they cross you,” Faye said spitefully. “Dorrie, our own dumb Dora, started cutting in as the middleman, blackmailing our customers. Saying she’d tell other things she’d witnessed at the Third Door.”

  “Is that what she told Genevieve Beering?” Gina asked, remembering what Miss Van der Veer had recounted about the conversation with Dorrie she’d overheard.

  Faye sniffed. “The perfect heiress, who’d never worked a day in her life. Guess she didn’t want her family to know that she’d been gambling away her fortune. That she’d been sleeping with Big Mike when she couldn’t pay him back.”

  “So Dorrie tried to blackmail her,” Milt continued, despite Faye’s glare. “’Course it never occurred to her that Miss Beering would just rat her out, tell Big Mike what she was planning. Rubbed him the wrong way.”

  Big Mike glowered at him. “Dorrie would’ve ruined everything! Everything I’ve built here.”

  “Everything you’ve built here? You know how many of your scrapes I’ve had to clean up over the years?” the Signora asked, her voice rising. “You killed Dorrie!”

  “Of course not,” Big Mike replied.

  “Scusami,” the Signora said, without any sincerity. “So one of your lackeys did the hit for you. Same thing.”

  “Big Mike told Faye to end her,” Milt said, not holding anything back now. “So she did. Just followed her onto the L, and slammo-bammo, that was all there was to it.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Captain O’Neill said. “Officers, please arrest these three individuals for the murders of Dorrie Edwards, Genevieve Beering, and Martin Doyle.”

  * * *

  After Big Mike, Faye, and Milt had been led away in handcuffs, and the last of the patrons, including Mr. Darrow, had exited the building, the Signora turned to the rest of the Third Door staff. They all appeared to be in shock. Billy Bottles poured out shots of gin for everyone, which they all silently downed in one go.

  “We’re closing down for the evening. But tomorrow we’re back in business.” Her words were pure steel, as if her husband had not just been arrested for murder, alongside two of her employees. “Jade, you’re taking on all of Faye’s roles from here on. I assume you’ll be staying? No more auditions.”

  Jade’s eyes glinted in the light, and she smiled like a satisfied cat. “Thank you, Signora.”

  As the staff began their closing duties, the Signora moved to the balcony, where she stood silently, like a porcelain art deco statue.

  Gina moved to stand beside her, and for a moment they looked over the speakeasy together. For the first time, Gina could see cracks on the ceiling and the walls. She could see sparkles here and there on the floor as well, probably sequins broken off from glitzy costumes. Something dark had happened here, but the chandeliers still shone brightly, as did the flutes and gin glasses above the bar, catching gleams of light and color.

  Glancing at the Signora, Gina noticed a few strands of her sleek black hair were out of place, making her seem more vulnerable than ever before. Perhaps this was finally the moment to ask the question that had been puzzling her for weeks.

  “Signora,” she ventured carefully. “Why did you have Lulu tell me about the position? Why did you want me to work here?”

  The proprietress’s expression softened as she turned to look down at Gina. “Oh, I had heard about your father’s troubles. I asked her if she knew you—I thought there was a good chance she would, given you’d grown up just a few blocks apart. I told her to tell you about the job, make it sound good. But let it seem like your idea.”

  “Thank you, but why? Why give me the job? Lots of people have hard lives, need work.”

  To Gina’s great surprise, the Signora touched her face. “You look so much like your papa,” she said. Wi
th that gesture, Gina saw her as she might have looked thirty years before, in love with a young boxer from the old neighborhood, before he went and married an Irish girl from the North Side. Then the Signora smoothed her hair, and the tender moment passed. “You’ll be here at six p.m. sharp tomorrow night?”

  “Yes Signora.” Then, before she could overthink her next words, she pressed on. “You know, I’ve learned a lot about photography these last few weeks. Just in case, you know, you’re looking to, uh, fill Marty’s place.”

  The Signora gave the smallest of smiles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  * * *

  Two weeks later, Gina and Lulu huddled over the Tribune in fear and amazement, reading the front-page news again and again. MASSACRE 7 OF MORAN GANG, the headline read. The North Side hit had occurred the day before, on Valentine’s Day, and had left everyone in Chicago reeling. That such a thing could occur in broad daylight was unthinkable, and that the deed had been carried out by men dressed as cops had been even more shocking. Though no one said it outright, the name Capone was on everyone’s lips.

  When they pored over the newspapers, looking at the victims’ photos, they had been stunned to discover that the man they’d called Jack had been one of the victims. A member of the Moran gang. There were pictures of some of their wives, too, including Jack’s, who had been on the receiving end of Mimi’s cocktail, and Maxine, the woman Gina had met in the ladies’ room shortly after. Collectively the women were called “the Bullet Widows,” a term that made Gina shudder.

  Given that it was a slow night, the Signora told Gina she could leave around ten. Taking a deep breath, she walked into the back room, her coat and hat already on. Roark looked up at her. “You leaving already?”

  “Yeah, I—” She hesitated. Things had been friendly between them, but she had definitely held herself back. She knew he’d been wanting to talk to her, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear what he had to say.

  “Hang on,” he said, downing his gin and tonic. “Let me join you. I’ll drive you home.”

  Ignoring the whistles and hoots that came from the other ex-soldiers, they walked out together. Briefly she felt his hand on her lower back as they maneuvered among some drunkards toward the stairs. When she passed Ned, he gave her a little mock salute, which she hoped Roark hadn’t noticed.

  Crossing the landing, she brought up the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, as the terrible event was already being called by the newspapers. “It’s awful. I didn’t much care for Jack, but no one deserves to be mowed down like that.”

  “That’s for sure,” Roark replied. “I’ve heard that there’s going to be a new forensic unit opening up. I may start taking photographs for them. I’ll be returning to the force soon anyway.”

  Little Johnny nodded at her as he opened the door into the alley. At the gesture, Gina smiled to herself, feeling like she might finally have been accepted by the others. Her actions two weeks before had all been understood as loyalty to the Signora, and that seemed the only thing that mattered to everyone else at the Third Door.

  Roark pointed to the end of the alley. “My car’s just over on Halsted.”

  As they passed by the gangway where Marty had been killed, Gina paused. “Give me a second,” she said. From her purse, she pulled out several prints that she had made earlier. She’d gone to the flower shop and taken photographs of some beautiful blooms.

  Silently she placed the photographs in the spot where Marty had been murdered. “Good-bye, Marty,” she whispered. “And thanks … for everything.”

  Roark touched her shoulder. “Gina, I—”

  She smiled up at him. “Wanna grab that cup of coffee? I know a great place.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Though Gina could find her way into the Third Door with a few quick knocks and a password, for me, finding that speakeasy required many years of research, with many friends and experts helping and guiding me along the way. The first stirrings of the story began when I was co-teaching “The History and Philosophy of American Higher Education,” a graduate course at Northwestern, with my wonderful colleague Eugene Lowe, Jr. I had come across some intriguing stories about college life during Prohibition and intrigued, I began toying with the idea of writing a mystery set on a campus, much like where I worked, in the shadows of the Great Depression. This quest led me to Northwestern’s archives and Kevin Leonard, the University’s tremendously knowledgeable archivist, who showed me fascinating yearbooks, scrapbooks, college papers, letters, and other artifacts from the period.

  Yet when Minotaur picked up my other series, I thought this book might end up in the proverbial drawer. In some ways, a version of it did. But, several years later, I reimagined the series with the help of my wonderful editor, Kelley Ragland, moving it away from a campus and into a Chicago speakeasy, and pushing it from 1930 to 1929 (which is a much more dramatic and exciting year). Most important, I got rid of all the characters but one, a gum-cracking amateur photographer and general sidekick named Gina Ricci, who of course became the story’s lead.

  From that point, I’ve been so fortunate to work with many terrific people at Minotaur, including April Osborn, who provided great insights into pesky plot problems and character issues, and Sarah Grill and India Cooper who helped smooth away inaccuracies and odd things. (But of course, any lingering mistakes are mine!) I thank you all for bringing my story to light.

  I’d like to thank too, several terrific friends—Nadine Nettman, Erica Neubauer, and Maggie Dalrymple, all excellent writers themselves—for serving as beta readers and providing me with helpful thoughts and advice. Thanks too, to Christy Snider, my old friend from grad school and current professor of U.S. history at Berry College, for reading the manuscript with a historian’s critical lens, and offering invaluable insights into historical issues and developments during this time period. More generally, I’m so grateful to good friends Lisa Bagadia, Gretchen Beetner, Terry Bischoff, Jamie Freveletti, Alexia Gordon, July Hyzy, Jess Lourey, Clare O’Donohue, Lori Rader-Day, and Lynne Raimondo for always being willing to help with my ‘cocktail research.’ You dolls rock!

  Lastly, I thank my family for their support, especially my children, Alex and Quentin Kelley, who inspire me every day. And once again, I’m dedicating this book to my husband, Matt Kelley. Someone said to me “You know, this will be the fifth book you’ve dedicated to him. You can dedicate the book to someone else.” And yet, no one else is as dedicated to my writing, or to my books, as him. So once again, I thank my dear husband for being my Executive Plot Consultant, my Alpha Reader, my personal publicist, and above all, my Defender Against Dark Moments. You’re the bees knees!

  ALSO BY SUSANNA CALKINS

  A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate

  From the Charred Remains

  The Masque of a Murderer

  A Death Along the River Fleet

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SUSANNA CALKINS, author of the award-winning Lucy Campion series, holds a Ph.D. in history and teaches at the college level. Her historical mysteries have been nominated for the Mary Higgins Clark and Agatha awards, among many others, and The Masque of a Murderer received a Macavity. Originally from Philadelphia, Calkins now lives in the Chicago area with her husband and two sons. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

&
nbsp; Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Susanna Calkins

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  MURDER KNOCKS TWICE. Copyright © 2019 by Susanna Calkins. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Cover by David Baldeosingh Rotstein

  Cover illustration by Bradley Clark; border © Oniks Astarit/Shutterstock.com

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-250-19083-3 (trade paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-250-19084-0 (ebook)

  eISBN 9781250190840

  Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  First Edition: April 2019